Down to My Soul (Soul Series Book 2)
Kennedy Ryan & Lisa Christmas
Dedicated to the readers who fell in love with Rhys + Kai! You encourage me more than you’ll ever know.
FIRST I’LL THANK GOD. MAYBE AN odd way to kick off a romance novel, but the prayer I learned as a child, “Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord, my soul to keep . . .” was an inspiration, not only for the heroine’s tattoo, but was a kernel of thought when I started this book. It grew into Rhys and Kai’s journey. I don’t take imagination for granted, and believe it is not only sublime, but in many ways, divine.
Thank you to my little tribe of author sisters who answer my dumb questions, talk me off ledges when I’m on the verge of quitting, and best of all, make me laugh!
Thank you to all the bloggers, tooooo many to name, who have supported this series and me personally. I don’t take it or you for granted—ever. Your passion for and dedication to books is astounding and appreciated.
Thank you to my beta readers who put up with so much on this one! The re-reads and second . . . third . . . fourth passes at the same passages, sometimes only slightly different from the last! LOL! Your honesty and enthusiasm for this story, for this series, buttressed me so often.
Thank you for all your feedback and constructive love.
To my ladies in Kennedy Ryan Books on Facebook! You guys make me smile every day. You are my happy place. The ones always shouting for me and yelling at the top of your lungs for my books. Thank you for being awesome.
And I must always acknowledge the ones who sacrifice the most every time I write a book. Who deal with me being lost in my head for months on end, neglecting too much and paying attention not enough. My lifetime lover and husband of 19 years. All we need is a couple of forevers, baby. And to my son who is the most beautiful challenge I’ve encountered in this life. I’m a better person for raising you.
“Deep calls out to deep . . .”—Psalm 42:7
Glory Falls
8 Years Old
DADDY’S ALWAYS WORKING.
His head is bent over the Bible. It takes him all week to get ready for his Sunday sermons, and Mama says leave him be ‘cause Daddy does the most important work in the world. He shepherds God’s flock.
“Baaaaaaa,” I say softly from the door to his study.
I’m Daddy’s favorite sheep, and when I need him, all I have to say is . . .
“Baaaaaaa.” Louder now ‘cause Mama says Daddy gets lost in the Word sometimes. Daddy says that’s the only place where he’s found. He looks up from his work, frown disappearing as soon as he spots me in the door.
“Look at you, baby girl.” His dark eyes—Cocoa Puff brown—smile at me over the rims of his reading glasses. “I thought the recital wasn’t for a few days. You’re already dressed up.”
I pluck at the layers of the lavender tutu, fluffy as cotton candy, and wriggle my toes in my new ballet slippers.
“I wanted you to see.” My feet shuffle me quickly over to his big, messy desk.
He motions for me to scoot the last few inches forward and sit on his lap, running his hand over the long braids hanging down to my waist.
“Prettiest little thing in Glory Falls.” He kisses my forehead like he does every night before bed. “You’re gonna dance for Daddy at this fancy recital?”
“Yes, sir.” I nod and lean back, hoping he won’t make me go just yet. Sometimes if I sit real quiet, he’ll let me stay while he studies. I hold my breath until he turns back to the Bible, tucking our legs under the desk.
Yellow and pink highlight the thick columns of words on the pages. I want to ask him what he’s working on, but stay quiet because I want to stay.
“I know you want to know, little preacher girl, so go ahead and ask.”
“Why do you call me ‘little preacher girl’?” I smile, flashing the little hole where my front tooth used to be. “I’m gonna be a dancer.”
“Last week it was a singer.”
“I gonna be both! Like Cher.”
A laugh shakes in his chest at my back.
“Your Aunt Ruthie oughta be whooped for making you watch them old tapes. Cher, of all people. Anybody as interested in sermons as you are oughta be a preacher.”
I could tell him that it’s not so much the sermons that interest me as it is him. Spending time with him. Being his favorite sheep, but I don’t. He loves to think of me as his little preacher. And it’s true that the sermons interest me, just not as much as Daddy does.
“What’s this one about?” I point to a line of scripture tucked in the middle of one column, circled and highlighted and surrounded by stars. “Deep calls out to deep. What’s that mean?”
“One of my favorites. That’s about . . . well, it’s like . . .” He looks down at me, his eyebrows pulling together. “It’s hard to explain.”
“Mama says you make the hard stuff easy, Daddy.”