Peggy Wolff Lewis - Crossing Stars

Crossing Stars

Peggy Wolff Lewis

Edited by Sandre Cunha and Ramie Wikdall of RamWik Studio Productions

Hamilton Books

A member of

The Rowman & Littlefield Publishing Group

Lanham Boulder New York Toronto Plymouth, UK

This novel is a work of fiction. Apart from the well-known actual people, events and locales that figure in the narrative, all names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright 2013 by

Peggy Wolff Lewis

Hamilton Books

4501 Forbes Boulevard

Suite 200

Lanham, Maryland 20706

Hamilton Books Acquisitions Department (301) 459-3366

10 Thornbury Road

Plymouth PL6 7PP

United Kingdom

All rights reserved

Printed in the United States of America

British Library Cataloging in Publication Information Available

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013935030

ISBN: 978-0-7618-6121-8 (clothbound : alk. paper)

eISBN: 978-0-7618-6122-5

The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of American National Standard for Information SciencesPermanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI Z39.48-1992

Dedication

To my husband Jack, encouraging family and friends.

Acknowledgements

This novel was written over some years while traveling, then it collected dust in an oversized canvas tote bag for an additional two years before it found its way to the editing team of Sandre Cunha and Ramie Wikdall without whom my story never would have been finished.

I would like to thank my devoted friend, Marsha Rogers, for her dedication and hard work in the final editing and publishing of this book.

I would also like to thank my talented granddaughter, Fannie Lewis, for her thoughtful design of the cover of this book.

A Time for Everything

There is an appointed time for everything.

And there is a time for every event under heaven

A time to give birth and a time to die;

A time to plant and a time to uproot what is planted.

A time to kill and a time to heal;

A time to tear down and a time to build up.

A time to weep and a time to laugh;

A time to mourn and a time to dance.

A time to throw stones and a time to gather stones;

A time to embrace and a time to shun embracing.

A time to search and a time to give up as lost;

A time to keep and a time to throw away.

A time to tear apart and a time to sew together;

A time to be silent and a time to speak.

A time to love and a time to hate;

A time for war and a time for peace.

Ecclesiastes

Contents

Prologue

Phillip Creighton eased himself behind the wheel of his Range Rover, determined to head for the Fort Davis post office before he could change his mind again. He was exhausted from another sleepless night debating this decision with himself. The debate continued throughout the 30-mile drive from his west Texas ranch, but the cons got weaker the closer he got to Fort Davis. He could not afford to put this matter off any longer. By the time he pulled up in front of the post office he was resolute in his decision.

Maggie Watson, the long-time postmistress, greeted him with a wide smile. Hello there, Mr. Creighton. We dont often see you in here. Is something wrong with Pedro?

No, hes fine. But this is urgent. I couldnt wait for him to finish his morning chores. His hand shook slightly as he handed her two envelopes, one addressed to Zane Spencer Henley in Tanzania, the other to Adriane Lagurison in New York. Her eyes widened at the African and New York addresses for she knew they were new correspondents, but she made no comment. Mr. Creighton was not the sort of man one could quiz.

Hows your family, Maggie?

Doing real good. Thanks for asking. My oldest boy got that job over on the Rocking R Ranch a couple of days ago. Seems real happy. Thanks for putting in a good word for him.

You have a fine son. There was a tremor in his voice, Enjoy him while you can.

This time she took a real look at him. He was painfully thin and his tan was gone. Come to think of it, he didnt look well at all.

Are you all right, Mr. Creighton? He turned away without responding, not even a goodbye. That was not like him.

Before Phillip Creighton was a mile out of town Maggie was on the telephone. First she rang Alice Nunnly over at the pharmacy, then John Hodge at the bank.

Mr. Creighton just left here. He looks like a scarecrow picked him over - lost too much weight to my way of thinking. Then she planted the seed of mystery. Ever heard of Zane Henley in Africa or Adriane Lagurison in New York City?

By evening the local gossip mill was grinding away.

Creightons Range Rover turned back onto the oak canopied road that led to his ranch house. He felt a sense of peace steal over him. A weight was lifted from his shoulders, one he had carried for too many lonely years. He drove slowly, savoring the sights of gentle billowing grasses, the pure bred herd of Angus cattle. Once again he fueled himself taking refuge in this big open country. Soon in the setting sun all the wildlife would be coming to drink. Birds darted overhead diving like bombers for their evening nightcap. He shifted the Range Rover into four wheel drive and climbed the precipitous road to the highest mountain peak on the ranch. Cutting the engine, he sat silently in communion with nature. He named this place Inspiration Point . It was here he finally made the decision to write those letters to his children and open the door to the past. He went over every word of the letters in his mind once again.

Flashes of bold horizontal lightning streaked across the horizon as thunder rumbled into life across the distant hills and brought him out of the reel of snippets playing in his mind. As if on cue, a spectacular storm began. It was strangely beautiful and eerie, matching the turbulence in his heart. He watched natures unmatched dramatic display of power moving closer, hoping that this one would bring needed rain.

Pedro knew exactly where his Jefe was. He knew, too, that he had mailed the letters. It would be a rough night for his old friend. The two were like blood brothers. He saddled his horse and rode up the mountain. The horse was steady though skittish as the storm continued its wild foray of thunder and lightning. He found Phillip, as he knew he would, sitting on a lone rock lost in thought.

Cmo ests, amigo? [How are you, my friend?]

Todava estoy vivo. Phillip turned round to face him, glad for his company. Trajiste algo para beber?

[Im still alive. Did you bring something to drink?]

Pedro pulled a bottle of scotch from his saddlebag, two glasses, and a thermos of ice. He poured two stout drinks and sat down on the hard ground beside the rock. They drank slowly, needing no words to fill the space, like two boys watching fireworks. The storm was becoming more violent, hopefully soon spiraling rain would soak the earth. The last clap of thunder shook Phillip to his feet.

Pedro, go back down now, he said, tossing him the empty glass. This things about to rip wide open.

S, Seor. Pedro took the order but in return gave one too. You get in the Rover. I need the lights, he said, packing his saddlebag.

Like a sentinel, he watched Phillip climb into his car, then took the reins of his horse and led him down the steep road back toward the hacienda in the bright double beam of the Jefes headlights.

As Phillip drove, he thought of the many missing pieces of his life. He wondered how different his life might have been if he had known his grandfather, who had inherited a fortune that would have satisfied most men, but who could not resist the challenge of uncharted waters. Were they so different? He did not know. It was useless to speculate. Once the wheels of fate began turning there was no stopping the story.