White Rose Author Carolyn Bravo

White Water Preacher by Carolyn Bravo

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Kelli Martin needs out—out of San Francisco, out of the advertising rat race, out of a dead end relationship.

She washes up in Roaring River, Nevada, in every way about as far from Frisco as Mars is from Venus. Roaring River gives her a roaring headache. Every person is an exasperation, the most popular dish in town is fried zucchini, and the river's out to get her. The one thing the place has going for it is Spencer Tulane. The man preaches a fine sermon, brings dead things to life, and looks great in flannel. Oh, and he guides rafting parties down the aforementioned river of death. Fortunately, Kelli did not leave her heart in San Francisco—only her brains. Once again, she heads for the exit, only to discover that the door swings just one way.

Did I mention the flannel?

Excerpt:

She halted in her tracks.

The man belonging to the voice coming from the open office door had someone with him and made no attempt to conceal their conversation. He must think he’s alone. The ancient clapboard church, high ceilings, thin walls, and linoleum floors did little to muffle either his words or their meaning. If anything, they echoed embarrassingly loud.

“Don’t you worry, sweetheart. I think you’re the prettiest thing on legs. Such gorgeous eyes…the soft curve of your neck…”

Kelli Martin slowly edged back toward the double oak front doors of Riverside Chapel. She should leave.

“…so smooth, so velvety soft. Yes, yes, I know and I love you, too, little honey. It’s been such a long time…”

In a church of all places! Does the man have no shame?

Unfamiliar with the surroundings, she clumsily hooked a green canvas boat shoe under the claw-footed coat tree near the doors, just managing to grab it before it caromed off the polyethylene folding table supporting a stack of metal offering plates. Still, the ensuing clatter ricocheted off the linoleum like dropped buckets at a funeral.

“Miss Martin, is that you?”

She bit her lip and sidled toward escape.

“I watched you come across the lawn just now. Please, won’t you join us?”

The nerve! She thought San Francisco cornered the market on brazen. Apparently, small town America wasn’t far behind. Maybe this is the way they conduct their private affairs in the boondocks.

“Please, I’ve wanted to meet you.”

Doesn’t he draw the line anywhere, a man of his position in the community?

She’d been seen; she had to say something. “No, that’s all right. I didn’t mean to disturb you,” she called. “You have someone with you. I’ll just, uh, come back another time.” She turned, one hand on the crash bar, one foot poised for a dash into the early October Nevada sunshine.

“Nonsense, I want you to meet Katherine, and she wants to meet you. Besides, I’ve been thinking about what you asked on the phone, and I think I can help. Only keep you a minute.”

It was a strong voice, baritone, part politician, part Ponderosa. There was a tinge of something else. Amusement? Kelli sighed. It wouldn’t be the first exasperating thing about the town. Roaring River, Nevada, was proving itself a bee’s nest of contradictions.

She took a steadying breath. She couldn’t not meet the man. According to half the people in Roaring, he was Mr. Everything, including spiritual leader and town answer man. No matter what sweet nothings he dispensed on the side, if this mad decision of hers had a hope of working, they needed to be introduced. She didn’t have to like it.

Then why had she liked the way he’d said, “I’ve been thinking about what you asked…?” Ruggedly smooth. Smoothly rugged. Easy on the ears…Get a grip, Martin!

“Miss Martin?”

“Yes. Right,” she muttered and squared her shoulders. Conduct your business and be gone.

She hesitated only slightly at the office doorway. The sign above it read: Pastor’s Study. She entered.