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    Lesson of the Poinsettia
    Lesson of the Poinsettia
    Lesson of the Poinsettia
    Ebook97 pages1 hour

    Lesson of the Poinsettia

    By Mildred Colvin

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    About this ebook

    Abigail Stevens is part owner of Kingson Steel, but she lets her older sister take care of business while she hides in the darkness.

    Nine years ago Abigail lost her sight when fever struck, and she’s given up on leading a normal life. Then her nine-year-old neighbor girl sneaks across the street to see Abigail’s flowers and her father soon follows. Because of the lesson they find in Abigail’s Poinsettias, Abigail and Seth learn to see beyond the darkness of their lives and in the process find love to last a lifetime.

    Lesson of the Poinsettia is a historical romance of about 25,000 words.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherMildred Colvin
    Release dateSep 3, 2012
    ISBN9781476401751
    Lesson of the Poinsettia
    Author

    Mildred Colvin

    Mildred Colvin is a wife, mother of three, and grandmother to three beautiful girls. She started writing when her children were young as they asked for stories. Not from a book. No! They were only satisfied when she made up stories. As the stories grew, she wrote some down and sent them off to magazines. Eight were published before her imagination turned toward love stories, which is what she enjoys reading.She has been writing Christian or clean and wholesome romance since 2001. Over the years several readers from pre-teens to older kids in their eighties and nineties have written expressing their interest in her books. She always loves to hear about one of her stories touching someone's heart. Her purpose in writing is to encourage, entertain, and bless someone else.She lives in the United States and sets her characters in the middle states from Texas to Nebraska and Iowa and reaching across Illinois to Colorado. She also has an Oregon Trail series, but the Great Plains states are her favorite setting.She is active in a very special critique group and has written and published over 60 books in both historical and contemporary themes, and plans to continue writing as long as God allows. He has been good in giving her many ideas for stories. Maybe more than she will be able to finish, but she enjoys each one.Please take a moment to visit her website at www.mildredcolvin.weebly.com, and sign up for her Romantic Reflections Newsletter to learn when new books are released. Also learn of promotions and free books through her newsletter.And take a look at her books. You might find something you don't want to put down.

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      Book preview

      Lesson of the Poinsettia - Mildred Colvin

      Lesson of the Poinsettia

      Mildred Colvin

      ~*~*~*~

      Copyright © 2012 by Mildred Colvin

      Smashwords Edition

      All rights reserved.

      Cover photo used by permission

      Poinsettia by Pam Turner

      Scripture portions are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

      This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to events is entirely coincidental.

      This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

      Chapter 1

      Kansas City, Missouri—1906

      Abigail Stevens paused at the door with a full watering can in her hand. She tilted her head to listen. The chirp of a bird, the rumble of a wagon, the bark of a dog. Nothing out of the ordinary. She stepped on the porch, letting the front door close behind her. Three steps to the right, and she faced the potted mum. Her fingers touched the cool pottery.

      Creak.

      The front gate’s rusty hinges sounded loud in the quiet morning. She froze, her watering can held in mid-air, her fingers pressed to the rim of the flowerpot. She tilted her head again and concentrated. There it was. Another creak.

      Maybe someone had left the gate unhooked and the wind moved it. She lifted her face and no breeze brushed her cheek. Her long skirt didn’t ruffle against her legs as it did on windy days. No, someone stood even now at her front gate just as they had yesterday—and the day before.

      The sound stopped. Only the usual street noises reached her. Whoever stood at her gate was quiet, but probably still there. She sensed the intensity of their gaze pressing against her as she stood on the porch waiting and listening. If only she could see. Her heart pounded as if she’d run a mile, though she hadn’t taken a step. How could she when the uncertainty of what she faced brought such weakness to her limbs?

      She hated this feeling of vulnerability—the reason she seldom traveled farther than her front porch except to attend church with her sister, Rachel. And why she took little part in the business, letting Rachel handle it all.

      Giving in to the fear that crowded her heart, she turned toward the door as she had the day before. Her fingers brushed the porch post, and she stopped. What was she running from? The wind or a curious passerby? What good would that do? The next time or even the next might be the same. She often heard noises she couldn’t identify just as she’d heard the creaking gate three mornings in a row. Resolve grew within her. This time she wouldn’t give in to a faceless fear. If someone wanted to watch her, so be it. Her house sat on a busy residential street. During the day many people passed. If one of them wanted to stop and watch the blind lady water her flowers, there was nothing to fear.

      She turned back to her flowers, and her fingers prodded the dirt at the base of the mums, feeling the moisture before lifting the watering can. She let the water flow slowly into the thirsty soil. Her fingers remained curled around the rim of the flowerpot until moisture rose to touch them.

      Creak.

      She lowered the watering can slowly. Summoning courage she didn’t feel, but knowing she must do something, she turned toward the sound and called out. Hello, how are you today?

      The gate squealed even louder and light footsteps approached. A child. Air whooshed from her lungs. She’d been frightened by a child. She cupped her hand around the porch post for support as her tense muscles relaxed.

      Do you like flowers? She smiled toward the child. If only she hadn’t lost her sight so many years ago. Then she wouldn’t fear the slightest sound or the least change in her environment. She would’ve known immediately her visitor was a harmless child.

      I like your flowers. A small, sweet voice spoke. Hollow footsteps sounded on the porch steps as the child approached.

      Thank you. I like them, too. Abigail turned to the left and walked five steps. She caught the chain suspended from the ceiling. Letting her hand slide down the chain to the wooden armrest, she pivoted to sit on the porch swing, setting her watering can on the seat beside her. What’s your name?

      Mary Ella Warren. I live across the street. My papa said I couldn’t come to see your flowers.

      So her visitor was a little girl. Abigail smiled in the direction of her voice. Would you like to swing with me, Mary Ella?

      The swing bounced as the little girl climbed on. Abigail turned toward her. I’m glad you came to see the flowers, but I don’t want you getting into trouble. Shouldn’t you obey your father?

      Papa’s at work and Mrs. Grimes doesn’t know I’m gone. Mary Ella didn’t seem in the least worried that she might be missed.

      Who is Mrs. Grimes?

      Our housekeeper. My mommy died a long time ago.

      I see. Didn’t the housekeeper keep track of the little girl as part of her job? Surely she wasn’t allowed to run free. Did you come to see me yesterday, too?

      I comed to see you water your flowers. They’re awfully pretty.

      Thank you. These on the porch are Chrysanthemums. They like the cooler air of autumn. Abigail gestured toward the pots to her right.

      I like roses, too. And daisies, and petunias.

      Mary Ella chattered about the flowers on the porch. Without taking a breath, she said, I have a cat.

      Is that right?

      Mmm-hmm. His name is Pinky.

      Oh my! Abigail feigned surprise. He isn’t a pink cat, surely?

      Mary Ellen giggled. Cats aren’t pink.

      Abigail laughed with her. Then why did you name him pinky?

      Because I like pink. It’s my favorite color. The swing bounced. But you gotta keep Pinky a secret. Papa and Mrs. Grimes don’t know.

      You mean they don’t know you have a pet cat?

      Uhn-uh. I save him some of my dinner every day. When Mrs. Grimes goes into the other room, I throw it out on the back stoop. He’s smart, too, ’cause he always knows to be there right after lunch.

      Abigail laughed. The cat probably was smart, knowing when he’d get a handout. Does he let you pet him?

      Yes, but not when he’s eating. Mary Ella sighed. Papa told me when a cat’s eating it might scratch me, so I’d better not be bothering him. But he doesn’t never. Papa’s just afraid I’ll get hurt. He’s awfully per. . .pertec. . .

      Protective?

      Yeah protective. Abigail could hear the frown in Mary Ella’s voice. He gets mad when I get hurt.

      Oh, surely not angry. Maybe frightened. Abigail smiled at the child. What color is your cat if it isn’t pink?

      "He’s got lots of colors. Brown and black and yellow

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