Sojourner's Ridge

By Judith Ward Daily

Sojourner's Ridge is a complex mystery about Sarah, a fourteen-year-old girl and her six-year-old brother, Lenny, from Arkansas and a successful writer, Julia, from New York. They are complete strangers, yet they have one thing in common: both sets of parents died on the same

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Media Reviews
• Release date: Jul 29, 2022
• ISBN: 9781958091456

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Sojourner’s Ridge

Judith Ward Daily

Copyright © 2022 Judith Ward Daily.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author and publisher, except by reviewers, who may quote brief passages in a review.

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023902349

ISBN: 978-1-958091-46-3 (Paperback Edition)

ISBN: 978-1-958091-47-0 (Hardcover Edition)

ISBN: 978-1-958091-45-6 (E-book Edition)

Some characters and events in this book are fictitious and products of the author’s imagination. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Book Ordering Information

The Media Reviews

99 Wall Street #2870

New York, NY, 10005 USA

www.themediareviews.com

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Printed in the United States of America

Dedicated to

Charlie and Chloe Ward,

My dad and mom, who never stopped believing in me.

Cathi and Geauchita,

My sisters, who wouldn’t let me quit.

And, most importantly, Randy, my husband and best friend,

You’re the reason I want to wake up each day,

You’re the reason I write.

Contents

Acknowledgement

Chapter 1: Returning to Eden . . .

Chapter 2: Discovery . . .

Chapter 3: New Beginnings . . .

Chapter 4: Catching Up . . .

Chapter 5: Hotel Caroline . . .

Chapter 6: Charlie and Caroline . . .

Chapter 7: The Engagement . . .

Chapter 8: Caroline Runs Away . . .

Chapter 9: Secret Identities . . .

Chapter 10: News from New York . . .

Chapter 11: Lenny Finds a Friend . . .

Chapter 12: Grandpa’s Journals . . .

Chapter 13: Abby’s Story . . .

Chapter 14: Abby’s Courage . . .

Chapter 15: The Atonement Child . . .

Chapter 16: Payday . . .

Chapter 17: No More Lies . . .

Chapter 18: Julia’s Search for Caroline . . .

Chapter 19: Julia’s Surprise . . .

Chapter 20: Skeletons in a Closet . . .

Epilogue

Acknowledgement

I’d like to acknowledge the following people who’ve been instrumental in encouraging and aiding me throughout the process of getting this novel to press:

First and foremost, I thank God for creating me and loving me. And as I trust and acknowledge Him, I know He will guide me.

To my editor and dear friend, Melody Martin, I couldn’t have written this without you. Not only have you been my guide throughout the entire process, but you have reeled me in, calmed me down, mentored, nurtured and assisted me in a most superb way, and always with kindness. You are a blessing straight from Heaven and with all my heart, I thank you.

To Dixie Langenwalter, my agent and friend, you have exceeded my expectations with your dedication and hard work. As we have worked together on this project, your unique style and giddy-up attitude has made the journey incredible and unforgettable. I’m forever grateful to you: we’ve only just begun.

To all of my family and friends who’ve prayed for me, encouraged me and believed in me, especially when I couldn’t believe in myself, you know who you are, and I love each one of you. Many times during the process of writing Sojourner’s Ridge, I struggled with obstacles until my belief was that this book would never get to the printer and was reduced to nearly zero. Thankfully, during those times, I trusted God and He gently reminded me of all of you who would not allow me to throw in the towel, but instead helped me finish my race. Thank you! Thank you!

"For we are strangers before thee, and sojourners,

as were all our fathers: our days on the earth are as a shadow,

and there is none abiding."

1 Chronicles 29:15

Chapter One

Returning to Eden . . .

A deafening ring brought Julia out of a deep sleep. She bolted upright and reached for the phone but fumbled and knocked it to the floor. Blast! Where’d it go? Another ring, this time from under the bed. Whoever you are, this’d better be important! She got out of bed, and then crawled under it stretching as far as she could to retrieve the phone. Hello! Grandma? What in the world are you doing calling me at, she glanced at the clock, at 5AM? Grandma, speak up, I can barely hear you. What’s wrong? Why are you crying?

Oh, Jewels, come home. Come home, now! Will, you tell her, I can’t.

Her grandfather was on the extension. Honey, I don’t know any other way to say this. Charles and Kathryn have been killed in a car wreck.

Wh . . . what did you say? Mom and Dad are dead? No! No . . .

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Julia rolled down the car window and turned off the air conditioner, letting the cool, outside air blow against her face. In the glint of the morning sunlight, the autumn foliage was having an ethereal effect on her, capturing her in a curious sense of timelessness. This was Julia’s season, almost her obsession. Her body might at the moment be sunk into the leather seats of a luxury car, but her mind was ticking off memories that had everything to do with her people, the Ozarks, these beautiful fall trees. Like players in an age-old drama, countless oaks and maples were unfolding their beauty with a brooding expectancy, waiting patiently for their height of color, rich purple, fiery red, orange, and buttery yellow. Like roses, they die at their peaks. When their branches become bare, it will seem that the trees, themselves, die, so complete will be the absence of blazing color then winter will bear down cold and hard, and all colors will fade. But for right now, October will have its way, clothing the hills and valleys in brilliant foliage beneath the tepid sun.

During Julia’s adolescence, the hills became her Eden, and throughout all her life changes, her memories rooted her to the town of her birth. Some people say you can never return home, but she never believed them. She never really left. As a child, she walked the woodlands every day, forming in her mind indelible pictures of various vignettes, unaware at that time of the impact those memories would have on her life as an adult.

She popped in a Sarah Vaughn CD and relaxed the last few miles into Mill Run. The long drive from New York to Arkansas was worth every mile she’d put behind her. She’d been driving for two days, stopping only to nap a little while and eat. Despite her neck and shoulder pain, her eagerness to get home kept her adrenaline flowing, and she was able to dismiss the drudgery of the dull black asphalt.

Ahead, she saw the old gristmill, which was still standing, but its obvious disrepair made it appear deserted. Though the mill no longer ground grain, it still housed the memories of those whose livelihoods depended upon it years ago. Just out back of the old mill, a spring-fed river flowed crystal clear and so cold that she shivered just thinking about it. It was actually because of the gristmill that the town’s name was eventually changed from Hopkinsville to Mill Run. Of course, that was many years before her time.

The moment Julia turned onto Main Street, she felt alive. Memories of her parents didn’t attack her as she feared they would; instead, she was filled with a sense of quickening. Just the way I remembered it. She smiled spontaneously as she took in the view of shops that lined the street. Some were fanciful, like Louetta’s Lovely Lingerie, while others were an oddity, such as Chester’s Pink Flamingo BBQ; but all of their owners, she remembered, were friendly and eager to serve residents and tourists, alike. She suddenly realized how much she’d missed the little town. People were walking up and down the streets, in and out of stores, and everyone seemed happy. If she were asked to describe Mill Run’s shopping district, she’d say it was like the street scene in My Fair Lady, with all the venders setting up their flower carts in preparation for Market Day. The merchants made lively chatter with one another yet remained diligent as they busied themselves with their chores, singing as they labored, and exuding contentment. Maybe the folks of Mill Run weren’t singing, but an aura of joy was definitely present.

Checking into a bed and breakfast was foreign to her. For years, each time she returned to Mill Run, she made the usual drive down the dirt road that led toward her grandparents’ farm. Julia craved the familiar sounds of home, such as the squeaking of the old screen door each time it opened and the crowing of roosters at sunrise. The aroma of Grandma’s freshly baked apple pie on the kitchen counter . . . welcome home!

The hundred-year-old farmhouse where she spent her youth had always provided a serene refuge for her. Languid days spent on the front porch in a wicker swing, sipping sweet, iced tea from Grandma’s kitchen taught her to appreciate the small, simpler things in life. She’d never considered staying anywhere else.

Her grandfather, Will, taught her to love and respect people and nature, and now he, too, wouldn’t be there when she returned home. He’d died just over a year ago and left a void, or more accurately, opened a chasm in her life. In the past two years since Julia had buried her parents, she’d returned to Mill Run only once, for her grandfather’s funeral. For several months after he died, she’d pled with her grandmother, Liz, to move to New York and live with her. Julia had a large apartment and wanted to care for her there. But Liz would have no part of it.

You have your life to live without the burden of an old woman, she said in a phone conversation one evening. Julia could sense a smile in her voice, and visualized her warm green eyes, sparkling with spunk and wisdom.

Besides, she added, there are too many skeletons in my closet that need cleaning out. Her laugh was as genteel as she was southern.

Julia had no clue as to the skeletons she was talking about, but she knew well enough to back off when she’d lost the battle.

After Will’s first heart attack, he realized the demands of running the farm would be much too large for him alone. Besides, it had been in his family for decades, and he and Liz hoped to leave it to Charles and Kathryn, but after they were killed in the car crash, their only remaining heir was Julia, and she’d made it clear that her home was in New York. So, after lengthy consideration, he and Liz decided it would be best to sell the place. Will’s mind was eased about the decision when the new owner assured him that the renovation to the toil-worn farmhouse would only be a cosmetic one, and that he and his family would embrace house and land with the same love he and Liz had given it. The probability of that was reassuring and made their transition into a new complex, designed for the elderly, much smoother. Will also knew that if anything were to happen to him, Liz would be well cared for in their new home.

Julia’s emotions at having to stay in a bed and breakfast were raw, to say the least, and she certainly wasn’t pleased about the stranger who’d bought the house she’d grown up in nor did she like the fact that he’d be making changes to it. Besides, the farmhouse didn’t need to be renovated. Maybe she’d drive out there tomorrow. She was sure the new owner wouldn’t mind. After all, I lived there first, she said aloud, her sentiment lying somewhere between cheeky and tongue-in-cheek.

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Julia’s mind seemed clearer in the morning. One thing she could say for this B & B, the beds were comfy, even therapeutic. She awoke with a vigor, which was unusual for her. It must have been the fact that she’d come home—to her town—if not her house. She immediately began planning her day, considering how different it would be compared to her daily routine in New York. She’d dress and grab a quick cup of coffee . . . no, she thought, that was her ritual in New York. Instead, she’d take advantage of the continental breakfast included her with her room. Let’s see, last night, if she remembered correctly, the lady at the front desk was telling her something about a variety of pastries and fresh fruit. Yes! That’s exactly what she’d do! I’ll fall off the nutrition wagon completely and pick up the sweets habit all over again!

Breakfast was offered on the veranda. The moment she walked outside, she felt the chill and crispness of fall in the air, making her glad that she’d chosen to wear a turtleneck sweater with her jeans.

Julia spotted a wicker swing stuffed with colorful and inviting pillows and knew where she’d spend the first hour of each morning. Between matching wicker chairs, a table was covered with a lovely white, starched linen tablecloth, edged in a personal touch of hand embroidery. Fresh wildflowers were loosely arranged in what looked to be an antique blue water pitcher. A silver urn filled with coffee sat next to china cups with saucers. The coffee’s pungent aroma filled her head with scenes from her grandmother’s kitchen. Several French delicacies captured her attention, and those close to her knew that she’d lost her soul to French pastries long ago as a child when she vacationed with her parents in Provence. With cup in one hand and a serving of Delice Napoleon in the other, she made her way to the swing where she sat and was indeed comforted by the soft down of the pillows. Her sigh that day was much like that of a pampered child. Settling back into the swing, she even briefly envisioned a scene of royalty as she savored the Napoleon’s rich vanilla pastry cream sandwiched between puff pastry and chocolate sponge cake soaked with Rhum syrup and topped with a heavy sprinkling of powdered sugar. Julia made sure to lick her lips, retrieving any traces of the white particles from around her mouth. She instantly felt an endearing attachment to this morning ritual; adding to it, the fragrance of the magnolias and pines mingled in the air, giving off a warm earth-born scent, and she suddenly embraced long-forgotten memories.

Julia was inspired to pursue the view that lay out before her. The rolling hills, the very ones she’d traipsed through as a child, were clothed in faded summer grass, as well as in a thick mist which sojourned deep into valleys beyond. In earlier years, she recalled her grandmother talking about the old Wallace place, now this B & B, and how charming it looked after its make-over, but she’d never seen it for herself. She’d never experienced the vast and wondrous acreage in the alluring blush of morning light.

Regretfully, the spell she was under began to crack somewhat with the weight of reality . . . work and New York. Yet, the more she thought about the farm, the more she yearned for it. New ownership changed everything, and she didn’t like it one bit. She felt apprehensive, her face tightened, and she scowled at the very thought. What was even more disturbing was the realization of lost opportunities for future memories at the farm. If and when she had children, they’d never experience first-hand the joy that she’d experienced there as a child.

Sullen emotions replaced the pleasant, restful ones she’d just allowed herself. Her family tapestry was unraveling and suddenly she was angrier than a hornet!

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Accident. The very word is wearing me down. Why does everyone keep saying that? The police said there was a car accident, and my parents were killed, but I say murder is no accident. I drop a teacup, and it breaks. That’s an accident! Grandma said that I should trust God, but how? How am I supposed to do that . . . after all that’s happened? God is the very one who could’ve stopped it. He has no idea what He’s taken from me! Is this what sets grief apart from sadness, this torment fraught with rage and lack of closure? Others have suddenly been forced to deal with it against their wills—kicking and screaming—and now I’m forced to join their ranks.

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As hard as she tried not to think about it, the catastrophe which killed her parents was always on her mind. Her parents were on vacation back at the farm in Arkansas where her mother’s parents lived. But, after only a few days there, her father’s office, at the New York Times, called and said that he was needed back for some sort of special assignment. They’d left early morning, hours before daylight. The collision occurred a few miles out of town. They were traveling Old State Highway 245 when a car crossed the centerline and hit them head on. All four passengers were killed instantly, her parents and the mysterious couple in the other car, whose identities were still unknown.

Julia sought closure. She couldn’t stop thinking about her loss. What if they’d been detained for only fifteen minutes, what if they’d flown instead of driving, what if . . . ? But would that have made any difference or were her parents fated to die that day? The what if ’s were nearly driving her crazy. Mill Run police told her that because they found no car registration or drivers’ licenses on the people nothing could be traced. They simply had nothing to go on. Flames gutted both cars, and the only licensed one was registered to Charles Kincaid. Still, no missing person’s report had ever been filed in Mill Run or in any of the surrounding counties, and that was that. The police said that the file would be kept open for seven years, though there would be no investigation because they were satisfied that everything they could do had been done. At the end of seven years, the other two victims would be classified as legally dead. That is, unless someone came forward with new evidence.

And there was the thorn. The whole idea of anonymous identities was ludicrous to her. Two people never returned home. Wasn’t their family concerned? And if not family, at least friends? Co-workers? Acquaintances? People and their cars simply don’t disappear! Some connection or factor was definitely missing here, and Julia resolved to start looking. She replayed the twisted mystery of her parents’ death until she’d had to back off from it to keep her sanity. Subconsciously, she was haunted by a recurring dream. In it were the two children who were at the graveside service the day of her parents’ funeral. Near the back wall of the cemetery, a young girl, who looked to be about fourteen, stood with her arm around the shoulders of a small boy, who was perhaps six or seven. They appeared to be crying as they clung to one another. At the conclusion of the service, she looked for them, but they were gone. Each time she awoke, from the dream she was cold, and her cheeks wet with tears.

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Julia poured another cup of coffee. Returning to the swing, she continued to reminisce . . .

Her childhood was almost perfect, and then the course of her life made a sudden turn. She was barely fourteen when her parents decided to move to New York. It was a milestone that would change so many things for her.

In New York your father can be so much more, Her mother explained.

Julia never understood what she meant by that. Her dad was a journalist and worked with her grandfather at the Mill Run Review. He was a good man, loved by many. Early in his career, he’d authored two well received books written about his years as a journalist and by any man’s standard, was successful in his own right. Julia personally didn’t see the need for him to be more. When he wasn’t working on a story for the paper, he was working on the farm. They had a couple of milk cows, a few chickens for fresh eggs, and a vegetable garden that took all of them to tend to. What else could anyone want in life? Besides, she thought the people who lived in New York talked funny. Her mother continued on and on about the benefits of living here.

In a big city, your chances for a better education will increase. You’ll meet new friends, and life will be exciting. Things will be better, Sweetie, you’ll see. Discussion over.

Early that fall, on a cool October morning, Julia traveled with her parents down the dirt road that led away from the farm where she grew up. Driving down Main Street through the heart of town, her father then merged onto Interstate I 40 East and she said goodbye to the only life she’d known. As miles stretched behind them, she watched from the rear window as the beloved hills of her youth faded from view. When she could no longer see them, she closed her eyes and formed an indelible picture of them in her mind.

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The next few years were difficult for Julia. Her dad worked long hours and most weekends, and her mom threw herself into every social club and any charity work available for stay-at-home wives, who live on the eastside of Manhattan. And there was plenty to keep her busy. Julia had to adjust to city living and make new friends. Although she had reconciled with her surroundings, she longed for her country roots, roots that lay deep in those unchanging hills that had welcomed her birth. Up to the day of her return to Mill Run, she’d spent hours with her grandmother on the phone. They both longed for the occasion to share a light-hearted lunch or take a long walk by the river.

She placed the coffee cup on the table and hugged herself on the spot, remembering that she was home, and they’d have plenty of time to spend together.

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Julia was greeted at the front desk of the police station by a middle-aged, plump woman, who wore a skirt too short for her chubby knees, and a sweater that not only was a couple of sizes too small but had been targeted by a summer moth. A New Yorker would have considered that a tacky clothing choice, but Julia’s guess was that she probably didn’t make enough money to buy new clothes after gaining weight and figured no one would care anyway. Ouch! I’m as judgmental as a regular New Yorker.

Chief Holford, there’s a lady here to see you. It’s about the Kincaid accident.

Send her in.

The chief sat at his desk, leisurely tipped back in his chair. He was a large man . . . and overweight. His uniform shirt stretched and gaped across his belly, buttons at the popping stage. Deep lines extended downward from the corners of his eyes and his lips formed a straight line. It was obvious he was world-weary and prepared for a confrontation, probably a person of stern character. Julia figured that he, like most men who wore similar uniforms, had seen too much in life not to be stern.

Chief Holford . . . Julia Kincaid. She extended her hand and at the same time kept her distance.

I’m the daughter . . .

Yes, Miss Kincaid, I know who you are. And let me just say, I’m very sorry about your parents. There was a hint of compassion softening his matter-of-fact tone, but she ignored it.

Thank you, Chief. I appreciate that, but I want you to know I’m here for answers, not condolences.

Miss Kincaid, I understand your grief, but . . .

Do you? Were both of your parents killed at the same time, by a drunk driver?

Well, no, but I understand you’re . . .

Upset? You’re right, Chief. I’m very upset! Look, I’m not trying to be difficult or sarcastic, but how can you possibly understand what I’m feeling? The last time I talked to my parents, we laughed and said I love you, I miss you, and the last thing my mother said to me was, ‘We’ll see you on Monday’. But there won’t be another Monday for us! I want to know who! I want to know why!

Miss Kincaid, we might not find out who or why. Perhaps, you’re just looking for someone to blame.

If it were your mom and dad, wouldn’t you? If you had names and a few facts, some kind of answer, wouldn’t that help you deal with it better? I feel robbed, and until I find out who did this, I’ll keep feeling this way. Julia struggled to hold on.

Holford paused then pushed the button on his intercom. Gloria, bring me the Kincaid file. Look, Miss Kincaid, I can’t promise you anything, but I will keep the case open, at least for now, and I’ll put an officer on it today.

Gloria walked in with the file. May I? Julia held out her hand, but Gloria laid the file on the Chief’s desk instead. Good secretary.

And, Gloria, tell Beard I need to see him in my office—now. He looked down at the file, hesitated, and then pushed it slowly toward her. It’s graphic, are you sure?

Julia swallowed hard, Yes.

Chapter Two

Discovery . . .

Mrs. Bonnie Thompson, owner and operator of Hotel Caroline, said that it would be a short fall and long winter because there was an abundance of daddy-long-legs and ladybugs. Julia wasn’t sure what they had to do with the weather, but the people who live in the hills were rarely wrong when it came to predicting it. She thought about the countless country stores in the town of that region, their potbellied stoves surrounded in cold weather by old-crony men’s groups, typical fixtures of a mostly bygone era. Some of her grandpa’s old friends were true to the form, telling tales of the past that would have them slapping their knees and laughing. Or, after someone’s recitation of a tragic event, there’d be a pause, after which one or two of them would usually offer the one-word understatement of the century —Well!

Most of them were farmers or had been, learning through years of observation how to predict the weather as a matter of survival. They were fairly accurate, living almanacs. She laughed. Maybe there was something to spiders and bugs after all.

Julia stood in front of the mirror brushing her hair, and then pulled it up into a ponytail to keep it out of her face. She looked at her reflection and thought, Maybe a little moisturizer and foundation—a couple of coats of mascara won’t hurt—oh yeah, lip gloss. There, now I’m ready. Julia was a beautiful young woman with auburn hair and fair skin she mirrored the image of her grandmother at the same age. She quickly dressed in her jogging clothes and headed for town. Just as she stepped onto the gravel path which led to the road, Mrs. Thompson hollered out to her, It’s a couple a’ miles to Mill Run, Miss, are you sure you don’t want Charlie to carry you?

I’ll be just fine, Julia yelled back, giving a wave of her hand over her head. She’d been running in Central Park for the last few years and was in pretty good shape. She was confident that a little two-mile walk would be a breeze. Besides, she’d overheard Mrs. Thompson giving poor Charlie a long list of chores she needed done that day. No need adding me to that list. She laughed good-humoredly at the way Southerners talked. Did I want Charlie to carry me? Having lived here as a child, she knew what that meant, but to her city friends it would have been considered backward or worse, ignorant. To Julia, however, it was rather sweet and endearing, like cuddling up in a grandmother’s lap and being rocked.

Julia had always loved the simplicity of country living. Growing up in the South was a privilege, really. Of course, it was about loving fried chicken, watermelon, sweet tea, moon pies, and RC colas. But more than that, it was about being hospitable, devoted to front porches, magnolias, football, country music, and especially each other. More than where you were born, it was a state of mind given to you at birth. True, living in New York was exciting because there was always something to do, and the air was charged with an odd energy particular to it, but each time she thought about her future—when she’d marry and start a family—her thoughts returned to the South . . . to Mill Run.

At the moment, her reason for returning home was still unclear. Suddenly, a loud clap of thunder broke her thoughts and a slight chill passed over her. Drats, Mrs. Thompson was right. She said it would rain today and suggested I take an umbrella. I should have listened!

She was less than a mile out of town when she saw it. Just above the entrance gate were the familiar words, Hopkinsville Cemetery. The sign was forged in wrought iron decades ago by the founder and namesake of the town, Josiah Hopkins, also the town’s blacksmith. After the gristmill was built, the town’s name was changed to Mill Run, but because of the history involved, the name of the cemetery remained the same. Hopkins’ first wife and newborn baby were the first to be buried in what was once a scruffy plot of land just outside the fenced area of his farm. As the town grew, the cemetery grew, due largely