Borders Of The Heart (Paperback)Chris Fabry
Size140 x 211 mm
Number of Pages400 pp
PublisherTyndale House Publishers
John David Jessup rode out in the morning half-light, when
the sun was just a salmon-colored promise on the horizon. It
had been eighty-four days since the last rain, and each hoof-fall
of the horse kicked up the dust of a thousand summers. He had
no designs on the day or his life.
The local weather reports confirmed the constant negative
drumbeat of the farm’s owner, Larry Slocum. The man could
find something wrong even with a June rain.
“It’s just going to run off,” he would say to the underside of
any dark cloud.
The heat of the morning had awakened J. D. as it always
did. Sweating in the stillness, lying on top of the old quilt given
to him by Slocum’s wife, and straining to feel any air movement
from the clacking metal fan he had found in the barn, he felt
beads of perspiration run past his mouth and onto the dusty
pillow. He had tried sleeping with the door open, but night
critters tended to take that as an invitation.
His room was an old schoolhouse Slocum said had been built
before statehood, and J. D. believed it. Cattle feed covered half
the room. The other half had his bed and a nightstand and a
basin he tried to keep full of water. There was no bathroom—that
was a Porta-John behind the building, facing the mountains in
the distance. His only roommates were the extended family of
mice that skittered through the room while he tried to sleep.
There was nothing different about that morning. Nothing
out of the ordinary. The springs on the bunk had creaked as he
rose and pulled on jeans so stiff he could now lean them against
the wall. He’d shaken out his boots, making sure nothing had
crawled inside, and staggered into a world he had not known
until April, two months before, give or take.