All My Belongings Read online

  “Intricate. Astounding. Suspense woven together with lyrical prose. Characters you hate, others you bleed for. Masterful storyteller, Cynthia Ruchti, has done it again with All My Belongings. A Keeper!”

  —Lauraine Snelling, creator of the favorite Red River of the North historical series and Wake the Dawn

  “I was blown away by the beautiful style of Cynthia Ruchti’s novel, All My Belongings. Her story was warm, tear-jerking, and beautiful with healing. I want to read more of this novelist’s intelligent work.”

  —Hannah Alexander, author of Hallowed Halls

  “Loved it. Loved. It. Wonderful characters. Creative story line. Get yourself comfortable because it’s a read-at-one-sitting book. Highly recommended.”

  —Gayle Roper, author of Lost and Found; An Unlikely Match

  “Cynthia Ruchti has penned another compelling story with a hero and heroine who are both trapped by their pasts and complications in the present that could destroy futures. This is a story that leads you through the pages to a place where light and forgiveness stream. A beautiful story for people who love rich layers of truth mixed into their novels.”

  —Cara Putman, award-winning author of Shadowed by Grace

  “Where do you turn when changing your name isn’t enough? When putting hundreds of miles between you and your family of origin doesn’t distance you from the shame? With achingly real characters facing crises of conscience that challenge even those solid in their convictions, Cynthia Ruchti creates a story of faith, forgiveness, and families who are sometimes called to reinvent themselves to survive. You will not get through this book without some fraying of your heart . . . but it will be tenderly mended by the final page.”

  —Becky Melby, author of the Lost Sanctuary series

  “I couldn’t put All My Belongings down—I was enraptured and caught up in the words, in the feelings. I loved the romance and the mystery and the beauty of God’s grace and love that overarched the story. I know just how Becca felt with Aurelia—and with her dad. This was such a blessing!”

  —Deb Haggerty

  “I am a dedicated fan of Cynthia Ruchti’s exquisite writing, and All My Belongings is just one more well-told story to add to my collection of her stunning novels. There are a lot of good writers on the planet today, but few great ones. Ruchti qualifies as one of the latter. As she skillfully pens a tale of a young woman fighting to overcome her father’s legacy, Ruchti keeps readers on the edge of their seats even as we are challenged to consider our own faith and courage in the face of overwhelming odds.”

  —Kathi Macias, author of more than 40 books, including The Singing Quilt

  “Perhaps the greatest longing of every heart is to find a safe place to belong and be loved. For those feeling lost and shut out of love, Cynthia’s powerful story provides a map for the journey to where grace and forgiveness intersect with hope and healing.”

  —Lisa Abeler, Women’s Ministries Director at Camp Lebanon in Minnesota

  “The word pictures Cynthia Ruchti paints in my mind’s eye are like no other! This book is filled with mystery, intrigue, and love wrapped up in the embrace of God’s grace—destined to become a best seller!”

  —Shari Radford, Event Planner/Owner, Christian Speakers Bureau

  “Ruchti’s characters in All My Belongings face real problems that have no easy solutions. They struggle with trust, they wrestle with forgiveness. This story captured my attention and held it to the end when the main character at last discovers where she truly belongs.”

  —Emily Parke Chase, author of Standing Tall After Falling Short

  “All My Belongings is the type of book you would want to have as you curl up in a soft chair with a cup of tea! I loved the plot of this book. The main character is a woman we all could identify with and yet her courage and faith are inspirations. Of course, everyone loves a romance, and the way the author brings it about is done with such taste and thoughtfulness. I was on the edge of my seat as one thing after another happens, but the ending of the story as well as how God is there for us will warm your heart. What a wonderful story!”

  —Lane P. Jordan, best-selling author of 12 Steps to Becoming a More Organized Woman

  “Thank you for the chance to read your new book. I absolutely loved it. Your information on medications and the progression of the illness and the care was right on. This story really hit home to me in so many ways. Throughout the book thoughts would take me to my own family experiences and those at my job. I will highly recommend this book to everyone when it is published.”

  —Cindy Hardrath, hospice caregiver

  All My Belongings

  Copyright © 2014 by Cynthia Ruchti

  ISBN: 978-1-68299-809-0

  Published by Abingdon Press, P.O. Box 801, Nashville, TN 37202

  www.abingdonpress.com

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, posted on any website, or transmitted in any form or by any means—digital, electronic, scanning, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without written permission from the publisher, except for brief quotations in printed reviews and articles.

  The persons and events portrayed in this work of fiction are the creations of the author, and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Published in association with Books & Such Agency.

  ________________________________________________________

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Ruchti, Cynthia.

  All my belongings / Cynthia Ruchti.

  pages cm

  ISBN 978-1-4267-4972-8 (binding: soft back, pbk., adhesive, perfect binding : alk. paper) 1. Fathers and daughters—Fiction. 2. Runaway teenagers—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3618.U3255A79 2014

  813’.6—dc23

  2013041874

  Scripture quotations unless otherwise noted are from the Common English Bible. Copyright © 2011 by the Common English Bible. All rights reserved. Used by permission. www.CommonEnglishBible.com.

  The scripture on page 91 is from The Authorized (King James) Version. Rights in the Authorized Version in the United Kingdom are vested in the Crown. Reproduced by permission of the Crown’s patentee, Cambridge University Press.

  Printed in the United States of America

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 / 19 18 17 16 15 14

  To those who feel homeless when they aren’t,

  whose journeys take exceptional courage,

  whose hearts tell them the love

  they seek is possible, present,

  and not at all what they imagined.

  It’s ocean-deep and laced with grace.

  Other Books by Cynthia Ruchti

  Fiction

  They Almost Always Come Home

  When the Morning Glory Blooms

  Cedar Creek Seasons (contributor)

  A Door Country Christmas (contributor)

  Nonfiction

  Ragged Hope: Surviving the Fallout of Other People’s Choices

  Mornings with Jesus, 2014 (contributor)

  His Grace Is Sufficient, Decaf Is Not (contributor)

  Acknowledgments

  My husband pouted, “I haven’t read it yet. Your new one.” The thought of Bill stealing away with a book I wrote, falling in love with the characters who moved me, tracing the journeys imagination penned but real life inspired stirs my soul. He doesn’t just sacrifice my making a “real” income and expecting lasagna and my full attention when characters are wrestling something through in my head. He cares. I’m blessed. Thank you, Wonderhubby.

  When even my youngest grandchild talks about “authors like you, Grammie,” I’m more grateful than ever
to have been given the privilege of telling stories. The legacy of love I hope to leave includes what shows up between the covers of books I write. The support of my family—from my children, grandchildren, siblings and their spouses, and all branches of the family tree—feels like having a personal cheering squad, a cheering squad that prays, for which I’m humbled and grateful.

  Readers, you did this! You enabled me to launch this story to the reading world. Your blessed acceptance of other novels and nonfiction from this author with the unpronounceable last name (Helpful hint—the first half rhymes with book. Ruchti = ROOK-tee) opened the door for All My Belongings. As you read the story, enjoy the sensation that you helped breathe life into it. I can’t wait for you to read what’s coming next, too!

  Ramona Richards and Jamie Clarke Chavez knew just what the book needed in the editing phase. Thank you, Ramona and Abingdon Press, for trusting me to write this particular story.

  So many at the Abingdon offices have become like family to me. My appreciation for you spills over every day. Cover designers, marketing team, sales staff, Cat Hoort, Pamela Clements, Mark and Linda Yeh, Brenda, Susan, Julie, Preston, Bryan . . .

  As always, I’ve leaned heavily on the camaraderie, insights, and grace of kindred spirits like Jackie, Becky, and Michelle. Amazing women, I’m grateful for you.

  Wendy Lawton, my agent who accompanies me on this breath-stealing adventure, I so deeply value your friendship and wisdom and the way you call me up higher in my walk through this achingly beautiful world.

  My writing friends at ACFW; my author friends who are as faithful to pray as they are to critique; my brainstorming, talk-me-off-a-writing-ledge, how-can-we-help-spread-the-word community; first readers; and publicists, you bless me to my marrow.

  Breath of Life, You who first whispered this idea in my ear and branded it onto the flesh of my heart, thank You for being faithful to the end . . . and beyond. I am forever Yours, my Belonging Place, the Source of all my longing.

  Hope delayed makes the heart sick; longing fulfilled is a tree of life.—Proverbs 13:12

  1

  The coffee tasted like burnt marshmallows. The charred bits. Jayne set the vending machine cup on the corner of her advisor’s desk.

  Patricia smiled over half-glasses. “Don’t blame you.” She nodded toward her oversized thermal tankard. “I bring my own from home.”

  Home.

  “I’m surprised you wanted to see me today, Jayne. Aren’t they—?”

  “Yes.” She directed her line of sight through Patricia Connor’s office window, over the tops of the century-old oaks and maples lining the campus, toward the courthouse in the center of town.

  “And you didn’t want to be there?” The woman removed her glasses as if they interfered with her understanding.

  Oh, I’m there. I’ve been there every agonizing moment. Several little shards of me are embedded in the hardwood floor in the courtroom. What’s left of me wants an answer from you. “I need to find out if I can reenter the program where I left off.”

  Patricia leaned back in her nondescript office chair. “And you have to know today?”

  “Yes.”

  Her advisor’s head shook so slightly, Jayne assumed the movement originated in the nervous bounce of the woman’s knee, not her neck. “We’ve had . . . concerns.”

  “My grades were good.”

  “It’s not that. Most nontraditional students are committed enough to pull decent grades.”

  Twenty-seven and nontraditional. In every way. Jayne leaned forward and added, “And work two jobs while doing it.” She wouldn’t look out the window again. Her future lay here, in this decision. “If you’re worried about the financial aspect . . .”

  “Aren’t you? Word is, you’re tapped out with what your family’s gone through.”

  She’d shelved the word family a year and a half ago, the day she found out her father’s middle name was Reprehensible. Bertram Reprehensible Dennagee. Her mother didn’t think she could endure the pain one more day. Her father made sure she didn’t.

  According to the charges against him, it wasn’t the first time.

  Thanks to Jayne’s discovery, though, and her call to the police, it was the first time he’d been caught.

  Her eyes burned behind her eyelids. She could feel her sinuses swelling.

  “Jayne?”

  She repositioned herself in the chair, dropping her shoulders from where they’d crept up near her ears, straightening her spine, breathing two seconds in, two seconds out. “I’ll find a way. I need to finish the nursing program. Get on with my life. What’s left of it.”

  Behind her a voice leaned into the room. “Did you hear? Guilty on all charges. They got him!”

  Patricia’s face blanched and pinched. Her eyes made arrows toward where Jayne sat.

  The voice faded as it backed into the hall. The expletive a whisper, it still rattled the window, the bookcases, Jayne’s ribs.

  Lips pressed together, Jayne waited for her advisor to say something. And for her throat muscles to unclench.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Jayne let the hollow words bounce around the room for a moment. “About the verdict? Not unexpected.”

  “Have you thought about trying another school of nursing? Someplace a little farther away from—”

  From her father’s reputation? How far was that?

  I.C.E. In Case of Emergency. Geneva Larkin’s name and code showed on her cell phone screen. Jayne hadn’t turned the key in the ignition yet, twenty minutes after leaving Patricia’s office. Perfectly safe to use her cell phone even though she was behind the wheel. Safe. If it had been anyone but Geneva—the mentor who’d kept her tethered to reality since Jayne was ten years old and for all practical purposes orphaned—she wouldn’t have thought so.

  She punched the talk button. Deep breath. “Hello?”

  “Where are you?”

  “Depths of despair. Where are you?”

  Geneva’s smile registered through the phone. “Whatever you do, maintain that sense of humor, Jayne. Don’t know how you can, but it’s going to keep you upright. That and the God of the Universe who holds you in the palm of His—”

  “I couldn’t go to the courthouse.”

  “I’m there now. The reporters are going nuts looking for you.”

  Jayne slid her hand down the side of the seat and flicked the lever to move her farther from the constraints of the steering wheel. “I don’t think I can go back to my apartment. They’ll be waiting for me.”

  “It’s what they do.”

  “ ‘So, Ms. Dennegee, how does it feel to know your father’s headed for prison because of you?’ ‘Fine. Thanks for asking.’ ”

  “He’s going to prison because of his own sins, Jayne, not yours.”

  “Is that what you tell all the snitches?”

  “You did the right thing. You did the only thing you could do. What kind of guilt would you bear right now if you hadn’t turned him in?”

  The temperature in the car peaked somewhere between preheat and broil. Jayne reached across the seat to roll down the passenger side window of her aging, no-frills Cavalier. Cross ventilation proved a false hope on a corn-ripening day in Iowa. “He’s my daddy.”

  The word she’d vowed not to use again.

  “Hon”—Geneva cleared her throat—“sometimes the bravest thing we can do is let the guilt go.”

  “Don’t hold your breath.”

  “Don’t hold yours.”

  “What?”

  “Keep breathing.”

  “It’s not automatic anymore.” Jayne rested her forehead on the steering wheel. If it left a mark, so be it. She’d been branded by her father’s “community service” projects. What was one more deformity?

  “Jayne, let me come get you. Where are you now?”

  “Parking Lot B at the university.”

  “What are you doing there? Oh.”

  “The appointment with my faculty advisor was a scen
e you’ll find amusing. Imagine hearing the final verdict from the TA who bops in with the good news, not knowing the convict’s daughter is sitting in the room.”

  Geneva’s pause communicated a paragraph of concern. “When do you start?”

  “School? Never. Not here anyway. It would cause the administration ‘discomfort’ to deal with the press. What Dad did with his pharmacy degree isn’t going to make it into the college recruitment brochure. Thanks to him, my name would apparently poison the student roster. Can you imagine roll call? ‘Davis? Denmark? Dennagee?’ Then gasps followed by silence.”

  “How can they have any complaint about you? This isn’t your doing.”

  No. It’s my undoing. “Have you ever walked through a barn and then noticed that your clothes and hair smelled like manure, even if you hadn’t touched any?”

  “I always said drama was your gift. Don’t know why you chose nursing rather than the theater. But we can rehash that later. Let me pick you up. We’ll go out to the lake. Give the press a chance to lose interest in you.”

  “The diner is expecting me for the four-to-midnight shift.”

  Geneva’s sigh could have moved a Richter needle well beyond six point five. “Call. In. Sick. Good grief. Of all days, this would be the day to call in sick.”

  “Can’t do that.”

  “Then call in ‘done’.”

  “Geneva! Aren’t you the one who always preached responsibility?”

  “At this point, I don’t think you can afford to stay at a place that shrivels your soul.”

  “I did for most of my childhood.”

  “You aren’t afraid the neighbors will ostracize you because of your association with me?” Jayne took the iced tea Geneva offered and settled back into the slope of the lime green Adirondack chair on the cottage’s narrow deck.