Good Morning and Welcome to Another Edition of Saturday Spotlight,
I've been down in the back this week so I'm not going to spend a lot of time lollygagging around. I'm just going to turn the blog over to D.V. Stone to share with us her latest release, Red Gate Farm. Take it away, Donna...
Thanks, Pam!
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Where I found Red Gate Farm
I'd been in a bit of writer quicksand. Several books that are works in progress got stuck in the messy middle. I needed a palette cleanser. What to do? Agent Carters are always fun to write, and I often drive past an old, abandoned abbey outside of a town near me. When I put my fingers to the keyboard to do research, something didn't sit right with me. After mulling over the problem, I realized what was bothering me. I was taking something that had been dedicated to God and turning it into a paranormal ghost story. Now I love paranormal. I love a ghost story. But this building needed more from me.
I sank myself into research. The original place was called Red Gate Farm in the 1800s, and was owned by a man who also owned two local newspapers. My imagination took off.
There's been a lot of tongue wagging about several topics I touch on in the story. Eminent domain is one of them. Is your property really your property? News. When does it cross over from relaying information to being a commentary? Political influence and how it shapes our lives and community, and the people it hurts.
I'm not promoting any side. Truly. Both sides are guilty of influence peddling, in my opinion.
What I want to express is what happens to regular people when these things converge upon them. My writing is relational, not out to prove a side. About how we can make a difference in the lives of others. How faith can comfort and guide us.
There are a lot of experiences from my past that I've folded into the story. Life on the farm. Having horses. Being involved in animal rescue with dogs and cats. I also added one of my favorite animals, goats.
If you've been following me, you know that I've utilized my local farmers' market to a great extent this year. I've canned and frozen a lot of fresh produce. It also brought to mind things that I'd nearly forgotten from my years living on a farm.
Here's a little more about the book...
Tagline: A heartwarming tale of second chances and the healing power of coming home.
Logline: A spirited rancher and a country boy returning home find themselves tangled in horses, government notices, and a little lakeside magic—where second chances bloom and love trots in on four hooves.
Blurb
Nestled in the countryside on the outskirts of Lake Unami, Little Flower Ranch is more than just a patch of land—it’s Addie Martin’s whole world. Her dogs, goats, and horses, both rescued and boarded, know her better than most people do. A life built with grit and rooted in compassion. Until Addie’s peaceful life is thrown into turmoil by a man from her past, with a government notice that threatens to take it all away.
Henry Price never planned to come back to Red Gate Farm, but after losing his job and his sense of purpose, the old homestead near Lake Unami calls him back to the place where he grew up surrounded by love and family. But the simpler life may not be so simple when your family introduces you to a woman who has troubles of her own.
Lake Unami has its own quiet magic, the kind that works through neighbors, animals, and special guardians. As Addie and Henry navigate old wounds and new beginnings, they’ll discover that sometimes the smallest towns hold the biggest miracles… especially when it comes to matters of the heart.
Excerpt: Henry rolled onto his back. Great. He winced, climbed back to his feet, and wandered down the hallway where circa 1960s wallpaper was peeling in places.
His great-grandmother had hung the vibrant orange and yellow flowers well before he’d been born, and his grandparents never took the time to change it. Saying it was enough work to keep the house and farm running, decorating was a luxury.
The practicality of his grands made Henry smile on the way to the kitchen, the heart of the home.
He leaned against the archway, gazing into the room where the old chrome and Formica table sat, surrounded by red vinyl chairs. Frozen in time, but for the dust, it looked the same. Grandma Price never saw the need to upgrade, even after her mother passed. Even after Cooper, Henry’s father, gave her a dishwasher for Christmas the year before he died. She never used it. No, the farmhouse sink was all she needed.
“It’s a perfectly fine and workable kitchen,” She told all the grand and great-grandkids when they’d come to visit. “Washing dishes by hand teaches you to be patient and mindful.”
Henry was never a visitor like his cousins; he lived here, it’s where he’d grown up. Dad was a single father after Henry’s mother left. Farm life wasn’t for her. She never even contacted Henry when his father passed.
But for his father, it was a way of life. He and his grandparents raised Henry here. They taught him everything he needed to know about the land. How to keep things going. Dad tried to pass the love of farm life down to Henry. But back then, he thought he was more like his mother, that farming life wasn’t for him.
After high school, he left the farm to study journalism. Luck was on his side, and he scored a position in the newsroom at a national paper.
What a laugh. He should have been born a hundred years ago. The rapid decline of the industry, especially after the pandemic, then the final blow last month had left him without a job.
When Grandma passed in her late nineties, she’d left Red Gate Farm to him. His cousins were great. No one questioned the fact that he was the primary beneficiary. Luckily, with his small inheritance, including this house and property, and some savvy investments, he’d been able to build a respectable nest egg.
They say you can’t go home, but yep, you could when your career folds and all that’s left of your life is a broken-down farm in nowhere New Jersey. He walked over and slumped into his usual spot at the table. “What am I going to do with this place?”
He didn’t know where to begin. Then his pity party was interrupted by a memory.
“Henry George Price.” Great-grandma Thérèse wiped her hands on the ruffled apron she always wore. “The Good Lord gave you a brain and two hands. Trust in Him. He’ll set you on the right path.”
Well, he’d wandered off that path for sure. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d thought about God, much less listened to Him. Henry buried his face in his hands and, for the first time since he was a boy, he cried.
THANKS, Donna!
You can check out DV's other spotlights HERE.
Until next week, Happy Reading!
PamT
