Over the course of my life, myriad animals, too numerous to count, have almost magically appeared at my doorstep. My favorite example is Sir Winston, a wee creature with wobbly back legs and a misshapen jaw that my vet referred to as “the poster dog for inbreeding.” Whinny materialized, dirty and tick-ridden, one afternoon in my living room, as we were watching an NFL game. I stared at the tiny beast, shocked at his sudden appearance. Later, the neighborhood kids admitted they found the dog and had quietly slipped him through the front door, figuring, I guess, that I’d keep him.

For the past 30 years, I have invited all the creatures that have deemed me worthy of their care into my home.

Until now.

Last week, on the ride home from school, Makayla – my young house guest – and I watched in horror as a small puppy darted toward six lanes of traffic. We were stopped on the other side of a busy intersection at rush hour. The puppy slammed to a halt at the top of the curb, then darted back to the cover of some parked cars. When the light turned green, I maneuvered across three lanes and pulled to a stop. Makayla leaped from the car. I waited, but didn’t watch, not wanting the vision of a dead dog burned into my brain.

After a few minutes, Makayla returned with a dirty, tired-looking, Queensland Heeler pup, that sprawled exhausted in her lap.

Of course, there isn’t a puppy on the planet that isn’t irresistible. But those tailless, spotted Heelers, bouncing about on thick, stumpy legs, are especially enchanting. In short course, we fell in love.

On the chance that the pup, which appeared to be well fed, might just be lost, we rushed to the vet to check for a chip. None was found. We’d picked him up in a location that was mostly industrial. No homes nearby, so we figured he’d been dumped, which I would learn is too often the fate for rambunctious heelers.

I will admit that I was apprehensive about bringing a puppy into the home mix. Initially, those concerns centered on something I had not ever considered in the past. In a few weeks, I will be 63. I looked at the puppy and did the math. Heelers can live up to 15 years, by which time I’d be pushing 80.

Then, age reared its ugly head again. When the puppy saw our 16-year-old blind doodle – dachshund/poodle – he pounced on her, nipping and barking in his high squeaky voice. Frantic, Baby searched for cover. Our other dog, little Mousy – a fluffy, white, puff ball – similarly cringed. Only my blue-eyed cattle-dog mix, Bella, immediately stepped in and played momma dog.

Over the course of three days Bella and the puppy played raucously. While the two indoor cats didn’t seem to mind the little one, Baby and Mousy simply could not accept their new young friend. The realization dawned that it would simply be unfair to keep the puppy.

I had never given an animal to a shelter. The thought made me queasy. Still, on a whim, I typed Arizona Queensland Healer Rescue into my search engine and two popped up. After a phone call and an e-mailed picture of the dog, I drove out to the Healing Heelers Hearts Dog Rescue, still not entirely comfortable turning the pup over to strangers. But my fears were allayed by the compassion I witnessed, and any concerns I had about him getting a home vanished when a woman leaving the shelter grinned and pointed at the puppy. “I want that one!”

The woman was told it would be about two months before he would be ready for adoption, as he needed shots and neutering and some basic training.

The shelter lady, Tonya, looked at me. “He’ll be fine. We have another puppy here he can play with.”

After making a donation, I walked away, taking one last glance at the little dog, whose head rested serenely on Tonya’s shoulder. I wondered how long it would take him to find a forever home.

I would not worry for long. The next day, I looked at the shelter’s Facebook page. And there was the pup, newly dubbed Cruiser.

“What a cutie!” wrote one person in response to his picture.

“I can’t believe how precious and handsome he is,” gushed another. “I’m so interested in him, can’t wait for him to be available for a furever home.”

“I want him!!!” said a third.

And so it went, a long list of folks eager to make the little guy part of their family.

Later, Makayla was not her usual bubbly self.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“The puppy. Maybe we could have kept him.” She stared at the floor.

I explained again that she would soon be off to college and would have had to leave the dog behind. And that Tonya would pick him a perfect home.

When she didn’t look convinced, I said, “You know, you saved his life.”

She brightened at the thought.

And so did I.

 

Anne Montgomery’s novel, The Scent of Rain, tells the story of two Arizona teenagers whose fates become intertwined. Rose flees into the mountains to escape from her abusive polygamous community where her only future is marriage to a man older than her father. Adan, whose only wish is to be reunited with his mother, is on the run from the cruelties of the foster care system. Are there any adults they can trust? Can they even trust each other?  The Scent of Rain is available at https://www.indiebound.org/book/9780996390149 and wherever books are sold.

 

The National Association of Sports Officials recently polled over 17 thousand arbiters in an effort to determine how things are going on the fields, courts, and diamonds around the country.

To anyone who has ever donned the uniform, the results were not the least bit surprising. Just over 57% of officials responded “yes” to the question, “Is sportsmanship getting worse?” About 46% have “felt unsafe or feared for their safety because of administrator, coach, player or spectator behavior.”

I have been sports official for almost four decades. I have gone nose-to nose with coaches, close enough to feel their spittle on my face. More than once, I’ve required a police escort to get to my car after a game. I had a tire knifed following a coach ejection. In a sub-varsity high school football game, when I was a nascent official, I remember vividly the moment a coach grabbed one of his players near the sideline. “Hit her on the next play!” he screamed, index finger jabbing in my direction. I stood frozen, unsure of what to do.

Had I been a more experienced official, I would not have had the least compunction about immediately ejecting the coach. Had the player hit me, I might today own the coach’s home, as I would have had him and the player arrested for assault. Thankfully, the boy came nowhere near me that day.

The big problem is that young officials – still learning the trade, uneasy with the requirements of what is mostly a thankless job, and not yet enveloped in that protective shell that reminds us to stay calm and not take attacks personally – are unwilling to weather the constant stream of abuse and are quitting in droves. Add to that decline the huge number of veteran officials who are hanging up their whistles everyday. When you consider that participation levels in youth and high school sports has skyrocketed, it’s easy to see that there’s a massive storm ahead. Because, as much as fans and coaches contend that we are the bad guys, there are no games if we don’t show up. As my favorite T-shirt reads, “Without the Ref it’s only Recess.”

It’s not shocking that most sportsmanship problems are caused by parents. When polled, officials rated the parents the culprits almost 40% of the time, in contrast to 30% for coaches and 10% for players. And where is sportsmanship at it’s worst? Again, no surprises: youth competitive sports account for 36% of the problems.

The point, of course, is that it’s getting rougher out there for those of us who blow whistles or call balls and strikes. Note that officials don’t expect all rainbows and unicorns when they step between the lines, but some basic civility would be nice and it might help us do our jobs just a bit better.

I’d also like to ask each and every parent who has a child participating in youth sports to give the following a try. Step in and make a few calls. Pick up a whistle and see how you do with that one look from one angle that we officials get to see on every play. When you are engulfed in all that swirling action, you make the call. And, maybe, the next time you feel like berating an official, you’ll remember that moment and react with empathy instead of anger.

 

Anne Montgomery’s novel, The Scent of Rain, tells the story of two Arizona teenagers whose fates become intertwined. Rose flees into the mountains to escape from her abusive polygamous community where her only future is marriage to a man older than her father. Adan, whose only wish is to be reunited with his mother, is on the run from the cruelties of the foster care system. Are there any adults they can trust? Can they even trust each other?  The Scent of Rain is available at https://www.indiebound.org/book/9780996390149 and wherever books are sold.

 

Every once in a while, when I’m reading the newspaper, I get squinty. Then my right eye starts to twitch. Just such a scenario occurred earlier this week when I was confronted by the following headline: “Legislature looks to curb child marriages.”

I know what you’re thinking. Why, that sounds like a perfectly lovely idea. Let’s do that!

I felt the need to check the defintion of the word “curb”,  just in case I was having a bit of a brain cramp. And there, in my handy-dandy electronic thesaurus, my worst realizations were confirmed. Curb: to limit, control, reduce, cut back. Not, unfortunately, to end.

I wanted to scream.

The first line of the story, written by Dustin Gardiner of the Arizona Republic said, “Every year, about 100 children get marriage licenses in Maricopa County.” The second sentence was equally horrid: “The vast majority of them are girls marrying older men.”

I live in Maricopa County.

Last year, I published a book titled The Scent of Rain, which details the horrors of the Fundamentalist Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, a cloistered cult of polygamists who reside on a north-west border of the state of Arizona, a group that preys on young girls, forcing them into “celestial marriages” with old men. Let’s call these guys what they are: pedophiles.

As I read the following comments, I was glad I’d remembered to take my blood pressure medication.

“Rep. David Stringer, R-Prescot, has been the bill’s most outspoken opponent. He told lawmakers the story of his grandmother and grandfather, immigrants from Ukraine, who married when he was 21 and she was 16. Stringer said they had 10 children.”

Yo! Dave! Back in olden times, girls had virtually no choices. Marriage was pretty much it. Today we educate young women, telling them they can achieve hopes and dreams through hard work and dedication. I wonder if anyone bothered to asked grandma if she had any other aspirations.

Another dissenter to the bill that would simply ask that girls 16 and 17 have their parents’ consent to marry, said, “We know of plenty of exceptions where young girls have been married before they turn 16, happily married to a loving husband with children.”

I was tempted to call Rep. Noel Campbell, R-Prescott, to see if he’d give me a list of all those “happy” teens, so that I might asked their opinions. Something tells me he would demur.

According to the U.S. Global Strategy to Empower Adolescent Girls, there are currently nearly 700 million women alive today who were married as children worldwide. And 15 million more are married annually. That this is happening in my country, my state, and my county is appalling. But don’t get too smug. Right now, minors of any age can marry in 25 U.S. states.

I have been a high school teacher for 18 years. I can tell you with complete honesty that I have never meet a teenage girl who was mature enough to marry. Ever.

We have to do better.

https://www.azcentral.com/story/news/politics/legislature/2018/02/27/hundreds-child-brides-arizona-legislature-looks-restrictions/365193002/

Anne Montgomery’s novel, The Scent of Rain, tells the story of two Arizona teenagers whose fates become intertwined. Rose flees into the mountains to escape from her abusive polygamous community where her only future is marriage to a man older than her father. Adan, whose only wish is to be reunited with his mother, is on the run from the cruelties of the foster care system. Are there any adults they can trust? Can they even trust each other?  The Scent of Rain is available at https://www.indiebound.org/book/9780996390149 and wherever books are sold.

 

I teach communications skills to high school students. We explore all the different ways we deliver messages to one another: speaking, writing, digital design, radio, video, film.

Recently, I realized I have neglected one of the most common modern modes of communication: the humble T-shirt.

First, a brief history lesson on that most ubiquitous of sartorial artifacts.

“How did the T-shirt become an essential feature in our wardrobes, as necessary as a pair of jeans?” asked Laird Borrelli-Persson in her Vogue article ‘From Marlon Brando to Kendall Jenner, 27 of the Best Classic White T-shirts Ever.’ “The most classic version, a white cotton jersey crewneck that became standard military issue in World War II, is descended from undergarments worn by Navy men in the 1910s. Chanel famously adapted jersey, a fabric traditionally used for underwear, into fashionable womenswear in the twenties, but it would be decades before this hidden staple came out from under, and gradually morphed from a masculine to a unisex garment.”

Today, the T-shirt has been converted into a canvas where we display images and ideas that are important to us, and, when taken in their entirety, present who we are and where we stand.

“The basic tee, after all, is the simplest, easiest piece of clothing imaginable,” Borelli-Persson said. “It’s blank-page quality functions like a screen on which we project our current cultural preoccupations.”

Of course, this idea had me scampering to my closet, where I dove headlong into my stacks of T-shirts, wondering what this mountain of cotton might have to say about me.

I found a multitude of tees identifying me as a teacher: a red and white shirt saying “South Mountain High School Staff,” one displaying the head of a roaring Jaguar, my school’s mascot, and another with swirling stripes reminiscent of a barber pole proclaiming me a “Professional Role Model”, a gift from the student government kids. (See me blush.)

While my school tees denote my present, a bunch of others, similarly themed, represent my future. “St. Croix, U.S. Virgin Islands,” “Jimmy Buffet: Beach House on the Moon,” “Dive Fiji Islands.” My next adventure, when I retire from teaching – two years to go, but who’s counting – is to move to St. Croix, where I can have my scuba gear at the ready to dive into turquoise waters anytime I wish, and end the day with a cheeseburger in paradise, while I sit on my porch, sipping an adult beverage, as I watch the sun dip into the Caribbean.

Elsewhere in my closet, I located a fading black football shirt, washed so many times the cotton feels like a cloud. White letters spell, “Without the Ref, it’s only recess.” And my blue “Umpire Development” tee, which I wore under my chest protector when I called balls and strikes. Both identify me as a sports official, an avocation I have proudly practiced for almost 40 years. Intermingled with those were myriad tees sporting the emblems of my favorite college and pro teams.

I also have a few tees denoting me as a Maricopa County Public Health Volunteer. We’re the folks that get called up when there’s an especially nasty outbreak of the flu, or a terroristic release of anthrax, or something goes awry at the nuclear power plant. Hopefully, I’ll report when called for duty and not go running about like a four-year-old with my hair on fire.

I have a really beautiful black, red, and white T-shirt with Chinese symbols and letters scrawled on the front, a souvenir from a trip to China a few years back. I asked a couple of my Chinese acquaintances what the writing said. After staring at the shirt intently, they agreed that whoever penned the script had handwriting so poor the meaning is indecipherable. Whenever I don the shirt, I’m reminded of the young lady in Beijing, proudly wearing her English language tee that spelled ACNE in capital letters, so perhaps I really don’t want to know.

At the bottom of the pile, I found a shirt that had the state flag of Arizona on one breast: a gold star on a navy background, streaks of red and gold shooting out, a symbol of one of the things we do best here in the Grand Canyon State – sunsets. The back of the shirt said the following, in multicolored letters: “Arizona Kingship Program.”  Smiling, stick-figure children reclined on top of the words. I received the shirt when I graduated from foster mom school, a crash course in parenting that helped me make what, I hope, were the right choices on the road to helping my three boys – who still call me Mom – become men.

And today, somewhere in the mail, a new t-shirt is heading my way. John Lennon’s face appears as a kaleidoscope of color. Then, the words, “You may say I’m a dreamer, but I’m not the only one.”

Imagine that.

 

Anne Montgomery’s novel, The Scent of Rain, tells the story of two Arizona teenagers whose fates become intertwined. Rose flees into the mountains to escape from her abusive polygamous community where her only future is marriage to a man older than her father. Adan, whose only wish is to be reunited with his mother, is on the run from the cruelties of the foster care system. Are there any adults they can trust? Can they even trust each other?  The Scent of Rain is available at https://www.indiebound.org/book/9780996390149 and wherever books are sold.

 

Bella, my blue-eyed cattle dog, had been acting strangely. Always a good girl, she started chewing up pillows, strewing stuffing-guts all over the back yard. At seven years old, this new behavior made me wonder, and made me glad that, following a recent purchase of four pricey pillows, I had a change of heart, returning them for some that were less expensive.

I considered that we had two new house guests and thought, perhaps, my pup might be jealous. I’ve heard dogs can become afflicted with the green-eyed monster when new babies arrive. So, I sat Bella down and asked. She stared at me lovingly, but wouldn’t say.

The pillow carnage continued. Then, I got a frantic e-mail at school. “Bella’s hurt! She’s crying! What should we do?”

I’m lucky that the folks I work with are animal people. “Go! Go! We’ve got you covered.”

I roared home, picturing all kinds of awful scenarios. I was greeted by Bella, whining miserably, hugging her back leg tightly to her body. When I tried to check the injury, she screamed like she was being electrocuted. I called the vet.

“Keep her calm. Don’t let her move around. We’ll see her in the morning,” the receptionist said.

At 8:00 a.m., Bella and I faced the vet. She frowned. “Looks like she ruptured her anterior cruciate ligament,” she said.

Visions of NFL players with wonky knees played in my head.

“Or she could have a fracture. Either way, she’ll probably need surgery.”

The American Express card in my back pocket poked me. “And how much would that cost?” Memories of my year-long financial adventures with Westin the cat still fresh.

“Two to three thousand,” she said. “First, we’ll need to get some x-rays and do some blood work, because she’ll need some medication.”

Understand that I love my dog. Some of you might think ill of me for considering the cost too dear. Bella popped her head onto my lap. I thought about asking if it would be cheaper to amputate. I’ve seen three-legged dogs that do quite well. But I couldn’t bring myself to ask, lest she think me a monster.

The vet bent down, and the moment she touched my sweet dog, Bella screamed.  She squirmed and whined when the doc tried to examine her mouth and leg, and forget about that thermometer in the butt.

“We’ll have to sedate her to get the x-rays.”

Forty minutes and $641.00 later, the vet reappeared with my sleepy dog, who was recovering from anesthesia.

“Well,” she wrinkled her brow. “Her ACL is fine and no fracture, either.” Did the vet seem disappointed? “But we’ll send the x-rays out for another look. And we’ll get her on some anti-inflammatories and pain meds.”

Bella came home, the front leg where they’d inserted the anesthesia needle wrapped in a purple bandage sporting gold sparkles. After a pain pill, she wandered dreamily to my bedroom.

The next day, Bella’s leg was much better. The vet called in the evening with the news that there was nothing – nothing! – wrong with my dog. I squinted at Bella, who was sprawled on my bed.

“Keep up with the anti-inflammatories for five days. Sorry you had to spend so much to find out she’s OK.” The vet seemed genuinely apologetic.

In retrospect, I realize it could have been much worse. Still, the $641 bill rankles. All for a simple diagnosis: my dog’s a drama queen.

 

Anne Montgomery’s novel, The Scent of Rain, tells the story of two Arizona teenagers whose fates become intertwined. Rose flees into the mountains to escape from her abusive polygamous community where her only future is marriage to a man older than her father. Adan, whose only wish is to be reunited with his mother, is on the run from the cruelties of the foster care system. Are there any adults they can trust? Can they even trust each other?  The Scent of Rain is available at https://www.indiebound.org/book/9780996390149 and wherever books are sold.

Ashley Hasty, who recently took my novel The Scent of Rain on vacation, is the book blogger behind the Hasty Book List. She asked me to share my thoughts on a whole bunch of topics. And, big mouth that I am, I was happy to comply.

https://www.hastybooklist.com/home/anne-montgomery-author-interview

Anne Montgomery’s novel, The Scent of Rain, tells the story of two Arizona teenagers whose fates become intertwined. Rose flees into the mountains to escape from her abusive polygamous community where her only future is marriage to a man older than her father. Adan, whose only wish is to be reunited with his mother, is on the run from the cruelties of the foster care system. Are there any adults they can trust? Can they even trust each other?  The Scent of Rain is available at https://www.indiebound.org/book/9780996390149 and wherever books are sold.

 

 

 

We authors love when reviewers take the time to read and comment on our books. Ashley Hasty, of the Hasty Book List, recently packed up  The Scent of Rain and headed off to Cabo San Lucas for some reading in the sun.

https://www.hastybooklist.com/home/the-scent-of-rain-book-review

Anne Montgomery’s novel, The Scent of Rain, tells the story of two Arizona teenagers whose fates become intertwined. Rose flees into the mountains to escape from her abusive polygamous community where her only future is marriage to a man older than her father. Adan, whose only wish is to be reunited with his mother, is on the run from the cruelties of the foster care system. Are there any adults they can trust? Can they even trust each other?  The Scent of Rain is available at https://www.indiebound.org/book/9780996390149 and wherever books are sold.

 

 

What do you want to be when you grow up? I’ve addressed this issue before. What I never realized when I was young was that I would want to be so many things.

I also never considered that, over the course of my life, the goals I yearned for would keep changing. Proof? If you’d have told me I would spend two decades in a high school classroom, I would have scoffed. Yet, here I am, two years away from retiring after 20 years.

And what do I want now? After being a sports broadcaster and a print reporter and a sports official in football, baseball, ice hockey, soccer, and basketball, as well as a teacher, it seems I should sit back and be content. But, I’m just not wired that way. (I’m working on that relaxing-thing, but it continues to be a struggle.)

My aspiration now is to make a living as an author, a career goal almost as daunting as that sportscaster idea back in the 70s.  Thanks to the advent of the personal computer, somewhere between 600,000 to 1,000,000 books are published in the US every year. Finding any of my sweet babies – yes, we authors tend to think of our books as our children – in that pile is like locating that proverbial needle in a haystack.

And here’s where you come in. Amazon – love or loathe the great behemoth – is the place authors careers are made. It is the word-of-mouth of yesteryear. So, I’m asking for a favor. It is reviews that sell products on line. And reviews are especially important when selling books. Leaving one is easy. Go to the page for The Scent of Rain: https://www.amazon.com/Scent-Rain-Anne-Montgomery/dp/0996390146. Click on customer reviews. The cover art will appear next to five stars. Click on the number of stars you think the book is deserving of and you will get an option to make comments.

And this is really important! You must be totally honest. If you don’t like the book, that’s perfectly OK! How can an author improve without honest criticism? We cannot.

So, if you’ve read The Scent of Rain and feel called to comment, I thank you. I can’t tell you how much every single review matters.

Now, I’m putting my author cap back on. It’s time to start a new story.

 

Anne Montgomery’s novel, The Scent of Rain, tells the story of two Arizona teenagers whose fates become intertwined. Rose flees into the mountains to escape from her abusive polygamous community where her only future is marriage to a man older than her father. Adan, whose only wish is to be reunited with his mother, is on the run from the cruelties of the foster care system. Are there any adults they can trust? Can they even trust each other?  The Scent of Rain is available at https://www.indiebound.org/book/9780996390149 and wherever books are sold.

I read the sports page every day. I’m old school, so I’m talking the ink-and-paper version. I believe there are a lot of women out there like me, those who find pleasure in perusing the box scores and checking up on favorite players.

That’s why the plethora of ads promoting those little blue-pill substitutes for men are starting to bug me. Back when I first took up the sports page, I’m guessing women interested in that section of the paper were few and far between. But with the advent of Title IX – that lovely law that proclaimed girls should have the same extra-curricular rights as boys and which subsequently led to an avalanche of women having their college educations paid for via sports scholarships – more women than ever before find the sports news interesting.

It’s hard to miss the giant headlines we face while reading about our local teams:  “New Pill Triggers All-Day Arousal in Men,” screams one headline, which makes me wonder if that particular condition might prove to be painful, because I’ve heard that other declaration so often: “Seek immediate medical help if you experience an erection lasting more than four hours.”

The ad does it’s best to look like actual news. And it takes up half an entire page, so somebody is paying big bucks to get the message out. For reasons I can’t quite explain, I felt the need to pop on my reporter’s cap and take a look.

First, I noted the “article” was written by Ryan Steele of the Mens Health News Syndicate. A few clicks of the mouse and … how strange … neither Mr. Steele nor his syndicate can be found on the Internet. Surely, there must be some mistake. Then, I wondered … Man of Steel? An in-your-face product endorsement?

I did discover that the company behind the advertised supplement is called Innovus Pharma Laboratories and they do exist, or so says a glossy website, upon which I found their board of directors, who seem like a fine group of folks, though their collective bios are rather cumbersome to read – perhaps by design – and statements like “serves on the Board of Directors at several privately held pharmaceutical companies,” gets my Spidey senses tingling.

The article talks about a “key sex molecule” defined as both “critical” and a “miracle”, but leaves one guessing as to what it actually is.  Then there’s this: “And since it’s natural there are no unwanted side effects.” Note that anthrax, lead, asbestos, and arsenic are all natural substances.

Readers are encouraged to “take advantage of this limited offer” and call the “special TOLL-FREE hotline”, because “If you miss out on our current product inventory you will have to wait until more becomes available.” Whew!

Here’s the thing. The product in question, called Vesele, is basically two amino acids you can buy over the counter. If you want to give them a try, go ahead and fork over about thirty bucks at your local Walgreens. Or you can shell out over double that to the people sponsoring the ad. Even better, contact your local health care professional, instead.

My question now is why is this stuff advertised in the sports pages? A similarly-long article, touting an arthritis drug that claims it will give me “immediate relief that lasts for hours” and which is also written by an unknown reporter for a non-existent media source, and, surprise, marketed by Innovus Pharma Laboratories, is in the news section. When I consider the myriad sports-related misadventures I’ve stumbled through over the years, requiring the vast majority of my parts to undergo X-rays, perhaps it should be the other way around. Unless, of course, one considers sex a sport. Um … I think I’ll save that for another day.

In the meantime, you know what I’d like to see more of in the sports pages? Sports.

 

Anne Montgomery’s novel, The Scent of Rain, tells the story of two Arizona teenagers whose fates become intertwined. Rose flees into the mountains to escape from her abusive polygamous community where her only future is marriage to a man older than her father. Adan, whose only wish is to be reunited with his mother, is on the run from the cruelties of the foster care system. Are there any adults they can trust? Can they even trust each other?  The Scent of Rain is available at https://www.indiebound.org/book/9780996390149 and wherever books are sold.

“The characters in ‘The Scent of Rain’  added to an already amazing storyline. The various points of view give us a wide perspective of what is going on the FDLS community.”                                                                                                                                      The Book Return

https://thebookreturn.com/2018/01/26/scent-rain-anne-montgomery/

Anne Montgomery’s novel, The Scent of Rain, tells the story of two Arizona teenagers whose fates become intertwined. Rose flees into the mountains to escape from her abusive polygamous community where her only future is marriage to a man older than her father. Adan, whose only wish is to be reunited with his mother, is on the run from the cruelties of the foster care system. Are there any adults they can trust? Can they even trust each other?  The Scent of Rain is available at https://www.indiebound.org/book/9780996390149 and wherever books are sold.