Victoria Bylin - Kansas Courtship

“You tricked yourself,” Nora said mildly. “You jumped to a conclusion.”

“A logical one,” Zeb said.

“A biased one.”

“You knew I’d think you were male.”

“You’re right.” She wrinkled her nose like a little girl. “I apologize.”

She looked downright cute. Zeb wanted to kiss her. The thought made him crazy. What was he thinking? She was an uppity know-it-all woman. She had too much education and too much ambition. The next woman he kissed would be his future wife, whoever annoyed him the least. Dr. Mitchell annoyed him the most.

“You’re hired for one month. Make it work or get out.”

AFTER THE STORM:

THE FOUNDING YEARS

A tornado can’t tear apart the fabric of faith and love in a frontier Kansas town

Kansas Courtship—

Victoria Bylin, March 2010

fell in love with God and her husband at the same time. It started with a ride on a big red motorcycle and a date to see a Star Trek movie. A recent graduate of UC Berkeley, Victoria had been seeking that elusive “something more” when Michael rode into her life. Neither knew it, but they were each reading the Bible.

Five months later they got married and the blessings began. They have two sons and have lived in California and Virginia. Michael’s career allowed Victoria to be both a stay-at-home mom and a writer. She’s living a dream that started when she read her first book and thought, “I want to tell stories.” For that gift, she will be forever grateful.

Feel free to drop Victoria an e-mail at VictoriaBylin@aol.com or visit her Web site at www.victoriabylin.com.

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Special thanks and acknowledgment to Victoria Bylin for her contribution to the AFTER THE STORM: THE FOUNDING YEARS miniseries.

Thanks be to God who always leads us in triumph in Christ, and manifests through us the sweet aroma of the knowledge of him in every place.

—II Corinthians 2:14

For my grandmothers,

Ethel Kennedy Bylin and Cecille Jewel Vickers

Nana Bylin bought me books

And Grandma Vickers gave me a love of writing

Eternal love to you both!

Prologue

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

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Epilogue

Questions for Discussion

June 1860

High Plains, Kansas

Zeb Garrison didn’t think much of church or preachers. Still, he had to give Reverend Preston credit for striking a chord that hadn’t stopped echoing since Sunday morning. Zeb had been sitting in the back pew, alone because he’d overslept and his sister, Cassandra, had left without him. He’d been half asleep when the reverend jarred him awake with a single statement.

If you died tomorrow, what would you leave behind?

The reverend hadn’t shouted the words. He hadn’t even raised his voice. He’d made a statement, but the question had stayed in Zeb’s mind for five solid days as he went about the business of running Garrison Mill. It hung there now, dangling like a ripe apple ready to drop.

Positioned at the standing desk in his mill’s office, a custom piece of furniture built to match his height, Zeb dragged his hand through his dark hair. He needed a haircut, badly. As always, he’d put it off to the point of rebellion. A glance at the wall clock told him the town barber would be open, but a look out the window confirmed what he’d noticed earlier. Bad weather was coming. Fast. Through the window, he saw clouds racing across the grasslands, picking up speed like a runaway horse.

He had no desire to get stuck at the mill in a storm. His workers had finished early and he’d sent them home to their wives and families. Zeb had no such obligations, beyond his responsibility to his sister. It was better that way. Females, he’d learned, were treacherous. Frannie, his former fiancée, had taught him that painful lesson.

Instead, he’d poured his soul into building Garrison Mill. Along with his friend Will Logan, Zeb had founded High Plains eighteen months ago. Someday the town would be a hub for farms and businesses. Once the wheat crops became plentiful, he’d turn the sawmill into a gristmill. Eventually he’d be shipping flour all over America.

The thought humbled him. Who’d have thought a poor kid from Bellville would ever own a mill? Zeb owed everything to Jon Gridley, a renowned Boston millwright. Pleased to have a protégé, Gridley had filled Zeb’s head with the mechanics of gears and water power. When the old man died, he’d left everything to Zeb, making him a rich man in spite of his humble beginnings. With wealth came a burden Zeb hadn’t expected. If Garrison Mill succeeded, High Plains would prosper. If it failed, the town could turn to dust. Not an hour passed that he didn’t feel responsible for the families he and Will had brought west.

Zeb walked to the window and studied the sky. If he hurried, he could get home before the storm struck. Frowning, he lifted his broad-brimmed hat from a wooden peg, locked the door behind him and stepped into the yard. What he saw sucked the air from his lungs. Funnel clouds were reaching down from the sky like bony fingers. Twisting. Turning. White and gray, they looked like a hand ready to snatch innocent victims from the earth. Zeb froze in amazement. He’d heard about twisters, but he’d never seen one.

In a blink, the storm turned and picked up speed. The fingers were coming for him. Blood rushed to his brain and he ran back to the mill for cover.

Will had cautioned him to build a cellar for such an event, but Zeb had been arrogant. He had only one place to hide, his office, and he’d locked the door. Fumbling for the key, he heard a roar unlike anything he’d ever heard. The wind grabbed at his coat. Twenty feet away, a stack of shingles exploded into a flock of birds.

Fumbling, he found the key and turned the knob. As the door opened, the wind ripped it from its hinges and shoved him to his belly. He couldn’t breathe. He could only lay sprawled on the floor, twisting to put his back against the wall as he watched the chaos of the wind.

One thought came to him, only one. If he died today, who would care? What would he leave behind? A pile of rubble, that’s what. Loneliness whipped through his soul with the force of the wind. Cassandra would miss him, but someday she’d marry.

And he himself? He’d have sawdust and splinters. A black wind hurled debris past the open door. No sons or daughters. A wagon somersaulted and broke apart. More shingles flew by, a hundred of them. Hail pounded the roof, and the window blew out. The mill groaned as it fought to stand. He heard the waterwheel going berserk and the clatter of gears.