Praise for the Christiansen Family Series
When I Fall in Love
“[When I Fall in Love is] an exquisite romance. Profoundly touching on the topic of facing fears, this book is a true gem.”
ROMANTIC TIMES
“Readers who are already enamored of the sprawling Christiansen clan will feel even more connected, while those new to Warren will be brought right into the fold.”
BOOKLIST
“Warren has a knack for creating captivating and relatable characters that pull the reader deep into the story.”
RADIANT LIT
It Had to Be You
“It Had to Be You is a sigh-worthy, coming-into-her-own romance highlighting the importance of family, the necessity of faith, and how losing yourself for the right reasons can open your heart to something beautiful.”
SERENA CHASE, USA TODAY
“This character-driven tale with a beautiful love story . . . gives excellent spiritual insight and a gorgeously written look at what it means to surrender and let go.”
ROMANTIC TIMES
“Susan May Warren delivers another beautiful, hope-filled story of faith that makes the reader fall further in love with this captivating and intriguing family. . . . Powerful storytelling gripped me from beginning to end . . . [and] lovable characters ensure that the reader becomes invested in their lives.”
RADIANT LIT
“This is one author who is only getting better with each book, and I cannot wait to find out which character we are next invited to meet in this Christiansen family.”
FICTION ADDICT
“A gem of a story, threaded with truth and hope, laughter and romance. Susan May Warren brings the Christiansen family to life, as if they might be my family or yours, with her smooth writing and engaging storytelling.”
RACHEL HAUCK, BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF THE WEDDING DRESS
Take a Chance on Me
“Warren’s new series launch has it all: romance, suspense, and intrigue. It is sure to please her many fans and win her new readers, especially those who enjoy Terri Blackstock.”
LIBRARY JOURNAL
“Warren . . . has crafted an engaging tale of romance, rivalry, and the power of forgiveness.”
PUBLISHERS WEEKLY
“Warren once again creates a compelling community full of vivid individuals whose anguish and dreams are so real and relatable, readers will long for every character to attain the freedom their hearts desire.”
BOOKLIST
“Take a Chance on Me is the first of six books in this new series from prolific author Susan May Warren—and I couldn’t be more excited! I’ve already fallen in love with the Christiansen family . . . and I can’t wait to see how Warren brings true and lasting love into the lives of Darek’s two brothers and three sisters.”
SERENA CHASE, USA TODAY
“A compelling story of forgiveness and redemption, Take a Chance on Me will have readers taking a chance on each beloved character!”
CBA RETAILERS + RESOURCES
“Warren’s latest is a touching tale of love discovered and the meaning of family.”
ROMANTIC TIMES
Visit Tyndale online at www.tyndale.com.
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Always on My Mind
Copyright © 2014 by Susan May Warren. All rights reserved.
Cover photograph copyright © by Tom Merton/Glow Images. All rights reserved.
Designed by Jennifer Phelps
Edited by Sarah Mason
Published in association with the literary agency of The Steve Laube Agency, 5025 N. Central Ave., #635, Phoenix, AZ 85012.
Job 42:5 taken from the New King James Version.® Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson, Inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved.
Luke 19:10 taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version,® NIV.® Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com.
Always on My Mind is a work of fiction. Where real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales appear, they are used fictitiously. All other elements of the novel are drawn from the author’s imagination.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Warren, Susan May, date.
Always on my mind / Susan May Warren.
pages cm. — (Christiansen family)
ISBN 978-1-4143-7844-2 (softcover : acid-free paper) 1. Man-woman relationships—Fiction. 2. Minnesota—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3623.A865A79 2015
813´.-6—dc23 2014036475
ISBN 978-1-4964-0352-0 (ePub); ISBN 978-1-4143-8482-5 (Kindle); ISBN 978-1-4964-0353-7 (Apple)
Build: 2014-11-26 08:32:33
For Your glory, Lord
CONTENTS
Acknowledgments
Map of the Area of Deep Haven and Evergreen Lake
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Epilogue
A Note from the Author
About the Author
Discussion Questions
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
WHEN I’M IN THE MIDDLE of a story, it’s always on my mind and it’s a little dangerous to be around me. You never know when I’ll corner you in the kitchen to work out a scene or call you to ask for help with “just one tiny detail.”
I rely on my circle of supporters more than they realize, I’m sure. But with each story, they show me that they are not going to abandon me. That they’ll stand by me and throw me ideas (or critiques!) when I need them. I’m so grateful.
Their sacrifice doesn’t go unnoticed, so my deepest appreciation goes to:
Rachel Hauck, who worked through every scene with me, faithful on the other end of the phone. I couldn’t write a book without her.
David Warren, who sits down and works through all my character kinks (and the male POV! What a gift!). Thank you for your brilliance.
Sarah Erredge and her cute husband, Neil, who learned that even he can be pulled into brainstorming.
Peter Warren, my wonderful, crazy middle child, who inspired Casper’s wild, adventurous heart.
Noah Warren, who has Casper’s sensitive, loving personality and is my last brainstorming victim left at home. You are a treasure!
Andrew, my Thor. Life with you is always exciting.
Karen Watson, who always knows just how to round out a story and make it stronger. Yes, I mean it—you are brilliant.
Sarah Mason, for her amazing editing skills. You make this feel easier than it is.
Jesus, who shows me every day that I belong to Him and that He loves me.
And to my amazing readers—you bless me with your encouragement. As I write, you are always on my mind. Thank you for reading the Christiansen Family series!
My dearest Casper,
It’s not easy to be the middle child, the one who is neither the oldest—the responsible legacy bearer—nor the youngest, pampered and cherished just because he is the last. The middle must both follow and lead, must know how to soothe wounded pride and embolden others to greatness. The middle child must know how to love.
You, Casper, possess this beautif
ul gift. You are an amazing middle child, carrying both the dark hair (I’m sorry, Son, but you are most likely destined to lose your glorious locks early) and pensive blue eyes of your father and the heart of your mother—compassionate, sensitive, and seeking to nurture others.
Unfortunately that heart I gave you makes you feel more deeply, wound easily, and—sometimes to your detriment—love without reserve.
I wish you truly understood what a delight you are! From the moment you arrived, hearty and charming, you won our hearts. I remember you standing in your crib, mesmerized by Darek, coddled by Eden and Grace. You cried when they cried, laughed at their teasing, and even when they hurt you, you followed them.
Then the others arrived and you decided to love them with everything you had. Despite the age difference between you and Amelia, you tried to understand her. Most of all, I know watching Owen rise in fame couldn’t have been easy, but you bore it, cheered him on, believed in him.
If only you could see your own light, the one that shines out past the shadows your brothers cast over you. You try so hard to fit into their lives, to hold up your unspoken promises, believing for some reason that you are second best. And that if you don’t accomplish or find something extraordinary, you will be forgotten.
You are the epic middle of the story, Casper. That delicious, rich, charming, sometimes-challenging, always-compelling middle that holds the family together. You are the life of the party, the spark that draws us close. Your belief that there are some things worth fighting for inspires us, and your courage to seek the precious in life is like the heart of Christ.
This is my prayer for you. That you would see how much the world needs you. How valuable you are to God, to us. And that you would no longer see yourself as second best but as someone worth finding and cherishing.
Do not let the world steal away your tender, compassionate heart. It is precious in God’s sight.
And mine.
Your loving mother
A MAN STUCK IN PARADISE should have someone to share it with.
Especially on New Year’s Eve.
Casper Christiansen angled his skiff along the shoreline toward the littered beach of Cay Comfort, the moniker given by the locals to this wash of beachfront in Old Port Royal, a tiny key off the island of Roatán, Honduras.
The island time forgot, the perfect place for a person to hide. To listen to his regrets. To figure out how to find everything he’d thrown away. Like his future. His self-respect.
And if that man could find the treasure hidden in the east end of the island, he might even return with the pride he’d left behind in Minneapolis the day he found out his brother had a too-intimate history with the woman he loved.
Casper had followed the rumors of treasures away from the hustle of the west-end resorts. Here lush, rolling hills brambled with bamboo and dense ferns fell into the sea, and towering coconut palms and thick-leaved sea grapes canopied the creamy-white sand beaches. Locals built homes on stilts, as if still on watch for pirates, the kind that stole their women and dragged chests of gold doubloons ashore. The legends claimed marauders had fortressed themselves in the nearby limestone cliffs, securing their gold in caverns before venturing back to sea to plunder the ships from the Spanish Main.
Casper had spent the better part of four months, in between diving for Fitz Hanson’s archaeological dig, plotting out exactly where pirates like Captain Morgan had secured such treasures.
And tonight, while the rest of the world celebrated New Year’s Eve, he’d unearth old Morgan’s treasure, start a new chapter of his life.
Casper raised his hand to a bronze-skinned ten-year-old perched at the end of his cayuka, fishing wire fastened around an old detergent bottle. He wore a Life is good T-shirt and cutoff jeans, his hair long like Casper’s.
The child waved back. “Grouper for you tonight, Mr. Casper!” The afternoon sun glinted off his smile.
Casper gave him a thumbs-up. He’d eaten enough fish to grow fins.
Past the boy, the ocean stretched beyond the curve of the bay, the aquamarine water so glassy it begged him to reach out for the sea anemone shadowing the ocean floor, run his fingers through the schools of blue tang and creole wrasse scattering among the shoals.
But he knew better. Fertile rumors of shipwrecks and sunken treasure, along with the hypnotizing ocean, lured a man into the turquoise depths and the dangerous labyrinth of coral latticed along the edge of the bay. Beyond the wall of jagged coral, deep in underwater caverns, squid and moray eels lay in vigil, preying upon men lured by the hope of gold doubloons and fueled by the yarns perpetuated by locals eager for tourists.
Casper, however, had sorted the truth from the lies and knew why treasure eluded hobby enthusiasts scouring the sea.
They were searching in the wrong place.
Casper angled his skiff out from shore, away from the tangle of mangroves that scarred this part of the island. Yellow-naped parrots and lime-and-scarlet macaws sang from the shadows beyond the nest of vegetation, deep in the tropical forest, home to geckos, frogs, lizards, and ancient iguanas the size of a man.
A tepid wind off the sea combed his hair, the air salty, drying his lips, his skin having turned leathery from his daily work at the Valiant wreck site.
Dig director Fitz Hanson seemed to believe the entire island—and its hidden treasures—belonged to him. If he knew what Casper did on his days off, he might fire him on the spot, send him packing back to snow-encrusted northern Minnesota, where, according to his mother, winter had turned bitter and angry, plunging them into subzero suffering.
Casper supposed he should feel guilty—in fact, yes, he did. But not because he was enjoying his days in the cerulean-blue ocean, his nights watching the moonlight trace a milky finger over the waves.
No, his guilt sank into his bones, had claws. In the quiet of the night, the memory of his fury could shake him awake, fill his throat with regret.
He’d caused a rift in his family that he didn’t know how—or even want, sometimes—to fix.
A white-faced monkey squealed at him from a gnarled banana tree before scampering away. Casper steered the motorboat into the quay, where he’d first located the trail of set stones leading to shore.
The stones betrayed the telltale sign of a foundation, a mooring site for sloops such as the type Welsh privateer Henry Morgan might have utilized.
And according to Casper’s research, this little inlet just might contain Morgan’s lost treasure, the one first unearthed over seventy-five years ago by infamous adventurer Ziegler Hanes. Tale had it that, once upon a time, a river ran through the forest into the bay. Along this river, pirates lugged their treasures to a cave embedded deep in the tangle.
Ziegler Hanes had thrashed through enough mangroves to discover the cave, explored it, and unearthed three chests wrapped in chains. These he cut open, then dragged one by one out to his ship, under the onslaught of a hurricane. Finally leaving behind the last chest, he’d nearly wrecked his ship escaping the island to nearby British Honduras.
Which meant the last treasure chest could still be here. Right here, in fact, if Casper had his calculations correct. And so what that he’d spent the past two months unearthing nothing but pop cans, metal wire, dented buckets, and rusted buoys? He’d nearly lost his heart once digging up what seemed like the find of the century, only to discover an ancient refrigerator.
Yet, deep down, Casper knew the treasure waited just for him.
He moored the boat and retrieved his machete, a portable shovel, his metal detector, and headphones.
He trekked into the green, remembering his steps, hacking at forest until he reached a clearing, his last search grid. Low-hanging sunlight streamed through the coconut palms, mottling the ground as he switched on the metal detector and fitted on his headphones.
Treasure hunting isn’t going to give you a future, Casper. If you want to accomplish something in life, you have to work for it.
He shut his father’s voice f
rom his head. With sweat dribbling down his spine, wetting his long-sleeved shirt, the mosquitoes nibbling at his legs, and the no-see-ums dive-bombing his neck, yeah, he could consider this work.
He got a hit and spent ten minutes with too-eager enthusiasm unearthing a rotted tin can.
Blowing out a breath, he drew his arm across his forehead. His stomach clenched, empty after this morning’s plum jam on bread.
Is that what you want? To be a treasure hunter?
He shook away Raina’s voice, but she never escaped far, haunting him just beyond his thoughts.
I’d like to find something precious, yes.
Six months ago, he thought he had, in Raina.
He swallowed, needing a drink, something cool against his parched throat.
An hour later, Casper set the detector down and pulled the headset off his ears. He’d uncovered another tin can and a cup. A real haul. Maybe his pal Doug was right when he suggested Casper head home when the new interns arrived in two weeks.
He hadn’t exactly discovered a lost fortune. And he’d spent most of his time helping Fitz haul old cannons, tin plates, and the occasional charred wooden beam from the ocean floor.
He felt more like a day laborer than an archaeologist.
So you’re like what’s his name—Indiana Jones?
Raina again, and for a second, he let her settle there, remembering her in his arms under a northern moon. The way she ran her fingers through his hair, made him believe that he could be happy in Deep Haven, discovering a life with her.
Slinging the metal detector over his shoulder, he turned it on but kept the headphones around his neck as he trekked back. He swung the detector loosely over the ground, following a tumble of rocks that could have been a stream, perhaps.
Or maybe he was simply afflicted with an overactive imagination. The ability to tell himself a good tale, make himself believe it.
Like the fact that he could have a happily ever after with a woman who clearly saw him as second choice.
See, there she went again, tiptoeing into his brain and perching there.
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