Excerpt from THE WAY HOME:

Chapter One
	Melissa Malcomb tripped over a fallen pine tree and fell headlong onto the soggy
soil of the Florida Territory. Cushioned by a deep layer of pine needles and oak leaves,
the only things that suffered were her pride and her pinafore. How could she ever expect 
to find a rabbit for supper unless she kept her mind on her task and her eyes focused on 
the ground in front of her?
	The truth was, as badly as she and her mother needed a bit of meat for their stew pot, 
Melissa hated hurting the innocent little woods creatures. She reminded herself over and over 
again that rabbits had all but ruined their winter garden, yet when she saw their cute little 
furry faces and stubby tails, her heart melted. She felt the same way about squirrels too. 
Melissa might as well face it—as a hunter, she was a miserable failure.
Climbing out of her soft, feathery bed this morning, she had promised herself that 
today would be different. One look at her frail mother bent over their wood-burning 
stove, stirring a pot of grits for breakfast, convinced Melissa that she had to find 
some way to provide meat for their table. She had packed a few biscuits into the roomy 
pockets of her homespun pinafore, kissed her mother on the cheek, and set out to find 
something for supper.
	Melissa picked herself up from the ground and retrieved her slingshot from a few feet away. 
The stones she had collected along the way were now scattered and hidden within the dense 
blanket of leaves. Heaving a sigh, she scavenged the ground for more to replace them.
On moccasin-covered feet, she crept through the dense forest in search of food. This time 
she would be more careful. She did keep a closer watch on her steps, but her mind continued 
to wander.
	How much longer would her father be gone? She wished the logging camps were stationary so 
that he could remain in one place long enough for his family to join him. Papa had been away 
for weeks. He didn’t even know how Melissa had nursed her mother through the frightening, 
critical days of influenza last month. Although her mother had miraculously survived, Melissa 
knew they had a long way to go before Mama would be strong and healthy again.
Hearing a sound of rushing water, Melissa realized she was nearing the Fenholloway River. 
My, she had wandered a long way from home! How pleasant it would be to sit on the riverbank 
and rest for a few moments. She couldn’t allow herself the luxury of a long stop, because she 
still had a job to do. Picturing her stick-thin mother laboring over the wood stove this morning 
strengthened Melissa’s resolve not to return home empty handed.
	Choosing a large rock overlooking the peaceful river, she spread her skirts and sat down. With 
elbows on her knees, she propped her chin in her hands and studied her reflection in the drifting 
current. Why couldn’t she have inherited her mother’s pretty blond curls instead of straight brown 
hair that hung down past her shoulders like a horse’s mane? She pushed it back from her face and 
continued to analyze her features. If she could have chosen, she would have picked dark brown eyes 
like her father’s. Papa’s eyes always reminded Melissa of rich, dark chocolate. But instead, she was 
stuck with eyes as green and as common as ordinary grass. The few freckles on her nose didn’t help her 
appearance very much, either. She certainly didn’t resemble the fashionable ladies she studied in her 
well-worn copy of Ladies Companion.
	A sudden splash and a glint of silver disturbed her reflection, giving Melissa a new idea. If she could 
catch a fish for dinner, that would be almost as good as a rabbit. She pulled a stale biscuit from her 
pocket, broke off a piece for bait, and ate the remainder.
She slipped out of her moccasins and felt the cool earth beneath her feet, squishy between her toes. 
Sliding down the bank, she searched the water for a shallow spot. Hoisting her skirts, she stepped 
onto a sandbar. A scant four inches deep, the water felt cold on her legs, causing her to shiver. 
Using slender, agile fingers, she made a tight ball of dough and dropped it into the stream beside 
her feet. Then she loaded her slingshot and waited. “Come on, little fishy. Try my nice, homemade 
biscuits.” She stood as still as a fence post, hoping to lure the fish into the shallows.
As though to taunt her, the elusive fish flashed his silvery fins and swam in a wide circle around 
her feet, but not once did he venture from his secure depths.
	“Bother!” she muttered. This was a waste of time, and time was becoming a precious commodity. She 
climbed the riverbank and slipped wet feet into her leather moccasins. She trudged on through the 
woods, still hoping to find something to nourish her mother back to health. Her own rumbling stomach 
added to her incentive.	 
	In the distance, she heard a shot. That hunter would likely have a lot more success than Melissa, with 
her homemade slingshot. When Papa was home, he often took his rifle into the woods to provide them with 
ample supplies of meat, not only for their immediate needs, but also for making dried jerky. The deer 
jerky he made during his last trip home was supposed to carry them through the winter, but most of it 
had long since been consumed. How much longer would she and her mother have to wait for Papa’s return?
She continued her search, but soon decided all the rabbits and squirrels must be sleeping today. Although 
she had walked until the sun was halfway across the sky, she had not spotted a single creature. She might 
as well turn back and go home. Maybe she would see something along the way. If not, she would try again 
after the sun went down.
	Hearing a noise, Melissa crouched behind a stand of palmettos and peered through the fronds. Again she 
heard the noise, but it didn’t sound like a rabbit or a squirrel. Suppose it was a bear or a panther? She 
knew her sling shot would be poor defense against a wild animal. Her heart raced, and she slumped lower in 
the bushes. There! She heard it again. It sounded like a low moan. Not an animal moan either, but a human one.
Melissa knew that the Florida Territory was rampant with outlaws and renegade Indians. From the stories she 
had heard, she would rather meet a wild animal than either of those.
	Should she make a run for it and hope to get away? There was no way that would work. The sounds came from 
very close at hand, and she was a good two hours away from her homestead. She couldn’t hope to outrun an 
Indian or an outlaw, much less a bear or a panther. Better to try to stay hidden and hope for the danger 
to pass.
	Minutes seemed like hours, and yet the intermittent cries continued. Melissa’s legs ached from her cramped 
position, but still she made no movement that would reveal her whereabouts. It seemed to Melissa that the 
source of the moans was growing weaker, until at last all sounds ceased. 
This could be a trick, she thought. Still, she had few options. She couldn’t remain here until dark. She 
eased herself up and looked around in every direction, but saw nothing that gave her a clue. She selected 
her largest stone and held it in the center of her slingshot, ready for whatever she might find. Her heart 
beat wildly. Stealthily, she crept from her hideaway and moved toward the place where the noise had emanated.
Circling a huge pine tree, she stopped and gasped at the sight before her. Not a bear. Not a panther. Not 
even a rabbit or squirrel. Sprawled on the ground was a full-grown man, and from all appearances, he was dead.