Blind Trust
Authors: Terri Blackstock
Tags: #Fiction, #Christian, #Suspense, #General, #Thrillers
Dear Reader,
The book you’ve just bought from my “Second Chances” series is truly evidence of the second chances God gives us. The books in this series have been published before, some by Dell, some by Harlequin, others by Silhouette and HarperCollins. I was a Christian when I entered the romance market in 1983, hoping to take the world by storm. What I found, instead, was that the world took me by storm. One compromise led to another, until my books did not read like books written by a Christian. Not only were they not pleasing to God, but they embraced a worldview that opposed Christ’s teachings. In the interest of being successful, I had compartmentalized my faith. I trusted Christ for my salvation, but not much else. Like the Prodigal Son, I had taken my inheritance and left home to do things my own way.
I love that parable because it so reflects my life. My favorite part is when Jesus said, “But while he was still a long way off, his father saw him …” I can picture that father scanning the horizon every day, hoping for his son’s return. God did that for me. While I was still a long way off, God saw me coming. Early in 1994, when I yearned to be closer to God and realized that my writing was a wall between us, that my way had not been the best way, I promised God that I would never write anything again that did not glorify him. At that moment, it was as if God came running out to meet me. I gave up my secular career and began to write Christian books.
Shortly after I signed a contract for Zondervan to publish my suspense series, “The Sun Coast Chronicles,” something extraordinary happened. The rights to some of my earlier romance novels were given back to me, and I was free to do whatever I wanted with them. At first, I thought of shelving them, but then, in God’s gentle way, he reminded me that I was free to rewrite them, and this time, get them right. So I set about to rewrite these stories the way God originally intended them.
As you read these stories, keep in mind that they’re not just about second chances, they are second chances. I hope you enjoy them.
In Christ,
Terri Blackstock
Books by Terri Blackstock
Soul Restoration
Emerald Windows
Restoration Series
1
| Last Light
2
| Night Light
Cape Refuge Series
1
| Cape Refuge
2
| Southern Storm
3
| River’s Edge
4
| Breaker’s Reef
Newpointe 911
1
| Private Justice
2
| Shadow of Doubt
3
| Word of Honor
4
| Trial by Fire
5
| Line of Duty
Sun Coast Chronicles
1
| Evidence of Mercy
2
| Justifiable Means
3
| Ulterior Motives
4
| Presumption of Guilt
Second Chances
1
| Never Again Good-bye
2
| When Dreams Cross
3
| Blind Trust
4
| Broken Wings
With Beverly LaHaye
1
| Seasons Under Heaven
2
| Showers in Season
3
| Times and Seasons
4
| Season of Blessing
Novellas
Seaside
ZONDERVAN
Blind Trust
Copyright © 1997 by Terri Blackstock
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of Zondervan.
ePub Edition June 2009 ISBN: 0-310-86119-5
Requests for information should be addressed to:
Zondervan,
Grand Rapids, Michigan 49530
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Blackstock, Terri, 1957-
Blind trust / Terri Blackstock.
p. cm.—(Second chances)
ISBN-10: 0-310-20710-X (softcover)
ISBN-13: 978-0-310-20710-8 (softcover)
I. Title. II. Series: Blackstock, Terri, 1957- Second chances.
PS3552.L34285B57 1997
813’54.—dc21
97–2726
All Scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from the
Holy Bible: New International Version
®. NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.
Published in association with the literary agency of Alive Communications, Inc., 7680 Goddard Street, Suite 200, Colorado Springs, CO 80920.
This book is lovingly dedicated to the Nazarene.
Table of Contents
I
want to take a moment to tell you about Emily Kelly, my friend and biggest supporter, who recently went home to be with the Lord. Emily, a sister in Christ and a sister church member, has been reading my books for years, offering wonderful encouragement to me at times when I was certain no one in the world was reading my work. I never had to tell her I had a book out, because she was always looking and waiting for it to be placed on the shelves. I would plan to give her a free copy as soon as I saw her, only to find that she’d already bought it, read it, and recommended it to someone else.
In her last weeks, when cancer was ravaging her body and she was engaged in the toughest battle she’d ever fought in her life, she asked if my latest book was out. Reading it, she said, would help to get her mind off of her struggles. I hated the thought that she might not make it until my next book’s release. I knew that the book itself would do nothing for her quality of life, but knowing she was there to read it did a great deal for mine.
She didn’t make it until that next book, and I’ve felt that void so deeply. But I know that I am a better writer because of Emily, and that remains with me. I thank her more than words can say for the part she played in my life.
And I’m glad she finally won that battle.
T
he Bronco that had been riding Sherry Grayson’s bumper since she’d left work was not the sole cause of her rising anger. But since it had been inappropriate to lash out at her roommate, Madeline, when she’d broken the news just fifteen minutes ago, she figured the Bronco was as good a target for her rancor as any.
Deliberately slowing to fifteen miles an hour in a forty-mile-an-hour zone, she crept along, hoping the driver behind her would get the message and pass her before she slammed her brakes to make him hit her from behind. It would serve him right. But wrecking her car wouldn’t solve her problems, any more than bursting into tears would. And she didn’t have the time nor the energy for either.
“Slow down,” she muttered as tremors of anxiety coursed through her. She couldn’t deal with a battle with a joyrider today. Yesterday, when life still had as much normalcy as it had had for the last eight months, she might have handled it better. But today …
“Get off my bumper!” Sherry blared, heat scoring her features when the Bronco almost bumped her. Heavy traffic detoured around them, but the driver would not pass her. It was an omen. An omen that she could no longer refuse to look back. After what she’d learned today, she would need strength from her past so that she could plunge forward.
According to her roommate, Clint Jessup was back from the black hole he’d vanished into without a trace eight months ago, and he intended to see her. The destructive driver behind her was a warning that life was going to be a bit rougher for a while. But she had braved rough times before; she could do it again.
Anxious to be rid of the vehicle that seemed bent on driving right through her, she made a sharp turn onto a quieter street and breathed a shaky sigh of relief that she could drive the rest of the way in peace.
But a quick glance in the rearview mirror told her the Bronco was still behind her. Her pulse accelerated as the first light of understanding dawned on her. The Bronco was following her.
Driving fast enough to keep a car’s distance between them, Sherry strained to make out the driver. A man—no, two men—sat silhouetted against the sun descending at their backs. The driver’s shoulders squared with determination as he drove, and the passenger sat slumped against the door in a pose of utter boredom.
Panic surged through her. Making another quick turn while she held her breath, Sherry watched in her mirror as the Bronco barreled around the corner after her, the sun no longer making opaque shadows out of her pursuers. The driver’s hair flapped into his face from the hard wind at his window, and she watched a hand come up to push it back into place. It was dark hair, full and tapering back from his face, and against the light through his back window she could see the slightest hint of curl.
She made another turn as the panic coiling in her stomach became more pronounced. The sun was blazing toward her now, and without slowing her speed, she held up a hand to shade her eyes and glanced in the mirror again, hoping to mentally record his features and report him to the police. Sherry clutched the steering wheel more tightly and waited for the bright glare to slide off the windshield and give her a clear view of his face as they rounded a curve. The open collar of the driver’s shirt flapped against his neck, and a ray of sunlight caught a strip of gold draping down from his throat, illuminating it like the razor edge of a knife. Some familiar pain stabbed her heart, and she released her breath in a rush.
The gold chain … the engagement gift she had given him …
“No,” she said aloud before her imagination carried her away. It wasn’t him. It was just the knowledge that he was back that had made her heart conjure up images.
The sun descended behind the trees after its last blinding burst of orange, and suddenly the man came into full view through the mirror—the beckoning mane of soft, dark hair, the determined set of full lips on a tanned face, the chain glistening more subtly against his neck. And as her punctured heart sank to her stomach, her eyes rose to the dark, riveting eyes that refused to let her go.
Clint Jessup’s eyes.
Oh, dear God, I’m not ready for this.
Physical danger she could bear, but Clint Jessup threatened something far worse.
Suddenly her driving became uninhibited, and her foot pounded the accelerator to the floor.
As if he knew he’d been recognized, Clint’s teeth flashed between tight lips, and he sped up as well. His shoulders hunched forward as he clutched the steering wheel. Searching for another turnoff in hopes of getting back into the flow and security of heavy traffic, Sherry forced her eyes to stay on the road and away from the rearview mirror. But no sooner had she spotted a turnoff a mile up the deserted road than the heavy hum of his engine loomed up beside her.
Sherry kept her eyes off the vehicle trying to stop her and remained intent on reaching the turnoff. But Clint had other plans. She heard his gears shift, heard the passenger in his car shouting at him, heard the squeal of his tires as he found a last burst of speed and screeched sideways in front of her. Stomping on her brakes, she steered to the shoulder of the road, skidding to a stop just short of hitting him.
The driver’s door of the Bronco slammed, and in seconds Clint was at her car. Before the thought of locking her door occurred to her, he was reaching for the handle, opening it, leaning inside. Sherry shoved him away and pushed out of the car, her heart pounding. “You lunatic, are you trying to kill us?”
Clint leaned against her car door to close it. The suggestion of a smile softened his lips, but his black eyes were serious as they took in the sight of her. “Hi, Sherry,” he said between labored breaths.
The mildness of his greeting rankled her, but somehow she couldn’t make herself get back in the car and drive away just yet. “What do you want, Clint?”
A shrug and a sigh punctuated his slowing breaths. “I tried to call, but I didn’t get very far with your roommate. I just wanted to see you.”
Sherry slid her trembling fists into the pockets of her pants. “In the old days they used to knock on doors for that sort of thing, instead of running you down in the street.”
“You would have just slammed the door in my face,” Clint said. “I wanted to catch you before you got inside.”
Sherry turned away from his probing eyes and peered up the street, wishing she could turn back time a half hour and prepare herself for this encounter. “Next time you want to follow someone, Superman, you might be less conspicuous if you kept a few inches between bumpers.”
A slow, half-smile sauntered across Clint’s face, casting an angular shadow on the new, deep lines in his bronze skin. “And next time you get followed, Lois, you might avoid taking the most deserted street in the city.”
Sherry shrugged and reached past his hip to open her door. “Lesson learned. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
Clint caught her shoulders and turned her to face him. “I wanted to see you, Sherry, not teach you a lesson.”
Sherry stepped out of his hold and gave him a guarded assessment, fighting back the hope that told her to give him a chance. Reason left her for a fleeting moment, her eyes softened, and she mentally brushed his hair back as it eased over his face, mentally straightened the long, thin strand of gold as it looped from his neck where she had hung it months ago, mentally traced the tapering lines of his white shirt. His jeans were worn and faded, and he still wore the threadbare jogging shoes that he’d held on to—longer than he’d held on to her.
“Why did you move?” he asked.
Sherry glanced away long enough to tighten her grip on her unstable emotions, then brought her eyes back to his, unblinking, as if the simple movement would shatter them. “I was all packed up with no place to go.”
His doleful gaze lowered to the pavement between them, and his throat convulsed. “I know I hurt you, running out like that before the wedding, but—”
“I survived,” she cut in, desperately wanting to be spared the excuses that had taken him eight months to manufacture. She already knew the reason he had disappeared two weeks before their wedding. When Madeline, her roommate, had called her this afternoon to tell her that Clint was back and that he had called, she’d said something about his being away working on a book he was writing. The very idea had enraged Sherry. He wasn’t a writer. He had never even mentioned a desire to write. He had been a youth minister before he’d skipped town. The flimsy, stupid excuse for his fleeing from commitment had added insult to injury.
“It was great to see you again, Clint,” she said in a saccharine voice as she reached for her door again. “Next time you see me on the street feel free to run me off the road for a nice little chat.” The door snapped open beneath her hand, but before she could step inside, Clint grabbed the door and blocked her entrance.
“We’ve got to talk, Sherry,” he said in a firm, determined voice as he stepped closer behind her and set his other hand on her stiffening shoulder.
The touch shattered her facade and exposed the raw pain hidden beneath it. She clamped her teeth shut, grating out words that cut deeper with each syllable. “What do you want?”
“I want you back,” he said simply.
An almost hysterical laugh came from deep in her throat to thicken the air around them. Slowly, she turned to face him, narrowing her blue eyes to hide the pain lurking there. “It’s about eight months too late for that, Clint. I must admit, I didn’t expect you to work the freedom bug out of your system quite so soon, but—”
“It wasn’t the freedom bug, Sherry,” Clint said. “You can’t believe I would have skipped out on the wedding without a really good reason.”
Sherry shook her head wearily and gazed off into the distance, the well of moisture in her eyes catching the light. “Clint, how should I put this? If you were kidnapped by savages and taken to some exotic island, and had to spend eight months swimming shark-infested waters to get back to me, it wouldn’t make any difference. It’s over. Dead. Can you understand that?”
His throat bobbed again, and he raised a finger to her chin, coaxing her face back to his in such a gentle way that she couldn’t resist looking at him. “I don’t believe you.”
Swallowing back the emotion blocking her throat, Sherry steadied her voice. “Fine, then, let’s test it.
Were
you kidnapped by savages and taken to some exotic island?” As she spoke, full tears sprang to her eyes, for she hadn’t realized until now how much she wished it were true.
“No,” he said before she could finish. A deep, jagged breath tore from his lungs. “I can’t make you understand right now. I had to get away and—”
“Write?” The word was flung as a challenge.
The lines in Clint’s face seemed etched deep with regret as he looked at the ground, then glanced toward the quiet man still sitting in the Bronco, the man Sherry had almost forgotten. The man leaned forward and nodded, as if giving him some silent signal. Clint’s eyes glossed over with despair as he brought them back to her. “Yeah,” he breathed out in a voice as dull as a twilit sky. “I had to get away and write.”
Somehow the admission pierced her even more deeply than his disappearance had. “I’m sure the youth ministers of the world will appreciate the sacrifices you’ve made to record your amazing well of knowledge. Too bad you’ve lost all your credibility now that you’ve left your youth group high and dry and dumped your fiancée all in one moment of panic.”
“Sherry, don’t do this,” he whispered, as though he didn’t want the other man to hear. He touched her hair so lightly that she sensed more than felt it. “I’ve been through agony, and it’s not over yet.”
Sherry ducked her head away from his hand and slipped into the car. “Just think how much richer your writing will be after all that suffering,” she said, her voice cracking. She cranked her engine, but he leaned inside the car door, still not letting her go.
“It’s not over, Sherry,” he said in a deep, desperate voice. “I’m not giving up on you. You’re gonna have to do one major convincing job to make me believe that you don’t care anymore.”
Sherry stared at her trembling hands clutching the steering wheel as if it alone could anchor her to reality.
“I’m still crazy about you,” he whispered, his hand slipping through her hair to settle on her neck. “An hour hasn’t gone by that I haven’t thought of you.”
“That’s very touching.” Sherry knew that somewhere within her there must be a reserve of strength. But for the life of her, she could not find it. Her eyes fluttered shut. His fingers began to knead her neck, and she opened them again and shoved his hand away from her neck. “Now if you’ll kindly move so I can shut my door …”
“I want to see you tonight.”
“No.”
“Why not?” he asked. “What are you afraid of?”
“My temper,” she said.
“I know that temper. I can deal with it.”
“I can’t,” she bit out, lips quivering. “It might land me in jail.” Her face reddened to back up the words, seething blood and storming emotions threatening to implode, leaving her their only victim, if she didn’t start driving.
“Then when can I see you?” The question was a pleading whisper against her face.
“Never. Now get away from my car.”
Clint blew out a frustrated breath. “I’ll let you go now, but it’s not over by a long shot.”
Sherry slipped her car into reverse. “It’s your time, your energy. Waste it if you want.”
Slowly, Clint stepped back and allowed her to pull her door closed. He stood watching as she backed away from the Bronco’s barricade, then shifted into drive with a screech of rubber and went around it.
Sherry would have given all she owned for a little numbness at that moment, for her heart ached as she glanced back at him before making her turn. He was standing in the road, lean and forlorn, staring after her. Quickly, she turned, leaving him behind, though the sight of him was inexorably drafted on her mind.
The car seemed to drive her home instinctively, for her thoughts were caught in the eye of her raging emotions. The anger and bitterness she had carefully cultivated for her first meeting with Clint dwindled beside the bitter mingling of pain and attraction she still felt. It wasn’t fair for him to come back now, she thought as she forced back her menacing tears. She had just begun to get her life in order, had just come close to happiness again after the nightmares of the last eight months.