Roots of Wood and Stone

by Amanda Wen

  “A moving, enchanting story of love and loss. Amanda Wen takes readers on an adventure that weaves past and present together in a beautiful tapestry of skillful storytelling. I was blown away by this book and its timeless message.”

  HEIDI CHIAVAROLI, Carol Award–winning author of Freedom’s Ring and The Tea Chest

  “Amanda Wen seamlessly blends the historical and the contemporary in this lyrical debut. From Annabelle, a courageous young woman building a life on the Kansas frontier, to Sloane, a museum curator searching for answers within the pages of a diary penned over one hundred years ago, Roots of Wood and Stone spans generations in a brilliantly rendered narrative that explores the heart behind the places we call home.”

  AMANDA BARRATT, author of The White Rose Resists and My Dearest Dietrich

  “Compelling. Rich. Winding through past and present and linking them in surprising ways, Wen’s debut novel captures the legacy of a historic farmhouse and all the people who’ve made their lives there. I was rooting for Sloane out of the gate, and my heart went up and down with her story until the well-drawn conclusion. Wen writes with warmth and a delightful voice about heritage, family, and the nature of what’s truly important.”

  JOANNA DAVIDSON POLITANO, author of The Love Note

  “Now and then I am fortunate enough to read a book that so thoroughly captures me that I forget I’m reading. It’s rare, but when it happens it feels a whole lot like magic. Amanda Wen has written such a novel. In Roots of Wood and Stone, Wen invites readers in, introduces them to characters who feel like dear friends, and gives them the gift of a tale well told. And in the telling, Wen reminds us of the beauty of friendship, love, and finding out the fullest meaning of home.”

  SUSIE FINKBEINER, author of Stories That Bind Us and the Pearl Spence novels

  “In Amanda Wen’s sensitive Christian novel Roots of Wood and Stone, a nineteenth-century diary draws a Kansas pair closer as they unearth personal pains…. Vulnerable and multifaceted characters deal with the heartbreaking realities of eldercare, but also learn to trust God’s plans over their own well-intentioned decisions. Characters’ thoughts and emotions are pulled between their desires to cling to old habits and fears and their needs to risk opening up to others…. With a resonant, alternating time line that highlights the past’s continuing influence on the present, Roots of Wood and Stone is a satisfying, moving novel that combines ancestral stories with a new romance.”

  FOREWORD REVIEWS

  Roots of Wood and Stone

  © 2021 by Amanda Wen

  Published by Kregel Publications, a division of Kregel Inc., 2450 Oak Industrial Dr. NE, Grand Rapids, MI 49505.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without written permission of the publisher, except for brief quotations in reviews.

  Distribution of digital editions of this book in any format via the internet or any other means without the publisher’s written permission or by license agreement is a violation of copyright law and is subject to substantial fines and penalties. Thank you for supporting the author’s rights by purchasing only authorized editions.

  The persons and events portrayed in this work are the creations of the author, and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Scripture quotations are from the King James Version.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publishing Data

  Names: Wen, Amanda, 1979-author.

  Title: Roots of wood and stone / Amanda Wen.

  Description: Grand Rapids, MI : Kregel Publications, [2021]

  Identifiers: LCCN 2020034239 (print) | LCCN 2020034240 (ebook) | ISBN 9780825446689 (print) | ISBN 9780825477188 (epub) | ISBN 9780825468698 (kindle edition)

  Subjects: GSAFD: Christian fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3623.E524 R66 2021 (print) | LCC PS3623.E524 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6--dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020034239

  LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020034240

  ISBN 978-0-8254-4668-9, print

  ISBN 978-0-8254-7718-8, epub

  Printed in the United States of America

  21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 / 5 4 3 2 1

  To the glory of God, in honor of my mother, Deanna Peterson, whose passion for our family, past and present, brought this book to life.

  CHAPTER ONE

  SLOANE KELLEY STOOD in the lobby of the Sedgwick County Museum of History, the thick buffalo robe hanging warm and heavy on her arms. A line of first graders filed past to stroke the robe’s coarse brown fur. But no matter how many little hands poked and prodded that robe, it held up. It was resilient.

  Just like the pioneers who’d worn it.

  The last child, a girl with wide brown eyes and a riot of red curls, trailed her hand over the robe. “It’s softer than I thought it’d be.”

  “That’s a great observation.” Sloane loved those light-bulb moments when history came to life.

  “That is a great observation, Josie.” Mrs. McPherson, the dark-haired teacher charged with controlling the chaos, rewarded her student with a warm smile.

  But Josie looked instead to a beaming, T-shirt-clad woman at the back of the room. Same brown eyes, same coppery curls.

  Mother and daughter, no doubt.

  Jaw tight, Sloane turned to hang the robe on its wooden rack. She scanned the placard beside it, covered with facts she’d researched. Facts to fill gaps in people’s knowledge.

  A semi-successful cover for the utter lack of facts about her own past.

  “Okay, class.” Mrs. McPherson’s voice rose above the din. “What do we tell Miss Kelley?”

  “Thaaaaaaaank yoooooooouuuu.”

  Sloane both smiled and winced as the childish chorus bounced off the lobby’s ornate tile walls at earsplitting volume.

  “You’re welcome. Thank you all so much for coming.”

  “Now, friends, the bus is waiting. We’re going to walk, please. It’s pouring, and the steps might be slick.” Mrs. McPherson nodded to the red-haired chaperone, who leaned into the handle of the beveled glass door. Outside, a large yellow school bus idled at a low growl, and rain sheeted from a leaden April sky.

  As the kids hurried to the bus, laughing and shrieking in the deluge, Sloane breathed a sigh of relief. She enjoyed field-trip kids, but their departure meant a welcome return to the museum’s usual hushed reverence. How did teachers deal with it all day every day? No way did they get paid enough.

  A flash of green caught her eye. Mrs. McPherson stood in the doorway, wrestling with an enormous umbrella a gust of wind had yanked inside out. Sloane started forward to help, but a suit-wearing man on the sidewalk beat her to it. Shifting the large cardboard box he carried to one hand, he held the door with the other.

  “You got it?” he asked.

  “I think so.” Mrs. McPherson popped the umbrella back into place and gave the man a grateful smile. “Thank you.”

  “Welcome. Stay dry.”

  “I’ll try.” The teacher clambered aboard the bus behind her students, and the man strode into the lobby, the shoulders of his suit soaked, the lid of the box spattered with rain.

  With his free hand he shoved drenched dark blond hair off his forehead. “It’s a monsoon out there.”

  “Another gorgeous spring day in Kansas.” Sloane flashed a wry grin and pushed her glasses further up onto her nose. “Can I help you?”

  “Sure hope so.” Ocean-blue eyes crinkled at the corners, and a crease next to the man’s mouth deepened into a dimple. He was handsome enough, in a drippy, rain-soaked sort of way. “Are you t
he one in charge around here?”

  Sloane gave a short bark of laughter. “Don’t I wish.”

  “Maybe you can help me anyway.” He set the box on the old wooden welcome desk and tapped its top. “My sister and I have been helping our grandma with a little decluttering.”

  Sloane stifled the urge to roll her eyes. She should’ve known his angle the second she saw that bedraggled box. The museum was constantly turning away people tasked with cleaning out the homes of elderly pack-rat relatives. People who thought the dusty, moldy junk they uncovered was worth a small fortune simply because it had a few decades under its belt. And that the museum, scraping by on barely there government funding and donations they had to beg for, somehow had piles of cash to fling about in exchange for these “treasures.”

  “I found this bag of some kind.” He flipped open the box, flecking the desk with raindrops. “It looked old, so my sister suggested I donate it here.”

  “Sir, this isn’t Goodwill. You can’t just dump stuff here because it looks old.”

  The man blinked, as everyone did when faced with stark reality.

  Sloane gentled her tone. “There’s a whole process. You need to fill out a donation form, we have to assess the item, the acquisitions committee has to approve it, and—”

  “Forms?” His face lit like she’d tripped some switch in his brain. “Of course. Whatever you need. I assume a separate form for each item?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Good. Because there’s more where this came from.”

  Of course there was. “Sir, I don’t think—”

  A phone trilled from deep inside the man’s pocket. He pulled it out and glanced at the screen. “I’m sorry, I’ve got to take this.”

  “But I can’t take this.” She shoved the box toward him, but he was digging in a brown leather wallet.

  “Look, here’s my card.” He placed a crisp, blue-lettered business card beside the box. Garrett P. Anderson, Certified Financial Planner.

  “Mr. Anderson—”

  “Please, just take a look. If you truly don’t want it, call my cell, and I’ll come get it.” He backed into the door to push it open while pressing his hands together in a pleading gesture, his phone wedged between his shoulder and his ear. “Garrett Anderson. Hi. Thanks for returning my call …”

  The door thudded shut behind him. With a sigh, Sloane eyed the box. Rain streaked its sides and added a fresh, damp note to the mustiness of the cardboard. Grabbing the box, she rounded the corner to the office she shared with the rest of the museum staff. Whatever was inside, whether it was worth anything or not—and her money was on not—it needed to get out of there.

  Inside was a satchel. And she had to hand it to the guy, it was indeed old. Mid-nineteenth century from the looks of it. But its dust-dulled black leather was worn and cracked in several places, and rust reddened once-golden buckles. Amazing how people shoved things into dingy attics or damp basements, forgot about them for decades, and then got all miffed when museums weren’t champing at the bit to display them.

  And there would be no display for this satchel. Not when they had two just like it on exhibit, with another three in storage. Unless it belonged to someone historically significant, there was no reason to keep it.

  But curiosity called nonetheless. Sloane smoothed her hand over the worn leather, her fingertips leaving tracks through the dust. Someone had owned this satchel once. Someone had gripped the handle when it was shiny and new. Worked well-oiled latches to secure priceless possessions.

  Who was that someone?

  Sloane cracked it open, the smell of stale leather puffing out. An inked inscription drew her in for a closer look.

  A. M. Collins.

  Collins … Collins … nope. The name didn’t match any she’d uncovered during her years of researching Wichita’s past and people. She’d double-check with her bosses, do a quick comb through the records, but chances were good she’d have to call Mr. Garrett Anderson back to retrieve what he’d all too eagerly dumped on her desk.

  The thought gave her a perverse sense of satisfaction.

  Setting the satchel carefully to the side, she sat down and rummaged through her desk for a tea bag.

  A rainy, post-field-trip afternoon definitely called for some Earl Grey.

  The windshield wipers of Garrett Anderson’s Camry thumped a frantic rhythm against the incessant downpour. Raindrops pelted the car and wriggled like worms along the windows. Smooth pavement gave way to bone-jarring gravel as he turned off Jamesville Road onto the quarter-mile stretch of dirt leading to his grandparents’ farmhouse. Instinct and experience, rather than visibility, guided him around ever-present potholes and that awful patch near the house that turned into a chasm of muck every time it rained.

  But not even the rain could keep him from plowing through his to-do list, nor could it dampen his satisfaction at having crossed off a few items.

  Cart unused kitchenware to the thrift store downtown? Check.

  Take old towels to the animal shelter? Check.

  Foist dilapidated satchel on unsuspecting museum curator? Check and double check.

  Pulling to a stop as close to the house as he could, he dashed up the rickety porch steps and through the condensation-fogged storm door.

  “So was I right? Did the museum take it?”

  His sister’s voice came from a greater height than usual. Garrett craned his neck to find Lauren perched on a stepladder, unloading a bookshelf.

  He shrugged out of his rain-spattered jacket and hung it on the rack beside the door. “In a manner of speaking, yes.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Rolling up his sleeves to his elbows, he walked toward the ladder. “It means I basically had to shove it into the curator’s arms and promise to come back to get it if she doesn’t want it.”

  “What makes you think she won’t?” Lauren handed down a stack of books. Dust puffed up as he took them, and he sneezed.

  “Call it a hunch.” The disapproving look in the curator’s dark eyes was all the evidence he needed, though an incurable head-in-the-clouds optimist like Lauren would doubtless need more convincing.

  Next time he’d make his little sister run her own errands.

  Dark blonde curls swished across Lauren’s back as she reached for another handful of books and eyed the spines. “Think the library would want these?”

  “Reader’s Digest Condensed Books? Lauren, no one wants these.”

  “Maybe I can eBay them.”

  “If you can find people who’d rather have Reader’s Digest Condensed Books than actual money, be my guest.”

  Defiance sparked in deep blue eyes. “I will, thank you. Now, be a dear and take these upstairs, would you? I’ve started a box of stuff to sell.”

  “Of course you have.” Garrett took the books and trudged up the stairs.

  This latest squabble was the umpteenth verse of a song they’d sung since October, when their grandfather, fit as a fiddle last anyone checked, fell asleep watching television and never woke up. Orrin Spencer had been a rock for his wife as her memory failed and her mind betrayed her, but now Lauren and Garrett were at odds over their newly widowed grandmother’s care. Living alone in the ancient farmhouse wasn’t a viable option, but the sorry state of her savings account didn’t allow for many alternatives.

  The logical solution, of course, was to sell the house. Use the proceeds to finance a move to a long-term care facility. Both problems solved with a single perfect plan.

  But Garrett’s plan had run up against two formidable obstacles: his sentimental sister and his stubborn-as-all-get-out grandmother. Lauren had promptly given up her apartment, moved in with Grandma, and thrown herself into making the house livable for as long as possible. The arrangement was a stopgap at best, but Garrett couldn’t talk them out of it. So he declared a temporary truce with Lauren, came down from Kansas City to help when he could, and did whatever necessary to facilitate the removal of decad
es’ worth of accumulated possessions.

  Like these useless books, which he had to set beside the eBay box, since the box itself was overflowing. Even so, plopping the stack down on the worn red carpet brought a small sense of accomplishment.

  It’d all have to go eventually. This, at least, was a start.

  When he returned to the living room, Lauren stood at ground level, surveying the freshly emptied shelf. “There. Dust it off, put a few of Grandma’s knickknacks up there, and voilà.”

  “Good.” Emboldened by progress, he glanced around the living room to see what else could make a quick impact. Ah. The knitting basket.

  The knitting basket.

  Garrett’s heart sank. Half his childhood memories involved Grandma in her blue recliner by the fireplace, bathed in sunlight while silvery needles clicked away on her latest project. Piles of blankets, the pale pink sweater on the coatrack, intricate doilies draping every available surface, all testified to her favorite hobby.

  But when was the last time she’d knitted? He picked up the basket and frowned at the tightly wound balls of yarn, at needles that had been eerily still for far too long.

  Just one more thing the relentless thief known as Alzheimer’s had stolen from his grandmother.

  “What are you doing with that?” His sister’s voice pitched low with suspicion.

  “Lauren … she can’t. Not anymore.”

  Lauren jutted her chin in the air, like the petulant toddler she’d once been. “You don’t know that. Just because you haven’t seen her knitting doesn’t mean she can’t.”

  Garrett looked once more at the dusty yarn. His latest sneeze was a far more eloquent argument than any verbal one.

  Lauren folded her arms. “Fine. But how do you know she won’t miss it? If something that’s always been there, right by her favorite chair, up and disappears, don’t you think that’ll upset her?”

  “Or having her favorite thing right here, knowing she’s supposed to know what it is and what to do with it, but she doesn’t? How will that not upset her?” Garrett shifted the basket to his other arm. “You know as well as I do she’s gone downhill the last few weeks. I’m wearing a suit because she thinks I’m Grandpa.”