by Stacy Monson
Open Circle
The Chain of Lakes Series
Shattered Image
Dance of Grace
The Color of Truth
About the Author
Stacy Monson is the award-winning author of The Chain of Lakes series, including Shattered Image, Dance of Grace, and The Color of Truth, as well as Open Circle. Her stories reveal an extraordinary God at work in ordinary life. She’s an active member of American Christian Fiction Writers (ACFW) and the Minnesota Christian Writers Guild (MCWG). Residing in the Twin Cities, she is the wife of a juggling, unicycling recently-retired physical education teacher, mom to two amazing kids and two wonderful in-law kids, and a very proud grandma of four (and counting) grands.
Let’s Connect!
For news and encouragement about upcoming books, contests, giveaways, and other activities, sign up for Stacy’s monthly newsletter, Ordinary Me, Extraordinary God, at www.stacymonson.com. You can find information about her speaking ministry there, as well.
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Gratitude Beyond Words
With the experience of each book comes the joy of new friends, learning new things, and discovering new ideas and resources. I am beyond grateful for those who’ve friended me, taught me, and shared their expertise.
My heartfelt thanks to…
My family who continues to encourage, inspire, and love me through every book.
The Moms Group, the Marriage Group, the Tuesday Bible Study gals, our PCC Small Group, the Hinck Retreat writers—some of the best cheerleaders in the world!
My Beta readers who were willing to read the rough and the polished versions and provide much-needed feedback: Diana, Brittany, Camry, Brenda, and Tiffany.
Editing geniuses Karen Schurrer and LeAnne Hardy. Nothing like taking out a thousand commas and putting the rest in the correct spot! If you enjoyed When Mountains Sing, it’s thanks to them!
The Mosaic Collection authors (and sweet friends) Johnnie Alexander, Brenda S. Anderson, Eleanor Bertin, Hannah R. Conway, Sara Davison, Janice L. Dick, Deb Elkink, Regina Rudd Merrick, Angela D. Meyer, and Lorna Seilstad. And the best VA who has kept us in line, shared her creativity, and been our limitless source of encouragement and information – Camry Crist. What a blessing it is to call her my friend as well as my daughter!
And, as always, to…
All of the wonderful, talented writerly people God has put in my life. Critique partners, retreat buddies, chapter-mates (ACFW MN-NICE and MN Christian Writers Guild), brainstormers, chocolate lovers, dedicated servants of Christ. What a joy to create alongside every one of you!
Thank you, Sweet Jesus, for the privilege of serving you through writing.
If you enjoyed When Mountains Sing, you will also enjoy Unbound by Eleanor Bertin. Order Unbound today at www.mosaiccollectionbooks.com/books
Three deaths, three widows, and the ties that bind.
Ruthie Adrian loves ranch life with her handsome husband, Mac and his family. But her fading hope for a child dissolves when Mac is killed in a crash along with his brother and father.
Added to their heartbreak, Ruthie and her mother-in-law, Naomi, now face rejection by her sister-in-law, and impossible barriers as they try to protect their land. Jake, a self-styled prophet steps up with a bizarre offer. A Godsend or a trap?
With raw grief, unexpected humour, and life-giving grace, Unbound is a modern twist on a timeless tale of the unique bond between two widows who harbour a few secrets of their own.
Surrounded by the rhythms of ranching country in central Alberta, Canada, Eleanor Bertin was inspired by its welcoming people and beautiful, but challenging environment.
Prior to thirty years of raising and home-educating a family of seven children, the author worked in agriculture journalism. She holds a college diploma in communications and later returned to writing, first with a novel, Lifelines, followed by a memoir, Pall of Silence, about her late son Paul. She blogs about contentment at https://jewelofcontentment.wordpress.com
READ THE FIRST CHAPTER OF UNBOUND
Chapter 1
Ruthie’s eyes shot open and she strained to hear in the black, moonless night. Something had wakened her. With a slight lift of her head, she could peer over Mac's pillowed head and just make out 3:50 on the clock. There had to be some reason for her unruly feelings. How long had it been since anxiety had kept her wakeful? She usually slept like a winter bear. Months later, longing to return to that moment of blissful ignorance, she wondered if she'd had some uncanny sense of what was to come.
She held her breath to listen. Was it coyotes she’d heard?
The alpacas!
With a surge of adrenaline, she swung her legs to the floor, groping for socks and jeans. The alpacas were confined to the corral farthest from the house and she'd had misgivings about putting them out there when she and Mac first brought them home a month ago. In his unflappable style, Mac had told her not to worry. But these were bred females, and therefore more vulnerable against the wild dogs.
If something's happened to one of my babies...! Ruthie dressed and crept to the bed-room door, easing it open to avoid creaks that might wake her husband. In the back porch, she felt for her choring jacket and a flashlight, stepped into her boots and slipped out the door.
As she stalked the flashlight beam, visions of torn and mutilated carcasses flashed through her mind. She broke into a run, her boots squeaking against the heavily frosted grass of the farmyard. It was colder than she'd expected. With only her thin nightgown under the jacket, her flesh cringed at every contact with its nylon lining. Rounding the corner of the stock-shed, she leaned over the rail fence and shone her light inside. Three dark mounds lay barely visible above the deep straw where they nestled. Like a wave, three long necks rose, wobbly from sleep. Eyes squinted at the bright beam of the flashlight.
"Sorry, girls." Ruthie tilted the torch downward, then aimed it around the perimeter of the fence-line. It caught no luminous green eyes. All was well. Her heartbeat settled to an even rhythm.
She shone her light around the shelter again. Frosty breath clouds puffed from the animals who still lay in their nests. She could watch them for hours, and, like a mother, often had. Almost like a mother.
Their placid dark eyes watched as she climbed up and over the fence, landing in the straw. Shining the light around the peaceful scene, she had a sudden urge to bed down here, to feel the nearness of a living, warm creature that depended on her. Ruthie flicked off the flashlight and crept ever so slowly, feeling her way deeper into the shed. When she slid down in the rustling straw, she sensed the girls tense, as one, yet stay in place. Ruthie lay for a moment letting her eyes adjust. Soft humming told her the animals were relaxing with her. She gazed at the pin-pricked black sky beyond the shed roof, humming her own contentment. All is calm. The line from the carol perfectly described the well-being she felt lying there in the straw that had given way to fit her form. One by one, the girls fell silent and lay their heads down again. She was thrilled to find they trusted her that much. Reaching out to sink her fingers into the thick, silky wool of the nearest one, she felt her flinch and then ease. This seductive peace tempted her to doze here for a while.
But again, anxiety threatened her peace. Maybe it had been memories that woke her. Something that had begun to unravel from the bundle she kept tight-bound deep inside her? It had always been borrowed time, this happy life Ruthie had been living. But as the years passed, she'd lost her wariness, the sense of the axe about to fall. How could she have forgotten that a life she didn't deserve couldn't last?
Ruthie opened her eyes to ground herself. Was there a wisp of foreboding? She stood up, trying to banish her unease. Her movement sent the girls into another flurry of action. This time they rose to
their feet, scattering a cloud of straw and dust. It looked like this was going to be one of those nights when she couldn't tether her thoughts.
Returning across the yard, she veered to the right, deciding to check on the chickens as well. She unhooked the henhouse door and found the birds lined up on their roost in a fluffy row, their heads tucked under wings, a picture of tranquility. Closing the door, she stifled a yelp when a moist, warm muzzle touched her thigh.
"You scared me stiff, Mud! Where'd you come from, boy?" Ruthie stopped and knelt to give some loving to the satirically-named mutt, then continued to the house. She was surprised to see the kitchen light on. Right. This was the morning Mac was to go hunting with Dad. When she came in, Mac was crouched in the porch, packing ammunition into his gun case alongside the rifle. He stood to meet her as she stepped out of her boots and unzipped her jacket.
"Mmm-mm. Covered in straw and smelling of wool. Come hither, Mutton-Wench," he said, wrapping his strong arms around her.
"I had a bad feeling about my girls."
Mac slid his warm hands under her jacket and chuckled. "I'm getting a good feeling about my girl."
Ruthie giggled, soaking up his heat. She yawned into his shoulder with a sudden weariness. "What time is it?"
"Time I was leaving. I've gotta get over to Dad's before he has a conniption." He turned back to the kitchen to retrieve the Thermos and lunchbox she'd packed last night.
Ruthie took off her jacket and hung it on a hook, straw and all. It would keep. She was just too tired. She fumbled at the fly of her jeans and, not for the first time, stubbed her toe on the base of the bed. Mac had fabricated their bedframe out of the box of the red 1968 Ford Ranger he used to drive when they first met. She'd loved it, marveling at her man's creativity and the uniqueness of the piece. But the first thing her father-in-law had said on seeing the bed had been, "You'll be forever stubbing your toes." Miffed, Ruthie had never admitted the truth of his words, nor breathed a word of complaint.
Leaving a trail of socks and pants behind her, she burrowed into the comforter toward Mac's side of the bed where it was still warm. How nice to have the bed to herself for a bit. But only for a bit. It was a point of pride with her that not once in the eight years since they were married had she and Mac slept apart. When he got home tonight, there would be work to do, skinning and hanging a deer, but today, besides chores, she luxuriated in a few more hours of sleep and a free day ahead. Any number of projects lay before her — something ambitious like painting the cabinet they'd bought at auction last weekend? Or maybe she should start on some Christmas baking. She knew her mother-in-law, Naomi, could always use some more coaching in computer basics. Then again, a nice quiet day beside the wood stove, knitting the sweater for Mac's Christmas gift sounded tantalizing...
There must have been a flash of light from outside that registered behind Ruthie's eyelids. She stretched and slowly opened her eyes, thinking she must have slept a long time. Her animals would be pawing the ground near the feed troughs, impatient for breakfast. But no, a glance out the window showed it was still dark. She liked being able to see out the window without raising her head, thanks to Mac's having replaced the small, high bedroom window last summer for this larger one. Only a thin sliver of pink showed on the eastern horizon under a lid of blackness. Had a power failure started the digital clock blinking? No. The red digits registered steady at seven thirty-four.
She got up to go to the bathroom. Before she could turn on the light, flashes of blue and red light strobed across the mirror through the bathroom window. Ruthie caught her breath. She swiveled her body sideways between the wall and the vanity to press her face to the window. Through the trees that separated their yard from her parents-in-law's, a set of emergency vehicle lights rotated. Police! That was alarming. Twice while she was growing up, there had been police at the door. Both times it had been bad for her brother. Claws of fear clutched at her heart. She rushed to her bedroom, cracking her hipbone on the vanity corner. There would be a bruise. Snatching up pants, she thrust her legs through. She grabbed the first shirt she could feel from the pile on the chair near her bed and pulled it over her head. She stepped into boots, feeling the poke of straw into her bare feet. She'd forgotten socks. As she ran the path to her mother-in-law's, Ruthie pushed her arms through the sleeves of her jacket. Apprehension churned through her stomach. Somehow, she'd always feared calamity would catch up to her. The perfect life she had was far more than she ever should have had. For the second time that morning, adrenaline flooded her body.
The fluorescent yellow stripe on the RCMP officer's trousers shone through the storm door as Ruthie took the porch steps two at a time and barged into the house. One look at Naomi's blanched cheeks and stricken eyes told a tragic tale. Ruthie looked to the officer, his young, full face written with acute discomfort at bringing the worst possible news. She was twenty-eight years old the day her life unraveled.
The story awaits.