The Cowboy's Homecoming. Brenda Minton

      “Please, Jeremy, don’t do this.

       Don’t tear this church down.”

      “Why? Would you open it back up, sing songs on Sundays, serve potluck once a month? It’s an old building, Beth.”

      “It was my mother’s church.” She bit down on her bottom lip and shrugged. “Don’t you feel it, Jeremy? After all these years, don’t you feel it?”

      Man, she was able to set him on his heels the way no other woman ever had. Because, yeah, he felt it. He felt the past. He felt God. He felt faith. It hit him every single time he walked in this building. He felt hundreds of prayers that had been said, probably most of them for him, his little sister and his mother.

      But all of those good memories got lost, tied up with the bad.

      “Sorry, Beth.”

      He turned and walked away, knowing there would be tears streaking down her cheeks, knowing she’d nearly collapse with sadness and frustration over his stubbornness.

      And he also knew that she’d understand why he was doing this.

      BRENDA MINTON

      started creating stories to entertain herself during hour-long rides on the school bus. In high school she wrote romance novels to entertain her friends. The dream grew and so did her aspirations to become an author. She started with notebooks, handwritten manuscripts and characters that refused to go away until their stories were told. Eventually she put away the pen and paper and got down to business with the computer. The journey took a few years, with some encouragement and rejection along the way—as well as a lot of stubbornness on her part. In 2006 her dream to write for Love Inspired came true. Brenda lives in the rural Ozarks with her husband, three kids and an abundance of cats and dogs. She enjoys a chaotic life that she wouldn’t trade for anything—except, on occasion, a beach house in Texas. You can stop by and visit at her website, www.brendaminton.net.

      The Cowboy’s Homecoming

      Brenda Minton

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      He that dwelleth in the secret place of the most

       High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty. I will say of the Lord, He is my refuge and my fortress: my God; in Him will I trust.

      —Psalm 91

      This book is dedicated to all of the strong women

       out there, and to the women wanting to be strong, that they find their strength.

      Contents

      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

      Epilogue

      Letter to Reader

      Questions for Discussion

      Chapter One

      People were never who or what you thought. That’s a lesson Beth Bradshaw knew from experience and she had the scars to prove it.

      She had even learned things about herself that took her by surprise. Like the fact that she could be strong. She didn’t always have to do what pleased others. Sometimes she did what pleased her.

      The fact that she was the person sitting on a horse in front of Back Street Church, determined to talk Jeremy Hightree out of his plans for the building was a big moment for her. It was a mountain climbed. It was a fear tackled.

      Someone had to do it. So, shaking in her boots, remembering the last time she was here, she sat and contemplated the confrontation.

      The horse beneath her shifted, restless from standing. She waved at flies buzzing the animal’s neck and ears but her gaze remained on the run-down church in front of her. Things changed, that was part of life. She’d obviously changed since the years spent attending this little church with her mother.

      Jeremy Hightree had changed. She knew he’d changed because only huge changes could bring him back to Dawson, Oklahoma, with the plans he had for this building.

      The church had been untouched and neglected for too many years. The lawn had grown into a field of weeds. The exterior had faded from white to gray and the paint was chipped and flaking off. After one hundred years of service, the tiny church with the tall steeple had become a forgotten piece of the past.

      So why should she care what Jeremy planned on doing to a forgotten piece of Dawson history? The question rolled through her mind as she dropped to the ground and led the chestnut gelding up the sidewalk, metal hooves clip-clopping on concrete. She looped the leather reins around the handrail and walked up the crumbling concrete steps to the porch. The door stood wide open but she didn’t go in. She glanced around, looking for Jeremy, her heart hammering a chaotic rhythm, afraid she’d see him. Afraid she wouldn’t.

      But this wasn’t about seeing Jeremy. Her heart did a funny skip forward, asking her to rethink that last thought. But she wouldn’t. She couldn’t. This had to be about the church, not schoolgirl emotions.

      She took a hesitant step inside the church. It took her eyes a minute to adjust to the dim interior. Filtered light from the dirty stained-glass windows caught dust particles that floated in the air. A bird glided through the building and landed on the pulpit. Her great-grandfather had made that pulpit. The wood was hickory and the stain was natural and light. A cross had been carved into the front.

      Her history in this town was tied to this church. And she had ignored it. She took a deep breath, breathing in dust and aging wood. For a minute she was eight years old again and unscarred, still smiling, still believing in fairy tales and happy endings.

      Jeremy was still the little boy who pulled at the ribbons on her new dress and teased her about the freckles on her nose.

      But she wasn’t eight. She was twenty-eight. Her mother had been dead for eighteen years. And Jeremy wasn’t a little boy. He was the man who planned on destroying this church.

      Eighteen years of pain tangled inside, keeping her feet planted in the vestibule. The little room where they’d once hung their coats was now draped in spiders’ webs, and mice ran from corner to corner. The old guestbook still rested on the shelf where it had been placed years ago. She flipped through the pages and stopped when she got to her name written in a child’s penmanship. She remembered her mom standing behind her, smiling as Beth scrawled her name, proud that she’d learned to sign it in cursive.

      Too many memories. She didn’t need all of them, she just needed to know the truth. If it was true, she would find a way to stop him. She walked down the aisle of the church, her booted feet echoing in the tall ceilinged building. She stopped and waited for everything to settle, for the memories to stop tugging at her. In this memory, her mom was next to her, singing. The piano rocked to a Southern gospel hymn. And behind her…

      “Bethlehem Bradshaw, I’ll tell on you.”

      His voice was soft in the quiet sanctuary. She turned,