Ramona Richards - Field of Danger

Her mind clicked like a telegraph through what would have to be replaced. The television, the carpet, the curtains that hung half off their rods…

The curtains.

April froze, her eyes narrowing. She looked at the police officer next to her. “Did you close the drapes?”

He shook his head, and Daniel gestured toward the window. “Open them.”

Picking his way through the shards of April’s life, the man fumbled through the ripped cloth for the cord, then slowly drew back the drapes.

At the sight of the windows, Daniel gasped out a low, choked prayer. “Dear God, save us.”

April’s eyes widened as her breath left her. She stumbled back against Daniel, who braced her, his hands closing on her shoulders.

The block letters trailed across the glass in smeared reddish-bronze lipstick, and the splintered tubes clustered beneath the window, crushed into the carpet.

The message was simple.

YOU TALK

YOU DIE

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A writer and editor since 1975, Ramona Richards has worked on staff with a number of publishers. Ramona has also freelanced with more than twenty magazine and book publishers and has won awards for both her fiction and nonfiction. She’s written everything from sales-training video scripts to book reviews, and her latest articles have appeared in Today’s Christian Woman, College Bound and Special Ed Today. She sold a story about her daughter to Chicken Soup for the Caregiver’s Soul, and Secrets of Confidence, a book of devotionals, is available from Barbour Publishing.

In 2004, the God Allows U-Turns Foundation, in conjunction with the Advanced Writers and Speakers Association (AWSA), chose Ramona for their “Strength of Choice” award, and in 2003, AWSA nominated Ramona for Best Fiction Editor of the Year. The Evangelical Press Association presented her with an award for reporting in 2003, and in 1989 she won the Bronze Award for Best Original Dramatic Screenplay at the Houston International Film Festival. A member of the American Christian Fiction Writers and the Romance Writers of America, she has five other novels complete or in development.

For God hath not given us the spirit of fear;

but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind.

—2 Timothy 1:7

To Phyllis, for all your advice and love.

I didn’t choose you as Rachel’s co-conservator;

God did. I’m just the grateful one.

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

When the shotgun went off, April Presley dropped her thermos and screamed.

Hearing her own scream scared her almost as much as the man with the gun did, and April clamped both hands over her mouth as she watched her next-door neighbor, Levon Rivers, crumple in the middle of the newly plowed section of his field. Levon and his killer were almost fifty yards away, but even at that distance, April could see the blossom of red on Levon’s chest and a cold brace of fear flooded through her.

Then another screech burst through her tightly clamped hands as the killer swung around toward her, his face a blurry mask to her dazed, bewildered eyes. Without hesitation, he lifted the gun and fired again.

April ran.

The morning had started out so peacefully.

As usual, April had spent her morning half on business and half on enjoying the luscious garden of flowers, herbs and vegetables behind her cottage. Since moving to the tiny town of Caralinda, Tennessee, April had found solace and a kind of spiritual comfort in her gardening. Levon, whose cornfield ran right up to the edge of April’s yard, had given her tips that had turned the wimpy cluster of plants into a thriving garden that filled the morning air with the scent of roses, lavender, sage, fuchsia, rosemary and a whole forest of day lilies.

In turn, April brought Levon a thermos of cold lemonade every day that he worked in the field. The sound of his tractor or truck thumping down the field road that ran alongside her house was her cue. Around ten in the morning, she’d wend her way through his cornfield to wherever he worked. Lemonade in the mornings was her token of thanks, and delivering it was usually much more of a joy than a chore.

Yet today, she had barely stepped from between the dense rows of stalks when the shot rang out, her gesture of friendship suddenly putting her in the line of fire. April fled, grateful for high summer and a corn patch thick enough to hide her, grateful that she had walked this field enough with Levon to keep her footing among the dry ruts and clumps of earth. She knew how to keep her head low and her arms out to push away the sharp green blades that slapped around her as she ran.

She was especially grateful that a shotgun had a limited range.

All these things helped her evade the killer, and April could hear his grunts of frustration as he tried to catch her through the corn, then heard the blast that did little but rain shotgun pellets harmlessly over the field. Finally April stopped, holding her sides and trying to catch her breath. She couldn’t run any farther. She’d have to take her chances with staying hidden. She could still hear him stomping about, raging through the corn, the noise growing closer, then moving away, constantly demanding that she show herself. She could stay hidden a long time in Levon’s expansive field, especially if the killer kept making a racket covering the sounds of her own movements as she slipped out of his path. But April knew if someone didn’t come, he’d continue to search. And eventually find her.

April’s knees buckled, and she dropped to the ground. Adrenaline and fear fogged her mind and made her arms and legs tremble uncontrollably. She needed to rest, make a plan. Calm down, girl. Lord, I need Your help. Guide me out of this. Show me what I need to do. She drew her knees to her chest and hugged them to her, trying to still her quivering limbs. If she could only get home, call for help. But she’d gotten so turned around she knew she wouldn’t be able to find the path without standing up fully to get her bearings…and putting herself back in the killer’s sight. How would she get out of the field without the killer seeing her? And had he seen her well enough to know who she was?

These questions echoed in her mind. Her muscle tremors quieted, but her thoughts still swirled out of control, pushing her close to panic. She fought to sit still, to focus.

Normally the smell of the ripening corn and tangy scent of the leaves refreshed her. Today, they were oppressive. The hard-packed earth absorbed the sun while the dense rows of corn blocked most of the wind. April felt as if she were sitting in an oven. Her stomach growled, and she held her breath, waiting to see if the killer had heard it. What do I do now?