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Chapters (62)
  1. Cover
  2. Half Title Page
  3. Books by Katie Powner
  4. Title Page
  5. Copyright Page
  6. Dedication
  7. ONE
  8. TWO
  9. THREE
  10. FOUR
  11. FIVE
  12. SIX
  13. SEVEN
  14. EIGHT
  15. NINE
  16. TEN
  17. ELEVEN
  18. TWELVE
  19. THIRTEEN
  20. FOURTEEN
  21. FIFTEEN
  22. SIXTEEN
  23. SEVENTEEN
  24. EIGHTEEN
  25. NINETEEN
  26. TWENTY
  27. TWENTY-ONE
  28. TWENTY-TWO
  29. TWENTY-THREE
  30. TWENTY-FOUR
  31. TWENTY-FIVE
  32. TWENTY-SIX
  33. TWENTY-SEVEN
  34. TWENTY-EIGHT
  35. TWENTY-NINE
  36. THIRTY
  37. THIRTY-ONE
  38. THIRTY-TWO
  39. THIRTY-THREE
  40. THIRTY-FOUR
  41. THIRTY-FIVE
  42. THIRTY-SIX
  43. THIRTY-SEVEN
  44. THIRTY-EIGHT
  45. THIRTY-NINE
  46. FORTY
  47. FORTY-ONE
  48. FORTY-TWO
  49. FORTY-THREE
  50. FORTY-FOUR
  51. FORTY-FIVE
  52. FORTY-SIX
  53. FORTY-SEVEN
  54. FORTY-EIGHT
  55. FORTY-NINE
  56. FIFTY
  57. FIFTY-ONE
  58. FIFTY-TWO
  59. Acknowledgments
  60. About the Author
  61. Back Ads
  62. Back Cover

I lean against a post and wrap my arms around my body. There is a distinct chill in the air. What did I need to remember?

Though it’s hours yet until the light appears on the mountain, I look up and think of Miner McGee. Always searching, searching, searching.

Searching.

My hand flies to my throat as I gasp. My son. That’s what it is. He could be in danger. That doctor said some diseases of the mind are hereditary. And it must be true there’s a disease in my mind. I sense it lying in wait, crouching like a mountain lion stalking its prey.

Tears sting my eyes, and I cover my mouth. Is this my punishment, God? My memories of his face and his tiny little hands are all I have left of him. Are you going to take them away to punish me for what I did? No, Lord. Please.

No.

I have to fight against the disease. I can’t lose my son again. The mountain towers before me, and I picture Miner McGee, searching, searching. That crazy old man. If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a million times—he’ll never give up.

And neither will I.

NINETEEN

ch-fig

Mitch checked his watch and knocked on the door. How exactly had Frank talked him into this again? Heck of a way to spend his lunch break.

Frank’s voice called from the other side of the door. “Come on in.”

Mitch entered the office and found his old friend sitting behind a desk strewn with papers, books, and coffee mugs. A plastic bag sat on one edge, filled with maybe half a dozen frozen venison chubs.

Frank caught him looking at it. “Someone was cleaning out their freezer to make room for hunting season.”

“So they gave you last year’s meat?”

“It’s from two years ago, actually.” Frank leaned back in his swivel chair and shrugged. “You know how it is.”

Yes, Mitch knew. He and Frank had shared many laughs the last twenty years over the gifts Frank often received from the well-meaning folks in his congregation. Some of them were welcome surprises, like when Miss Ellen would leave sugar cookies on the seat of Frank’s car with a handwritten note. Others were less appealing, such as the couch the Westerly family “donated” to the youth room that only had three feet and was covered in mouse turds.

Mitch muttered something about firstfruits, and Frank gave him a half smile. “Dorothy and I are thankful for it. Have you seen the price of beef lately?”

Mitch grunted.

“But you’re not here to talk about beef, are you?”

Mitch stiffened, and Frank must have noticed.

“No preacher stuff.” Frank held up his hands. “I promise. I asked you to come in as a friend. That’s it.”