by Deborah Heal
“It’s not a Lady Liberty penny,” he said. “Just a plain old Lincoln Head. But it’s my lucky penny. I’ve been carrying that in my pocket since my dad gave it to me when I was in second grade. Did you notice the date?”
Abby looked closer and saw that the penny had been minted the year John was born. How perfect, she thought. So adorable. So thoughtful. She smiled and reached up to kiss his cheek, but he pulled away before she could plant one there.
“I just realized this could be taken the wrong way,” John said, his face gone serious.
Abby had thought he meant it like the promise rings some guys gave their girlfriends. She felt her heart drop. Maybe she had been reading him all wrong. Maybe he meant it like the friendship bracelets middle school girls gave each other.
“Uh…well.” She found she couldn’t think of a single thing to say that wouldn’t come out sounding pathetic.
“I mean I’m not giving it to you the way John Granger did to Ned’s mother.”
“You’re not?” Abby said, holding back a grin.
“I wouldn’t want you to ever think that I thought of you as my chattel or anything.”
Abby laughed in relief and reached again to kiss him on the cheek.
Not satisfied with that, he held her face to his and kissed her lips. Thoroughly. Expertly. Then pulling away, he looked into her eyes as if willing her to see into his heart. “I love you, Abby Thomas. And I’d like you to meet my parents. Will you let me take you to them tonight?”
She smiled and kissed him again. “I love you back, John Roberts, and I’d love to meet them.” Still smiling, she settled her head into the perfect curve of his shoulder and let the motion of the moving train lull her to sleep.
The End
And so ends the History Mystery Trilogy. One reviewer said about Every Hill and Mountain…
Five Stars! Was Left Begging For More! May 15, 2013 “I was torn between reading further to see what was going to happen and slowing my reading down because I didn't want to let go of the "friends" I was looking in on. I truly hope the author writes additional volumes."
Well, good news! The adventure lives on!
Fast-forward fifteen years and Merrideth Randall, the troubled pre-teen of the trilogy, is now a history professor at McKendree College. At least, that’s her day job. But after hours she turns to her first love, historical research. And she has a tool other historians can only dreams of—a computer program that rewinds time for a first-hand look at the past!
Once Again
(book 1)
Professor Merrideth Randall has a tool that other historians can only dream of—computer software that virtually rewinds time!
It comes in handy for historical research and for her sideline genealogy business. When her colleague physics professor Brett Garrison asks for help with his family tree she can’t resist, even though he’s far too attractive for her peace of mind. And amazingly, he seems to be pursuing her, despite the fact that everyone knows dating a co-worker is career suicide.
Using her software, Merrideth gets a first-hand look at Brett’s ancestors, the courageous pioneers of the Illinois Country who withstood Indian attacks, hardship, and loneliness to settle there in the 1780s. One of the settlers is James Garretson, who risked his life to take the Gospel to the very tribe that wreaked havoc on his family. Merrideth is amazed that he could forgive a crime so huge.
She would love to tell Brett that he is descended from heroes, and that he inherited his black hair and green eyes from James Garretson. But she is determined to safeguard her program, and discretion is not Brett’s strong suit. She also has secrets about herself that she’d just as soon he didn’t find out either.
One virtue Brett does have is patience, and he’s quite willing to wait for Merrideth to figure things out.
WHAT READERS ARE SAYING…
“Love, love, love these stories!” (Dale Stanley)
“So much great and terrible history... well-woven into the story!!!” (Nicole)
“Love the way history comes alive so that you are inside the minds of historical characters, living their experiences and feelings as if they were your own. Wow! Connections. These books are awesome.” (Lyndo)
“I highly recommend this book as a light inspirational read. It is Christian without being preachy. It is suitable for teens and young adults, though I know it can be appreciated by adults of all ages. It is simply delightful. Don’t miss this one.” (Rev. Amy Bickel)
The Rewinding Time Series: Christian Time Travel with a unique twist—computer software that “time-surfs” through the history of old houses. It’s also squeaky-clean romance, guaranteed to be flinch-free. And the kind of historical fiction you like to read—believable!
Check out all the books of the Rewinding Time Series on my website:
www.deborahheal.com
About the Author
Deborah Heal is the author of the Time and Again history mystery trilogy and the Rewinding Time Series: inspirational novels of history, mystery & romance. Her characters get to visit the past to see the bits that didn’t make it into the history books—something Deborah has always dreamed of doing herself.
A former high school English teacher, she firmly believes the maxim “write what you know,” which is why all of Deborah’s novels are set in her beloved rural southern Illinois. Even so, their historical topics and spiritual themes transcend geographical boundaries.
Although she grew up just down the road from the settings of Time and Again and Unclaimed Legacy, she was born in Eldorado, Illinois, not far from the Old Slave House featured in her novel Every Hill and Mountain. Her novel Only One Way Home deals with the Cherokee Trail of Tears, which passed through nearby Golgonda, Illinois. (Unlike the characters in it that novel, Deborah’s great, great grandmother’s Cherokee family remained safely in North Carolina.) Having grown up hearing tales of the Ohio River pirates at Cave in Rock, Deborah wrote about them in How Sweet the Sound. And as a fan of Charles Dickens, she told about his visit to southern Illinois in A Matter of Time.
Today she lives with her husband Robert in Monroe County, Illinois, not far from where the pioneers of her novel Once Again struggled to survive amidst Indian attacks. Deborah is a passionate gardener. She and her husband have three grown children, five grandchildren, and two canine buddies Digger and Scout.
Readers can learn more about the history behind her books at www.deborahheal.com and receive free short stories and other goodies just by signing up to her V.I.P. Readers’ List.
Let’s Keep in Touch
I’d love to hear what you think of Every Hill and Mountain. If you enjoyed it, please write a review for it and post it wherever you can. (Authors need lots of reviews!)
And I’d really appreciate it if you’d "like," "follow," or otherwise connect with me. Thanks for supporting independent authors.
www.DeborahHeal.com
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Goodreads Author Page
Acknowledgments
I am so grateful for my beta readers, each of whom found errors the others missed and offered a unique editing perspective for Every Hill and Mountain.
Thank you:
Mom—for making sure I got the “down home” stuff right.
Dana—for calling attention to word choice. (apologetic—really?)
Laura—for reminding me that commas are my friends.
Hannah—for keeping me from making un-cool verbal faux pas, for warnings about sledgehammers, and for advice about Dear John letters.
Gretchen—for noticing the missing quotations marks and the…swirly thing.
BONUSES
A Free eBook “Charlotte’s House”
An Excerpt from Once Again
Chapter 1
“We have to remember that in 1811, the Illinois Territory was the wild, wild West.” Merrideth Randall realized she was leaning on her podium and straightened her spine. At five-foot-two it
was difficult enough to look like a mature professional without slouching. At twenty-six, she was the youngest professor at McKendree College and only a few years older than her students, which was why she always dressed in suits and high heels. At times, she had a feeling it only made her look like a child playing dress-up.
She had started the day feeling confident in her new black gabardine suit. The label had bragged about the comfortableness of the three-season fabric. But even though it was a cool October afternoon, she was already sweating like a pig.
Furthermore, the fabric was a magnet for her hair. She picked two long blond strands from her sleeve and turned her eyes back to her students.
“And as amusing as it seems today, the governor’s job description then included riding into battle, leading the soldiers at his command.”
Apparently, they didn’t find that historical tidbit as amusing as she did. The class continued to look apathetic. She mentally sighed. At least they were awake, to a degree. And most were even taking notes, in a desultory fashion. But the gleam of curiosity she had hoped to see in their eyes was absent. As usual.
McKendree College was small, the current enrollment only about 2,000. But it didn’t aspire to be a large institution. Class sizes were intentionally kept small and intimate, and the professors and instructors were encouraged to get to know their students, to interact with them outside of class. All that had weighed heavily when Merrideth was deciding which of the three job offers she would accept. But sometimes she wondered if she should have chosen the large school in Chicago where she could remain anonymous and not be expected to remember the students’ names, at which she was an epic failure. In the end she decided that a big school would be too intimidating. No, it was much better to be in a small pond where there was a better chance of becoming a big fish one day.
She had thought, naively it turned out, that after a couple of weeks at McKendree she would be nicely settled in, and her history classes would be well on the way to becoming campus favorites. Instead, after over a month, her students remained aloof and only mildly interested in what she had to say. She found their nonverbal feedback incredibly dampening, to say the least. It was a vicious cycle, of course. The more she worried about being boring, the more difficult it was not to be.
Marla White, a seasoned pro from the French Department had advised her to act confident even if she didn’t feel so. “And whatever you do, don’t ever let ’em see you bleed, or they’ll be on you like wolves.”
But that was easier said than done, wasn’t it? Taking a deep breath, she shuffled her notes and soldiered on.
“Tecumseh was off trying to organize a coordinated Indian resistance that November day in 1811. If he had been successful…”
A student in the third row—Allison? Alyssa?—raised her hand. She was a beautiful girl and always looked cool and collected, as if she weren’t familiar with the human phenomenon of perspiration. And as far as Merrideth could tell her blond highlights had not come out of a bottle. She was one of the few students who ever asked a question or offered a comment. Unfortunately, they were usually so tinged with sarcasm that Merrideth had begun to dread calling on her. But now as always, hope rose that at last she was about to experience a lively interaction with a student.
Merrideth pointed to the raised hand. “Yes?”
“The proper term is Native American. Besides, they aren’t really Indian anyway.”
Merrideth was sure the smile she had drummed up looked fake, but it was the best she could do when her teaching competence was under direct attack. “I’m glad you brought that up. I recently learned that most Native Americans actually prefer to be called Indians.”
The girl looked decidedly skeptical.
“I was surprised myself.” Merrideth glanced down and shuffled her notes again. “Anyway, if Tecumseh had been successful, who knows what the map of America would look like today? While he was gone, Harrison and a force of 1,000 soldiers defeated the Shawnee at Prophetstown.
“At the time it was considered a huge victory for Harrison. He picked up the nickname Tippecanoe from the river of that name near the battlefield. Twenty-nine years later in 1840, a Whig campaign song called Tippecanoe and Tyler Too helped Harrison win the presidency.”
The girl raised her hand again. “Yes?” Merrideth said as pleasantly as she could.
“Will that be on the final exam? The nicknames and songs, things like that?”
“Maybe. Probably.”
A disdainful expression flittered over the student’s face, and then she lowered her eyes and resumed writing. Just as Merrideth looked back at her own notes, the girl muttered, “I registered for Illinois History, not Trivial Pursuit.” It was said loudly enough that it was clearly intended for Merrideth to hear.
She stifled the urge to smack her. To reward herself for her restraint, she decided to wrap up class three minutes early. “But historians know,” she said tersely, “that the victory at Prophetstown only ratcheted up the violence between the whites and Indians. Six months later when the War of 1812 began, the Indians naturally sided with the British. We’ll talk more about that next time. Be sure to keep up with your readings.”
The students began gathering their things with an eagerness that was a further insult to Merrideth’s confidence. Then she remembered her announcement and called out, “Don’t forget, if you want to be a volunteer at the Fort Piggot archaeological dig Saturday, there’s still time, but you’ll have to be a member of History Club. Just let me know if you need a sign-up form.”
No one responded. No one even looked interested, much less stayed behind to get the details. She felt her face heating and turned away to gather her own things. Her embarrassment grew ten-fold when she realized Dr. Garrison was watching her from the door. With a mind of its own, her hand started to rise, intent on checking her hair. But she forced it back down to her side. She would not allow Brett Garrison to trigger any fluttery female instincts she might have.
The thought that the most popular professor on campus had witnessed her debacle just added icing to the cake. She had heard that gushing groupies congregated outside his classroom like he was Indiana Jones, and they were there to catch him before he cast off the trappings of academia and went off on an action-packed adventure.
But Brett dressed more stylishly than Indy had—never in tweed jackets with leather patches on the elbows, for sure. And he was much better looking than Harrison Ford. His black hair was thick, and his eyes were so green that Merrideth once asked Marla White if she thought he wore colored contacts. Marla had smiled knowingly and said, “No, ma’am! They’re the real deal. It’s the Irish in him.”
The moment she was introduced to him at the faculty icebreaker at President Peterson’s residence, he had set her nerves on edge. Sure, he was pretty to look at, but his vanity ruined it. Twice she had caught him admiring himself in Peterson’s hall mirror. She had avoided him ever since.
But now she smiled and said, “Hi. Don’t you math types do your thing in Voigt Hall?” It hadn’t come out in the friendly manner she’d intended, and she mentally kicked herself for letting her rattled nerves show. He sure didn’t need anything more to stoke his ego.
But he didn’t seem to take offense, just grinned. It did not help her nerves one little bit.
“I was just taking a short cut to 1828.”
“It was a very good year, from all I’ve heard.”
The witticism was a mistake. He laughed, and her pulse skipped. It was confirmation that Brett Garrison was a man she should continue to steer clear of.
A therapist had once chided her for being a reverse snob when it came to good-looking men. She had reminded Merrideth that they couldn’t help the way they looked any more than anyone else could. If she were here now she would tell her to give Brett Garrison a chance, for crying out loud.
“I meant the 1828 Cafe, not the year,” he said. “I heard the last part of your lecture.”
“Really?”
“
It was very interesting.”
“What?” she said.
“Your lecture on William Henry Harrison.”
“Oh. Well, tell that to my students.”
“They looked interested to me.”
“Not Allison…Alyssa…what’s-her-name.”
“Ah, yes, Alyssa Holderman. I have her in Calculus. She has an attitude problem. You know Holderman Library is named for her great-grandfather?”
“That explains a lot.”
“Don’t let her get to you. The other kids are cool.”
“I’ll try not to. Thanks.”
“Would you like to join me at the cafe? They have good coffee.”
The offer put her hackles up. “No thanks. I need to get home.” She started down the hall, hoping to put distance between them, but he fell in beside her.
“So, Dr. Randall, what do you do when you’re not lecturing about the past?”
