Free Wounded Grace by Tanya Stowe Page A

sweet-scented, colorful flowerbeds taking shape, she had to agree.
    A trickle of sweat worked its way down Madison’s spine and eased beneath the band of her pants, tickling all the way. She was hot and starting to get itchy, but her discomfort only made her smile again. “Thank you, Lord. Thank you for the opportunity,” she whispered.
    She slid the first of the tiny grape hyacinths out of its plastic container and dropped it in a hole. Without warning, a shadow covered the ground where she worked. Madison leaned back on her legs. Moments ago the sky had been clear.
    She looked up. There wasn’t a cloud anywhere to be seen. The sky was as clear blue as it had been moments before.
    Madison’s gaze jerked back down to the ground. All of her plants were still cast in a large, undefined, dark shadow. Where in the world was it coming from?
    Suddenly, the shovel Mr. Hart had been holding fell in front of Madison, crushing the tiny hyacinths and paperwhites she’d just planted.
    Madison gasped as Mr. Hart grabbed his chest, fell to his knees, and rolled over in the dark, warm earth. Madison ripped off her gloves and crawled to his side. He was curled in pain, clutching his chest.
    “Mr. Hart!” Shock swept through Madison.
    Heart attack. He was having a heart attack. What should she do?
    Call 911.
    “Help,” she murmured barely able to get the words past her frozen lips.
    Mr. Hart convulsed again and that spurred her into action.
    “Help!” She turned and shouted across the complex yard where Kevin and his crew were forming another flowerbed.
    “Call 911! He’s having a heart attack!”
    She turned back to Mr. Hart. Her mind scrambled to find a way to help. An infomercial flashed through her thoughts. “Cough, Mr. Hart. Try to cough. I think it helps.”
    But the pain was too great, too sudden. All he could do was clutch his chest.
    Madison reached for him, wishing she could do something. He grasped her hand and tried to turn his head to see her. She lifted him gently onto her lap. He wanted to speak, but couldn’t.
    Tell Vivian he loves her.
    “Oh, no Andrew,” she whispered as hot tears flowed down her cheeks and onto their muddy, clasped hands. “Please, no. Not yet.”
    Tell her.
    The finality of the words surrounded her, filled her with certainty. His death would not be stopped. She felt it, knew it. A small sob escaped her, and she nodded. “I’ll tell her. I promise, I’ll tell her.”
    Her words eased his pain. He released his chest, looked at a spot just above her shoulder and smiled. Then his eyes closed.
     
     
     
     

2
     
    Lance Dalton parked in front of the large two-story, Victorian home the Heart’s Haven folks called “the big house” and unfolded his long length out of his car. Humidity washed over him with a heavy, almost oppressive wave and made his skin tingle. His gaze fixed on the house. He stretched the long drive out of his cramped muscles, and tried to shake away the unpleasant prickling sensation.
    Strange. Heart’s Haven looked as it had on his last visit. Nothing seemed different. But it was. In the flash of an instant, everything at Heart’s Haven had changed. Andrew Hart, the core of the community, was gone and Lance’s sister, Vivian, was burying her second husband.
    Heart’s Haven’s essence, its lifeblood, had drained away. At the very least, Lance thought the house should reflect the change, should look like a washed-out version of itself.
    He knew Vivian would be different. Andrew Hart had been the love of her life. She would fade and change now that he was gone. Lance knew, because after thirty years of marriage, he’d lost his own precious Gwen and had become a shadow of his former self. That’s why, as soon as he got the call about Andrew, he’d packed a bag and driven over eight hours to be with his sister. She would need him now, need all the help she could get.
    He slammed the car door shut and took the large porch steps two at a time. The front door was