1
Faith
My closet is a
place of secrets.
This is where I change into Her, the girl everybody knows as me.
Searching through hanger after hanger of neatly pressed clothes, I find the
outfit I’m looking for. A black knee-length pleated skirt, a loose-fitting
white top, and two-inch wedge shoes. Looking good at school is a must. Not that
I do it for me. It’s more for my dad’s reputation. I have to play the part.
I am stuffed into a borrowed frame. One that fits too tightly. One
that couldn’t possibly capture the real me.
“Faith,” my stepmom calls. “Are you
joining us for breakfast?”
There is no time. “No,” I reply, my
voice carrying downstairs.
I quickly dress for school, catching
my reflection in the closet door mirror. Waking sun shines off my hair,
highlighting a few strands brighter than the rest. Everybody has a favorite
body part. Mine is my hair, which is the fiery-brown of autumn leaves. My best
friend, Melissa, swears my eyes are my best asset. Ivy-green, deep-set, haunting. Like they go
on forever.
Speaking of Melissa, her horn blares
outside. Beep, beep, pause, beep. That’s our code. I race
downstairs, passing my dad, stepmom, and little sister on the way out.
“Wait,” Dad says.
I sigh. “Yes, Dad?”
He glances at my outfit, pausing at my shoes. If it were up to Dad,
I would wear turtleneck shirts and dress pants with lace-up boots forever. The
perfect ensemble, it seems. As it is, I dress conservatively to protect his
image. I’m eighteen. You’d think he’d stop cringing every time he saw me in
anything that showed the least bit of skin.
“Hug,” he says, waving me over.
I hug him. Place a kiss on my five-year-old sister’s jelly-covered
cheek. Then, grab a napkin to wipe the sticky jelly from my lips.
“Bye, Gracie,” I say to her. “See you after school.”
She waves a small hand at me and smiles.
“Take this.” Susan, my stepmom,
hands me a bagel even though I already declined breakfast. It’s poppy seed. I’m
allergic to poppy seed.
As usual, I don’t put up a fight. My
frame feels especially uncomfortable at the moment. It’s always the same thing.
I learned early on that it’s easier to go with the flow than to be different.
Different is bad. Standing out attracts attention, something I try to avoid at
all costs. Unfortunately, being the dance captain makes that more
difficult.
“Have to go,” I say, shoving the
bagel in my bag.
The screen door swings shut behind me.
Melissa waits in my driveway. We
live in a modest, yellow-paneled house in Oviedo, Florida. The majority of the
people here are middle class. We fit in well.
“What’s up?” Melissa smiles. “Took
you long enough.”
“Yeah, well, you try waking up late
and still looking as good as I do,” I joke.
Melissa whips her blond hair into a
ponytail and puts her red Camaro in reverse, careful not to hit my Jeep on the
way out. I have my own car, but since Melissa lives three doors down, we have a
deal where we alternate driving to school. She takes the first month; I take
the second, and so on. Saves gas.
“You look smokin’,” Melissa says,
lighting a cigarette.
I roll my eyes.
“Liar.”
She’s always hated the way I dress.
Melissa laughs. “Okay, true, the
clothes need to go. But your hair and makeup are flawless. And no matter what
you wear, you still look beautiful.”
“Thanks, you too,” I say, eyeing her
tight jeans and sequined top. Melissa is effortlessly beautiful with her
sun-freckled face and athletic build.
“Prediction,” Melissa begins. This
is something we have done since ninth grade: predict three things that will
happen during the year. “Tracy Ram will try to overthrow you as dance captain,
once again, but you’ll keep your spot, of course, ’cause you rock. You’ll quit
dressing like an eighty-year-old and finally wear what you want to wear instead
of what society dictates is appropriate for a pastor’s daughter. And you’ll
come to your senses and dump Jason Magg for a hot new boy.”
Melissa always predicts that I’ll
dump Jason, has done since Jason and I began dating freshman year. It’s not
that she doesn’t like him. It’s just that she thinks my life is too bland, like
the taste of celery. What’s the point, she figures.
“First of all, I do not dress like the elderly,” I say. “And second,
I don’t know what you have against Jason. He treats me nicely. It’s not like
he’s a jerk.”
“It’s not like he’s exciting,
either,” Melissa says.
She’s right. What I have with Jason is comfortable, nice even, but
excitement left a long time ago.
“Prediction,” I say, turning to Melissa. “You will not be able to
quit bugging me about dumping Jason, even though last year you swore you would.
Despite your doubts, you will pass
senior calculus. And you’re going to win homecoming.”
Melissa shakes her head. “No way. Homecoming is all you, girl.”
I groan. “But I don’t want to win.”
Melissa laughs. “Tracy Ram would have a heart attack if she ever
heard you say that.”
“Great,” I say. “Let her win homecoming.”
We grin. Melissa and I have been friends since kindergarten.
Memories come to me suddenly. I’m in elementary school, and it’s sleepover
night at Melissa’s. In my overnight bag, I carry a small stuffed bunny, my
steadfast companion since forever. People would laugh if they knew, me carrying
around a stuffed baby toy, but Melissa never tells. Fast forward to middle
school. The braces on Melissa’s teeth are still so new that the silver catches
the light from the fluorescent fixtures when she smiles. The headgear is huge,
cumbersome, and no one lets her forget it. But I relentlessly defend my friend.
She’s so beautiful, can’t they see? Sometimes I leave flowers stolen from a
neighbor’s rose bush at her locker when no one is looking. That way people will
know that she is loved. High school. Melissa and me, same as always.
“What do you want to bet?” Melissa asks.
Whoever gets the most predictions right wins.
“Hmm,” I say. “If I win, you have to quit smoking.”
Melissa almost chokes. “Pulling out the big guns, are we? Okay,
then. If I win, you have to break up with Jason.”
“Deal,” I say, knowing that she won’t win. She never does.
Melissa purses her lips and gives me the stink eye. She knows I have
a better chance.
“Faith, I will find a way to break you out of your mold,” she says.
I laugh, partially because of the determination in my friend’s eyes,
but mostly because of the absurdity of her statement. Everybody knows that
girls like me never break free.
2
Diego
“Diego, vamonos.”
I can’t help the frustrated sigh
that escapes my lips, hurled at mi padre, my dad, like a gust of wind that
threatens to flatten our house of cards. It’s my fault. I should have built
something stronger with the cards I was dealt. But I didn’t. I didn’t know how.
“Go away,” I say. “Vete.”
I’m not planning to attend school today.
In fact, I didn’t plan to be in the States at all.
“Vamonos.
Let’s go,” mi padre repeats in his
heavily accented voice, yanking me off of the couch. “You will not miss senior
year.”
He has this new thing where we have
to speak English as much as possible now that we live in the States. I almost
wish I weren’t fluent. Several trips to Florida, and I am.
With a grimace, I pass him,
reluctantly moving toward my room. It feels like my feet are sinking, like I’m
walking over sticky sand instead of thick, dirty carpet.
How did I get stuck in this
place?
I open my dresser drawer and pull out faded jeans, a white T-shirt,
and my Smith & Wesson.
“No,” mi padre says, grabbing the gun.
I take a step toward him,
challenging. He does not back down.
“This is why we left,” he says.
Hypocrite. Under his bed is a similar gun, waiting. Just in case.
But he’s also the one who taught me how to fight. I’m bigger than he is, but he
has more experience. And the scars to prove it.
Not that I haven’t been in countless fights myself.
“Fine,” I say through clenched
teeth, and turn toward the bathroom.
The hot water heater goes out after
five minutes. The tiny two-bedroom apartment—this hole we now call home—is the
only thing mi padre could afford.
It’s not much, but it’s inexpensive. That’s all that matters. The plain white
walls remind me of an asylum. Feels like I’m going crazy already.
Our jobs keep us afloat. They’re our life vests, our only chance of
survival in a sea of ravenous sharks. Mi
padre found a job with a lawn crew a couple weeks ago. Not many people
would hire him with his scarred face and tattooed body. A restaurant offered me
work part-time. Two shifts as a cook, one as a busboy. They promised a free
meal every night that I worked. Couldn’t pass that up.
“Don’t be late for school or work,” mi padre says as I step out of the
house.
School’s only ten minutes away. I walk, staring at the
graffiti-covered sidewalk that stretches in front of me like a ribbed canvas.
Latinos roam the block. It didn’t take moving to the States for me to know
that’s how it is. The gringos, white
people, live in nice houses and drive cars to school while the rest of the
world waits for a piece of their leftovers. I’m trying not to think about how
screwed up it all is when a Latina walks up to me.
“Hola,” she says. “¿Hablas inglés?”
“Yeah, I speak English,” I
answer, though I’m not sure why she asks since both of us speak Spanish.
“I’m Lola.” She smiles, sexy
brown eyes big and wide. She reminds me of a girl I knew back home. Just the
thought, the image of home, makes my guts clench.
“What’s your name?” she purrs.
“Lola,” a Latino calls from
across the street. She ignores him. He calls again. When she doesn’t come, he
approaches us.
One look tells me he’s angry.
He has a cocky stance and a shaved head.
“Am I interrupting something?”
he snaps.
What’s this guy’s problem?
“Yep,” Lola says, turning her
back on him. “My ex,” she explains, brushing a strand of curly hair out of her
face.
Perfecto. Just what I need. I didn’t
even do anything. Not that I’m going to explain.
“She’s mine,” the guy says, staring me down. “¿Entiendes, amigo?”
“I’m not your friend,” I say,
gritting my teeth. “And you do not want to mess with me.”
Lola is smiling. I wonder if she
enjoys the attention. Probably. I’ve met too many girls like her. She fits the
type.
“You don’t know who you’re messing with,” he says, stepping
closer.
A few guys come out of nowhere,
closing in on me. Blue and white bandanas hang from their pockets like a
bad-luck charm. I know what the colors signify. Mara Salvatrucha 13 Gang, or
MS-13.
I turn to Lola. Watch her smile.
This is all part of the game. What I
can’t figure out is if the guy really is her ex and she doesn’t care that she
could be getting me killed, or if he sent her to see how tough I am, to help
decide whether he wants to recruit me.
I turn to walk away, but someone
blocks my path.
“Going somewhere?” another gang-banger asks.
This whole time I’ve wondered if I’d
end up fighting at school. I hadn’t thought about the fact that I may never
make it in the first place. I silently curse mi padre for hiding my gun. He wouldn’t get rid of it completely,
though.
“What do you want?” I ask.
The original guy laughs, looks me up
and down. The number 67 is tattooed behind his right ear in bold black numbers.
It only takes me a second to figure out the meaning. Six plus seven equals
thirteen.
“What are those markings?” he asks, eyeing my tattoos.
“Nothing,” I lie.
If they wanted to fight me, they
would’ve done it already. This is a recruit.
“Where you from?” he asks.
I don’t answer. Members of MS-13
stretch around the globe like fingers. They can easily check my past. I’m not
gonna give them a head start.
“Swallow your tongue?” one of the
guys asks.
I’m trying to figure out if I can
win a fight against the five guys who surround me. I look for weak spots,
scars, old injuries. I look for bulges that might be weapons. I’m a good
fighter. I think I can take them. But at the same time, fighting will guarantee
me a follow-up visit from MS-13.
Just then, someone speaks behind us.
“Is there a problem?” a police officer asks from the safety of his car.
Everyone backs away from me.
“Nope,” one of the gangbangers answers. “We were just leaving.”
“See you around,” 67 says, throwing
an arm around Lola.
I turn my back and walk the last
block to school. The police officer trails slowly behind, like a hungry dog
sniffing for scraps. He leaves as I enter the double doors.
I think about what my dad said. Moving here will give you a brighter future.
His words sit heavily on my mind, like humidity on every pore of my
skin. His intentions are good, but he’s wrong. So far, moving here has done
nothing but remind me of my past.
3
Faith
“Hi, I’m Faith
Watters.”
Those are the first words I speak to the new Cuban guy in the front
office. He grimaces. He’ll be a tough one. I can handle it, though. He’s not
the first.
I can’t help but notice that he looks a lot like a model from the
neck up—eyes the color of oak, strong bone structure. Everywhere else, he looks
a lot like a criminal. Chiseled, scarred body … I wonder for a second about the
meaning behind the tattoos scratched into his arms.
One thing’s clear. He’s dangerous.
And he’s beautiful.
“I’ll show you to your classes,” I announce.
I’m one of the peer helpers at our school. It’s not my favorite
thing to do, but it counts as a class. Basically I spend the first two days
with new students, introducing them around and answering their questions. Some
parents with kids new to the school voluntarily sign their students up, but
it’s only mandatory for the international students, of which we have a lot.
Mostly Latinos.
This Cuban guy towers over me. I’m
five six. Not tall. Not short. Just average. Average is good.
This guy’s not average. Not even a little bit. He must be over six
feet.
I glance up at him, kind of like I
do when I’m searching for the moon in a sea of darkness.
“Looks like you have math first. I’ll walk you there,” I offer.
“No thanks, chica. I can handle it.”
“It’s no problem,” I say, leading
the way.
He tries to snatch his schedule from
my hands, but I move too fast.
“Why don’t we start with your name?”
I suggest.
I already know his name. Plus some.
Diego Alvarez. Eighteen years old. Moved from Cuba two weeks ago. Only child.
No previous school records. I read it in his bio. I want to hear him say it.
“You got some kinda control issues
or somethin’?” he asks harshly, voice slightly accented.
“You got some kind of social issues
or somethin’?” I fire back, holding my stance. I won’t let him intimidate me,
though I’ll admit, he’s hot. Too bad he has a nasty attitude.
The side of his lip twitches. “No. I
just don’t mix with your type,” he answers.
“My type?”
“That’s what I said.”
“You don’t even know my type.” No
one does. Well, except Melissa.
He chuckles humorlessly. “Sure I do.
Head cheerleader? Date the football player? Daddy’s little girl who gets
everything she wants?” He leans closer to whisper. “Probably a virgin.”
My cheeks burn hot. “I’m not a
cheerleader,” I say through clamped teeth.
“Whatever,” he says. “Are you gonna
give me my schedule or not?”
“Not,” I answer. “But you can feel
free to follow me to your first class.”
He steps in front of me, intimately
close. “Listen, chica, nobody tells
me what to do.”
I shrug. “Fine, suit yourself. It’s
your life. But if you want to attend this school, it’s mandatory for me to show
you to your classes for two days.”
His eyes narrow. “Who says I want to
attend this school?”
I take the last step toward him,
closing the gap between us. When we were little, Melissa and I used to collect
glass bottles. Whenever we accumulated twenty, we’d break them on the concrete.
When the glass shattered, the slivered pieces made a breathtaking prism of
light.
I cut myself on the glass by accident once. It was painful, but
worth it. The beauty was worth it. It’s funny how the bottle was never as
beautiful as when it was broken.
You will not shatter me, I silently tell Diego. Somebody
already did.
“If you don’t want to be here, then don’t come back,” I say.
A taunting smile spreads across his
face. My first thought is that he has nice teeth, but then I scold myself for
thinking about him like that.
“My name is Diego,” he says, like
he’s letting me in on some kind of secret.
“Well, Diego,” I say, “better hurry.
Class starts in two minutes.” I step around him to lead the way.
While we walk to math, I feel Diego’s eyes on me. I don’t know what
it is about him. All the other confident students had nothing on me, and I
swear I’ve heard it all, but he seems different. He shines. In a dark way. When
he looks at me, I get a tingly sensation, like I’m being zapped by electricity.
It doesn’t matter. He’s rude. And besides, I have a wonderful
boyfriend. Jason. Think about Jason.
“Quit staring at me,” I say, glancing at him.
He laughs, and strands of black hair fall into his eyes. I imagine
it’s a little like looking at the world through charred silk.
“Why? Does it make you uncomfortable?”
He’s messing with me to get under my skin, like a pesky little
splinter.
It’s working.
“Yes,” I answer.
In his white shirt, Diego’s skin is dark. Perpetually tanned by
heritage.
I keep Diego’s schedule out of his reach. He inches closer, no doubt
to grab it and run. I try to concentrate on the newly painted beige walls and tiled
floors. Every few feet hangs a plaque about achievement or school clubs or
tutoring programs.
When we come to the door, Diego rests an arm on the wall and leans
toward me.
“I have a proposition for you,” he says in a sultry voice.
It’s hard to seem unaffected.
“I don’t do propositions,” I say dismissively.
He grins, his mouth arching up like the curl of a wave.
“But you haven’t even heard me out,” he says.
“Don’t need to.”
He ignores my comment. “What do you say we forget about this thing
where I follow you around like a little dog? And when the guidance counselor
asks, I will say you were superlative.”
“Big word,” I mumble. This guy did not do well on his entry exams,
but he says things like superlative?
What’s with that?
He glares at me; I sigh.
“You know, it wouldn’t kill you to drop the tough-guy act for two
days. You’ll be rid of me soon.”
I turn to leave but Diego grabs my arm gently. My breath catches.
“It’s not an act,” he says, jaw hard.
I wave him away nonchalantly, like his touch didn’t just do all
kinds of crazy things to my body—things that make me want to forget about the
warning blaring in my mind.
I need to stay away from him.
I need to forget him.
Will you touch me again
please?
I walk away. He watches me go.
“By the way,” I say as I flick a look over my shoulder at his
hardened face, “I see right through you.”
4
Diego
She sees right through me? What does that mean? I wonder for the twentieth time as I enter the cafeteria. I managed
to avoid my peer helper after my first few classes, rushing out before she
could meet me. Did she really think I couldn’t get another class schedule?
Maybe next time she won’t underestimate me.
A sweet smell hits my nostrils as I pass the fruit section. It
smells like my peer helper, and I’m reminded of my disgust for her. She thinks
she knows me, but she knows nothing. She’s a snob, trying to prove something.
They’re all the same.
Girls like her don’t know what it’s
like to struggle, really struggle.
She’s probably never gone so hungry her stomach knots. Never roamed
the streets wondering if she’ll have a safe place to sleep. With a face and
body like hers, she’s probably never had to work for anything in her life. The
people she represents, the life she lives, it’s all fake.
Javier, my cousin, warned me about her. She’s one of the Big Five,
the ones who think they rule this school. Even with her perfect boyfriend and
flawless life, she isn’t fooling me.
I hear Javier before I see him. “Diego, aquí.”
Through the crowd, I spot my cousin sitting with a group of Latinos.
With his six-foot, two-hundred-pound frame, he’s hard to miss. I approach him.
One of his friends mumbles something in Spanish about how tall I am.
“Hey, what can I say? They make ’em big in mi familia,” Javier says, laughing.
Truth backhands me. I realize now that I never actually thought I
would see Javier again. After … after … no. I shove the thoughts away. Not
here.
Not here.
“What’s up, ’cuz?” Javier says.
“Nada.” I force a smile,
though my relief is real. It’s good to see family.
“¡Siéntate!” Javier says.
I sit. Sitting is usually an indulgence for those who can afford to
relax. I pretend for a moment that I’m one of them. My cousin takes a minute to
introduce his friends.
“Diego, this is Ramon, Esteban, Juan, Rodolfo, and Luis.”
Ramon and Esteban, with their slight overbites and similar features,
must be brothers. Juan has a large head for his small frame; he’s covered in
tattoos. Rodolfo has a smile full of white teeth and a dimple on the left side
of his cheek. What happened to the other dimple? It’s as though God had an
asymmetrical look in mind when He created him. Next to my cousin, Luis is the
biggest. He has lots of freckles, splattered on his face like paint, seeping
into his skin.
“Welcome to los Estados Unidos,” Juan says, biting into his burger.
“Gracias,” I reply.
My stomach growls, an animal hungry to live. Javier notices.
“Come with me.” He motions for me to follow him through the crowd.
As we walk to the lunch line, I spot my peer helper at a table,
surrounded by her friends. There’s one of her kind at every school. The girl
everyone hates to love and loves to hate. She’s probably been stabbed in the
back countless times. Not that she would know, since everyone acts fake to her
face. Her friends remind me of worker bees, buzzing for the queen’s attention.
I wonder if she knows that the workers eventually kill the queen.
“When you get to the front, show them your student ID,” Javier says.
The guidance counselor already explained that I get one free lunch a
day because of our low income. As we pass the food selections, I cannot believe
the prices.
“Are they for real?” I ask. “Six dollars for chicken and fries?”
I have an image of Faith Watters taking out her designer wallet and
easily paying for one of the pretentious lunches.
“Yep. Gringos,” Javier
says, eyes hardening. He remembers what it was like in Cuba, the struggle.
Just by looking at the lunchroom crowd, it’s clear who the haves and
have-nots are. Surprisingly, though, there are more Latinos than I
expected.
I grab a burger and make my way to the register. As I pull out my
ID, football players in letterman jackets glance my way. Part of me wishes I
had it easy like them: popular, at ease, able to pay for things.
I shouldn’t want to be like them.
I don’t want to be like them.
Yes, I do.
Some days.
The bigger part of me knows that a life like that will never happen
for someone like me. It’s just the way things are.
I grab a water bottle and head back to the table with Javier. Do
people here know that most of the world doesn’t get water from a bottle, but
from a stream or river or muddy ground?
“So, you fittin’ in well?” Javier asks.
“Yep.” For the most part. No one has singled me out for being new.
“Latinos blend around here. One of the good things about Florida,”
he says.
We pass a beautiful girl on the way back to our seat. I take a
moment to look. She smiles.
“That’s Isabella,” Javier explains. “Sexy, but taken.”
“Too bad,” I say.
I’m not looking for a girlfriend, but it would be nice to have a
little fun. I’m almost at the table when someone steps in front of me.
“What’s your problem?” my peer helper asks, one of her friends in
tow.
Momentarily shocked by her boldness, I quickly regain my hard
stance. Just like earlier, she doesn’t seem fazed by me. She’s either tougher
than I thought, or she puts on a great front.
“I don’t know what you mean,” I reply. I try to feign confusion, but
a smile creeps through.
“Oh, you think this is funny?” she asks, hands on her hips. For a
second, she looks kind of beautiful, eyes hard and old. Wisps of hair fall out
of her ponytail and around her face like angel feathers.
“A little.” I grin.
She huffs. “You weren’t there to meet me after your classes this
morning. If I report you, you could lose your chance to attend this school.”
Is she threatening me? “Like I said, I already have a mamá. I don’t answer to you.”
I hand my tray to Javier. He sets it on the table so I can deal with
her.
“You’re being difficult,” she says.
“So are you.”
What is your weakness? is what I want to ask.
She doesn’t back down. “I’ll be there before the end of your next class. Don’t even think about ditching
me again.”
I have to, don’t you see?
“I’m serious,” she says.
This girl is asking for it. I glance at her blond friend, who’s
eyeing Javier, not paying us any attention. I wish my peer helper was as easily
distracted.
Being tough does not scare Faith Watters. Time to change tactics. I
relax and flash a grin.
“Mami, why don’t I help
you loosen up a little?”
She blinks, but doesn’t show any outward evidence that my words have
affected her. I move close, very close. When I look down at her, she doesn’t
look away.
Her eyes remind me of stained glass, bright and cutting.
“We could have a good time, you and me,” I say, mischief punctuating
my voice.
“I don’t think so,” she says coldly.
I will not let her upstage me. I give her a long, slow onceover. She
dresses older than she is, like she doesn’t belong in high school. I wonder
what makes her so uptight.
What are you hiding, chica?
I usually don’t have to try with girls. It’s one of the very few
advantages life has thrown my way.
“Oh, come on. You might like Latino if you tried it,” I say, voice
low. The guys behind me laugh, egging me on.
“When you’re done with him, I’m available, mamacita,” Juan says. “I don’t mind leftovers.”
She sneers. Good. That’s progress.
“Let me take you out,” I say.
I’m not really going to take her anywhere. I just want to make a
crack in her icy shield.
Why do you have a shield,
anyway?
“Why?” she asks suspiciously.
Because I know it annoys
you when someone else has control. “Because it
would be fun,” I say, bending close to her face. “And I can promise you one
thing.”
She looks cautious.
It’s a look I know well.
“What?” she asks.
That one night with me will
relax you.
Girls like her love bad boys, whether they admit it or not. I
imagine it’s similar to visiting a haunted mansion. Exciting, at first. One
foot slips through the door, then the next. Heart hammers. Blood races. It’s a
rush. A fix. Never knowing what’s around the next corner, through the closed
door, beyond the shadows. Trying to find a way out. Not really wanting to
leave. Wondering how close a person can come to danger before something bad
happens. Looking for the moonlight at the end of the tunnel, an exit.
Sometimes there is no light
at the end of the tunnel.
I can show her excitement like she’ll never experience with that
boyfriend of hers.
But I don’t say any of those things. Instead I let my lips brush her
ear lobe as I answer.
“That you will leave satisfied.”
Temptation (Temptation #1)
A native of New York State, Karen Ann Hopkins now lives with her family on a farm in northern Kentucky, where her neighbors in all directions are members of a strict Amish community. Her unique perspective became the inspiration for the story of star-crossed lovers Rose and Noah. When she’s not homeschooling her kids, giving riding lessons or tending to a menagerie of horses, goats, peacocks, chickens, ducks, rabbits, dogs and cats, she is dreaming up her next romantic novel.
