Eventide: The Days of Redemption Series, Book Three

by Shelley Shepard Gray

  And a person’s acceptance of that will, of course.

  Here in the dark, where she saw nothing but the stars . . . where she felt only the cool spring grass and warm air caressing her skin, Lovina smiled.

  And finally, she understood.

  At the end of the day, when only her thoughts lay between herself and sleep’s oblivion, God gifted her with eventide.

  Eventide . . . those blissful few moments when day turned to evening, that precious time that hovered between action and sleep.

  That time when she could embrace the future and all of its surprises and beauty and fears and its unknowns.

  The moments when she could cling to the silence and hold it to her heart, knowing that in a few, brief hours the light would come again and carry with it the dawn of a brand-new day.

  Gripping the door frame for support, Lovina Keim got to her feet. It was time to finally bid the day farewell and give her problems to the Lord.

  Time to finally let the beauty of sleep claim her, and let the mystery of her future be what it always had been . . . just out of her reach.

  She opened the door, stepped inside, and let the door close behind her.

  The day was over, night had come, and she was at long last able to receive it with open arms. Just as the Lord had intended.

  “I am blessed,” she murmured as she walked through the house on bare feet. “I am blessed. I am happy. I am at peace,” she whispered as she climbed into her bed and carefully pulled the smooth cotton sheet up to her chin.

  And when she closed her eyes, felt her body relax and her mind drift . . . she knew that God was very, very good.

  P.S.: Insights, Interviews & More . . .

  About the author

  Meet Shelley Shepard Gray

  The New Studio

  I GREW UP IN HOUSTON, TEXAS, went to Colorado for college, and after living in Arizona, Dallas, and Denver, we moved to southern Ohio about ten years ago.

  I’ve always thought of myself as a very hard worker, but not “great” at anything. I’ve obtained a bachelor’s and master’s degree . . . but I never was a gifted student. I took years of ballet and dance, but I never was anywhere near the star of any recital. I love to cook, but I’m definitely not close to being gourmet . . . and, finally, I love to write books, but I’ve certainly read far better authors.

  Maybe you are a little bit like me. I’ve been married for almost twenty years and have raised two kids. I try to exercise but really should put on my tennis shoes a whole lot more. I’m not a great housekeeper, I hate to drive in the snow, and I don’t think I’ve ever won a Monopoly game. However, I am the best wife and mother I know how to be.

  Isn’t it wonderful to know that in God’s eyes that is okay? That from His point of view, we are all exceptional? I treasure that knowledge and am always so thankful for my faith. His faith in me makes me stand a little straighter, smile a little bit more, and be so very grateful for every gift He’s given me.

  I started writing about the Amish because their way of life appealed to me. I wanted to write stories about regular, likeable people in extraordinary situations—and who just happened to be Amish.

  Getting the opportunity to write inspirational novels is truly gratifying. With every book, I feel my faith grows stronger. And that makes me feel very special indeed.

  About the book

  Letter to Readers

  Dear Reader,

  I have a secret. Lovina turned out to be my favorite character. I had been sure it would be Amanda. Maybe Elsie. Maybe Atle (I really liked Atle!). I almost always write about people I would like to know.

  But when I first started Daybreak, I was thankful I did not have a Lovina Keim in my life.

  There were many times I was tempted to highlight her scenes and press delete, and make up a different grandmother. You know, someone cozy. Pleasant. Happy.

  But something kept me from doing that. As I wrote Daybreak, continued on to Ray of Light, and then finally began Eventide, I started to see her flaws, her hurts, and her attributes, too. By the time this series closed, I was very fond of her. I liked how fragile she was inside, and how she’d developed a somewhat hard shell to make up for that. Most of all, I loved how she slowly let the Lord’s light shine inside her.

  It turns out I would have enjoyed a Lovina of my own after all! I hope you, too, connected with one or two of the characters in this series.

  Yet again, I find myself getting ready to close a thick spiral notebook. The one for the Days of Redemption series was bright blue. Now that I’m at the end of the series, it’s in pretty sad shape. It’s filled with notes and pictures and poems—everything in the made-up world of the Keim family.

  Soon, I’ll head back to the grocery store and pick up a new notebook, this one for my return to Sugarcreek. I, for one, can’t wait to begin to write the new series. It will begin with Hopeful, followed by Thankful and Joyful.

  This letter would not be complete without conveying my thanks to you for reading my novel. Someone the other day asked what I’d rather be doing instead of writing, and I drew a complete blank. I love to write, and I’m grateful that you’ve given me the chance to do so every day.

  God bless you all, and I hope, like the Keims, you will get the chance to celebrate today.

  With blessings and my sincere thanks,

  Shelley Shepard Gray

  Shelley Shepard Gray

  10663 Loveland, Madeira Rd. #167,

  Loveland, OH 45140

  Questions for Discussion

  What do you think about Elsie’s role in her family? Would that have changed if she hadn’t been afflicted by a vision problem? What is your role in your family? Has it evolved over the years?

  What problems, if any, do you think Peter will have now that he’s back? How did Marie’s time in the hospital affect the reunion with his family?

  Roman’s new wife, Amanda, comes alongside Elsie in several key moments. How do you think her perspective helps Elsie?

  Aaron and Lovina have grown closer together throughout the series. How have they grown and changed? What do you think would have happened to their marriage and their relationship with their children if they’d divulged their secrets ten years earlier?

  Did you sympathize with Landon’s worries about getting involved with a wife who was going blind? Were you surprised he changed his mind?

  Elsie grows stronger and more independent as her vision weakens. How can this be?

  Did you understand Elsie’s refusal to have surgery? What would you have done? What would you have said to a loved one faced with the same decision?

  How do you envision the Keim family growing and changing in the future? Which character appealed to you the most?

  Read on

  A Sneak Peek of Shelley Shepard Gray’s Next Book, Peace

  Head back to Crittenden County for an exciting preview of Peace: A Crittenden County Christmas Novella, coming in fall 2013 from Avon Inspire

  Blood was dripping onto the pristine doormat under his feet. As he watched one drop, then another, and another fall to the ground, then glow eerily in the reflection of the thousand white lights adorning the rooflines of the Yellow Bird Inn, Chris Ellis felt his resolve slip.

  He should never have come back, and certainly not in the condition he was in. But he’d come anyway.

  He peeked into the long rectangular window next to the door, and his fingertip hovered like a nervous hummingbird over the doorbell. Over and over again, he would almost push the button, but then a bizarre sense of conscience would surface and he’d stand motionless a little bit longer. Trying to persuade himself to do what was right.

  What he should do was turn around. Walk away. Never return.

  But at the moment, he wasn’t sure he could take even one more step forward, never mind make a complete U-turn. He was dizzy, he was weak, and he was sweaty and hot—even though it was barely thirty degrees out. Chances were slim to none that he’d even be able to remain in an upright p
osition for much longer.

  Besides, where would he go? Back to his beat-up SUV to spend the night in a vacant parking lot again? Somehow drive back to St. Louis? Lexington?

  Where did a man who was beaten up and bleeding go when he’d been working deep undercover for so long that even his family thought he was a person to avoid?

  The only place that had come to mind was Frannie Eicher’s Yellow Bird Inn. Frannie had a brisk, efficient way about her that he appreciated. She was the type of proprietor who would treat him with kindness . . . but give him his distance, too.

  And he was desperate for a little bit of kindness.

  But of course, even the nicest people weren’t always understanding when it came to near strangers bleeding on their front porch three days before Christmas.

  Before he could talk himself out of it again, he knocked. Well, he let his hand slip and fall against the smooth planes of the door. Just once. If no one answered, he’d go back to where he’d hid his truck and drive away.

  Almost immediately, the front porch lights turned on. Then a face peered through the window just to the right of the door.

  But it wasn’t Frannie. It was the one person he’d hoped to never see again.

  He was still standing there, stunned, when he heard a deadbolt click, followed by a high-pitched squeak as the door opened.

  And there was Beth Byler. His mouth went dry as his gaze ached to take in every single inch of her.

  It didn’t help that she was looking as perfect and beautiful with her crisp white kapp as she’d been when he’d last seen her. Looking just the way she did when she appeared in his dreams.

  Chris fought to keep his expression neutral. Which was crazy, of course. Like she’d care about his look of shock when he was bleeding all over the front porch.

  Sure that she was about to slam the door in his face, he anxiously continued to look his fill. A man needed as many sweet pictures to store for times when nothing he was seeing was good.

  Dim candlelight cast a mellow glow behind her. The scents of pine and cinnamon and everything clean and pure wafted toward him, teasing his senses. He reached out, gripped the doorframe in order to keep from falling.

  Blue eyes scanned his form. Paused at the cuts on his hands. At the new scar near his lip. At the way his right eye was swollen shut.

  He waited for the look of revulsion that was sure to come. What kind of man let himself get in such a state?

  “Chris?” she whispered.

  “Yeah. It’s me.”

  “Wh-what are you doing here?”

  He needed someplace quiet to stay. He needed an out-of-theway place to hide out, to recover. To heal his body and his soul. To try to remember who he was.

  He was just attempting to say that. To come up with a way to convince her to let him in without making a big fool of himself, or scaring her. When he looked down at his boots.

  Noticed the blood again ruining the doormat.

  “I guess I’m bleeding on your front porch,” he muttered.

  “Bleeding?” Her gaze darted away from his swollen face. Traipsed down his body. Down his legs to his thick black boots. Then her eyes widened as she, too, noticed the blood.

  “You must come inside!” And then she snaked an arm out, tugged at the hand against the doorframe. The one that had been holding him upright and had stopped him from doing something foolish, like swaying toward her.

  She pulled him in.

  But even she wasn’t strong enough to keep him on his feet. Those three little steps took the rest of his strength, while the relief he felt at finding comfort sapped the rest of his energy. “Beth. Sorry,” he muttered. Then the pain and his clumsy apology got the best of him. He collapsed at her feet.

  No doubt staining her freshly scrubbed floor, too.

  “Chris!” Beth cried as he slipped through her hands and fell to the floor. “Chris?”

  Heart beating so hard she felt like she’d run a mile, she knelt at his side. Looked at his swollen cheek, the cut near his lip. The blood on his shirt. “Oh my goodness. Oh my goodness! Chris? Chris, what happened to you?”

  Of course he didn’t answer. But when the cold wind blew against her cheek and threatened to douse the flame on the kerosene lantern behind her, she focused on the present once again. Quickly, she slammed the door shut, then carefully bolted the deadlock. Just in case someone was after him.

  Like the last time he’d been there.

  Now, satisfied that he was safe—from the elements at the very least—she knelt back down by his side. His eyes were closed now, making his whole appearance shift. Until that very moment, she’d never realized just how much his piercing gaze affected her. Now, he seemed almost approachable, which was laughable, considering how damaged his body was.

  “Oh, Chris. What in the world has happened to you? What have you been doing since we last met?” she murmured as she reached out and gently smoothed back a chunk of wayward brown hair from his forehead.

  She’d last seen him nine months ago. She’d offered to help watch the inn when Frannie had a kitchen accident and had to be hospitalized. During that time, the whole area had been under a lot of stress, what with the body of Perry Borntrager being found on the Millers’ farm. At first, she’d feared Chris. She’d been half afraid he was one of Perry Borntrager’s drug-dealing friends.

  Then she’d learned that Ellis wasn’t even his real last name. And that he had no intention of telling her what it was. Her suspicion of him had grown and warred with her attraction to him.

  Only later did she discover that Chris was a good man after all. He’d only looked dangerous because he’d been working undercover for some kind of alphabet agency.

  But to her shame, even before she’d known he could be trusted, there had been something about him that appealed to her. She’d been drawn to him like a fly to butter or a moth to a light or a bee to honey.

  And, that, of course, had been a bad thing. She was Amish; he was not. She lived a quiet existence, spent most of her days either caring for her mother or babysitting other people’s children.

  His life was the opposite of that.

  And he’d been stronger than her, too. With little more than the slightest hint of regret, he informed her that she should forget about him. That no good would ever come from a relationship between the two of them.

  But yet, he’d come back.

  Now he looked to be in worse shape. Taking inventory again, she noticed how more than just his cheek was swollen, how there were cuts and scabs along his fingers and the knuckles of his hands.

  And that there was even more blood staining his clothes.

  After getting the lamp, she knelt and examined him more closely. Pushed herself to ignore everything she’d ever found attractive about him and focus solely on his injuries.

  Remembering the pool of blood under his feet, she hastily untied his boots and yanked them off. He groaned as she gently pushed up his dark jeans, one leg at a time.

  When she shoved the fabric up his left calf, she saw nothing out of the ordinary—just a man’s finely muscled leg.

  But the right brought a cry from him . . . and the uncovering of a bleeding hole in his leg.

  He’d been cut badly.

  Leaning close, she pulled his arms out from the sleeves of his jacket. Tossed it on the ground.

  Then saw the other source of the bleeding. He had a deep gash at the top of his chest. So deep, the area around the cut was saturated with blood, and little drops of the excess pooled, then dripped to freedom.

  Desperately she tried to keep her cool. You take care of babies, Beth, she told herself sternly. You’ve nursed children through all sorts of illnesses. Even helped a boy recover from an emergency tonsillectomy when his father had been out of town.

  Surely she could help one man seek medical help?

  Carefully, she laid his leg back on the ground. Then, getting to her feet once again, she went to find the phone Luke insisted Frannie keep at hand for emerge
ncies.

  She’d just picked up the receiver when Chris called out her name.

  “Don’t, Beth. Don’t call.” “I must. You’re injured. And . . . and you’re bleeding, Chris. Something awful.” When he merely raised a brow, she said, “Chris, this . . . this is mighty bad.”

  “No, Beth. You can’t contact the police. Or an ambulance.”

  “But you need help. You need stitches.”

  “Then you’re going to have to stitch me up. You know how to sew, right?”

  “Jah . . . but—”

  “But nothing.”

  But everything! She couldn’t sew him. “Chris—”

  Looking weary, he propped himself on his elbows. Stared at her again with those unusual pale eyes. “Beth, no one can know I’m here.”

  The agitation that had been teasing her conscience switched to fear in the span of a heartbeat. “Why are you here? Are you in trouble?”

  “I don’t know why I came. I was driving and so tired. And then I saw the signs for Marion and I remembered the inn. I couldn’t go home. I . . . I had thought Frannie could help me.”

  “You wanted Frannie’s help?” Oh, she hoped he wouldn’t hear the pain in her voice.

  “Yeah. Where is she?”

  “She went to Cincinnati with her husband. With Luke. For Christmas,” she added, somewhat lamely.

  “So they did get married.” His voice turned soft.

  She cleared her throat. In order to hide her nervousness. In order to hide the hurt feelings she was trying to conceal.

  “I need to hide, Beth. Or, at the very least, I need to lay low for a day or two, until I’m healed enough to get away. Can I stay?”

  “I . . . I just don’t know.”

  He met her gaze again. Seemed to come to terms with whatever he saw in her expression. Then came to a decision.

  “All right. I’ll go. Just give me a few minutes, and I’ll get out of your way.”