All God's Promises (A Prairie Heritage Book 7)

by Vikki Kestell

  “Those are their names? Elaine and Samuel?” Ilsa asked.

  “Yes,” Kari whispered. “Sammie was only a baby.”

  Søren nodded. “Kari, your homecoming is the answer to decades—generations—of prayer and trust that the ‘lost are found.’ But maybe . . . maybe we should take a wider view.”

  Ilsa, Max, and Kari looked to Søren to explain.

  “Maybe you are the firstfruits of our family’s faith, Kari.”

  He took her hand and set his jaw in determination. “You are the first to be found, but the others are coming. Until then, we trust The Lord—and we never stop searching. Because we know that in God the lost are found.”

  ~~**~~

  Part 1

  Chapter 1

  For Jesus Christ, the Son of God,

  does not waver between

  “Yes” and “No.”

  As God’s ultimate “Yes,”

  he always does what he says.

  For all of God’s promises

  have been fulfilled in Christ

  with a resounding “Yes!”

  And through Christ, our “Amen”

  (which means “Yes”)

  ascends to God for his glory.

  (2 Corinthians 1:19, 20, NLT)

  —

  August 5, 1991

  THE SCREEN DOOR SLAPPED CLOSED BEHIND HER as Kari ran down the porch steps. She crossed the farmyard, paused near the pump, and drained the last of the coffee from the mug she held.

  In the hour before dawn, Kari had helped Max feed and milk the cows and goats, feed the chickens and gather their eggs, and muck out the stalls. Now morning chores in the barn and outbuildings were done, and she had a few minutes to herself before Ilsa called them to breakfast.

  The sun was cresting the horizon at her back; its heat warmed Kari’s shoulders, warning of the scorching day ahead. Showers had pummeled the ground the night before, leaving mud and puddles in their wake, but the glowing ball of fire rising in the sky east of them was already wicking the moisture from the earth, shrouding the rain-soaked fields in mist.

  Kari’s gaze fastened on a point unseen, west, across the misty pasture.

  It’s all right, she thought. The haze will burn off quickly.

  Besides, she knew the way by heart.

  With wisps swirling around her boots, Kari strode down the slope, away from the house and far down the pasture, until she reached her destination.

  Kari had made a habit of spending this precious part of each morning the same way—standing on the bank of the stream that separated Søren’s farm from the abandoned homestead on the other side.

  She found her usual vantage point. The creek bank was strewn with wild poppies. Their long stems lifted sleepy crimson heads to greet the rising sun; their furled buds peeked above the mist that swirled across the ground and about Kari’s feet.

  Kari often sat among the poppies in the late afternoon, but not this morning, not while the soaked earth was surrendering its moisture. Instead, she stood on the bank of the stream and peered across its dancing water to the other side. Through the mist, she spied the shape of the little house that, these many generations later, was still standing, although near to falling down.

  The remains of Rose’s house, she thought. Rose and Jan’s home. Where they raised their daughter, Joy.

  Joy.

  Joy, my grandmother.

  My real grandmother.

  Those three words still stunned her. With shaking fingers, Kari wiped cobwebs from her eyes and wished the empty mug she clutched in her other hand still held steaming coffee.

  “Must have more coffee,” she muttered. A moment later she added, “Actually, what I really must have is more of you, Lord.”

  Of the many revelations of the last three weeks, finding Jesus had been the best. The most . . .

  Earthshaking.

  Life-changing.

  Awe-inspiring.

  Finding Jesus has changed everything!

  She snorted under her breath. Actually, he found me, ’cause I sure wasn’t looking for him!

  And then the chuckle caught in her throat and became a sob. O Jesus! I am so glad you found me! When I think of the intricate thread you spun to guide me to you, your hand is evident.

  It is nothing short of a miracle.

  A miracle?

  Yes, a miracle.

  And the precious land across the creek was hers now. Rose and Jan’s falling-down house was hers now.

  Someday I will build a house near theirs and spend part of my life looking from the other side of this creek.

  That idea boggled her mind, too.

  So much has changed.

  Too many aspects of Kari’s life had changed in such a short period of time, and she struggled daily to process it all.

  Only four months ago, Kari had been nursing the wounds of her husband’s betrayal and their subsequent divorce. The divorce, finalized in January, had required her to sell their home in Albuquerque and split the proceeds with David, the man who was now her ex-husband. But Kari had nowhere to go after the house sold.

  She had been flat broke, without a job or the prospect of one. She had been balancing on the sharp edge of desperation.

  I didn’t even have enough money to rent an apartment until the sale closed and paid out. And the proceeds from the sale of the house, once they paid out? That money would have kept me for a mere six months.

  And then a letter had arrived.

  A letter from Brunell & Brunell, Attorneys at Law, New Orleans. The words still burned in Kari’s memories.

  . . . If you are KariAnn Alicia Hillyer, born in 1952 to Michael D. Granger and Bethany M. Granger, and legally adopted by William and Eleanor Friedman in 1961, would you kindly contact our offices at your earliest convenience?

  Brunell & Brunell has been managing Mr. Peter Granger’s estate for many years now and we are most anxious to settle it.

  Cordially,

  C. Beauregard Brunell, Managing Partner

  Brunell & Brunell, Attorneys at Law

  Kari stared with unseeing eyes into the distance. The memory of the disdain she’d felt as she read that letter remained with her, strong and vivid.

  This has to be a joke or a scam, she had reasoned. I mean, what kind of nut names their child ‘C. Beauregard,’ for heaven’s sake?

  But it had been no joke. It had not been a scam.

  The man named in the letter as Peter Granger had left the sum of his earthly possessions to his estranged nephew, Michael Granger. Apparently the breach between Peter Granger and his nephew, which occurred when Michael was in his early twenties, had been deep—so deep that uncle and nephew had never spoken again.

  Years after their parting, however, Peter Granger had regretted his actions and had sought to be reconciled to Michael. Although Peter had spent large sums on private detectives, the investigators had been unable to locate Michael. Peter Granger had died in 1964, leaving all he possessed to his nephew—or, should his nephew have died, to his nephew’s offspring.

  As the attorneys of Brunell & Brunell had explained to Kari, this Michael Granger had been her father. That meant that she, Kari, was the sole heir to Peter Granger’s estate.

  Why had it taken so long for the attorneys to find her?

  Kari sighed and rehearsed the details. Again.

  Kari’s father and mother had died on the shoulder of a New Mexico highway when a truck crashed into their disabled car. The year had been 1958, and Kari had been six years old.

  Unable to locate any relatives to take custody of Kari, the State of New Mexico had placed her into the foster care system. Later she had been adopted by Nell and Bill Friedman. Even later, Kari had married David Hillyer. Their seven-year marriage had ended when David announced he was leaving Kari.

  It wasn’t until this past January, when The Albuquerque Journal published Kari’s divorce decree, that Brunell & Brunell’s in-house sleuth had, at last, located the heir to the Granger estate.


  And so, in a matter of days, Kari’s situation had been dramatically, irrevocably altered. Kari had inherited Peter Granger’s home in New Orleans and the entirety of his estate—an estate so large that its size, at first revelation, had bewildered and terrified her.

  “It still terrifies me.”

  Kari shuddered. Her grip on the cold, empty coffee mug tightened. “O Jesus, please help me to make peace with all these changes.”

  The size of the Granger estate was not the only change Kari was adjusting to. No, it had been only the beginning, for then, mere days later, Kari had discovered a journal—the journal of one Rose Thoresen.

  Kari had been acquainting herself with Peter Granger’s sizable house. After she had explored every room on both floors and in the attic, she had decided to see what secrets the old detached garage held.

  To Kari’s immense delight, the garage had housed a classic, candy-apple-red Cadillac Coupe de Ville—securely covered and mounted on blocks. Under its wraps, the car was in like-new condition.

  According to the attorneys of Brunell & Brunell, Peter Granger had bought the car off the showroom floor in 1959 when he was 87 years old. However, because of his advancing years, he had not driven it much.

  When their client passed away in 1964, his attorneys had found the car in a neglected state, its tires flat and ruined. They hired a specialty company to remove the car’s wheels, set the chassis on blocks, drain the car’s fluids, and secure a custom-fit cover over it.

  After Kari discovered the vehicle, her attorneys had the Caddy towed to a classic car restoration company. When the company delivered the restored, ready-to-drive Coupe de Ville to Kari, she had been thrilled.

  Classic Caddy!

  But as much as Kari loved the Caddy, the vehicle had not been the garage’s most meaningful treasure. In the attic above the garage, Kari had found an old trunk filled with her grandmother Alicia’s evening gowns—beautiful relics of the 1910s and 20s. Kari had lifted each dress from the trunk with love and care, exclaiming over their exquisite beading and lace work.

  But under those gowns? At the bottom of the trunk, concealed by boxed hats, shoes, and handbags, and tied up in a diaphanous silk scarf, Kari had found a small cedar box. The box was locked; glued about its girth was a paper seal with the year “1957” scrawled across the paper in a shaking hand.

  The date on the seal had puzzled Kari, for Alicia Granger, whose belongings filled the trunk, had died in 1927. Everything in the trunk—with the exception of the cedar box—predated the sealed box by three decades.

  Someone had hidden the little cedar box away. Someone had, quite intentionally, placed the box where it would not easily be found.

  Kari had searched for and discovered the tiny key that fit the lock on the cedar box—it was glued to the underside of the trunk’s lid. Once she had unlocked the box, she found a velvet bag. In the bag were two items: a sealed envelope and a small red volume, its binding faded and cracked with age.

  The ink on the envelope had faded over time; nevertheless, Kari was reluctant to break its seal until she knew to whom the envelope had been addressed.

  The book, however, was not sealed. The inscription inside the brittle cover read:

  Rose Thoresen

  My Journal

  The journal’s opening date was April 25, 1909.

  Eighty-two years ago!

  Although Kari had no idea who this Rose Thoresen had been or why her journal should be at the bottom of Kari’s grandmother’s trunk, the account recorded in the little book became the most precious, most important portion of Kari’s inheritance.

  “O Rose!” Kari moaned as her fevered mind traced the details of the last three weeks.

  Because of you, my life has changed.

  Kari had devoured the words penned in Rose’s own hand. What Rose had written during a two-year period had set Kari’s heart afire. But when Rose’s account ended abruptly on April 12, 1911, Kari could not relinquish the woman or her words.

  She longed to know more about this Rose Thoresen: What had become of her? How had her journal ended up in Peter Granger’s attic, buried beneath Alicia Granger’s clothing? And what of Palmer House, the home in Denver Rose had described with such passion? What had become of the girls who had lived there?

  . . . And what of the God Rose loved and served?

  Kari had to find answers to the questions that burned within her.

  Less than four weeks ago, armed with the scant few clues the journal provided, Kari had left New Orleans en route to Denver in search of the mysterious Rose Thoresen. Rose’s journal had led Kari to . . . such grace!

  Rose’s journal had led Kari to Palmer House and the elderly woman who still lived there and could personally speak of Rose Thoresen.

  Rose’s journal had led to the revelation of a heartbreaking event of decades gone by, an event that had defined the families it touched.

  It had led to the faith-filled prayers of generations.

  It had led to the infant boy who was lost—and to his daughter who was found.

  And it had led her to Jesus!

  I found you, Lord. I found you! Because of Rose’s journal, I found you, and I found the truth about myself. I found my real family—three uncles and a gazillion cousins and dear friends.

  You stripped away decades of deceit, Lord. You showed yourself to be faithful to those who trusted in you, but . . .

  But I still have so many unanswered questions.

  Questions like, who am I really? I am not KariAnn Hillyer, not KariAnn Friedman. I am not even KariAnn Granger.

  Peter Granger was not my great-uncle. Alicia Granger was not Peter Granger’s sister-in-law, was not my father’s mother, was not my grandmother.

  They tell me my father’s real name was not Michael Granger but Edmund Thoresen Michaels, and that he was stolen from his parents, Joy and Grant Michaels.

  They tell me that my real name is KariAnn Thoresen Michaels.

  But who is that person? Who is Kari Michaels? Kari wondered again.

  She shuddered. I am drowning in change; I am mired in uncertainties.

  —

  KARI STIRRED FROM HER DEEP REVERIE. She blinked and sucked in deep, reviving breaths. Her reflections always ended here—frozen. Stuck at this place of unanswered questions and concerns.

  The concerns were not only for herself, either, because the startling revelations of the past week had unlocked another door, the door to Kari’s earliest childhood remembrances.

  For her entire life, a mental fog had imprisoned Kari’s memories—particularly her recall of the night her parents had died. Now, like the morning haze that surrounded her on this creek bank, that fog was lifting away under the intense light of truth.

  Her lost memories were returning.

  Kari sighed. It is almost too much, Lord. Too much—and yet not enough.

  As far back as Kari could remember, she had suffered nightmares and debilitating anxiety attacks. The attacks came on her whenever she dreamed of or tried to recall her parents, whenever she sought to remember their touch, their voices, or even their faces. Or if she thought about the night they died.

  For when she dreamed or thought of them, The Black—a dark, terrifying curtain—would engulf and smother her. Once she was caught in the grip of a full-on panic attack, the episode usually ended in Kari losing consciousness.

  To avoid these attacks, Kari had taught herself not to think of her mother or father. She had learned not to think or speak of the night they perished.

  But eight nights ago, The Black had lost its hold over her.

  Eight nights ago, Kari had been dreaming of her father—his comforting voice, the familiar smell of his suit, the scratchy roughness of his cheek on hers. As usually happened, the precious moments were interrupted and Kari was soon caught in the suffocating clutches of another nightmare featuring The Black.

  This time, though, her father had not disappeared. He had encouraged her to fight the dark curtain.


  “Kari,” Daddy had whispered. “Open your eyes.”

  He wanted her to look? Look at The Black?

  “No, Daddy! I don’t want to!” No! I don’t want to, Daddy!

  Daddy’s mouth breathed in her ear; his voice grew insistent. “Please, Kari. Open your eyes.”

  “No, no! I can’t!” Kari had squirmed and burrowed deeper into his shoulder.

  Her father had been insistent.

  “Kari! Open your eyes!”

  Inside the dream, Kari had opened her eyes—and she had remembered.

  She had remembered the truck hitting her parents and their disabled car on the side of the road. She had remembered the sirens and flashing lights, the police coming and finding her.

  She had been unresponsive to them. For hours, perhaps days, activity had swirled around her, but she had been locked in her own body, unspeaking, unmoving.

  “Catatonic,” she’d heard a woman say from a far distance. “She won’t talk.”

  That same woman had assured the man and woman holding a little girl and an infant that Kari would not present a problem—except that Kari had woken then, screaming, “No! You can’t take them away! You can’t take them!”

  The woman had shaken Kari and twisted her arm. “You hear me, little miss? You aren’t going to remember any of this, got it? If you tell anyone about this, I’ll make you wish you hadn’t been born.”

  She had slapped the side of Kari’s head with her palm and jerked on her arm when Kari cringed and whimpered. Kari had tried to pull away but the woman had yanked her close.

  “That nice man and woman are going to give your sister and brother a good home. But if you ever mention your sister or brother to anyone—if you ever say their names—well, very bad things will happen to them. Do you hear me? In fact, if you ever even think about your sister or brother again, I will know it, and I will have that man and woman throw your sister and brother in a river to drown.”

  That was Kari’s first encounter with The Black. The darkness had spilled over her, had filled her mouth and eyes with the choking sensation of thick sand, and had stolen the very breath from her body—until consciousness had faded.