A Challenge of Love and Faith (Preview)

Chapter One

Aaron Hague sat staring out the window of the Pacific Railway train car, rocking gently on the greased wheels beneath it. White steam poured out of the locomotive, becoming a mist as the passenger cars passed through it and onward to its destination.

That train’s destination was Springfield, Ohio, westbound over that flat landscape, a yellow-headed blackbird flying overhead. Is it Springfield, Aaron asked himself, or … Dayton, or Lincoln, Nebraska or Kansas City, Missouri? Does it even matter?

The train pushed on, Aaron returning his attention to the window, eager for something to think about, anything. His own reflection stared back at him from the polished glass. His blond hair and blue eyes could have been his mother’s, his father’s solemn stare forming his expression more and more as he got older. His clean-shaven face retained most of its charm, and that was keeping him alive on that train, in that country, in this world.

But even beyond the rumbling of the train, the blast of the steam whistle from the locomotive, the hum of conversations filling the train car, Aaron couldn’t get the sounds of gunfire out of his head. They pierced his memory, underscored by the distant screams of his wife and infant daughter.

Aaron glanced around the carriage, eager for some distraction. The bench seats were half-filled with men and women, most roughly his own age, between thirty and forty. Some seemed older, the opulent who could afford train travel as casually as some bought a loaf of bread. One man, in particular, seemed a likely customer, with gray sideburns sprouting long and silky, well combed, with bald pate under a black top hat.

The man pulled out a gold watch on a chain and glanced at it before returning the watch to his vest pocket.

Promising, Aaron thought. Aaron picked up his sample bag, a black leather satchel, and carried it to the gentleman at the other end of the car.

“Excuse me, sir?” The older man looked up at Aaron, who added, “I noticed you carry a lovely timepiece there.”

The man looked him over, huffing his indignation. “Is this some strange sort of robbery?”

Aaron chuckled a bit, waving him off. “Nothing of the sort, I assure you.” He gestured to the empty chair. “May I?” The man nodded, and Aaron sat. “Can I have a look at your watch, sir?”

The man was hesitant, but he pulled out his watch and handed it to Aaron.

“Nice,” Aaron said, looking the watch over. “JW Benson, stem-winding Cyma movement, very handsome.”

The man took the watch back, but he was still clearly suspicious of Aaron’s motives. Aaron extended his hand and introduced himself. “Aaron Hague, timepieces are my line.”

“I see,” the older gentleman said. “Whithouse, Bazil Whithouse. Publishing.”

“Oh, very good. My brother’s a writer, actually; John Hague, out of Missouri.

Whithouse seemed to search his memory. “Yes, the stories of the little girl, in the hot air balloon?”

“The little boy and the imaginary dragon.”

Whithouse nodded with a smile. “Yes, yes, quite so. He’s making quite a name for himself, your brother.”

Aaron smiled too, but it took just a little more effort. “Quite so. But he’s not the only one.” Aaron reached into his sample bag and pulled out a small box, which he handed to Whithouse. “Patek Philippe, good company, started making these in Europe.”

Whithouse opened the box and pulled out the wristwatch, much smaller and thinner than his pocket watch. It was fixed to a canvas strap which buckled around the back of the wrist.

“I wound up with a few hundred, meant for the German Navy.”

Whithouse looked at the watch, astonished. “Is that so?”

“It’s designed for that kind of durability and accuracy, that lives may depend on it.”

“I see.” Whithouse turned the watch around, holding it in his hands like a dead animal. “It’s not altogether that … sophisticated, though, is it?”

“Well, it’s a different type of sophistication, Mr. Whithouse. This is what tomorrow’s man will be wearing. And today’s man is the man who knows what tomorrow’s man will do.”

Whithouse seemed to give it some thought. “That’s certainly true.”

“You haven’t seen any of your fellows or associates wearing one, have you?”

“No, I’ve never seen a watch like this before.”

“Then that alone tells them that you’re a generation ahead. It tells your friends … and your competition.”

“That’s true,” Whithouse said as if thinking out loud.

“The right timepiece says everything the world needs to know about a man, wouldn’t you say? Reliable, practical, a man of means.” Whithouse held up his pocket watch, much more luxurious to the eye. Aaron said, “Means, yes. But Mr. Whithouse, Bazil, every man of means has one of those. The true man of means has what the others don’t … and always lets them know it.”

Whithouse pocketed his own watch and looked at the wristwatch. “May I …?”

“Oh, of course,” Aaron said, “please do.”

Whithouse wrestled with buckling the strap around his wrist but finally managed. “A bit … unwieldy.”

“Until you’ve got it on. But now, you’ll know the time at a simple glance. No more reaching into your pocket, having to set things down to free up an extra hand. Your life just became more convenient … and more opulent.”

Whithouse looked at the watch, nodding slowly as his smile began to stretch. “How much?”

“Well, Mr. Whithouse —”

“Bazil,” he said. “I’ll give you twenty dollars.”

“It’s not a matter of money, Bazil, I … I’ve got a trunk full of them, which I was going to sell to the shops in Springfield, and points beyond, if necessary.”

“Twenty-five,” Whithouse said, already pulling out his wallet and flipping through the bills. “Any other watch will be an adequate sample.” Whithouse handed Aaron twenty-five dollars, and Aaron finally nodded and took it.

“Don’t spread the word around until after I’m off the train, I won’t have any left for the shops at all.” The men shared a little chuckle, and Aaron shook Whithouse’s hand before standing up to leave him with his new watch.

Aaron sat down and returned his attention to the window, surprised to hear a woman’s voice nearby. “That was quite something.” Aaron looked over to see a very attractive brunette woman sitting on the bench seat in front of his, turning to face him, her tight-sleeved arm slung over the back of the seat. “Selling a man a watch he didn’t need.”

“Oh, that,” Aaron said. “Who’s to say he didn’t need it?”

“He had a nicer watch in his pocket.”

“But nothing on his wrist.”

She smiled and extended a hand. “Gladys Margolis.”

“Aaron Hague.” They shook hands, and Aaron turned back to the window.

“Are you centered in Springfield, Mr. Hague?”

Aaron gave the matter a little thought. “I haven’t been centered anywhere in years, Miss Margolis. I picked these up in New York and wired some buyers I know. Then I’ll make my way back, see what comes in from across the Atlantic.”

“I see,” she said, looking him up and down. “No family either, I take it.”

Aaron turned back toward the window. “No. You?”

“Soon enough.” After a moment of curious quiet, she explained, “I’m to be married, to a very wealthy man, a Texan.”

“Congratulations.”

“Thank you! It’s amazing what technology can do, isn’t it? Magazines are printed by the hundreds, letters flying across the country, bringing people together who would never know each other otherwise. Amazing.”

Aaron gave it some thought, assembling a picture of her circumstances. The magazine was surely a mail-order bride catalog, and this young Gladys Margolis had no less than sold herself to a virtual stranger to be his lawfully wedded wife.

It wasn’t exactly Aaron’s idea of a marriage made in heaven.

But there was much more to the tale, to all such tales, Aaron well knew. There would be little opportunity for women other than to marry. And the blossoming west had created a new breed of man; strong and newly wealthy, wanting more than the rugged specimens common to such areas. The more refined women of the east, even those in desperate straits or of questionable backgrounds, were highly desired and could find happy lives beyond the confines of a place like New York.

“I’m sure a wife would make the road a good deal less lonely,” Gladys said.

Aaron smiled. “What makes you think I’m lonely?”

She gave him a long, hard look, eyes narrowing to shrewder slits. “Just something about you, something in your eyes. You spend your life on a train, going from one place to the next. You think you’re free, going this way and that. But you’re not free … you’re on the run, running from something you can’t escape.”

Aaron raised his arm, revealing his own wristwatch, strapped to his arm. “Time, maybe.”

*

Aaron disembarked at the Springfield train station, having a porter put his trunk and suitcase on a cart to wheel it to the street, where a carriage would take him to his appointment with the leading local jeweler and high-end merchant.

The train station was crowded with travelers, most well-dressed in topcoats and trousers, cravats and hoop skirts and bodices. They walked by him in pairs and alone, each lost in their own private concerns.

It was at times like those that Aaron felt most alone, in a crowd of people, most paired up. But even they seemed to go through life in a fog, the way Aaron sometimes felt he was doing. He often wondered what had happened to other people, the tragedies and wonders which had visited their lives previously, things Aaron didn’t know and would never know; things they would never forget.

But no life was lived unscathed, Aaron had come to accept that. Life brought love, and love brought loss; it seemed a mortal certainty. Aaron led the porter through the station and to the street, a newspaper boy standing nearby on the street corner, holding up an edition and shouting out highlights of the headlines.

“Gladstone re-elected British prime minister! James Garfield to run against U.S. President Hayes in November!”

Aaron gave the boy a penny and took the paper, turning to the border. “Get me a carriage.”

“Yes, suh.”

Aaron opened the paper and scanned the stories; a series of articles about new business openings, local crimes, an advice column. But one subhead grabbed Aaron’s attention, his blood running cold.

Children’s Book Author Hague, Wife, Dead.

Chapter Two

Aaron stood there, stunned as pedestrians walked by him, unconcerned. The paper trembled in his hands, paper crinkling under his clutching fingers as he read the article.

Columbia, MO: Popular children’s author John Hague, 37, whose three books chronicled the adventures of young Peter Painter and his imaginary dragon Smokey, died of injuries after being struck and killed by an errant stagecoach.

Aaron became dizzy, legs suddenly weak, stomach turning with nausea.

The author and father of one was apparently trying to push his wife out of the way of the coach when both were struck. Penny Hague, 35, also died at the scene.

Aaron had to lean against the train station for support, the paper sinking as his arms lowered to his sides.

They leave an orphaned son, Joel, 12. Funeral announcements forthcoming.

“Suh? Suh?” Aaron looked over at the porter, his dark face bent into a worried mask. “You okay, suh?”

“What?” Aaron’s mind was going a mile a minute. “Yeah, fine. Look, I … do you have storage here, something like that? For my trunk?”

He nodded. “Sure do, suh, but there be a daily fee for da space, suh.”

“That’s fine.” Aaron pulled Whithouse’s twenty-five dollars and handed it to the porter. “How long’ll this get me?”

The porter looked at the money in his hand, shocked. “‘Til hell done freeze ovah, suh.”

“Keep an eye on it. I’ll wire you when to send it and where.”

“Wire straight to the shipping office, suh, they’ll see t’yah.”

“Good, good man, thank you.” Aaron grabbed his suitcase, leaving the porter to deal with his trunk while he went straight to the ticket window.

The first train to Columbus didn’t leave for two hours, and once it did it seemed to be traveling at a deliberately slow clip, as some form of terrible torture designed for Aaron’s endurance alone. And while the train pushed forward, inextricably bringing America and her denizens into the future, Aaron’s mind was locked in the past.

He couldn’t rid his imagination of visions of his future, playing games of cowboys and Indians with John and their other friends. John was the elder, always shaping the narrative, taking control of the boys in their imagined battles. Aaron could recall feeling put-upon by his bigger, stronger brother, wishing he could be the one to lead them. But it wasn’t to be that day, nor any other in their experience.

Aaron had never been able to best his brother, and he knew it; both did. And while they’d been good friends, civil in every interaction, those tensions had been there and had never truly receded. It struck Aaron, more and more, that it was something he was condemned to know, with greater clarity, with every significant turn in life. John’s career had prospered, his marriage a stunning success, his happiness with his family virtually legendary.

Not so with Aaron’s life, he knew well. And though he’d never begrudged his brother’s happiness, he had always admired it.

Now he’s dead, Aaron told himself with a still, solemn silence. I suppose he’s paid for his pleasures, most terribly. The train pushed on, reminding Aaron what he’d always known.

No life goes unscathed.

But there were other lives to consider. Poor Penny, he thought, what did she do, what did either of them do? Struck by an errant coach? What could have been in her mind, in her heart, when those horses bore down on them, wheels rolling over their ribs. Did she relive their wedding day? Did she remember the tender promises made in the dark of night? Did she regret her choices, did she pray for her son?

Her son, Joel repeated. That poor kid, he’s going to be crushed! Everything’s Jim Dandy one day, the next … everything’s different; nothing will ever be the same.

Aaron could feel the echoes of loss, unique for everyone but also the same, part of one shared experience. He knew what the future held for Joel, the endless pain that would never truly go away, the loneliness that only seemed to get worse as the years went by.

It was hard enough for me to get over losing Anna and Leila, and I was a grown man. A grown man, surviving his own family …

The pain returned, greater than Joel could ever know, and Aaron was grateful for that small mercy. But he would know pain, and he was entirely alone in the world.

No, Aaron swore, not alone, he’s not alone! But … does he know it? Did he get my wire?

Other thoughts leaked into his conscience. Joel, there’s nobody else in the family to look out for him. But he’ll have people all over him, poor guy; publisher, lawyer, people who will have a lot to gain … or to lose … with this terrible turn. They’ll manipulate him, force him to sign away the book rights, who knows what? They could have intercepted the wire; they could rush him out of there before I can get to him!

No, Aaron told himself, I won’t let that happen, I won’t fall short again!

*

Aaron went straight to his brother’s house, a two-story place on the nicer side of town, which John had well-earned for his family. The old woman behind the door was unknown to him, but she introduced herself as Daisy Malone, the family’s maid and cook.

She was very kindly and meek and stepped back as Aaron looked around the house; quiet, lonesome. He knew the feeling; he’d lived in it for years. It was too oppressive for most grown men, let alone an orphaned boy.

It was easy for Aaron to imagine the many good times the family had enjoyed there. He could almost hear the echoes of the jovial conversations, pranks, and tricks to inspire crackles of laughter, joy on Christmas mornings; it was too easy to imagine those things. Aaron was expert at the practice.

“Uncle Aaron?”

Aaron turned to see Joel for the first time in years. Memories of their last visit flashed behind his brain, a small boy who seemed barely out of his diapers. He’d been a happy boy, joyful in his parents sheltering company, reveling in the innocence of childhood.

He stood before Aaron looking more like a man in miniature, no taller than five feet, no heavier than eighty pounds. His big, brown eyes glistened with his tears, lips pouting, full cheeks round and red, swollen from being bent by an endless frown.

“Joel,” Aaron said, stepping carefully, cautiously across the room. Joel stood there with a nervousness Aaron both understood and sympathized with. “Joel, I … I came as soon as I found out.”

Joel said nothing as Aaron sank to one knee and opened his arms. Joel stood there motionless, Aaron waiting with quiet patience. Joel took one step, then another, then a third as he approached Aaron. Aaron slowly wrapped his arms around the boy to pull him closer, his little arms slack at his sides.

Aaron squeezed tighter, whispering, “I’m so sorry, Joel. I am so, so sorry.”

The boy’s arms rose slowly, signifying his cautious apprehension, his unwillingness to hold and to be held. But there was also instinct, and need, and the little fellow was obviously being torn apart by his own conflicting emotions.

His arms finally found Aaron’s back, his hands barely seeming able to touch his jacket.

“It’s okay, Joel,” Aaron whispered to him. “I know you’re afraid; I know it hurts, I know … it hurts … so … much …”

The boy nodded as he began to nuzzle Aaron’s shoulder, his little arms pulling Aaron tighter, fingers beginning to grasp.

“I know, kid … I know. I’m here for you now, Joel.” Joel clung tighter, his arms using all the strength they had and even a bit more; Joel could sense it. He knew that drain, that sapping, that insistent weakness that seemed to rob the soul and strangle the heart.

Joel started to pant in his arms, little gasps that would soon become sobbing in his ear.

“It’s all right,” Aaron said softly, welcoming the boy’s release, offering solace in return for his sacrifice. The tears began pouring, his strained throat rasped but still ready to throw out a lifetime’s worth of sorrow, accrued in a matter of hours.

And there were hours more to come for young Joel Hague, his uncle knew without a doubt. They would be long, terrible hours; they would come to weeks and months and even years. But he wouldn’t have to face them alone, Aaron swore to that.

Chapter Three

Pastor Lester Reed read from the Book of Job, which Aaron found altogether fitting and proper. A man who had suffered without reason, without cause, but had endured through faith. Aaron had himself struggled with faith, lacking that good Job’s strength of will and insight. He almost felt as if he were Job in a sense, that whatever power there was might have been speaking to him through the tale of this good man’s suffering.

“Then Job answered and said, ‘How long will ye vex my soul, and break me in pieces with words? These ten times have ye reproached me: ye are not ashamed that ye make yourselves strange to me. And be it indeed that I have erred, mine error remaineth with myself.’”

Pastor Reed looked at Aaron and Joel, his round face kindly, white hair cut short and balding.

Aaron looked down at Joel, sitting by his side in the front row of pews. He held the boy’s hand and the strength with which the boy squeezed told Aaron that the words meant as much to the boy as it did to his uncle.

“‘If indeed ye will magnify yourselves against me, and plead against me my reproach: Know now that God hath overthrown me, and hath compassed me with his net. Behold, I cry out of wrong, but I am not heard: I cry aloud, but there is no judgment.’”

Aaron turned to glance at the filled church. He knew none of them, of course, but he wondered how many had known his brother and sister-in-law, and how many had simply come to be a part of the social spectacle or to further their own interests in some other manner.

“‘He hath fenced up my way that I cannot pass, and he hath set darkness in my paths. He hath stripped me of my glory, and taken the crown from my head. He hath destroyed me on every side, and I am gone: and mine hope hath he removed like a tree. He hath also kindled his wrath against me, and he counteth me unto him as one of his enemies. His troops come together, and raise up their way against me, and encamp round about my tabernacle. He hath put my brethren far from me, and mine acquaintance are verily estranged from me.’”

Aaron felt no closer to any of them than he’d felt to almost anybody in his adult life, a fact that struck him hard in that solemn moment. It was no way to live, and no way for his nephew to live; to be a stranger among his own kind; a man without a family, without a home.

“‘My kinsfolk have failed, and my familiar friends have forgotten me. They that dwell in mine house, and my maids, count me for a stranger: I am an alien in their sight. I called my servant, and he gave me no answer; I intreated him with my mouth. My breath is strange to my wife, though I intreated for the children’s sake of mine own body. Yea, young children despised me; I arose, and they spake against me. All my inward friends abhorred me: and they whom I loved are turned against me. My bone cleaveth to my skin and to my flesh, and I am escaped with the skin of my teeth.”

Aaron had never heard the words of his life spoken with such clarity; the fact of his loneliness put up for all to see. Though he was no Job, Aaron knew he and Joel had both suffered, and that God or the Bible seemed to know that.

Perhaps, Aaron thought, perhaps I was never so alone as I thought?

“‘Have pity upon me, have pity upon me, O ye my friends; for the hand of God hath touched me. Why do ye persecute me as God, and are not satisfied with my flesh? Oh that my words were now written! Oh that they were printed in a book! That they were graven with an iron pen and lead in the rock for ever!’”

No matter, because I won’t be alone again, at least not until this poor lad is ready to strike out on his own. Until then, I will not turn against those whom I love and those whom I have loved.

“‘For I know that my redeemer liveth, and that he shall stand at the latter day upon the earth: And though after my skin worms destroy this body, yet in my flesh shall I see God: Whom I shall see for myself, and mine eyes shall behold, and not another; though my reins be consumed within me.”

Joel looked up at Aaron, a silent request for comfort, a need to understand leaking out of the corners of those big, brown eyes.

“‘But ye should say, Why persecute we him, seeing the root of the matter is found in me?’”

Aaron knew he had answers, but the same answers he gave to himself so many times would not suffice for young Joel; they would be too cruel for Aaron even to repeat, much less for Joel to hear. At that tender point in his life, the truth could very well kill the boy.

“‘Be ye afraid of the sword: for wrath bringeth the punishments of the sword, that ye may know there is a judgment.’”

*

After the funeral, a variety of well-wishers approached Aaron and Joel, curious to meet Aaron but eager to give Joel their very best. The boy nodded, quiet and respectful, as one saddened face followed the next. They introduced themselves to him; the local cobbler, restauranteur, the sheriff who assured them they’d find the driver of the errant coach.

Aaron couldn’t help taking note of one citizen, mourning with the rest of the community. She was a striking redhead, with big, green eyes and freckled, pale skin. She stood in black along with two other older women, and they struck Aaron as three generations of a family. Something about the face seemed to transcend the years and the laws of nature; younger on one, wizened and pale on another, wrinkled and ancient on the third. But they all shared a kind of quiet nobility, a humble elegance that struck Aaron even then. They were quiet, keeping to themselves, but Aaron couldn’t escape the glances he got from the youngest of the three, not more than twenty-five years by Aaron’s estimation.

But only she made a stronger impression on him than the man who introduced himself with a confident smile and a secure handshake.

Worthy of a salesman, Aaron noted, to his chagrin.

“Name’s Tamarind, Marv Tamarind.” He looked Aaron over, and Aaron did the same. The man had black hair, combed back in a creasy skull cap to match his thin, wiry mustache. “And you are?”

“Aaron Hague, Joel’s uncle.”

“I see. I’m sorry for your loss. He was a great talent. We will all miss him very much.” He looked down at Joel and smiled, rubbing the top of his head. “How are you, Joel?”

Joel could only shrug, which Aaron felt was as courageous and reasonable a response as the boy could be expected to offer.

“And how do you know my nephew, Mr. Tamarind?”

“Publishing rep from Havisham & Twist. I handled all of John Hague’s business with the company.”

Aaron glanced down at Joel, then back at Mr. Tamarind. “I see.”

“We are all just … struck dumb by this tragic loss.” A moment of stale silence passed before Tamarind went on, “And of course, we’re eager to see that Joel is … well taken care of.”

“How do you mean that?”

Tamarind seemed taken off-guard. “Beg pardon?”

“That you want to see that he’s well taken care of. Do you mean you hoped to adopt him yourself?”

Tamarind broke out in an awkward little chuckle. “Well, no, I mean … not that I wouldn’t be proud to call him my son, of course, but … I mean, y’know, legally speaking.”

“Ah, yes, legally speaking. And how were you going to take care of Joel … legally speaking?”

“I … well, there are considerable monies to be considered; rights to further editions of the Smokey series, royalties. The boy’s rights have to be properly seen to.”

“I’ll be looking into the boy’s interests,” Aaron said, his voice low and cool. “You can go back to looking after the interests of Havisham & Twist.”

Tamarind smiled, but it could not survive his obvious insult. “Of course, sir, but … because we’re so … so fond of Joel and his poor parents, may I ask … beside from being the boy’s uncle …?”

After a tense silence, Aaron asked, “What?”

“Well, it’s plain to see. The boy is struck with tragedy and flush with his father’s inheritance.”

“What are you saying?” Aaron asked, though he already knew the answer. “You think I’m swooping in for the boy’s fortune?”

Tamarind looked Aaron over. “You seem to make a pleasing impression. What’s your line?”

“Sales.”

Tamarind chuckled and nodded. “Of course.”

“Same line you’re in, but I’m out in the field.”

“Which makes you tired, probably desperate, maybe even on the run; all things a newfound fortune could handily take care of.”

Aaron looked down at Joel, seeing in his cramping brows the seeds of mistrust which the publisher Tamarind was planting quickly taking root.

Aaron said to Tamarind, “I’ll be looking after the boy now, Mr. Tamarind. And I’ll be certain to protect his legal rights in every particular.”

“And I, the rights of Havisham and Twist,” Tamarind said. “I’m sure we’ll have occasion to discuss this at another time.” He shook Aaron’s hand and turned to look down at Joel. “Once again, I’m so sorry for your loss, Joel.” He shook the boy’s hand, and with a side glare at Aaron, turned to dissolve into the crowd.

Aaron knelt to Joel, resting his hands on the boy’s upper arms, eyes locking on his nephew’s.

“Joel, listen to me: That man, I don’t know what kind of fellow he is. But he’s not family, do you understand? Things have changed for you, for us both. But that means you’re going to have to learn to be more cautious of people, more aware. Your parents aren’t here to take care of you. I am, and I always will be, but you’ll have to take care of yourself. I’m sorry, but … that’s the way of the world. The sooner we both start to live that way, the sooner we’ll be well. Understand?”

Joel seemed to think about it, and Aaron was unconvinced when the boy nodded and let Joel give him a big, reassuring hug. But bad times were coming, Aaron could sense it. All he could do then was hold that boy tight as if clinging for his very life, both of their lives, because that was just what he was doing.

And he knew it.

---

“A Challenge of Love and Faith” is an Amazon Best-Selling novel, check it out here!

Aaron Hague is a footloose traveling salesman but he’s hardly fancy free. He’s fled from a tragic past, but his heartache is far from over, when his brother, a rising literary star and his wife are both killed. Right then, he decides to step up and take care of the orphaned son they left behind. While Aaron and his nephew attempt to create a new family, a kind, beautiful woman will unexpectedly enter their lives. Her positivity is refreshing, but she has troubles of her own. Can the three of them find the courage to mend their broken hearts and start anew?

Mae has had her fair share of loss in her life, but faith is what kept her strong in the face of all the obstacles thrown her way. Her kindness and grace impress the new salesman in town, when she goes to work for him as a seamstress. As they draw closer, her faith seems to bring him solace but Mae keeps secrets of her own. Can she help bring the new family together, or will her own troubles tear them apart?

Relentless, greedy publishers will try to discredit Aaron, and other forces will try to keep him apart from Mae. In this tale of love and faith, will the new family’s courage shine through or will a storm of envy and chaos wash them away forever?

“A Challenge of Love and Faith” is a historical western romance novel of approximately 80,000 words. No cheating, no cliffhangers, and a guaranteed happily ever after.

Get your copy from Amazon!