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that Jackson Smith had proposed marriage was shocking, but his offer of a marriage in name only shook the very foundation of her faith. Faith that God loved her and understood how very deeply she had always wanted a husband and a family of her own. Faith that God would end the uncertainties in her life now, and most important, faith that God would never, ever abandon her.
    She lowered her gaze, and salty tears that flowed freely now warmed her flaming cheeks. Jackson Smith’s unexpected proposal, which played on her plain looks and reduced circumstances, simply added more fuel to the flames of resentment she had tried so hard to extinguish these past few months.
    He knew that no other woman would ever consider such a proposal. He had even admitted as much, which made his proposal to her all the more hurtful.
    She tasted her tears and swiped at her lips, but the yearning for a family and home of her own resurfaced—a yearning she had set aside willingly for years. As an only child, she had stayed home to care for her elderly parents, finding herself free to marry after their deaths when she was twenty-eight, an antique on the marriage market by anyone’s standards.
    Her status as an aging spinster had inspired only pity from acquaintances and strangers alike. Even her only two living relatives had little interest in making her a part of their families, seeing her only as a burden to bear.
    Bands of anguish, braided with thick strands of rejection and abandonment, tightened around her chest, and she drew in measured breaths of air that was laced with the subtle scent of the nearby orchards. Like the apple trees that were twisted and bent, heavy with fruit ready to be harvested, her spirit bowed low and pressed against the tattered remnants of the faith that had always centered her life.
    Desperate for understanding, she folded her hands in prayer. “This man’s proposal couldn’t be your will or the answer to my prayers,” she whispered before wrapping her arms about her waist and bowing her head. Breathing ever so slowly, she continued to silently pray, emptying every vestige of the hurt and embarrassment and disappointment that laced her spirit, until she set aside her burden.
    Anxious to be on her way, she looked around. Just beyond the dirt roadway that led to the landing at the other end of the island, she saw a small, shaded clearing a bit deeper in the woods. Inexplicably drawn there, she discovered what appeared to be a small family cemetery. Within a shallow rim of river stones, five thick stone markers lay flat, like pillows, on a bed of dense clover and weeds that nearly obscured them.
    She tiptoed closer. Reverently, she bent down and cleared away the overgrowth so she could read the etchings on each of the stones. When she finished, she realized they told the simple tale of the family who had owned and lived on Dillon’s Island for some time.
    Obviously, the death of Jackson Smith’s young wife was not the only tragedy to befall them. According to the headstone in the center, James Gladson, the boys’ grandfather, had died only four years ago at the age of eighty-three, but he had been predeceased by not one, but three wives. She scanned the headstones closest to him. The inscription, “Beloved Wife,” below the names of his first two wives was different from his third wife, Emily, whose inscription read “Beloved Wife and Mother.”
    All three women had passed away before celebrating their thirty-fifth birthdays, but apparently Emily had been the only one of his wives to bear a child. Sadly, Emily had died before their daughter, Rebecca, had celebrated her second birthday.
    Family tragedy continued with Rebecca’s death six months ago at the age of twenty-five. She was buried next to her parents, leaving room for Jackson to lay beside her again, as well as space for their sons and their families one day.
    Unbidden questions about the gossip surrounding Rebecca and Jackson’s marriage rose and begged