Owen searched for the voice in his memory, found Pastor Dan’s sermon.
He proved this by gathering all us wretched prodigals behind Him and spreading out His hands in our defense and paying for our sins.
Owen sank down on the bench.
God hadn’t just brought Owen home. He’d forced him to take his focus off his wretched self and see a God who hadn’t forsaken him, even when he deserved it.
Even when he’d wanted Him to.
A God who stepped between him and death and said, No.
Welcome to grace.
Owen sank his head into his hands. God, I’m so sorry for the wreck I made of my talent, my life. I ask Your forgiveness. Your redemption. Your wholeness. I ask for a future, being Your returned, redeemed son.
He closed his eyes, waited, hearing his heartbeat.
Seeing his mistakes.
Except in the dark quiet of the jail, he felt suddenly as if a hand reached in and pulled from his chest a weight he hadn’t even realized existed.
He leaned his head back on the cement wall. Breathed. Just breathed.
But I warn you, once you embrace Christ, you too become a rule breaker. Because a life committed to God requires us to live uncomfortably. Inconveniently. Accountably. Bravely. Transparently. Vulnerably.
Whatever You ask, God.
Footsteps. Then Kyle opened the door to the cell. “You’re free to go.” He stood back. “By the way, welcome home.”
Owen got up, met his outstretched hand. “Thanks.”
He turned and neatly intercepted Scotty as she ran into his arms, hers going around his neck. “Easy, girl, I’m still—”
“Oh, shut up,” she said, pulled his head down, and kissed him.
A full-on, impulsive, passionate, no-holds-barred, emotional kiss.
He wrapped his arms around her waist, dove into her exuberance, and no, didn’t feel a smidgen of pain.
When she leaned back, her eyes shone. “We did it. Signe confessed everything.”
“Everything? I don’t—”
“The short of it is, Monte attacked her and found himself in the ravine of his own devices. He wasn’t murdered—he was the author of his own demise.”
Her words landed painfully close to his own mistakes.
Thank You, God. Owen pulled Scotty close, just held on.
“You okay?”
“Very,” he said into her neck, smelling her amazingly smooth skin. He leaned back. “Thank you for not giving up.”
“For having faith?” She winked. “I think . . . I might be starting to, well . . .” She lifted a shoulder. “I used to think faith was for the weak. But I agree it takes strength to have faith, to believe the crazy thought that God would step in, choose us, want us. That He’s on our side.”
Owen ran his gaze over her face, her smile, trying to catch up to her words. “Yeah, actually, it does.”
She pressed her hands to his chest. “So I think I’m ready to start believing in a happy ending.”
“Really?”
“Mmm-hmm.” She caught his hands, wearing an expectancy on her face.
“What?”
“I’m waiting for you to propose.”
“Uh—” He looked around, not sure. “Right here?”
“And now he turns shy.”
“I’m not shy! Sheesh—”
“Calm down, Eye Patch. I’m just kidding.” She grinned. “C’mon. Your mom’s making lunch. Our family is waiting.”
INGRID COULDN’T IMAGINE A MORE PERFECT DAY to start a new life.
The late-afternoon sun hung just over the tree line, sending a honey-colored glaze across the deck of the Evergreen lodge. A slight wind reaped the piney scent from the trees, stirred the rich loam embedded in the forest across the lake. Water lapped the shoreline in quiet rhythm, and the fragrance of hamburgers on the grill seasoned the Indian summer air.
The perfect wedding reception for Casper and Raina. Small, intimate. The family celebrating today’s after-Sunday-service nuptials.
The timer on the oven beeped, and Ingrid reached for the hot pads, opened the door to retrieve a fresh batch of chocolate chip cookies.
“Mom!” Eden poked her head through the open sliding-glass door. “Dad wants to know if you want him to light the campfire.”
Ingrid slid the cookies onto a cooling rack. “Yes. By the time we’re finished eating, the coals will be just right for s’mores.”
Eden nodded, then closed the door, but Ingrid heard her shout the answer to John, down by the fire pit.
“I should have made a cake,” Grace said as she stirred the potato salad. “Who gets married without a wedding cake?”
“It was Casper’s choice,” Amelia said, pulling dill pickles from a tall jar. “He said that s’mores with Mom’s cookies were all Owen talked about in the hospital—well, s’mores and pizza. I think it’s his way of saying thank you to Owen.”
Ingrid dropped the cookie sheet into the sink and turned on the water. Steam rose and she stood a moment, letting it hide the moisture in her eyes at the memory of Owen standing up with Casper as his best man, Darek beside them, his hand in Tiger’s.
And on Raina’s side, Grace, Eden, Amelia, and Liza, Raina’s aunt, home in time for the long-awaited wedding.
A simple, just-family wedding, the perfect kind, filled with fulfilled promises, the breath of joy, and the rich expectation of happily ever after. All of it written in the look on Casper’s face as he watched his bride walk down the aisle. It had made Ingrid slide her hand into John’s, give it a squeeze. She’d seen that same deeply overjoyed expression thirty years ago, in the very same church.
Indeed, it seemed as if time might be rewinding with Raina glowing in Ingrid’s hand-me-down wedding dress, holding a bouquet of fresh-picked red and orange chrysanthemums, garnished with mountain ash berries, her hair down, barefoot as she approached her groom. Ingrid found herself holding her breath, knowing just how much they had waiting for them. All of them.
Darek and Ivy, Tiger and Joy, moving into their new house at the resort in a matter of weeks.
Jace and Eden, expecting their first child.
Grace and Max, embracing each precious day with their daughter.
Roark, his eyes only for Amelia as he stood beside John and Ingrid in the pew. And why not, after his closed-door conversation with John last night, where he asked for his blessing on his engagement to Amelia.
And Owen and Scotty. Ingrid could hardly believe that God had not only brought her prodigal back to her arms, but also given her another beautiful daughter. Because she knew exactly what was on her youngest son’s mind when he’d asked for his grandmother’s ring.
Of course he wanted to gift the woman he loved with a family heirloom, entwine her into the legacy of the Christiansens even as they built a life in Alaska. Ingrid couldn’t escape the sense that, with the purchase of Scotty’s fishing boat, God had plans to turn her son not only into a fisherman, but a fisher of men.
“Mrs. Christiansen?”
A hand slid over her shoulder, and Ingrid grabbed a towel, touched it to her face as she turned. Raina stood there, flowers still pinned to her hair, Layla on her hip. “Casper said to put Layla in your room to nap while we’re out on the deck. I hope that’s okay?”
And Ingrid couldn’t help it. She reached out, pulled Raina into her arms. “Mom, Raina. You must call me Mom.”
Raina still showed the slightest hesitation to return her hugs. But she’d catch on. Because once you became a Christiansen, you had to get used to being loved large. To belonging to a family that didn’t have it all figured out but weathered life, as Owen said, by holding on to faith.
Ingrid leaned back and kissed Layla’s cherub cheek. “Sweet dreams.”
Grace grabbed the potato salad. “Amelia, bring the paper plates with you, please.”
“I can help,” Roark said from where he leaned against the doorjamb to the den. In the next room, her boys erupted as someone scored in the current football game. Tha
nkfully the Vikings didn’t come on until Monday night or she’d have lost the lot of them to hours of NFL.
“I still don’t understand how you can call this football.” Roark lifted the plate of pickles, grabbed the ketchup. He glanced at Amelia and winked as he carried them outside.
Amelia glowed.
Ingrid knew exactly how that felt.
The front door opened, and Tiger flew through. “Nana! We’re here!”
Ivy followed him in, grabbing the door before it could bash another hole in the wall.
“Sorry we’re late. I wanted to pick up the fruit salad.” Ivy put a bowl on the counter. “I suppose Darek and Joy are watching the game?”
“He fed her and put her down in the boys’ room upstairs,” Ingrid said, trying not to let the nostalgia overwhelm her. The next generation, napping all over the house. “Could you tell them dinner is about ready?” She glanced outside to where Owen and Scotty manned the grill, just to confirm.
Oops. Scotty sat on the rail of the deck, her feet on the bench of the table, Owen’s arms around her, neither of them paying a lick of attention to the smoking grill.
“Avert your eyes, Mom,” Grace said. “I’ll attempt a rescue of the burgers.” She slid the screen door open, and Ingrid hid a smile as she watched Owen jump.
Then John appeared on the deck, raising the lid to the grill, saving the burgers from a charbroil.
Ingrid retrieved the cookies, utensils, and cups and followed Grace outside to finish setting the picnic table. John scooped hamburgers onto a platter. Ivy added her salad to the table, and the boys tromped out from the den. Jace, Max, Darek, Casper, plus little Yulia.
“Sorry, Mom. It’s the Packers-Lions game. We got carried away,” Casper said.
Ingrid held up a hand. “And now it’s time to celebrate.”
Casper slipped his hand into Raina’s.
Eden leaned against Jace, who wrapped his arms around her belly.
Max took his place between Grace and Yulia, holding their hands.
Roark stood behind Amelia, his hands on her shoulders.
Darek’s arm encircled Ivy, the other catching Tiger in a football hold.
And Owen sidled up next to Scotty.
John stood beside Ingrid. “We’re going to pray for dinner. But first . . .”
At his elongated pause, Ingrid looked up. He was staring at her, smiling.
“What?”
“We have a little something for you,” John said. He glanced at Darek. “You ready?”
Darek released Tiger, who ran off the deck, around the house.
“Where’s he going?”
“Just wait, Mom,” Casper said. “You’re always telling us to be patient. Now it’s your turn.”
“Believe me, Son, I know all about patience,” Ingrid said.
Casper grinned, as did Darek. Ingrid found Owen’s gaze on her, something so sweetly vulnerable, sweetly warm in his expression that she pocketed it in her heart.
Patience. Yes, every hour of prayer had come to fruition. Faith answered. Promises kept. Hope fulfilled. At last.
As if reading her thoughts, John leaned down, gave her a kiss on the cheek.
Barking—the high-pitched yips of a puppy.
She turned as Tiger reappeared, running down the walk and onto the porch holding a floppy, wiggly, long-eared, tail-wagging, golden-haired puppy.
“How adorable!” Ingrid knelt down to pet the animal, who was lunging for her now with its puppy tongue. Slobbery kisses landed on her chin, and she laughed. “Tiger, is this your puppy?” She reached up to grab the baby paws and rub its glorious velvety ears. “He’s gotten so big!”
“No, Nana. It’s yours!”
She stilled. “I . . . don’t understand.”
John retrieved the dog, chuckling. “The kids got you a puppy.”
Got her . . . She stood. “What?”
Eden wore a wide smile. Amelia clasped her hands together, her eyes aglow. Grace waggled her eyebrows. The boys all looked at each other, smug. She half expected a round of high fives.
“For me?”
“It’s a sister to Tiger’s puppy. Yulia helped pick her out.”
Ingrid smiled at her newest granddaughter, who caught her lip in her teeth. “She’s beautiful, Yulia.”
Grace kissed the top of her daughter’s head.
“When we picked up Tiger’s puppy, this one was left. No one adopted her, so when the breeder called and asked if we wanted her, I knew she needed a home.” Darek walked over, ran his strong hand over the puppy’s head. “This home.”
“I can’t believe you got me a puppy,” Ingrid said, her eyes watering.
“You still have plenty of good mother in you,” Owen said. “And with us out of the house—”
“But not very far away,” Casper interjected.
“At least in spirit,” Owen said, casting a frown at Casper. “We thought you needed a Butterscotch 2.0.”
Oh. Ingrid cupped the puppy’s face in her hands, stared into her chocolate eyes, bright, inquisitive. Exuberant with the joy wriggling through her body.
Exactly how Ingrid felt as she stood on the deck, surrounded by so much.
She pulled the puppy into her arms. The puppy climbed Ingrid, putting floppy paws on her shoulders, her cold nose bumping Ingrid’s chin. “Oh, my, you are friendly,” she said. The puppy slathered her lips and nose with a kiss.
“She loves you already, Mom,” Amelia said, coming over to scratch behind the dog’s ears. “What’s her name?”
“I don’t know. Maybe . . . Sunshine?”
“Sunny!” Tiger said. “I like it. Hello, Sunny.” He put his face near the puppy’s and earned a lick.
Ingrid pressed her nose into the animal’s fur. Inhaled. “Thank you.” She smiled at her people, the autumn breeze warm on her skin. The watercolor-blue heavens arched overhead, the wind like a song in the trees.
“Let’s pray,” John said. “The burgers are getting cold.” He tucked his arm around Ingrid.
Thank You, indeed.
The ranks closed in, joined hands, and Ingrid breathed in the aroma of home. Puppy breath, hamburgers, the smell of pine in the air, and her entire family chorusing, at the end of John’s quick prayer . . .
Amen.
THIS WAS A BAD IDEA—the last person Owen would want to see was his big sister.
It didn’t matter. Apparently tonight someone had to watch his back, and that’s what sisters did. Eden Christiansen turned up her collar and marched across the street.
Sammy’s Bar and Grill hosted one of the largest collections of hockey paraphernalia in Minnesota. The pub had been an old shipping warehouse, its grand windows now lit up with neon beer signs. Inside the brick-and-mortar interior, promo posters, signed pictures, goalie equipment, and framed team sweaters plastered the walls. Flat screens hung from the ceiling and were tucked into every nook, televising games from around the nation.
The owner, Sam Newton, had played eight seasons as a Minnesota Wild defenseman before being sidelined by a hip injury. Now he lived out the action from behind the long oak bar.
As Eden entered, the sweaty heat and raucous noise flooded over her. The odors of too much cologne, fried foods, and chaos tightened her stomach. Bodies pushed against each other, and she heard the chanting even as she stood at the entrance and looked over the crowd.
“Fight! Fight!”
Perfect. She plowed through the onlookers, ignoring the protests, dreading what she heard—the familiar sounds of men hitting each other, laughing, huffing as they tumbled onto the floor.
She reached the edge of the brawl and there he was. Owen, power forward for the St. Paul Blue Ox, with a button ripped off his shirt, his long hair over his face, his nose bleeding, writhing as right wing Maxwell Sharpe caught him in a headlock.
“Tap out!” Max yelled.
Oh no. Eden watched as Owen flipped him over, broke free, and found his feet, his eyes too bright.
“Eden!” Kalen ca
ught her arm. “We have to get him out of here.” He wore a black Blue Ox T-shirt, a plastic lei around his neck. And he had cut his hair into what looked like a Mohawk. Nice.
“Where are his keys?”
“Jace took them. He’s at the bar. I’ll get Owen’s coat.”
She turned and found the hulking form of Jace “J-Hammer” Jacobsen sitting at the bar.
Someone, probably the Blue Ox PR department, had tamed the beast, at least for tonight, dressing him up like a gentleman in a pair of black wool pants and a silver dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up over his strong, sculpted forearms. Up close, she could admit that—for others—he possessed a raw-edged, almost-dangerous allure that might have the ability to steal a girl’s breath. Maybe Hockey Today magazine hadn’t been completely wrong about putting him in its lineup. His dark, curly hair fell in tangles behind his ears, as if groomed by a fierce wind, and he’d close-trimmed his dark beard. His fitted dress shirt only accentuated all his cut muscle and brawn, but she knew he had the finesse of a skater, smooth and liquid on blades. And his eyes—blue as ice—yes, they could look right through a gal, send a shiver through her.
But Eden was immune to Mr. J-Trouble and his apparently lethal smile. Because she wasn’t a rink bunny, wasn’t a crazed fan. Wasn’t dazzled by the star power of one of hockey’s top enforcers. She was family, thank you, here for one reason only.
Owen.
Yes, Eden was made of ice, and Trouble hadn’t a prayer of thawing her anger. She marched up to Jace. “Nice birthday bash. If Owen gets in trouble and kicked back down to the AHL, it’s on you.”
“Hey!” Jace turned, looking backhanded.
But she didn’t plan on listening to his lame excuses. “You’re the team captain. Who else is supposed to watch Owen’s back?”
He rebounded fast. “Are you kidding me? You’re not his mother or his trainer. He’s just blowing off steam. Trust me. Your brother can watch his own back.”
“Really? This is watching his own back?” She gestured at Owen, who had grabbed an eager girl, begun to slow dance. If that’s what she could call it. “Who gave him alcohol, anyway?”
“Seriously?”
“He’s underage. He doesn’t turn twenty-one for three months.”
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