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  Praise for the Christiansen Family Series

  The Wonder of You

  “Book five in the Christiansen Family series is as compelling and delightful as its predecessors. . . . Faith, family, and all the complexities of life’s roller-coaster ride can be found in this engaging romance.”

  BOOKREPORTER.COM

  “The contemporary romances in the Christiansen Family series are drool-worthy, but they have a subtle, edgy realness that adds depth, too. . . . This story was impossible to put down. . . . Get this book for yourself and see why!”

  SERENA CHASE, USA TODAY

  “Warren is truly gifted with her characterization and her ability to write a spiritual message that is organic to the story.”

  ROMANTIC TIMES

  “This novel confronts the importance of honesty and trust in relationships, the devastation that secrets can wreak, and the hope that forgiveness brings. Readers will delight in the continued antics of the Christiansens and revel in the devotion to family, community, and faith that underpins this series.”

  RELZ REVIEWZ

  Always on My Mind

  “The fourth book in Warren’s Christiansen Family series shows this writer’s gift for creating flawed yet redeemable characters. . . . As always, the spiritual message shines and is an integral, purposeful part of the story.”

  ROMANTIC TIMES

  “Readers will . . . delight in the romance that unfolds in spite of Casper’s and Raina’s intentions.”

  BOOKLIST

  “Always on My Mind is a beautiful story filled with hope and faith that is captivating and powerful from page 1 to the very end.”

  FRESH FICTION

  When I Fall in Love

  “[When I Fall in Love is] an exquisite romance. Profoundly touching on the topic of facing fears, this book is a true gem.”

  ROMANTIC TIMES

  “Readers who are already enamored of the sprawling Christiansen clan will feel even more connected, while those new to Warren will be brought right into the fold.”

  BOOKLIST

  “Warren has a knack for creating captivating and relatable characters that pull the reader deep into the story.”

  RADIANT LIT

  It Had to Be You

  “It Had to Be You is a sigh-worthy, coming-into-her-own romance highlighting the importance of family, the necessity of faith, and how losing yourself for the right reasons can open your heart to something beautiful.”

  SERENA CHASE, USA TODAY

  “This character-driven tale with a beautiful love story . . . gives excellent spiritual insight and a gorgeously written look at what it means to surrender and let go.”

  ROMANTIC TIMES

  “Susan May Warren delivers another beautiful, hope-filled story of faith that makes the reader fall further in love with this captivating and intriguing family. . . . Powerful storytelling gripped me from beginning to end . . . [and] lovable characters ensure that the reader becomes invested in their lives.”

  RADIANT LIT

  “A gem of a story, threaded with truth and hope, laughter and romance. Susan May Warren brings the Christiansen family to life, as if they might be my family or yours, with her smooth writing and engaging storytelling.”

  RACHEL HAUCK, BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF THE WEDDING DRESS

  Take a Chance on Me

  “Warren’s new series launch has it all: romance, suspense, and intrigue. It is sure to please her many fans and win her new readers, especially those who enjoy Terri Blackstock.”

  LIBRARY JOURNAL

  “Warren . . . has crafted an engaging tale of romance, rivalry, and the power of forgiveness.”

  PUBLISHERS WEEKLY

  “Warren once again creates a compelling community full of vivid individuals whose anguish and dreams are so real and relatable, readers will long for every character to attain the freedom their hearts desire.”

  BOOKLIST

  “A compelling story of forgiveness and redemption, Take a Chance on Me will have readers taking a chance on each beloved character!”

  CBA RETAILERS + RESOURCES

  “Warren’s latest is a touching tale of love discovered and the meaning of family.”

  ROMANTIC TIMES

  Visit Tyndale online at www.tyndale.com.

  Visit Susan May Warren’s website at www.susanmaywarren.com.

  TYNDALE and Tyndale’s quill logo are registered trademarks of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc.

  You’re the One That I Want

  Copyright © 2016 by Susan May Warren. All rights reserved.

  Cover photograph copyright © Ammentorp Photography / Alamy. All rights reserved.

  Designed by Jennifer Phelps

  Edited by Sarah Mason Rische

  Published in association with the literary agency of The Steve Laube Agency, 5025 N. Central Ave., #635, Phoenix, AZ 85012.

  Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.

  You’re the One That I Want is a work of fiction. Where real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales appear, they are used fictitiously. All other elements of the novel are drawn from the author’s imagination.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Warren, Susan May, date.

  You're the one that I want : a Christiansen family novel / Susan May Warren.

  pages ; cm. — (Christiansen family)

  ISBN 978-1-4143-7846-6 (sc : alk. paper)

  I. Title. II. Title: You are the one that I want.

  PS3623.A865Y685 2016

  813'.6—dc23 2015032258

  ISBN 978-1-4964-1222-5 (ePub); ISBN 978-1-4143-8498-6 (Kindle); ISBN 978-1-4964-1223-2 (Apple)

  Build: 2015-11-19 15:59:15

  For Your glory, Lord

  CONTENTS

  Acknowledgments

  Map of the Area of Deep Haven and Evergreen Lake

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Epilogue

  Preview of It Had to Be You

  A Note from the Author

  About the Author

  Discussion Questions

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I JUST LOVE THIS SERIES. I love the characters, the plots, the themes . . . It’s turned out better than I could have asked or imagined, and I have so many people to thank for their help! My deepest gratitude goes out to the following people:

  Rachel Hauck, my writing partner, who pesters me with that ultimate question: But why?

  David Warren, my in-house story crafter, who helped me get Owen and Casper’s brotherly relationship right. “But, Mom, brothers love each other one second, and the next they want to throttle each other.” Right. Got it. Thank you!

  Karen Watson, fantastic editor and captain of the ship, who kept us going in the right direction. Thank you for the gift of partnering with me on this series!

  Sarah Mason Rische, my line editor, who has the amazing ability to get inside the stories to pull out the best elements, smooth out my prose, and turn the story from raw-edged to sparkling. Wow.

  Steve Laube, my agent, soft-spoken, wise, and the guy who believes in me. Thank you.

  Sarah Erredge and Neil (her cute hubby), Peter Warren, and Noah Warren, who land on the pages w
ith their antics more often than not. Thank you for helping me write what I know!

  Andrew Warren. The guy who taught me what grace looks like in the flesh. Where you are, I am home.

  And my amazing readers, who continually encourage me to dig deep, write stories of family and faith, and remind me that we are all in the journey together. Thank you for blessing me with your friendship and enthusiasm!

  Finally, yes, the God of heaven, who, as I struggle through every scene, shows up to shower upon me truth and His words on the page. I am overwhelmed by the grace, responsibility, and joy of this calling. Thank You.

  My dearest Owen,

  From the moment I first held you in my arms, I knew you were destined to leave us and make your own mark on the world. Whether it was your curiosity, your desire to keep up with—and surpass—your brothers, or your insistence that you could do it “by myself,” I knew that the moment I let go of your hand, you would follow your heart into adventure.

  Armed with your charming smile and your desire to confront and conquer your challenges, you can become anyone you want to be. You are so much like your older brother Darek—bearing his determination, his focus. And also like Casper, with your thirst to discover something beyond the borders of Evergreen Resort. But unlike them, you also have a zealous, no-holds-barred passion for life. It’s what will propel you into an amazing future, no matter what you do.

  However, it will also litter mistakes in your wake. And, I fear, regret. Because a person doesn’t plunge himself into life without the occasional misstep. Without wanting to reel back time and rethink, redo, relive.

  It is a normal, expected part of life to make mistakes. But in order to live without the haunting voice of regret, you must learn to forgive yourself. To embrace mercy. To open your eyes and see God in your past and His grace in your future.

  Your mistakes don’t define you. Your past doesn’t define you. You are not the sum of your bad decisions. You are the decision you make right now. You are the decisions you will make tomorrow.

  Most of all, you are an impulsive, valiant, giant-hearted child of God, deeply loved, created to be exactly the person you are.

  God has a special place in His heart for messy, passionate, live-out-loud people. The young. The inexperienced. The blindly brave. The ones who dive in, not looking back, believing they can slay giants with a stone.

  Because God loves faith. The wild belief that yes, everything will work out for our good, according to God’s plan, if we simply remember we are safe in His hands.

  And this, perhaps, is the gift you bring to us. A life of faith. Of believing big, hoping long, and swan diving into life.

  Do not feel guilty for wanting to fly from the nest. You were created to soar.

  And I, for one, can’t wait to watch.

  Your loving mother

  NO ONE DIED TONIGHT, not if she could help it.

  Except Scotty McFlynn could feel tragedy in her bones, just like she could feel the shift in the wind. Instincts—like the kind that directed her to a crab-filled pot o’ gold on the bed of the Bering Sea. Or the kind that told her a storm hedged against the darkening horizon, the sky bruised and bloody as the sun surrendered to the gloomy, fractious night.

  Yes, she could taste the doom hovering behind the sleet that hammered the deck of the F/V Wilhelmina, now crashing through the rising swells. Freezing waves soaked the 108-foot vessel, tossing frozen boulders across the deck like bowling balls and glazing the surface into a rink of black ice.

  She couldn’t shake the pervasive feeling in her gut that tonight someone was going overboard.

  Pellets of ice pinged her face as the boat turned windward. She’d long ago lost the ability to close her fist in her rubberized gloves—a condition fishermen called the claw—and her feet clunked along like granite in her boots. But they had four more pots to drag from the sea, empty, sort, and reset before she could grab a minute of shut-eye, then relieve her father at the helm for the evening watch.

  Old Red’s last run, and she intended to make it his best. Forty-eight hours until their delivery deadline, and for the first time since his heart attack, they just might meet their quota.

  “Where’s my bait?” deck boss Juke Hansen bellowed, over the thunder of the waves and the clanging of the crab pot against the hydraulic lift, to the eighteen-year-old greenhorn hauling the bait from the chopper.

  Greenie—she’d forgotten his real name—dragged the herring bag and two fat cod on a bait line over to the open pot, climbed inside, and hooked the line to the middle.

  Once he climbed out, two more deckhands, Carpie and Owen, closed the trap door, and the lift levered the pot up and over the edge of the boat, dropping it into the sea with an epic splash.

  Juke threw in the shot line, the rope uncoiling into the frothy darkness as the trap descended six hundred feet to the seabed. Carpie followed with the toss of a buoy, marking the pot set.

  The crew sank back, hiding against the wheelhouse, holding on as Old Red motored the boat into a trough and up the next wave, toward the next buoy along this seven-mile line of pots.

  Scotty shot a glance at Owen, the other greenhorn, although he’d run “opies,” opilio snow crab, with her father back in January, while she’d been stuck in Homer. He’d stayed at the rail, ready to catch the next pot they reeled in, his bearded face hard against the brutal spray.

  If she had a say, she might have kicked him off the boat on day one, when he’d assumed she was their cook.

  “A crab boat’s no place for a girl.” Yeah, she’d walked into that comment dropped to the ship’s engineer, Ned Carpenter—Carpie—while they repaired pots on the loading dock.

  “First mate, relief skipper, or ‘Yes, sir,’ will do,” Scotty had snapped at Owen.

  She’d caught snippets of Carpie’s explanation as she stalked toward the wheelhouse. Part owner. Captain’s daughter. Tough as nails.

  You betcha.

  But after three weeks of working side by side, watching Owen clean the deck every morning, going at the accumulated ice with a sledge to clear off the ropes as the lethal ocean splintered around him, she’d decided maybe he could stick around.

  He worked like a man with something to prove.

  And prove himself he had. He looked every inch the crusty crabber with his thick beard, rich with russet highlights to match his curly golden locks that hung nearly to his shoulders, usually tamed by a hand-knit stocking cap. Despite the eye patch that earned him an occasional “Aye, aye, matey,” she could admit he didn’t exactly send her running when he peeled off his cold-weather gear down to sweatpants, suspenders, and a T-shirt that did just fine outlining all the hard work he put in hauling in eight-hundred-pound pots.

  However, hiding behind his yes-sir attitude and that reserved sort of chuckle that held him a step back from the rest of the crew, she recognized a lingering darkness.

  She’d bet her badge that he had a story to tell. But she had no desire to resume her detective role quite yet. She’d live and let live, as long as he didn’t stir up any trouble.

  Like the kind that ignited, deep inside, when she caught his dark-blue gaze trailing her. In all her years working the crab seasons with her father, never once had she found herself wishing she didn’t garb herself as one of the guys. Wearing orange bib overalls, a stained Homer PD gimme cap, no makeup, her dark hair pulled back and unwashed for days, she could pass for a wiry but tough eighteen-year-old boy.

  But Old Red wouldn’t allow it any other way. Which meant that as one of the guys, she couldn’t in the least smile back at Owen, linger in the galley as he read one of her father’s worn novels, or even play a game of rummy as the boat pitched around them, weathering a gale.

  And after their scheduled delivery only forty-eight hours from now, Owen would walk off the pier, thirty grand in his pocket, and out of her life.

  Not that she cared.

  Caring only meant she’d eventually get hurt.

  “Pot comin’ in!” Owe
n threw out the grappling hook, snagged the buoy line, and dragged it in, water washing over the deck. She guessed the swells were at twenty-plus feet now and hazarded a glance at the wheelhouse, where she knew her father would be fighting to keep the boat righted and directed into the waves.

  Owen affixed the shot line to the winch, and Juke began to hoist the pot from the depths. Trailing seagulls cried in the darkness—an omen, maybe—and Scotty shivered as the spray hit her face. Heavy yellow sodium lights from the wheelhouse sent puddles into the inky ocean.

  The winch groaned as Carpie and Owen lined up to grab the swinging pot and direct it onto the hydraulic bed.

  To survive out here, you gotta have instincts. You gotta know where the crane is, anticipate which way the pot’s going to swing. It’s gotta come from inside, in your bones, if you wanna be a crab fisherman.

  Old Red’s words rang in her ears, remembered from nearly ten years ago when he’d agreed to let her work her first season. She’d broken two fingers, nearly washed overboard, frostbitten her fingertips, and collapsed with fatigue, while Old Red had just stood by, a gleam of challenge in his weathered eyes.

  Now she knew why.

  Because accidents happened after a long grind, when exhaustion blurred vision, froze reflexes, and she had to hone her instincts if she wanted, someday, to captain her own fishing vessel.

  The pot came up dripping, snow crab hanging from the webbing, jammed half-full with pancakes—flat, huge male crab.

  Owen grabbed one edge of the pot, guiding it in.

  “Yee-haw!” This from Greenie, who had been counting his fortunes like he’d never heard of Kenny Rogers. “Must be more than two hundred crab in there!” He edged the table toward the hydraulic lift as the pot swung in.

  “Greenie! Watch out!” Scotty screamed above the roar of the sea, lunging at the kid.

  Owen was faster. He kicked the kid hard enough to send him sprawling into Scotty’s arms, just as the pot slammed against the table.

  An inch from the ghost of Greenie’s head.

  The kid swore at Owen, untangling himself from Scotty on the icy deck.