God . Isn’t that beautiful?”
“Yes, but I’m not sure God wants to go with me .” Embarrassed by her confession, Kate turned to leave.
Dymple grasped her arm. “What did you mean by that comment?”
“Nothing, really.” Kate chafed against Dymple’s grasp, but the older woman held tight . She looked down. “I’ve done a lot of dumb things. I know God supposedly loves me and all that, but …”
Dymple released Kate’s arm to gently lift her chin. “God not only loves you, sweetie, he delights in you.”
Kate pulled back. “Delights?”
“Yes, Zephaniah—he wrote a book in the Bible—said God delights in you and sings about you.”
“That’ll be the day.”
“He’s singing right now. Your ears just aren’t tuned to his frequency.”
“I’ll have to think about that.” Kate looked at her watch. “I’d better get going. Thanks for the tour.”
“You’re welcome. I’ll keep you in my prunes.”
“Prunes?”
“Oh, dear.” Dymple’s crinkled cheeks turned pink. “I’m jumbling all my words today. Prayers. I’ll keep you in my prayers .” She waved her hand toward the cemetery. “Come see me again. I live on the other side, just beyond those trees.”
“I’ll do that.” Kate started for the parking lot.
“One more thing,” called her new friend. ”Live your dream, Kate Neilson. Every day.”
Indefatigable . Kate smiled, pleased to remember another word from English 101. Dymple Forbes appeared to be an indefatigable woman of boundless energy.
She swiveled and treaded the path back to the chapel. If only half the people she met in Wyoming were as interesting as … She slowed, nearly stopping. What was that strange look on Dymple Forbes’s face when they were talking in the cemetery? Like she recognized me . But that was impossible. Her arrests had caught the local media’s attention more than once, but surely Dymple didn’t get Pittsburgh news out here in the middle of nowhere.
Chapter Two
MIKE DUNCAN SLOWED THE truck to maneuver around yet another mud hole. The winding mountain road was still recovering from the snowstorm. He shifted gears and plowed forward. Thanks to studded tires, his dad’s ancient Dodge, a pickup he’d nicknamed Old Blue , could handle almost any weather the skies chose to dump—at least that’s what his father had told the scoffers.
Both windows were open to the cool morning air. Mike’s dog, Tramp, sat on the passenger seat, his head out the window. The big collie barked at a doe and fawn that peeked from behind white-blossomed chokeberry bushes. The deer vanished, and Tramp returned to scrutinizing his dominion—nostrils quivering, tongue dripping, fur blowing in the breeze.
Mike reached over to scratch his aging dog’s back.
With a wag of his tail, Tramp momentarily acknowledged him.
Mike laughed. “Too busy for me, huh?”
He leaned out the driver’s-side window to savor the fresh smell of the cool, damp earth and the hint of early color that seeped across the meadows and hills between banks of snow. His bison were no doubt loving the tender new grass—that is, if they made it through the storm. Self-sufficient animals, buffalo could protect themselves and their newborn calves from storms that killed cattle. But it didn’t hurt to keep tabs on them—and the fence line.
He straightened, bouncing with the truck as it bumped downhill toward the bison pasture. What a nightmare it would be to round up the huge, unpredictable beasts if they broke loose and wandered into the woods. Each time he moved the herd to a new pasture, he’d proved the old adage true. You can move a bison anywhere he wants to go.
The pickup bucked and skidded over the rutted trail, rattling like a bucket of bolts.
Mike shifted to a lower gear. He’d have to draft a couple of the guys to help him fill the worst of the ruts when the two-track road dried. As often happened with spring storms, the moisture greened the emerging grass but destroyed dirt
“Yes, but I’m not sure God wants to go with me .” Embarrassed by her confession, Kate turned to leave.
Dymple grasped her arm. “What did you mean by that comment?”
“Nothing, really.” Kate chafed against Dymple’s grasp, but the older woman held tight . She looked down. “I’ve done a lot of dumb things. I know God supposedly loves me and all that, but …”
Dymple released Kate’s arm to gently lift her chin. “God not only loves you, sweetie, he delights in you.”
Kate pulled back. “Delights?”
“Yes, Zephaniah—he wrote a book in the Bible—said God delights in you and sings about you.”
“That’ll be the day.”
“He’s singing right now. Your ears just aren’t tuned to his frequency.”
“I’ll have to think about that.” Kate looked at her watch. “I’d better get going. Thanks for the tour.”
“You’re welcome. I’ll keep you in my prunes.”
“Prunes?”
“Oh, dear.” Dymple’s crinkled cheeks turned pink. “I’m jumbling all my words today. Prayers. I’ll keep you in my prayers .” She waved her hand toward the cemetery. “Come see me again. I live on the other side, just beyond those trees.”
“I’ll do that.” Kate started for the parking lot.
“One more thing,” called her new friend. ”Live your dream, Kate Neilson. Every day.”
Indefatigable . Kate smiled, pleased to remember another word from English 101. Dymple Forbes appeared to be an indefatigable woman of boundless energy.
She swiveled and treaded the path back to the chapel. If only half the people she met in Wyoming were as interesting as … She slowed, nearly stopping. What was that strange look on Dymple Forbes’s face when they were talking in the cemetery? Like she recognized me . But that was impossible. Her arrests had caught the local media’s attention more than once, but surely Dymple didn’t get Pittsburgh news out here in the middle of nowhere.
Chapter Two
MIKE DUNCAN SLOWED THE truck to maneuver around yet another mud hole. The winding mountain road was still recovering from the snowstorm. He shifted gears and plowed forward. Thanks to studded tires, his dad’s ancient Dodge, a pickup he’d nicknamed Old Blue , could handle almost any weather the skies chose to dump—at least that’s what his father had told the scoffers.
Both windows were open to the cool morning air. Mike’s dog, Tramp, sat on the passenger seat, his head out the window. The big collie barked at a doe and fawn that peeked from behind white-blossomed chokeberry bushes. The deer vanished, and Tramp returned to scrutinizing his dominion—nostrils quivering, tongue dripping, fur blowing in the breeze.
Mike reached over to scratch his aging dog’s back.
With a wag of his tail, Tramp momentarily acknowledged him.
Mike laughed. “Too busy for me, huh?”
He leaned out the driver’s-side window to savor the fresh smell of the cool, damp earth and the hint of early color that seeped across the meadows and hills between banks of snow. His bison were no doubt loving the tender new grass—that is, if they made it through the storm. Self-sufficient animals, buffalo could protect themselves and their newborn calves from storms that killed cattle. But it didn’t hurt to keep tabs on them—and the fence line.
He straightened, bouncing with the truck as it bumped downhill toward the bison pasture. What a nightmare it would be to round up the huge, unpredictable beasts if they broke loose and wandered into the woods. Each time he moved the herd to a new pasture, he’d proved the old adage true. You can move a bison anywhere he wants to go.
The pickup bucked and skidded over the rutted trail, rattling like a bucket of bolts.
Mike shifted to a lower gear. He’d have to draft a couple of the guys to help him fill the worst of the ruts when the two-track road dried. As often happened with spring storms, the moisture greened the emerging grass but destroyed dirt
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