The once neatly folded To Do list lay crumpled in the bottom of Price's cavernous purse. As did the keys to the Winslows' home in the copper hills of Jerome, Arizona. On Highway 89A, Tony and Price Shadowbrook left the Verde Valley and ascended west into Arizona's Black Hills...
In the copper hills of Jerome, Arizona, one man’s death could be his fortune. Tony and Price Shadowbrook set out to spend another summer researching and writing about a unique Western vacation spot. This time, they’ve picked the intriguing copper-mining town of Jerome. Once again, the local color turns an ominous shade when Tony spots a strange traveler who carries his own tombstone, in the back of his truck. The stone is engraved with the quickly approaching date of his death.
Meanwhile, wedding plans for the Shadowbrook’s son, Josh, and Melody Mason (whom we first meet in Fox Island) keep everyone on edge. They wonder what will happen next. Written by a real-life husband and wife team, Copper Hill paints a compelling picture of a family in the process of learning that God will accomplish His plans for their lives, even when circumstances seem out of control.
The once neatly folded To Do list lay crumpled in the bottom of Price’s cavernous purse. As did the keys to the Winslows’ home in Jerome, Arizona. On Highway 89A, Tony and Price Shadowbrook left the Verde Valley and ascended west into Arizona’s Black Hills. Perched halfway up Mingus Mountain, two thousand feet above the valley floor, they could see the billion-dollar copper camp of Jerome. Every road, building, and creature, four-legged or two-legged, live and move on a steep slope.
Flat land is not a premium in Jerome. It doesn’t exist.
Price, dark glasses balanced on top of her shoulder-length brunette hair, rummaged inside her dark leather bag. Tony’s narrow, blue-grey eyes flitted between the view of the winding, uphill mountain road and the 1957 Chevy pickup crowding his metallic blue Jeep Grand Cherokee on a curve.
“I can’t believe it.” Price still raked through her purse.
“It’s absurd.” Tony banged the palm of his hand on the oak steering wheel. “He’s a complete and utter jerk.”
“Who?”
“Mr. I’m-going-to-pass-even-if-it-kills-me in the old grey pickup.” Tony eased on the brakes. The Chevy roared across a double yellow line, passed them and sailed into the hairpin curve.
“Tony, he’s fishtailing.”
“Hang on, darlin’.” Tony slammed the brakes and peeled off into the steep culvert on the right side of the two-lane highway. Their rig took a hard bounce over a football-sized boulder, teetered, then the rear end slid down the bottom of the drainage ditch. They faced the road, but well off the pavement.
A loud crash and a plume of dust from the now obscured other side of the roadway spurred them out of the Jeep.
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