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  JILTED

  “In Jilted, Varina Denman brings Trapp, Texas, to life through her vivid descriptions, memorable characters, and seamless prose. Readers will be enthralled from the first page to the last in this touching conclusion to the Mended Hearts series. The power of love to heal and restore hearts and lives that are broken shines through this story. Well done!”

  Carrie Turansky, award-winning author of A Refuge at Highland Hall and Shine Like the Dawn

  “Varina Denman has the storytelling gift. I am confident that if Trapp, Texas, were a real town, I would recognize it the instant I arrived thanks to Denman’s vivid imagery, her compelling writing, and her believable and thoroughly lovable characters. A delightful and satisfying ending to the Mended Hearts series, Jilted handles topics such as clinical depression and PICS (post-incarceration syndrome) with understanding, humor, and hope.”

  Terrie Todd, author of The Silver Suitcase

  “In Jilted, Varina Denman captures the grace and sweetness of a second-chance love set in a little town that affords few second chances. Forgiveness, healing, and truth braid together well in this satisfying conclusion to the Mended Hearts series.”

  Connilyn Cossette, author of Counted with the Stars

  “With her skillful ability to pull readers, slowly but surely, deep into the hearts of her small-town characters, Varina Denman proves to be an author worth paying attention to! Fans of Robin Lee Hatcher’s newest contemporaries will absolutely love Denman’s Mended Hearts series.”

  Dawn Crandall, award-winning author of The Hesitant Heiress, The Bound Heart, and The Captive Imposter

  “With her skillful ability to pull readers, slowly but surely, deep into the hearts of her small-town characters, Varina Denman proves to be an author worth paying attention to! Fans of Robin Lee Hatcher’s newest contemporaries will absolutely love Denman’s Mended Hearts series.”

  Dawn Crandall, award-winning author of The Hesitant Heiress, The Bound Heart, and The Captive Imposter

  JILTED

  Published by David C Cook

  4050 Lee Vance View

  Colorado Springs, CO 80918 U.S.A.

  David C Cook U.K., Kingsway Communications

  Eastbourne, East Sussex BN23 6NT, England

  The graphic circle C logo is a registered trademark of David C Cook.

  All rights reserved. Except for brief excerpts for review purposes,

  no part of this book may be reproduced or used in any form

  without written permission from the publisher.

  This story is a work of fiction. Characters and events are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is coincidental.

  All Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®, NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide. NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION® and NIV® are registered trademarks of Biblica, Inc. Use of either trademark for the offering of goods or services requires the prior written consent of Biblica, Inc.

  LCCN 2016934346

  ISBN 978-1-4347-0838-0

  eISBN 978-0-7814-1487-6

  © 2016 Varina Denman

  Published in association with the literary agency of The Blythe Daniel Agency, Inc., P.O. Box 64197, Colorado Springs, CO 80962-4197

  The Team: Ingrid Beck, Jamie Chavez, Nick Lee, Jennifer Lonas, Helen Macdonald, Susan Murdock

  Cover Design: Amy Konyndyk

  Cover Photo: Getty Images, iStockphoto

  First Edition 2016

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10

  032416

  For those who go it alone

  Two are better than one, because they have a good return for their labor: If either of them falls down, one can help the other up. But pity anyone who falls and has no one to help them up.

  Ecclesiastes 4:9–10

  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

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Epilogue

  Note to the Reader

  Acknowledgments

  Book Club Discussion Guide

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  My daughter, Ruthie, always called me a glass-is-half-empty kind of person, but she was wrong. Not only was my glass half empty, but a tiny crack shot diagonally from a chip on the rim, and something bread-like hovered in the murky liquid. But I was in the process of tossing that damaged tumbler and getting a brand-new one. Even though I would never be a Susie Sunshine, I was determined to stop hiding inside myself. But it wasn’t proving easy.

  Today I sat in my hatchback on the side of Highway 84, sizzling like bacon in the afternoon sunshine. I did this a lot. Sometimes I turned off at the lake and stared at the rippling water, but most times, like today, I drove all the way to the wind fields to gaze at the turbines—white needles against a blue sky. I reached across the seat and cranked down the window on the passenger side to allow a breeze in. Ninety-four degrees in September, but it could have been worse. Last week we were still in triple digits.

  As a pickup truck sped past, my little silver car rocked gently and I almost ducked, but it was only Old Man Guthrie. His index finger made a slow salute in greeting, but I did nothing in response. My typical hello. My friend Clyde Felton called me distant, but really I was just tired. Tired of waving. Tired of pretending. Tired of trying.

  I focused my gaze on the jagged pastureland beyond the pavement and hoped nobody else would interrupt my thoughts. Then again, I sometimes wished God had provided an on/off switch so we women could shut down our brains when the memories started echoing.

  For me, those memories were men. Ruthie may have insisted that my glass was half empty, but I liked to think it was filled up fine until the men in my life started throwing rocks at it for sport. Over the years I had gradually trained myself to shy away from males, other than the men in my family. And Clyde. Even Old Man Guthrie knew better than to stop and check on me, thank goodness. If he had, I would’ve been forced to explain wh
y a grown woman was sitting in her car on the side of the highway, staring at the wind turbines. I smiled.

  Those windmills, marching across the Caprock like evenly spaced tin soldiers, stretched for miles south of town and settled my nerves like a dose of Valium. Not that I’d had any Valium lately, but one doesn’t quickly forget.

  Depression almost killed me.

  Twice.

  I beat the demon both times and lived to tell the tale, but even now it threatened to rear its ugly head. The nerve. I had trampled it, but still the sadness haunted me like a villain hiding just beyond the glow of streetlights. Waiting.

  So I took to fighting it with a spotlight. They say an ounce of prevention is worth more, so whenever I felt the beast slithering through my heart, I would make a mental escape to protect my happy thoughts.

  This was one of those days.

  I inhaled ninety-four-degree oxygen until my chest couldn’t expand any more, and then I released it back into the hatchback as the muscles in my neck relaxed. Sure, I was a mild recluse, but at least I got out of my house now. I bought my own groceries and went to Panther football games and smiled at people. Sort of. I even ate dinner with Ruthie and her preacher-husband occasionally. I was beating the demon. I was.

  I squinted at the nearest turbine, watching its slow-motion arms slice the sun as it cast moving shadows over the hood of my car. The hazy grayness slipped along my skin, then sailed, distorted, to the far side of the highway, where it slid across the pavement before looping back to slap me again.

  Round and round and round. The wind fields were a temporary escape from life and the beast. From people. From my hometown. I snickered. I never got very far from Trapp, so I suppose that as much as I disdained the place, I still didn’t want to leave it behind.

  Flashing lights caught my eye from way down the road, and I leaned forward with my arms along the steering wheel and my chin on my wrists. The West Texas landscape lay so flat that I could watch the car approach from halfway to Snyder. It seemed to crawl along at a snail’s pace before finally coming close enough for me to hear the whine of the siren. A highway patrolman. He barely slowed before turning on the lake road.

  I rested my head against the seat and smiled at the predictability. This happened every so often. A group of fishermen would hole up in a cabin, get drunk, and then turn stupid. Last year a couple of them actually fired shotguns into the water, thinking they would shoot the fish, since they weren’t biting.

  Yes, Trapp was predictable. Quaint. Simple.

  Narrow-minded.

  Clearly my daughter was right. I was—and always would be—a glass-is-half-empty kind of girl, but at times, when I stared at the gentle windmills, I wondered if I could be happy again—truly happy, not just faking it—and deep inside, I felt a glimmer of hope.

  The moan of another siren swelled on the breeze, and I located a patrolman in my rearview mirror. And through the front windshield, I saw what looked like a fire truck silently making its way closer. This was not predictable.

  A lone highway patrolman was to be expected, along with the game warden, but not emergency vehicles from two towns. I turned in the seat as an ambulance sped past, and I covered my ears to block the screeching wails.

  As I started the car, curiosity niggled at my brain, but I didn’t follow them. Instead, I took a last glance at the towering sentinels that brought me such solace, and then I did a U-turn and headed back to Trapp. I was scheduled to work at the diner, and it wouldn’t do for me to be late. Besides, the news of whatever was happening at the lake would probably beat me back to town.

  Chapter Two

  Clyde Felton pulled into a parking spot in front of Dixie’s Diner, turned off his headlights, and swung open the door of his old sedan. But then he hesitated. Maybe he wouldn’t eat at the diner after all. He could whip up a quick meal at home, run through the shower, and be in bed an hour earlier than usual.

  As he hoisted himself to his feet, a hot gust pushed a smattering of sand across the brick pavement, and the familiar stench of manure crept past his shoulders. More than once he’d heard strangers gripe about the odor of the feedlot when they’d stop on their way through town, but it didn’t bother Clyde. He’d smelled worse. The outdoorsy scent of too many cows in too small an area hardly compared to the stench of human waste in a cell block.

  Trapp, Texas, with its foul smells, outdated buildings, and unsurprising people, was home, and that’s where his good memories lay. Memories before prison. Memories of freedom and happiness and friends.

  But one of those friends had him all bent out of shape. He peered through the front windows of the diner, where Lynda Turner stood behind the counter frowning at an order slip. The problem had started Tuesday when Clyde went to the diner for lunch. As usual he took a seat at the counter, and that’s when he noticed it.

  Lynda had been waiting on a fellow Clyde had never seen—probably a rig worker on his way through town—but the stranger wasn’t the one who’d stirred Clyde’s dander. It was Lynda. She’d been promoted to cook months ago, so she spent most of her time back in the kitchen, but that day she’d been out in the dining room waiting tables again. And she was smiling. When she poured the stranger a cup of coffee, the man let his eyes travel over her brown work uniform as a red hue crept up Lynda’s neck. Then he handed her his card.

  Even now, two days later, Clyde’s insides tightened when he considered the obvious explanation. He was jealous, and the absurdity of it made him chuckle. Not only did he not need a woman in his life, but Lynda, as fiery as cayenne pepper, had never looked at him as anything more than a friend. Or worse, a brother. The two of them had been through too much life together to go messing with things, but Tuesday was different. Tuesday he felt drawn to her in a way he hadn’t been drawn to a woman in a long, long time.

  He shoved away from the car, took two long strides, and pushed open the door of the diner, stooping slightly so as not to bump his head.

  Lynda now stood at her usual post in the kitchen, and when she noticed him through the pass-through window, he thought she might have rolled her eyes. But that was just Lynda.

  “Hey, Lyn.” He lowered himself to a stool at the counter and reached for a menu, but instead of opening it, he tapped it against the Formica. “I’ll take pork chops, I guess.”

  “With carrots and corn bread. I know.” Then she really did roll her eyes.

  Every time he came in, he ordered the same thing, knowing she would razz him about it. They had a comfortable routine. He lifted his eyes from the menu, now open on the bar in front of him. Her long hair was pulled back in a messy ball, same as always, and some of it was falling around her neck, same as always. Even though she concentrated on her work, if Clyde looked closely enough, he could see that the corners of her mouth teased upward as she hummed an old Eagles melody. Dang, she was pretty.

  Clearly, other men in town thought so too. Clyde noticed them. They would talk to her, try to get her attention, sometimes ask her out … but she wouldn’t have it. She hardly seemed to notice and never, ever blushed.

  That’s what had been different on Tuesday.

  She brought out his plate, and when she plopped it on the counter, the meat was still sizzling. “Dixie gave you an extra chop. I think she has a crush.”

  Clyde grunted. “Sure she does.” The owner of the diner was at least twenty-five years older than him and a happily married great-grandmother.

  Lynda reached under the counter for a saltshaker. “How are things at the Dairy Queen?”

  “Same.”

  “Burned anything lately?”

  “Naw.”

  She refilled his tea glass even though it was almost full, and then she said, “This afternoon I saw emergency vehicles out on Highway 84. You heard anything about it?”

  He sliced his corn bread with his fork, then smeared half-melted butter over it. “Could’ve
been an accident on the wind fields.”

  “Holy cow, I didn’t think about that.” She stared unseeingly toward the door, seeming to replay in her mind whatever she had seen earlier. “No, it was closer to the lake.”

  “That’s good.”

  “Why do those idiots work on the turbines?”

  This probably wouldn’t be a good time to tell her that Troy Sanders had been hounding him to apply for a job. “Somebody’s got to do it.”

  She rolled her eyes again.

  “It ain’t that dangerous, Lyn. Besides, they make decent money.”

  “Climbing three hundred feet straight up isn’t dangerous?”

  He took a drink of his tea, then set his glass down gently. “Not all wind techs climb.”

  “But they all want to.”

  It was his turn to speak. Taking turns was the way it was done, but he scooped a forkful of carrots into his mouth to avoid it. For crying out loud, he knew Lynda better than he knew anyone else in town—anyone left, at least—but since Tuesday, he felt a twinge of nervousness every time he talked to her.

  “Well,” she said, “if those emergency vehicles weren’t out there for a turbine worker, I figure it was the Tarron boys dynamite fishing. They’re home on leave, but the game warden’ll catch them sooner or later.”

  Over the warm scent of his food, Clyde noted a hint of perfume, and he wondered if Lynda had always smelled like that. Sort of fruity. “You been sitting on the side of the road again?” he asked.

  She squirted a spray bottle, then wiped the counter with a cup towel. Her shoulders inched up, then down, almost imperceptibly.

  Right then Clyde thanked God for the chunk of pork chop he was able to shove in his mouth, masking his smile. If Lynda had noticed, she would have thought he was making fun of her for choosing such a strange location to pass the time, and he never would have been able to explain that he simply found her very … interesting. And likable.

  Nobody thought of Lynda as likable.

  The woman rarely smiled, and when she did, it seemed forced. She didn’t make friends easily. Even her family got fed up with her mood swings. But beneath those sharpened porcupine quills lay the soft fur of a bunny. A cottontail, not a jackrabbit.