By Lisa Jackson
This booklet comprises 3 vintage tales with the Fortunes - a relatives whose Christmas legacy is larger thatn mere riches.
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I, THE music is an creation to the wealthy and intricate classical North American Poetry that grew out of and displays Indian existence sooner than the eu invasion. No generalization can carry actual for all of the classical poems of North American Indians. They spring from thirty thousand years of expertise, languages and dialects, and ten linguistic teams and common cultures.
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Though he’d avoided holding Angela, he’d been concerned for her well-being. He’d made sure that Lesley was recovering and she’d noticed that he’d slipped his old dog scraps from the table and watched him absently rub his ears. His concern for his newly acquired herd seemed to run deeper than a simple worry about profit and loss. Deep inside, Chase Fortune probably had a heart of pure gold; he just did a darned good job of hiding it. Angela, red-faced, tiny fists clenched near her head, was screaming at the top of her lungs.
Relatives that had skimmed in and out of his life over the years filled the cavernous room. Dressed in holiday finery and bearing expensive gifts that were to be donated to charitable causes, they were here to pay tribute to Kate Fortune, the gutsy, elegant matriarch of his family. What he wouldn’t do for a cold bottle of beer, his dusty cowboy boots and a crowded, smoky tavern where you could watch a basketball game on the television mounted over the bar, grumble about the price of beef or hear the likes of Garth Brooks or Waylon Jennings from hidden speakers.
They’d lied. They’d all lied. But he couldn’t think about all that right now, and he did his best holding Lesley’s small, slippery infant, tied off the cord, then handed the little girl to her mother. “She’s beautiful,” he said, surprised and disgusted at the lump in his throat. ” Lesley’s voice was hoarse and her eyes shone with tears. She held the baby to her breast, stroking the wet hair. ” Chase looked away for a second, and he clenched his hands so that they wouldn’t shake. Inside, his heart was racing, his head pounding, the old wounds fresh.