Cherished~a Christian Novel

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Cherished

There are two men in Christine’s life.

Her stalker is getting closer.

Her protector is determined to keep her alive.

Only one can win.

Cherished is the 1^st book in

From the Past Series by Rashauna

Theme: God’s Protection

Genre: Christian Romantic Suspense

Prologue

treaks of lightening illuminated the evening sky, revealing the large raindrops that drizzled down the windowpanes of the classroom. Thunder ripped through the air, its growl lingering in the room, as the storm drew closer. Spring in Seattle meant days of endless rain, but spring was a season that fourth grade teacher Sandra Mitchell welcomed. Pausing from grading her students’ English papers, she rubbed her tired eyes and squinted across the room to read the clock above the Easter decorations. A long sigh of exasperation escaped from her lips.

Six o’clock. Jimmy Summers mother was late again for their weekly parent-teacher conference. With a quick glance at the storm raging outside, Sandra swallowed her annoyance.

A burst of thunder roared overhead and the classroom’s lights lazily blinked. A shrill ring interrupted her pondering and Sandra searched for her cellular phone, finding it buried beneath mounds of already-graded papers. Her hand upset the stack and the papers tumbled to the floor. Ignoring the mess, she silenced the ring. “Hello?”

Silence.

“Hello?” She glanced down at the caller ID.

Name and number unavailable.

She hurried down the aisle of desks to the door and peered into the scarcely lit hallway. Lined with lockers and over-crowded bulletin boards, the wide corridor lacked the children’s incessant chatter, their sneakers scuffling along the polished floor, and the teacher’s stern voices. Was she the only teacher still here? “Who’s there?” she demanded.

The low chuckle traveling across the airways sent a shiver snaking down her spine.

She hung up and stared at the phone in disbelief. Who was that? She glanced at the clock. Six-fifteen. Hurry up, Mrs. Summers, I want to get out of this place! She rubbed her arms and stared outside at the dreary evening.

“Don’t you just love the rain?”

Sandra whirled around, her wide eyes halting at the stranger. “Who are you?” she shrieked, her breath lodging in her throat. She hadn’t heard the classroom door open and scolded herself for not being more attentive.

Standing partially in the doorway, her visitor offered an apologetic grin. “I’m sorry I startled you. I’m Jimmy Summers’ father. My wife didn’t want to face the storm tonight, but she sent over a dozen homemade muffins and the recipe.” He set the container on her cluttered oak desk. Hat still dripping from the short trek from the parking lot to the school, he slung his navy coat over his shoulder and reached out a leather-gloved hand.

Sandra shook his hand. “We did agree to swap pastry secrets. Please have a seat,” she said, indicating a chair in the corner. She selected a muffin and took a bite, tasting warm blueberry. Cooking was her passion next to teaching. She even offered extra credit after school at the local activity center for students who wanted to improve their culinary skills. Dabbing her lips with a napkin, she talked about Jimmy’s latest behavior.

Five minutes into the discussion, Mr. Summers’ phone rang. He flipped it open, clearly agitated by the interruption. “What?” His blue eyes narrowed as he listened to the loud voice. “Mr. Gibbons, didn’t I tell you never to contact me?… yes, I’ll be dropping by tomorrow—” He glanced at Sandra, turned his back to her, and lowered his voice.

Sandra used the opportunity to browse through Jimmy’s family folder and quickly scanned the contents. Her eyes finally halted at the last paragraph. Jimmy’s parents were divorced and a restraining order had been issued against Mr. Summers after he had lost custody of Jimmy. Tinges of pink dotted her cheeks as she clenched her fist. One thing she could not tolerate was a dishonest person. When Mr. Summers hung up, she snapped the file shut and glared at him. “Where is Mrs. Summers? She would have called if you were coming.”

“What are you talking about?”

She angrily rose to her feet and slid the file toward him. “This.”

He ignored the folder as his blue gaze hardened.

“You shouldn’t be within two hundred feet—” Eyes widening, she inhaled sharply and clutched her blouse, her chest burning. Her body lurched into convulsions and she gripped the desk for support. When the attack subsided, painful tears trickled down her pale cheeks. “P-please, help me. What’s h-happening?” Staggering a few feet from her desk, she collapsed to the floor.

Her visitor watched her writhe in pain for several seconds before rising to his feet. His voice lowered half an octave and his eyes flickered a mixture of amusement and annoyance. “It was hard finding you, Sandra. Why did you run so far? I knew you could never hide from me for long.”

The thunderstorm directly overhead, its angry roar seemed to penetrate through the walls, making his chuckle sound sinister… vicious.

Kneeling beside her, he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped her damp forehead. “Did you really think you could hide from me?”

“I—I don’t know you.” Adrenaline surged through her body and her heart pounded erratically. With each heartbeat, the poison traveled throughout her body. Poison. Why had Mr. Summers poisoned her? Cries racked her body. “I don’t know you!” she whispered, her voice nearly inaudible.

“Yes, you do.”

She turned her head to avoid his touch. She wanted to scream for help. Maybe a janitor would hear her and call the police. But she was so weak… her body hurt so much. She watched in horror as her student’s father meticulously peeled back the life-like mask covering his face and the blond hairpiece from his naturally black hair. She recoiled as she immediately recognized him. Eight years ago, she had fled from Florida to Seattle in hopes of erasing his image from her memory.

But he found her.

“Need to make a call?” Taunting her, he dangled her cell phone in front of her face.

Commanding her arms to work, she grabbed the phone and fumbled to dial 911. The pain was almost too much to handle. If only she could fight death! Thick beads of sweat sketched a winding path down her slacked jaw. She heard the dispatcher on the other end of the line, but the plea for help fell silent against her motionless lips.

One

he evening sun hung low in the Florida horizon. A display of orange tints and pink arrays painted the southwestern sky. Toward the north, thunder rumbled in the distance. A soft breeze lifted the damp wisps of Christine Burke’s hair from her neck. Slowing her jog, she tightened her grip on the leash as her dog struggled to break into a run. Christine glanced over her shoulder and grimaced at the dark thunderclouds quickly approaching. As if announcing its arrival, a bolt of lightening snaked across the sky.

She hated storms.

She quickened her pace around the neighborhood and decided to take a shortcut through the park back to her house. She swiped her hand across her forehead, then rotated her shoulders. Loosening her grip on Savannah’s leash, she let the dog lead the way back home. Exercising always soothed her stiff, tense muscles after a stressful day standing in front of the operating table. Her tension headache resurfaced as she remembered today’s intense situation with one of her patients. To get her mind off the situation, she focused on the luxury homes up ahead. Each home had its own unique design, several of which had been showcased in magazines and architecture broadcasts.

When Christine finally reached the park that separated the luxury homes from the Lennox apartments and more economical homes, she broke into a brisk jog and dragged Savannah alongside her. The playground equipment had apparently been deserted at the first sign of rain for the empty swings still rocked and the merry-go-round still spun.

Thick raindrops splashed against her skin and soaked into her perspiration damp hair. She paused in the driveway, retrieved the mail, and surveyed the house. The large two-story Georgian columns stood strong and barely damaged even though other exterior areas of the mansion revealed its disrepair. Hardened soot and charred stucco still covered most of the upstairs windows and walls. The high-pitched roof was stripped bare of shingles and covered with several tarps.

Tucking the mail under her arm, Christine dropped her gaze and sighed heavily. When she purchased the fire-damaged home six months ago, rescuing it from demolition, she hadn’t expected the renovation would take such a long time. Completing much of the renovation herself was becoming more difficult. Camelot’s commissioners had graciously given her another eight months to finish the exterior and the grounds. Because her home was located on Camelot Circle, a scenic route to the Atlantic Ocean that attracted tourists. The town no longer wanted the huge eyesore to deter visitors.

The thunderclouds now loomed overhead and the sky released a downpour. The rain pelted against the roof’s tarps and slid down the house, turning the soot and grime into mush. Pausing on the front porch, Christine shook some of the rain from her clothes then entered the house. She unleashed Savannah and slipped the unread mail into its slot on the phone stand.

Savannah whimpered and scurried to her sleeping basket near the back door. She turned around in circles, her eyes large with fear. After another thunderclap, she sank to her bed and buried her head in her brown and white fur.

“Will you relax?” murmured Christine as she entered the kitchen—one of the few living quarters complete. She retrieved raw vegetables from the refrigerator and a glass bowl from the cabinet, then leaned against the sink and turned on the faucet. As she washed the vegetables, she began to frown. Something in here wasn’t right. She turned off the water, plunging the kitchen into silence.

Boom!

She shrieked, her heart racing, forehead pounding. Savannah released a pitiful howl. Thunder rumbled again and Christine laughed at her paranoia.

Relax, Christie. Glancing down the long hallway, she relocked the back door and reactivated the burglar alarm. She picked up the carrot she had dropped and resumed washing the food.

This house is simple too large for one person, especially when you’re working so much. Her older brother’s words seemed to mock her and she could no longer protest. Doubt over purchasing the dilapidated house and moving to a new town plagued her again. She belonged in Jacksonville, a large city where she would be surrounded by friends and family, not in this small tourist town of Camelot. What was I thinking?

Pulling out the fruit shredder, she told Savannah, “There’s no reason for us to worry. We have everything under control. This house is secure.” Savannah’s ears lifted at the sound of her mistress’s voice, but she didn’t move from her spot. Christine had made a commitment to this place and she was going to fulfill it. She moved to the island counter and started shredding the skin off the carrots.

Christine froze.

An envelop with her name scribbled on the front lay on the granite countertop near her cooking books. She never laid mail on the countertop. She didn’t recognize the handwriting. The blood drained from her face.

Savannah sensed her uneasiness and padded over to her, sniffing against Christine’s ankles.

“Maybe Jason dropped by and put it there,” she said, her voice unconvincing. You know his handwriting as well your own, and this isn’t even close. Her brother wouldn’t stop by without leaving a message on the answering machine and there were none. She eyed the envelope. I’ve been so busy lately; I probably forgot where I put the mail. Swallowing the rising lump in her throat, she slipped out the letter and scanned the contents. Her breath caught in her chest and she stifled a scream.

“I’m watching you.” The bold red letters written in thick, angry cursive seemed to paralyze her.

Someone had been in her house.

She dropped the letter and raced to the cordless phone lying on a stack of magazines on the dinette table. Forcing herself to remain calm, she punched in her brother’s number. Anxiously waiting for the call to connect, she fidgeted with the magazines. When she glanced down at the top magazine, time stood still.

“Hello?” came her brother’s voice on the other end of the line. “Christie, is that you?”

Speechless, she rotated the magazine right side up. Her eyes widened in horror.

“Christine, your number’s on my caller ID. Don’t play games… Are you there?”

The page wasn’t the front cover of a magazine. It was an 8x10 photograph of her… alone at home… unaware of the photographer. A red slash had been streaked across the face. The same red, angry script read, “I’m waiting for you.”

Now she screamed.

Cherished—coming soon

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