Grace in the Shadows Read online

  GRACE

  IN THE

  SHADOWS

  Book One in the Journey of Grace Series

  KARON RUIZ

  Heaven Help Us Publishing

  GRACE IN THE SHADOWS

  Copyright © 2017 by Karon Ruiz, All rights reserved.

  Cover Design by Jake Grotelueschen, Editing by Carrie Padgett, Author Photo by Bethany Paige, Book Cover provided by Pixabay.co, Formatting by Karon Ruiz, www.graceintheshadows.com

  Kindle Book Edition created December, 2017

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (i.e. electronic, photocopy, recording) without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Karon Ruiz

  Printed in the United States of America

  Paperback First Printing: January, 2018

  Heaven Help Us Publishing

  ISBN-13: 978-0692892978

  ISBN-10: 0692892974

  Thank You Jesus, for teaching me that what is bruised and bent You will not break; You will not blow out a smoldering candle. Isaiah 42:3. Not only did You come to heal the broken-hearted, You came to heal the broken.

  To my husband and best friend, Armando. I love you. Thank you for your love and support as I devoted hours to writing this book.

  Map of McCormick

  Table of Contents

  DEDICATION

  MAP OF MCCORMICK, ARIZONA

  Sunday

  CHAPTER ONE: Willing Captive

  CHAPTER TWO: Suspicions

  CHAPTER THREE: Dalton’s Con

  CHAPTER FOUR: Missed Grace

  CHAPTER FIVE: Coerced Priorities

  CHAPTER SIX: Gordy

  CHAPTER SEVEN: Highway to Hell

  CHAPTER EIGHT: “Gordster” and “Bee”

  CHAPTER NINE: Deidra Storm

  CHAPTER TEN: Slammed in Slime

  CHAPTER ELEVEN: Angels Unaware

  CHAPTER TWELVE: The Deep Deception

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN: Charity Bug

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN: Buried Evidence

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN: The Hammer

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN: Truth Hurts

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: Legal Lies

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: Different Directions

  CHAPTER NINETEEN: Star Fantasies

  CHAPTER TWENTY: Derailed Narcissism

  Monday

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: Broken Hearts

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: Stranger In The Night

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: Missing Stephen

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: Asleep In The Light

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: Wise Woman

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX: Mourning

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN: The Council Meeting

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT: Come To Jesus Meetin’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE: Scrabble, Sunspots and Corndogs

  CHAPTER THIRTY: The Greater of Two Evils

  Tuesday

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE: Solar Flare

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO: Prepping

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE: Rushing and Flushing

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR: Wal-Mart Phoenix Trip

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE: Dalton In Denial

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX: Grace Baxter

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN: Unexpected Visitor

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT: Jail Time

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE: Getting Ready

  CHAPTER FORTY: CME

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE: New Normal

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO: Goodbye Charity

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE: Grief and Withdrawals

  Wednesday

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR: Rescuing Dalton

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE: The Way Up Is Down

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX: Chaos

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN: Confessions Are Good For The Soul

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT: Freedom Drive

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE: Time With Grace

  CHAPTER FIFTY: Family Meeting

  Thursday

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE: Night Thievery

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO: Baxter Panic

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE: Desperado

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR: Night Watch

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE: Morning Fellowship

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX: Reconciliation

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN: First Kiss

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT: Rules of Engagement

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE: The Church Meeting

  Saturday

  CHAPTER SIXTY: Charity

  TO THOSE I HOLD DEAR, AFTERWARD

  Until we emerge from the shadows of self-performance, we will never understand the light of scandalous grace.

  Jesus invites us all …

  “Are you tired? Worn out? Burned out on religion? Come to me. Get away with me and you’ll recover your life. I’ll show you how to take a real rest. Walk with me and work with me—watch how I do it. Learn the unforced rhythms of grace. I won’t lay anything heavy or ill-fitting on you. Keep company with me and you’ll learn to live freely and lightly.” Matthew 11:28-30 The Message Bible

  CHAPTER ONE

  Willing Captive

  _____________________________________________________

  The white line of powder sang its siren song and Dalton Baxter surrendered. He closed his eyes, anticipating the heady rush, the gush of confidence, the elation. He licked his lips and picked up his straw. Crimson light passed through a high window staining his trembling hands. He steadied his fingers and sucked the crushed Oxy through his nose. Gritty particles warmed his sinuses, a welcome contrast to the ice crystals he’d inhaled that horrible day on Agassiz Mountain.

  He leaned back in his chair, waiting for the expected relief to arrive, welcome as a warm quilt on a snowy day. Not that McCormick, in Arizona’s high desert, saw much snow. He spun his chair to look out the window at the dusty parking lot. Make that welcome as walking into an air-conditioned room on an August afternoon.

  Dalton jumped at the sound of knocking metal. The refrigeration unit above his office came on, confronting the morning heat with a motor that shimmied and shook so hard, Dalton thought it might fall off the roof.

  His brow furrowed. The machine’s days were numbered. He had to do something about it.

  And he would. Soon.

  He turned back to his desk. A Power Point presentation glowered from his monitor creating colored patterns across the smooth cherry-wood top. He watched the reflections and counted the seconds until the tension in his neck and shoulders eased.

  Finally.

  Euphoria clutched him in its usual grip and surreal contentment quieted an inner ache. Moments ticked by. The drugs performed their miracle. He sat up and straightened his shoulders.

  Dalton wiped powder residue from his desk, licked stray specks from his fingers, placed his grinder and pliers inside a metal lock box. He grabbed the prescription bottle, counted six pills remaining, then refastened the lid.

  He slammed down the bottle, scowled and rubbed his temples. He needed more.

  This afternoon.

  The shadow of the job interview loomed over him. Four days. In four days people would expect him to have it together. To be a functioning member of society. He shoved a stack of books off the desk, sending them flying against the wall.

  What’s wrong with me? Why don’t I think?

  Meds. He needed his meds. He couldn’t pull off such a critical meeting wi
thout his meds. Why had he waited so long?

  The doorknob rattled. “Dalton?” Sammy’s sweet, concerned voice.

  “Just a—a minute.” He winced as he stood, the familiar pain below his kneecap, though now a whisper, lanced up his leg. The bottle of painkillers—not enough, not nearly enough for the interview—sat on the corner of his desk, mocking him, waiting to be filled. He grabbed the worn Bible next to his printer, opened it and tented it over the box.

  Somewhere above him, God was surely tsk-tsking the irony of covering a sin with the Word.

  He unlocked the door, kept it mostly shut and wedged his face through the narrow opening. Sammy took a step back. Suspicion darkened her eyes.

  “Sorry …” He softened his voice. “I’m not finished.”

  “It’s nearly eight-thirty.” Her voiced clipped. She placed her hands on her hips. “You asked me to remind you.”

  “Already?” His eyes pleaded. “Can you cover for me?”

  Sammy hesitated as if she wanted to say something. Instead she turned and walked away, the angry clacking of her heels keeping time with her trim hips as they swished under a swirly blue dress.

  Dalton closed the door and collapsed into his swivel chair, then turned over the Bible. A streak of yellow caught his eye and the highlighted words seemed to leap from the onion skin.

  I cried out to God for help; I cried out to God to hear me ...

  The verse kindled so many memories. Mom had a Scripture reference for everything from a skinned knee to a so-called friend’s treachery to Dad’s temper.

  When I was in distress, I sought the Lord …

  He refused to read anymore but her voice wound through his thoughts. He glanced at her old photo on the credenza. “I’m doing the best I can.” He gently closed her favorite book and traced the name imprinted in the black leather cover.

  Sarah Grace Baxter

  He missed her.

  He slid the Bible to the end of his desk, then jammed the metal box behind some files in his cabinet. He slammed the drawer shut, knocking over a cane in the corner. He picked it up, the burnished maple glistened in his hands. Keeping the staff close reminded him of how far he’d come since the accident. If he could just get off the meds—he leaned the cane against the wall—everything would go back to normal.

  Dalton returned to the Power Point slide on the monitor. At last, his elusive focus arrived.

  He’d have to hurry.

  An expectant congregation would arrive soon and lately his preaching seemed to model his life. Scattered. Insipid. Uninspiring.

  That would change today. It had to.

  “The fifty bucks I shelled out for this online sermon better work,” he muttered. Today’s message must be a game-changer. His future depended on it.

  ***

  Sunday, 8:25 a.m.

  Saint Luke’s Community Church

  McCormick, Arizona

  Outside the building, Samantha Baxter rested against hundred year-old clapboard, staring at the graveled parking area. A handful of Sunday school teacher’s cars populated the vacant lot.

  A hot breeze teased her face, gifting miniscule relief from the morning humidity. Not fooled by the cloudless blue sky, she knew a storm brewed behind the horizon. In the high desert, things were not often what they seemed. She’d grown up in Arizona and could sense a monsoon well in advance.

  She wiped her brow, dragged in a ragged breath, and tried to steady her emotions.

  Impending temperamental weather lost its hold on her attention. Something else overshadowed the thoughts spiraling through her mind.

  Dalton’s odd behavior.

  His mysterious trips out of town.

  The frequent withdrawals from their savings account.

  His lack-luster performance in the pulpit these past few months.

  The sum of her fears equaled trouble. She fingered a strip of paint threatening to peel away from the clapboard.

  Was there another woman?

  He always seemed to have an excuse. “Got to get that water cooler in the annex fixed,” he told her when she asked about a five-hundred dollar withdrawal. “Don’t worry. Once the council approves it, I’ll get reimbursed.” She had yet to see either their bank balance head north or a noticeable improvement in the fountain’s flow. It still dribbled like a third-world shower.

  She’d been a little concerned when he’d abandoned the old hymns for contemporary music. “We need to modernize,” Dalton said one morning after the congregation had left. He paced through the empty nave, waving a hymnal in her face, then lobbing it to the floor like a discarded shoe.

  “Why don’t you mix in some modern praise songs?” she asked. “Keep some of the hymns for the older folks.”

  Dalton shook his head. “We need a complete makeover. This old stuff isn’t working anymore.”

  Sammy glanced at a bank of ceiling-high stained glass windows, populated with intricate craftsmanship, each depicting one of the twelve apostles. The lead-encased ancients guarded the sanctuary, scrutinizing the modern world. Examining their stoic faces etched into glass, she grimaced. Did it have to be all or nothing? Tradition mattered, didn’t it? Why couldn’t her husband compromise? For the sake of the seniors.

  “I’ll speak with the musicians. We’ll switch things next week,” he said. “An upbeat worship service should improve attendance.”

  That had been the most recent change of many over the last few years. After hitting heads a few times, Sammy’s wishes prevailed. Dalton agreed hymns could be sung if combined with an upbeat tempo.

  Samantha brushed away from paints flecks and stared at Dalton's precious BMW that sparkled in the parking lot. Its glossy black hood shimmered under the sun, bright and flashy, defiant. Two years ago he’d driven it home, and switched his clerical garb to Brooks Brothers suits. She’d rescued his white collars from a Phoenix seminary thrift store, bringing them home, stuffing them behind rows of socks in a dresser. Maybe Dalton had grown tired of the collar, a beacon for the down and out who would swarm him like bees to sweet honey.

  The sports car, with its ding less doors and shark-mouth grill, scowled under narrowed-eyed halo lights, mocking McCormick’s mediocrity.

  Perhaps people were leaving Saint Luke’s because Dalton had changed? In ways besides leaving his collar in the drawer? Lately indifference seemed his Sunday morning MO. This was the fourth Sunday in a row he’d left her alone to greet arrivals. She could have tolerated that if it hadn’t been for the locked door. How dare he bar her from entering the office they’d shared?

  Samantha ground her teeth, balling fists at her sides, wanting to hit the side of the building. Before another sun set over her small town of McCormick, she’d learn his secrets.

  Even if they broke her heart.

  ***

  Dalton’s anxiety mounted as time ticked by. He’d glanced at another slide of Why Tithing Will Change Your Life, and pushed away from his desk with a frustrated jab. The whole thing had been a big waste of money—money he could use right now. If it wasn’t inspiring him, how would it loosen the wallets of the pew sitters?

  He drummed his fingers and scanned the books on his desk, desperate for a fresh idea. Sammy’s photo caught his attention. He’d taken it a few years ago when the whole family had gone to the Grand Canyon. She looked beautiful, straddling an old mule as they descended the gorge. Gordy and Grace had laughed uproariously at the tour guide’s jokes about his “stubborn ass.”

  Those were happier days … before his accident.

  If looks could kill, today hers would have done him in. The scowl on her face earlier reminded him of her testy question a few weeks ago. It seemed laden with accusation. “Why are you constantly leaving town?”

  “A minister’s job is demanding, honey. You know that.”

  Her eyes filled with hurt. “So demanding that you disappear for hours at a time without telling me?”

  He made up some story but wa
sn’t sure she believed him. Remorse at his lies filled him, but he didn’t have a choice, not if he wanted any peace. Not if they were ever going to get out of this hick town and back to the big time. Besides, Sammy had a high pain threshold and he didn’t. She wouldn’t understand why he still needed his medicine. No one did. Especially his doctor.

  He picked up the prescription bottle. His name, faded ~ the ‘r’ in Baxter, almost gone. Yet the words, OxyContin 40mg, still distinct. Near the bottom, large bold letters seemed to shout:

  NO REFILLS AFTER MARCH 1

  March had come and gone as had Dr. Donaldson’s refills.

  “Your knee’s mendedt have a little discomfort. Take Tylenol. And Dalton … my advice to you … no more back country skiing trips.”

  , Dalton,” his orthopedic surgeon told him. “You migh

  He couldn’t recall much more of the doctor’s yammering that day. Only that his pleas for more drugs were refused. So he’d found someone to give him pills, not lectures.

  He tossed the prescription container in a bottom drawer behind some office supplies. Once he got out of this dreary town, he’d learn to cope without them. Then he’d give Sammy the life she always deserved.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Suspicions

  ______________________________________________________

  8:45 a.m.

  Samantha faced the nave, gripping the back of a pew, coated with generations of varnish. She stared at Dalton’s closed door. She’d excused his mood swings and erratic behavior because of his skiing accident last Christmas. But no more. The lump crowding her throat affirmed that something much greater than a torn-up knee possessed her husband.