'Til Grits Do Us Part

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

About the Author

To Lessa Goens, AKA “Grace”: a cousin, friend, and partner in fun.
Most of this book is yours. You're the best pal a girl could have!

It's a bit of a mystery how a book is written. One holds the contract, but a hundred others rightfully deserve their names on the cover.

For starters, none of this would have been possible without the help and encouragement of Roger and Kathleen Bruner, who read my earliest work and taught me about publishing. Roger, congratulations on your awards, and thanks for this amazing journey. I never could have done it without you.

Lessa, you gave the initial idea with your legal background and spent countless hours (probably hundreds!) on the phone with me going over details. Thank you for your patience and perseverance!

To my critique group—the “Yay-Sayers”—you have been incredible. Thanks so much to Jennifer Fromke, Christy Truitt, Shelly Dippel, and Karen Schravemade. Your spur-of-the-moment solutions and ideas held this book together. I owe you everything.

To the Barbour team, especially Rebecca Germany, April Frazier, and Laura Young, you are wonderful! Thanks for making this book—and all the others—possible. I am so grateful for the opportunity to work with you.

To all of those who gave me grace and patience through the last crazy months of writing and editing—like Lila Donato, my husband, Athos, and my son, Ethan—thank you! I can hardly believe it's done.

Thank you, Lord, for making one of my life's greatest dreams come true!

A
re you crazy?” I put my hands on the seat back of the pickup truck and swiveled my head from Tim to his wife Becky. “I'm not doing this, whatever it is!”

Tim's white Chevy lurched across a gravel driveway that bordered a dark field, and he cut the lights. Tim shifted into N
EUTRAL
and glided us to a smooth stop right in front of the pasture fence. A ridiculous grin crinkled his eyes in the rearview mirror.

“Why not? It's loads a fun!” Becky poked her blond head around to see me in the backseat, where Tim's camping stuff and fishing poles poked me in the knees. At least hunting season had ended; tents and inflatable mattresses were a lot softer than his crossbows and ammo boxes.

Tim turned off the ignition, and the lilting mandolin plinks and tinny voice abruptly died in his tape player.

“Good. No more country music.” I smirked to myself, peering out the window at a spread of shadowy grass. Christie, my German shepherd puppy, put two paws up on the glass and whacked her tail in my face.

“You crazy, woman? That ain't country music.”

Oops. He heard me.

“That's bluegrass.” Tim scowled.

“Country, bluegrass, whatever.” I pushed Christie off my lap. “It's all the same to me.”

Becky inhaled with an audible gasp, and Tim froze in his seat, hand still halfway to the ignition to grab his keys. “Oh no you don't.” He turned around and raised a warning finger at me. “Don't touch the bluegrass. It's sacred.”

He pressed a closed fist to his chest like I'd pained him. “Bluegrass is old-time fiddlin'. It's Gospel and longin' fer heaven and laments of Appalachia. It's pure soul poured out in strings, Shiloh. Don't ya ever forget it.”

For Pete's sake. Tonight I wasn't in a mood for speeches about redneck music—especially when I had no idea what Tim and Becky had planned, and I had three unfinished news articles to finish on my laptop. I tried to move my legs, muscles still stiff from a five-miler before daybreak, and pulled a battered volume from under my thigh. I held it up to the dim overhead light as Becky tugged open her door.

“Shakespeare. You read Shakespeare.” I tossed
Julius Caesar
on top of Tim's fishing tackle box. Which already groaned with Hank Williams and Brooks and Dunn tapes piled on top. Yes, tapes.

Tim put a finger to his lips and peeked over his shoulder at the darkened ribbon of road behind us then reached for his door handle. “Good stuff, that
Julius Caesar
book,” he said, nodding in its direction. “That Mark Antony guy says it jest right in his funeral oration—lotta things about honor and power that's still true today. Y'oughtta read it, Shiloh. I'm sure Jerry'll lend it to ya when we're done.”

“Jerry? The same Jerry who used to sign my paychecks with a pen he swiped from Taco Bell?”

“Don't sound so surprised! He's an extremely literary man. Yesiree.” Tim shot me an indignant look. “People ain't always what ya think, Shiloh. Ol' Jer got me hooked on the classics. I'm jest itchin' to read
War ‘n' Peace
.” He waved at me. “C'mon, Yankee! Yer stallin'! Hurry up an' get out.”

Hmmph. Literary my foot.

I shoved away a Styrofoam cooler and reached for the squeaky door handle, feeling a headache come on.

“Well, I doubt Jerry would be too keen on our little outing tonight. Especially when Tim keeps peeking over at the road like he's nervous.” I crossed my arms. “I bet whatever we're doing's illegal, isn't it?”

“It ain't illegal. And Faye's farmer friend don't care.” Tim scooted out his open door, shifting his toothpick to the other side of his mouth before leaning over to kiss Becky on the cheek. “ ‘You are my true and honorable wife,' ” he said in his distinctive country twang. “ ‘As dear to me as are the ruddy drops that visit my sad heart.' ”

“Great. Now you're quoting Shakespeare.” I rubbed my forehead wearily with the heel of my hand. As if bluegrass wasn't bad enough.

Becky grabbed her jacket. “Aw, come on!” She reached back to punch my shoulder affectionately. “We do all kinds a fun stuff here in the South, and we're jest givin' ya a li'l peek at it. Seein' as how you're gonna be livin' here a while longer.” She bobbed her eyebrows at me.

“Fun?” I reluctantly unclipped my seat belt and threw my black leather jacket to the side. “You call this fun?” I waved a hand at the dark fields.

“Well, sometimes we sit ‘n' watch bugs sizzle on them blue lanterns. Or shoot tin cans out at the gun range, or birds ‘n' stuff like that. Shucks, Shiloh!” Becky drawled out my name in her own distinctive way, which sounded more like
Shah-loh
. Two long, lazy, syllables. “We invented fun! Now hush and get outta the truck.”

She hopped out and yanked my door open, letting Christie jump down with a clatter of toenails.

“Speakin' of fun,” whispered Tim, shoving aside a camping tarp so I could swing my feet around and drop into the cool grass. Scents of damp cornfields and distant honeysuckle tickled my nose. “If yer gonna play hide-'n'-seek, don't hide in the bathroom! Why, one time I hid in the shower, and my big ol' two-hunnerd-pound uncle come in there, not knowin' a thing, and—”

“Stop!” I hollered, clawing for the truck door. “Take me home right now!”

They burst into guffaws and high-fived each other.

“Now shush, Yankee! You'll wake up the neighbors!” Tim clicked the truck locked and pushed me away from it. “And make sure that dog a yers don't run off. Here. Give ‘er ta me.” He clipped on the leash and pulled her away from a patch of orange daylilies.

“I'm not a total Yankee, you know,” I muttered, crossing my arms. “I know how to say ‘Staunton.' ”

That ought to chalk up some points. After one year in this small Virginia town—pronounced STAN-ton by the locals, not STAWN-ton, thank you very much—I could even make biscuits and sweet tea. Not that I'd admit that publicly.

“Say ‘bought.' ” Becky put her hands on her hips.

“What?”

“Just say it.”

I mumbled it under my breath.

“Told ya.” She winked. “You still got that funny New York accent. But yer gittin' there, my friend. Maybe in another year or two you'll git ya some redneck blood and learn how ta talk like me!”

In my cranky state, I decided to keep my comments to myself. “So what are we doing, anyway? I'm busy.” I tried to see my watch in the moonlight.

“Well, since you're one a us now, ya gotta act like one.”

“If you think I'm going to start eating squirrels or something, forget it.”

Becky cackled. “Wouldn't do ya more harm than that nasty raw-fish sushi you're always talkin' about. You eat grits, don't ya? Adam said so.”

“Grits?” I screwed up my nose. “Gross. I ate grits once, okay? Because I had no food left in the house. And I didn't say I liked them.”

“You will soon enough. Now git over here an' let me put this on ya so you can be formally initiated.”