I loved this story! The write up on the back of Ransomed Dreams made me hesitate. I really wasn’t certain I wanted to read this book. It hinted at infidelity and that’s not a topic I care to see in a romance novel. (In fact, it’s not a topic I care for at all.) However the potential for infidelity was essential to this plot. Sher, a woman whose life was drastically and bitterly changed when her husband was shot, is barely coping with her new reality when confronted with a brand new crop of devastating revelations and staggering betrayals. She isn’t certain who to believe or who to trust. Her sister, her father, her husband, and her best-friend Luke, are all suspect. Only God knows the truth.
This is a story of friendship, betrayal, love, and redemption. The characters are complicated and their stories are compelling. The plot is straight-forward and easy to follow, but even so, as the story progressed, I kept changing allegiances. Sorting out the good guys from the bad guys wasn’t cut and dried. I finally came to the same conclusion Sher did, trust God, keep making faith-based decisions, and let everything else work itself out.
About the Author:
When the going gets toughâ€”or weird or wonderfulâ€”the daydreamer gets going on a new story. Sally John has been tweaking life’s moments into fiction since she read her first Trixie Belden mystery as a child.
Now an author of more than fifteen novels, Sally writes stories that reflect contemporary life. Her passion is to create a family, turn their world inside out, and then portray how their relationships change with each other and with God. Her goal is to offer hope to readers in their own relational and faith journeys.
Sally grew up in Moline, Illinois, graduated from Illinois State University, married Tim in 1973, and taught in middle schools. She is a mother, mother-in-law, and grandmother. A three-time finalist for the Christy Award, she also teaches writing workshops. Her books include the Safe Harbor series (coauthored with Gary Smalley), The Other Way Home series, The Beach House series, and In a Heartbeat series. Many of her stories are set in her favorite places of San Diego, Chicago, and small-town Illinois.
She and her husband currently live in southern California.
Visit the author’s website.
About the Book:
Eighteen months later
Like everything about the small village tucked into the foothills of the Sierra Madres in central Mexico, sunrise was a leisurely event.
Sheridan waited for it, tea mug in hand, shawl over her cotton nightgown, bare feet chilled against the tile floor of the second-story balcony. Alone, she listened in the dark to the squawk of roosters and clung to their promise that the world would once again know light.
â€œOh, good grief,â€ she murmured to herself with a groan. â€œThat is so maudlin. Truly and hopelessly maudlin. You might try something more chipper. Something like . . . Something like . . .â€ Her foggy brain offered nothing.
She scrunched her nose in defeat. The morning had shuffled in on the heels of a sleepless night. Chipper was not going to happen, no matter how hard she tried to talk herself into it.
If she could turn the calendar back eighteen months, she would not be talking to herself. No. Eliot would be right next to her, responding, most likely pointing out a dozen chipper thoughts in that funny way of his.
Nostalgia and regret hit her, a powerful one-two punch that still took her breath away. She clenched her teeth, waiting for it to pass, mentally spewing forth a verbal attack at the counselor who had promised her that time healed all wounds, that month by month they would see improvement.
What drivel that was! Eighteen monthsâ€”or to be more precise, seventeen months, three weeks, and two days; but who was counting? All that time had passed and only one thing was healed: Eliotâ€™s gunshot wound. His other wounds, the invisible ones, still oozed like toxins from a waste dump site. He was not the same man she had married.
Sheridan took a deep breath and let the bitter argument go. Nostalgia and regret settled back down into whatever corner of her heart theyâ€™d found to hide out in. Their impact, though, lingered.
Would time ever erase her longing for the Eliot she had married? The animated one, the one others adored, the one who was engaged in every detail of life, whether simple or complex, with every person who crossed his path. The one from B.C.E., Before the Caracas Episode. Now, in their A.C.E. days, he might as well be a deaf-mute for all the interest he showed in the world around him.
Sleep-deprived, she totally blamed him. She didnâ€™t mean to. It wasnâ€™t like he had much of a choice. The bullet that shattered his nerves shattered their life. Everything about it was over. Health, career, home, friends. All gone. Kaput. Some days she barely recognized herself and Eliot. Where were the Mr. and Mrs. Montgomery she once knew? These routines, hometown, health, acquaintances, and even personalities seemed lifted from the pages of some strangerâ€™s biography.
â€œOh, honestly. Get over it already, Sher.â€ She forced a swallow of tea and focused on the scene before her.
A lone sunbeam pierced between two mountain peaks and sliced into the distant mists. Another followed. And another and another until finally pure light broke free. Valleys and canyons burst into sight. Loud birdsong erupted. Then, as if God had uncurled His fist, long fingers of sunlight shot forth and touched the wrought-iron railing where she stood.
It was achingly gorgeous.
Sheridan flicked at a tear seeping from the corner of her eye. â€œYou should have stayed in bed, you foolish, stubborn woman.â€
Sunrises were the worst because they represented the best of what had been.
Most days she could ignore that thought. Evidently not today. She and Eliot were morning people. Had been morning people. Their daily ritual of tea and conversation at an east-facing view, awaiting dawn, was seldom missed. With crazy-full schedules, they needed such a time to relate on the deepest levels. Some days their hearts positively danced and sang in union. Naturally, through the years the tune changed now and then, the tempo sped up and slowed down, but the music never stopped. It never stopped. They always talked. They always connected.
Until that day in Caracas.
Now she watched sunrises by herself.
â€œYou really shouldâ€™ve stayed in bed.â€
But it was so beautiful. And it went on and on like a slow waltz. At the bottom of her street now, purple haze still shrouded the town square. The sky brightened in slow motion above it, the fiery ball itself still hiding behind a peak.
Something moved in the semidarkness below. A person. Early risers were not uncommon, but she was startled. Something felt off about this one.
Or was that just her hypervigilance? Compliments of the incident in Caracas, it kicked into gear at times without warning, filling her with anxiety and suspicion.
Now she could see that it was a man. He passed the bandstand, his strides too deliberate for a villager, too American. He headed straight for the steep incline that led up to her house. In city terms, the distance was perhaps a block. In Topala terms, it was simply up beyond the sculptorâ€™s shop.
The sun overtook the peaks and the man came into view.
â€œNo way.â€ Her heartbeat slowed, but not quite to normal.
Even with his face concealed by a ball cap, his body clothed in a generic khaki jacket and blue jeans, a city block separating them, she recognized him. She recognized him simply because the air vibrated with him.
Luke Traynor owned whatever space he occupied.
Sheridan set the mug on the table beside her, tightened the shawl around her shoulders, and massaged her left arm. She felt no surprise at his unannounced arrival nor at the early hour. It was as if she had always expected him to show up sooner or later.
But as he climbed the narrow street, an uneasiness rose within her. Her muscles tensed. Why was he here? He had promised not to come. Sixteen months ago he promised. Not that she was keeping track. . . .
The sound of a soft whistle drew her attention back toward the square. Javier, the young sculptor, stood on the porch steps outside his shop. Behind him, the handicraft shop owner emerged from his door.
Javier raised his chin in question.
Sheridan gave a half nod. They neednâ€™t be concerned. The stranger was, so to speak, a known quantity. Not that she felt the least bit glad to see Luke. Eliot would most likely be severely distressed at his arrival.
Wishing Luke were an apparition did not make it so. He continued his steady pace, arms swinging gently, head down as if he studied the cobblestones, making his way to her house.
Since that day in Caracasâ€”the day her husband died in every sense except physically, the day this man saved her lifeâ€”Sheridan had understood intuitively that Luke would always be a part of her life. And there he was, out of the blue, ascending her street in the middle of nowhere on a spring day as if he visited all the time.
She suddenly remembered the date. â€œGood grief.â€
It was Annunciation Day, a day of remembrance, of celebration for when the angel Gabriel visited Mary and announced her future. How apropos. Luke appeared without warning. He would not have come unless he had something to tell her, some message that would irreversibly change her future.
Was this his joke or Godâ€™s?
Luke neared and looked up, straight at her.
She saw not the man whose presence had always triggered apprehension in her, but rather the guardian angel who had saved her life.
Sheridan turned and made her way inside, down the stairs, and through the house.
* * *
Sheridan opened the front door and stopped.
Luke Traynor stood less than six feet away, at the low gate in the stone wall where her front terrace met the steep hill.
She returned his steady gaze, knowing full well her own expression did not mirror the one before her. While dread, relief, and excessive gratitude rearranged every muscle on her face, his remained perfectly composed. The sharp nose, thin lips, and deep-set eyes could have been made of the same cobblestone he stood on.
He flashed a rakish grin. â€œI was in the neighborhood.â€
â€œThatâ€™s the most ridiculous thing Iâ€™ve ever heard.â€
He cocked his head, somber again. Always the gentleman, he waited for her to make the first move.
Sheridan clutched her shawl more closely and resigned herself to riding out the emotional disarray rumbling through her. She both loathed and loved this man. Of course he knew that, so it didnâ€™t matter how she reacted to him except that sheâ€™d like herself better if she were polite.
With a quiet sigh, she walked to him, planted a kiss on his scruffy, unshaven cheek, and eased into his embrace. Nestled against the rough collar of his jacket, she smelled the familiar scent of him, an indescribable mix of earth, sun-drenched air, and confidence that bordered on lunacy. She felt the hardness of his body, always unexpected given his average height and build.
â€œSheridan. How are you?â€
â€œFine.â€ She backed away, crossing her arms.
â€œAnd Eliot?â€ he said. â€œHow is he?â€
Luke blinked, a slow movement of lids indicating he could take the truth.
She wanted to shriek obscenities at him. The disconcerting thing about angels, though, was that it was impossible to keep up any sort of pretense. Like an angel, Luke had stayed close beside her for long weeks after the shooting. He had gone with her to the edge of hell, holding on to her until she came back. He knew her better than she knew herself. Glossing over answers was a waste of time with him.
She tried another phrase. â€œWeâ€™re doing about as well as could be expected.â€
â€œEliot is still asleep.â€
â€œItâ€™s early. Perhaps I can greet him later.â€
The resistance drained from her. Yes, Gabriel had come to deliver a message, and he would not leave until heâ€™d done so.
She had no inkling how to shield Eliot and herself from this unexpected source of distress but gave a lame attempt. â€œI donâ€™t suppose youâ€™re passing through town and simply must be on your way right now, this very minute?â€
She inhaled, her shoulders lifting with the effort, and blew the breath out with force. â€œCoffee?â€
Excerpted from Ransomed Dreams by Sally John. Copyright 2010 by Sally John. Used with permission from Tyndale House Publishers. All rights reserved.
Disclosure of Material Connection: I received this book free from Tyndale House Publishers. I was not required to write a positive review. The opinions I have expressed are my own. I am disclosing this in accordance with the Federal Trade Commissionâ€™s 16 CFR, Part 255: â€œGuides Concerning the Use of Endorsements and Testimonials in Advertising.â€