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Book One of The Long Journey Home Series
by Pamela Foster
Jeremiah Jones set off to war, a boy full of pride and ignorance, seeking glory and to
prove his manhood. That boy never returned. Wounded to the depths of his soul, Jeremiah
clung to sanity only by holding tight to the memory of Maggie, the girl he'd loved since
the first time he saw her in his father's church. But Maggie had married another.
His soul seeking peace, but his warrior's heart wanting only battle, Jeremiah's mind is
caught in the middle, between heaven and hell. Though he rides the saddle-preacher circuit,
bringing the word of the Lord to all who'll listen, inside rages the killing beast that
war birthed within him. The only ones he can count on are two ghosts; the first two men
– but not the last – who tried to stand against him. Tried, and failed.
Cold company indeed, for that long journey home.
Here's a radio interview of Pamela by Voices of the West!
Praise for Ridgeline
In my opinion, Ridgeline is Pamela Foster's most poetic, poignant book. Nobody is better at
drawing readers into a story through its characters' eyes: "She [Adeline] felt the cold
threat of a storm teasing her face, saw pewter light slanting low through bare woods. A
smell like that of butchering done badly mixed with that of rotting leaves and black powder
smoke hung in the still air." More than a western, it is also literary and historical fiction
all wrapped up in the story of a haunted soul changed forever by the Civil War.
~ Jan Morrill, author of The Red Kimono
Pamela Foster writes a compelling tale of a Civil War veteran named Jeremiah, a young lady named Adeline
who escapes a dispassionate madame, an Indian who leads Adeline to his sister's deathbed, and the sister's
baby whom Adeline instinctively adopts.
Jeremiah, an aspiring preacher, carries deep-seated psychological wounds from the war and recites Bible
verses as freely as he uses a gun. The reader yearns for healing but witnesses self-destruction even as
he protects the fleeing Adeline and the baby. Her resolve to find a new life for herself brilliantly
sets the scene for the promised second installment of the trilogy.
~ Lynn Bueling, Book Reviewer for Western Writers of America and The Bismarck Tribune
With her unique talent for story telling, Pamela Foster goes back in time and paints her word pictures with
elegance in this tale of love, redemption and faith in a West rarely presented by writers today. A touching,
troubling look at the influence of war on men and women of another era.
~ Velda Brotherton, author of Wilda's Outlaw
Click here to see all the reviews for Ridgeline!
On the ridgeline, Jeremiah shifted in the saddle and breathed deep the smell of wood smoke
floating up from the chimney of the cabin below, drank in the sight of Maggie, his woman,
leaning in the open door of the cabin from which he had ridden away seven months earlier.
He indulged his vanity and fed his hope by believing this woman had stood right there through
all the long days he'd been gone serving the Lord, through every star-filled night while he
curled, dog-like, around an open fire and watched the stars turn in the sky and imagined her
just like this, watching the horizon for his return, patient even as he tarried.
As if, in his absence, she'd not gone about her daily life, tended her ragged garden, tolerated
the touch of her brutish husband as he ran a rough hand up and over the birthmark that stained
the inside of her left thigh, the reddish mark the near exact size and shape of a mouse, the
curlicue of the tail disappearing into her dark warmth. As if, in place of what had become of
her life, through all these days and nights, the woman had simply waited, her longing quietly
drawing him to her as a ripe moon calls the rising tide.
The bay tossed her head, a quiver running from withers to nose. Jeremiah gathered the reins and
spoke low, his words a silvery fog that hung in the motionless air for a moment before floating
wraith-like to join a cloud of cooling sweat rising from the horse. Winter-robbed of all but
palest gold, dawn's fingers crept over the eastern rise and glinted cold light from the woman's
hand—a deep, lethal-blue flash the preacher knew all too well as the gemlike color of a
tiny, killing bottle, no bigger surely than the seed of sin born in David's heart when first
he looked upon Bathsheba.
The snarling voice of the woman's husband split the morning air, destroyed all hope. The sound
floated up the hill ominous as the first notes of a bugle on a misty morn with men lined on
either side of some godforsaken hill or blood-thirsty meadowland. Jeremiah spurred his horse
down into the hollow even as Maggie raised the blue bottle to her mouth, her head thrown back,
her tender, white throat exposed as she swallowed his dreams drop by drop, condemned him to
hell for all eternity.
"Nooooo!" His plea pierced the heavens.