A Heart's Refuge. Carolyne Aarsen

      …his delight is in the law of the Lord…. He is like a tree planted by streams of water, which yields its fruit in season and whose leaf does not wither.

      —Psalms 1:2 and 3

      I want to dedicate this book to Dr. Randy Blacketer and Sandy Blacketer, our pastor and youth pastor.

       Two people who complement each other and our community in so many ways. Thanks for your gifts of time and talents.

      As well, I’d like to thank Laurie Carter from Okanagan Life and Karen Ball for their input on the magazine business.

      Contents

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Chapter Eleven

      Chapter Twelve

      Chapter Thirteen

      Chapter Fourteen

      Epilogue

      Letter to Reader

      Chapter One

      Becky Ellison pressed her back against the outside door of Going West’s office, balancing her muffin, coffee cup and a batch of folders. Don’t panic. You’re just a little bit late.

      “Hey, hon. Welcome back. How was the holiday?” Trixie sang out as Becky entered the reception area.

      Becky set everything on the waist-high divider separating the entrance from Trixie Langston’s domain and blew her breath out in a gusty sigh. “Breakfast on the run my first day back. Orders from our new boss that I’m deciphering late last night after spending ten days with hormonal teenage girls at Bible camp.” She grabbed her hair in a ponytail and twisted an elastic around it. “You fill in the blanks.”

      “And such a lovely hairdo to impress our new boss.” Trixie frowned as her eyes flicked over Becky’s plaid shirt and blue jeans. Trixie, as usual, was immaculately groomed. Artfully windblown hairstyle. Pale pink sweater and gray skirt. Makeup. Earrings. Becky had never sought to emulate Trixie’s style, but once in a while she wondered if people would take her more seriously if she did. “If this is your good impression,” Trixie continued, “I would hate to see the slob version.”

      “Mom’s wash machine broke down. The sewer backed up while Dad and Dennis were out in the orchard. After cleaning up that mess, this was all I had left to wear.” Becky anchored a few loose strands behind her ear and bit her lips to make them red. “Okay, enough primping. I’ll get my messages after the meeting. By the way, how late am I?”

      Trixie glanced at the clock in the foyer of the magazine office. “I’d love to say everyone else is running their usual fifteen minutes behind, but for once everyone is early. Except you.”

      Becky pulled a face at Trixie, stifling the dread that clutched her midsection. Rick Ethier. Here in Okotoks. What were the odds that he remembered who she was? Probably slim to none. She probably knew more about him than he did about her. She sucked in another breath. “My friend, wish me luck.”

      “Give him your best smile and you’ll do fine,” Trixie said, flashing her a thumbs-up.

      The door of Nelson’s office was shut and the only sound she heard was an unfamiliar deep voice. Rick, most likely. New publisher of the magazine her father started and Rick’s grandfather, Colson Ethier, recently purchased.

      Up until three weeks ago, office gossip was Nelson, the previous publisher, would stay on after the purchase. Then, just before she left on her so-called holiday—camp counselor to ten teenage girls—she was stunned to discover that Rick Ethier, Colson Ethier’s grandson, would take over Nelson’s job. Now she would be making an entrance, and a poor first impression, in front of the man who had shattered so many of her hopes and dreams.

      She smoothed one hand over her still damp hair, drew in a slow breath, sent up a quick prayer and carefully opened the door. Flashing everyone an apologetic smile, she dropped into her usual chair beside Nelson’s desk, uncomfortably close to her new boss. She dropped her papers on the corner of Nelson’s desk and chanced a look at Rick Ethier standing beside her.

      His face was all too familiar, though the grainy magazine picture indelibly imprinted on her mind didn’t capture the reality of his good looks in person. Shaggy blond hair framed the kind of face that would make women of any age stop and take a second look. The hint of a dimple in his cheek balanced out the self-assured cockiness of his smile, and his eyes were so intensely blue it was as if they glimmered with an interior light. His clothing was a mixture of casual and stylish. He wore a soft cotton cream-colored shirt, a deep brown corduroy blazer and fitted blue jeans.

      And as he glanced Becky’s way, a frown.

      Please don’t let him state the obvious, she thought, carefully setting her coffee cup on the floor beside her.

      Instead he glanced at his watch. Almost as bad.

      “Sorry I’m late,” she said with a quick smile as she reached over and shook his hand. “I’m Becky Ellison.”

      “Our editor,” Rick said, returning her smile with a cool one of his own. “Glad you could make it.” He held her gaze a moment, as if establishing his territory, then he turned to face the rest of the gathered staff of the magazine, dismissing her. “As you all now know, I’m Rick Ethier, grandson of Colson Ethier, the new owner of Going West. I’m sure you’re wondering why my grandfather, whose holdings are fairly substantial, would bother himself with one small, regional magazine. Trust me, I’m as baffled.”

      A few titters greeted that comment, but Becky heard the faint cynicism in his remark. A trademark of his.

      Rick Ethier was a travel writer for Colson Ethier’s flagship magazine. Though he couldn’t be more than thirty, his stories and articles usually held a shadow of world-weariness. As if he’d seen it all. Done it all.

      And as Becky listened to him, one part of her mind easily resurrected other words of one particularly scathing article. “Sentimental claptrap” and “shamelessly manipulative.” These less than flattering descriptions came from a monthly book review column Rick wrote for the