The Blizzard Bride
Page 1
PRAISE FOR THE BLIZZARD BRIDE
“Action. Danger. Romance. The Blizzard Bride is all that and more! I loved the chemistry between Abby and Dash, such a fantastic mix of flying fists and sparks, yet underneath runs a deep and abiding love. An awesome read you won’t want to miss.”
–Michelle Griep, Christy Award-winning author of The Once Upon a Dickens Christmas series
“With heart-wrenching beauty, Dietze has brought to life the Children’s Blizzard of 1888 with an incredible story of love, courage, and compassion. This next installment in the Daughters of the Mayflower series is a must-read! Dash and Abby will live on in my heart and mind for some time!”
–Kimberley Woodhouse, bestselling and Carol Award winning author of The Mayflower Bride, The Patriot Bride, The Golden Bride, and The Express Bride
“This book touched me in ways I hadn’t expected. The Blizzard Bride is not just another romance, it’s a story of love, hope, broken hearts, and restoration. It is filled with deep characters that will make you cry one minute and smile the next. Add to that spies, a secret service agent, adorable children, a hidden villain, and an enormous blizzard, and you have a book that will captivate you until the wee hours of the morning.”
–MaryLu Tyndall, author of bestselling Legacy of the King’s Pirates series
“The Blizzard Bride is sweet and heartfelt, laced with mystery and genuine peril. Heroine Abby is plucky, and hero Dash is good-hearted, and the two together are wonderful, despite the hurt between them. I love stories of second-chance romance, and Susanne Dietze does not disappoint!”
–Shannon McNear, 2014 RITA® nominee and author of The Cumberland Bride, The Rebel Bride, and The Blue
“Once again the wonderfully talented author, Susanne Dietze, tells a compelling story in The Blizzard Bride, which will keep you turning the pages and leave you satisfied with an excellent read.”
–Carrie Fancett Pagels, award-winning and bestselling author of heart-stirring stories of overcoming
“In The Blizzard Bride, Susanne Dietze skillfully blends historical fact with fiction, bringing to exciting life Nebraska of the late 1880s and wrapping it all up with a sweet romance and the love and reconciliation only God can give. Lovely!”
–Julianna Deering, author of the Drew Farthering Mysteries
“In The Blizzard Bride, Susanne Dietze blends the true and tragic history of the Children’s Blizzard of 1888 with unique characters and inspiring faith elements. The rich details placed me in the setting so vividly, I could feel the sting of snow on my face. I loved journeying alongside Dash and Abby as they navigated intrigue, danger, and a second chance at love. A compelling story sure to captivate historical romance fans!”
–Amanda Barratt, author of My Dearest Dietrich: A Novel of Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s Lost Love
©2020 by Susanne Dietze
Print ISBN 978-1-64352-293-7
eBook Editions:
Adobe Digital Edition (.epub) 978-1-64352-295-1
Kindle and MobiPocket Edition (.prc) 978-1-64352-294-4
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted for commercial purposes, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without written permission of the publisher.
All scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.
Cover image: Ildiko Neer / Trevillion Images
Published by Barbour Books, an imprint of Barbour Publishing, Inc., 1810 Barbour Drive, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683, www.barbourbooks.com
Our mission is to inspire the world with the life-changing message of the Bible.
Printed in the United States of America.
Daughters of the Mayflower
The Lytton Family
William Lytton married Mary Elizabeth Chapman (Plymouth 1621)
Parents of 13 children, including Stephen
Stephen Lytton married Anne Porter (1654)
Asa Lytton married Humility Mason (1677)
John Stephen Lytton married Rebecca Whitstone (1704)
Joseph Lytton who married Jane Jefferson (1733)
Bartholomew Lytton married Molly Warren (1758)
Simeon Lytton married Deborah Goodman (1781)
Moses Lytton married Agnes McDonald (1805)
Archibald Lytton married Lydia Beecher (1828)
Constance Lytton married Charles Bracey (1860)
In 1863 their only surviving child was born, Abigail Bracey
DEDICATION
In memory of the two hundred thirty-five.
And who knoweth whether thou art come to the kingdom for such a time as this?
ESTHER 4:14
BRIEF GLOSSARY OF TERMS
• Boodle: counterfeit notes in bundles
• Boodle carrier: those who sell or transfer counterfeit currency
• Capitalist: the person behind a large-scale counterfeiting operation
• Coney: confidence man, con man
• Dealer: person who issues counterfeit notes to his patrons
• Shover: person who passes counterfeit money publicly—in a store, for example
CONTENTS
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
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Epilogue
CHAPTER 1
Chicago,
December 3, 1887
Forgive my cryptic invitation to lunch, Miss Bracey, but I dared not go into detail on the chance your post was intercepted.”
Abigail Bracey was not the sort of person whose mail was intercepted. No one showed the least bit of interest in her monotonous life, but Mr. Welch, the balding gentleman seated across the white-draped table from her, was probably accustomed to others attempting to intercept his correspondence. She made a sympathetic noise and closed her menu. She’d scarcely looked at it. Despite going out for a late lunch, food was the farthest thing from her mind.
“I was pleased to hear from you after so long, Mr. Welch. Have you news about my father’s mur—”
Mr. Welch flinched. “Miss Bracey, we are in public.”
She clamped her mouth shut. They had to be careful in public, and they couldn’t exactly meet in private, could they? Mr. Welch might be several years her senior, but his calling on her, a maiden who lived alone in a rented room, would certainly give her landlady something to talk about. Meeting for lunch in a restaurant was his way of protecting her reputation. For that, she was grateful.
But she was also impatient.
“Forgive me, but I am eager for any scrap of news, and I do not think we can be overheard.” Abby glanced at the only other patrons, an elderly couple several tables away, and three women in fur-trimmed mantles sipping tea at the window table. None of them had given Abby and Mr. Welch a second glance.
Mr. Welch scrutinized them with narrowed eyes, as if they could be spies. “Yes, well, I’d hoped we’d be alone, dining at this hour. Let’s order before we chat. What would you like?”
“Soup is fine.”
“But they hav
e an excellent beefsteak here.”
What a kind way to tell her she looked like she could use a heartier meal than a bowl of consommé. She didn’t take offense. They’d known one another too long not to be honest. Their relationship had never been social or casual. How could it be, when it was birthed in blood?
He first called on her and Mother four years ago, a few weeks after Father was found murdered on the steps of the bank he managed. Mr. Welch had offered them condolences, shown them his shiny, five-pointed star badge, and introduced himself as the Assistant Operative of the Chicago District Office of the United States Secret Service.
It had been her and her mother’s last moment of sweet, oblivious ignorance.
Mr. Welch beckoned their waiter, a slender man with eyebrows that seemed to be permanently raised in expectation. “Steaks for me and the young lady, medium rare.”
The waiter offered a half bow before returning to the kitchen. Mr. Welch twisted his neck to look behind him, a casual move that didn’t fool Abby. Satisfied they couldn’t be overheard, he met her gaze. “I’ll not keep you in suspense any longer. As you may recall from our last meeting, your father’s, er, assailant, the counterfeiter we know as the Artist, has been in the environs of Kansas City for a time.”
She nodded. That was the last bit of information Mr. Welch had given her.
“Rather than investigating his present activities, the assistant operative in Kansas City decided to look into the Artist’s past. We knew he began his career in New York, before moving about and adopting pseudonyms, so our operative traveled there, made inquiries, and so forth. It is a long and winding tale, but he found a woman who rented a room to the Artist as a young man.” He paused for effect. “She called him by a particular name, and when our operative used it to search public records, it yielded fruit. That name she used was the Artist’s given, legal name.”
Now that was indeed good news. All this time this counterfeiter had been sought by the Secret Service, but the pursuit had yielded few results beyond rabbit trails and dead ends. How could it, when no one knew what he looked like or knew his real name? The reign of terror he’d cultivated made him more myth than man, and therefore, untraceable, untouchable.
But now, he was no longer a shadow. He was flesh and blood, a person who was once a baby named by a mother and father who undoubtedly had hoped for more for their son than for him to become a counterfeiting murderer.
“What is it?”
Another quick peek over his shoulder. “Fletcher Pitch.”
Abby mouthed the name of her enemy.
You’re not supposed to have enemies, you know. The Good Book says—
She ignored the voice in her head. “He’s in custody, then?”
“No, the wily creature is a master at eluding us, and as you know, he has assumed numerous names these past several years for his day-to-day undertakings. But knowing his birth name has allowed our operative to glean a fascinating bit of information—”
Mr. Welch stopped short at the appearance of their waiter carrying two steaming plates on a silver tray. He set them down, sending a waft of savory aromas around their table. Bone-in steak, roasted carrots, and mashed potatoes swimming in butter, garnished with tomato relish and a yeast roll. Abby hadn’t seen anything so gorgeous in eons, much less eaten it, but she determined to ignore the noisy growls emanating from her stomach. The instant the waiter left them to their food, she leaned over her plate. “What information?”
Mr. Welch selected his knife and fork. “The most useful tidbit is that he married nine years ago.”
“What sort of woman would marry him?”
“An honorable sort, apparently. When she realized the truth about him, a year after their marriage, she abandoned him, even though she’d just given birth to a son.”
“Oh, that poor woman.” Deceived by a man like that, and with a tiny baby too. Abby knew a thing or two about men not being who they appeared to be. She consumed a carrot—oh my, it really was delicious—and then speared another, this time swirling it in the butter spilling over the side of the mashed potatoes. “Can she be persuaded to tell tales about him?”
“She cannot. I’m sorry to say she died shortly thereafter.”
Pitch was responsible for that death too, just like he was for Father’s. And Mother’s, because his cruelty killed innocents by breaking their hearts. “Where’s the baby?”
“Disappeared in the care of the wife’s sister, Katherine Hoover. She never met Pitch.” His gaze flickered around the restaurant. The elderly couple had slipped out when she wasn’t looking and the ladies by the window rose from the table, donned their wraps, and made their exit into the snowy afternoon, leaving Abby and Mr. Welch alone in the restaurant.
Nevertheless, Abby kept her voice low. “Disappeared, you say?”
“Like chaff on the wind. She told her friend goodbye in a dramatic, forever-like fashion, saying she’d promised her dying sister she’d ensure the baby’s father never found them—but she showed her something extraordinary. A wedding tintype of her sister and Pitch, so her friend could recognize Pitch if he came sniffing. The friend couldn’t tell our operative anything beyond saying he was decent-looking.” He sighed. “At any rate, Miss Hoover vowed to protect that boy.”
“She’s a brave woman.”
“I’ll say. Left everything, changed her name for a child that wasn’t hers. I wish we could leave her be, but she’s got something that’d sure help us out in our investigation. That tintype of Pitch.”
“That would be a valuable clue, to be sure.” She sliced her steak. “But if Miss Hoover is in hiding under a false name, how can you find it? Find her?”
“Not easily, but we have reason to believe we aren’t the only ones looking.”
A shiver ran from her neck to her toes. “Pitch wants the baby. No, not a baby. He’d be, what, eight years old now?”
“Pitch wants to control everything that concerns him. His image as a mysterious, violent, unknowable ‘Artist’ is carefully cultivated to intimidate. Everything he does is executed with the greatest care, from his engravings to his, well, God rest your father’s soul, but Pitch’s, er, dealings with those who cross him. When he engages in that sort of activity—”
“You can say murder.”
“I’m trying to be delicate, Miss Bracey. But yes. When he does that, he makes a statement of it, intended to frighten. He’s controlling, for sure, and if I were the wagering sort I’d bet a thousand dollars, genuine currency, of course, that Pitch is furious to have been without his boy near on a decade, unable to mold him as he wishes.”
A boy raised by a man like that? What a horrifying thought. “You must find Miss Hoover, then, and warn her.” For the boy’s sake. For Miss Hoover’s sake. And for the sake of all of Pitch’s victims. “And get that tintype, of course, but I’m not sure how to find a person who’s so careful to hide her past.”
His lips turned up in a smug expression. “I told you our operative in Kansas City’s a good one, didn’t I?”
“He found her? Goodness, how? Never mind. I’m sure you would tell me ‘confidential sources,’ which is most unsatisfying when I want to know every detail. But in this case I shall leave it for the sake of expediency and state how impressive this operative is. I should like to shake his hand.”
The waiter approached, bearing steaming mugs of aromatic coffee. The moment he vanished into the kitchen, she poured two dollops of cream into her cup. “So you have the tintype.”
Mr. Welch took the cream pitcher from her. “Ah, no. Miss Hoover spooks like a feral cat. But the operative spoke to the bank she used in New York and learned she’d transferred her money to another bank, which in turn transferred it to another bank to be used by a woman with a different name—her new pseudonym, of course. He visited a few months ago and found out she was still using it, but to make a long story short, when she learned someone was asking questions about her, she ran away again. A wise woman, that, because how was she to kn
ow the fellow poking around was an operative and not Pitch or one of his cronies?”
“Months?” Abby repeated, hopes deflating.
“Of course, months. Takes time to do this sort of work, as I told you four years ago. But you think I’d invite you to lunch to tell you all hope is lost? I’ve got more heart than that, Miss Bracey. The bank received a request to transfer funds to another bank in Nebraska. Big enough town for her to find employment. Small enough to know your neighbors, at least until the railroad line through there is finished. Farming community in Buffalo County called Wells.”
The amused spark in Mr. Welch’s eye told her he was enjoying stretching the tale for all it was worth, even if Abby didn’t think her pounding heart could take any more. “So the operative will introduce himself this time rather than ask nosy questions that scare her away?”
“The problem is we don’t know what she looks like. We only know that wherever she goes she pretends to be a widow with a son. And wouldn’t you know it, she’s settled in a town that boasts three widows with eight-year-old boys who’ve moved there within the past six months. One of them is Katherine Hoover, but which? Rather than visit and ask pesky questions that’ll get her dander up, our operative planned to take up his former trade and move into the community so he could observe these families, but an opportunity has arisen, and I think you might be the perfect person to help us, if you’re willing.”
She dropped her fork. Her? How? Who cared? She could participate in bringing down Father’s killer. “Yes. I’ll do anything.”
Mr. Welch grinned. “I thought so.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Finish your lunch.” Mr. Welch pointed his knife at her plate.
“This is intolerable.” But she shoved a bite of steak into her mouth anyway.
“The local schoolmaster’s got a lung inflammation and is leaving for dryer climes right before Christmas. That leaves an open position, and what better way to find a child than to send a teacher to look for him? And you, Miss Bracey, are not only qualified to teach, but you have the desire to see Pitch brought to justice. There is no one better to take the task. Why, it seems providential.”