Hello there! I am The World Only Began Today, and welcome to my story! As you can tell, I have changed the names of the main characters, but they are still the Mark and Chelsea you all know and love—just with a little twist! Feel free to fill in their original names if that makes it easier for you.
I hope you enjoy the story as much as I enjoyed writing it!
Shasta Tuomi lashed down the remaining lumber and leapt nimbly from the splintered old wagon. The hustle and bustle of the busy port surged raucously around him as he inspected his work, evoking years-old memories of his own time as a sailor. A briny breeze ruffled his sweat-dampened blond hair as he removed his cap and swiped a tanned forearm across his brow, catching the droplets of perspiration before they rolled into his green eyes.
"What do you say, Portland?" Shasta clapped the flank of the dappled gray gelding hitched to the wagon. "Look like enough timber to finish the barn remodel?"
Portland gave a low nicker and stamped his foot as Shasta worked the lead rope from the hitching post, the movement causing the horse to nod almost imperceptibly. Shasta laughed as he patted the horse's neck.
"I hope so too, buddy. I know the port makes you skittish."
Shasta could scarcely believe that this fast-paced, bustling seaport was the same dilapidated harbor that the frigate Newhope had staggered into years ago. Odd as it seemed, the frantic activity breathed a fresh wind into his seaman's soul.
His mount, however, took to the increased turmoil far less readily. Portland snorted in displeasure as a particularly rowdy crew of sailors passed by.
"Alright, alright, let's go home." Shasta glanced at the sun's position in the mid-autumn sky. "Looks like we've got just enough daylight left to unload before Al and I are expected for supper."
A slow smile spread across Shasta's lips at the thought of his boss. Alexandra Leonhardt, cinnamon-haired spitfire and farmer extraordinaire, owned and operated Newhope Island's premier ranch. Shasta had been the foreman of Alex's modest operation for three years now, ever since they and a handful of others washed up on the island's shores after a nasty storm forced their ragged ship to limp into the abandoned harbor. The ship's grateful passengers christened the island Newhope after the vessel that brought them to her shores, and several—including Alex and Shasta—chose to stay and make a go of revitalizing the abandoned village nestled just over a ridge from the beach. Though a seaman by trade, Shasta had taken to farm work like a colt to the open range, and Alex offered him a permanent position as her ranch's right hand after the two spent several weeks together repairing the old property.
Over the years, their professional relationship had developed into a friendship of mutual respect—at least, it had taken years for Alex to learn to trust Shasta. Alex had won Shasta's respect the moment she caught sight of the dilapidated farm, declared it her own, and rolled up her sleeves to bring life back to the overgrown fields and rotted paddock.
At first, Shasta intended only to stay temporarily to help the determined woman get the place back in working shape, yet soon Shasta found himself increasingly drawn to life on the island. Though the sea beckoned with tantalizing promises of daily excitement and unpredictable shores, Shasta had been utterly fascinated by the challenging adventure Alex's determination had placed before him: to build something beautiful and prosperous out of nothing with their own hands, something that would serve as a legacy for countless generations. The ranch became an anchor for the restless part of his soul that longed for the waves but was desperate for something the sea could never offer him—
Home.
Alex had offered him home. Fool though he was in many ways, he hadn't been stupid enough to reject her.
"Pardon me, sir." The deep, cultured voice broke Shasta out of his reverie. Shasta glanced up as a dapper-looking young man strode toward him down the pier, elegantly sidestepping a full cart drawn by a massive draft horse. The stranger looked to be around Shasta's own age of twenty-five, with sandy brown hair and a neatly trimmed mustache and beard. Dressed in pristine white shirtsleeves and charcoal-colored trousers, the man was clearly more suited for a city than a tiny island seaport. Yet the confident carriage of his broad shoulders and the athletic grace with which he maneuvered the port's chaos gave Shasta the impression that this was a man rarely caught off guard. For some reason, the combination left him ill at ease.
"Pardon me, sir," the man repeated as he doffed his hat (not a cap, Shasta noted, but a sleek gray fedora), "I don't mean to bother you, but are you from around these parts?"
"That I am," Shasta replied, curious but guarded. "Something tells me you aren't?"
The man laughed, a surprised, hearty sound that made Shasta's shoulders relax the slightest bit.
"That obvious, is it?" The fellow's eyes swept over Shasta's attire—worn jeans, a stained flannel with sleeves rolled to the bicep, and sturdy boots coated with such thick layers of mud that their true color was unrecognizable. With a slight grin, the man gestured sardonically to his own clothing. "I suppose I do look a bit out of place, don't I?"
"Just a bit." Shasta's lips quirked in the smallest smile—at least the man could laugh at himself.
Portland nudged Shasta's shoulder and gave a low, impatient whicker. Shasta absently rubbed the gelding's forelock, observing with interest the cautious step back the stranger retreated. A nervous chuckle escaped the fellow's throat as he eyed Portland cautiously.
"I must admit, I'm far more used to automobiles than equines."
"None of those on Newhope, I'm afraid, but Portland here wouldn't hurt a fly. Though I can't blame him for being a bit eager to be away from port," Shasta said coolly, raising an expectant eyebrow. With a brisk nod, the man became all business.
"Maxwell Sutton, at your service. I hail form Boulder Town of Donnaugh, across the Morlief Channel. I've just arrived on the frigate Farsail, and I was wondering if you would be able to recommend me to an appropriate lodging place."
Shasta scratched the back of his neck. "Chen's place in town is the only hotel on the island."
Sutton's brows shot up. "Only one hotel? On the whole island?"
Shasta shrugged. "Most of the sailors bunk on their ships, and otherwise Newhope doesn't get many visitors." Shasta tugged on Portland's lead rope. Sutton stumbled back as the horse surged forward, eager to be away from the port. "I'll be passing Chen's on the way home if you'd like to tag along."
"I'd be much obliged." Sutton gathered himself quickly, falling into stride with Shasta and giving Portland a wide berth. "I would properly thank you, but I don't recall catching your name."
"Shasta Tuomi." The wagon's wheels rattled noisily as horse and men clattered off the pier and onto the narrow dirt track that led toward town.
"Tuomi," Sutton mused. "That surname sounds vaguely familiar, though I can't imagine there are many who claim it."
"It's more common than you'd think," Shasta replied evasively, urging Portland to move faster on the otherwise deserted path.
The trail slanted uphill and narrowed significantly as it passed between two windswept bluffs, forcing a temporary halt in conversation as Sutton volunteered to bring up the rear. The man cited ignorance of direction for letting Shasta and the wagon take the lead, but the cautious looks he kept giving Portland spoke of other reasons. The sounds of sea and seamen dimmed behind them as the path curved with the natural lay of the bluffs.
"So what brings you to Newhope?" Shasta asked as the bluffs tapered off into rolling forest and the trail widened once more. "Last time I checked, it wasn't exactly a prime tourist destination for Donnaughans."
"You've heard of Donnaugh?" The clear surprise in Sutton's voice rubbed Shasta the wrong way.
"A time or two," he replied curtly, irked by the implication in the man's tone. As if he were some country bumpkin who knew nothing of the world. As if he hadn't been to Donnaugh more times than he could count—and to countless other exotic ports the fellow probably couldn't pronounce!
"You are correct—vacation isn't my goal. Though the beach off the port looked superb." Sutton threw a longing glance over his shoulder, though the bluffs blocked any view of the ocean. "I've come to Newhope Island because I am looking for someone—someone very important to me. The last valid address I have is on this island."
"Why not just send a letter?"
Sutton's mouth quirked into a wry smile. "A letter wouldn't have been received very well. Our last parting was…less than ideal, to put it simply. No, face-to-face was the only alternative."
Unease stirred in Shasta's gut at the man's vagueness. Sensing his discomfort, Portland lifted his head and huffed loudly. Sutton jumped at the sudden noise, laughing uncomfortably as the first buildings of Newhope Village came into view.
"Charming little villa, isn't it?" Sutton mused as he surveyed the quiet space. Shasta glanced at him, dubious, but the fellow seemed genuine enough in his assessment of the humble town.
"See that two-story building beside the general store?" Shasta stretched out an arm, pausing until Sutton nodded. "That's Chen's place. The first floor serves as Newhope Island's restaurant and bar, and there are a handful of rooms upstairs. Probably not in league with what you're used to, but it's clean, affordable, and serves a roast beef dinner that'll make your mouth water."
"Sounds like you've firsthand experience with the place," Sutton observed.
Shasta shrugged. "I spent a couple weeks there when I first came to the island, until I could patch the roof on my place."
"A couple leaks, I take it?"
Shasta gave a wry grin. "More like a gaping hole in the roof."
Sutton laughed. "A pleasure to meet you, Tuomi. Thank you for your guidance—and the advice about the roast beef."
"Anytime." Shasta took the hand the man extended, thinking perhaps he had misjudged the man after all. "I'm foreman of the ranch just up the way. Feel free to stop by if you need more culinary expertise."
Interest sharpened Sutton's eyes.
"A ranch, you say?" Sutton dug into his pocket and unfolded a scrap of paper. "Yes! Redemption Ranch on Newhope Island."
Shasta's gut dropped as Sutton looked at him as if he were the last piece of a laborious puzzle.
"That's the address I have! Perhaps you know the woman I'm looking for? Her name is Alexandra Leonhardt."