By Charles G. West
PRODIGAL SON There's no taming Billy Blanchard. He's lower from an analogous tough textile as his father, Jacob, the fellow who outfitted town of Black Horse Creek from not anything. Jacob takes satisfaction in Billy's lawless, wild methods. but if the boy returns domestic with a stolen horse, having simply killed a U.S. Marshal, Jacob understands difficulty may be coming. known as in on designated project, enigmatic former deputy marshal Grayson is requested to discover Billy. The marshals would like to have him introduced in alive. yet Grayson understands Billy. He is aware his father. And he is familiar with that issues don't constantly pass the best way the legislations could like....
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Additional resources for Black Horse Creek
Cm. ŠŠ1. Mothers and daughters舒Fiction. 2. Family secrets舒Fiction. 3. World War, 1939舑1945舒Evacuation of civilians舒Fiction. 4. World War, 1939舑1945舒England舒Kent. 5. Domestic fiction. I. Title. 92舒dc22ŠŠŠŠŠŠŠŠŠŠŠŠŠŠŠŠŠŠŠ2010033472 ISBN 978-1-4391-5278-2 ISBN 978-1-4391-9934-3 (ebook) For Kim Wilkins, who encouraged me to start; and Darin Patterson, who was with me to the last full stop CONTENTS Š PART ONE PART TWO PART THREE PART FOUR PART FIVE Acknowledgments Hush 舰 Can you hear him? The trees can.
I glanced again at the canary, rummaging for seed in his cage, then the picture-hung walls. 舠Yes, yes, of course it was,舡 Mrs. 舡 A sigh. 舠That was a long time ago now though. Sadly, Sykes舗s moat was filled in decades ago, and his grand circular pool belongs only to the geese. 舡 She handed me a heavy brass key and patted my fingers closed around it. 舠We舗ll walk up to the castle tomorrow. The forecast is clear and there舗s a beautiful view from the second bridge. 舡 That patient, wood-paneled voice drifted towards us again, however this time I pinpointed its source.
On first glimpse it was like all the other villages I舗d driven through that day: a single road through the center with a green at one end, a church beside it, and a school along the way. I parked in front of the local church hall and I could almost see the lines of weary London schoolchildren, grubby and uncertain after their interminable train ride. A ghostly imprint of Mum long ago, before she was my mum, before she was much of anything, filing helplessly towards the unknown. I drifted along the High Street, trying舒without much success舒to tame my flyaway thoughts.