The daughter of missionaries, Hannah Pratt dreams of starting a school for the Bedouin clan with whom she spent her childhood. After completing her education in the United States, she returns to the desert to pursue that dream—only to learn her parents have been receiving threats from within the community they serve. As the danger escalates, Hannah must decide how far she’ll go to stay faithful to a calling that could cost her everything.
As sheikh, Karim Al-Amir feels the weight of responsibility as the leader of his people. When a mysterious illness ravages the clan’s flocks and threatens to destroy their centuries-old way of life, some of his people believe the American doctors and their daughter, his childhood friend, are to blame. Karim must do something to keep Hannah and her parents safe—even if the only solution is to be found within marriage vows.
In a society where the line is drawn between us and them, where Christianity is outlawed and foreigners suspect, will Karim and Hannah’s union heal wounds . . . or inflict a final, fatal blow?
Old Testament history meets Twenty-first Century tensions in this compassionate, tender inspirational romance.
Sarah Monzon is a Navy chaplain’s wife and a stay at home mom to the
two cutest littles in the world. Playing pretend all day with them isn’t
enough, she spends the evenings after their heads hit the pillow to
create her own imaginary characters. When she isn’t in the world of make
believe, she can be found in the pine forests of western Washington
taking care of her family, fostering friendships, and enjoying all the
adventures each day brings. Her debut novel, The Isaac Project,
skyrocketed to Amazon bestseller status while her Sophomore book,
Finders Keepers, won the 2017 SELAH award for contemporary romance.
This was not how I’d thought I would die.
Not that I sat around imagining my death. I’m not that morbid. But never in my wildest dreams had I imagined this.
Along the horizon, racing toward me with frightening speed, a
billowing brown wall licked the earth’s surface and spit it out again—a
ferocious scream that caused my heart to stutter in my chest. Six years
away and this was how my beloved desert welcomed me home.
Wind whipped my long, loose dress around my legs and tugged at the
few strands of hair not safely tucked in a ponytail under my hijab. I’d
always been thankful the Bedouin clan my parents ministered to as
missionaries didn’t adhere to the more concealing Muslim headwear, such
as a niqab or burqa. I had to admit, though, that
having more material to cover my nose and mouth would be helpful against
the dust storm about to consume me. With quick motions, I reached
around my head and unwrapped the bottom of my hijab, rewrapping it
around my nose and mouth. A bit of water or petroleum jelly would work
even better to save my nose and lungs from the dry desert sand, but some
protection was better than none.
Tiny grains of sand picked up by the wind pelted my body like
fastballs pitched by major league baseball players. I hunched over,
lowering my frame as close to the ground as I could. Never knew if the
wind had picked up more than just the earth’s surface. An abandoned tire
rim or something else could decapitate a person when chucked at top
speeds. It would be just like that temperamental mistress to hurl an
object absently left on the wayside.
The storm was on me now.
My lungs constricted to rid themselves of the tiny particles I’d
breathed in, coughing hot breath into the material around my mouth. My
eyes watered with the force of the wind, and I blinked rapidly to try
and rid the granules scratching my irises.
Lifting my backpack, I shielded my face and eyes, wishing I hadn’t
let the driver drop me off so far from where the clan currently had
their tents pitched. The inside of a twenty-year-old Jeep would have
served as a wonderful bunker against this onslaught. Now I had no
protection.
In the thick of it, I squinted through the brown haze, looking for
something to hunker under on the leeward side. The rise of a nearby dune
lied of its ability to protect. Fortunately, I understood the reality
of the phrase “shifting sands.” Had no desire to change my death
sentence from asphyxiation due to sand in my lungs to being buried alive
when the wind deposited the dune right on top of my head.
A camel’s bray rent through the cacophony of the storm. My heart
restarted. If ever there was an animal built to survive the temper of
the desert, it was the camel. I pushed my legs forward, wishing I wore
pants rather than my dress, which wrapped itself around my calves and
threatened to topple me. If I could hear the camel’s call, perhaps its
owner could hear mine. I lifted my chin and took in a lungful of air
before pulling down the covering from my lips.
“Musaeada!” I yelled for help in Arabic. “Musaeada!”
The camel answered, and I took a few more stumbling steps toward the
sound. The sand made it difficult to do anything—walk, see, breathe. If I
didn’t find a place to wait out the storm soon, I wouldn’t survive it.
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