Find a Christian store

<< Go Back

Jilted: A Novel (Mended Hearts Series Book 3)

By Varina Denman

Order Now!

Chapter One
My daughter, Ruthie, always called me a glass-is-half-empty kind of person, but she was wrong. Not only was my glass half empty, but a tiny crack shot diagonally from a chip on the rim, and something bread-like hovered in the murky liquid. But I was in the process of tossing that damaged tumbler and getting a brand-new one. Even though I would never be a Susie Sunshine, I was determined to stop hiding inside myself. But it wasn’t proving easy.
Today I sat in my hatchback on the side of Highway 84, sizzling like bacon in the afternoon sunshine. I did this a lot. Sometimes I turned off at the lake and stared at the rippling water, but most times, like today, I drove all the way to the wind fields to gaze at the turbines—white needles against a blue sky. Reaching across the seat, I cranked down the window on the passenger side to allow a breeze in. Ninety-four degrees in September, but it could have been worse. Last week we were still in triple digits.
As a pickup truck sped past, my little silver car rocked gently and I almost ducked, but it was only Old Man Guthrie. His index finger made a slow salute in greeting, but I did nothing in response. My typical hello. My friend Clyde Felton called me distant, but really I was just tired. Tired of waving. Tired of pretending. Tired of trying.
I focused my gaze on the jagged pastureland beyond the pavement and hoped nobody else would interrupt my thoughts. Then again, I sometimes wished God had provided an on/off switch so we women could shut down our brains when the memories started echoing.
For me, those memories were men. Ruthie may have insisted that my glass was half empty, but I liked to think it was filled up fine until the men in my life started throwing rocks at it for sport. Over the years I had gradually trained myself to shy away from males, other than the men in my family. And Clyde. Even Old Man Guthrie knew better than to stop and check on me, thank goodness. If he had, I would’ve been forced to explain why a grown woman was sitting in her car on the side of the highway, staring at the wind turbines. I smiled.
Those windmills, marching across the Caprock like evenly spaced tin soldiers, stretched for miles south of town and settled my nerves like a dose of Valium. Not that I’d had any Valium lately, but one doesn’t quickly forget.
Depression almost killed me.
Twice.
I beat the demon both times and lived to tell the tale, but even now it threatened to rear its ugly head. The nerve. I had trampled it, but still the sadness haunted me like a villain hiding just beyond the glow of streetlights. Waiting.
So I took to fighting it with a spotlight. They say an ounce of prevention is worth more, so whenever I felt the beast slithering through my heart, I would make a mental escape to protect my happy thoughts.
This was one of those days.
I inhaled ninety-four-degree oxygen until my chest couldn’t expand any more, and then I released it back into the hatchback as the muscles in my neck relaxed. Sure, I was a mild recluse, but at least I got out of my house now. I bought my own groceries and went to Panther football games and smiled at people. Sort of. I even ate dinner with Ruthie and her preacher-husband occasionally. I was beating the demon. I was.
I squinted at the nearest turbine, watching its slow-motion arms slice the sun as it cast moving shadows over the hood of my car. The hazy grayness slipped along my skin, then sailed, distorted, to the far side of the highway, where it slid across the pavement before looping back to slap me again.
Round and round and round. The wind fields were a temporary escape from life and the beast. From people. From my hometown. I snickered. I never got very far from Trapp, so I suppose that as much as I disdained the place, I still didn’t want to leave it behind.
Flashing lights caught my eye from way down the road, and I leaned forward with my arms along the steering wheel and my chin on my wrists. The West Texas landscape lay so flat that I could watch the car approach from halfway to Snyder. It seemed to crawl along at a snail’s pace before finally coming close enough I could hear the whine of the siren. A highway patrolman. He barely slowed before turning on the lake road.
I rested my head on the back of the seat and smiled at the predictability. This happened every so often. A group of fishermen would hole up in a cabin, get drunk, and then turn stupid. Last year a couple of them actually fired shotguns into the water, thinking they would shoot the fish, since they weren’t biting.
Yes, Trapp was predictable. Quaint. Simple.
Narrow-minded.
Clearly my daughter was right. I was—and always would be—a glass-is-half-empty kind of girl, but at times, when I stared at the gentle windmills, I wondered if I could be happy again—truly happy, not just faking it—and deep inside, I felt a glimmer of hope.
The moan of another siren swelled on the breeze, and I located a patrolman in my rearview mirror. And through the front windshield, I saw what looked like a fire truck silently making its way closer. This was not predictable.
A lone highway patrolman was to be expected, along with the game warden, but not emergency vehicles from two towns. I turned in the seat as an ambulance sped past, and I covered my ears to block the screeching wails.
As I started the car, curiosity niggled at my brain, but I didn’t follow them. Instead, I took a last glance at the towering sentinels that brought me such solace, and then I did a U-turn and headed back to Trapp. I was scheduled to work at the diner, and it wouldn’t do for me to be late. Besides, the news of whatever was happening at the lake would probably beat me back to town.

Order Now!

<< Go Back


Developed by Camna, LLC

This is a service provided by ACFW, but does not in any way endorse any publisher, author, or work herein.