Mammoth Secrets

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Praise

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Thank You

Mammoth Secrets

 

 

Ashley Elizabeth Ludwig

 

 

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

 

Mammoth Secrets

 

COPYRIGHT 2014 by Ashley Elizabeth Ludwig

 

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or Pelican Ventures, LLC except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

 

eBook editions are licensed for your personal enjoyment only. eBooks may not be re-sold, copied or given to other people. If you would like to share an eBook edition, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with.

 

Contact Information: [email protected]

 

All scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version
(R),
NIV
(R),
Copyright 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com

 

Cover Art by
Nicola Martinez

 

White Rose Publishing, a division of Pelican Ventures, LLC

www.pelicanbookgroup.com
PO Box 1738 *Aztec, NM * 87410

 

White Rose Publishing Circle and Rosebud logo is a trademark of Pelican Ventures, LLC

 

Publishing History

First White Rose Edition, 2015

Paperback Edition ISBN 978-1-61116-435-0

Electronic Edition ISBN 978-1-61116-434-3

Published in the United States of America

Dedication

 

To my grandparents, Bob and Vivian Bryan, who've gone to their heavenly home—thank you for the moonlit Spring River, southern summer nights, and providing the home of my heart.

 

To my Aunt Anna Lou "Boo" Weathers, who believed in my stories long before I believed in them myself.

 

Praise

 

 

Ashley Ludwig's snappy, contemporary voice meets nostalgic, small-town romance in
Mammoth Secrets
, where the only thing as sweet as the memories saved are those being made. ~ Joanne Bischof, Christy Award Nominated Author of "Be Still My Soul"

 

 

 

 

1

 

And you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free. ~John 8:32

 

Lilah Dale mulled her newest menu idea for the family diner, shortcutting through Cherokee Springs Park across the footbridge. “Too spicy. Too exotic. No one'll even try it.”

Water rushed over the falls beneath her feet in an endless curtain, where the river curled south through Arkansas.

She passed the red-handled cooler from one hand to the other and glanced at the sun, just rising over the hills.

Eden was opening, and her polar-opposite sister was never late.

If Lilah hurried, she'd make it to town in time to prep before the breakfast crowd arrived. Mentally, she ticked through the same old, same old, day in, day out.

Mr. Hackleberry would want toast and poached eggs. Because it was Saturday, the Emerson clan would be there for mountains of pancakes. Scrambled eggs and sausage for Mr. Steadman, who'd sit at the counter by Papaw like it was his job.

Lord, what I'd give for a little bit of change…
Passing the visitor center, she cast a longing gaze heavenward, all but tasted the cilantro she'd chopped up yesterday. Her latest kitchen triumph was perfecting chipotle sauce. Change today looked like grilled trout smothered in the stuff. Totally crave-able. Too bad no one would order it.

The lonely truck in the empty lot gave her pause, parked just to the left of a posted “No Camping
”
sign.

California plates, windows steamed with a night-full of breath, and it didn't look like the driver could afford the two-hundred-dollar ticket.

Taking a mental coin toss between where she needed to go and what she ought to do, Lilah crossed the parking lot to the driver's window, and saw him through the foggy glass. Like an old motor, her heart kicked over.

His jaw hinged open in a snore. A crop of overgrown, red-gold hair obscured his face in shadow, his movie star features looked a day or two past shaving. Handsome in a gut-check way, though she had no right to look and admire. Not now, and maybe not ever again.

Lilah set down her gear and knuckle-rapped on the window, quick-stepping back when the drifter's eyes flew open in a gasp.

“Wha—? Where?” He blinked, sluggish, and a hand scrubbed his stubbled face.

“You lost?” She nodded toward the crumpled map at his side.

The now-awake stranger seemed more rugged. Raw. And utterly male.

“N-no.” He cranked the window down and wiped his eyes. “Road weary. Pulled over last night to wait for morning. Guess the falls put me to sleep.”

“You can't camp here. They'll ticket you, for sure.” She thumbed at the sign. “Park gets more cash that way than from tourists, believe me.”

“I'm not—”

“There's a motel across the river, or if you're tight, the campground. It has showers, facilities.” She picked up rod and cooler, elbow-pointing the direction. “Good thing I got here first or Rita might've called the cops.”

 

~*~

 

Across the river, the fierce wail of an approaching train caught their mutual attention.

Jake watched the engine heave its bulk around the curve,
rat-a-tatting
across the tracks. Its rusty cars and cargo stuttered through the trees like a loose movie reel.

He turned for a better look at the girl who'd woken him.

Tall and willowy, with blonde curls that framed her suntanned face, a dusting of freckles on her nose, and an obvious distrust of strangers, by the way she stayed well out of arm's reach from his open window.

He did his best to cast a friendly, non-ax-murderer smile. “Catch anything?”

“Rainbow.” She revealed the ample stack of filleted trout. “Good morning for it.”

“As delicious as that looks, is there a fast food restaurant or something nearby?”

“In Thayer, just across the state line.” She flicked her gaze to the little wooden cross dangling from the rearview mirror, then back to him and grinned. “You could do a lot better than fast food, you know. Try Earl's Kitchen, in town. Good for the soul.” Her brows jogged in good humor, and Jake watched her ponytail swish as she disappeared under the bridge.

He should have offered her a ride, said something, but she hadn't really given him a chance to mention that he wasn't passing through. But waking to the sight of the natural beauty with a cooler full of fish had scrambled his thoughts.

Dragging the crumpled state map from where it bookmarked last night's reading from Exodus, he spied his location. Mammoth was a dot, just on the Arkansas side of Missouri's boot heel. He'd made it after all, though he thought he'd missed it altogether. Blink and you'd drive right by.
Now what, Lord?

Would Margaret have ever come to a place like this? With no mall, no fancy restaurants? Not a chance. Because his hair blocked his view, he blew through his shaggy bangs. “That's not the haircut of a pastor,” her voice scolded in his memory.

Great way to make a good first impression with his new congregation. Accordioning the map, he tossed it to the dash. Wifeless. Homeless, except for the lodgings the Women's Auxiliary League provided for him.

His parent church hadn't given him much background on his new home, just that they needed a fresh start as much as he did—that's why Dad allowed him to abbreviate his name, arrive incognito. Jake Gibson would be known as Jake Gibb until he'd found himself—decided which path to take. Accept his place as heir to his father's mega ministry, or to leave the pulpit all together, with no one the wiser.

“It's better for you, better for everyone until you get back on your feet.”

Memory of his father's calm, mega-church pastor's assurance followed him as he drove east, and still churned his gut. A good son, he'd try it Dad's way. For now.

Maybe this was what he needed. He'd deleted himself from all social media, as if he'd never existed, with no old friends, and nothing to fall back on but his teaching and the Lord's good graces. And a town of under one thousand souls? To Margaret and her friends, it probably looked like punishment, hidden away from everything and anyone he'd ever known. And right now? That was fine with him.

Jake opened the driver's door, cringing at the long creak. He hopped out, turned this way and that to stretch his back and to catch the mid-April breeze. The glassy pool of Cherokee Spring beckoned, a broad, flat lake rounded by rocky slopes and patches of grass. Its edges grew thick with sucker plants. But the water! With shades ranging from clear at the shore to midnight blue at the depth, it struck him as a mini Lake Tahoe. No tourists, though, and no one fishing on this brisk spring morning. Just a sad-looking dock with paddleboats tied up on one side, while crumbled cement pilings jutted off on the other like a bridge to nowhere.

No one was fishing up there.

He thrilled briefly, thinking about the mysterious blonde with the cooler full of trout. When his ragged-edged heart healed, he'd only date girls not afraid of baiting a hook.

He jammed hands into his jeans pockets. Since a path wound around the spring, he decided to walk it, take in his new surroundings, and pray the weight of guilt off his shoulders. He wished he'd taken the time to search the internet for the church and the town, instead of trekking across the country like Moses with a map. A church like this was basically a blank slate. But then again, so was he.

Turning away from the stream and lake, Jake hoofed it toward the now-open structure. Inside, a heavyset ranger sat behind her desk, paperback tight in her hand. She greeted him without glancing up. “Welcome to Cherokee Springs State Park,” she said in a drawl. “Bathroom's down the exhibit hall and to the right.”

“Thanks, but that's not why I'm here.” Jake stood in front of her and grinned. “The lake. It's fascinating.”

Her romance novel dropped a few degrees as surprise brightened her gray eyes. “The aquifer feeds the whole Ozark river system, but I like the Cherokee legend−says the chief's son died here, looking for water after a long drought. The spring came up right where they buried him. Been bubbling ever since.”

“In my experience, most legends come from some slice of truth.”

He gathered a map and brochure from the Plexiglas stands and studied a picture of a clear blue aquifer, young weeping willow trees at its edge. “You been here long?”

“I started with the parks service right out of high school. Only job I've ever had.” She straightened her name badge, eying the wall frame congratulating her for thirty years of service. “Used to be beautiful.” She shook her straight, granite-colored locks, giving him the feeling she meant more than just the park.

“It still is.” Jake looked out the window, trying to see it through her eyes. “The bones of the place are good. Thanks for the map, Ms. Hollister.”

“Call me Rita. Everyone does.” Her grin erased ten years from her dour appearance. Turning the swivel chair toward the sidewalk, lined with scrub-grass and bare earth, she sighed. “Just wait until the wildflowers come out in a couple weeks. But, you're just passin' through. Maybe when you'll be headed back the other way?”