Makin' Miracles Read Online Free Page B

Spencer, waiting for him to give the signal that meant he could enter the hut. Spencer nodded, and the shepherd galloped gladly into the structure, nosing around and sniffing the corners for the scents of animals that might have come before them.
    Spencer settled down in an old rocker he’d bought at a woodcraft shop. He’d added two rockers to the hut’s motley collection of furnishings, since most of the other chairs could hardly support his large frame or that of a visiting friend. Spencer grinned as he settled into the rocker and propped one foot up on the wall. He’d talked the store owner into selling him two used rockers from the shop’s front porch since it had seemed wrong somehow to add new chairs to the worn and weathered furnishings already here.
    The rustic hut was a soothing place. Spencer couldn’t say why it seemed so, but he came here often. Tonight he rocked quietly in the dark and gazed out over the mountains, trying to regain his peace after a stressful evening. Soon, Zeke came to settle down at Spencer’s feet. The two enjoyed the night sounds of insects and frogs, and the occasional hooting of an owl. A soft wind rustled the needles of the pine trees nearby, and the moon drifted lazily in and out of the dark clouds.
    Spencer sighed, realizing he felt more upset from talking to his brother again than from nearly being robbed by Leena Evanston. He shook his head at the idea. Some pains just never seemed to go away—no matter how much life moved on.

CHAPTER 3
    Z ola slept late the next morning. By habit, she awoke at her usual time, but it was an indulgent pleasure not to get up then, to snuggle back under the covers instead. Her cat, Posey, after snubbing her for a day for leaving her for so many weeks, had finally come around. She slept curled up against Zola’s side now, purring contently. Zola’s hand drifted lazily over her soft fur every few minutes.
    She’d enjoyed hearing all the farm sounds earlier as the day began—a rooster crowing to announce the new day, the distant sound of cows mooing and of a tractor starting up. It was good to be home. Zola had lived more of her life here in the rural mountains of Tennessee than in the South Pacific, where she was born. And her roots lay here.
    â€œWe’ll have to go over for a visit with Nana Etta after we get up,” Zola told the cat. “She’ll be watching for us. I told her I’d come. But I needed this sleep-in to catch up from the last of the jet lag. That long flight and the time zone changes always take a toll on my system.”
    Zola stretched and looked around the room. “This is the same bedroom I’ve slept in ever since I was a little girl,” she told Posey. “I still remember when Daddy and Mother remodeled the house. Before that we always stayed at Papa and Nana Devon’s place.”
    She laughed. “This house was always called ‘Hill House’ or ‘Old Farm,’ and my grandparents’ house was called ‘New Farm.’ But their house, nearly fifty years old, is hardly new now.”
    Zola’s grandparents’ place, a rambling white farmhouse, lay about a mile away—across the creek and down the Devon Farm Road. Zola’s house, which had been her great-grandparents’ place, was much older. A marking in an old slab of concrete in the foundations of the house read 1902.
    â€œWhen Daddy was given the land here as his part of the farm, everyone assumed he’d come and tear down my great-grandparents’, Wayland and Retha Devon’s, old house. But Daddy turned sentimental, and even Mother thought the old place should be preserved. Papa Vern sputtered over the money Daddy spent fixing up the house, but he and Nana felt secretly pleased that he did.”
    The cat meowed politely in comment.
    Zola scratched her neck. “This upstairs room was always mine.”
    She looked around fondly. She still slept in the