Alaska Twilight (35 page)
Her jaw dropped. “You’re serious.”
“As a heart attack. If we’re blessed with a son, you have to promise me you won’t ask to name him after me.”
“Can I name a girl after Augusta?”
“You can have whatever you want,” he said, pulling her closer. “I’m going to spoil you so rotten no one else would ever have you. I’m not like your parents, Haley. I’ll love you unconditionally as long as I live.”
His lips touched hers, and Haley wrapped her arms around his neck. She didn’t need her camera or her books. God had given her a second chance, and she was going to seize it with both hands.
Would you like to read more about Samson and his exploits? Read the Rock Harbor Series by Colleen Coble:
Without a Trace
Beyond a Doubt
Into the Deep
To read more about Savannah, check out the following books by Denise Hildreth:
Savannah from Savannah
Savannah Comes Undone
A
laska is such a vast and wondrous place that the research was even more daunting than usual. I put out a plea on my writers’ loop at American Christian Fiction Writers (www.americanchristianfictionwriters.com) to ask if anyone lived in Alaska, and two super writers were quick to offer to read the manuscript and offer suggestions. Any errors are mine, of course! My special thanks to Kristen Blincoe and Amy Bang.
I’m blessed beyond all measure to work with my Thomas Nelson family: editor Ami McConnell, who has taught me so much with every book; Amanda Bostic, who keeps us all on schedule and smiling while we do it; visionary publisher Allen Arnold; his assistant and my fellow Hoosier and friend, Lisa Young; publicist extraordinaire Caroline Craddock; creative marketing genius Jennifer Deshler; and amazing cover designers Mark Ross and Belinda Bass. I’ve grown to love and appreciate the Thomas Nelson sales staff more and more. You all are the greatest, and I wish I could give you all a big box of DeBrand truffles!
I’m also fortunate to work with Erin Healy as editor. Writers who think all they have to do is write a book and it’s done have never worked with a good editor and realized how much better it can be after a topnotch editor gets through with it. Ami and Erin both bring so much to the finished product. I’m a revision junkie now. If you like my books, thank my editors!
Thanks to my agent, Karen Solem, who has held my hand through more than one panic attack this year. You’re the best, Karen!
To my critique partners—Kristin Billerbeck, Diann Hunt, and Denise Hunter—who took time out of their own writing days to go over my manuscript and make sure I got this right, thanks a bunch, friends! And thanks to friend Robin Miller who read the manuscript for me as well.
And as always, my heartfelt thanks to my wonderful family. My husband, Dave; my son, David; and my daughter, Kara, have been my cheering section from the first day I sat at the computer to write, even during those long first seven years when no one wanted to buy anything. I love you!
And devoted thanks to my Constant Companion, the Lord Jesus Christ, who has put me in my “sweet spot” and allowed me to write the stories of my heart.
Coming August 2007
These six things the LORD hates, yes, seven are an abomination
to Him: A proud look, a lying tongue, hands that shed
innocent blood, a heart that devises wicked plans, feet that are
swift in running to evil, a false witness who speaks lies, and
one who sows discord among brethren.
PROVERBS 6: 16-19
Experience this ground-breaking novel
by award-winning author
COLLEEN COBLE.
S
he didn’t know how far she’d driven—all she knew was that it wasn’t far enough. The lights on the dash moved in her vision, growing and receding as she gripped the steering wheel and struggled to hang on to consciousness. Nothing but the moon illuminated this lonely stretch of highway. The digital clock read 8:03.
Panic beat in her chest like a bird trying to escape her ribcage. She had to get away, had to find a place to hide. Her hand touched her ribs and came away with sticky wetness. How much blood had she lost? Her fingers probed the spot again, and she discovered a six-inch gash. Had she been in a car accident?
Her gaze wandered to the rearview mirror, and she moved it so she could see the child in the car seat in the back. Confusion clouded her mind. She struggled to put a name to the little girl who looked to be about two. Her child? Her gaze took in the worn backpack beside the sleeping child, but nothing looked familiar.
A green sign flashed past as the car weaved. Rock Harbor, ten miles. She had no idea where this town was located, not even what state. Maybe she was just tired. Too frightened to think, to plan. Her head ached abominably, and her vision continued to waver.
Headlights haloed with distorted rings of color sprang into view behind her, and the panic surged into her throat again. She pressed her foot to the accelerator.
He couldn’t find her.
The car responded to the acceleration at first. The tires zoomed along the road, their hum sounding loud inside the car. The car receded in her rearview mirror. But her elation faded when the wheel shuddered in her hands. The engine coughed.
“No, no,” she moaned. “Not now.” He would find her. She struggled for a name to put with the danger, but it wouldn’t come. If her head would just quit aching, she could think.
The car convulsed again, then began to slow. The warning lights on the dash blinked, then held steady, glaring their threat into the night. She fought the wheel as the power steering failed with the engine. The sore muscles in her arms screamed.
She managed to steer the car onto the shoulder of the road. Glancing behind her, she saw the lights were no longer following her. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t back there somewhere. Every moment that ticked by brought him closer.
Cranking the key, she tried to start the engine. “Come on, come on,” she whispered. “Oh God, please help me!” The engine turned over slowly but didn’t catch. She tried again, and it coughed to shuddering life. It wouldn’t run long the way it missed. She had to get the car out of sight, throw him off her trail.
A small path opened between thick, ice-frosted brush. Though it wasn’t a real lane, she pulled onto it and caught the glimmer of moon on water. A plan sprang to life, but she found it hard to think through all the ramifications. She put her hand on her pounding temple and her fingers brushed a significant bump on her scalp, a lump so tender that her misery increased.
With the pain came more nausea. She stopped the car, opened the door, leaned out, and threw up. She couldn’t remember ever hurting so much. She could still feel the knife slicing through her flesh.
A knife. Where had that thought come from? Surely she hadn’t been stabbed. Had she? She groaned and laid her forehead against the steering wheel. Someone had tried to kill her. Somehow she knew this.
The car engine still sputtered. He would find her, kill her, finish the job he’d started. She got out and inhaled the cold night air tinged with moisture. The fresh, clean scent penetrated her mental fog and gave her hope. Staggering and dizzy, she managed to get the toddler out, car seat and all, and set the seat with the sleeping child on the ground. The child’s parka lay inside the car by the backpack. She tucked it around the little girl.
Her vision blackened, and she thumped down beside the child and put her head between her knees. Once her vision cleared, she crawled to the car door again and hauled herself to her feet. She took out the backpack, then sat on the edge of the seat with her feet on the ground. Unzipping it, she checked the contents: a small purse, changes of clothing for the child.
She dropped the backpack beside the child, then staggered back to the driver’s door and got in. She pulled the transmission lever into drive, then guided the car toward the lake. The water showed under a light coating of ice, so the car should plunge right through.
The speedometer showed 25 miles per hour. She shoved open the door and sprang from the car. Her shoulder slammed into the ice-slicked knoll. The impact knocked the air out of her.
She lay facedown in mud while the pain thundered in her head and her side. The agony pushed out all other thoughts. The blood running down her side and pooling under her felt warm.
With a groan, she welcomed the darkness that blotted out her pain and terror.
Her dreams were punctuated with screams and the sound of crying. Gradually she became aware the cries were real. She moaned, then sat up and pushed her hair out of her face. The level of pounding in her head had eased off, maybe enough to think. She lurched to her feet.
The car.
Glancing around, she saw the vehicle was gone. How long had she been unconscious? Staggering, she started toward the toddler. “It’s okay, baby,” she crooned, her voice hoarse and sore as if she’d been screaming. Maybe some of the screams in her dreams had been her own.
The little girl held up her arms. “Mama,” she sobbed.
Lifting the toddler into her arms, she cradled the child against her shoulder. “It’s okay, sweetie,” she whispered in the child’s soft blond hair. Had a child’s hair ever smelled so sweet? It felt strange and familiar all at the same time.
“Mama.” The little girl nestled close and popped her thumb in her mouth.
A wave of maternal love rose in her chest. This was her daughter, even if she didn’t know the little girl’s name. “What’s your name, sweetheart? How old are you?”
The little girl took her thumb out of her mouth. “Two,” she said. She held up chubby fingers. “Two.”
“You’re two,” she agreed. “But what’s your name?” The little girl didn’t answer. The wind kicked up, and she realized she needed to put the child’s coat on her. The toddler cooperated by sticking her arms into the sleeves.
Her own coat still lay on the passenger seat. Now that she was shivering, she dimly remembered seeing it. How stupid not to grab it.
The backpack she’d pulled from the car before she disposed of the vehicle lay at her feet. Her purse was in there. Surely she had a driver’s license. Still holding the child, she knelt beside the backpack. She rooted out the purse she’d seen and unzipped it. One by one, she examined the contents by the bright light of the moon.
There was no identification in the purse. It actually seemed to be the child’s play purse. She found cherry ChapStick, a broken green crayon, a tiny doll, and a bib. Where was her own purse? She should have checked the floor and the glove box before sending the car into the lake.
She touched the ring finger on her left hand. A ring had worn a groove there, but her finger was bare. Was she divorced? Was it her husband she was fleeing from?
Struggling to think, she pulled a bulky shape from the dark shadows of her mind and shuddered. He couldn’t find her now. Surely, she’d come far enough. She touched the goose egg on her head. It had started to bleed.
“Mama has to put you down a minute,” she told the little girl. The child didn’t complain when she set her on the frosted grass.
She started to shoulder the backpack, then felt something swing along her chest. Her fingers touched a necklace. Fumbling with the latch, she managed to get the necklace off and held it up to the moonlight. Small ballet slippers swung on a delicate chain. She turned it over and noticed something engraved on the back, but it was too dark to make out the word.
