By His Hand: Truly Yours Digital Edition

by Jennifer Johnson

  ISBN 978-1-59789-082-3

  BY HIS HAND

  Copyright © 2006 by Jennifer Johnson. All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the permission of Truly Yours, an imprint of Barbour Publishing, Inc., PO Box 721, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683.

  Scripture taken from the Holy BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®. NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan Publishing House. All rights reserved.

  All of the characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events is purely coincidental.

  Our mission is to publish and distribute inspirational products offering exceptional value and biblical encouragement to the masses.

  PRINTED IN THE U.S.A.

  prologue

  There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven.

  ECCLESIASTES 3:1

  Disinfectant couldn’t mask the stench of iodine mingled with other unidentifiable odors. The mixture stung Victoria Thankful’s nostrils and brought tears to her eyes. She looked at the hospital bed. She had never seen anyone like this, but this was her brother.

  Kenny’s practically lifeless body lay still. Stitches raced from the left side of his forehead over his nose and finished at the right corner of his lips. Both eyes were black and swollen from the impact to the windshield.

  “Hey, Bubby,” she crooned his pet name since childhood and patted his arm. “I’m waiting for you to open those eyes and look at me.”

  Heavily drugged, Kenny had only spoken a few times over the last three days. He needed rest, but the doctors still wanted him to talk to her every few hours in an effort to keep up his spirits.

  “I sent Grams home. She was needing a shower.” She swatted her hand before her nose and laughed at her own joke, hoping it would conjure a smile from her brother.

  He didn’t move. I’m sure he’s sleeping. She glanced at her watch. It had been two hours since he’d spoken to her. In that time she’d swallowed down a day-old deli sandwich and finished an Algebra II test one of her friends had brought by the hospital.

  A nurse opened the door. “Your parents are on the way.”

  “Thank you.” Victoria sighed in relief and looked back at Kenny. “Mother and Daddy have come back from Europe early. I know they’re anxious to see that you’re all right.”

  Victoria glanced down at her clothes. Her mother would disapprove of the sweatshirt and jeans. She walked to the sink and peeked in the mirror. She’s not going to like my hair all pulled back in a ponytail either.

  Walking back to her brother, she wasn’t worried about outfits and hairstyles. She only cared about Kenny and seeing him healed and healthy.

  “Sis?” His weak voice pushed past barely open lips. He opened his eyes slowly and turned his palm up, inviting her to grab his hand.

  Bubble gum stuck to the roof of her mouth. The raspy weakness of his voice still struck her hard. Pushing her hand past tubes and wires, she tried to ignore the machines’ protesting beeps at having been jostled. She forced a smile.

  “Do we know”—he swallowed—“how bad it is?”

  “Let’s not worry.” She winked and sat in the chair beside his bed. “It’s going to be okay.”

  It wasn’t okay. She knew medicine and doctors could fix a ton of ailments and injuries, and she believed anything was possible with God. Still, it didn’t appear it was going to be all right at all.

  “So tired.” Kenny closed his eyes.

  She squeezed his hand. “I’m here for you, Kenny. We’ll get through.” Fear lurked around her, waiting for her to succumb to it. Give me strength, Lord.

  “Doctor,” her father’s voice boomed from outside the door.

  “I’ll pay whatever it takes. You make him perfect.”

  “Your son is in guarded condition. We are doing the best we can. His accident was serious.”

  Victoria jumped up. There’s no telling what Daddy will say. She wiggled her hand past the tubes and wires then made a beeline for the door.

  “I’m sure you know the Thankful name,” her father continued. “I want only the best—everyone, everything. No cost spared. Make him perfect.”

  “Money isn’t the answer to everything. This is a back injury. No amount of money …”

  “It would have been better if he had died,” her mother whispered.

  Victoria forced the door shut. She looked at her brother. His eyes were closed, and she prayed he hadn’t heard her mother’s response. Victoria made her way back to him. She touched his leg and remembered he couldn’t feel it. She walked back to the top of the bed, leaned over, and kissed the top of his head. “You’re going to be all right.”

  one

  Eight years later

  After twelve hours of chugging java to stay awake, Victoria finally spotted the specific road sign she’d been looking for. She gasped. “Forty more miles on this road! I’m never going to get to Lasso, Oklahoma.”

  Resting against the leather seat of her Suburban, she glanced at the photograph taped to her dashboard. The boy’s shining eyes and chubby cheeks made her smile. “You look so much like your daddy.” She ran her finger over his brown ringlets, remembering the last time she’d seen her brother before his fatal accident. His hair had been in desperate need of a trim, and Victoria had teased him mercilessly about it. “Kenny would have been so proud of you, Matthew.”

  At midmorning the flat, green land stretched as far as she could see. An occasional farmhouse, barn, or silo dotted the expanse. Cattle clustered inside the never-ending barbed wire. I’m definitely not in Houston anymore. Oklahoma was full and alive in a different way, and its serenity beckoned her.

  She yawned then started to roll down the window to allow wisps of fresh air to wake her up. Bubble gum and fast-food wrappers swirled through the cab. Grabbing for her directions and the photograph, she popped the window back up. What was I thinking?

  She pushed the disheveled papers off the passenger seat and laid the directions in their place. No way am I getting lost. I’ll fall asleep for sure if I have to drive one moment longer than necessary.

  Course, I’d fit just fine if I needed to take a nap in this horse of a car. Daddy would never see to reason on allowing her to get a smaller, more economical car. Ever since Kenny’s accidents, one paralyzing him and the other taking his life, Daddy had bought only the biggest and best of every model. “He never considered what gas would cost though, did he?”

  She gripped the steering wheel. I don’t even have the means to get back to Texas if I need to. She cringed when she thought of the penthouse, finely decorated in the sleekest of styles, that she’d left behind. It had been Daddy’s idea to fit her in the best of everything while she finished her degree. She couldn’t afford any of it now.

  God has not equipped me with a spirit of fear. She lifted her chin. She would not be afraid. Money was not the answer to everything. God was.

  She braked at a stoplight. She smiled as she read the wooden road sign aloud. “Welcome to Lawton.”

  “One more turn, then thirty miles to the small town of Lasso … and to Matthew.” She opened her visor mirror. “Ugh. These freckles.” She hated them. They made her look much younger than her age. She grabbed her compact from her Gucci bag and powdered her nose and cheeks. “There.”

  She turned on the radio, hoping she could pick up a Christian radio signal out here in the middle of nowhere. “Yep. That’s where I’m at.�
�� She patted her steering wheel. “My whole life is in the middle of nowhere.” She looked up at the boundless, blue sky above her. “I’m a clean slate, Lord. Whatever You want. Wherever You wish.” The reality of it made her smile … and tremble.

  “That little sister of mine is determined to put me six feet under,” growled Chris Ratliff as he finished buffing the candy-apple red hood of his pride and joy, a restored 1973 Corvette. After grabbing a clean, white cloth from his back coveralls pocket, he wiped off the rearview mirror. “You, my Mary Ann, will never make me crazy.”

  As a boy, he and his dad spent many an afternoon watching reruns of Gilligan’s Island. Both agreed Mary Ann to be their favorite character. She had been the true beauty with her natural good looks and sweet, giving nature. When his dad gave him the beat-up car for a graduation present eight years ago, he knew she could be named nothing but Mary Ann.

  “I said I was sorry. Promise, I didn’t mean to.”

  Chris glared at his sister, Abby. She shoved both hands in her jean pockets. The plaid button-down shirt she wore hung much too big on her. Which made sense. It belonged to him. With her mousy brown hair pulled up in some sort of funky knot with pieces sticking out around her head, she looked like she’d stuck her finger in a light socket. For the life of him he wasn’t sure if she meant to look that way or if she just didn’t have a clue about how to brush hair. He didn’t know the first thing about it.

  Seventeen, hardheaded, difficult, and an overall nuisance, Abby was his to raise. Even after she’d slammed into the mailbox with his work truck, he still loved her and wouldn’t want her anywhere else except with him.

  Well, maybe not at the moment. “Abby, you get back in that house.”

  “Brudder.” She stuck out her bottom lip.

  Oh, brother. Abby always pulled out her child name for him when she knew she was in trouble. Admittedly, it usually worked. This time he needed to be firm. “You know you didn’t have permission to drive it. Go on back in there until I decide your punishment.”

  “Fine, Chris.” She spat out his name, emphasizing the s. “Just remember I was goin’ to the store to get some milk for breakfast.” She strode back to the house and slammed the door.

  Chris knew he should go after her and make her apologize, but it was hard. Growing up, he and his sister bickered back and forth. Mom and Dad had been the ones to separate, scold, or paddle them for misbehavior. Less than two years had passed since their dad had died and only a year since their mom left. I don’t know how to be her guardian, Lord. I’m her brother.

  He sulked to the garden, grabbed a bucket from beside the scarecrow, and picked tomatoes from the vine. Most of them were still green; nothing had ripened for picking, but he had to do something. Had to think.

  No, he needed advice. He needed to talk to someone who would know what to do. Someone he could trust. He smacked his thigh. I know. I’ll run out to the Wards’ ranch. Snapping off a few more tomatoes, he threw them in the bucket figuring Sondra could make fried green tomatoes or whatnot with them.

  He walked back to the house and stepped inside the mudroom. Grabbing his keys off the counter, he hollered, “Abby, I’ll be right back. You get lunch going and don’t leave this house.”

  “Fine!”

  Fury pulsed through his veins. He shouldn’t let her talk to him like that. If I say something now, I’m sure I’ll regret it later.

  He stalked to his car, jumped into Mary Ann’s driver’s seat, and revved the engine. The growling purr sent a calm through this veins. Now here’s a girl a guy can relate to. He pulled out of the driveway and headed to Dylan and Sondra’s ranch.

  Extra cautious with his prized treasure, he stopped at the first intersection as the light turned yellow. I just can’t seem to do it, Lord. I don’t know what to do with Abby. Flipping the radio on, one of his favorite country gospel songs sounded from the speakers. The words of God’s faithfulness were a soothing balm to the anger and frustration lit in his heart, reminding him he was not alone. Thank You, Lord.

  Mentally, he processed the chords and notes playing from the guitar. This song was perfect for his church’s worship team. He’d already ordered the sheet music and could hardly wait until it arrived at Lawton’s Christian Bookstore.

  He glanced in his rearview mirror. A Suburban bounded toward him. His heart began to pound. “No.” He gripped the steering wheel. “Please, oh, please, no.”

  Metal crunched against metal.

  two

  Victoria pushed the airbag away from her chest and face. Fanning the dust particles away with one hand, she coughed and opened the door. She scampered out and looked at the smaller car in front of her.

  Please, God, don’t let the driver be hurt. Memories of Kenny’s beaten body lying in the hospital bed replayed in her mind. She froze. Please, God, make the driver come out.

  Nothing.

  She inched closer to the little car. Her heart pounded. Move, Victoria. The person may need help. Tears swelled in her eyes. She’d nearly passed out when she’d seen Kenny the first time. She couldn’t handle blood. She hated pain.

  The door flew open, and a man stepped out with no apparent injury. Thank You, Jesus. She let out her breath and swiped her eyes with the back of her hands.

  “No!” The man blazed past her and stared at the back of his car.

  “Oh, my.” She cupped her hands across her mouth. The impact had broken off the bumper and smashed the whole rear end of the little red Corvette. She didn’t know much about cars, but she knew Corvettes were a good kind. Her daddy had one, once upon a time, and Thomas Thankful owned only the best of everything.

  She looked at the front of her Suburban. The silver-rack-thingy had dented a bit, but that was the extent of her damage.

  “I’m sorry, sir.” She peeked down at the overgrown, spitting image of the blond guy from The Dukes of Hazzard. Only this man’s hair had a red tint to it. He even dressed the part with his mechanic getup covered in grease stains. She wrung her hands together. “I’m glad you’re all right. I can’t believe I was so careless.”

  The man stood to his full height, and she nearly swallowed her gum. He towered over her like a daddy to his toddler. Pointing to his chest, he growled, “I’m fine.” His jaw set, and he looked anything but willing to accept her apology. He pointed to the Corvette. “Look at my car.”

  Victoria coughed back the need to duck her head, hide under the asphalt, and enjoy a good cry. She straightened her shoulders. The fault belonged to her, but she didn’t need to fall apart. “I’m sorry.”

  He glowered at her, his eyes big as silver dollars. Disdain covered his face as he scanned her up and down.

  Victoria’s confident stance faltered. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “My insurance will cover it, I’m sure.”

  By now a crowd had formed. Heat rose up her back. Stay calm. Once her embarrassment reached her shoulder blades it was all over; her neck and cheeks would be a blotchy mess.

  “Mary Ann,” the man whispered.

  “I didn’t hear you, sir.” She leaned closer to him then noticed one of the men on the sidewalk pointed at her and the car as he whispered into a young girl’s ear. Two women stood to the left of them whispering at each other and shaking their heads.

  The driver walked away and stood, shoulders slumped, next to the other side of the Corvette. He shoved both hands into his coverall pockets, and she took a few steps toward him. He knelt and picked the bumper off the ground. “Mary Ann.”

  “Sir, my name is not Mary Ann.”

  He glared at Victoria as if she’d grown an extra pair of eyeballs, a nose, and an additional head. “Mary Ann is my car.” The words spat from his lips much like Daddy’s elaborate sprinkler system shot water all over their plush lawn at midmorning and early evening.

  “Oh.” She stared at her hands. She’d heard of men naming their cars but never understood the notion. “I am sorry.”

  “Do you have any idea how many years I’v
e worked on this car?”

  His words were a whisper. Surprisingly, they didn’t hold anger. It was pain, and she felt them with more force than a slap to the face. Her heart beat faster. Help me, Lord. What do I do? What do I say?

  People chattered around her. She could hear them asking who she was and where she was from. “I’m sorry.” She couldn’t look at the man. The tone in his voice, the slump of his shoulders, everything about him made her feel as though she’d committed a terrible crime. “I know my insurance will pay …”

  The screeching of a siren drowned her out. The car stopped and a sheriff stepped out. “What’s goin’ on, here?” The man hefted his gun belt higher onto his waist.

  “She hit Mary Ann.”

  “I can see that.” The sheriff scraped his jaw and shook his head. “She was lookin’ mighty good, too.”

  “I’ve been standing here trying to convince myself she was just a car.”

  “And I’m sure the lady didn’t aim to hit ya.”

  The driver shook his head and exhaled a long breath. “All that work.”

  That was it. She couldn’t handle any more. The Dukes of Hazzard fellow looked as if he planned to give the eulogy at his mother’s funeral. It was a car. It was an accident. There had been no injuries. Her insurance would, without a doubt, pay for the repairs.

  “Mister, Sheriff, I’m truly sorry. Can we please hurry on with the report?” She glanced at the still-whispering crowd. “I’d like to get to my sister-in-law’s house before lunch.”

  The sheriff pushed back his hat. “Oh sure. I just need your license, registration, and proof of insurance.” He addressed the other man. “Yours, too, Chris.”

  She walked back to her Suburban, leaned through the passenger window, and popped open the glove compartment. She dug through paper after paper looking for her registration and proof of insurance. “Where are they?” She grabbed the whole pile and laid it on the passenger’s seat. Going through one piece at a time, Victoria felt heat rising up her back once again.