“The plot has its twists and turns to keep readers intrigued…to the very end. A great comfort read that will soothe the spirit with renewed hope and faith.” Readers’ Favorite five-star review
A HISTORICAL NOVEL OF FINDING HEALING AND A SECOND CHANCE AT LOVE
In the early 1900s, quiet and reserved Molly Lund finds refuge from her past at the Nelsons’ farm in Minnesota. In an attempt to turn a new page in her life, Molly works at making peace with her losses and coming to terms with the disfiguring burns on her face.
Samuel Woodson, the Nelsons’ hired hand, carries his own cares. Split from his family and bearing a burden of misplaced guilt for an act that haunts him, Samuel–seeing past Molly’s scars–draws her out of her self-protective shell.
Molly and Samuel form a friendship, but just as their hearts lead them deeper, an unexpected guest comes calling, demanding what’s his.
Will Molly and Samuel find a way to be together or will they be separated, due to impediments beyond their control? Can they trust in God’s plan and travel a path that heals the hurts of the past?
Readers of historical fiction, Christian historical fiction, and Christian historical romance will delight in this beautifully wrought story of the healing power of love.
We’re better at looking back than forward. Since such is the case, our eyes would be better placed at the base of our heads. I see nothing when I gaze into the future. It appears like the purple haze of the distant hills—without definition, lacking firm, clean, and distinctive lines. In a word—smudged.
The ironic truth is that “smudged” could explain my appearance. Life has taken an eraser to the right side of my face. Melted, waxy patches of pink skin shine in the lamplight from my temple to my neck. The skin around my right eye hides the small world of greenish-blue color—the window to my soul.
I know what people see through this broken window—a monster. I tilt my head and run the tips of my fingers over the corded texture of my skin. From this viewpoint, I could play the part of Dr. Frankenstein’s creation. My fingers explore lower until they reach the hollow of my neck, where the music once lived. But no longer. The notes have died. I sigh, reliving a memory of grief for what I’ve lost.
My hand falls. With the stare of the dead, I look back at myself in the cracked bureau mirror. A crack in the glass runs diagonally across my face from temple to jaw, bringing a visual division to my deformity. I puff out air from my nostrils with a resignation I am getting used to. Bit by bit I’ve buried who I used to be. That grave leaves me uncertain of who I will become.