Lane steen, p.1
Lane Steen, page 1
part #1 of Valley Creek Redemption Series
Lane Steen
Book One of the Valley Creek Redemption Series
Candace West
Contents
Acknowledgments
1. Existence
2. The Teacher’s Desk
3. Searching
4. A Change
5. Healing
6. Moving Forward
7. The Silent Seeker
8. Answered
9. Vengeance
10. Lessons
11. The Return
12. More Changes
13. A New Start
14. Settling
15. Hearing From Valley Creek
16. New Experiences
17. New Battles
18. Venturing Out
19. Dealing with School
20. Beginning To Understand
21. The Turning Point
22. Stephen Speaks
23. Going Back
24. Revelation
25. When Two Hearts Meet
26. Lessons In Grace
27. Hard Decisions
28. A Man Like Pa
Works Cited
About the Author
Ordering Information
What readers have said about Lane Steen:
Candace West may be new to the literary scene, but she writes with a timeless, literary voice and an old soul that takes the reader on an immersive journey.
Lane Steen is a courageous story, written in the first person, of overcoming. Details glisten with remarkable clarity, and settings encompass the reader whether on a peaceful evening stroll through the Ozark woods or scuttling through a busy New York City street. Characters come alive with angst, hope, bravery, and faith. The plucky young heroine appeals on so many levels to our own girlhood insecurities and smashes through them with brilliant defiance.
Look out Anne of Green Gables, this is Lane Steen of the Ozarks, and she has all the wistful coming-of-age charm as our favorite titian orphan from Prince Edward Island.
–Kathleen L. Maher, author of Sons of the Shenandoah Series
Lane Steen has the atmosphere and unabashedly Christian themes of a classic Grace Livingston Hill novel, but with an introspective and poignant view of the faith journey, facilitated by realistic first-person narrative. Accompanying Lane through her challenges and blessings is both heartwarming and thought-provoking. The poetic natural descriptions and engaging character interaction make the story entertaining as well.
–Chloe S. Flanagan, author of A Time for Every Matter
Not ashamed to admit, I was so tied into the characters that I found myself laughing, crying, and being angry right along with them. I knew the hurt that was felt. I’ve asked the questions they did myself. How and why would God ever love someone like myself, after all the mistakes I’ve made? How was He not disappointed? Maybe some of you have those same thoughts and I truly recommend that you check this out. Maybe you can find a little healing like I did.
–Amazon reviewer
Copyright © 2019 by Candace West
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.
ISBN 978-0-9725092-6-8 (Paperback)
Cover design by Christian Faith Publishing. Used with permission.
Interior design and layout by Book Marketing Graphics.
All scriptures are taken from the KING JAMES VERSION (KJV): King James Version, public domain.
Printed in the United States of America
Second Edition July 2019, Minor revisions.
Published by:
Ideas to Books
A division of DLF Digital Services LLC
15 Lucky Lane, Morrilton, Arkansas, 72110
Dedication
For Grandpa and Granny.
You were the first storytellers in our family.
I treasure the history you shared countless times with me.
I will always love you.
Acknowledgments
To acknowledge everyone in my writing journey would take too many pages. I thank everyone who has ever read my stories or encouraged me along the way. Your words and support mean more than you’ll ever know. Thank you!
I want to especially thank my parents whose unfailing love and example taught me to believe in my dreams. I owe you a debt that I can never repay. Words will never say how much I love you both!
I thank those in my family who are no longer with me—Uncle Randall, Grandpa, Granny, Grandpa West, and Grandma West. Without you, I wouldn’t be who I am today.
Thank you, Aunt Joyce Eddlemon Blake for introducing me to Anne of Green Gables. That’s when I knew I wanted to write stories. But most of all, your love and example has shown me what courage looks like.
Thank you Miss Robbie and Pat Peebles for sharing your vast collection of books with me when I was growing up. Pat, you and my mom were the voices in my head that kept nudging me to publish even after I thought my writing days were behind me.
Thank you, Phyllis and Edwin Guess and Don Hyde. I’ll always treasure the many memories we made. Phyllis, you read the first draft of Lane Steen almost before the ink was dry on the pages. Your tears helped me believe I had written a story worth reading.
Thank you Dr. Kate Stewart and Dr. Mark Spencer for your invaluable instruction during my college years. I still miss your classes, your wisdom, and humor.
Thank you Susan Peterson for giving me my first Facebook interview. I love your enthusiastic support of authors!
To the fantastic ladies of KWCL of Oak Grove, Louisiana—Irene Robinson, Candace Davis, and Sonja Bradford—thank you! You gave me my first radio/Facebook live interview. Y’all are so much fun!
I thank my sister authors/friends in the Arkansas chapter of ACFW for their help, encouragement, and friendship—Linda Fulkerson, Shannon Taylor Vannatter, Tonya Bradford, Jolene Staker, Kathy Vernich, Debbie Archer, Jenny Carlisle, Rosie Baldwin, and Suzanne Bratcher. You welcomed me with open arms. You are the best!
Eileen Ward, your help proofreading this story has been invaluable! Your kind words mean so much! Thank you!
To all of my other friends and family, I love and thank you for enriching my life. May God bless each and every one of you!
Not least of all, thank you to my husband Aaron and my son Matthew for putting up with my ever-growing collection of books and notes. Not to mention the piles of laundry on occasion. I love you both!
1
Existence
We loved each other then, Lorena,
More than we ever dared to tell;
And what we might have been, Lorena,
Had but our lovings prospered well—
But then, ’tis past—the years are gone,
I’ll not call up their shadowy forms;
I’ll say to them, “lost years, sleep on!
Sleep on! nor heed, life’s pelting storm.”
I jerked awake. With a trembling hand, I wiped the cold sweat from my forehead. Once more the dream had come, and it was always the same. A man’s voice sang while a violin played the notes softly. His face, as usual, was lost in the shadows. No matter how hard I tried to discover his features I always failed. Casting it aside, I closed my eyes once more. As I tried to catch a few more minutes of shut-eye, the early morning sunlight gently stroked my eyelids. I stretched and turned over. It was horribly cold! The scratchy, thin quilt that covered me did little to warm my shivering form. For a moment, coldness unlike any winter day in the Ozarks pierced my soul. It is his fault—his fault!
Then I remembered. Today was the beginning of the school year, and if I didn’t hurry, I’d be late. Gasping, I threw the quilt aside and jumped to the pitcher of water in the corner of my room. I tried to pour water out, but none came. Stupid ol’ ice! Making a fist, I shattered the thin sheet that Jack Frost left during the night and poured the water into a bowl. How that water bit my hands and face! Stomping my feet to keep warm, I pulled my nightshirt over my head and reached for the only dress I owned, my flour-sack dress.
The dress hung on a wooden peg on the wall. Around the collar and sleeves, frayed places peeled away from the hem that Mama had sewn. Long ago, the light blue flower print had faded.
Still shivering, I reached for my brush and ran it through my dark auburn hair. Long streams of cool vapor drifted from my lips.
“Lane! Com’ere, girl, and eat yer ma’s breakfast. She’s been slavin’ all mornin’ for the likes of ya,” Pa hollered.
Automatically, I whisked the brush harder through my hair and clenched my teeth. A new warmth spilled over me like hot coals. Oh, I hate you—I hate you!
I knew better than to delay. Laying aside my brush, I opened the door and stepped into the warmth of the kitchen.
“There ya are. Sit down,” he growled.
With lowered eyes, I took my chair and began to eat the dry toast and bacon that Mama put on my plate. I knew better than to meet my father’s eyes directly. He thought it was impudent, and heaven forbid that! Besides, I didn’t need to look. I knew the scene by heart. There he sat with a tin cup full of steaming coffee clutched in his hands. The stale smell of whiskey permeated the room. Three days’ stubble shadowed his face and chin. His dull blue-green eyes looked through a web of bloodshot veins, yet they could pierce even the bravest eyes and make them look away. Someday I won’t look away.
“School startin ?” he drawled. “Thought so. I’ve a good mind not to let ya go at all, it bein’ your last year. Yer nearly seventeen. Book learnin’ is a waste of yer time. Ya should be here helpin’ yer ma. Poor woman, she needs all the help she can get.”
Anger nearly overwhelmed me as I listened. Not go to school? I’d worked so hard to get there. If Pa hadn’t kept me from going in the past, I would’ve kept up. School was my only escape. If I lost it, I would lose my only hope to leave someday.
Biting back bitter tears, I chewed my bacon fiercely.
“What’s a girl like ya got business goin’ to school anyhow? You’ll just think yer better than yer old man—maybe ya already do,” he sneered. Like a cat slipping up on his prey, he leaned forward until I could smell the whiskey on his breath.
“Earl, d’ya want more coffee?” Mama broke in meekly, trying to divert his attention.
A curse boomed through the kitchen. Covering her mouth, Mama jumped back against the hot stove. She winced, bit back tears, and returned to her work.
“Ya fool!” he burst out. “I’ve still got a full cup. Ya’d best mind yer own business ’fore I mind it for ya.” He turned his large form back to me. “Tell me, Lane, d’ya want ta go ta school?”
I stared quietly at the cracks in the table. His breath made my stomach turn. Wordlessly, I began to count the cracks. One, two, three, four—
“Answer me, girl!” Answering the truth was impossible. If I said yes, he would never consent. If I lied and said no, he would curse and scream. Either way I couldn’t win. I began to brace for the blow that was sure to come. Five, six, seven, eight—
It came. As abrupt as a flash of lightning, his hand crashed into the side of my head. For several seconds, the table and room reeled. But I did not cry. When I could see straight, the pain throbbed through my temple and stretched across the top of my head, stabbing with each beat of my heart. It’s strange, being hit. At first, I feel nothing but the shock of the blow, but when the pain comes, the truth of it all hits. Why am I here?
For several minutes, tension sparked the air around us. The sound of Mama stirring the pot on the stove was the only sound in the room. I could feel Pa beginning to relax. Slowly, he slid back in his chair.
“Woman, go get my drink. I’m thirsty.” Mama scampered to obey. “And you,” he breathed to me, “go on an’ get yer book learnin’, but ya best remember who’s the boss ’round here. One high an’ mighty word from ya, and I’ll take ya from that school so quick it’ll make yer head spin.”
Mama laid a bottle on the table without looking at him or me. Hungrily, he unscrewed the top and took a swig.
“Now get,” he said, wiping his hand across his mouth.
Still, I didn’t dare meet his eyes. I rose slowly and quietly, knowing better than to appear in a hurry. Turning from the table, I grasped the back of the chair and let the pain rush past. Every step to the door seemed like a million miles away, and with each one I felt his cold eyes burning into my back, filling my heart with more hatred. Just a few more steps and I’ll be out of here. As my hand closed around the doorknob, relief surged through me. Stepping into the clean air and bright sunshine, I shut the door, jumped off the porch, and ran out of sight as fast as I could.
Someday—someday you’ll pay for that.
Around me, the red and gold leaves of the Ozark Mountains soothed my angry spirit. Although I knew the path by heart, the beauty of the hills and valleys amazed me all over again. I wanted to take my time and stroll down the path, but the sharp cold breeze hurried me along. I had no coat, but that mattered little.
I was glad that I was not dead to the beauty around me. He could never take that away from me. A squirrel scurried up an oak and barked at me. Deep inside, laughter bubbled up, but it never reached my lips. Do I even know how to laugh? Maybe, just maybe, if I believed in God I could laugh. I heaved a deep sigh. If there was a God, He must live far away from Arkansas.
At times, when I’d look up at the stars or watch the moon slowly rise over the hills, I’d come so close to believing in Him. There was so much hope in that feeling. But as soon as I turned and saw the dark shanty that was my home hovering in the shadows, doubt dashed away my hopes. God couldn’t be anywhere near my home.
After a mile and a half, I rounded a bend, and the whitewashed schoolhouse welcomed me to another year of challenge and progress. My pace against the hard earth quickened. Children were meeting at the steps to gossip about neighbors. Little boys shyly polished red apples to give to the teacher while others dashed up the steps to get out of the cold. This was my haven, my home!
“Lane, Lane, you’ll never guess what’s happened,” a familiar voice called.
Smiling, I returned the hearty wave of my friend Tabitha. “What is it?” I asked.
She tossed her blond hair over her shoulder. “We’re gettin’ a new schoolteacher. It’s gonna be a lady this time.”
A frown creased my forehead. “Why? We’ve been used to Mr.
Collins for a long time now.”
“I don’t know, but I hope she ain’t cross. I heard that all women teachers is cross.”
“That’s silly, Tabitha. I just hope she can teach. Com’on, let’s go on inside and get warm. It’s as cold as Alaska out here!”
“Alaska!” She rolled her eyes as we skipped up the steps. “Have you been readin’ those fool books of yours again?”
“It’s just an old atlas. I about have the thing memorized.”
“I wished I liked to read as much as you do. I’ve tried, but I dearly hate it.”
As we plopped breathlessly into our seats, I smiled to myself. Tabitha was bubbly and full of energy. Trying to imagine her taking time to sit down and read struck me funny.
“Gracious, it sure is good to be here again,” I breathed, feasting on the sights around me.
Tabitha grunted. She never shared my enthusiasm when it came to learning. To her, school was a waste of her time. She was only interested in eyeing the boys.
Behind me, slow steps mingled with fast, eager ones up the aisle and behind the desks. Outside, the bell was ringing. The teacher had arrived. More shuffles and excited whispers rippled through the room. The students whisked into their seats, arguing who was going to sit with whom. Tabitha and I exchanged grins. We had settled that a long time ago.
The door shut. A sudden lull fell over the room. Across the wooden floor, the sound of quick, firm steps snapped between the desks. I tried to keep from looking, but I couldn’t help it. Hesitantly, I turned and lifted my eyes.
I don’t know what I expected, but she certainly wasn’t at all what I had pictured. She wasn’t more than twenty-one or twenty-two. Her straight black hair was puffed neatly around her ears instead of pulled into a hard knot at the nape of her neck. Dark brown-black eyes sparkled like fresh honey. The cold air had snapped a rosy hue into her high cheeks.
The looks on everyone else’s face showed the same shock I was feeling. We expected a stern-looking older woman and not a young girl.
With a crisp step, she picked up a piece of chalk and wrote the words that would change the course of my life forever:
Study to shew thyself approved unto God, a workman that needeth not to be ashamed, rightly dividing the word of truth. 2 Timothy 2:15
September 2, 1908
Slowly, she turned around and gazed at us. Instead of looking over our heads like Mr. Collins often did, she looked into our eyes. For the first time, I saw in them a mutual understanding and respect.
