Jennifer Rodewald's Blog

I’m so excited to share a sneak peek of my upcoming small town Christian romance new release, Running into Forever! If you’ve been craving a story filled with heartfelt romance, deep questions of faith, and the charm of a small-town island setting, you’re in for a treat.

What you’ll find in this small town Christian romance:A unique marriage of convenience storyline with a twist of faithA picturesque setting on the remote and charming Sanctuary Island with a cozy small town feelA grumpy/sunshine romance dynamicA slow-burn clean romance with all the feelsDeep faith journeys that explore trusting God through disappointmentHeartwarming small-town community and romance

Running into Forever is the kind of story that will leave you rooting for Taylor and Sonora as they discover that sometimes, the most unexpected paths lead to the greatest blessings—and God always, ALWAYS is at work, even in our disappointments.

Ready for a sneak peek? Read on, friend!Running Into Forever: A small town Christian RomanceChapter ONE

“Taylor, a moment of your time please?”

Though Gretta’s voice was all politeness and calm, her dark eyes held snap and fire. Taylor sighed, twisting his mouth to the side. This afternoon kept poking him with irritants, and if it didn’t stop, he’d need to drink calamine lotion.

Ick. Drink calamine lotion? Who would think of such a thing?

A truly frustrated man, that was who.

Keeping his shoulders taut and square, allowing the lines of his dark livery—his driving uniform, as worn by the three generations of Everests before him—to fall in their striking crispness, Taylor followed Gretta past the high, polished wooden front desk of Shore View Palace and toward her office.

Curtis raised his carrot-colored brows and cleared his throat. “Now you’ve done it,” the man muttered.

Great. This wasn’t the first time Taylor had been called into Gretta’s opulent office, located at the back of the historic island hotel—the most famous of lodgings on Sanctuary Island. It wasn’t even the tenth. But it was the first time Curtis hadn’t chuckled about it. And Curtis chuckled about everything—he had since they’d been grade school students. Everything from the alphabet to road apples was funny to Taylor’s red-haired counterpart, who loved to play up his Irish heritage.

Except not this, apparently.

Taylor’s breath puffed through his lips as he exhaled before he passed through the door separating the concierge desk and the management realm.

“Shut the door, please.” Gretta sounded as grave as she ever did. Then again, that was expected. Gretta Fellenbaum was a consummate hostess of impeccable quality. Courteous. Steady. And always serious. If she was older, Taylor would have claimed it was her advanced years that made her so, but Gretta was no more than ten years older than him, if that. She was simply a woman born out of time and would have fit more suitably a hundred years before.

“Please.” She gestured with one sweeping hand, as though her invitation was not an instruction. But make no mistake—whatever Gretta combined with please was, indeed, a command. Dressed in her pressed gray pantsuit, complete with a peach rosebud pinned on the narrow lapel of her jacket, Gretta was all business, all the time. And no one was to defy her authority. “Sit down.”

Like being called into the headmaster’s office at school.

Taylor tugged on his dark suit lapels, rolled his shoulders back, and shook his head. “I’d rather stand.” Wasn’t he brave? “There’s work to do at the stables, and I—”

Gretta planted her long fingers on her trim waist. “This is not a courtesy visit, Mr. Everest. Nor is it likely to be quick. You will hear me out, and then—”

Taylor cleared his throat. “Just get to whatever you’re stewing about, Gret. The horses don’t unhitch themselves.”

“Gretta. Or better still, Mrs. Fellenbaum, as I am your boss.”

“I contract with the Palace, Gret.” Just so she didn’t think she intimated him. For the record, no one did. At least, no one that he’d let on about. “I don’t work for you.”

She crossed her arms while her chin lifted in stern arrogance. “That contract is currently in severe jeopardy.”

Taylor scowled. Gretta wasn’t joking—the woman wasn’t capable of such a thing. Humor was as foreign to her as laziness was to Taylor. But she couldn’t be serious either. Not about his contract as the carriage driver for the Palace being in jeopardy. Who else was she going to have haul her spoiled, uppity clientele during the tourist season? Though the Palace was outside of town limits and vehicles were technically allowed, few tourists brought them. Not to the historic resort where half the charm was a step back in time.

Were all those visitors simply going to ride the resort’s bikes? Doubtful. For one thing, over half were on the silver end of the age spectrum. And second, of those who were younger, most had never broken a sweat in their lives—unless it was done so in front of a full-length mirror, in skintight clothes, and paid for with some sort of expensive membership. They weren’t going to start pedaling places during their high-priced vacation to a tiny resort island in the Great Lakes.

Taylor matched Gretta’s stance—arms tucked tight across his chest. “Enlighten me, dear Mrs. Fellenbaum. How do you expect to transport—”

“I’m asking the questions in this interview.” With a sharp pivot, she spun to her massive desk, retrieved her cell phone from its straight and tidy position in front of the high-back leather chair, and marched her way directly in front of Taylor. “I require an explanation.”

Taylor held her fierce stare for several heartbeats. Then he dropped his attention to the phone she’d shoved into his chest. He nearly ripped it from her grip and then tapped the Play button.

There was his carriage, clean and polished, shining in the late-July sun. And there he was, pristinely clad in this suit. And there were his great matched Friesians—Albert and Victoria. When it was just him and the animals—which was how Taylor preferred it—the two gentle giants were Al and Vicky. But everyone around the Palace knew them by their royal names.

And there, in that stupid video, was that blasted tyke who’d tried to get himself stomped on not one hour before.

In the video, Taylor swooped down, snagged the five-year-old by the back of the shirt, and pulled him out from beneath the horses’ bellies. The child screamed and kicked. Taylor kept a firm grip and dragged the boy to his well-dressed and entirely too-made-up mother. He leaned forward, pressing the tyke to the woman’s legs, and said something.

“Well?” Gretta huffed.

“Well what?”

“What do you have to say for yourself?”

“Nothing. The kid was lucky.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“He should have gotten a good paddling on his backside.” Taylor passed the phone back to Gretta. “And he was lucky my horses are steady.”

“What did you say to that woman?”

His arms folded against his chest again, Taylor rocked back on his heels. “I told her she’d better keep her son in check, or he was going to get himself hurt.”

Gretta’s eyes bulged. “You threatened a guest?”

Brows pinching, Taylor shook his head. “Threatened? No, Gret. I warned her. It’s dangerous to be running under the horses. And really stupid.”

“Your animals are dangerous?”

Tipping his face up toward the coffered ceiling, Taylor growled. “No. My horses are not dangerous, and you well know it.” Leaning toward the woman, Taylor let his scowl rest on her for a few beats. “But they are animals. Say the boy tickled Albert’s belly and he kicked, thinking it was a fly? Or heaven forbid, both horses are spooked because some little tyke isn’t supposed to be running around beneath them? Then what, your greatness?”

Gretta thrust her chin forward. “Don’t talk to me with such impertinence.”

“Don’t accuse my horses of being dangerous.”

“Don’t threaten my guests.”

“Don’t have guests who do dumb things.”

Gretta stared at him. Then huffed. It was the most undignified thing he’d ever witnessed the woman do. With rolled fists she spun, rounded her fat desk, and sat in her chair. “Sit.” She pointed toward the upholstered Queen Anne chair on his side of the desk.

“No please?”

Her brows lifted as she glared at him. “Sit down, Taylor. You need to see this.” Reaching for a file positioned to her right on her desk, she swiped it up and passed it over the great distance of oak that separated them.

Taylor leaned forward to grasp it. “What is it.”

“Your contract.”

His heart stalled, and his mouth went dry. She wasn’t actually going to—

“You’ll find that on at least two counts you are in breach of it.”

“What?”

“First, line three. You will treat every guest with the utmost courtesy. By the complaints I have in this file”—she tapped another folder that had rested beneath the one Taylor now held—“you cannot possibly deny that you are in breach of that.”

Taylor held out his hand, a silent ask. Gretta complied, passing him the folder full of notes, each one dated, each one with some sort of quoted grievance.

Carriage driver failed to smile when offering his services. Smiling was not in his contract. Was he to go everywhere with some ridiculous grin plastered on his face, like a masked actor in some stupid comedy? Nope. No thanks. Not for him.

Man driving horses cursed under his breath when lifting luggage. He did not curse. Taylor didn’t use foul language. The one time he’d done so when he’d been barely a teen, his mother had told him it was a sign of a stupid person, and he’d never done so since.

The ogre in charge of carriage rides did not respond to questions. He could imagine exactly what sort of person had submitted that one. The flirty, obnoxious sort who had asked him things like What time does your shift end? And What does it take for a girl to find your smile? They weren’t real questions, and therefore he was not required to answer them.

Taylor tossed the file onto the desk. “These are ridiculous. You can’t possibly take them seriously.”

The contents slid helter-skelter across the tidy space. Gretta frowned and quickly set about straightening the notes and replacing them in their folder.

“I take everything seriously.”

“No argument there.” He mocked her with the tilt of his head.

“As if you don’t, Taylor Everest.”

Her pointed response set him back. She was right. Taylor wasn’t the funny guy Curtis was. Even so, some things didn’t require serious attention.

“Now I have to deal with this video situation. Do you know what will happen if this guest posts it on her social media, as she’s threatened?”

“Everyone with half a brain will think she’s a bad mother for allowing her five-year-old to run under horses like that?”

“No, because she won’t post that part, genius. She’ll clip it down so that people will only see you manhandling her son and whispering your threats.” Palms braced on her desk, Gretta leaned forward. “Even you can’t fail to see how that will ruin the Palace. And if we go down . . .”

He went down. Taylor couldn’t deny that. He didn’t have a business without the Palace.

Leaning back hard, he huffed. “What do you want me to do?”

“We’ll get to that in a minute. Right now there is the matter of your second violation of contract.”

“What?”

“At the end.”

Taylor flipped the three pages until he came to the page he’d signed. Looked the same it always did—a whole bunch of unnecessary words declaring that this agreement was binding for the season and blah, blah, blah . . .

“Section eight, Mr. Everest.”

Ah. Back to highfalutin formality. Taylor scanned the page until he came to section eight.

The Palace desires all employees and contractors to behave with absolute dignity, to live in such a way that is above reproach. As such, an unmarried individual cannot continue employment or contract beyond the age of thirty.

What on earth? This was inconceivable. Implausible. Utterly . . . absurd.

It couldn’t be legal.

Taylor lifted his stare to meet Gretta’s.

“I recall you had a birthday in May.”

All he could do was glare at her. Harder.

“Remind me, Mr. Everest. How old did you turn?”

This just couldn’t be legitimate. It was . . . insane. Who would put that in a contract?

Who would sign a contract with that in it?

A man who didn’t read the contract.

“How old, Taylor?”

He ground his jaw. “You know how old I am.”

“I do, in fact.” She folded her hands primly. “As of May 17, you are thirty-one. Which means that, though you can argue the validity of those complaints, you can’t say you are not in violation of our agreement.”

Taylor looked back to the papers he clutched in his hand. The blood in his veins pulsed hot and fast. Anger ballooned bigger with every breath. Not to mention disbelief.

“Why would you do this?” Dropping the hand that held this insidious contract, he pinned Gretta with the heat of his rising anger.

She looked away—and was that a flinch? Her mouth moved with discomfort. Then she swallowed and returned eye contact. Suddenly her uppity coolness moved toward something else. Something much worse.

Pity.

Shaking her head, Gretta leaned toward him. “You’ve been unhappy for far too long, Taylor. It’s making you grumpy. It’s time for a change. For your sake as much as for everyone else’s.”

“You think losing my contract with the Palace is going to fix my being grumpy?”

“No.” One brow quirked in challenge. “I think you finding a wife will.”

“That is irrational and opaque.” Shaking his head, Taylor jumped to his feet. “This won’t stand.”

“I assure you, it will. I’ve already checked with our lawyers.” Gretta stood, her motion significantly calmer than Taylor’s. Then she strode round the desk and stopped beside him. She dared to lay a hand on his arm. “It’s time to let old wounds heal. And to find a hopeful future.”

Taylor scowled at her. What the heck did she know about old wounds? Then with a flick of his wrist, he tossed the idiotic contract toward her desk. Without another word, he spun toward the door and stormed out.

Married? Who was he going to find to marry? Some flippant female tourist who thought life with him on the island would be terribly romantic, only to bail when she found out how harsh and isolated winter could be?

He’d tried that once before.

No thank you.

Are you ready to find out how Taylor gets out of this strange fix?

You can PREORDER Running Into Forever now!

Did you know that Running Into Forever is part of a 6-book series?

Welcome to LOVE ON SANCTUARY SHORES! Six bestselling authors of Christian romance bring you stories of love and redemption. From tender romance to enduring faith, each standalone novel in this series promises unforgettable characters and heartwarming small town charm.

Check out all of these small town Christian romances!

The post Running Into Forever: A sneak peek of this Small Town Christian Romance New Release! appeared first on Author Jennifer Rodewald.

Sometimes I need to refocus. Because discouragement and frustration can be symptoms of self-focus. I need God-centered focus.

(the following was originally written in 2014)

I was watching the Big Ten Network (don’t all good Nebraska wives do this on a Saturday night? Good thing I like football.) and the special feature snagged my attention. I mean really hooked my interest with one kid speaking.

“I’m blessed to wake up every morning.” The camera followed Shane Wynn of Indiana out of the locker room as his voice came over the tape. “Why not make it a good day?”

Wow. Out of the mouth of babes. (I so can’t believe I’m writing that about a college kid. Sheesh. Just last night, I told my hubby that the Cowboy’s coach looked too young to be coaching).

(insert 2023 Jen here . . . I can believe it. Full acceptance. I have college kids of my own now! Life is good.)

Back to the point. Attitude. Fresh, clean, exuberant attitude. That’s what Shane Wynn has.

Love it.

And, honestly, envy it a little bit. I’ve been stuck in a downer recently—my first thought in the morning has been, “why does morning have to come so early?” Yikes. What a way to start a whole new, unmarked day, right?

I did some looking yesterday, via google—I google everything. I was researching how to overcome pessimism. It’s possible, right? I hope. Several articles popped up on my screen, and I clicked on a few to see what Prevention Magazine and BHG have to say on the matter. You know, it was interesting. While I didn’t agree with all the advice, a pattern emerged that sunk into my skull.

Pessimistic people—negative people—focus on themselves. In everything, the focus lands on their belly-button, so to speak.

Ouch. Yeah, ouch.

God has this cure for self-centered living. It’s called looking up.

God-centeredness. In Experiencing God Henry Blackaby writes,

“To live a God-centered life, you must focus your life on God’s purposes, not your own plans. You must seek to see from God’s viewpoint, rather than from your own distorted human viewpoint.”

I can’t focus on me and on God at the same time.

I’m going to have to choose. And since I don’t like the sourness accumulating in my soul, I’m choosing Him. Me-centeredness isn’t working, so starting today, I’m looking up. I’m choosing God-centered focus.

How about you? Will you look up with me?

“… What would it be like if I woke up every morning as desperate for Jesus as I am for my cup ‘o caffeine?” Want more inspiration for your day? Check out Morning Desperation.

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The post Stuck In Pessimism? Look up. Try God-centered focus. appeared first on Author Jennifer Rodewald.

Faced a crisis–a morning desperation!

Crawled out of my bed after the third round of snooze-slapping, wandered to the kitchen and hit power on the Keurig. Pod in, mug positioned…go. It dripped about a quarter of a cup…and then broke my heart. 

Cue morning desperation!

I slunked back to my room, my day now ruined forever, curled up on my bed and covered my head with a pillow. Hubby comes out of our bathroom wondering why I’m going to die. “I just need a cup of coffee…”

Yes. This is tragic.

So I’m sitting here with my McCafe in hand (sorry Joltin’ Jo’s. I couldn’t muster the strength to brave B street. The not plowed roads around the schools were enough stress for this uncoffeed woman this morning. I shall return when the streets are clear . . .) and I’m finally getting to the reading of God’s Word.

“Lord, you are my portion and my cup of blessing; you hold my future.” Psalm 16:5, HCSB

Huh. What would it be like if I woke up every morning as desperate for Jesus as I am for my cup ‘o caffeine?

I’ll ponder that as I finish my coffee…

 

 

Deeply moving Christian Romance

Fall in love with the Big Prairie Romance series! Small town stories of forgiveness, second chances, and uplifting tender romance.

The post Morning Desperation! (what if I was as desperate for Jesus?) appeared first on Author Jennifer Rodewald.

Faced a crisis this morning:

Crawled out of my bed after the third round of snooze-slapping, wandered to the kitchen and hit power on the Keurig. Pod in, mug positioned…go. It dripped about a quarter of a cup…and then broke my heart. 

Cue morning desperation!

I slunked back to my room, my day now ruined forever, curled up on my bed and covered my head with a pillow. Hubby comes out of our bathroom wondering why I’m going to die. “I just need a cup of coffee…”

Yes. This is tragic.

So I’m sitting here with my McCafe in hand (sorry Joltin’ Jo’s. I couldn’t muster the strength to brave B street. The not plowed roads around the schools were enough stress for this uncoffeed woman this morning. I shall return when the streets are clear . . .) and I’m finally getting to the reading of God’s Word.

“Lord, you are my portion and my cup of blessing; you hold my future.” Psalm 16:5, HCSB

Huh. What would it be like if I woke up every morning as desperate for Jesus as I am for my cup ‘o caffeine?

I’ll ponder that as I finish my coffee…

Deeply moving Christian Romance

Fall in love with the Big Prairie Romance series! Small town stories of forgiveness, second chances, and uplifting tender romance.

The post Morning Desperation appeared first on Author Jennifer Rodewald.

A First Scene Preview!

We are one week away from launching my next Christian romance novel! In Spite of Ourselves is a Potter’s House book (two), and it’s also the second book in the Murphy Brother’s story (pssttt… It’s about Jackson!). Best news? It’s going live into the world in ONE WEEK! So it’s time for a sneak peek, yes? Thought so… (and you’re welcome)!

Oh! If you missed the first Murphy Brothers Story, you can check out Chapter One of Always You HERE.

Okay, then! On with the show…












Chapter One, scene one
(in which Jackson faces his disaster...)

Of all the ways he could have imagined this weekend going, this had never entered his mind. Not once. And if someone had told him it would happen this way, he would have laughed in their face, said Not in a million years, and gone on his way.

Jackson Murphy wasn’t that kind of man. Hadn’t ever been.

Hiding in the luxury hotel bathroom—with the door locked—he lowered his towel-wrapped, exhausted, and hungover body to the edge of the massive soaking tub as glittery speckles of steam drifted around him. That helped the surreal, this-can’t-be-happening sense that made his already throbbing head spin.

He glanced at the phone he’d left on the pristine marble counter while he’d showered, now afraid to pick it up again. Needing to pick it up again. Terrified to see what he couldn’t believe play out on the screen yet one more time. Compelled to watch, hoping that this time what had been there before wouldn’t be anymore.

It’d all be a lie. A prank. A massively disturbing dream. He was, after all, the master prankster.

Swallowing—man, it was hard to breathe! And, did a hangover come with the shakes? He’d not had many, so he wasn’t sure. Admittedly, a few, but not enough to decipher normal hangover instability from extreme. From his hands to his chest, he trembled violently. Not to mention breathing about as smoothly as he had round about mile twenty-two the day before.

Maybe someone had slipped something into one of his drinks?

No. He knew that hadn’t happened. He had enough memory intact to know he’d done this to himself.

Had he really done this?

The compulsive demand to see it for himself—one more time!—had him reaching for his phone.

Connor’s text was still open.

What the— Jackson! Are you kidding me with this? Dude, what are you doing? This had better be one of your jokes, man.

Above that text, there was a video attachment. From Jackson. Of Jackson…and the woman who was on the other side of that bathroom door.

Mackenzie.

Mackenzie-he-wasn’t-positive-of-her-last-name. Except, now he was pretty sure that whatever that name had been before last night, now it was legally Murphy.

He didn’t want to, but he tapped that video, and the screen told him what only fragments of his memory could recall. There they were, Mackenzie and him, in one of those tacky, drive-through, do-something-stupid chapels. Doing something incredibly stupid.

Completely hammered Jackson Murphy took totally drunk Mackenzie Thornton (that had been her last name!) to be his lawfully wedded wife…

The video cut and then picked up after the blessed ceremony, capturing the newly wedded pair in front of the door to the room he’d woken up in. With her in his bed.

“Hey, you two!” Some stranger—who sounded a bit slurred himself—called from outside the shot. “Here’s to doing something crazy!”

Drunk Jackson and inebriated Mackenzie threw their arms up and cheered. For their idiotic selves.

“Just married!” they cried.

Watching, Jackson’s stomach lurched. Again.

On screen, drunk Jackson lifted his loopy wife! and popped open the door. That was why he knew it was to this very room—in the background, the scene glimpsed the king-size bed that was beyond the bathroom, where he was currently hiding. Their honeymoon suite. That should be a nice, enormous charge on his credit card.

Not to mention the rock he’d glimpsed on Mackenzie’s hand before he’d made a sneaky getaway to the bathroom. Had that thing been real? Good grief. He was an electrician, with a few side gigs as a stand-up comedian. He lived on cheap fast food and frozen boxed dinners, making rent paycheck to paycheck, and he certainly hadn’t been saving any funds for a diamond.

“Here’s to happily ever after, you crazy kids! Enjoy the honeymoon.” That voice was a woman’s. Also one he didn’t know.

The video stopped. He assumed the person who had recorded it handed him his phone. He could also assume that he’d sent that video to his brother before the honeymoon commenced, because Connor had sent a string of texts that lasted from 1:00 to 6:00 a.m. None of which Jackson had seen until the morning, because he’d apparently shut his phone off.

Or hit Do Not Disturb. Like every other groom in America would. Nausea rolled hard and fast, and this time Jackson thought the sensation was more than a threat.

Phone in his fist, he pressed it to his forehead as he leaned elbows to knees and gripped a fistful of hair. Never in his life. Just…never!

He’d been frustrated with his run—didn’t make the time he’d wanted. Was upset that Sean hadn’t been there—because if Sean had been there, Jackson was pretty sure they’d have both run a sub-three. They’d both have qualified for Boston, which might prove to his family two things: he didn’t need their pity, because his life had long since moved on, and he was more than just a funny man who had an electrician’s side gig to pay the bills. He was a grown-up—one they could take seriously every now and then. One who could do grown-up things.

Like marry a total stranger in Vegas.

God, forgive me!

What had he done?

In Spite of Ourselves releases July 28! Grab your preorder of this Christian Romance novel now!

“In Spite of Ourselves was another faith-filled masterpiece from an author I can always count on. Jennifer Rodewald never disappoints.” –Ashley Sapp, the Rustic Reading Gal

“For the love of Cats! What are the odds of marrying someone you just met in Vegas and fall in love?  This book reminded me in a way of Francine Rivers’ Redeeming Love, but with this book being a contemporary romance. The characters are flawed but oh so precious.” –Dana Michael, Goodreads review 

“God’s mercy and grace is written all over every page. He and only He can bring peace and happiness out of even the biggest mistakes…Worth every minute of reading time.” Susan Snodgrass, Simply Susan Blog

Grab My Copy!

The post A sneak peek at In Spite of Ourselves (A Christian Romance Novel) appeared first on Author Jennifer Rodewald.

A Chapter One Sneak Peek!

The preorder is live, and we are about a month away from launch day for When I Lost My Way! In case you don’t know, this is book two in the Big Prairie Romance Series. Book one is When I Come Home Again, and you can check out chapter one of that book here. 

Back to When I Lost My Way…

If you’re the read the back cover before anything else type (I am!), here is that: 

Their whirlwind romance takes the hard road toward happily-ever-after as disaster tests their love for each other and their faith in God’s goodness.

Sophie Shultz smiles at her future, even when she doesn’t feel like it, but when a country drive leaves this city-girl stranded in the mud, the cowboy who stops to help gives her plenty to smile about. For real. Lance Carson is tall, handsome, and kind, if a little on the quiet side—not to mention the owner of Big Prairie’s celebrated vineyard.

Lance has always had a decided preference for solitude, but when he rescues Sophie he develops a whole new appreciation for companionship. It doesn’t take long for him to lose his heart as she fills the aching void life’s disappointments have left behind. But a family issue has put him in a hard spot, pushing him to a decision that will ruin his relationship with many of Big Prairie’s citizens—and devastate Sophie, who adores her newly adopted hometown. Before he can figure out how to tell her, someone tattles on his plans.

As their relationship is put to the test, conflict presses in from every side. Can this rapidly grown romance sink its roots deep enough to weather the storms, or will Lance and Sophie both lose their way?

And now… the promised sneak peek. 

Here you go! 

Chapter One, in it’s (RAW–meaning, this hasn’t seen the final edit!) entirety, of When I Lost My Way!

When I Lost My Way
(A Big Prairie Christian Romance)















Chapter One

Why did I take that that left turn?

Sophie sighed, looking down at the nearly black muck that had claimed her car as its newest victim. It had seemed like a good idea. The truth was, she’d taken a drive because it had been one of those days. One of those stuck in the mud—figuratively, at the beginning—days. She’d thought back in August, nearly six weeks past, her life was good. Now there seemed to be a whole lot of blah coupled with a familiar uncertainty—and growing loneliness, something she’d been too familiar with all her life. After her relocation, she’d hoped that both had stayed behind. When, that early afternoon, it became apparent that both emotional companions had found her new life, taking a drive out in the country to clear her head, search her heart, and pray had seemed like an entirely harmless, perhaps exceptionally smart thing to do.

Don’t look now, but your city-girl ignorance is showing.

Yeah, that. Exactly. She should have known better, even with having not grown up country. Rain on a dirt road equals mud, and yesterday the skies over Big Prairie had opened up and wept. That left-hand turn off the highway two miles back had dumped her onto a county road that was a thin layer of gravel over nothing but dirt.

At first she’d thought eh, a few puddles. Road’s bound to dry up past the pocked entrance. Seemed reasonable—after all, this particular country road saw a lot of traffic. In fact, more cars turned down this way than many of the paved roads in town, thanks to that big sign off the entrance that read River’s Edge Vineyard. Surely, given the growing popularity of the successful vineyard Sophie had yet to visit, the only county road leading to the tourist attraction had been put on a special maintenance regimen. Though most of the picking had been done, the tourist season wasn’t finished.

So, she’d continued, confident the road would firm up.

Sophie tested the frosting-textured ground with the toe of her Converse. The gravel-laced soup sank beneath the slight pressure of her foot. Decidedly, that whole hope about the roads firming up had been a fatal miscalculation. She jerked her foot back, shook it above the squishy ground in a failed attempt to remove the muck that had come up with her shoe, and gingerly laid her now-soiled foot back on the floorboard of her car.

“Now what?” Slumping against the back of the driver’s seat, she gripped the steering wheel, tipped her chin up and shut her eyes. “Lord, now I’m actually stuck. Like in the mud. In the middle of nowhere.”

She’d thought it had been bad enough feeling stuck. Again. This… this was definitely worse.

Call Craig.

That was the logical solution. The most obvious thing to do. Craig, being the exceptionally nice man that he was, would certainly brave the gooey roads to come to her rescue. That, however, would muddy her mind up more. The paradox was not lost on her with that thought. Having a great guy come rescue you from being stuck in the mud should help clarify her thoughts about said gentleman, not further cloud the whole situation. But, cloudy that whole deal was, and not just because of her personal always stay in the friend-zone track record.

There was Brenna to consider. Whether her best friend would deny that Sophie should add her into the matter or not, a strong thread of things-not-settled ran between Brenna and Craig. Strong enough, in fact, that Sophie felt certain she’d be a fool not to think long and hard about whether she wanted to step into that situation.

She’d been doing exactly that—thinking long and hard. And not loving the conclusion. One more not-the-right-fit in her growing file of nice men she’d dated.

Or was that the pain of a lingering wound putting fear into her heart. It was so long ago…and not everyone thinks the way he did…

“What’s wrong with me, exactly?” Sophie directed her query to the moonroof of her sporty Jeep Renegade. Well, more specifically to the King who reined over not only this muddy mess she’d inserted herself in—the literal one, as well as the figurative one that involved her heart, her future, and her hope.

She pulled in a long draw of air, then sighed again. “I know. I’m being dramatic. It was a couple of dates. And morning coffee. And me thinking maybe he was the reason you’d shut other doors. The reason I’ve been too timid to try again…”

It had been a long time past—and really, that wound not only should have healed up nicely, but it shouldn’t have hurt so deeply in the first place.

Sometimes people are blind, Princess. I mean they see color just fine, but much passed that? Not so well, Baby. Don’t let that crush you. Don’t let them tell you who you are.

He father’s words from that tearful evening had stayed with her all these years. Thank God for Daddy. But…

Daddy, I still remember it…

Squeezing her eyelids closed, Sophie indulged in a moment of self-pity. After all, she was stuck on a country road, car lashed tightly in the greedy clutches of mud, and all by herself. It was her party, she could cry if she wanted to.

But not for long. It was late afternoon, and though Sophie had stopped trembling at the unbelievably dark nights she’d fearfully discovered in her newly acquired country life, she still hadn’t acclimated to the cry of the coyotes who liked to populate that thick blackness. She’d no desire to be stuck in her car, somewhere between the vineyard and town, all on her own after sundown.

So, again. Now what?

She sat up, slipped her phone from the dash holder, and tapped the home button. She knew lots of people in town…

Brenna and Grant topped the list of those who she knew would be willing to help. However, neither option felt comfortable when she considered them.

Craig then. Don’t want to.

He’d come. Without a doubt. Wouldn’t even tease her about doing such a dumb thing, getting stuck in the mud. He might ask why she felt the need to go out for a country drive, though.

Might be the right opportunity to have an open talk, without the distraction of his foster boys, their students, or his steady, blue-eyed gaze smiling down on her—because he’d have to drive them out of this mess.

Movement out in the field or pasture—whichever it was—blurred in the periphery of her vision. The back of her mind still fingered that fear of coyotes, and her heart lurched. Jerking her gaze to the right, toward the shadowy movement, she squinted to make out the form near the opposite fence line.

A deer. A harmless deer, raising her head to inspect the lady stuck in the mud. Sheesh, she needed to tame her imagination—and running fears. And also, she needed to get out of this predicament.

“Ugh. Call Craig.” She rolled her eyes at herself, then pressed his name under her contacts list. Done. Phone was ringing.

It would be just as well. The time it’d take for Craig to get her safely back to town could be time she could use to be honest with him. It’d be uncomfortable, but…

The ringing clicked to voicemail.

Sophie held in a groan and employed her Sophie’s always cheerful voice. “Hey, Craig. It’s me. Sophie. Listen, I know this will be such an inconvenience, and the whole thing was really stupid—seriously, I don’t know what I was thinking, and you can totally give me a hard time about it later.” Stop babbling like an idiot! She cleared her throat. “Sorry. I’ll get to the point. I’m in a bit of a crisis. As in, I’m stuck. In the mud. Is there any way you could come rescue me? Please?”

Tugging the phone from her ear like it burned, she smashed her thumb against the End icon. That was perfect. This way he’ll be the one to end this sort-of dating-esc thing. Good heavens, she had a propensity for being stupid. As the monologue she’d left on Craig’s voicemail replayed in her head, a wave of embarrassment washed hot through her limbs. She tapped her forehead with her phone and growled.

Impulse took over—which was something she really needed to work on. Case in point—she was stuck in the mud because of an impulse. She would work on it. Later. At that moment, she yielded to the compulsion, hit Craig’s name and sent another call.

Voicemail again. Whew! Because, what was she going to say? Hey. Me again. I just wanted to say that I’m not actually crazy. I think the last message I left might leave you with the impression that I’m a nuts. I’m not. Not really. I don’t think. But, I am still stuck…

Perhaps there was a reason she had an unquenchable instinct to keep all relationships in the friend-zone. She clearly wasn’t capable of acting like a grown up. Not on a consistent basis. Good thing Craig didn’t answer that second call. And thank you, Jesus that she had enough sense—even if it was at the last second—not to leave another babbling crazy-hinting message.

She was still stuck, though. And alone.

Text him.

Yes. That was much safer. She could edit any ridiculousness out of the final copy before she hit Send. She tapped his name again, this time hitting the text icon rather than the call button.

Hi. I left you a message that maybe you should not listen to. I have reasons. Anyway. I’m stuck in the mud. It was a bad decision of mine that I am repentant of even as I type. Care to play superhero?

Sophie reread what she’d written. Too… much?

Possibly. He’d go and listen to that message for sure. Either way he would hear her babbling foolishness. Thus, she didn’t need him to read more of it. With a rapid tapping of her index finger, she deleted I left you a message that maybe you should not listen to. I have reasons. Anyway. There. That left three reasonable, grown-up, not babbling sentences. Four, if you counted the one word Hi. Some people didn’t. Maybe there should be a comma there, instead of a period?

Good grief, she was overthinking everything! With an irritated stab, Sophie sent the text off into the cyber world. Craig should get it in a millisecond. Help is on the way. She smiled at the thought. Maybe it was a grimace. Sitting up straight, she checked the rearview mirror. Yep, a smile. Her mom often said Sophie could make people believe she hadn’t a care on earth, because she could smile her way through anything.

Never know if she’s trembling in her Uggs, or ready to break down into a wail. My girl smiles through all of it.

Words Mom had spoken to her daddy—who was technically her stepdad—when Sophie had been thirteen. They’d recently started dating—her mom and Derrick, and Mom had been guarded about it. Didn’t even let Sophie meet the man—or him meet her—until she felt there would be a real reason to make the introduction. Sophie had been curious, though a touch resentful, about the who had captured so much of her mom’s attention, and she’d been shocked to find out it was the new associate pastor at their church.

Seemed like a lifetime ago. Derrick was Dad now—actually, he was Daddy—and Sophie adored him almost as much as Mom did. But she remembered that description Mom had first given him of herself. Wondered if it had been a thing of pride, or a warning to the new man in their world, when Mom had said them.

Her gaze had wandered toward the field outside while she’d meandered down that bit of personal history. When she came back to the present, she found the deer still stood in that corner, grazing on whatever was left to be had on the autumn ground. Apparently her presence no longer made the animal curious, and the two of them—Sophie and the deer—were to coexist.

A lovely thought. But hopefully they wouldn’t have to coexist for long.

As if in agreement—or maybe insulted—the deer startled. Head came up, ears and eyes darted left and then right, and then she froze, attention pinned in Sophie’s direction. Sophie had the most ridiculous urge to wave, as if a friendly gesture would lull the animal back into the peaceful coexistence they’d been sharing. Before she could, the deer pivoted and fled in one fluid motion, clearing the four-strand fence with no more effort than it would have taken Sophie to flop onto a couch.

Sophie sat forward again, watching while the animal bounded toward the afternoon skyline, losing sight of her when she dipped into a small roll of land. Slouching back, she felt abandoned, though she knew that was also silly.

Why hadn’t Craig texted or called her back?

Smile. It’ll help.

She didn’t know where she learned that. Maybe she’d made it up all on her own? They were her words to live by, for better or worse.

The reason for the deer’s flight found its way into her rearview mirror. On a chance glance into the reflection, she saw a red truck slip-slide toward her on the greasy road.

“Ah.” Sophie kept a wary eye on the nearing vehicle, keenly aware of how unmanageable she’d found the mud. “So there is another fool in Big Prairie. Guess I can’t claim solo hold on that.”

The back of the truck fishtailing in a more controlled version of chaos than she’d managed with her Renegade, the other driver edged beside her.

“Please don’t slide into me,” she muttered. “This cute car isn’t paid for.”

A man wearing a cowboy hat held the steering wheel in the other vehicle, and as he maneuvered around Sophie’s car, he leaned forward, gave her a good long look, and then waved—the country-boy kind of wave common to the Big Prairie locals—two fingers up while the palm stayed anchored on the steering wheel. If she was in North Omaha, she’d have assumed the cowboy was giving her the bird.

Good thing she knew better. Not so good, however, that Mister Friendly Cowboy didn’t seem to understand her situation as he kept crawling on down the slick road.

“You’re not gonna stop?” She asked his tailgate as his truck cleared her car. “Not very Big Prairie-ish of you, Mister.”

As she scowled, those breaklights lit up red, the back wheels slid left, and the driver corrected the skid with obvious experience. Then, as if she’d been heard, the truck settled into a stop, mud oozing up around his tires when they ceased their movement.  Yikes. Please don’t let him sink in too deep. Then I’ll be responsible for both of us being stuck.

The driver’s side door popped open, and a pair of long, dark jean-clad legs stretched out toward the ground. The man followed, hat still in place, glanced her direction, and then reached into the cab to snag a brown work coat. His back turned to her as he slipped the sleeves on, giving her a backside view of his lean, tall form, work-formed shoulders, and cowboy cut jeans.

“Not a view you get much back home.”

She bit her lip, taming that girly grin that, had anyone else been in the vehicle with her, would have made her blush. There definitely were benefits to this country life.

Sophie gave her mirror another quick glance, checked her hair to ensure her glossy ringlets hadn’t gone the way of frizz and her black mascara had stayed where she’d brushed it earlier that day.

Yeah. And smile too. That should totally make up for the fact that you’re stuck in the mud, and this good-looking cowboy won’t notice you’re a fool.

 Though the thought was sarcastic, she did brush up her always-on-hand smile as the man turned and picked his way over the black slime toward her car. She rolled down her window as he came within a few feet.

“Hey there.” She tipped her chin up to look at him. “Thanks for not hitting me.”

“Interesting place to park.”

“Isn’t it? I thought it would be a nice spot for a nap.”

The corner of his mouth flickered. Maybe a miniscule grin? “Ah. I see. Here I thought you’d gotten yourself stuck.”

Sophie made a who me, no way sort of face.

“Very well, then. Carry on with the napping.” He bumped the hood of her car with the side of his fist.

“Whoa, there cowboy. That was not the truth.” She reached a hand out of the car and smacked the door as if that should make him stop his slow retreat. “I am definitely stuck, and I can’t get ahold of the person I thought could come help me.”

“I see.” His top lip curled a smidge—not as a leer, but in amusement. “So, you’re in need of assistance?”

“I’m in need of not being stuck here. I’m not fond of coyotes.”

“They’re mostly harmless.”

“Perhaps. But they creep me out.”

“Not from around here, are you?”

Sophie chuckled. “Clearly not. But I’m curious, what gave me away?”

He made a slow inspection of her car, the mud slurping up her tires, the road they’d traveled from the highway, and then finally her.

Green eyes.

That’s what she thought when his survey stopped on her. Not, help, please. Or, what’s your name? Or, perhaps more important than any of those options, can I trust you? No. The first words scrolling through her quickly muddling brain was green eyes. And that was quickly followed with a deliciously buzzing sensation that started in her shoulders, sank through her chest and then exploded in her belly, sending a charge of heated electricity through her body.

Sophie blinked, then looked toward her dash. Neither did much of anything to clear her head or stop the warmth creeping into her face. How juvenile was she, that when she simply needed help out of a dumb situation she’d landed herself in, all she could think of in that moment was how mesmerizing those green eyes were?

No. Not all. He’s tall, and a little gorgeous in that hat too. 

Good heavens, she was a ninny.

“It was your shoes.”

When she jolted her attention back to him, she found he had braced a palm on the roof of her car and leaned toward her.

“What?” What on earth was he talking about with her shoes? And, sheesh, her heart was misbehaving.

“You’re wearing white converse tennis shoes while driving on a muddy road.”

She lifted her left foot as if she needed to confirm his observation. “My shoes?” Lips parted, she looked back up at him.

He smiled. A whole, gorgeous, make her mind numb smile.

“That’s how I knew you’re not from around here.”

Stop gawking. Sophie blinked again, still searching for meaning in what he was saying. Or logic in her own brain. Had she ever been this entirely ridiculous in her life? Not once—certainly she’d remember.

Well, probably. At that moment she could barely remember her own name.

His smile dwindled to a remnant of pleasant memories. “Have I insulted you?”

“Huh?”

“I was teasing. About your shoes. Although, they are a puzzling choice, to be honest. Surely they’ll wash, though. Right?”

“Why?”

“Because they’re about to get really muddy. Unless you prefer I carry you? I could. It would be no big deal. Just figured you’d not be comfortable with it, since I don’t even know your name.”

“Carry me where?”

A low chuckle rumbled from his chest, and he pointed toward his red truck. “I can’t pull your car out of here. The road’s still too soft. But I won’t leave you alone with the coyotes, if you’d rather not stay.”

Mud. Coyotes. Alone. Stay…

Snap out of this! Sophie shifted back to her default smile—and yes, it helped. “Right. I’d rather not stay here. Can you get me back to town?”

He shifted his jaw, doubt scrawling on his face. “Not sure how I can turn around, and the vineyard’s not far after the next turn off. Would you be willing to hang out there for a couple of hours? This should firm up by sundown, I’d guess, and then we can get your girly-Jeep out.”

“Oh. Sure. That makes sense. Do you think the owner would mind?”

“Of the vineyard?”

“Yes. I’ve heard the lodge is lovely. Do you think they’d let me stay for a while?”

He chuckled again, the amusement making his green eyes deepen and that smile resurface. “Let me check.” Looking skyward, he tapped his chin, and then his gaze landed back on her. “He says it’d be fine.”

“You?”

The hand that had been anchored on her car slipped and then he held it toward her. “I’m Lance Carson.”

“You own the vineyard?”

“I do.”

“But you’re like…”

“Twenty-six.”

“Oh.”

“Too old or too young?”

Too perfect.

Oh my goodness, was she really that shallow? Stick a good-looking cowboy in her face, slip some success in his pocket, and she was mush? Sophie Shultz, put on your self-respect. Her Mom would give her an earful and lock her in her room for being so ridiculously mushy-minded. “I’m sorry,” Sophie straighten her shoulders, lifted her chin. “I’m acting like an idiot. I’m not normally this… well, whatever.”

“I believe you. But I didn’t think you were an idiot.”

“Oh, okay. That’s good.”

“I would like to know your name, though.”

She wanted to drop her face into her hands and hide. Instead, she smiled. Again. “Sophie Shultz.”

He pushed the hand he’d offered—and had been ignored—back toward her. “It’s nice to meet you, Sophie Shultz.”

 

 

When I Lost My Way releases May 26!!!


























Pre Order Now!

The post Preview of When I Lost My Way (a Christian romance novel) appeared first on Author Jennifer Rodewald.

A Chapter One Sneak Peek!

We are a little more than on week to launch Always You (Release day is March 3rd, but Preorder is available now). Always You is an uplifting Christian Romance that is a part of The Potter’s House Books (Two), as well as the start to my new family series called The Murphy Brothers. (Have no fear! I’m working on the Big Prairie Romance books too! The next book in that series is scheduled to release in June!)

Back to Always You... Once again, I thought it’d be fun to offer a sneak peek at Chapter One. Sooo….

Here you go! 

Chapter One, in it’s entirety, of Always You. 

Always You (an uplifting Christian Romance) Chapter One (in which Lauren meets a man at the airport) She was gonna throw up.

Lauren squeezed her eyes tight, trying desperately to focus on the audible version of a story the talented Tamara Leigh had penned. But alas, even the commanding distraction of the Wulfriths would not take her mind away from the facts.

She was going to puke.

Somebody please just let me off this plane. I’m really going to throw up!

Another arctic gale rocked the cabin as the aircraft sat like a lame duck on the tarmac. The strong winter storm had snuck onto the Pacific West Coast like Santa Claus on Christmas Eve, only this visitor was not leaving any gifts of kindness.

Served her right, she guessed, leaving her home, her family, and all the expectations she was certain she could never meet. If she worked harder to conform, tried to be a bit more like Ashley, maybe then…

Who was she kidding? Lauren knew full well she was not politician material. Economics confused her. Politics, frankly, made her angry, and she made an effort to avoid them as much as she could. Hard to do when your father was a senator. Her studies in history, while intriguing, did not make her buzz with anticipation. And just like her mother, Lauren hated arguing. Hated it. So while her younger sister, Ashley, became the new shining star of the Matlock family, following closely in their father’s astutely successful footsteps, Lauren found a job on the other side of the country, doing something entirely different than anyone in her family had ever done. Something that, she hoped and prayed, would never have anything to do with politics, ever.

As she thought about the rise of mountains that she’d seen in the pamphlet, the shimmering waters of Lake Tahoe that she had stared at for an inordinate amount of time on her computer screen, and the delicious idea of embarking on grand adventures in the middle of God’s creation, her heart lightened—even with the swirl of encroaching sickness that refused to abate. The glory and splendor of all of it would be right at her fingertips. Just outside her door, her everyday life right in the midst of it, as she took on a new role at a small resort in North Lake Tahoe.

Her stomach lurched.

That was, if she survived the flight. At the moment it didn’t seem likely. The wind battered against the fuselage, causing the cabin to shudder again. Lauren pushed Pause on the medieval tale she’d been trying to listen to and gripped the armrest at her side.

“You’re okay, sweetie.” The gentle voice came from her left, from Cindy, the older woman who shared the row and had kindly offered to sit next to the window when they’d discussed how Lauren didn’t always handle air travel well.

Lauren wanted to say she’d be fine, but all that escaped her lips was a pathetic moan.

“Oh, honey, I’m so sorry.” Cindy patted her back. “Surely they’ll let us off this plane soon.”

“Hope so.” Lauren whimpered. Her head lolled as a wave of nausea had her rocking forward, jamming her elbows onto her knees and gripping the back of her head.

“Here’s a bag here, sweetie.”

A waxy paper sack was pushed into her palm

Awesome. It’d been a completely full flight from her connection in Denver, no seats available, and she was going to vomit right there in a bag while they were all trapped on a plane in the middle of a blizzard with no end in sight. This was the epitome of a nightmare. The evening could not get worse.

The overhead cabin dinged, alerting passengers of an important message, and the voice of her salvation came over the speakers. “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m sorry for the delay. We have clearance to go to an alternative gate. Sit tight a few more minutes, folks. We will be deplaning shortly.”

As tears burned against her eyelids, Lauren breathed multiple pleas and thank-yous to heaven above. Please let me off this plane. Please don’t let me puke next to this nice lady. And thank You that we made it here safely.

Now to get her feet on the ground. Maybe then the vertigo would stop. Maybe then she could go back to looking forward to the new life she was flying into—airsickness and all.

The plane lurched forward as they taxied toward the newly opened gate.

Just hold on, she thought repeatedly. Hold on just a little longer.

Clutching her carry-on and the wax-paper puke bag that she was supposed to use if she couldn’t hold on, she stood when the captain announced their arrival and that they could leave the plane and thank you very much for flying with them. Lauren wobbled to her feet. The dizzying nausea claimed her again, and she shut her eyes against the world and the sensation and the fear that no, she was not going to make it. She was going to vomit right there in the middle of everyone.

Cindy squeezed Lauren’s elbow. “It’s okay, sweetie, if you need to throw up. You just go ahead and do it. I have kids. It’s not as if I’ve never dealt with puke before.”

Lauren tried to open her eyes and give the kind woman a weak smile. She was quite certain it came out like a squint and a grimace. Hardly mattered. She’d never see her again. She hoped so at least, for the sake of her quickly failing dignity. Finally the people in front of them began to move forward, and the woman at her side allowed Lauren to pass in front of her. Cindy’s steady hand remained on her back while she guided her down the aisle, out the Jetway, and into the airport terminal.

Oh goodness. She was off the plane. She should be getting better now. Any moment. The nausea should stop. Her head should clear. Her stomach should stop rioting.

No. That was not going to happen.

Still clutching the drag handle to her carry-on, Lauren whipped a panicked gaze around, desperately searching for a restroom. That would be better at least. She wouldn’t have to puke in front of everyone. She’d be by herself, safely in a stall, with some of her dignity still intact.

“I see a sign right down there. Women’s restroom.” Her kindhearted seat buddy patted Lauren’s back and pointed. “Would you like me to go with you?”

Oh good heavens, no. Please just let me be. Lauren shook her head, offered a rushed “Thank you anyway,” and took off for the women’s restroom, still unsure that she’d make it that far. She closed in on the doorway, the rolling in her stomach warning of the impending mess to come.

A few more steps. Almost there. Just a few—

No!

A sign blocking the entry read closed, the passage webbed with yellow tape to emphasize the point. The bathroom was closed! How could it be closed? This was an airport—they needed a women’s restroom. An open women’s restroom!

It didn’t matter. This was happening. Lauren was going to throw up, and she was going to throw up now.

She charged into the open door next to the women’s restroom, which, of course, would be the men’s. She didn’t care. She needed a toilet and she needed her dignity and that was all. Rushing forward, she passed through the doorway only to smash flat into the crisp white shirtfront of a tuxedoed man.

“Whoa there.” The low voice wafted above her head. “I think your headed in the wrong—”

Caught in the arms of a faceless stranger… Faceless because she couldn’t muster the courage or the balance to look up.

Her stomach turned in one final lurch. And it happened. Right there on a stranger’s dress shirt and suitcoat. Lauren threw up, discovering as she lost her late lunch, which included picante sauce, that, actually, throwing up in a crowded airplane wasn’t the worst thing ever. Vomiting on a strange man in the doorway to the men’s restroom was infinitely more humiliating.

Please let this be a nightmare. And let it be over now.

The prayer had barely rolled through her mind before Lauren heaved against the man yet again.

What a way to start her brand-new, glorious, independent life.

                                                        ***

Not every day a guy walked from the bathroom, tossing the paper towel he’d been using toward the garbage, only to be slammed into by a sick woman in desperate need of…

Well, that about summed up his day.

Matt stared down at the small brunette losing the contents of her stomach against his rented tux. As much as he’d wanted to howl in frustration the whole day through, a surge of compassion melted the anxious stiffness from his arms. As she heaved against him a second time, he cupped the back of her head.

“Guess we’ve both had a rough day, huh?” he said quietly, his other hand bracing her shoulder.

“I’m…” Dry heave. “So…” Another false alarm. “Sorry.”

Honestly, it could be worse. Had been worse, about three hours before. Given the choice between going back to stand with John, watching all his hopes and dreams change her name to his buddy’s, or being puked on in the airport by a stranger, he’d take the vomit. Every single day.

Oddly, the tension in his jaw and shoulders eased. He stood there, holding a woman he’d had yet to properly meet, while the squall of her stomach worked itself out. Evidently, having a cute brunette puke down the front of you made for a decent distraction from life’s massive disappointments.

When she went limp against him, her forehead pressed into his chest and warm nastiness oozing through both the dress shirt and his T-shirt, he trailed his hand down the waves of her hair and gave her a gentle squeeze. “Better?”

She moaned.

“Is there more?”

“I’m begging God right now that the answer is no. And also that Jesus would come right this second to take me home to some mansion in the sky. No more tears, no more sorrow. No more throwing up on men I’ve never met.”

Matt chuckled. “A spotless white wardrobe does sound good right now.”

Her groan quivered against his chest before she moved away. “I’m so terribly sorry. And embarrassed. Horrified, actually. I’ll pay for the cleaning. Or a new suit. Whichever you prefer.”

While she babbled, he caught the crimson staining her cheekbones, though she had yet to look up at him. Again, his heart pooled with sympathy.

He rubbed her shoulders and then squeezed. “This suit isn’t a keeper anyway.”

“What?” Finally she looked up at him. Big brown eyes, sheened with tears and exhaustion and humiliation, latched on to his. “Not a keep— Oh.” Her eyes squeezed shut. “It’s a rental, isn’t it?”

“Yep.”

“Oh no. I’m so, so sorry. I’ll pay for it.”

He’d never have believed he’d find a reason to laugh that day. Yet this woman—still nameless to him—managed to pull another chuckle from his muddied day. For that reason alone, he liked her on the spot.

“You know what?” He stepped back, taking in the red putrid mess on his front. “Don’t worry about it.” Meeting her eyes again, he enjoyed the easy feel of a smile relieving the tension that had made his jaw and cheekbones ache.

“No, really—”

He held up a hand. “No, I’m serious. After all, I got in your way. If I hadn’t, you might have made it to the garbage can.” He pointed to his right and behind him. “So it’s my fault, I think.”

“Oh my gosh.” Both hands covered her face.

Stepping forward again, Matt tipped her chin up with a crooked finger. This personal encounter was new to him—he wasn’t normally so…touchy. But. Well. But. He’d never been puked on, and he was pretty sure this miserably embarrassed soul hadn’t ever vomited on a stranger before. That put them squarely together in the same boat of awkward firsts. Might as well try for comfort.

“Listen, it’s not a thing, really,” he said. “I’m just gonna grab my bag there and do a quick change. No big deal. Okay?”

One giant, break-his-already-severed-heart tear leaked onto the side of her nose. If he wasn’t covered in vomit, he’d have pulled her into a full hug. Instead, he brushed the moisture trailing her face with the pad of his thumb. “Come on now. Don’t cry.”

“Okay.” Another drop seeped from the corner of her eye and onto his thumb.

He chuckled. Again. That was three times. And he was charmed.

“Let me change, and then you can tell me your name.”

Big brown eyes were watching him when he turned to retrieve the suitcase at his heels. As he rounded his way back into the bathroom, he hoped she’d still be around when he got done.

She’d likely not be, humiliated as she was.

He should have gotten her name.

Always You releases on March 3rd! Grab your pre-order of this Christ Romance Novel for only 0.99!  Buy Now

The post Preview of Always You (an uplifting Christian Romance) appeared first on Author Jennifer Rodewald.

A Chapter One Sneak Peek!

We are a little more than on week to launch Always You (Release day is March 3rd, but Preorder is available now). Always You is a new Christian Romance Novel that is a part of The Potter’s House Books (Two), as well as the start to my new family series called The Murphy Brothers. (Have no fear! I’m working on the Big Prairie Romance books too! The next book in that series is scheduled to release in June!)

Back to Always You... Once again, I thought it’d be fun to offer a sneak peek at Chapter One. Sooo….

Here you go! 

Chapter One, in it’s entirety, of Always You. 

Always You (a Christian Romance Novel)






















Chapter One







(in which Lauren meets a man at the airport)



She was gonna throw up.

Lauren squeezed her eyes tight, trying desperately to focus on the audible version of a story the talented Tamara Leigh had penned. But alas, even the commanding distraction of the Wulfriths would not take her mind away from the facts.

She was going to puke.

Somebody please just let me off this plane. I’m really going to throw up!

Another arctic gale rocked the cabin as the aircraft sat like a lame duck on the tarmac. The strong winter storm had snuck onto the Pacific West Coast like Santa Claus on Christmas Eve, only this visitor was not leaving any gifts of kindness.

Served her right, she guessed, leaving her home, her family, and all the expectations she was certain she could never meet. If she worked harder to conform, tried to be a bit more like Ashley, maybe then…

Who was she kidding? Lauren knew full well she was not politician material. Economics confused her. Politics, frankly, made her angry, and she made an effort to avoid them as much as she could. Hard to do when your father was a senator. Her studies in history, while intriguing, did not make her buzz with anticipation. And just like her mother, Lauren hated arguing. Hated it. So while her younger sister, Ashley, became the new shining star of the Matlock family, following closely in their father’s astutely successful footsteps, Lauren found a job on the other side of the country, doing something entirely different than anyone in her family had ever done. Something that, she hoped and prayed, would never have anything to do with politics, ever.

As she thought about the rise of mountains that she’d seen in the pamphlet, the shimmering waters of Lake Tahoe that she had stared at for an inordinate amount of time on her computer screen, and the delicious idea of embarking on grand adventures in the middle of God’s creation, her heart lightened—even with the swirl of encroaching sickness that refused to abate. The glory and splendor of all of it would be right at her fingertips. Just outside her door, her everyday life right in the midst of it, as she took on a new role at a small resort in North Lake Tahoe.

Her stomach lurched.

That was, if she survived the flight. At the moment it didn’t seem likely. The wind battered against the fuselage, causing the cabin to shudder again. Lauren pushed Pause on the medieval tale she’d been trying to listen to and gripped the armrest at her side.

“You’re okay, sweetie.” The gentle voice came from her left, from Cindy, the older woman who shared the row and had kindly offered to sit next to the window when they’d discussed how Lauren didn’t always handle air travel well.

Lauren wanted to say she’d be fine, but all that escaped her lips was a pathetic moan.

“Oh, honey, I’m so sorry.” Cindy patted her back. “Surely they’ll let us off this plane soon.”

“Hope so.” Lauren whimpered. Her head lolled as a wave of nausea had her rocking forward, jamming her elbows onto her knees and gripping the back of her head.

“Here’s a bag here, sweetie.”

A waxy paper sack was pushed into her palm

Awesome. It’d been a completely full flight from her connection in Denver, no seats available, and she was going to vomit right there in a bag while they were all trapped on a plane in the middle of a blizzard with no end in sight. This was the epitome of a nightmare. The evening could not get worse.

The overhead cabin dinged, alerting passengers of an important message, and the voice of her salvation came over the speakers. “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m sorry for the delay. We have clearance to go to an alternative gate. Sit tight a few more minutes, folks. We will be deplaning shortly.”

As tears burned against her eyelids, Lauren breathed multiple pleas and thank-yous to heaven above. Please let me off this plane. Please don’t let me puke next to this nice lady. And thank You that we made it here safely.

Now to get her feet on the ground. Maybe then the vertigo would stop. Maybe then she could go back to looking forward to the new life she was flying into—airsickness and all.

The plane lurched forward as they taxied toward the newly opened gate.

Just hold on, she thought repeatedly. Hold on just a little longer.

Clutching her carry-on and the wax-paper puke bag that she was supposed to use if she couldn’t hold on, she stood when the captain announced their arrival and that they could leave the plane and thank you very much for flying with them. Lauren wobbled to her feet. The dizzying nausea claimed her again, and she shut her eyes against the world and the sensation and the fear that no, she was not going to make it. She was going to vomit right there in the middle of everyone.

Cindy squeezed Lauren’s elbow. “It’s okay, sweetie, if you need to throw up. You just go ahead and do it. I have kids. It’s not as if I’ve never dealt with puke before.”

Lauren tried to open her eyes and give the kind woman a weak smile. She was quite certain it came out like a squint and a grimace. Hardly mattered. She’d never see her again. She hoped so at least, for the sake of her quickly failing dignity. Finally the people in front of them began to move forward, and the woman at her side allowed Lauren to pass in front of her. Cindy’s steady hand remained on her back while she guided her down the aisle, out the Jetway, and into the airport terminal.

Oh goodness. She was off the plane. She should be getting better now. Any moment. The nausea should stop. Her head should clear. Her stomach should stop rioting.

No. That was not going to happen.

Still clutching the drag handle to her carry-on, Lauren whipped a panicked gaze around, desperately searching for a restroom. That would be better at least. She wouldn’t have to puke in front of everyone. She’d be by herself, safely in a stall, with some of her dignity still intact.

“I see a sign right down there. Women’s restroom.” Her kindhearted seat buddy patted Lauren’s back and pointed. “Would you like me to go with you?”

Oh good heavens, no. Please just let me be. Lauren shook her head, offered a rushed “Thank you anyway,” and took off for the women’s restroom, still unsure that she’d make it that far. She closed in on the doorway, the rolling in her stomach warning of the impending mess to come.

A few more steps. Almost there. Just a few—

No!

A sign blocking the entry read closed, the passage webbed with yellow tape to emphasize the point. The bathroom was closed! How could it be closed? This was an airport—they needed a women’s restroom. An open women’s restroom!

It didn’t matter. This was happening. Lauren was going to throw up, and she was going to throw up now.

She charged into the open door next to the women’s restroom, which, of course, would be the men’s. She didn’t care. She needed a toilet and she needed her dignity and that was all. Rushing forward, she passed through the doorway only to smash flat into the crisp white shirtfront of a tuxedoed man.

“Whoa there.” The low voice wafted above her head. “I think your headed in the wrong—”

Caught in the arms of a faceless stranger… Faceless because she couldn’t muster the courage or the balance to look up.

Her stomach turned in one final lurch. And it happened. Right there on a stranger’s dress shirt and suitcoat. Lauren threw up, discovering as she lost her late lunch, which included picante sauce, that, actually, throwing up in a crowded airplane wasn’t the worst thing ever. Vomiting on a strange man in the doorway to the men’s restroom was infinitely more humiliating.

Please let this be a nightmare. And let it be over now.

The prayer had barely rolled through her mind before Lauren heaved against the man yet again.

What a way to start her brand-new, glorious, independent life.

                                                        ***

Not every day a guy walked from the bathroom, tossing the paper towel he’d been using toward the garbage, only to be slammed into by a sick woman in desperate need of…

Well, that about summed up his day.

Matt stared down at the small brunette losing the contents of her stomach against his rented tux. As much as he’d wanted to howl in frustration the whole day through, a surge of compassion melted the anxious stiffness from his arms. As she heaved against him a second time, he cupped the back of her head.

“Guess we’ve both had a rough day, huh?” he said quietly, his other hand bracing her shoulder.

“I’m…” Dry heave. “So…” Another false alarm. “Sorry.”

Honestly, it could be worse. Had been worse, about three hours before. Given the choice between going back to stand with John, watching all his hopes and dreams change her name to his buddy’s, or being puked on in the airport by a stranger, he’d take the vomit. Every single day.

Oddly, the tension in his jaw and shoulders eased. He stood there, holding a woman he’d had yet to properly meet, while the squall of her stomach worked itself out. Evidently, having a cute brunette puke down the front of you made for a decent distraction from life’s massive disappointments.

When she went limp against him, her forehead pressed into his chest and warm nastiness oozing through both the dress shirt and his T-shirt, he trailed his hand down the waves of her hair and gave her a gentle squeeze. “Better?”

She moaned.

“Is there more?”

“I’m begging God right now that the answer is no. And also that Jesus would come right this second to take me home to some mansion in the sky. No more tears, no more sorrow. No more throwing up on men I’ve never met.”

Matt chuckled. “A spotless white wardrobe does sound good right now.”

Her groan quivered against his chest before she moved away. “I’m so terribly sorry. And embarrassed. Horrified, actually. I’ll pay for the cleaning. Or a new suit. Whichever you prefer.”

While she babbled, he caught the crimson staining her cheekbones, though she had yet to look up at him. Again, his heart pooled with sympathy.

He rubbed her shoulders and then squeezed. “This suit isn’t a keeper anyway.”

“What?” Finally she looked up at him. Big brown eyes, sheened with tears and exhaustion and humiliation, latched on to his. “Not a keep— Oh.” Her eyes squeezed shut. “It’s a rental, isn’t it?”

“Yep.”

“Oh no. I’m so, so sorry. I’ll pay for it.”

He’d never have believed he’d find a reason to laugh that day. Yet this woman—still nameless to him—managed to pull another chuckle from his muddied day. For that reason alone, he liked her on the spot.

“You know what?” He stepped back, taking in the red putrid mess on his front. “Don’t worry about it.” Meeting her eyes again, he enjoyed the easy feel of a smile relieving the tension that had made his jaw and cheekbones ache.

“No, really—”

He held up a hand. “No, I’m serious. After all, I got in your way. If I hadn’t, you might have made it to the garbage can.” He pointed to his right and behind him. “So it’s my fault, I think.”

“Oh my gosh.” Both hands covered her face.

Stepping forward again, Matt tipped her chin up with a crooked finger. This personal encounter was new to him—he wasn’t normally so…touchy. But. Well. But. He’d never been puked on, and he was pretty sure this miserably embarrassed soul hadn’t ever vomited on a stranger before. That put them squarely together in the same boat of awkward firsts. Might as well try for comfort.

“Listen, it’s not a thing, really,” he said. “I’m just gonna grab my bag there and do a quick change. No big deal. Okay?”

One giant, break-his-already-severed-heart tear leaked onto the side of her nose. If he wasn’t covered in vomit, he’d have pulled her into a full hug. Instead, he brushed the moisture trailing her face with the pad of his thumb. “Come on now. Don’t cry.”

“Okay.” Another drop seeped from the corner of her eye and onto his thumb.

He chuckled. Again. That was three times. And he was charmed.

“Let me change, and then you can tell me your name.”

Big brown eyes were watching him when he turned to retrieve the suitcase at his heels. As he rounded his way back into the bathroom, he hoped she’d still be around when he got done.

She’d likely not be, humiliated as she was.

He should have gotten her name.

Always You releases on March 3rd! Grab your pre-order of this Christ Romance Novel for only 0.99! 



























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The post Preview of Always You (a Christian Romance Novel) appeared first on Author Jennifer Rodewald.

You know I love a tender Christian romance–and I’ve got one for you today! I thought it’d be fun to offer a sneak peek at Chapter One of When I Come Home Again, that way you have a chance to meet Brenna Blaum and have a glance at Craig Erikson. Sooo…

Here you go! 

Chapter One, in it’s entirety, of When I Come Home Again, book 1 in the Big Prairie Romance–a tender Christian romance.

SATURDAYS WERE FOR RELAXING.

This was a fairly new perspective in Brenna Blaum’s world. Well, new in the last seven years. Used to be Saturdays were for getting up early, going with Dad so she could watch him come alive during Coach’s Coffee Club. He loved talking about football almost as much as he loved coaching it.

Actually, no. That wasn’t true exactly. He loved talking about his boys playing football almost as much as he loved coaching them. He loved the game. He loved his boys—his team even more. They were the reason he was so passionate. They were the reason he gave up so many sleep-in-and-relax Saturdays. The reason he rode countless buses until two in the morning. Spent untold hours in front of a screen and a playbook. It wasn’t about a pigskin ball, grass turf, ten-yard lines, or uprights. Wasn’t even Friday night lights. All of it was for them.

Dad loved his boys. Every one of them. And they loved him.

Time has a habit of wearing things like that away. Those boys—they grew up. Found out life was bigger than a 100-yard field of turf and lines. Started living it.

And Dad? Dad retired. Early.

Thoughts not super relaxing on a Saturday morning. Brenna banished them, Saturdays were for relaxing now.

Still wearing her pink-pinstriped jammy pants and old Huskers T-shirt, Brenna stretched near the big window as she looked over Main Street. Her apartment was on the top floor of the old Limestone Hotel—which meant it was three stories up. That was as tall as buildings went in Big Prairie. Her dad used to chuckle when Scottie would point to the historic building and call it a skyscraper.

“Wait until we go to the state playoffs, buddy,” he’d say. “Then you’ll see some really tall buildings.”

This conversation would happen a dozen times every year, even though Scottie went to the state playoffs often. Brenna was pretty sure Dad liked the banter as much as Scottie. It never got old for them.

She wondered if Dad still thought about that.

Her phone buzzed from somewhere behind her. Usually she had it attached somewhere. Her back pocket. A hoodie pocket. Her palm. But not today. Saturday. Also, she was trying to break the attachment. Grant had said it would be healthy for her and the iPhone to gain a little separation. He was the expert, so she was working on it.

Brenna gathered her bed-head hair and flipped it into a messy bun that was probably not much better as she moved in search of the electronic addiction she apparently had. It buzzed again, drawing her attention from the coffee table in front of her yellow sofa smothered with green pillows. She noted that she had yet to straighten the mess from her late-night date with a Jane Austen story-turned-film. Grant had opted out of that, which was fine. They were not attached at the hip. Which was healthy. They both agree.

Phone. That was what Brenna was looking for.

Not on the coffee table. Nor the sofa. Did she have it this morning? See, Grant. I don’t even know where the dumb thing is. I don’t have a problem. Unless it’s misplacing things. Then yes. I definitely have a problem.

She’d text him that. He’d smile. Roll his eyes. Text her back something like, You’re cute. With the correct You’re and punctuation. Actually, no. He wouldn’t use you’re. He’d type out you are. Because Grant was not a lazy texter. He wasn’t a lazy anything.

Floor was clear. No iPhones lying about abandoned and lonely.

Hands on her hips, she paused in the big area she called her front room, which was a misnomer, because her whole apartment was three rooms. The kitchen / living room / dining room mash-up that was lovingly called “open concept” these days, the bedroom, and the bathroom. The latter two were actually walled off at the front of the apartment, close to the front door, creating a little hallway/entryway between that and the living space. So. This was not technically the front room at all, but the back.

Grant had pointed this whole misnomer thing out last year when he helped Brenna move in. She still called the open-concept living space mash-up her front room. He lifted his eyebrows a little every time he heard it. Brenna was pretty sure it annoyed him that she was not being technically accurate on purpose. It was mildly amusing.

The phone buzzed again, the vibrating leading her toward the sideboard-table under the wall-mounted TV. Found it. Right where she’d left it all the way back in the past of last night. Right next to the cover for Persuasion.

Ha, Grant Hillman. All the way back then. That had been, like, twelve hours ago.

Brenna smirked as she pushed the Home button to find out who was texting on her relaxing Saturday morning. And then laughed, because hello irony.

It was Grant.

Hello, beautiful. I am at Garrett’s. Would you like a donut? Or perhaps some coffee?

Did he have to ask? Two years. They’d been dating for two years. In those two years, had she ever turned down either a donut or coffee?

Are you awake? You had better be. I am heading your way bearing treasures.

Brenna’s smirk melted into a small smile, and she ran her tongue over her teeth. Yeah, definitely needed some attention. The phone vibrated again as she stepped into the bathroom.

Brenna? Is it really too early? It is after nine.

She leaned against the white quartz of the bathroom counter and texted him back, one hand on the phone, the other operating the toothbrush.

Come on up.

I’m brushing my teeth because I’m thoughtful like that.

Be one minute.

All three texts zipped away. He’d probably shake his head because she’d sent three texts when they were all really part of the same thought.

Yeah. They were different. They worked though. And he made her smile. Especially when he brought her carbs slathered in chocolate frosting.

Come to think of it, that didn’t happen all that often.

Still.

His knock echoed through the apartment as she worked up a good foam in her mouth. Still brushing, she wandered the short distance from the bathroom to the front door and let him in. One dark eyebrow lifted as he assessed her from the hallway.

“Do you always make such a mess of your face when you brush your teeth?”

“Huh?” Toothpaste seeped from the corner of her mouth.

“Ew.”

“Wha?” Brenna grinned, because his face scrunched into the most adorable yuck expression that was too good not to laugh at.

“Go finish in the bathroom before you spit toothpaste all over this overly sweet sugar bomb I brought you.”

Brenna shrugged. Smiled. Left the door open so he could come in while she moved toward the bathroom. Grant followed, stopping to lean against the doorframe while she leaned to spit in the sink. Rinse, brush, spit, repeat. Then she wiped the mess off her face with a washrag and turned back to him.

He looked like he’d watched a toddler rub a sucker all over her face and then offered him a lick.

“Seriously, that is how you brush your teeth?”

“What?” She rinsed her fingers and tossed the rag toward the hamper.

“You made a bigger mess than what you started with. Can’t you keep the foam inside your mouth like a grown-up?”

Brenna snorted, pushing his shoulder as he rolled off the doorway. “You’re kind of boring with all your neat and tidy toothbrushing standards. Did you know that?”

“Yes. Clean is definitely overrated.” He nudged her with his shoulder, and a slip of a smile lifted his mouth. “You’ll forgive me, though, because I brought you a chocolate sundae donut and a large coffee.”

They made it to the tiny island that separated the great mash-up front room into kitchen/dining/living room spaces, and Brenna leaned in to peck the side of his mouth. “Yep. You’re forgiven.”

He set the bag and the paper hot cup on the counter so he could wipe the spot she’d just kissed. “Sloppy mint. My favorite kind.”

She shot him a sassy face and tore into the pastry bag. “Nothing for you?”

“I had oatmeal this morning.”

“And you didn’t bring me any?”

“How would that go over?”

Sugar melted on her tongue as she sank her teeth into a giant bite of awesomeness. “Not nearly as well as this,” she mumbled around the mouthful of donut.

“Brenna. You are a speech therapist. Surely you know not to talk with your mouth full.”

She rolled her eyes, licked her lips and then her fingers. Grant handed her a napkin.

“So.” She scooped a dollop of cream frosting off the middle of the half-eaten donut and stuck it into her mouth. Grant gave her the look. Because he knew she was doing it on purpose. She smiled. “To what do I owe this lovely surprise? Guilty conscience because you skipped out on Captain Wentworth and me?”

He handed her another napkin. “I would not want to come between you and Captain Wentworth.”

Carving out another fingerful of frosting, Brenna tipped her head and offered it to him.

He leaned back while simultaneously snagging her wrist. “You really cannot do this if we ever have kids. You know that, right?”

“What?”

“Frosting is not finger food, Brenna.”

She slid off the stool and stepped toward him. He sat, knees apart, on the only other stool at the island, and as she leaned into his chest, the slightest pressure of his thighs pressed against her hips. Brenna’s grin felt sly and maybe a little sexy as his free hand settled at her waist.

“Kids, huh?” Brenna tipped closer, brushing her nose against his.

“That was not the point I was trying to make.”

“Hmm.” While he still had one wrist captive, her other hand was available. She happened to know his neck was sensitive. If she trailed her fingertips along the edge of his collared golf shirt, he’d tilt his head to stop the tickle. And that was the perfect moment, when he was distracted.

She smeared the frosting over his top lip.

“Oh! Brenna!” He wrapped her in a bear hug that was meant to contain the mischief. Brenna laughed because he scrunched his face while at the same time tried not to let the frosting inside his mouth.

“Lick it off.” She leaned in and nipped a small bit off his lip. “It’s yummy.”

“That is disgusting.”

Grant Hillman was impenetrable when it came to play. Brenna sighed, dropping back to her own stool. “What am I going to do with you?”

“My thoughts exactly.” He let her hand go to snatch another napkin, which he used to wipe away the filmy sugar. When the mess was gone to his satisfaction, his arms returned loosely around her. “We’re not very much alike.”

“Noted.” Hooking her arms around his neck, Brenna wondered if he’d ever, just once, let go. Eat some processed sugar. Not straighten every mess he ever encountered. Us a contraction.

Make out with his girlfriend on a Saturday morning, even if she did taste like donut.

His lips brushed hers, and she thought, for a moment, that yes—today he might cut loose…

Nope. He pulled away, searched her eyes with a seriousness not befitting the whole Saturday’s are for relaxing vibe, and then settled his hands on her shoulders. Responding to the bit of pressure, Brenna sat back and waited.

His hands covered hers. “Have you seen the school board’s recent list of last-minute hires?”

“What?”

“The list the board released this week. It’s in the paper. Did you read it?”

“No. Why?”

His thumb traced over her knuckles, and then he moved to cover her knee with his hand. “They have hired a new district music teacher for the elementary and middle school. Recently. Like within the last week.”

“Oh.” Brenna waved him off. She should have known this was what Grant was stewing over. “Yeah. That.”

“So you know?”

“Yes. But I didn’t read it in the paper. His mom told me last week.”

“His mom?”

“Yeah. She has guardianship of the Fulton boys? You know that—Trent is one of your kids, right?” She didn’t wait for him to respond, because technically he couldn’t say, and technically she already knew. Grant was big on technicalities, and she didn’t want to get into it. “Trent’s one of my patients, and I saw him last week. Janet told me then.”

“Janet?”

She felt her eyebrows gather. “Yeah.”

“Not Ms. Erikson?”

A sigh sagged through her, and suddenly she wished she’d slept in. More. Technicalities were exhausting. “I’ve known her pretty much forever. We’ve been close, so…”

“But.” Grant shoved a hand through his thick hair. “But things have changed. I mean…you can’t still be close. Are you?”

“With Janet? Yes. Janet and I are still close. And you already knew that, Grant.”

His jaw worked. Eyes drifted from Brenna’s, focusing on whatever was behind her.

“What’s going on?” She came off the stool again, framed his face with clean fingers, and waited until he looked at her again.

“This is kind of a big deal. I wish you had mentioned to me that you knew he was coming back.”

“Why?” Things began to tumble inside her. Things that she’d been ignoring for the last seven days. Or years—though she wouldn’t admit to that. Having Grant react this way wasn’t helping.

“I think that we should talk about it,” he said. “You should talk about it.”

Pulling away, she let her hands slide from his freshly shaven face. “You said you wouldn’t do that to me—remember?”

“I’m not speaking as a counselor. I’m talking as your boyfriend—and as the man who cares a lot about you and your heart. Your health.”

“That sounds like counselor talk.”

“Brenna.”

She plopped back onto the stool, reclaimed the half-eaten donut that Grant didn’t appreciate in the least, and shoved a mouthful in. “I’m fine.”

Grant sighed. Irritated. Because of the mouthful-talking thing. And also.

Nope. He was wrong. She was fine.

“Craig is coming back to stay, Brenna. This is not one of his passing-through gigs. It is full time. You have got to do more than I’m fine. Because if that is all you have got, then I—”

“No, Grant. I don’t have to do more than that, because that is all I’ve got. That’s all there is, all there needs to be. It’s been seven years. I’m fine. And this shouldn’t change anything for us.”

The oversized clock on the brick wall ticked obnoxiously into the silence. Grant rubbed his neck, studying her with an intense look she’d seen him use when he was working on puzzles.

She was not a puzzle. Irritation rose up hard and fast. “Grant. Seriously.”

“Okay.” He leaned in and brushed her temple with his lips. “How about I help you straighten up, and we can go for a Saturday morning walk?”

Straightening up. That was normal Grant. But the twin lines between his eyes gave everything away.

This wasn’t fine. Not for him. Because he really didn’t think it was for her.

She was though. Fine. Seven years’ worth of fine. Craig Erikson’s homecoming wasn’t going to change all that fine. When I Come Home Again

Copyright © 2019 Jennifer Rodewald.All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.

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The post Chapter One of When I Come Home Again, a tender Christian romance appeared first on Author Jennifer Rodewald.

As we are getting ready to launch the new release Christian Romance, When I Come Home Again, I thought it’d be fun to offer a sneak peek at Chapter One. Sooo….

Here you go! 

Chapter One, in it’s entirety, of When I Come Home Again, book 1 in the new Christian Fiction Series, Big Prairie Romance. 

Chapter One

SATURDAYS WERE FOR RELAXING.

This was a fairly new perspective in Brenna Blaum’s world. Well, new in the last seven years. Used to be Saturdays were for getting up early, going with Dad so she could watch him come alive during Coach’s Coffee Club. He loved talking about football almost as much as he loved coaching it.

Actually, no. That wasn’t true exactly. He loved talking about his boys playing football almost as much as he loved coaching them. He loved the game. He loved his boys—his team even more. They were the reason he was so passionate. They were the reason he gave up so many sleep-in-and-relax Saturdays. The reason he rode countless buses until two in the morning. Spent untold hours in front of a screen and a playbook. It wasn’t about a pigskin ball, grass turf, ten-yard lines, or uprights. Wasn’t even Friday night lights. All of it was for them.

Dad loved his boys. Every one of them. And they loved him.

Time has a habit of wearing things like that away. Those boys—they grew up. Found out life was bigger than a 100-yard field of turf and lines. Started living it.

And Dad? Dad retired. Early.

Thoughts not super relaxing on a Saturday morning. Brenna banished them, Saturdays were for relaxing now.

Still wearing her pink-pinstriped jammy pants and old Huskers T-shirt, Brenna stretched near the big window as she looked over Main Street. Her apartment was on the top floor of the old Limestone Hotel—which meant it was three stories up. That was as tall as buildings went in Big Prairie. Her dad used to chuckle when Scottie would point to the historic building and call it a skyscraper.

“Wait until we go to the state playoffs, buddy,” he’d say. “Then you’ll see some really tall buildings.”

This conversation would happen a dozen times every year, even though Scottie went to the state playoffs often. Brenna was pretty sure Dad liked the banter as much as Scottie. It never got old for them.

She wondered if Dad still thought about that.

Her phone buzzed from somewhere behind her. Usually she had it attached somewhere. Her back pocket. A hoodie pocket. Her palm. But not today. Saturday. Also, she was trying to break the attachment. Grant had said it would be healthy for her and the iPhone to gain a little separation. He was the expert, so she was working on it.

Brenna gathered her bed-head hair and flipped it into a messy bun that was probably not much better as she moved in search of the electronic addiction she apparently had. It buzzed again, drawing her attention from the coffee table in front of her yellow sofa smothered with green pillows. She noted that she had yet to straighten the mess from her late-night date with a Jane Austen story-turned-film. Grant had opted out of that, which was fine. They were not attached at the hip. Which was healthy. They both agree.

Phone. That was what Brenna was looking for.

Not on the coffee table. Nor the sofa. Did she have it this morning? See, Grant. I don’t even know where the dumb thing is. I don’t have a problem. Unless it’s misplacing things. Then yes. I definitely have a problem.

She’d text him that. He’d smile. Roll his eyes. Text her back something like, You’re cute. With the correct You’re and punctuation. Actually, no. He wouldn’t use you’re. He’d type out you are. Because Grant was not a lazy texter. He wasn’t a lazy anything.

Floor was clear. No iPhones lying about abandoned and lonely.

Hands on her hips, she paused in the big area she called her front room, which was a misnomer, because her whole apartment was three rooms. The kitchen / living room / dining room mash-up that was lovingly called “open concept” these days, the bedroom, and the bathroom. The latter two were actually walled off at the front of the apartment, close to the front door, creating a little hallway/entryway between that and the living space. So. This was not technically the front room at all, but the back.

Grant had pointed this whole misnomer thing out last year when he helped Brenna move in. She still called the open-concept living space mash-up her front room. He lifted his eyebrows a little every time he heard it. Brenna was pretty sure it annoyed him that she was not being technically accurate on purpose. It was mildly amusing.

The phone buzzed again, the vibrating leading her toward the sideboard-table under the wall-mounted TV. Found it. Right where she’d left it all the way back in the past of last night. Right next to the cover for Persuasion.

Ha, Grant Hillman. All the way back then. That had been, like, twelve hours ago.

Brenna smirked as she pushed the Home button to find out who was texting on her relaxing Saturday morning. And then laughed, because hello irony.

It was Grant.

Hello, beautiful. I am at Garrett’s. Would you like a donut? Or perhaps some coffee?

Did he have to ask? Two years. They’d been dating for two years. In those two years, had she ever turned down either a donut or coffee?

Are you awake? You had better be. I am heading your way bearing treasures.

Brenna’s smirk melted into a small smile, and she ran her tongue over her teeth. Yeah, definitely needed some attention. The phone vibrated again as she stepped into the bathroom.

Brenna? Is it really too early? It is after nine.

She leaned against the white quartz of the bathroom counter and texted him back, one hand on the phone, the other operating the toothbrush.

Come on up.

I’m brushing my teeth because I’m thoughtful like that.

Be one minute.

All three texts zipped away. He’d probably shake his head because she’d sent three texts when they were all really part of the same thought.

Yeah. They were different. They worked though. And he made her smile. Especially when he brought her carbs slathered in chocolate frosting.

Come to think of it, that didn’t happen all that often.

Still.

His knock echoed through the apartment as she worked up a good foam in her mouth. Still brushing, she wandered the short distance from the bathroom to the front door and let him in. One dark eyebrow lifted as he assessed her from the hallway.

“Do you always make such a mess of your face when you brush your teeth?”

“Huh?” Toothpaste seeped from the corner of her mouth.

“Ew.”

“Wha?” Brenna grinned, because his face scrunched into the most adorable yuck expression that was too good not to laugh at.

“Go finish in the bathroom before you spit toothpaste all over this overly sweet sugar bomb I brought you.”

Brenna shrugged. Smiled. Left the door open so he could come in while she moved toward the bathroom. Grant followed, stopping to lean against the doorframe while she leaned to spit in the sink. Rinse, brush, spit, repeat. Then she wiped the mess off her face with a washrag and turned back to him.

He looked like he’d watched a toddler rub a sucker all over her face and then offered him a lick.

“Seriously, that is how you brush your teeth?”

“What?” She rinsed her fingers and tossed the rag toward the hamper.

“You made a bigger mess than what you started with. Can’t you keep the foam inside your mouth like a grown-up?”

Brenna snorted, pushing his shoulder as he rolled off the doorway. “You’re kind of boring with all your neat and tidy toothbrushing standards. Did you know that?”

“Yes. Clean is definitely overrated.” He nudged her with his shoulder, and a slip of a smile lifted his mouth. “You’ll forgive me, though, because I brought you a chocolate sundae donut and a large coffee.”

They made it to the tiny island that separated the great mash-up front room into kitchen/dining/living room spaces, and Brenna leaned in to peck the side of his mouth. “Yep. You’re forgiven.”

He set the bag and the paper hot cup on the counter so he could wipe the spot she’d just kissed. “Sloppy mint. My favorite kind.”

She shot him a sassy face and tore into the pastry bag. “Nothing for you?”

“I had oatmeal this morning.”

“And you didn’t bring me any?”

“How would that go over?”

Sugar melted on her tongue as she sank her teeth into a giant bite of awesomeness. “Not nearly as well as this,” she mumbled around the mouthful of donut.

“Brenna. You are a speech therapist. Surely you know not to talk with your mouth full.”

She rolled her eyes, licked her lips and then her fingers. Grant handed her a napkin.

“So.” She scooped a dollop of cream frosting off the middle of the half-eaten donut and stuck it into her mouth. Grant gave her the look. Because he knew she was doing it on purpose. She smiled. “To what do I owe this lovely surprise? Guilty conscience because you skipped out on Captain Wentworth and me?”

He handed her another napkin. “I would not want to come between you and Captain Wentworth.”

Carving out another fingerful of frosting, Brenna tipped her head and offered it to him.

He leaned back while simultaneously snagging her wrist. “You really cannot do this if we ever have kids. You know that, right?”

“What?”

“Frosting is not finger food, Brenna.”

She slid off the stool and stepped toward him. He sat, knees apart, on the only other stool at the island, and as she leaned into his chest, the slightest pressure of his thighs pressed against her hips. Brenna’s grin felt sly and maybe a little sexy as his free hand settled at her waist.

“Kids, huh?” Brenna tipped closer, brushing her nose against his.

“That was not the point I was trying to make.”

“Hmm.” While he still had one wrist captive, her other hand was available. She happened to know his neck was sensitive. If she trailed her fingertips along the edge of his collared golf shirt, he’d tilt his head to stop the tickle. And that was the perfect moment, when he was distracted.

She smeared the frosting over his top lip.

“Oh! Brenna!” He wrapped her in a bear hug that was meant to contain the mischief. Brenna laughed because he scrunched his face while at the same time tried not to let the frosting inside his mouth.

“Lick it off.” She leaned in and nipped a small bit off his lip. “It’s yummy.”

“That is disgusting.”

Grant Hillman was impenetrable when it came to play. Brenna sighed, dropping back to her own stool. “What am I going to do with you?”

“My thoughts exactly.” He let her hand go to snatch another napkin, which he used to wipe away the filmy sugar. When the mess was gone to his satisfaction, his arms returned loosely around her. “We’re not very much alike.”

“Noted.” Hooking her arms around his neck, Brenna wondered if he’d ever, just once, let go. Eat some processed sugar. Not straighten every mess he ever encountered. Us a contraction.

Make out with his girlfriend on a Saturday morning, even if she did taste like donut.

His lips brushed hers, and she thought, for a moment, that yes—today he might cut loose…

Nope. He pulled away, searched her eyes with a seriousness not befitting the whole Saturday’s are for relaxing vibe, and then settled his hands on her shoulders. Responding to the bit of pressure, Brenna sat back and waited.

His hands covered hers. “Have you seen the school board’s recent list of last-minute hires?”

“What?”

“The list the board released this week. It’s in the paper. Did you read it?”

“No. Why?”

His thumb traced over her knuckles, and then he moved to cover her knee with his hand. “They have hired a new district music teacher for the elementary and middle school. Recently. Like within the last week.”

“Oh.” Brenna waved him off. She should have known this was what Grant was stewing over. “Yeah. That.”

“So you know?”

“Yes. But I didn’t read it in the paper. His mom told me last week.”

“His mom?”

“Yeah. She has guardianship of the Fulton boys? You know that—Trent is one of your kids, right?” She didn’t wait for him to respond, because technically he couldn’t say, and technically she already knew. Grant was big on technicalities, and she didn’t want to get into it. “Trent’s one of my patients, and I saw him last week. Janet told me then.”

“Janet?”

She felt her eyebrows gather. “Yeah.”

“Not Ms. Erikson?”

A sigh sagged through her, and suddenly she wished she’d slept in. More. Technicalities were exhausting. “I’ve known her pretty much forever. We’ve been close, so…”

“But.” Grant shoved a hand through his thick hair. “But things have changed. I mean…you can’t still be close. Are you?”

“With Janet? Yes. Janet and I are still close. And you already knew that, Grant.”

His jaw worked. Eyes drifted from Brenna’s, focusing on whatever was behind her.

“What’s going on?” She came off the stool again, framed his face with clean fingers, and waited until he looked at her again.

“This is kind of a big deal. I wish you had mentioned to me that you knew he was coming back.”

“Why?” Things began to tumble inside her. Things that she’d been ignoring for the last seven days. Or years—though she wouldn’t admit to that. Having Grant react this way wasn’t helping.

“I think that we should talk about it,” he said. “You should talk about it.”

Pulling away, she let her hands slide from his freshly shaven face. “You said you wouldn’t do that to me—remember?”

“I’m not speaking as a counselor. I’m talking as your boyfriend—and as the man who cares a lot about you and your heart. Your health.”

“That sounds like counselor talk.”

“Brenna.”

She plopped back onto the stool, reclaimed the half-eaten donut that Grant didn’t appreciate in the least, and shoved a mouthful in. “I’m fine.”

Grant sighed. Irritated. Because of the mouthful-talking thing. And also.

Nope. He was wrong. She was fine.

“Craig is coming back to stay, Brenna. This is not one of his passing-through gigs. It is full time. You have got to do more than I’m fine. Because if that is all you have got, then I—”

“No, Grant. I don’t have to do more than that, because that is all I’ve got. That’s all there is, all there needs to be. It’s been seven years. I’m fine. And this shouldn’t change anything for us.”

The oversized clock on the brick wall ticked obnoxiously into the silence. Grant rubbed his neck, studying her with an intense look she’d seen him use when he was working on puzzles.

She was not a puzzle. Irritation rose up hard and fast. “Grant. Seriously.”

“Okay.” He leaned in and brushed her temple with his lips. “How about I help you straighten up, and we can go for a Saturday morning walk?”

Straightening up. That was normal Grant. But the twin lines between his eyes gave everything away.

This wasn’t fine. Not for him. Because he really didn’t think it was for her.

She was though. Fine. Seven years’ worth of fine. Craig Erikson’s homecoming wasn’t going to change all that fine.
























When I Come Home Again

Copyright © 2019 Jennifer Rodewald.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.

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Psstt… 

Did you enjoy this sneak peek of Chapter One of When I Come Home Again? Want a little more to snack on? Here’s another peek at the book. 

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