A Sentimental Journey Romance Collection Read online

  Of Immeasurable Worth © 2004 by Joan Croston

  A Flower Amidst the Ashes © 2001 by DiAnn Mills

  To Sing Another Day © 2012 by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  A Living Doll © 2004 by Cathy Marie Hake

  Filled with Joy © 2004 by Kelly Eileen Hake

  A Thread of Trust © 2004 by Sally Laity

  A Stitch of Faith © 2004 by Dianna Crawford

  Letters from Home © 2013 by Lynette Sowell

  A Light in the Night © 2001 by Janelle Burnham Schneider

  Print ISBN 978-1-63409-471-9

  eBook Editions:

  Adobe Digital Edition (.epub) 978-1-63409-398-9

  Kindle and MobiPocket Edition (.prc) 978-1-63409-399-6

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted for commercial purposes, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without written permission of the publisher.

  All scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

  Scripture taken from the HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®. NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.

  Published by Barbour Publishing, Inc., P.O. Box 719, Uhrichsville, OH 44683, www.barbourbooks.com

  Our mission is to publish and distribute inspirational products offering exceptional value and biblical encouragement to the masses.

  Printed in Canada.

  Table of Contents

  Of Immeasurable Worth

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  A Flower Amidst the Ashes

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Epilogue

  To Sing Another Day

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  A Living Doll

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Filled with Joy

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  A Thread of Trust

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  A Stitch of Faith

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Letters from Home

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Epilogue

  A Light in the Night

  Author’s Note

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Of Immeasurable Worth

  by Joan Croston

  Chapter 1

  London, 1940

  A gust of wind scattered twigs along the sidewalk, then swirled around the ladder as Ann Heydon stepped on the first rung and inched her way toward the top. “I don’t like heights,” she muttered as her stomach churned, “but Grandpa can’t climb up here to do this.” She grasped the ladder with her left hand and stretched as far as she could to wipe dirt from the sign on her grandfather’s shop. Her weight shifted, and the ladder began to tilt. “Oh, no!” she cried out as she and the ladder headed for the sidewalk.

  “Taking flying lessons?” Below, hands steadied the ladder and helped her to the ground.

  She looked up into the face of Peter Austin and felt the dreaded blush creep over her. “Oh no, sir. The shop sign was dirty so I climbed up to clean it, but the ladder slipped, and I …” She stopped in embarrassment as he chuckled at her rambling.

  “After you’ve risked life and limb up there, the least I can do is check the results.” He stepped back to inspect her work. “You did a great job!” The sign again clearly identified her grandfather’s establishment:

  WORTHINGTON’S BOOKSHOP

  BOOK REPAIRS AND RARE EDITIONS

  NIGEL WORTHINGTON, PROPRIETOR

  “That’s a relief! I never want to climb up there again!” Ann collected her cleaning supplies and smiled. “You haven’t been by the shop for a while, Mr. Austin. You must keep busy with that book you’re writing, or is it those literature classes you teach at the university?”

  “A bit of both, I’m afraid.” He shook his finger at her, a teasing glint in his eyes. “But how many times do I have to remind you? My name’s Peter. After all, we’re fellow Americans here in jolly old London. ‘Mr. Austin’ makes me feel too old.” He wagged his eyebrows at her. “Unless you’re trying to tell me something….”

  She fought to keep the red from her face. “No, of course I’m not. You’re not old, but I’m used to calling teachers by their more formal names. I know you’re not my teacher, but you do teach at the university and—”

  “Hold it!” He burst out laughing. “Don’t be so serious. It’s 1940. The world’s not that formal anymore. It may be falling apart around us, but that’s even more reason to enjoy it while we can.” He picked up the ladder. “I’m here to see your grandfather about a book. I’ll take this in for you.”

  Ann let out her breath and collapsed against the shop as a woman stepped out of her gift shop next door and bustled over.

  “Are you all right, dearie?” Mrs. Chumley stopped in front of her and peered over her glasses.

  Ann brushed off her cardigan sweater. “I’m fine—at least physically. I’m not so sure about the rest of me.”

  Her neighbor planted her hands on her ample hips. “I saw that handsome young man rescue you. It was so romantic!”

  Ann sighed. “I know I’m a dunce when it comes to men, Mrs. Chumley, but why does that man always leave me in a dither? I’m foolish to think he could be interested in a plain Jane like me. After all, he’s tall, dark, and handsome, a writer, and a professor, but …” She twirled the empty bucket in her hands.

  Mrs. Chumley folded her plump arms across her chest. “And who says you’re a plain Jane?”

  “I have mirrors, Mrs. Chumley. I don’t look like the girls who make themselves up the way movie stars do. No pompadour. No long red nails. Mousy-colored hair. I’m just a plain Jane who’s mor
e at home with books than people.”

  Mrs. Chumley shook her head until her bright red curls bobbed on their dark roots. “So you think you need to look like a movie star to get a good man. I don’t look like none of them, but my Albert says I’m classy.” She gave her hair a pat. “And I do have a sense of style, if I may say so myself.”

  Ann looked at her neighbor’s orange dress and bright red hair and stifled a chuckle. “But you—”

  “Let me finish, dearie. Those women may look all fancy, but they’re probably pretty stuck on themselves, if you ask me. Maybe your young man has better taste, like my Albert. Think about it.” A woman approached her store, and she hurried away.

  As Ann turned, Peter stepped out of her grandfather’s shop, waved, and walked briskly toward the bus stop. With a sigh, she entered the store, her heart thumping. There were no customers, so she was startled when suddenly a raucous voice screamed and ranted from the workroom at the back of the building. When it paused, a crowd roared, “Sieg heil! Sieg heil! Sieg heil!” She knew her grandfather was glued to his radio, and she gave a shudder as the harangue continued. She didn’t understand German, but from the sound of Hitler’s voice, she knew he wasn’t saying anything good. As she picked up a feather duster, the voice disappeared and her grandfather approached the counter, bristling with anger.

  “There’s no hope of a peace treaty?” she ventured.

  He spread his hands on the counter and stood silently a moment. “No, my dear, Hitler is a liar who thinks he can grab whatever he wants.” He gave a snort. “He talks about peace; then in the past two years, he’s taken the Rhineland, Austria, Czechoslovakia, and Poland. In April he invaded Norway and Denmark, and now a month later he’s taken Belgium, Holland, and Luxembourg with that Blitzkrieg of his.” He shook his white head slowly and pounded his fist on the counter. “And mark my word. By the end of June, he’ll have France. How long ’til we’re not safe here in London?”

  Ann watched the pain in her grandfather’s face as he recited the litany of Hitler’s conquests. She braced herself for what she knew was coming next.

  “We’ve talked about this before, Ann. You must go back to America. It’s not safe here.” His voice was firm. “You have to leave while you can still get out.”

  Ann moved the feather duster back and forth over the counter. “I won’t leave you over here alone, Grandpa, and that’s final. Besides, why should I run away? You’ve always assured me God’s with us.”

  He sighed and rubbed his hands together slowly. “And that He is, my dear, but He also gave us brains and expects us to use them. We’re not to act foolishly and wait for Him to bail us out.” He picked a book off the counter and returned it to a shelf.

  “England’s my home country, Ann. Those years I spent in America as a young man were wonderful, but it wasn’t home.” His face took on a nostalgic look. “That’s where I met your grandmother. She returned home with me, and we lived here all those years. But when our daughter grew up, she wanted to see America, so across the ocean she went. When she met your father there, she decided to stay, and you were born American. So, we each have our homeland.” He looked at her with a sad smile.

  “But, Grandpa, there’s tradition. I have to find the love of my life in another country as you and Mom did. Don’t send me away now. Please. Wait to see what happens. Maybe this war will be over soon. Hitler can’t take over the whole world!”

  He shook his head. “You understand so little of what’s going on. We’ll talk about this again. I have a book to repair; I’ll be in the workroom.”

  Ann leaned on the counter and stared out the window. “I won’t leave Grandpa,” she muttered, “and I can’t lose my chance to have the great adventure of my life and find the man of my dreams. After all, I’m twenty-five years old already. Nothing will make me give up and go home!”

  Chapter 2

  Peter Austin leaned back in the chair and rubbed his neck, enjoying the warmth of the sun’s rays streaming through the windows of his flat. He sighed and tapped his pencil on the manuscript before him. He needed to do more research for his book on England in the Middle Ages, but with the country at war, it was no longer a matter of if he went home but when.

  He twirled the pencil between his fingers. At the rate students were leaving school to help the war effort, he wouldn’t have enough people in his classes to keep teaching here much longer. He should collect the information for his book and do the writing back home in America.

  He walked to the window and stared out at the city he’d come to love. He could feel its history and tradition all around him. If he left now, how many valuable books and documents would be sacrificed to finance the Nazi cause or be destroyed when war came to London? He couldn’t desert his colleagues and the efforts they were making to preserve things that couldn’t be replaced.

  Another image, this one soft and sweet, floated through his mind. He loved the way Ann’s face turned pink at the least little thing, and he chuckled at her tendency to ramble when she was flustered, but once they began discussing books, she was relaxed and fun. Then he’d turn around and she’d start acting so … well, so strange—almost as if she really didn’t like him. If he went home, he’d never know why she kept popping into his mind.

  He walked back to the desk and stared at the manuscript. He was stuck without the material Nigel had ordered for him. If he stopped by the bookstore, it might be in—and maybe he’d have a chance to talk to Ann. He grabbed his tweed jacket and headed for the bus stop.

  Customers were in and out of the bookstore all morning, and it was midafternoon before Ann climbed the steps to the upstairs apartment she shared with her grandfather to make a list of groceries she hoped to buy. Planning meals had become a challenge with so many items either rationed or in short supply. She put the list in her purse and hurried down the stairs, poking her head into the workroom. “I’m going shopping, Grandpa. I’ll stop by the bakery to see if Mrs. Wilson saved you any sweets.”

  He nodded and turned back to his work.

  She stepped outside and slowed her pace, taking a deep breath and enjoying the warble of birds and fragrance of late spring blossoms that brought a touch of home to a country girl in the big city. She glanced up to check a street sign only to find it gone. Signposts and street names had been taken down to confuse German forces should they invade the country, more evidence that life wasn’t normal these days.

  She turned the corner and faced the inevitable line. With shortages, lines grew long as people waited in hopes of purchasing the items they needed. Somehow the wait seemed more tolerable when she thought of them as queues. She smiled to herself at the English expression.

  Back on the sidewalk with her purchases, her ration books tucked in her purse, the air took on a sudden chill as she stared at sandbags piled high to form a protective wall in front of the post office and the bank. The city was changing from a place of adventure to one of uncertainty. She gave a shudder.

  She needed a few moments to refresh her spirits, so she headed for an area of the park across the street adjacent to St. Andrew’s churchyard. The park seemed eerily quiet now. No children played and shouted. A year ago, most of them had been sent to homes in northern England, where they would be safer should the Germans attack. Women were working up to sixty hours a week in the war industry.

  Ann entered a sheltered corner near the churchyard, set her packages down, and plopped on a bench that offered a view of green grass and flowers. The rest of the park was marred by trenches dug to serve as quick shelters if German planes attacked, but in this corner, irises bloomed in shades of purple and lavender, and dandelions brought bits of sunshine to the lawn. At least here in her sanctuary the world seemed the same.

  “Is this seat taken?”

  “Oh!” Startled, Ann looked up to see Peter smiling at her. She shook her head and tried not to blush as he settled down on the bench beside her.

  “I often stop here on my way to the bookshop. I’m pleased we have t
he same tastes.” He paused and sniffed the air. “Hmm, speaking of tastes, either I smell something tasty, or you have very unusual perfume. You’ve been searching out some sweets, I believe.” He leaned over and sniffed the bag she had set beside her.

  “No, it’s my new perfume,” she teased as she put her hand on the bag. “I’d never tell you if I had goodies in there. I’ve seen how you and Grandpa devour a tin of biscuits!” She moved the bag to the other side of her.

  “Oh, ho, trying to sound English, are we? That smells like my favorite cookies to me!” He tried to reach around her for the sack. “I’ll take a look to be sure. Scarce as sweets are these days, I may have to walk you home to protect them.”

  “Oh, no, you don’t!” Ann grinned and slapped at his hand. “Mrs. Wilson has a soft spot for Grandpa and saves him treats whenever she can. If I let you see them, there won’t be anything left!” She put her hand on the bag.

  Peter hung his head and gave a dejected sigh, then winked at her. “It’s good to see you relax and have a little fun.”

  The smile quickly left her face. “There’s something wrong with me? How can you be so cheery when the world’s falling apart, Mr. Austin? When I came over here, I didn’t expect this.” She looked down at her hands. “I know that sounds selfish when countries are being overrun by the Nazis, but I loved it here so much the way things were.”

  Peter leaned back and crossed his legs. He looked over at her and spoke quietly. “I do understand, Ann. Don’t forget; I’ve come to love England, too. I’m not through with my research, so I try to hang on a little longer. I love my work, and I like the friends I’ve made here, especially two in a little bookshop I frequent.” He patted her hand and gave her a lopsided grin.

  Ann could feel the color rise in her face and took a deep breath. “Seriously, Peter, do you think Germany will attack London?”

  He reached down to pick a blade of grass and twisted it between his fingers. “The signs are all around, Ann, and they’re not hopeful. We’re under a blackout every night. Street signs are gone. Think how long it’s been since you’ve heard a church bell. Headlights have to be covered so no light shows at night.” He looked over at her. “I don’t want to frighten you, but you need to be aware of what’s going on.”