Raised as a tomboy, I never intended to write romances. I never even read ‘em. Stocked by my cultured mother and paternal grandmother, the resort library contained no such pulp. My best friend and her family devoured precarious stacks of Harlequins® at her farm, but I despised the melodramatic cover art, writing and plot. Why bother with a book like that, especially when you already knew the end? We could be outside jumping round bales, for one thing. For another, romance didn’t favor me like it did my friend.

After finding true love at college and beginning married life back at the resort, I started writing in earnest on the side. Poetry and short stories were my favorite genres, but with no market for those, I wrote a Christian action-adventure manuscript on my huge Amstrad® desktop. My mother sometimes read over my shoulder, despairingly.

Moody® had published the Danny Orlis series, based on my dad’s youth and written by former resort guest Bernard Palmer. Piles of Palmer’s signed copies lay in honor inside our log cabin’s attic. I couldn’t get through those either but sent proposals for my manuscript to multiple Christian publishers, pitching Moody® the idea for a Danny’s Daughter series in case no one wanted what Dave’s daughter wrote.

When Multnomah® editor Lisa Tawn Bergren suggested modifying my manuscript for a planned romance line, I said I’d pray about it. No way would God make me write romances, I thought. After realizing He would, I told Lisa that rather than replacing my manuscript’s entire structure, I’d write a fresh story for her. The result was Evangelical Christian Publishers Association bestseller, Cherish, which I’d titled Roses Unfolding. It was published after the tragedy of my first miscarriage.

Below is part of the next manuscript I rewrote as the debut of Multnomah®’s extended-length Premier line. Lisa asked me to add sixty thousand words in thirty days. I’d lost another child and was pregnant again, on bed rest. My father had just been diagnosed with cancer. I told Lisa no. She suggested I pray about it. Again, I didn’t think that was something God would make me do. Again, it was. A day before my first surviving daughter was born, I received the published copy of my second novel, which I’d dedicated to my parents. Dad lived long enough to read Chase the Dream. I never chose that title either, but I hope you like it and the following excerpt.

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WUMPF!

Thumbs looped in the tooled leather belt fastened by one of his world champion bull riding buckles, Sterling Jackson Jr. leaned against a fencepost as his eleven-year-old son landed on the ground spread-eagled. Dust from the boy’s fall billowed around him. “Naw, not that way, Forrest! You rode that calf like a sack of feed!”

Striding into the fog of debris and sunlight hovering near his son, Sterling released a stream of expletives. “How many times I got to tell you, boy? Keep up on that rope. Don’t let a little ol’ calf throw you!” He slapped his son on the back, a customary form of cowboy encouragement that discharged another cloud from Forrest’s filthy shirt and toppled the rising mini-wrangler.

“Biggest calf I ever saw.” Forrest spat, returning the dust to whence it came. Sitting on the ground, he gathered his legs close. He’d blown his ride, but Forrest was beyond caring. He wiped his hand across his gritty, sweaty forehead and matted blond hair. His tongue worked his dry mouth, and he tried not to think how good a plunge into Mancos Lake would feel. A swim was beyond hope this afternoon, a still greater calamity because the rash of hot weather was unusual for Colorado in September, and the lake would soon turn cold. “Can we go back to broncs now? Or maybe take a break?”

Sterling’s hands flexed as if ready to draw invisible revolvers, then rested again near the dazzling golden trophy buckle. “How do you expect to ride in the National Finals someday if you can’t even handle an itty-bitty calf, Forr?” Sterling stalked off to recapture the bawling calf trotting nervously near the catch pen where other calves waited.

“I don’t like bulls. I don’t ever want to ride ‘em. I like horses. An’ roping. They got those in the NFR too, don’t they?” Forrest muttered, but his father, busy herding the calf back into the chute, didn’t seem to hear. Just as well. The boy probably would’ve gotten a tanning for using such language around a man who prized bull riding above everything else in life.

Though not large, Sterling was imposing, still in his prime and built solid as the beefsteaks he rode. His Nordic blond hair, blue eyes and disarming smile camouflaged a personality about as warm and pliable as steel.

Sterling bullied the squalling calf into the chute box. Forrest’s own blue eyes watched his father with a mixture of love and lesser emotions. Forrest knew he was old enough to quit being scared of his daddy, but the man’s superiority cowed him more than anything except his granddaddy’s icy rule.

“All right, now. Let’s try ‘er again.” Sterling hung over the chute rails to hammer the calf’s rump, leaving his own sticking up in the air.

“Need help?” Forrest scaled the rails just as his father righted himself.

“Naw, I’m only givin’ your mount a little incentive. Gotta keep ‘em mad, Forr. They give you the best bucks when they want to get even. It don’t work for broncs, but for bulls, the madder, the better.” Sterling seized his son by the shoulders and lowered him into the iron confines of the chute, throwing the bull rope to him. The bell tolled as Forrest wrapped the rope around the calf’s belly then around his gloved hand. “Now pull the wrap snug, an’ don’t go bailin’ off this time. Show some style! Broncs ain’t the only fancy ride, ya know. Keep at it, an’ you’re gonna love ridin’ bulls. No feelin’ like it in the world.”

Forrest merely nodded. He’d face a thousand bucking broncos before he ever wished to climb on a bull, but he’d quit trying to explain that to his daddy. The bull rider reacted by making practice sessions longer and more intolerable. Fortunately, rodeo kept Sterling away from home most of the year, except when the season began winding down before the National Finals Rodeo, as it was now.

“You ready?” Sterling bellowed, jumping from the chute railing and preparing to open the gate.

Forrest nodded again.

Sterling hopped onto the gate rails and pounded Forrest’s head, anchoring his son’s hat and adding a new dent to the beat-up crown. “Say something, boy. Give a whoop or a ki-yi or somethin’! Show some try!”

“Let ‘er buck!” Forrest shouted, aiming to rupture his father’s eardrums but losing focus. When the gate swung open and the calf bolted, Forrest almost immediately dragged from the calf’s side.

“You got to be ready when they blow from the chute!” Sterling jogged after the runaway calf.

“I’m hung up!” Forrest screamed. The ground seared him from the waist down as he was towed by his hand. He could feel his skin ripping even through his Wranglers,® and agonizing jerks wrenched his arm with each of the calf’s frightened bounds.

“Help!” Forrest’s legs skittered back and forth on the dirt, perilously near sharp hooves. “Daddy! Daa-aaddddy!” Forrest yanked frantically on his stuck hand, fumbling with the tight wrap of the bull rope. He found the end and released it just as the calf trod the side of Forrest’s heel, barely missing his flesh.

“You’re all right. Get up, son,” said a voice from somewhere above him, but Forrest didn’t even breathe in response. “Wind knocked out of ya, huh? We all been there.”

Forrest perked up. His father had never placed him among the ranks of other bull riders before. Although the boy’s legs throbbed and burned even worse than his strained riding arm, a stab of pleasure shot through him. “I’m okay,” he said rustily, squinting to hold back tears that would dissolve the new bond with his father. Cowboys didn’t cry; riders learned that lesson first.

“C’mon.”

Forrest felt himself being lifted. His limbs cried out against the motion, but he bit his lip to keep silent.

“Let’s go back to the house, son. That’s enough for today.” After hoisting the boy to his feet, the short man rubbed his stubbled chin. “Maybe the problem’s simpler than I think. Maybe you’re getting’ too old for calves, too leggy. One of these days, we’ll put you on somethin’ bigger. Maybe that’ll help.”

As Forrest staggered beside his father toward the sprawling mansion serving as living quarters and business offices for Colorado’s great Jackson and Son Cattle Company, a thin man on horseback advanced in proportion to their retreat. Both father and son glanced over their shoulders at the figure. The mounted man halted his horse, fingered a tuft of silver protruding from his cowboy hat, then ejected a dark stream from his mouth that curved through the air and landed in the dirt like some unspoken but critical comment.