Love Finds You in Branson, Missouri Read online

  BY GWEN FORD FAULKENBERRY

  Summerside Press™

  Minneapolis 55337

  www.summersidepress.com

  Love Finds You in Branson, Missouri

  © 2011 by Gwen Ford Faulkenberry

  ISBN 978-1-93541-191-1

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without written permission of the publisher.

  The town depicted in this book is a real place, but all characters are fictional. Any resemblances to actual people or events are purely coincidental.

  Cover Design by Garborg Design Works | www.garborgdesign.com

  Interior Design by Müllerhaus Publishing Group | www.mullerhaus.net

  Photo of Table Rock Lake courtesy of www.OzarkLand.com

  The author is represented by MacGregor Literary, Inc., Hillsboro, Oregon.

  Scripture taken from the Amplified Bible®, copyright © 1954, 1958, 1962, 1964, 1965, 1987 by The Lockman Foundation. Used by permission.

  Summerside Press™ is an inspirational publisher offering fresh, irresistible books to uplift the heart and engage the mind.

  Printed in USA.

  Dedication

  For Harper Stone Faulkenberry:

  fisherman, guitarist, basketball player,

  princess rescuer, dragon slayer.

  I love you forever!

  Acknowledgments

  The author wishes to thank her wonderful family on the Triple F Ranch for their unfailing love and support through the process of writing this novel. Thanks also to René Ford, for being a great muse; Cheryl Smith, for reading the early draft; Ruston Beecher Smith, for his advice on all things German; Dawn Nevel, for her Branson expertise; Dave Kahn, for his thoughts concerning life in Hermann; Noah Campbell, for his insights about St. Louis; Chip MacGregor, for his guidance; Ramona Tucker, for editing this manuscript with eyes like an eagle and the heart of a dove; and as always, Jason Rovenstine, Rachel Meisel, and the rest of the team at Summerside Press for their confidence and encouragement. The Lord’s bountiful blessings on you all!

  NESTLED IN THE FOOTHILLS OF THE OZARK MOUNTAINS NOT FAR from the Arkansas border, surrounded by pristine lakes, sits the self-proclaimed “Live Music Show Capital of the World”: Branson, Missouri. Immortalized by Harold Bell Wright in his book The Shepherd of the Hills, Branson, population 7500, boasts a history as varied as the eight million visitors it hosts each year. It was established more than a century ago, when the first settlers populated the region along the banks of the White River. Then, with the advent of the Missouri-Pacific Railroad’s north-south route, Branson became a thriving town supplying lumber to the Ozarks. Though plagued at times by the infamous Baldknobbers, a gang of bandits, Branson soon became a mecca for travelers, workers, and fishermen. In addition, the city—affordable, family-oriented, and uniquely American—became known for its handcrafts and Christian hospitality. Today Branson’s history is alive and well in its many shows, attractions, and enduring natural beauty.

  Gwen Ford Faulkenberry

  This, my story, is a very old story.

  In the hills of life there are two trails. One lies along the higher sunlit fields, where those who journey see afar, and the light lingers even when the sun is down; and one leads to the lower ground, where those who travel, as they go, look always over their shoulders with eyes of dread, and gloomy shadows gather long before the day is done....

  In the story, it all happened in the Ozark Mountains, many miles from what we of the city call civilization. In life, it has all happened many, many times before, in many, many places. The two trails lead afar. The story, so very old, is still in the telling.

  —Harold Bell Wright

  Introductory, The Shepherd of the Hills

  Prologue

  26 August 1887

  My heart within me is sick and sad. I fear—no, it’s more than mere fearing—I know I have made the wrong choice. But what else could I do with so many people depending on me? Lives I love hanging in the balance?

  Perhaps one day I will believe what Ms. Barrett-Browning says: that it is “better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.” Heidi tells me so, trying to comfort me, and I want to believe her. But today I cannot see it. Today love is a plague, a curse. For love found me in Branson, Missouri, when I was least expecting it. I wasn’t looking. I never dreamed it would come looking for me. Me! A simple hill country girl! And for a brief, shining moment, all the world opened up like a rose. Things I’d never imagined possible, heights of joy I’d never known seemed all within my grasp when I held him in my arms.

  I thought that love could last forever. But now, as suddenly as it bloomed, that rose lies dry and dead on the ground. What’s worst of all—I cut it down with my own hands. I know it’s a sin, but I wish I could die too.

  Chapter One

  “Love Finds You in Branson, Missouri”? Are you kidding me?

  Ellie Heinrichs, who was sprawled across the bed with her laptop, hit ENTER and saw her words pop up in the lower right corner of the screen underneath her brother’s name. Beecher, five years older than she at twenty-seven and always the overachiever, was an international patent attorney living in Munich. He should be at work right now, Ellie figured, doing the time-change math in her head. It was nine hours later in Germany. But there was the little green dot by his name. No blue crescent moon. She had caught him on Facebook.

  B: I see you got my e-mail. What do you mean, am I kidding you?

  E: I mean, “Love Finds You in Branson.” It’s a joke, right?

  B: Wie kommst Du dazu ahhh… Du unkultiviert Schwein! I am offended. Neither “love” nor “Branson” is a laughing matter.

  Ellie rolled her eyes.

  E: Well, they’re both pretty ridiculous if you ask me.

  B: As I remember, I did ask you when I was home. But you were a little preoccupied.

  E: Excuse me for graduating from college!

  B: I’ll consider it—if you use the plane tickets I gave you to come see me this summer.

  The thought made her smile.

  E: I’m working on it. Meanwhile, about the marketing campaign…

  B: Have you come up with something better, O great and powerful little sister?

  Ellie’s smile turned to a scowl.

  E: No, but somebody has to try.

  B: The brochure goes to the printer Friday.

  How did he keep up with all of this stuff? Ellie answered her own question: Because he’s Beecher.

  E: I know. I just uploaded photos of Branson that I took over the weekend. I got some really good ones. You’ll have to look at them and see what we can use.

  B: Will do.

  There was a pause.

  B: How did the audition go? Did you make the Branson big time?

  E: Shut up.

  B: Seriously, how did it go?

  E: It went fine. I’m still waiting to hear from my agent on something better, you know. This Shepherd of the Hills thing is only the backup plan.

  B: Mom’s idea?

  E: Yep.

  B: Well, it would be convenient,

  especially with us setting up the new Heinrichs Haus in Branson. Wine-tasting by day, acting by night…

  Ellie snorted.

  E: I thought you opted to become an attorney in Germany rather than a Missouri winemaker—just as I have chosen to become a serious actress.

  B: Well, like Opa says, you can take the boy out of Missouri, but…

  E: …you can’t take Missouri out of the boy. I know. But this is one girl who’s ready to get out of Missouri.

  * * * * *

&nb
sp; Sunlight streamed through Ellie’s window the next morning when she finally got out of bed. Straightening a brown teddy bear slumped from years at his post on her window seat, she peered out at the view that had greeted her every day since she could remember. Branches of an ancient oak tree waved at her eye-level, and down below was the manicured lawn, bordered by a wooden fence arrayed with every color of poppies. Beyond that were three neat rows of Norton grapes planted by her great-great-grandfather and still tended by her family and then the rocky bluff overlooking the Missouri River. Two eagles soared over the vermilion water, scanning for a fresh fish breakfast. A squirrel sat on the oak branch nearest her window and surveyed Ellie with black eyes, whisking his tail.

  I need coffee, she thought.

  Slowly descending the stairs in gray sweats and a light pink tank top, Ellie breathed in the aroma of caramel-and-chocolate-flavored coffee beans as she heard them being ground to dust in the kitchen. This ritual was an obsession she and her mother shared. From the time the Junction Kaffe Haus opened in Hermann, back when Ellie was in high school, she and her mother recognized their Old-fashioned Country Turtle coffee beans as a gift from God to their small town. They bought them by the pound from Dave, the owner, who scooped them into a brown paper sack, and either Ellie or her mom would grind them fresh and make coffee every morning they were home.

  “Morning!” Ellie’s mother, Katherine, called without turning from where she was preparing the coffee. A huge island separated her from the bar where Ellie stood.

  Ellie sat on a stool at the white granite counter and leaned on her elbows. “Morning.”

  Katherine poured a clear glass mug half full of steamed milk, then added coffee. She added a dollop of whipped cream, sprinkled it with shaved chocolate from a purple Milka tin, and walked around the island to hand it to her daughter. After perching on a stool by the island, Katherine began to cut biscuits on a floured board.

  “Um. Thanks. This is awesome.” Ellie held the cup to her face, feeling its steamy warmth caress her skin. Her mother had created a masterpiece, as usual.

  “You left your phone down here last night.”

  Ellie picked it up from a painted Italian tray on the counter and saw that there was already a missed call. It was only eight thirty. There was no message, and she didn’t recognize the number. She set it back down in the tray.

  “Did you decide on what pictures to use? I chatted with Beecher last night, and he’s going to check them out too, but which ones did you like best?”

  Katherine looked up from her biscuit dough and smiled at Ellie. “I like the one of the sunset over the lake the best. And the sky shot with the trees on the hillside. Let’s use that one, and the one of people toasting glasses at the event we sponsored at Branson Landing. Those good with you?”

  “Those are good. But about the slogan Beecher came up with—”

  “‘Love Finds You at Heinrichs Haus in Branson’?”

  “Yeah. Something like that. I’m not comfortable with the whole ‘finding love’ concept. It’s too deep or romantic or something.”

  “Well, we are trying to emphasize the romantic nature of our product and the beautiful setting at Branson Landing for wedding receptions, anniversary celebrations, etc.”

  “I know. But I have something better, I think. Something more appropriate.” Ellie stirred her coffee. “I stayed up late last night brain-storming. What about ‘Taste the Good Life’?”

  “At Heinrichs Haus?” Katherine raised an eyebrow, thinking.

  “Sure. At Heinrichs Haus Winery’s Tasting Room in Branson, Missouri.”

  “I like it.”

  Ellie smiled with satisfaction and took a long sip of her coffee. “This is better than anything you can get in St. Louis. You know, Mom, if this carrying-on-the-family-winery-thing doesn’t work out for you, you could be a coffee barista.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” Katherine’s brow furrowed as she cut out a perfectly round biscuit. “And what if the whole acting thing doesn’t work out for you?”

  Their eyes met. Under her mother’s gaze, Ellie felt like a deer caught in the beaming headlights of an oncoming truck. The vibration of her phone in the tray was a welcome escape.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, is this Elise Heinrichs?”

  “This is Ellie, yes.” She didn’t recognize the man’s voice. His tone was formal, but he sounded familiar somehow.

  “Hi, Ellie. This is Will Howard, director of The Shepherd of the Hills in Branson.”

  “Oh. Hey. How are you?” Ellie glanced at Katherine, who quickly returned her eyes to her work.

  “I’m fine, thank you. It’s a beautiful morning here in Branson. How are you?”

  “Uh, great. Thanks.”

  “Ellie, I left a message with your agent, but I also thought I’d contact you personally since we’re in the same state. I want to offer you the lead role of Sammy Lane for our upcoming season.”

  For Katherine’s benefit, Ellie tried to keep a poker face. “I see.” Her thoughts were spinning.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “No, no.” Ellie forced herself to concentrate. “Thank you very much, Mr. Howard. I appreciate the opportunity.”

  “So, are you accepting this role?” His voice was hesitant now; he sounded a little confused. “We start practice next week.”

  “Is it okay if I get back with you in a day or two? I really need to talk to my agent.”

  “Well, sure. I can give you a day.”

  “I promise I’ll call you back tomorrow, Mr. Howard. Thank you again.”

  “Who was that?” Katherine opened the top oven door to slide her biscuits inside.

  Ellie, who was staring at the phone where she’d placed it on the counter, blinked her eyes and shook her head before looking up. “It was the guy from Shepherd of the Hills. I got the part.”

  “That’s fantastic!”

  “Well, I need to talk to René about it first. I mean, we’ve got a few other things in the works.”

  “I know, but wouldn’t she have called if there was any news? And this is news. This is great news, honey.”

  Katherine’s blue eyes gleamed with an excitement Ellie didn’t feel. Instead, for the thousandth time she thought what a paradox her mother was, standing before her with a stylish yellow apron over her crisp white shirt and jeans. Katherine was five-foot-ten with creamy pale skin and short blond hair. Dominating the pastel kitchen the way the sun dominates the sky, she was the strongest person Ellie knew. And yet her eyes were as innocent as a dove’s.

  “Yeah. It’s cool.” Ellie grabbed her phone, leaving her coffee on the counter, and went upstairs.

  While in the shower, Ellie reflected on the basic plot of The Shepherd of the Hills: A mysterious old man comes to the hills of Branson to search for his lost son. After learning to love the people there, he finds out that he himself is the source of many of their sorrows, and that more sorrows are to come before there can be redemption. Then, just as he reconciles with his son, more tragedy strikes. Meanwhile, in a secondary plot, young Sammy Lane becomes a lady and falls in love.

  Ellie rolled her eyes. Definitely a stretch for me.

  She scrubbed her body with a vengeance, letting the water almost burn her skin till she felt some of the tension leave her shoulders. She’d read that Sylvia Plath said there’s nothing a good, hot bath won’t cure, and stepping out of the shower she concurred, mentally amending the statement to include a good, hot shower. Ellie wrapped her long, dark hair in a towel and made a turban on top of her head. Then she pulled a white chenille robe around her and walked across the room to her window seat, where she sank into the candy-apple-red-colored cushion. She scanned the screen of her phone till she found René’s number, and pressed CALL.

  “You have reached René Schay of Class Act talent agency. I cannot take your call at this time, but feel free to leave me a message at the tone.” Beep.

  “Hi René, this is Ellie Heinrichs. I need to talk
to you today if possible. I’ve had an offer on a part in Branson. Wanted to hear your thoughts. Thanks.”

  Ellie hit END and leaned against the bay window, gazing out at the river. What was she going to do? What did she need to do—for her career? All of her acting experience so far, and even the things she learned in college, didn’t give her much real-world direction. The basic message she’d taken away: it’s nearly impossible to make a living in the arts. Of those who do—and Ellie was determined to be one of them—there seems no set formula for success other than hard work plus luck. She could try to work her way up, building a repertoire as best she could in Branson and St. Louis till a big break came, or she could move to New York and—what? Wait tables and hope for a part in something substantial?

  She had hoped an agent would be the answer or at least provide expert advice. But so far René had not done much for her. “It’s tough in this economy, kid,” René had said the last time they talked.

  The phone vibrated in Ellie’s robe pocket. It was René.

  “Ellie, hello. How are you?”

  The agent’s East Coast accent was not unpleasant, though she sounded a bit distracted. Ellie could hear typing in the background.

  “I’m well.” Ellie waited, staring out the window and twirling a tendril of hair that had escaped from underneath her turban.

  “I got your message just now and wanted to call you back and touch base. Mr. Howard called me yesterday—I didn’t talk to him, but he left a message—so I knew about the part in The Shepherd of the Hills.”