A Girl's Guide to the Outback Read online

  Dedication

  To God,

  For being the Vine

  John 15:5-8

  Epigraph

  Even before he made the world, God loved us and chose us in Christ to be holy and without fault in his eyes. God decided in advance to adopt us into his own family.

  —Ephesians 1:4-5

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Epilogue

  A Note from the Author

  Discussion Questions

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Acclaim for Jessica Kate

  Also by Jessica Kate

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Samuel Payton was an idiot.

  Kimberly Foster jammed her phone into her pocket and rushed down the sunny Charlottesville street in a Mr. Potato Head costume, peep-toe heels, and murderous rage. It was 10:00 a.m. on a Saturday in June, and she was late for a child’s birthday party.

  But first she needed to strangle a youth pastor.

  The words of her esteemed colleague’s voice mail burned in her ears as she shoved open a glass door into the stuffy warmth of Charlottesville’s Wildfire Youth Ministries building, stomped over the welcome mat, and beelined for the corridor that led to the offices.

  How could Sam do this to her?

  She upped her speed. The scent of fresh popcorn leaked through from Wildfire’s youth drop-in center, just one thin wall away from this boxing ring they called an office. The birthday party must be close to starting. Her stomach gurgled.

  She burst into the open-plan space where two extra-large desks faced one another down amid the clutter of a broken foosball table, drop-in center snacks, and desks for their volunteers. At the workstation closest to the door, one of their newer volunteers straightened the candles on a birthday cake.

  Kimberly sucked as much frustration out of her voice as possible. “Where’s Sam?”

  The woman snapped to attention. Oops. Maybe a teensy bit of frustration had leaked through. The volunteer’s eyes darted to behind Sam’s desk before she scooped up the cake and escaped.

  A broad-shouldered man faced away from Kimberly, silhouetted by the window on the far side of the room.

  Her nemesis.

  The name tags on their desks had been aligned to stare at one another: Kimberly Foster, business manager. Samuel Payton, founder. He’d even been difficult when she made the tags, resisting the title of founder. But he’d claimed he even less deserved its alternative, youth pastor. Just because he’d never been to Bible college. In the end she’d rolled her eyes, slapped on the word founder, and put her headphones on to drown out his complaining.

  She took a fortifying breath and yanked a strand of brunette hair behind her ear. It had escaped her classy updo—or at least the updo that had been classy before she put on the potato costume.

  “Sam, you’d better have an amazing reason for backflipping on me.”

  The traitor was going back on his word. His voice mail had been clear: “I won’t be offering my support for this proposal if you take it to the board.”

  The last time they’d discussed her idea to open a youth drop-in center in Baltimore just like the one here, he’d been all for it. Well, he’d been reluctant at first. The Atlanta pilot-program fiasco had been tough on everyone. But as soon as she’d promised that Baltimore was less of a risk than Atlanta, he’d come around.

  Why, besides his lifelong mission to drive her insane, would he change his mind?

  The man swiveled from the window to reveal kind eyes, a streak of premature gray in sandy hair, and a navy blazer over jeans that did little to hide evidence of his marathon-running hobby.

  Not Sam.

  A blast of heat scalded Kimberly’s face from the inside out as Potted Plants 4 Hire’s HR manager, Gregory Sampson, walked toward her with his hand extended. What was he doing here on a Saturday?

  “Sorry, I’m not Sam—but by the sounds of it, I’m glad of that.” Laughter infused his voice.

  Kimberly’s phone dropped from her fingers and clattered onto a desk. She’d just blasted the good-looking HR manager of a company looking to recruit her. While wearing a potato suit.

  She should shrink into her costume and hide like a turtle. Instead, she thrust out her hand to shake Greg’s. “Don’t be sorry. You’re an upgrade. What can I do for you?”

  He’d already tried to hire her—twice—to join the team trying to pull his company out of a financial black hole. And she’d refused. Twice. Getting headhunted and offered double her current salary had been an ego boost, sure. But despite Sam’s maddening qualities, Kimberly believed in what he was doing at Wildfire with these kids. If she’d had someone like him to show her God’s love as a teen, maybe life would’ve been different.

  So, infuriating youth pastor or not, she wasn’t leaving.

  “You can come with me to lunch. There’s a new organic café open in the mall.” He smiled the smile of a man who knew he’d just offered a sweet deal. “Not a grain of processed sugar in sight.”

  Oh, he’d done his research. Her mouth moistened. She licked her lips, and raspberry lip balm teased her taste buds.

  “No, thanks.”

  The wattage on Greg’s smile dimmed. “No?”

  She mentally groaned. Lunch in Charlottesville’s outdoor mall—one of her favorite pastimes—would go a long way toward soothing the rage monster inside right now. But—“I can’t accept the job. I’m already late.” And I need to find new and inventive ways to threaten Sam.

  Though a carrot might work better than a stick at this stage. Sam’s support for her proposal was vital. If only she was good at the whole carrot thing.

  Greg spread his hands, palms up. “No shoptalk. Promise. Just lunch with a friend.”

  Oh, that spark in his hazel eyes was charming. His smile genuine. His invitation tempting.

  “Can’t. Sorry.” It wasn’t fair to get a free lunch from Greg when she already knew her answer to his repeated job offer.

  Something shifted in Greg’s expression. A flicker of disappointment? A tad odd, to be so invested in a business lunch.

  “Okay. Well, then.” He deflated more than she’d expected. “Let me know if you change your mind.” He left his card on the desk, gave a two-fingered salute, and headed out the door.

  Kimberly watched him go, let a moan escape at her fate of sugary party food for lunch, and pounced on her keyboard. The movie-themed tenth birthday bash for Laura, one of the children involved in Wildfire’s ministry, started in the drop-in center in 9.5 minutes. Sam’s onli
ne calendar might tell her where the rat was hiding before she ran out of time.

  “He was trying to ask you out.”

  Kimberly jolted at the deep rumble of a familiar Australian accent.

  A dark-haired Captain America strode into the room. His star-spangled costume stretched over the tan skin and impressive biceps that carried two-year-old Andrew Kent and his golden curls. Kimberly’s uterus did a backflip of approval. He was dressed as her favorite superhero. Carrying an adorable toddler. Doing his best to make her life miserable.

  Samuel Payton.

  Trotting along on Sam’s heels was Riley Strahovzki, a thirteen-year-old regular at the drop-in center who sported a green dress and a wild red mane reminiscent of the princess from Disney’s Brave. Of course Sam had offered to pick up Riley and Andrew. That man was a godsend to every time-poor mother in town whose children wanted to be involved in Wildfire.

  But for some reason he never extended that same kindness to her.

  “What are you blabbing about?” Her hands found her hips. Well, where her hips would be under this itchy potato suit.

  “The guy you just shut down. He was trying to ask you out.” Sam’s tone indicated he had no idea why. He handed Andrew to Riley’s waiting arms and held open the door that led to the drop-in center. The buzz of a dozen moms and their kids indicated the party would start any minute.

  Sam closed the door behind the kids and smirked, his eyes traveling the length of her. “Must have been the costume.” His voice held barely contained laughter.

  Kimberly looked down at her potato body and high heels. “You said last month that Laura loves Toy Story.” The costume wasn’t exactly her usual corporate attire, but she’d do anything to put a smile on the face of this ten-year-old birthday girl who apparently shared her love of Woody and Buzz. No matter how many times Kimberly watched those toys reunite with their family, the fatherless eleven-year-old inside her still battled tears. So when the costume store had no Buzz, Woody, or Jessie costumes, she’d envisaged Laura’s laughter and said yes to Mr. Potato Head.

  Sam popped a strawberries-and-cream lolly from his ever-present Australian candy jar into his mouth, nodding toward the corridor where Greg had exited. “Don’t you like him?”

  Kimberly stared at him and that delicious costume. His boxing sessions meant the muscles were real, not padding.

  Focus, Kimberly.

  Hold on—was he being sarcastic? “He was trying to offer me a job, not ask me on a date.”

  Sam grinned at her. “You leavin’ me?”

  “You’ll have to die or quit for that to happen.” Her work in start-up tech companies back in LA had been stimulating, sure. But it had nothing on the smile she was going to see on a ten-year-old’s face in about three minutes.

  Sam tossed another candy into his mouth.

  She frowned. “You trying to speed up that dying process?”

  He used the jar in his hand to point at her. “You could use a little more sweetness.”

  “No one hires me for my personality.” A direct quote from her mother. And a fact. People commented on her classic Hollywood sense of style and fast-rising career all the time, but her habit of blurting out whatever was sparking in her neurons meant she’d never been anyone’s vote for Miss Congeniality. She’d trade her wardrobe and sharp mind for a softer personality any day of the week, but she played the cards she’d been dealt.

  Sam pulled his I’m-too-polite-to-say-what-I’m-thinking face and turned to rummage through his desk drawers.

  Not that she needed any reminder that neither her looks nor, apparently, her business brain had any effect on him. She shook off the thought and seized her phone from her desk. “Why aren’t you supporting my proposal? It’s rock solid.” She tapped the small screen and pulled up the file again. “Which part don’t you understand?” The board meeting was only three days away, and Sam’s support would mean the board approved her proposal for sure. The Australian’s infectious passion meant he could sell a wallaby to a jackaroo.

  And once he understood how many kids this new drop-in center would help, he’d be even more enthusiastic than she was.

  Sam’s eyes, the color of fudge sauce—or her foster dog’s poop, depending on her mood—focused on her face. His mouth twisted like he knew some joke she didn’t. “I understand all of it. And the answer’s no.”

  Her arm, holding the phone in the air, slowly lowered. Stage one of convincing Sam of any of her ideas: The First No. There’d be many more before he capitulated—which happened about half the time—and then her initiative exceeded expectations and he gave a reluctant thank-you. She lived for that quiet “Thanks.” If only their process didn’t involve weeks of soul-bruising disagreements. “If you understand, why don’t you see how awesome it is?”

  He abandoned his search through the drawers and came to stand before her, six inches closer than she felt comfortable with—as usual. Her insides tingled, the way they always did when the full intensity of his attention focused on her. Thankfully he always seemed to leave her out of the hug-everyone-I-see thing he had going on. But she could never convince him of exactly where her personal-space boundaries were.

  “You told me the Baltimore center would be less risky than Atlanta was.” His deep voice held rebuke. “It’s more. Support withdrawn. End of story.”

  Why was Sam the only one who couldn’t admit her ideas were brilliant? It wasn’t a brag, just fact. She had as much right to take credit for her intelligence as she did for her difficult-to-manage eyebrows. But that didn’t change the fact she’d started at this ministry three years ago as an intern, starstruck at the thought of working with the team—and the man—who’d helped spark a Christian revival in West Coast high schools and then shifted their focus to the East Coast. And in two years she’d worked her way up to business manager, with the board making her Sam’s equal. He handled the ministry while she crunched the numbers.

  But in the past year Sam had demonstrated more than ever that he didn’t consider her a part of Team Wildfire.

  She stood taller, pointless as it was. He still outstripped her height by at least four inches. “It’s completely different. Atlanta had to be shut down, sure, but there were extenuating circumstances, and we learned our lessons. The cost is only a fraction higher, the location is closer, and the chaplain we’ll put in charge of it isn’t going to have a breakdown. This time.” Unfortunately their Atlanta chaplain hadn’t informed them of his impending bankruptcy, nor his fragile emotional state. The man was now recovering with a lot of support, but the fallout at the time had been less fun than a migraine at a Justin Bieber concert.

  This expansion plan was her mission to get their partnership back on track. With Sam’s gift of speaking and pastoral care and her business brain, this ministry could go anywhere. Reach anyone.

  If he’d stop fighting her and let her be on his side for once.

  “No.”

  Kimberly’s blood pressure shifted into high gear, along with the speed of her words. Why did he put her through this? “The risk factors are way lower. We’ve already got a major church wanting to be involved, we can offer ten times the support we did last time, we can share resources, and—”

  “Kimberly, stop.” Sam’s hand slashed through the air. “This ministry is not about numbers. It’s about helping kids—these kids—get to know God. I can’t do that if I’m busy running some megaministry that’s massive on YouTube but leaves kids like Laura behind. We’re about more than just numbers.”

  Kimberly flinched. Did he think she was wearing this polyester potato for fashion purposes? She’d never leave out kids like Laura. This very party was her idea. Not just a welcome into an age marked by double digits but a rare chance to celebrate among chemo-darkened days. She wasn’t great at talking to kids like Sam was, but by golly she could throw a party.

  A bead of sweat tickled her neck as Sam continued ranting. “I’m not throwing my donors’ money down the drain so that you can expand, expa
nd, expand. That’s not what we’re about.”

  “Money down the drain”? Her last thread of self-restraint snapped. “If you’re too chicken to take the chance, just say so.” She pressed her lips together before she said anything else she regretted. That comment had gone too far, but it was somewhat justified. She’d worked late all this week to get the proposal ready for the board. The project had been months in the making.

  Now, all for nothing.

  Sam’s face hardened. “Save the name-calling for the board meeting, Foster. That is, if you decide to go ahead with the proposal without me.”

  Kimberly blinked. She could go ahead with the proposal. That hadn’t even occurred to her before. Just because Sam didn’t support it didn’t mean she couldn’t present it herself. Though, based on current evidence, her skills at presenting a proposal were lower than today’s dip in the stock market.

  She spun away from Sam and strode toward the bathroom, thoughts scrambling. This costume was too hot, her mouth too dry.

  She needed to think. She needed to hide.

  She needed to cry.

  Chapter 2

  Sam dodged a wild uppercut and slammed his right fist into his opponent’s ribs. Fourteen-year-old Tariq Ismat laughed and danced away to the other side of the makeshift boxing ring, a thick layer of foam body armor protecting him from the blow.

  Police Captain John Walters leaned against the rope—actually a skipping rope tied between a concrete pillar and a bookshelf—and held his fists up before his face. “Keep your hands up, Tariq.”

  Sam blinked to evict the sweat stinging his eyes and bounced on his toes. Tariq had struggled ever since his family emigrated from Syria to Virginia after his father’s death seven years ago. These boxing lessons with Captain Walters were the only time Sam saw the kid smile. Which is why Sam found himself sparring in the captain’s sweat-and-rubber-scented basement at—he glanced at the digital clock on the wall—7:14 a.m. this Tuesday morning instead of dozing in bed trying not to think about the board meeting that started in forty-six minutes’ time.

  Kim was going ahead with her proposal.