Shadow among Sheaves
Page 31
Rena stood painfully still. She had been so afraid of Sir Alistair’s will, angry because it had slated her to marry a man who might never love her. And here was as dependable a man as ever she’d met, and he was looking at her now as if Sir Alistair’s will was nothing but a scrap of useless paper he’d sooner throw into the fireplace.
When she couldn’t find the words to speak, Barric pulled her once more against him, his hands anchored against her back. “You still love Edric,” he guessed in a soft voice.
Yes, she thought, and surely she always would. Not very long ago, her heart had gaped like a chasm, and she’d felt precariously perched within herself, always ready to fall. But her heart had also changed these many months, had grown in ways she was still learning to understand. Now, even amid the sorrow which might always remain, she experienced moments of fullness. Of hope. Yes, even love.
Love for a man whose red hair reminded her of the harvest. A man who was stern and proud but impossibly kind. A man who always seemed to make her lose her footing.
Maybe Edric had been the laughing sort of husband who had once softened her heart.
And maybe Barric was the steadfast sort of husband who could finally put her back together.
When she said none of this out loud, Barric released her. “You told me once you don’t belong here. I can understand that. But don’t you think that someday you might?”
“I belong with you,” she answered at last, as if all of this should have been rather obvious.
This time Barric was the one who remained silent, though his eyes softened at her answer. Drawing closer, he settled his hands onto her shoulders, tracing his thumb against the gentle hollow of her throat until she felt she may never be able to speak again.
She took up one of his hands and pressed a kiss against his knuckles. “Where you are,” she vowed, “there it is that I am, my love—and there I will always be.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
So many people voiced support and excitement as I wrote my way—sometimes feebly—to this moment. While I am indebted to all mentors, friends, and family members who have cheered me on in various ways (seriously, thank you!), I wish to thank a few people more directly for the production of this book:
Adria Goetz—you told me I was allowed to use all the exclamation points I wanted when I received my offer from Barbour. There will never be enough exclamation points to express how thankful I am for that first phone call when we joined forces, or for all your tireless work since then—you are a remarkable agent!
Annie Tipton—you believed in my book enough to offer it a home on bookshelves, and I am so grateful. Thank you for welcoming me into the Barbour family and for all the publishing gymnastics it took to make my childhood dream of authorship an unthinkable reality.
Jo Anne Simmons—infinite thanks for ensuring each word and punctuation mark carried the proper weight. My book is so much stronger because of your vigilant eyes.
Kirk DouPonce—thank you for creating a cover that is both vibrant and slightly melancholy. You brought a small sliver of Abbotsville to life, and it looks exactly as I always imagined.
Elizabeth Davis—someday we’ll finally meet in person, and I’ll have a big hug waiting for you when we do. Thank you for reading that earliest draft and challenging me to find a softer side of Barric.
Ruth Boeder—for suggesting documentaries about bread making, for educating me on some basics of farming, and for debating, via midnight text messages, the placement of a single comma in my author bio—thank you!
Jenny Maske—my BBC soul sister. My dearest friend. Thank you for being one of my book’s earliest readers and for freaking out in perfectly appropriate ways when I realized I was actually facing publication.
Christina MacKenzie—oh Ena. You’ve read and critiqued more drafts of this book than I can count. Thank you for always, always being my first reader, and for slogging through and helping me revise all the wretched manuscripts that finally led to this one—yes, even the ones with vampires.
Mom and Dad—all those Scholastic book orders have finally paid off! Thank you for giving me a childhood in which my shelves were always stocked with books, and for being so excited about my own book that you told people about it before you were technically supposed to. I love you both.
Curtis—I hardly know how to say how thankful I am for your unending support and input, and for all the Starbucks runs, and for encouraging me whenever I doubted my writing. I love you so much. (Also, I’m sorry I had to give the parson a name, but thank you for coming up with a plausible, non-sketchy reason for his presence in the brothel.)
Lastly, Jonah and Isobel—my little ones. Someday you might find this book in your hands, and, if so, all I want you to know is this: I love you more than all the books in the world. I love you more than writing. You are my grandest adventure.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Naomi Stephens (née Fenker) is a bookworm turned teacher turned writer. She received an MA in English from Indiana University–Purdue University Fort Wayne and now lives in Ohio with her husband, her two children, and a rascal of a dog named Sherlock.
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