The Face of the Earth Read online

  The Face of the Earth

  Deborah Raney

  Contents

  Endorsements

  Title Page

  Acknowledgments

  September

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  November

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  January

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  March

  Chapter 25

  May

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  June

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  July

  Chapter 38

  August

  Chapter 39

  October

  Epilogue

  Dear Reader

  Discussion Questions

  Author Q&A

  About the Author

  Other Books Ad

  What Others Are Saying About The Face of the Earth

  “Raney is a master at probing volatile topics with finesse and compassion. And without ever backing down. Reading Face of the Earth, I slipped beneath the skin of both the wife and the "other woman" and will never look at marriage in the same way again.”

  —Tamera Alexander, bestselling author of To Win Her Favor and A Note Yet Unsung

  “Deborah Raney’s The Face of the Earth is a heartfelt exploration of commitment tested by loss and uncertainty, tempered by grief, and set free by faith. The author has drawn characters living a happy “normal” life that is disrupted in a painful and confounding way. Only faith and obedience to God’s will can bring the peace they seek and restore a future of hope and joy. Wonderful story.

  —Kristen Heitzmann, award-winning author of Secrets and The Breath of Dawn

  “Love page-turners? Tension? Romance? A story that grips you from page one and never lets go? The Face of the Earth delivers on all counts—and more. I relished this book.”

  —Creston Mapes, bestselling author of Fear Has a Name

  “Deborah Raney’s a total pro. Her latest book explores some painful areas of marriage—temptation, betrayal, and loss of trust. But with her exceptional skill and bedrock respect for marriage itself, she turns The Face of the Earth into a story both profound and memorable—even joyous.”

  —Sibella Giorello, author of the Christy-award winning Raleigh Harmon books

  “A thought-provoking, page-turner of a book. Raney once again offers readers a compelling read that also challenges us to think a bit deeper. Highly recommended.”

  —Kathryn Cushman, author of Almost Amish

  “With a skillful blend of the details of small town life, shattering mystery, and deep faith, The Face of the Earth delivers a most satisfying read.”

  —Dorothy Love, author of Every Perfect Gift

  “Deborah Raney had me hanging onto every word. She never disappoints. It’s another wonderful story from a skilled writer. The Face of the Earth is engrossing, great suspense and drama. It’s an absorbing story and a message to the heart.”

  —Yvonne Lehman, author of Hearts that Survive

  “The Face of the Earth by Deborah Raney truly worried me, but in a good way. The characters are so believable, the situation so plausible, the unfolding of the story so gripping that from the first chapter I went mentally all in for the emotional journey. This is Deb at her best!

  —Mae Nunn, author of A Texas Ranger’s Family

  “The Face of the Earth is a tightly-written page-turner. Raney’s well-developed romantic element makes her novel sing.”

  —Eric Wiggin, author of The Hills of God and The Recluse

  The Face of the Earth

  This novel was originally published in 2013 under the same title by Howard Books/Simon & Schuster.

  © Copyright 2017 Deborah Raney.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted to any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without prior written permission from Raney Day Press.

  Scriptures used from THE HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®, NIV® Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. All characters are fictional and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Published by Raney Day Press.

  Cover and interior design by Ken Raney.

  Printed in the United States of America.

  Created with Vellum

  For the Raney brothers: Ty, Steve, and Phillip,

  who practically wrote this book for me

  Acknowledgments

  I had a host of friends help me with brainstorming this novel, starting with my three imaginative brothers-in-law who enthusiastically gave their input one afternoon at a Raney family reunion. What fun that was! Thank you, Ty, Steve, and Phillip. All those childhood escapades on the river, the railroad bridge, and at the lake sure paid off for me!

  As always, the Kansas 8 in Kansas City, and the Stark, Kansas, retreat crew added their insights and encouragement, as did my critique partner and dear friend, Tamera Alexander; my longtime friend and first reader, Terry Stucky; fellow author and encourager, Courtney Walsh; my sweet Club Deb friends; and my beloved sisters and brother. I have been blessed to overflowing in the friend department!

  My agent, Steve Laube, remains the best! As do my talented editors—especially Beth Adams—whose insights and ideas added so much to this story.

  To my wonderful parents and my mother-in-law, our four incredible children and their spouses, our growing “quiver” of grandchildren, and the amazing extended family God has given us: God bless you! You all are the absolute joys of my life.

  To my husband, Ken: Who would ever have dreamed this winding road we’ve traveled would land us at such a sweet, sweet destination? I can’t wait to see what the Lord has in store for the years still to come. I couldn’t love you more.

  “God, who made the world and everything in it,

  since He is Lord of heaven and earth,

  does not dwell in temples made with hands.

  Nor is He worshiped with men’s hands, as though He needed anything,

  since He gives to all life, breath, and all things.

  And He has made from one blood every nation of men

  to dwell on all the face of the earth, and has determined their preappointed times

  and the boundaries of their dwellings, so that they should seek the Lord,

  in the hope that they might grope for Him and find Him,

  though He is not far from each one of us;

  for in Him we live and move and have our being . . .”

  —Acts 17:24–28a

  September

  Chapter 1

  Friday, September 3

  Mitchell Brannon fastened his seatbelt and navigated his Saturn throu
gh the Sylvia High School parking lot. “Good riddance,” he muttered, tossing a look over his shoulder at the run-down brick school building. Most of the time he loved his job, but this school year had gotten off to a rocky start and—today anyway—he would hand over his principal’s “badge” in a heartbeat.

  Too bad the weather had taken a turn that felt more like the advent of winter than Labor Day. He flipped on the wipers and waited for them to whisk away the raindrops collecting on the windshield. At least it wasn’t freezing.

  He hoped Jill hadn’t hit any weather on her way home from Kansas City today. But as much as his wife hated driving in the rain, from their phone call last night he knew she was ready to be home. He stopped at the entrance to the street, dug his cell phone from his pocket, and punched in her number.

  It went straight to voice mail. She was probably in that dead zone around Oak Ridge. That or she forgot to charge her phone. “Hey, you,” he said, when the beep sounded. “Just wondering where you are. Give me a call so I know when to start the steaks.”

  He’d had to do some fast-talking to convince his wife to take a couple of days away from a classroom of third graders who adored her and to make time for this professional development conference. But he knew it would be a good distraction for Jill. Their last little bird had flown the nest last weekend, and Jill had been in mourning ever since.

  They’d delivered Katie to the University of Kansas on Sunday, and from the gallon of tears Jill had shed since, you’d have thought they’d buried the girl instead of merely transporting her over the Missouri state line. Even though it was nice having Evan and Katie at the same college, their kids were almost six hours from home, and it had hit Jill hard.

  They’d contemplated heading to their lake cabin to celebrate their first weekend as empty nesters, but because Jill had been at the conference since Wednesday, she’d talked him into a “stay-cation”––something she’d read about in her latest women’s magazine.

  “Besides,” she’d told him, “it would be silly to go somewhere and spend money we can’t afford when we finally have the whole house to ourselves.”

  The house-to-themselves aspect sounded promising. She agreed not to mope and tried to wheedle a promise out of him to not do any yard work or watch any football.

  Now that was pushing it. “How about I’ll help you grade papers if I can watch football?”

  She’d cocked her head, a spark lighting her eyes. “I’ll see your football and raise you steaks on the grill.”

  “Deal,” he’d said, before she could change her mind.

  Turning onto their street, he touched the garage door opener and smiled. He would never voice it while she was still missing the kids so much, but he was beyond happy they’d finally reached this milestone. He’d loved every minute of raising Evan and Katie, but he was ready for it to be just the two of them again.

  He tapped the brakes, waiting for the garage door to open. Hmm . . . Jill’s car wasn’t in its bay beside his. It was after five thirty. Her conference in Kansas City had dismissed at noon, and it was barely a five-hour drive back to Sylvia. Maybe she’d decided to pick up a few groceries on her way home. Probably got stuck in a slow checkout line at Schnucks. But she usually called if she was running late. She knew he worried about her when she was on the road.

  He pushed the remote, savoring the satisfying grind of the garage door going down on another workweek. Before he even opened the door, he heard TP’s toenails clicking on the kitchen tile. The dog pranced a circle around him, tongue and tail wagging in unison, proving that three-year-old, fifty-pound chocolate Labs were still puppies at heart. Mitch deposited his briefcase on the island and bent to administer his daily dose of affection. “Hey, boy, where’s Mama?”

  He refilled the dog’s water bowl and checked his cell phone for messages again. Nothing. But the answering machine on the kitchen phone was blinking. Odd. They rarely used the landline. Jill usually just texted. Maybe she’d remembered he had a meeting this afternoon and didn’t want to bother him at work.

  He grabbed the thawed steaks from the fridge and played back the message while he mixed up his famous steak marinade.

  “Hey, babe . . .” Jill’s voice filled the kitchen, easing the tension he hadn’t realized was forming behind his temples. “I’m rushing to get packed and checked out of the hotel, but I should still be home by five––six at the latest. Tell TP I’m bringing him home a little treat.” Her voice turned sultry. “I might have a treat for you, too, Mitchell Brannon.”

  TP sat at Mitch’s feet, his head cocked as if he understood every word. The Lab was Jill’s dog. TP stood for Teacher’s Pet, although after a certain Halloween when Principal Brannon had been a target of trick-or-treaters, she’d started telling their friends that it stood for Toilet Paper.

  Mitch chuckled at the thought, while Jill’s cheery voice continued on the answering machine. “If you don’t mind getting the steaks started, I’ll stop off and pick up some salad stuff. Maybe a loaf of that French bread you like from Panera. Love you. I can’t wait to tell you about the conference. And other stuff. It was––” She giggled, and Mitch could almost read her thoughts. She was thinking about how much grief he always gave her for leaving “soliloquies” when she used voice mail.

  “Never mind,” she said––he could almost see her rolling her eyes––“It was just a really good experience. I’ll tell you all about it when I get home.”

  She sounded good. Really good. He’d worried a little that Jill was taking Katie’s leaving harder than she should, moping around the house like a mama cat looking for her kittens.

  He checked the display on the answering machine. She’d left her message at one fifteen. Even allowing for a stop at the grocery, she should be home any minute.

  It was plenty chilly for a fire. Perfect. He went out to the back deck to bring in some of the wood he and Evan had cut last time they were at the lake cabin. He got a fire started and lit some candles on the mantel. He wished he’d thought to pick up flowers on the way home. Candlelight and roses were usually just the ticket to a romantic evening. Though recently, with the pressure of getting Katie off to college and getting her own classroom ready for the school year, Jill seemed ticked off by his overtures more often than not. But he would take the risk tonight. Surely she guessed what his hopes were for their first weekend in a wonderfully empty nest.

  When she still wasn’t home at six o’clock, he called her cell phone. Voice mail again. “Hey, babe . . .” He cradled the phone between his ear and one shoulder while he turned the steaks in the marinade. “Where are you? I’m going to fire up the grill. Let me know when I should put the steaks on. For what it’s worth, I’m starving.”

  He set the dining room table with the good dishes––the ones they’d gotten as wedding gifts––and lit the tall candles that decorated the center of the table.

  At seven thirty, he turned off the grill and put the steaks back in the fridge. At this rate it’d be dark before they ate. He scratched TP behind the ears. “Sorry, boy. Guess you’ll have to wait till tomorrow night for scraps.” The dog whined, looking disappointed.

  The sky was clear and the rain hadn’t amounted to anything. But maybe it was worse up near Kansas City. Mitch went into the den and checked area weather on his computer. It didn’t look like anything to be concerned about anywhere along the route Jill would have taken. Surely the Labor Day holiday didn’t generate enough traffic to have made her this late.

  By eight o’clock the candles had puddled on the table runner, and the sun sank below the rooftops of their cul-de-sac. Still no phone call. No text. He stood at the open front door, staring down the street. The trees cast long shadows across the pavement. It would be dark in a couple of hours. He’d left three messages on her voice mail and called the hotel to confirm she’d checked out. She had. But they had no record of when she’d left the hotel, since she hadn’t turned the key in. There were no incidentals charged to the room, and the bill had been
paid by the Sylvia school district.

  He paced the length of the kitchen, debating who to call next. He didn’t have a clue which other teachers had gone to the conference, and he didn’t want to bother Jill’s principal if it turned out to be nothing. The last time he’d worried over her whereabouts, she’d been home all along, yakking over the backyard fence with Shelley next door.

  Maybe she’d called Shelley. Those two were like sisters. He went back to Katie’s room and parted the curtains to see if the lights were on next door. Not that he could tell if anyone was home by that. He hated to guess what the electric bills were over there. Shelley Austin kept a lamp burning in almost every room of the rambling ranch. Jill swore her friend simply liked the ambience the lamps created, but he suspected it had more to do with the fact that Shelley lived alone now that her own daughter was off at college.

  The kitchen window cast a patch of light onto the back deck of the Austin home and Mitch keyed in the number Jill had set on speed-dial for Shelley.

  “Austins’.”

  “Hey, Shelley, it’s Mitch. You haven’t talked to Jill have you?”

  “Today?”

  “Well, since noon or so. She had that conference in Kansas City, you know, but I expected her home by now. I just thought she might have said something to you . . .”

  “No, sorry. I haven’t talked to her since the night before she left . . . Wednesday, wasn’t it?”

  “Yeah. She left on Wednesday.”

  “Did she ride with somebody? Or maybe had to drop somebody off?”

  “I don’t think so.” He walked through the house and went out onto the back deck. “She drove up by herself anyway. I don’t think they were carpooling.”