{"product_id":"the-virgin-of-small-plains-isbn-9780345471000","title":"The Virgin of Small Plains","description":"\u003cb\u003e“Engrossing . . . beautifully written and carefully crafted . . . [a] work that explores the healing power of truth.”—\u003ci\u003eThe Boston Globe\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003eFor seventeen years, a rural community in Kansas has faithfully tended the grave of an anonymous teenage girl christened the Virgin of Small Plains. And some claim that, perhaps owing to the girl’s intervention, strange miracles and unexplainable healings have occurred. Slowly, word of the legend spreads. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut what really happened in that snow-covered field almost two decades ago, when the girl’s naked, frozen body was found? Why did young Mitch Newquist disappear the day after the shocking discovery, leaving behind his distraught girlfriend, Abby Reynolds, and their best friend, Rex Shellenberger? \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNow Mitch has returned to Small Plains, reigniting simmering tensions and awakening secrets. Never having resolved her feelings for Mitch, Abby is determined to uncover the startling truth about his departure. The three former friends must confront the ever-unfolding consequences of the night that forever changed their lives—and the life of their small town.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eThe Virgin of Small Plains\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Nancy Pickard . . . has evolved into a writer of substantial literary power. . . . [She] has fashioned a novel that accurately reflects the secrets and silences locked deep within the hearts of all small-town Midwesterners.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Denver Post\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“Tantalizing . . . Pickard writes with insight and compassion about an unresolved crime that continues to haunt a farming community.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A class act . . . Pickard has a talent for adding depth to a story that conveys a sense of place and history.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eOrlando Sentinel \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Crisply written, this new novel about loss of faith, trust, and innocence is utterly absorbing.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eTucson Citizen\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“Engrossing . . . beautifully written and carefully crafted . . . [a] work that explores the healing power of truth.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Boston Globe\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Nancy Pickard . . . has evolved into a writer of substantial literary power. . . . [She] has fashioned a novel that accurately reflects the secrets and silences locked deep within the hearts of all small-town Midwesterners.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Denver Post\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“Tantalizing . . . Pickard writes with insight and compassion about an unresolved crime that continues to haunt a farming community.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A class act . . . Pickard has a talent for adding depth to a story that conveys a sense of place and history.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eOrlando Sentinel \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Crisply written, this new novel about loss of faith, trust, and innocence is utterly absorbing.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eTucson Citizen\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003eNancy Pickard is the creator of the acclaimed Jenny Cain mystery series. She has won the Anthony Award, two Macavity Awards, and two Agatha Awards for her novels. She is a three-time Edgar Award nominee, most recently for her first Marie Lightfoot mystery, The Whole Truth, which was a national bestseller. With Lynn Lott, Pickard co-authored Seven Steps on the Writer’s Path. She has been a national board member of the Mystery Writers of America, as well as the president of Sisters in Crime. She lives in Prairie Village, Kansas. Visit her website at www.nancypickardmysteries.com.Chapter One\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    January 23, 2004\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Abby Reynolds braked her truck on the icy highway, startled by what she  imagined she saw off to the side of the road. That can’t be, she thought,  as she squinted into the snow, trying to see more clearly. When the wind  blew an opening in the blizzard, Abby realized that it was not a  hallucination. It was not an impossible illusion sketched on the early  morning air by the gusting snow. It was . . . good grief! . . . it was  Nadine Newquist in a bathrobe, surrounded by swirling white, struggling  through drifts on the old cemetery road, as if she were determined to  visit a particular grave on this particular morning.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    My God! It was Nadine: the judge’s wife, Mitch’s mom, Abby’s own late  mother’s lifelong friend. It really was Nadine, a woman who was  sixty-three years old and speeding toward early Alzheimer’s at about the  same rate that Abby’s pickup truck was sliding sideways on Highway 177.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    What the hell was Nadine doing out there?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    She was all by herself, in a bathrobe, for God’s sake, in a blizzard . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Abby pumped her brakes with a light touch of her foot, didn’t slam on them  like a fool, but her truck started to spin anyway, going round and round  on the two-lane blacktop like a two-ton skater on ice.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    She let her steering wheel alone, waiting for it to stop spinning before  she touched it again. Coffee sloshed out of her lidless thermal cup in its  holder by her knee; the smell of it filled the cab of her truck. She could  still taste her last sip of it, along with the fruit and cereal she’d had  for breakfast—all of which was now threatening to come back up her throat.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    With a shudder, the truck came out of the spin and started slid-  ing sideways again, skidding in a long diagonal across the yellow line  into the eastbound lane. A heavy drift of snow slowed it down and changed  the direction of the slide, until it was going backward. The skid went on  and on, picking up speed as it backed into the crest of a rise, then  dropped down again, taking the bottom of Abby’s stomach with it. And still  the truck stayed on the pavement, hemmed in by snow, avoiding the  shoulders, the deep culverts, the barbed wire fencing beyond. People  thought Kansas was all flat, but it wasn’t, and especially not in the  heart of the Flint Hills. The roads in this part of the state were long  and straight, but they soared up and plunged down like curved ribbons of  hard taffy.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Abby felt a wild hopeful moment of wondering if her truck could somehow  manage to slide its way safely all the way back into town on the wrong  side of the road. That would be a miracle. As she sat helplessly moving  back the way she’d come, like a passenger on a roller coaster in reverse,  she looked up the highway to the west, hoping not to see headlights coming  at her. That way looked clear. In this strange, slow motion, made to feel  even more eerie and timeless in the swirling snow, she felt as if she had  all the time in the world before whatever was going to happen in the next  few moments happened. She felt strangely calm, even curious about the  possibility of crashing, but she didn’t feel calm about Nadine out there  in the snow.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    She grabbed her cell phone from the seat beside her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    In the uncanny suspension of time, as her truck drew two long parallel  lines in the snow on the highway, Abby realized she might be able to get  out of her seat belt, throw open her door, and dive out. But if she did,  what if her cell phone broke in her fall, or she hurt herself too badly to  call for help? Then nobody would know about Nadine. Mitch’s mom could fall  out there in the cemetery, be covered by snow, she could die . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    If I don’t jump, I’ll crash with the truck.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Nadine . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Heart pounding, stomach queasy, no longer feeling calm about anything,  Abby gave up the idea of trying to jump to save herself. Instead, she  punched in the single digit that called the Sheriff’s cell phone. It was  on auto-dial, because Rex Shellenberger was as long and close a friend to  her as Nadine had been to both of their mothers, as close as Mitch had  been to Rex and Abby, once upon a happy time, a long time ago.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    “Sheriff Shellenberger,” he said, calm as toast. But it was his recorded  message. It went straight from those two words to the beep, wasting no  time for people in emergencies.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    “Rex! It’s Abby! Nadine Newquist is wandering in the snow in the cemetery.  Come help me get her out of there and take her home!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    She felt the truck veer left, and then felt it in her back and bottom  first as the ride got rough and the rear tires slid onto gravel underneath  snow.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Her roller-coaster ride, her trip back through time, was almost over.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Nobody would believe she had traveled so far on ice without crashing, Abby  thought as the ride got rougher.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Panicked thoughts flashed through her brain, images without words. Should  she call Nadine’s husband, Tom? No, the judge was a notoriously bad driver  in the best of weather, and a veritable menace at the first hint of  moisture on the roads. Everybody knew that. Nobody with any sense ever  consented to step into a car if Judge Tom Newquist was driving it,  especially if it was raining, snowing, or sleeting. She’d only get him—or  somebody else—killed if she called him out in this storm.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Frightened, Abby looked out the windshield just before it tilted up toward  the sky.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    In that split second, she glimpsed Mitch’s mom again. Nadine’s bathrobe  was a tiny slash of deep rose on white, a hothouse flower inexplicably set  outside on a winter’s day. Abby knew the robe was expensive, soft and  silky to the touch. She’d seen Nadine wearing it a lot lately, because she  insisted on spending her days and nights in lingerie. It hardly mattered,  since she didn’t seem to be able to distinguish night from day anymore.  When the judge or the nursing attendants   he hired to watch her tried to get her into other clothes, she fought  them. Abby knew the robe was made of thin material. The body under it was  also thin, with hardly an ounce of fat to protect Nadine from the fierce  cold that wrapped around her now.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    At sixty miles an hour, Abby’s truck hit the far side of the cement  culvert with a crash that telescoped the exhaust pipes, flattened half of  the metal bed, tore through the transmission, ripped out the gears, and  shut the engine off. It was a ten-year-old truck with no air bags. Her  seat belt saved her from being thrown into her windshield, but not from  being slammed sideways into the window.[quote]--The Boston Globe","brand":"Ballantine Books","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46300609183973,"sku":"NP9780345471000","price":19.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780345471000.jpg?v=1767742091","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/the-virgin-of-small-plains-isbn-9780345471000","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}