Where Love Grows: The Legacy Continues

By Kathy Rigdon Highley

As much as Amber declared that she wanted to put aside the memories and forger all about Frank Jessup, the mystery of his disappearance continued to infiltrate every aspect of her life. Deep in her soul she believed that she and Frank must be on a collision course with destiny.
And one day she would have to deal with the past. She didnt know how or where, but she could feel it coming.
He was out there somewhere, so far as she knew. Did he long to see her the way she longed to see him? Did he think about her at all? Did she dare think about him? Would she have the courage to confront him, and find out the real reason he left town?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 19, 2015
• ISBN: 9781514426494

Kathy Rigdon Highley

Kathy Highly is an award winning author who delight in sharing the message of hope through all of her writings genres, including poetry, short stories, fiction and non-fiction. She has published four Christian novels and has two more in the wings. Relationships that Rock Your WorldDivorce Recovery for Women represents her first non-fiction effort, which is now available for purchase. She enjoys sharing her heart with her readers and offering encouragement for people who walk this journey in darkness. She signs with the Singing Women of West Texas, is a certified Alphabioticist, & owns and operates the Wellness Center of Big Spring. The joy of her life is her Lord first, followed closely by her family.

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Copyright © 2015 by Kathy Rigdon Highley.

ISBN:      Softcover      978-1-5144-2652-4

                eBook         978-1-5144-2649-4

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 11/13/2015

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Contents

Where Love Grows—The Legacy Continues

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Epilogue

Reference Page

Judgment is God’s Job

by Max Lucado

There is power in revenge. Intoxicating power. Haven’t we tasted it? Haven’t we been tempted to get even? As we escort the offender into the courtroom, we announce, He hurt me! and jurors shake their heads in disgust. He abandoned me! we explain, and the chambers echo with our accusation. Guilty! the judge snarls as he slams the gavel. Guilty! the jury agrees. We delight in this moment of justice. We relish this pound of flesh.

I don’t mean to be cocky, but why are you doing God’s work for Him? Vengeance is Mine, God declared. I will repay. Proverbs 20:22 says, Don’t say, ‘I’ll pay you back for the wrong you did.’ Wait for the Lord, and He will make things right. Judgment is God’s job. To assume otherwise is to assume God can’t do it. God has not asked us to settle the score or get even. Ever!

From When God Whispers Your Name

Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be terrified; do not be discouraged, for the LORD your God will be with you wherever you go (Joshua 1:9 NIV).

Amber Martin struggled to make the journey, propelled against her will. She faced a long walk to the dark secret room. Laden with guilt, fear and shame, she inched forward. Voices argued in her head, and she ached from their warring. Pictures of imps the revival preacher had warned about seemed real and terrifying in her imagination. She had succumbed to their jeering appeals; and celebration squealed through high-pitched voices, ringing strains of evil laughter through her tortured mind. They were pleased with her decision.

The evil creatures surrounded her, congratulated her, mocked her, despised her, and praised her. A crowd of them pushed her toward the shadows that beckoned from the forbidden alleyway, to the one-way door.

She could no longer conjure up the compassionate eyes of Pop and Granny Martin, who had adopted her at age nine.

She could no longer hear the whisper of hope she wanted so much to claim—the hope promised by her Savior in His Word. Romans 8:28; Jeremiah 29:11; Hebrews 13:5; Matthew 28:20. The references Amber had learned under Granny Martin’s roof rolled through her mind like thunder, one after another.

She wanted—so much—to believe. But could this Whisperer save her? He hadn’t saved Granny Martin—and she’d prayed from the depths of her soul that He would. Granny had lasted only three days after the heart attack.

You knew she was all I had, whispered Amber, as she fell to her knees in the muddied vacant lot. "You knew, and You took her from me anyway.

Take my life too, and remove me from the doorstep of the butcher. Please, Lord. Don’t let this terrible thing happen. I beg You. Take us both before my baby tastes the sting of death long before the breath of life enters his body.

Silence answered her cry. Faith waned in the midst of overwhelming fear. She longed for the sweet peace of death. To once again be forevermore with her adoptive grandmother, who had loved her—without condition.

The building stood just across the way—bold and ugly and deceitful in its outward appearance. Horror alone dwelt behind its walls. Between her and the fate that awaited her unborn child stood a busy four-lane road and a small plot of land.

Amber labored to her feet, and plowed across the vacant lot, her eyes glued to the dingy white building. As the space between the painful present and a grim future lessened, her heart began to pound. Tears poured down her cheeks in rivers.

Doubt and fear multiplied, almost persuading her to turn back; but the decision had to be made soon. If not, there would be no way to undo what had been done. No way out but to have the baby—and perhaps die with him—in the streets of a deadly Denver winter.

All the love Amber had ever known or experienced faded into a dim memory. The eight wonderful years she had shared with the Martins seemed like a distant dream, a vapor that had vanished, just as she reached out to grab it.

From her vantage point, she could see no light, no future. She did not care whether she lived or died—and believed no other living soul did either.

No matter what happened in that hot, cramped, smelly, unwashed, terrible place filled with cries of anguish, pain and regret—even if death waited behind its unsanitary walls—what would it matter?

It wouldn’t, she decided, more sad than bitter. Not to one single, solitary soul. If death swallowed her up, it would be victory, not defeat. The beginning, not the end. Heaven waited on the other side. Life had become her own personal hell. And frankly, she had seen enough. Had suffered enough. Had choked on the putrid waves of sulfuric stench acquainted with the belch that rises from the depths of Satan’s domain. Enough. She just wanted out.

Amber reached inside the right front pocket of her jeans to feel the brooch wrapped in a bandanna. The brooch left to her by her mother. The brooch that could mean the link between a real family and being alone. Somewhere in Denver, per her Granny Martin’s latest research, Amber’s aunt might still live. She had no idea where. She didn’t even have a last name. Annie. All she knew was Annie. And now it seemed as though she and Annie would never meet.

Lost and alone, frightened beyond words, Amber moved forward until she reached the edge of the curb. She pushed herself to get over it, but instead stumbled blindly into the street—running from the sweet, kind, compassionate Whisperer, away from the voice of reason. Away from God and the inner voice.

A dozen feet from the center median, surprised by a black patch of oil made hazardous by rain mixed with snow, her feet flew out from under her. The heavy hand of gravity pushed her to the pavement.

C:\Users\Kathy\AppData\Local\Microsoft\Windows\Temporary Internet Files\Content.IE5\BDTFQACT\MC900352999[1].wmf

Hours later, Amber woke up in a hospital bed on the other side of town. The distinct, sterile smell of that institution met her nostrils with a sting. But she felt only gratitude for the clean white sheets that covered her body, and for the fact that her heart told her she still carried a baby in her womb. She opened her eyes, at first startled by what she saw.

Gentle eyes looked down on her. The kind eyes of a stranger. Shining black eyes, bold against a white moat that surrounded three sides of them—pleasant and warm. Glistening white teeth smiled with compassion through the dark skin of his ancestors.

Roughly the size of a refrigerator, with hands that measured six inches across the back, his appearance would no doubt shake up the bravest of warriors. But looks can be deceiving.

Tank Steeres—a koala living in the body of a grizzly. A man born into poverty, tried with fire, tempered with love and forgiveness, and molded by grace. Through painful personal experience, Tank had grown to love people. All people. He hurt with those who hurt. He cried with those who would not be consoled. And though a man of limited means, he managed to find a way to ease the discomforts of others.

Amber knew about Tank’s wide range of compassion without anyone having to tell her. After all, she had experienced it firsthand.

The Jamaican spice in his accent had survived three generations in America, and added a cadence of sweet rhythm to his speech. Soothing and jovial, its melodic tone embraced her—and Amber had willingly placed her life in his hands.

God knows your problems, little one, he told her. And even though you can’t figure out what it might be right now, there is a reason He has allowed this thing to happen. One day He will reveal that purpose, and you will want to be around for the revelation. Trust me, child. When God does something, He does it right, and on the scale of miraculous. Just be patient and wait. He will reveal His purpose when the time is right.

Still unsure of her future, Amber reached out to this kind man. She needed to know if the brooch might still be in her pants pocket. Maybe she still had a chance to find her aunt. Maybe.

Can you tell me where my things are? she asked. And how I came to be wrapped in the butter-soft luxury of this gown?

Your things are safely tucked away in that closet right over there, said Tank, pointing across the room. We only disturbed it so we might learn your name. The nightgown was a gift. Now get some rest. You need some healing time; and I’m here to make sure you get it.

Where Love Grows—

The Legacy Continues

Chapter 1

Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid or terrified because of them, for the LORD your God goes with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you (Deuteronomy 31:6 NIV).

I t was the hottest day of the year, the driest year of five, and the crowded bar felt like a dry sauna. Outside, dust swirled in tiny tornadoes, squeezing through every crack in the wood-framed structure. A rickety weather-beaten sign creaked as it swung on a chain out front, announcing to the countryside that happy hour had come round a gain.

One man sat alone in the corner with a bottle and a shot glass. On a normal day, he appeared to be a gentle being—but the regulars knew when to avoid him—the dark brooding look in his eyes, the twitch of his jaw, the scowl on his face, all tell-tale signs. The locals knew about Frank’s black moods. Each new hot-shot who came looking to challenge Frank’s undefeated title, however, could not tell so readily that walking away would be in their best interest. Even if they’d heard about him, they all seemed to think their own encounter with him would end differently. Would end in victory.

They were wrong.

On this particular sweltering summer night, one such man-boy crossed the room with bold, long strides and disputed Frank’s right to hog a table. The clock read nine, early for a Saturday, but the brave, oblivious soul already swayed on his feet and attempted talk around a thick tongue. In his ignorance, he let the whiskey speak for him.

Hey, m-m-mister. Slide over, and make r-r-room. It’s a busy night.

Frank turned with a raised brow and looked the boy over. He shook his head then turned back to his drink, draining the last burning ounce.

Hey! I’m talkin’ to you! the kid shouted, leaning closer toward Frank.

A hand on his shoulder and a voice in his ear suggested the kid let it lie. But this one wasn’t looking for advice, and wriggled from the man’s good intentions. He barged ahead in blind stupidity.

By morning, he too would know—there were some nights Frank Jessup didn’t receive visitors.

The kid stepped into the move and shoved Frank’s shoulder, a sloppy attempt at making his point. With the speed of a practiced brawler, Frank came up under the boy’s chin with a hard right, followed by a harder left to the middle. It would have been over right then, but for the enthusiastic crowd that had gathered and helped the rookie to his feet.

In a pitiful one-sided round, the two opponents danced across the room, the boy swinging at the air, and Frank meeting fist to flesh with every blow. Tables were turned. Drinks and peanuts scattered. Chairs, dozens of glasses, and the bartender’s mirror, left smashed in the aftermath.

The outcome had been predictable, almost routine. A handful of the most rowdy would be hauled off to jail, and the rest sent home to sleep it off. Frank had been warned more than once by the District Judge—he’d come dangerously close to crossing the line. And after he crossed it, it would take some major humbling to get back in the judge’s good graces.

In the small community of Bennett, outside Denver, the law, as translated by Judge Matthew Bodine Reese, stood firm. His duties covered all of Weld and the surrounding counties, but Bennett had a special place in his heart. His great grandfather, Bennett Bodine Reese, had hammered the first tent spike into its untamed soil, or so the family legend went. Regardless, the Reeses had remained a tough breed, strong and stout, and mentally sharp. A force to be reckoned with. Every single generation of them.

The judge had seen glimpses of these same admirable qualities in Frank Jessup, too—when sober. As foreman of a nearby ranch, Frank had earned a spotless reputation in that capacity.

Despite the judge’s silent admiration for the man, something had to be done to tame Frank’s tendency to duke it out every time something didn’t suit him—before he got himself hurt, or somebody got killed.

The law was the law—and Frank had had his last warning. One more disturbance of the judge’s peaceful hometown, and Frank would find himself spending a lot more time behind bars than just a night or two in the drunk tank.

Look Judge. Sir, said Frank in his own defense. If every sawed-off, smart aleck newcomer with a chip on his shoulder would mind their own business, this sort of thing would never happen. I’m a peaceful man and would gladly keep to myself, if people would leave me alone.

Frank Jessup didn’t consider himself a drunk; he just drank, albeit on a regular basis. But he didn’t drink because he particularly liked it. Nor did he consider himself an addict. And he didn’t drink to socialize. Truth be told, the weekend simply afforded too much time for memories. Frank Jessup drank to forget.

The problem ran deeper than leaving a girl behind whom he had loved with all his heart. He had a bigger problem than dropping out of college with just an associate degree when he discovered a passion for making a living with his hands. Although reason told him the girl probably would have accepted that in high school, he had spent long hours bragging to her about what a big man he was going to be. So what did he have to offer her now—rough hands and weathered skin, though still in his twenties. And that’s about it. He made a decent wage, but he was nothing like those white-collar boys who sat in high-rise office buildings and smoked Cuban cigars. They wore suits and ties, while Frank lived comfortably in Wrangler jeans and cowboy boots.

He did not feel ashamed of his profession; he just didn’t know how Amber might feel about it. A silly reason for not going back to find her, he knew, but he hadn’t been able to overcome the fear. Her absolute rejection of him, the thought of her laughing at him for being stupid enough to think she would be interested in a cowboy—well, it was more than he could tolerate.

This way, it had been his choice. He lived alone because he wanted to, rode the range on the back of a horse because he wanted to; and drank too much whiskey, because he wanted so much more. He wanted a family, a house with a white picket fence, a garden, and a German shepherd. He wanted to look into a woman’s eyes and see love looking back at him. But no one he’d been introduced to, since Amber, could even begin to fill her shoes. Consequently, he never went out with a lady. He had no desire to mislead anyone, ever again.

He missed Amber. He missed her like he would miss his right arm. Even after eight long years. No, especially after eight long years.

But another image from that long-ago night haunted him. A memory he had not had the opportunity to share with Amber. The real reason he had taken off before the graduation ceremony got under full-swing. The tragic memory had tortured him far more than the loss of his sweetheart.

And he was running still.

Certain Amber must have settled in Denver, Frank planted himself a half hour’s drive out—thirty-minutes that had lapsed into eight years of dodging the truth. They had talked, many times, about going to the city. About walking among the throng of people and laughing at their antics. They had discussed a mutual dream of sharing life together. If Amber wanted to live in the big city, he would find a way to fit in there. He didn’t much cotton to the idea, however, since he had discovered that he had a genuine love for ranching. A high school Ag teacher had taken him under his wing, and introduced him to hard labor. Encouraged him to find his passion, and act on it.

Grateful for the guidance of a good man, Frank had taken his training seriously and worked for a local rancher for the last three years of high school. He would have stayed on with him, too, had it not been for the tragedy that had struck at home on graduation night.

Frank had run as far as his meager savings would take him. Armed with the letter of recommendation the good rancher had provided, Frank had landed a job near Bennett. He had given his employer his best. If not for the incessant hours of guilt and longing that plagued him, he would have been just fine. But guilt and longing did plague him. And logic told him how it would be until he faced the past. Until that encounter took place, and the nightmares dealt with, he would remain a crippled, brawling mass of brawn, perhaps unbeaten in the ring, yet incomplete in his soul.

A semi-regular Saturday night out with the boys offered relief from the nagging, torturous flashbacks. Even after the judge’s stern reprimand, Frank had again turned to the bottle, desperate for some measure of relief.

His day of reckoning came the afternoon following his latest arrest for drunk and disorderly.

Frank opened his eyes to gunmetal gray walls, no windows and no snoring roommates. He realized with dismay that he was not in the drunk tank, as usual. This was jail. Beneath him lay a thin mattress perched on a low-lying metal frame, with one end hanging off the edge. As his head cleared, he sensed he was not alone in the cramped space. He turned to the side, opened one eye, and spied Reverend Walter Payton seated across from him in a straight-backed chair.

The preacher had a reputation, well known and well respected, on both sides of the law. Rumor had it he had single-handedly converted the entire west corner of Denver. Where a neighborhood had once been saturated with violence, the families in a ten-block radius now lived in peaceful harmony. And the preacher’s influence continued to spread.

Walter leaned forward, elbows on his knees, feet planted shoulder width apart, a Bible sandwiched between huge palms.

Good morning.

Who let you in here? Frank asked with a groan.

Walter chuckled. Actually, I’m here because I need your help.

How you figure?

Matt tells me you make a good hand, and we’re in the market for a new foreman at the ranch.

Yeah? What’s that got to do with me? I have a job.

Walter cleared his throat. "Correction. You had a job. Now we’d like you to work for us."

Had a job. Great. What will I do without a job? It’s all I have to look forward to every day.

Oh, I see, he said aloud. "Guess there’s a new foreman where I used to work, because suddenly you need a foreman at the ranch. I get it. Manipulation, I think it’s called. And I can understand why you want me at the ranch so badly. I’ve heard that boys’ ranches all across the country are lookin’ in jail cells for their next foreman.

Come on, Reverend. There’s bound to be more to this story than my excellent credentials. What’s the catch?

Frank swung his feet to the floor just as Preacher Payton stood to his full height of six feet five inches, and affirmed Frank’s suspicions.

There is one little condition you should be aware of.

Go on, said Frank, stretching his eyeballs to look up at the extremely tall, imposing figure.

Do you know the ranch of which I speak?

Yeah. Weld County Boys’ Ranch. Anyway, that’s what I’ve heard.

Reverend Payton paced the floor, glancing in Frank’s direction throughout his short speech. Frank wished the preacher would sit down and be still. His head hurt enough, already.

That’s the one. The acreage, buildings and fencing were donated to Weld County by Thomas T. Turnball, but with very strict stipulations. The boys fend for themselves under close supervision. Cooking, cleaning, sewing, riding, mending fence, feeding livestock, whatever it takes to keep things running smoothly, the boys learn to do.

Frank felt the pounding in his head, heard the voice of Preacher Payton, and tried to make sense of what might happen next. He could think of no reason Payton would be interested in him, and he had no particular interest in the good man, either. The ranch, he’d heard, provided a healthy environment for troubled boys. They provided food and shelter and coaching for young men who needed unconditional love and forgiveness. Part of him wished he’d had an opportunity to grow up in such an environment. Another part remained thankful that he’d known his mother as long as he had. Her death had struck a blow. But at the age of 18, he could be considered a grown man. No one much cared how he got along, where he went, or how he made a living. No one, that is, except Amber, if she had cared as much as he believed she had.

His mind drifted back to the moment when he realized Walter Payton stared down at him, waiting for his response.

That’s hunky-dory, Reverend, Frank said at last. He yawned and shook the cobwebs from his head. I wish you’d sit down. Hurts my head to look up that high.

Walter Payton straddled the chair once more, forearms across its back, faced Frank, and waited for his next words.

Why me? said Frank. I haven’t been sentenced to any detention center. And except for making a little noise now and then, my record is clean.

"Which is all the more reason I have asked this favor of the