ACCLAIM FOR “WINDS OF WYOMING”
“Winds of Wyoming is an uplifting story and charming romance with the authentic flavor of life on a Wyoming guest ranch and an unforgettable heroine whom you love cheering for, showing beautifully that God does give us second chances. Rebecca Carey Lyles has produced a winner with her very first novel.”
—Donna Fletcher Crow, author of “A Darkly Hidden Truth,”The Monastery Murders 2, and the Lord Danvers Mystery Series
“As someone who does not usually read fiction, let alone romantic fiction, I found Winds of Wyoming an engaging read. I especially enjoyed how the author turned the dynamic of ‘bad boy rescued by angelic good girl’ so often found in films and fiction on its head. The characterizations were very well drawn, especially the vile Ramsey and the irrepressible Dymple. I can see this as a film, perhaps a made-for-television movie.”
—Jim K., Wyoming native
“Though Rebecca Carey Lyles knows how to mix suspense with the perfect amounts of warmth and humor, I found that the flaws in her characters were really what drew me in. Winds of Wyoming is the kind of book that gets readers hooked and asking for more.”
—Angela Ruth Strong, author of “Love Finds You in Sun Valley, Idaho” and Moving On After He Moves Out - angelaruthstrong.blogspot.com
“Winds of Wyoming is a fresh, contemporary love story, not sanitized or theme-parked, but one that takes place on the rugged Wyoming plains. Lyles conjures pictures of dusty trails, high mountain peaks, sagebrush and prairie flowers, as well as buffalo and horses. Gripping and compelling, the author’s gift of making characters come alive kept me up late turning pages. As fine a story as you will find anywhere.”
—Peter Leavell, contributor to “Intrigue: Suspense Stories” and creator/editor of History: And Other Things Not Taught in School - historymultuminparvo.wordpress.com
“Winds of Wyoming is a solid read from start to finish, portraying realistic characters with realistic struggles in an authentic western setting. The author’s skillful portrait of Kate Neilson’s riveting journey through the depths of despair, painful personal change, imminent danger, a troubled love relationship and her struggle to triumph over evil leaves the reader hoping the sequel will follow soon!”
—Patricia Watkins, educator and periodical author
“In the spirit of Dee Henderson’s O’Malley series, new novelist Rebecca Carey Lyles introduces Kate Neilson, a troubled soul on a collision course with herself and truth. Join Kate as she meets Dymple Forbes and the other residents of the small mountaintop community of Copperville, Wyoming. With deeply complex characters and a rich setting that draws you in and makes you want to walk along alpine trails and breathe in the fresh mountain air, Winds of Wyoming is a gentle guide on a heartwarming trip through repentance, forgiveness and the acceptance of God’s grace … even when the one you need to forgive is yourself.”
Ray Ellis, Author of N.H.I. (No Humans Involved), D.R.T. (Dead Right There), I.A.I. (Internal Affairs Investigation) due in spring of 2012
“Every saint has a past, and every sinner has a future.”
— Oscar Wilde
Chapter One
KATE NEILSON PEERED INTO the slot on the collection box lid. Was that money she saw on the bottom or crumpled paper? Sometimes people put weird stuff in offering boxes.
The early morning sunshine hadn’t reached her side of the dark log chapel, but she didn’t dare turn on the interior lights and attract attention. Maybe she should grab the flashlight from her car. Though she’d opened the side door at the front of the sanctuary, she still couldn’t see inside the box.
She toyed with the padlock. All she needed was enough cash to get by until payday at her new job. If she left a note saying she’d pay it back right away, with interest, surely they’d understand. After all, she was down to her last ten—
The floor creaked.
Her heart stopped.
“That box is empty, sweetie.”
Stifling a gasp, Kate dropped the lock and spun around. A white-haired woman stood in the open doorway at the far end of the chapel.
“We haven’t used it …” The woman’s voice cracked. “Since two-thousand and three.”
Kate darted for the foyer, her pulse pounding at her temple. No way were they going to catch her this time. She slammed against the front door. One twist of the handle and—
“Please don’t leave.”
Drawn by the plaintive plea, she glanced back.
“Didn’t mean to scare you.” The lady lifted the canvas bag she was carrying. “I came to arrange the flowers for this morning’s service.”
Kate hesitated, her heart drumming her ribs, her breath locked in her lungs.
The woman extended her palms. “Stay and visit. Please.”
“I thought—” Kate released the breath and sucked in a gulp of dry mountain air. “I thought, because it’s a church, it was okay to come in. The door was unlocked. I …”
The lady’s red-tinted lips parted in a wide, denture smile. “That’s why we call this the Highway Haven House of God. We want travelers who’ve been enjoying the drive through the mountains to feel free to spend time with the creator of those hills.” She hobbled toward the altar table at the front of the room. The wood floor squeaked with each step.
Kate clutched her chest to slow the hammering inside. What happened to the nerves of steel she’d honed on the streets of Pittsburgh? She took a breath. “I’ve never heard of a church called Highway Haven before.”
The woman slid a vase from the center of the altar to the side. “Our little cathedral is a one-of-a-kind place, at least in Wyoming. Old-timers say this used to be the site of the rowdiest saloon this side of the Missouri, until …” She chuckled. “Until, as the story goes, a couple inebriated, arm-wrestling patrons knocked over a kerosene lamp, and the bar burped to the ground.”
Burped? Kate squinted at her. How could someone with so many wrinkles, someone who said burped instead of burned call other people old-timers? Oh, well. At least she was harmless. Moving from the foyer into the sanctuary, Kate dropped into a pew at the back of the room.
The lady reached in her bag.
She’s got a gun. Kate grabbed the bench in front of her, ready to dive beneath it.
But the smiling woman produced a tulip instead of a pistol. “My name is Miss Forbes. What’s yours?” She pulled more tulips from her satchel.
Kate gripped the pew back. Wouldn’t the cops love that? Her fingerprints and her name, even though she hadn’t done anything wrong, this time.
After the tulips came lilac blossoms and a glass jar of water. Miss Forbes unscrewed the metal lid, poured the liquid into the vase, and added the flowers. She glanced at Kate, eyebrows raised.
Kate folded her arms and sat back.
“That’s okay. I shouldn’t be so nosy.” Miss Forbes plucked a tulip from the arrangement. “For a long time, this was just an ugly pile of blackened rubble. But in the early fifties, a small congregation purchased the land and built this chapel in two days.” She indicated the walls, the flower in her fingers bobbing back and forth. “Raised the log walls the first day, added the roof the second.”
She slipped the tulip into the center of the blossoms. “They called it Church on the Mountain.”
Kate rubbed her stiff shoulder muscles and stared through the large window that dominated the front of the chapel. The opening framed a postcard-perfect scene of evergreens and newly leafed aspen in the foreground with snow-crowned peaks in the background—a far cry from the cement prison yard she’d circled twice a day for five long years.
If only she could immerse herself in her beautiful
surroundings. But her mind wouldn’t let go of the fact she hadn’t heard the woman approach the building. She should have heard her footsteps outside the door, despite her slight stature.
She chewed at her bottom lip. A senile senior citizen had not only caught her off-guard but scared her half to death. Had she been seduced by the serenity of the place or too focused on the collection box?
Kate checked the windows again. No one else around. Standing, she stepped into the aisle and started for the front, determined to persuade the old lady to tell her where the church kept its stash. If she resisted, she’d explain her plan to repay the money. If that didn’t work, she’d have to do a little arm twisting.
Her approach was no secret. The floor groaned with each footstep, but Miss Forbes continued to talk, her back to Kate. “Years later, after the state constructed a highway right next to the parking lot, the congregation decided it was time for a name change.”
Six feet from the altar, Kate halted, knees flexed, feet planted wide.
The woman turned from the flowers, her hands on her waist. “Haven has a peaceful sound to it, don’t you think?” Her blue eyes flashed. “Similar to heaven.”
Kate flinched. She knows. She knows what I was about to do. She clenched her fists. What’s wrong with me? Why would I even consider harming an elderly person? Or helping myself to church money? She wanted to run, but it was as though the woman’s stare pinned her sandals to the floor.
Her shoulders sagged. Would she ever get it right? She could have stayed on her knees asking God to bless her new endeavor. That was the plan—to pray. She could have ignored the offering box. That would have been smart. She could have walked out the church door with God’s favor and no regrets. That would have—
“Are you okay?”
At the sight of the woman’s creased brow, Kate blinked and shifted her gaze. “I meant to stop at the overlook, but this little church seemed so inviting, I stopped here first.” The pungent perfume of the lilacs invaded her sinuses, making it hard to breathe.
Miss Forbes returned the vase to the center of the table, made some adjustments and smoothed the altar cloth. “The overlook is a half-mile down the road, well worth the stop. We also have a nice view from the rear of the church property. I can take you there, if you’d like. We have time before the church service begins.”
Kate sneezed and rubbed her nose. “I would love to see it.” She had to get out of the building before her sinuses swelled shut—and before she did something she’d regret the rest of her life, something that would put her back behind bars.
She followed Miss Forbes, who was shorter than she was by several inches, out the side door of the log structure and onto a dirt path that led into a shaded cemetery. Though the pink blossoms swinging at the end of her guide’s long, white braid made her smile, all Kate could think about was how close she’d come to doing something really stupid again. Might as well bang on Patterson State Penitentiary’s gate, the gate she’d exited three months earlier, and beg the guards to let her back inside.
She’d left her past in Pittsburgh, but thieving was apparently as natural as breathing for her—no matter where she was or how fervently she promised God she would change her ways. No wonder cell doors were revolving doors for her. She shuddered. With the three-strikes-you’re-out law, another mess-up would mean life without parole.
Shaking away the unbearable thought, she focused on the hillside cemetery speckled with headstones of every shape, tilt and shade of gray—and an occasional clump of snow. For the first time since they’d left the chapel, she heard the birds warble in the treetops and smelled the earthy, fresh fragrances of the forest—cleansing scents that soothed her spirit and cleared her head.
Miss Forbes paused to pluck a withered knot from a cluster of jonquils. Her braid dropped forward to dangle above the flowers. “We had quite the storm a few days ago, full of moisture, which is fairly typical of spring storms around here. I didn’t need to water the grass this morning, but I washed the grave markers.” She straightened, her joints snapping. “Some think I’m silly, but my grandpa always said a society that honors the dead will honor the living.”
She kicked a pinecone off the grass that topped a grave. “He was a deacon in this church for more than fifty yogurts.” She pointed to tombstones several feet away. “His and Granny’s stones are those two matching ones. My parents are buried next to them.”
“How long was your grandpa a deacon?”
“For fifty …” Eyebrows scrunched, the woman turned to Kate. “Did I say something wrong?”
“I just didn’t understand.”
“It’s not you, sweetie. It’s me.” The woman sighed. “My friends tell me I’ve been saying the craziest things ever since I tripped and hit my noggin on a headstone a couple years ago. They find it highly amusing. I’ll be talking along fine then something silly pops out. The doctor says it’s a form of ambrosia.”
“You mean amnesia?”
The older lady pursed her wrinkled lips. “I don’t know what I said, but my problem is called aphasia. I was told I might get over it—or I might not. The good news is that it’s a language problem, not an intelligence issue, thank God.” She snorted. “Although some might question that.”
Kate knelt beside the markers. “You must have meant to say your grandpa was a deacon for fifty years.”
“What did I say?”
“Uhm … yogurts.”
“Oh, my. No wonder my friends laugh.”
“They shouldn’t.” Kate shook her head. “They must know what you’re really thinking.” She’d endured her share of ridicule in school and foster homes, not to mention prison.
Miss Forbes patted her shoulder. “Thank you, but they’re just teasing. Sometimes I tease them, too.”
Kate studied the gravestones. Damp granite glistened around the hand-etched engravings. Otis Elmer Haggerty 1883-1966. Dymple Elizabeth Haggerty 1885-1973. “Your grandparents were named Otis and Dymple?”
The lines at the woman’s temples crinkled. “Yes, Granddad Otis and Granny Dymple.”
“I never heard of anyone named Dymple before.”
“Me neither, except for me.”
“No kidding?”
“No kidding. I was born with a dimple in the middle of my chin, just like Granny. See?” She touched her chin.
Kate nodded, though she wasn’t sure it was a dimple she saw or a crease. A single white hair jutted from a mole, brilliant in the morning sunlight.
“My mom and dad used to say they argued about what to name me until the moment I was born. That’s when they saw the dimple. I was named after both grandmothers. Dymple–with a y–Louise Forbes. You can call me Dymple.”
Kate stood and offered her hand. “I’m Kate. Kate Neilson.”
Dymple grasped her hand with both of hers, a look of recognition, maybe revelation flooding her face.
A chill shot up Kate’s spine. She shouldn’t have revealed her full name.
“Kate Neilson …” Dymple smiled. “I have a feeling you and I will become very good friends.”
***
The trail wound through the cemetery and ended on a rock outcrop that overlooked a river. Bounded by a metal railing and topped with wrought-iron tables and chairs and whiskey barrels brimming with petunias and alyssum, the ledge looked as urbane as a backyard patio.
Kate stepped to the railing. “This is a beautiful setting.”
“Residents of our little community gather here often. We have parties, weddings, marshmallow roasts—all sorts of get-togethers on this rock patio.”
Kate bent to sniff the blossoms in the barrel next to her. “Mmm. They smell wonderful. I’m amazed the church has such beautiful flowers this high in the mountains—and this early in the summer.”
“I trick them into early growth.”
“Really?” Though the effervescent lady intrigued Kate, she wasn’t ready to believe everything she said.
Dymple chuckled. “Really, but it�
��s no trick. I have a little greenhouse in my garden, where I start my own plants early in the spring as well as seedlings for the church.”
Kate leaned against the top rail. Below her, hummocks of snow clung to the rugged mountainside. Water seeped from the crusted mounds and trickled downhill to feed a river that ambled like a lazy snake through the verdant valley. She pointed to barely visible buildings at the far end of the basin. “Is that Copperville?”
“Sure is.”
Rows of concrete cellblocks marched across Kate’s memory. “Patterson is bigger than—”
“Bigger?”
Kate felt her cheeks warming and ducked her head. “The town is smaller than I expected.”
“Copperville was a fair-sized mining town in the late eighteen hundreds and early nineteen hundreds.” Dymple swept her hand across the panorama. “A hundred or so years later, as you can see, it isn’t much more than a few businesses and a smattering of houses. I feel for those who couldn’t make a living here, but I prefer a small community. Wouldn’t live anywhere else.”
“Too bad I left my camera in the car. My Great-Aunt Mary and my friend Amy in Pennsylvania would love to see this.”
“Don’t you worry, sweetie. You can get good pictures at the overlook up the road.” Dymple patted her arm. “Are you vacationing in worm?”
Kate hesitated. She’d prepared herself to answer questions about her schooling and past employment without mentioning prison but hadn’t expected this one. “It feels like a vacation, because I’m finally out of college. But I came to Wy-o-ming to do a marketing internship at the Whispering Pines Guest Ranch. They’re going to train me this week for their tourist season, which starts next weekend, Memorial Day weekend.”
If Dymple caught the Wyoming emphasis, she gave no indication. “Good for you. The Duncans are wonderful people and their ranch has an excellent reputation. A bright young lady like you will fit right in.”
Kate wrinkled her nose. Maybe, except for the reputation part—and the bright part. She’d done so many stupid things, like trying to steal from yet another church. “So you know the owners?”
Winds of Wyoming (A Kate Neilson Novel) Page 1