CHAPTER ONE
The sisters and brothers gathered around him, filling the room with
chattering voices. Conversations swirled into a rich aroma of different
subjects, like smoke curling from the fireplace. They were reminiscing
of laugher and tear shed with their father.
Harold was dying. He'd been born in that house and now it would see
him through. His seven children and two stepdaughters were waiting.
As the afternoon developed into a crisp late February evening, four
children remained with their grown children. They were scattered
about the old farmhouse.
Abigail Winchester looked into the room. She wiped a stolen tear
from her pale blue eyes. Was their still hope? she wondered.
Grandpa Harry used to tell Abigail to never lose hope, even if
hope was as tiny as a grain of salt. She wondered if her hope...