Grace

Grace stopped to catch her breath and look over her shoulder. Her misfortune began when she’d seen her boss shoot his partner and had run to St. Louis as a mail-order bride. If that wasn’t bad enough, her groom-to-be was a monster. She grimaced and pulled a briar from her hand. A quick look down the street proved they were still coming after her.

She rounded the corner of the depot and prayed the train was ready to depart. She looked for a friendly face in the crowd. A man twenty feet ahead turned at that moment and looked right at her. She ran to him, grabbed his arm, and walked with him onto the train. Time would tell if she’d found safety or made another poor choice.

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Hljóðbók: 17 augusti 2024