“There has to be a way for us, Quinn.”
“I’ll find it. After all, I found you, didn’t I?” Quinn looked at Nora with wonder, as if the thought just struck him anew. “In all the city, after all this, I found you.”
Nora let her head fall against his strong hand. “Find us a way, Quinn.”
It was as if the topaz in his eyes ignited, as if she’d unleashed something fierce and powerful in him. Quinn took both Nora’s hands in his and kissed them gallantly. “There’s not a thing can stop me now. I reckon we have about a minute left.” He stole a look to the door behind him. “Say my name one more time.”
“You’re being…”
“Fifty seconds. Say it.”
“Quinn, be careful.”
“Not at all. I’m done being careful. Can’t you see that?”
His defiance lit fire to hers. Nora brought both his hands to her lips and kissed them tenderly. Quinn melted under her touch the way she had under his and began to pull her closer….
Books by Allie Pleiter
Love Inspired Historical
Masked by Moonlight
Mission of Hope
Love Inspired
My So-Called Love Life
The Perfect Blend
*Bluegrass Hero
*Bluegrass Courtship
*Bluegrass Blessings
*Bluegrass Christmas
Easter Promises
*“Bluegrass Easter”
Steeple Hill Books
Bad Heiress Day
Queen Esther & the Second Graders of Doom
ALLIE PLEITER
Enthusiastic but slightly untidy mother of two, RITA® Award finalist Allie Pleiter writes both fiction and nonfiction. An avid knitter and unreformed chocoholic, she spends her days writing books, drinking coffee and finding new ways to avoid housework. Allie grew up in Connecticut, holds a BS in Speech from Northwestern University and spent fifteen years in the field of professional fundraising. She lives with her husband, children and a Havanese dog named Bella in the suburbs of Chicago, Illinois.
MISSION OF HOPE
ALLIE PLEITER
He who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus.
—Philippians 1:6
For Nora
May your future always be the best of adventures
Acknowledgments
One does not tackle the great San Francisco earthquake and fire of 1906 without backup. And while people look at you sideways when you get on an airplane with a dozen disaster books, I am grateful to all the fine texts out there that made my research complete. Thanks galore to historian and general good sport Eileen Keremitsis for enduring questions, finding obscure facts, and graciously unearthing errors. Any historical errors in this book can only be laid at my own stubborn and ignorant feet, certainly not at hers. Special thanks go to my local and national buddies from American Christian Fiction Writers for befriending me despite my many oddities. Krista Stroever continues to be the finest editor God ever gave me, and I could never have survived this cyclone of a publishing career without the careful guidance of my agent Karen Solem. And you, my dear readers; God bless you all.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Epilogue
Historical Note
Letter to Reader
Questions for Discussion
Prologue
San Francisco, July 1906
The world rumbled and heaved. Screams and moans pierced the thundering roar, the staccato breaking and snapping, drowning out her own cries for help as the earth swallowed her up like a hungry beast. Nora Longstreet grasped for any hold she could reach, but everything dissolved at her touch so that nothing stopped her fall.
Something soft smothered her face, and she shot upright, clawing at the thing. “Annette!” she screamed for her cousin who’d been beside her just moments before. “Annette!” The monster was eating her, devouring her.
A hand clasped her shoulder. “Hush, Nora. Wake up, love, and be still.”
Nora opened her eyes to find no beast, no rumbling, no danger. “I…”
“We’re safe. We’re at Aunt Julia’s and we’re safe. Breathe now, there’s nothing to harm you.” Mama pulled a handkerchief from the sleeve of her nightshift and dabbed at Nora’s brow.
“Oh, Mama, she was there. Right beside me, asleep, I could hear her breathing. And then…”
Why must she live that horrible morning over and over when she closed her eyes? Nora moaned and leaned back against her pallet in the parlor of her aunt’s Lafayette Park home where she’d been camped since the earthquake. She was soaked with sweat, and although it was nearly dawn, she felt as if she had not slept at all. Still, she couldn’t let that stop her. Today was too important a day. Nora swung her legs over the edge of the cot and raked her fingers through her hair. “I’m going to the rally,” she said to her mother. “I think Papa needs me.”
Chapter One
It was her. It had to be. It was the eyes that made him certain, even from this distance.
Quinn Freeman stared harder at the young woman—not much more than twenty from the look of it—sitting uncomfortably onstage. She was trying to pay attention to the long rally speeches honoring the city’s recovery, but not quite succeeding. And the speeches were surely long. Politicians fought banks who fought insurance companies and everyone nursed a grudge over how things had been handled. The most eloquent speech on God’s green earth couldn’t explain how one man was still alive while another’s life had come to an end. The uncertainty of everything made for chaos.
Still, she was here. By some astounding act of God, she was here. And what a sight she was. Even in the gray light of this cloudy morning, she looked clean and pretty, and he hadn’t seen anything clean and pretty in days.
It was the eyes, really, that captured his attention. Round and wide, framed with golden lashes. Even in the brown tint of the charred photo he’d found, he’d somehow known they were an unusual color. Something between a blue and a violet, now that he saw them. The color of the irises Ma was fond of in one of the city gardens.
Quinn fished into his pocket for the battered locket he’d found last week as he walked home from yet another insufferably long bread line. He’d seen it glint in the corner of a rubble pile just south of Nob Hill, a tiny sparkle in a pile of black and brown timber. Usually, Quinn was looking up; he was always looking up at the buildings—or parts of buildings—still standing, admiring how they’d survived with so much rubble marking where others had fallen. It wasn’t as if bits of lives couldn’t still be found all over the city—even months out as it was, Quinn was forever picking up one shoe or a bit of a cup or a chipped doorknob.
This was different. There was something amazing about the fact that the locket was still shut, and that despite the soot and dents, there were still two tiny photographs inside. Two young women about his own age. Sisters? Cousins? He kept the charm
in his pocket, making up a dozen stories as he worked or walked or waited, because everything now took hours longer than it had before. Yes, it was dirty and dented and the chain was broken, but the faces inside had survived an earthquake and a fire. And now he knew the people had, as well. Or at least one of them. Quinn just couldn’t ignore the hope in that.
Reverend Bauers never called anything a coincidence. No one was ever “lucky” to Reverend Bauers—they were “called” or “blessed.” Quinn had survived the earthquake and the fire. His mother had, too. But he was beginning to wonder if he’d survive the next two months. A few months ago he’d been just another grunt down at the printing press, scratching out a living, trying to hang on to his big dreams. Then the world shook and fell over. He’d survived, but why had God kept him alive while scores of others died?
“God does not deal in luck or happenstance,” Bauers always said to Quinn when something went their way or a need miraculously became met. “He directs, He provides and He is very fond of surprising His children.” The saying rang in Quinn’s ears when he saw the familiar face on the stage this morning. And he knew, even before he pulled the locket from his pocket and squinted as he held it up to her profile, that it was her. Well, Lord, I’m surprised, I’ll grant You that.
When that pretty woman saw him hold up the locket, her eyes wide with amazement, he made the decision right there and then to do whatever it took to return the locket to her, to bring one thing home.
The man fished something out of his pocket and held it up, comparing it to the face—her face—before him.
Annette’s locket. With the elongated heart shape that was so unusual, the one Annette had picked out for her birthday last year, it just had to be. He had Annette’s locket!
It took forever for the rally to end. The moment she could, Nora swept off her chair in search of the fastest way into the crowd. He couldn’t have missed her intent given how hard he seemed to be staring at her. Surely he would wait, perhaps even make his way toward the stage.
The crowd milled exasperatingly thick, and Nora began to fear the man would be lost to her forever—and that last piece of Annette with him. Nora pushed as fiercely as she dared through the clusters of people, dodging around shoulders and darting through gaps.
She could not find him. Her throat tight and one hand holding her hat to the mass of blond waves that was her unruly hair, she turned in circles, straining to see over one large man’s shoulders and finding no one.
“This is you, isn’t it?” came a voice from behind her, and she turned with such a start that she nearly knocked the man over. He held up the locket. Nora let out a small gasp—it was so battered now that she saw it up close. The delicate gold heart was dented on one side, black soot scars still clinging to the fancy engraving and the broken chain.
Soot. A fire seemed such a terrible, awful way to die. Nora clutched at the locket with both hands, her grief not allowing any thought for manners. The two halves of the dented heart had already been opened, revealing the remains of a pair of tiny photographs—one of her, the other of Annette. Nora put her finger to the image of Annette and thought she would cry. “Yes,” she said unsteadily, “that’s me, and that’s my cousin, Annette. However did you get this?”
The man pushed back his hat, and a shock of straw-colored hair splashed across his forehead. “I found it last week. I’ve been looking for either one of you since then, but I didn’t really think I’d find you. I just about fell over when you walked onto the stage this morning, Miss…Longstreet, was it? The postmaster’s daughter?”
Nora suddenly remembered her manners. “Nora Longstreet. I’m so very pleased to meet you. And so very pleased to have this back…although it isn’t…actually mine.” She felt her throat tighten up, and paused for a moment. “It’s Annette’s, and she isn’t…she’s isn’t here. Anymore.” She pulled in a shaky breath. “She died…in it.”
“I’m sorry. Seems like everybody lost someone, doesn’t it?” He tipped the corner of his hat. “Quinn Freeman.”
“Thank you for finding this, Mr. Freeman. It means a great deal to me.”
Quinn tucked his hands in his pockets. He wore a simple white shirt, brown pants that had seen considerable wear and scuffed shoes, but someone had taken care to make sure they were all still clean and in the best repair possible given the circumstances. “I’m sure she would have wanted you to have it, seeing as it’s you in there and all.”
“I’m sure my father would be happy to give you some kind of reward for returning it. Come meet him, why don’t you?”
Quinn smiled—a slanted, humble grin that confirmed the charm his eyes conveyed—and shrugged. “I couldn’t take anything for it. I’m just glad it found its way home. Too many people lost too much not to see something back where it belongs.”
Nora ran her thumb across the scratched surface of the locket. “Surely I can give you some reward for your kindness.”
He stared at her again. The gaze was unnerving from up on the stage, but it was tenfold more standing mere feet from him. “You just did. It’s nice to see someone so happy. A pretty smile is a fine thing to take home.” He stared for a long moment more before tipping his hat. “G’mornin’, Miss Longstreet. It’s been a pleasure.”
“Thank you, Mr. Freeman. Thank you again.” Nora clutched the locket to her chest and dashed off to find her father.
She found him near the stage, talking with a cluster of men in dark coats and serious expressions. “Papa!” She caught his elbow as he pulled himself from the conversation. “The most extraordinary thing has happened!”
“Where have you been? You shouldn’t have dashed off like that.”
“Oh, Papa, I’ve survived an earthquake and a fire. What could possibly happen to me now?”
“A great deal more than I’d care to consider.” He scowled at her, but there was a glint of teasing in his eye. She was glad to see it—he hadn’t had much humor about him lately.
She held up the battered charm. “Look! Can you believe it? I thought it lost forever.”
Her father took the locket from Nora’s hand and held it up, turning it to examine it. “Is this Annette’s locket? That’s astounding! However did you find it?”
“A man gave it to me, just now. He said he recognized me from the photo inside. The photographs hadn’t fully burned. Can you imagine? I knew there was a reason I needed to come with you this morning. I knew I should be beside you up there. Now I know why!” Right now that dented piece of gold was just about the most precious thing in all the world. The moment she fixed the broken chain, she’d never take it off ever again.
“Well, where is this man?” Her father looked over her shoulder. “I’d say we owe him a debt of thanks.”
“I tried to get him to come over and meet you—he knew who I was and who you were—but he said he didn’t need any thanks.” She left out the bit about her smile. Oh, thank You, Lord, Nora prayed as she took the locket back from her father. Thank You so much!
“Did you at least get his name?”
“Freeman,” Nora said, thinking about the bold stare he’d given her at first, “Quinn Freeman.”
Chapter Two
The mail had always been mundane to Nora. A perfunctory business. Hardly the stuff of heroes and lifesaving deeds. Papa had told her stories of how they’d soaked mailbags in water and beaten back the fire to save the post office. And now, the mail had become just that—lifesaving. Thanks to Papa’s promise to deliver all kinds of mail—postage or no postage—mail had become the one constant. The only thing that still worked the way it had worked before. It was amazing how people clung to that.
No one, however, could have foreseen what “all kinds of mail” would be: sticks, wood, shirt cuffs and collars, tiles and margins of salvaged books or newspaper had been pressed into service as writing paper. Each morning Papa would take her to the edge of an “official” refugee camp—for several questionable “unofficial” camps had sprung up—and they would ta
ke in the mail. Standing on an older mail cart now pressed into heavy service, Nora took in heart-wrenching messages such as “We’re alive” or “Eddie is gone” or “Send anything” and piled them into bags headed back to the post office.
Nora—and any other female—could only accept mail, for mail delivery had become a dangerous task. Arriving mail consisted of packages of food or clothes or whatever supplies could be sent quickly, and that made it highly desirable. The massive logistics of distributing such things had necessitated army escorts in order to keep the peace. Even after months of relief, so much was still missing, so much was still needed, and San Francisco was discovering just how impossible it was to sprout a city from scratch. The nearly three months of continual scrounging, loss and pain turned civil people angry, and there had even been a few close scrapes for Nora in the simple act of accepting mail. Those incidents usually made her father nervous, but today they made Nora all the more determined to help. Someone had delivered something precious to her, and she would do the same. It was not her fault the postmaster had not been blessed with a son who could better face the danger. If God had given Postmaster Longstreet a daughter, then God would have to work through a daughter. Father had always said, “We do what we can with what we have.” What better time or place to put that belief into practice?
“Please,” a young boy pleaded as he pressed a strip of cloth into Nora’s hand. Its author had scrawled a message and rolled up a shirtsleeve like a scroll, tied with what looked like the remnants of a shoelace. “Martin Lovejoy, Applewood, Wisconsin” was printed on the outside. “All we got is the clothes we’re wearing,” the lad said, “but Uncle Martin can send more.”
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