The Seventh Mother

“With haunting prose, Sherri Wood Emmons captures childhood in a small southern town a generation ago and a family whose lives are filled with joy but with secrets buried deep in their souls. Bethany and Reana Mae, no longer children but not yet women, are tied together by bonds of kinship and friendship that help them survive challenges they don’t understand.
Prayers and Lies
is a rich story of the triumph of love and decency.”

—Sandra Dallas, author of
True Sisters

“From the first sentence, the voice of the narrator, Bethany, rings true and never falters.
Prayers and Lies
is the story of a family that knows how to love and forgive and get on with life.”

—Drusilla Campbell, author of
Little Girl Gone

“
Prayers and Lies
is a sweet, revealing tale of family, friendship, long-held secrets and includes the all-important ingredients of forgiveness and love.”

—Kris Radish, author of
Tuesday Night Miracles

“When I was reading
Prayers and Lies,
the voice was so genuine, so sincere, I felt like Bethany was standing right before me, barefoot, earnestly telling me her story, alternately laughing, crying, wondering, confused, and scared. I was on the edge of my seat, listening, every scene coming into full, bright, Technicolor detail as one prayer was heard, one lie was shattered, one family’s raw, haunting life laid bare. I loved it.”

—Cathy Lamb, author of
A Different Kind of Normal

“Prepare to stay up all night reading! Sherri Wood Emmons perfectly captures the devastating impact of family secrets in her beautifully written—and ultimately hopeful—debut novel. With its evocative setting and realistically crafted characters,
Prayers and Lies
is a must read for fans of rich family drama.”

—Diane Chamberlain, author of
The Good Father

And praise for
The Sometimes Daughter

“With strong Oprah Book Club vibes,
The Sometimes Daughter
is a pleasant, touching read . . . Emmons knows how to write women, capturing the nuances of ordinary life in such a way that her characters become people that you want to know.”

—
NUVO Newsweekly

Books by Sherri Wood Emmons

PRAYERS AND LIES

THE SOMETIMES DAUGHTER

THE WEIGHT OF SMALL THINGS

THE SEVENTH MOTHER

Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

KENSINGTON BOOKS
www.kensingtonbooks.com

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

For Zach, who can always make me laugh, with love

My favorite part about writing books is doing this very thing. And so ...

To my amazing editor, John Scognamiglio, many, many thanks for your patience, encouragement, and guidance. Thanks also to Vida Engstrand, Paula Reedy, and the other wonderful people at Kensington Books for all you do.

To my wonderful agent, Judy Heiblum, thank you for your honesty, support, and faith in me.

To Liz Zander and Norman and Denise Lower, thank you for helping with the background on this book.

To Rhonda Hooks Tyner and Tina Smith, so many thanks for letting me steal your stories. You guys are the best!

To Wayne and Kathy Stanley and Richard and Barbara Emmons, thank you for schooling me in Teton Valley culture and lingo. And for making me part of your family.

To Kathleen Madinger Angelone, the real-life owner of Bookmamas, thank you bunches for your support and your friendship.

And finally, to my husband, best friend, and partner in crime, Chris Emmons . . . you are my rock, my heart, and my home. I love you.

I
remember how it started, the beginning of the end. Of course I didn’t know it then.

We were in southern Idaho and it was July. Daddy was working for the summer at a little campground that sat in a broad, grassy prairie between two mountain ranges. It was a nice place, hot and dry so you always had to carry a bottle of water with you. A curvy, slow-moving river ran just east of the campground, and lots of geese and ducks lived there. Sometimes we saw wild elk in the fields. Once at the river, I even saw a mother moose with her baby, standing on spindly legs in the water. If I’d had a camera, I would have taken a picture of them. I didn’t have a camera, but I still remember how the mother glared at me as she stepped between Daddy and me and her baby. She was protecting him, I guess. That’s what mothers are supposed to do.

Near the entrance to the campground sat a tiny, dusty restaurant called Zella Fay’s Café. That’s where we ate most of our meals. Zella Fay was an enormously fat old woman with a patch over her left eye and a bad temper. I never had the nerve to ask why she had an eye patch. She kind of scared me. But she made the best beef stew I’d ever had, and she always gave me an extra biscuit. Sometimes she let me take leftover bread from the restaurant to feed the ducks.

To the east, we could see the Teton Mountains from our campsite, with snow on the tops even in the summer. A boy who was staying at the campground in June told me that
Tetons
meant “titties” in French. Then he pinched my chest hard and laughed. I wanted to punch him. I let my hands curl into fists so tight my fingernails bit into my palms. But I didn’t hit him, of course. He was a guest, and we had to be nice to the guests because they were paying to be there. They were paying for us to be there, too, Daddy said. Sometimes I hated that.

Anyway, that night in early July, I was lying on my bed—it was a shelf, really, in an alcove that jutted out of the trailer when we set up camp. I was staring at the roof, bored and kind of thirsty, wishing I could turn on the light to read. I was supposed to be asleep, but it was still light outside, even though it was almost nine o’clock. And it was still God-awful hot. I lay on top of the sheets below the screened window just over my bed, waiting for the breeze I knew would come eventually. We had air-conditioning in the trailer, but Daddy didn’t like to run it at night. Once the sun set, it always cooled off so much I had to pull my quilt over me. Daddy said the fresh air was good for us both.

Outside, I heard Daddy talking softly and then laughing. I peeked out the window and saw him dancing in the grass with Emma, his arms wrapped around her waist. She tilted her head back to laugh and then saw me watching them from the window. Before I could drop the mini-blind, she smiled and winked at me.

I liked Emma. Actually, I liked her a lot. She took care of the horses at the campground, and she let me help feed them and sometimes brush them. Most days, she led the paying guests on trail rides into the surrounding foothills, telling them the history of the area, pointing out photo opportunities, and making sure they didn’t get hurt . . . or worse, hurt the horses.

Emma knew every horse in the stable by name. She knew each one’s likes and dislikes, its weaknesses and its stubborn streaks. She said the most important job she had was pairing a horse with a rider who would appreciate it. That and making sure that everyone got back to the campground in one piece.

For three years, Emma had been working at the campground. She was a year-round employee, taking care of the horses even after the campground closed for the season and the snow set in for months on end.

Daddy and I were only there for the summer. When the season ended and the campground closed, we would move on to the next place where Daddy could find work. Some people called us workam-pers, because we moved around so much and lived in a trailer. Daddy said we were modern-day gypsies or maybe even pioneers. He said stuff like that.

I was reading about the pioneers that summer. The week before, Emma had taken me to Victor, a little town that sat right up next to the mountains. We went to the Emporium for huckleberry shakes and then to the library to get some books about the people who’d come across the Teton Mountains in covered wagons to settle the area. Compared to those wagons, our trailer seemed pretty fancy. We had an electrical hookup and running water. We had GPS and even a satellite TV, which Daddy let me watch sometimes, but only after I had finished my lessons. Mostly, we used the TV to watch the Weather Channel. When you live in a trailer, you really do have to watch the weather.

Of course, compared to the houses I saw in the towns around the campground, our trailer seemed kind of shabby. There were some fancy houses in that valley, all brand-new and beautiful, with huge windows facing the mountains and sprinklers making “che-che-che” sounds as they sprayed water across the huge lawns. Zella Fay at the restaurant complained all the time about how much water people wasted on those lawns. They were mostly vacation homes, Daddy said. People built them just to come for a few months in the winter, when the ski hill was open. During the summer, they sat mostly empty, their windows glinting sunlight back at the mountains.

Still, our trailer was way better than the motels we used to live in, Daddy and me. Some of those places had been downright scary, with skittering roaches and mice. Once Daddy even killed a big gray rat that was hiding under our bed. And every few months, or even every few weeks, we’d move to another motel room and scrub it clean with Lysol and start all over again. At least with the trailer, we took all our stuff with us. And my bed in the alcove shelf was always my bed, with my own sheets and pillow and Bugsy Bear, the stuffed panda my mother bought for me before I was even born.

I raised the mini-blind again and peeked out the window. Daddy was kissing Emma’s neck now and his hand was on her butt. Then I knew that she was probably going to be my new stepmom. For a minute, I let myself hope that she would stay. But almost as soon as the wish formed, it disappeared. I knew Emma wouldn’t stay too long, no matter how much I wished. They didn’t ever stay, not any of them.

Two weeks later, Emma moved her things from her room at the bunkhouse into the trailer. She didn’t have a lot to move—just a duffel bag and a backpack. Daddy made space in a drawer beneath their bed for her things.

That night, I squeezed my eyes shut tight and tried hard to sleep, willing myself to see cartoon sheep or anything else I might count. There was no door to my little shelf/alcove and only a flimsy accordion door across the hallway into Daddy’s bedroom. Like I said, a lot of women had come to live with us. And I really hated hearing them at night.

That night, Emma’s voice rang out as clear as day.

“So Jenny hasn’t ever been in a real school? Do you think that’s a good idea?”

Daddy’s voice was soft and low. He knew how everything worked in the trailer, knew I might still be awake. “She’s doing a homeschool program on the computer. We move around too much to enroll her anywhere. She’s better off this way.”

“But . . .” Emma’s voice trailed away. I heard Daddy kiss her.

“But nothing,” he said finally. “We use an accredited program. She has her laptop. We have the Internet. She’s as smart as a whip. And she’s fine.”

“And you are more than fine.” Emma’s voice was breathy and soft.

I squeezed my eyes closed more tightly.

“Let me show you how fine I am.” Daddy laughed.