By Vicki Lane
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Additional info for Art's Blood
Many official cars and trucks were there and I saw uniformed men poking about in the rubble. I felt trapped in some terrible nightmare— Boz dead, my beautiful son in jail— and fear for Kyra overtook me. I parked by the studio and stayed in my car, taking deep, healing breaths. At last a man came to me and shared what had happened. He said that he was the sheriff and he assured me that Kyra was unharmed. ” Willow smiled and held out her hands, palms up. “And here I am. Spirit is working in all things.
Elizabeth put away her weed-eater and wearily sought the porch’s inviting shade. She paused on the top step to enjoy the sight of the neatly trimmed herb garden and flower beds and the intoxicating smell of fresh-cut grass drying in the August sun. Beautiful, even if it would have to be done again in two weeks. She hung her straw hat on the back of a porch rocker, then took off her sweat-soaked purple bandana and draped it over the railing to dry. Sinking gratefully into one of the rockers, she loosened her boot laces and pulled off the filthy, grass-covered lumps that had lost all resemblance to the sporty hiking boots they once had been.
But by now, the calf was tired of this game, and he started trotting down the road toward the pasture. And Uncle Sol had to trot too, yoked together as they were. Price hauled on the rope to slow the calf but the rope broke. So Price hung on to the sled as his father and the calf dashed over the rocky ground. The calf was going faster and faster, frightened at the sound of the wooden sled bouncing along behind him, and Uncle Sol had no choice but to run faster too or have his neck broken. Just then, exclaimed Miss Carolyn, around a bend in the road came Uncle Sol’s wife Mariah, on her way home from the store.
Art's Blood by Vicki Lane