Her Minnesota Man (A Christian Romance Novel) Read online

  Copyright 2012 by Brenda Coulter.

  Second Kindle Edition, November 2012.

  All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced in any form, in whole or in part, without written permission from the author. This is a work of fiction. All characters and events in this story are purely the author's invention.

  What a grand thing, to be loved!

  What a grander thing still, to love!

  —Victor Hugo

  Love never gives up, never loses faith, is always hopeful, and endures through every circumstance.

  —1 Corinthians 13:7 (New Living Translation)

  With love and apologies to my mom, who spent a large portion of my teenage years saying, "Turn that awful noise down!"

  I am indebted to my beta readers, Valerie Comer, Kathy E. Eberly, Kate Hinke, Ginger Solomon, and Therese Travis, for their valuable feedback on this story.

  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

  Epilogue

  A Note from the Author

  Chapter One

  Jackson Bell sighed and set down the guitar he'd been picking as he stood alone in a dim corner of the concert venue's band room. Placing the instrument on its side, he nudged it against the painted cement-block wall so it wouldn't get stepped on. When he straightened and turned, his manager stood before him with a familiar green bottle and a generous glass of the single-malt Scotch he usually downed before a show.

  "Let's lubricate those famous vocal cords." With a strained smile and a determined toss of her glossy auburn hair, Shari Daltry offered the glass.

  Jeb—he liked the nickname, but allowed only four people to use it—declined the drink with an upraised hand and a brief shake of his head.

  Shari's smile flattened. "Why not?" It wasn't a question, but a challenge.

  Jeb just stared at her. Although he wasn't in the habit of explaining himself, he'd told her the other day that he was giving up alcohol because it was becoming a problem for him, and God couldn't be happy about that.

  "Don't tell me you're still on that 'God' kick." Shari shook her head in disgust. "You're smarter than this, Jackson."

  He said nothing.

  The sole offspring of two atheists—a coldhearted father who'd drunk himself to death and an unremembered mother who had effected a much quicker end by swallowing a whole bottle of pills—the last thing Jeb had ever expected to become was a Bible-believing Christian. But he'd been one of those for five days now, and he was having all kinds of trouble figuring out what God expected of him.

  He was determined to abandon his wicked lifestyle and become a better man. He just hoped he wouldn't have to give up his music along with everything else.

  "Don't do this." Shari spoke from between clenched teeth, but kept her voice low enough to avoid being overheard by the other four occupants of the room. "Don't throw it all away."

  She was about to lose her temper, but there was nothing new in that; Shari was notoriously volatile.

  Jeb had never minded much. In fact, her intensity and her refusal to fawn over him were a welcome respite from the cloying behavior of the sycophants who kept trying to insinuate themselves into his life. But the main reason he put up with Shari's frequent rages was that she was the best band manager he had ever seen.

  She wasn't long on personality, but she could ferret out opportunities and make things happen. During her tenure, the rock band Jeb had wryly named Skeptical Heart had produced three albums. The first two had been certified Gold records and the third had been certified Platinum.

  "Just have a drink and relax," she urged, getting control and smiling again—this time with sardonic amusement. "You look like an animal desperate to claw his way out of a cage."

  Well, yeah. Because he was dying for a cigarette.

  And for a drink, of course.

  And for some answers that he didn't know how to find.

  Shari said something else, but Jeb had stopped listening. She was trying to engage him, but he had nothing to gain from an argument, so he just stared at her and waited for her to go away.

  She should have gone twenty minutes ago. She knew his rule: Half an hour before the show, the room was to be cleared of everyone except the band so Jeb and the guys could get their heads into the music.

  When she didn't move, Jeb looked pointedly at the wall clock and then folded his arms and raised an eyebrow at her.

  She blinked furiously, her lips pressed so tightly together that they lost their color. And then with a screech of exasperation, she tossed the drink in Jeb's face.

  Her angry impulse provoked a chorus of irreverent guffaws from Jeb's band mates, who had apparently picked up on the tension between their frontman and their manager and tuned in to enjoy the show.

  Clamping his mouth shut to prevent himself from uttering words a Christian shouldn't, Jeb rubbed the stinging alcohol from his eyes. Then he focused his trademark laser stare on his assailant.

  Jeb possessed a rare talent for killing looks. But recalling that Christians were supposed to turn the other cheek, he forced his scorching glare downward until it threatened only a worn oriental rug on the concrete floor.

  A fine Christian he was turning out to be. He couldn't draw two consecutive breaths without sinning.

  Shari slammed the whiskey bottle down on a cloth-covered buffet table and loosed a stream of invective that pounded Jeb's nerves like water from a fire hose. This was extreme behavior, even for her, and Jeb saw the guys exchange uneasy looks.

  He wondered why none of them appeared to have guessed why Shari was so determined to undermine his resolve to give up his hard-drinking ways. It seemed obvious to him. Afraid that his conversion would result in his leaving the band, Shari would stop at nothing to pull him back from the light.

  Jeb peeled off his whiskey-soaked shirt and mopped his face with it. His annoyance was already evaporating, leaving behind a residue of regret. What would happen to Shari and the guys if he left the band? It didn't seem fair that his decision to begin a new life might adversely affect their careers.

  Her face still contorted by rage, Shari propped a fisted hand on one slender hip and flung more words at him. "What's wrong with you? Why are you so different?"

  "How many times do you need to hear it?" Jeb dropped his wet shirt onto a chair. "I'm a Christian now."

  Five days ago in a fit of despair, he'd picked up a Bible in a Louisville hotel room and read The Gospel of John. He had ended up on his knees, and for the first time in his twenty-seven years, he had prayed to God.

  A guy couldn't help being different after an experience like that.

  "Hey, c'mon." Taylor Benson, a heavily tattooed drummer from Dallas, slid a placating arm around Shari's shoulders and pried the empty glass from her white-knuckled grip. "Y'all can
talk about this after the show."

  Shari jerked away from him. "I've all but sold my soul to make Skeptical Heart a top act! And just when we're finally getting there, our frontman turns religious"—she sneered the word at Jeb—"and wants to quit!"

  Four heads swiveled in Jeb's direction, each face registering stunned disbelief. No, the guys hadn't yet grasped that possible ramification of Jeb's conversion. Not until Shari had spelled it out for them.

  Jeb had been planning to explain things after tonight's show. Shari was insane to introduce the subject mere minutes before the band was due onstage.

  "He hasn't said anything about quitting," Taylor chided in his soft drawl. "He's just worn out. Five measly days off in six weeks of tourin' has been hard on all of us."

  "He's going to quit!" Shari pointed a trembling finger at Jeb. "Just ask him!"

  Taylor's gaze swung back to Jeb, his eyes widening in a mute appeal for reassurance.

  Jeb had none to offer, as he suspected his affiliation with the band was about to become a casualty of his spiritual rebirth. His mind was groping for words to explain that when Taylor's betrayed look and the slack-jawed stares of the other three guys told him they'd finally figured it out.

  Just as well. Although the critics called him a brilliant lyricist, Jeb had no talent for actual conversation. As one of his disgruntled schoolteachers had noted on a report card, he was "habitually uncommunicative, often responding to direct questions with nothing more than a stare." But Jeb had never known how to be any other way, except when he was with—

  No. Best not to think about her tonight.

  All four of the guys started talking at once; Shari had stirred things up good. Shaking his head, Jeb turned away from the confusion and gazed unseeing at a wall covered with graffiti and band bumper stickers.

  Yes, he was worn out. That was part of what had made him so ripe for conversion, especially after that awful show in Louisville, where a perfect storm of technical glitches had whipped the crowd into a frenzy of resentment. As Jeb grimaced at that memory, his gaze shifted and his attention was arrested by a drawing on the junked-up wall.

  Between a band sticker and a crude limerick, someone had depicted a wooden cross on a rocky hilltop and neatly lettered two words beneath it: Jesus saves.

  Had the musician who left that message of hope ever been this confused about what God expected of him? Jeb intended to follow the straight and narrow path—but where was it?

  Certain that he had overlooked some important clue, he pushed his mind back to the events of five nights ago.

  Demoralized by the belligerent Louisville crowd, Skeptical Heart had played the worst show of their career. Afterward, Jeb had been too disgusted to go out and drink himself stupid with the guys and their guests, so he'd accompanied them only as far as the venue's VIP entrance.

  Pausing in the doorway, he turned up the collar of his leather jacket and tugged down the bill of his Minnesota Twins ball cap. Then as security guards held back a gaggle of squealing girls and the band's party piled into a rain-beaded stretch limo, he slipped unnoticed through the crowd and strode into the drizzly, ink-black night.

  How could a man be lonely when he was surrounded by people? How could he feel dissatisfied when he was ripping through life at the speed of sound, a guitar in his hands and music in his heart? In the intermittent rain, Jeb walked for miles with those questions playing on an endless loop in his head. He was soaked and shivering like a half-drowned dog when he finally ducked into a convenience store to buy a cup of coffee and call a cab to take him to the band's hotel.

  Hunting for the room service menu, he'd discovered a Bible in the drawer next to his bed. On an impulse he still didn't understand, he had opened it to a random page, the first chapter of The Gospel of John.

  Still staring at the carefully drawn cross on the band room's wall, he shook his head in amazement. What God wanted with a restive heart like Jackson Bell's was anyone's guess. But Jeb had read that even the worst of sinners was eligible to receive forgiveness and find peace.

  He became aware that Taylor had out-shouted the others and gained the floor.

  "No way," the drummer insisted. "Jackson would never quit on us."

  Peace. The other night it had poured over Jeb like warm, healing water. But when he'd realized that resuming his normal habits would be like putting filthy clothes on a freshly-washed body, that newfound peace had been swamped by anxiety.

  He turned away from the wall to join the conversation.

  "The thing is, guys, I—"

  "You need a break." Taylor nodded encouragingly. "This tour's been amazing, but it's good we're goin' home tomorrow." He looked at the other three guys. "As for the God stuff, if he wants to read his Bible on the tour bus and pray before the shows, so what? After we all get back to L.A. and have a good rest—"

  "Wake up, Taylor!" Veins bulged on Shari's forehead as she snarled the words. "He's not coming back with us. He told me this morning."

  "He's staying here in Florida?" Taylor looked at Jeb, who was indulging a very unchristian fantasy about applying a dab of instant glue to Shari's bottom lip and pinching her mouth shut. "Why would he do that?"

  "I didn't say he was staying here," Shari snapped. "He'll probably run home to that quaint little house in Nowheresville."

  "You've been to his house?" Having somehow missed the derision in Shari's voice, Taylor eyed her like a kid who'd been denied a treat another kid was bragging about having enjoyed.

  "I haven't been there," Shari admitted, watching Jeb through narrowed eyes. "But he hasn't been, either. Not in almost a year. And since he doesn't have a family, I don't know why he—"

  "Fifteen months," Jeb corrected automatically. Every month he managed to stay away from Laney Ryland was such a hard-won victory, he couldn't help counting them.

  Shari raised her chin to a mulish angle. "What's so great about some hick town in Michigan?"

  "Minnesota." A shaft of longing stabbed Jeb's heart as he pronounced the word. Fifteen months was his new record. Last time he hadn't made it past eleven.

  "Where ever. Why can't you just come back to L.A.?"

  "Like Taylor said, I need a break."

  Yesterday, he'd planned to head to a deserted beach he knew in Mexico to do some heavy thinking. But tonight his heart was tugging on its leash, straining toward home.

  Maybe he should just give in. Laney had been a Christian all her life, so she ought to be able to help him figure out what God expected him to do next.

  He'd hoped to find a clue in the Bible he'd swiped from that Louisville hotel room, but John—the guy who'd written that gospel—had been a little vague about how a twenty-first-century rock musician was supposed to extricate himself from a lifestyle that was pretty much all sin, all the time.

  Absently rubbing his bare chest, Jeb looked past Taylor at the other three band members. Keyboardist Matt Holland was nursing a bottle of beer as he sprawled in a recliner, his relaxed posture at odds with the murderous glint in his eyes. Leaning against the wall, guitar genius Sean McPherson glared at Jeb while sucking viciously on a cigarette. And perched on the arm of a cracked leather sofa, bass guitarist Aaron Rice had curled his hands into fists and was staring with transparent longing at Jeb's unbroken nose.

  Their animosity was understandable. If Jeb walked away now, Skeptical Heart was finished. Matt and Sean were excellent backup singers, but neither possessed the passion and power of a lead vocalist. And while Jeb valued his band's collaboration on the songs he'd written, the guys had never composed anything on their own.

  He pushed his fingers through his damp hair and wondered why trying to do the right thing for once in his misbegotten life had to threaten the careers of these other people. What was God thinking, leaving their futures in his clumsy hands? He was nothing like wise, warmhearted Laney: She would have known the right course to steer through this mess.

  All right, then.

  "I'm going to Minnesota," Jeb announced. For tw
o years he'd done his best to remain on the fringes of her life, but he needed her now, and Laney would never turn him away.

  "Good idea." Taylor nodded briskly. "Let's all take a month off." Bending from the waist, he unzipped a duffel bag that lay on the floor. A moment's rummaging produced a black T-shirt, which he tossed to Jeb.

  "No." Sean pushed away from the wall and moved to the buffet table, where he dropped his cigarette into Jeb's forgotten cup of coffee. "We'd lose our momentum."

  "Exactly." Shari had reverted to her usual brisk, businesslike mien. "The label wants you back in the recording studio, and you'll need at least ten new songs for that." She looked around the room, assuring herself of an attentive audience before adding, "Last I heard, you only had three or four. So you don't have time for a vacation."

  "Shari, I've got nothing left." Jeb pronounced the words with a solemn finality that spun the room into another shocked silence.

  It was true. In the past few weeks he'd felt the creative impulse bleeding out of him like air from a slow-leaking tire. Whether that was due to exhaustion or whether God had simply revoked his gift, Jeb couldn't tell.

  Laney would know. And if the answer was what he feared, Laney would help him accept it.

  "So when will you be comin' back to L.A.?" Taylor asked.

  Jeb expressed his resolution and his regret with a long, steady look. "I don't know."

  Taylor shook his head. "But where does that leave the rest of us?"

  "Nowhere!" Her dark eyes glittering with tears, Shari stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

  Matt swore and hurled his beer bottle at the wall.

  Where are you, God? Jeb's heart squeezed out the silent prayer as he watched foaming beer and wet glass splinters crawl down the concrete blocks to the floor. I could use some direction here.

  He tugged Taylor's shirt over his head. Its smoky scent triggered an insane craving for the cigarettes he'd given up five days ago, but Jeb ruthlessly shut his mind against that. He had bigger problems tonight.

  In a few minutes he would have to take the stage and perform songs he was beginning to be ashamed of having written, but he couldn't see any way out of that because he was under contract. He had already struck one song from tonight's set list and made a mental note to change the lyrics of two others when he sang them. He didn't know what else he could do.