by Becky Melby
© 2012 by Becky Melby
Print ISBN 978-1-61626-238-9
eBook Editions:
Adobe Digital Edition (.epub) 978-1-60742-750-6
Kindle and MobiPocket Edition (.prc) 978-1-60742-751-3
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.
Scripture taken from the HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®. NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.
Some scripture is taken from the King James Version of the Bible.
Some scripture is taken from the Revised Standard Version of the Bible, copyright 1946, 1952, 1971 by the Division of Christian Education of the National Council of the Churches of Christ in the USA. Used by permission.
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.
For more information about Becky Melby, please access the author’s website at the following Internet address: www.beckymelby.com
Cover credit: Studio Gearbox, www.studiogearbox.com
Published by Barbour Publishing, Inc., P.O. Box 719, Uhrichsville, OH 44683, www.barbourbooks.com
Our mission is to publish and distribute inspirational products offering exceptional value and biblical encouragement to the masses.
Printed in the United States of America.
Dedication/Acknowledgment
To Cathy Wienke—
I have learned more from you about faith, forgiveness, perseverance, marriage, and mothering in our thirty-six years of friendship than you will ever know, and I am more grateful for your patience, love, prayers, and encouragement than I can ever express. Your passion for our Lord simply radiates. Never doubt God’s purpose for your life—He has shaped you to be an encourager and a prayer warrior, and you are fulfilling that destiny daily.
Special thanks to:
Jamie Chavez, editor extraordinaire, for fast, fantastic editing and a big dose of encouragement.
Jan Glas, for reading this through, catching goofs, offering kind words, and baking scrumptious gluten-free goodies.
Cynthia Ruchti, for prayer, laughter, critiquing, wise words, and sweet friendship—for making me a better writer…and a better person.
Rachael Phillips, for wise critting. Victor and Lisa, for the name Mariah.
Thank you to my amazing boys, Scott, Jeff, Aaron, and Mark, their wonderful wives, Kristen, Holly, Adrianne, and Brittany, and the sweetest grandkids ever:
Sawyer and Sage—for being twins and being twelve at just the right time.
Ethan, Peter, and Cole—for a tree frog names Squiggles who now lives in these pages.
Reagan, Lilly, Keira, Caden, Oliver, and Finley—for simply being you and making life a joy.
As always, thank you to Bill, my sweetheart of forty-four years, for loving me and all of my imaginary friends.
A heartfelt thank-you to the people who shared their time and knowledge:
Earl Squires for a tour of the English Settlement Church and cemetery. Joni Beck of the Rochester Historical Society for information on the Underground Railroad.
The Burlington Historical Society Museum.
Kerry Milkie, Manager of the Youth and Family Division of the Racine County Human Services Department for extreme patience in answering my questions on child custody laws.
Bryan Wangnoss, of the Burlington Police Department for helping me put Ben in jail.
My brother, Bob Foght, Senior Probation and Parole Agent, Wisconsin Department of Corrections, for showing me how to keep Ben in jail for just the right length of time. (And for proving he has a second career in writing.)
Dan MacVeagh and Kathy Hainstock for finding books on the Underground Railroad.
Eric R. Stancliff, Public Services Librarian & Seminary Art Curator, Concordia Seminary Library, for expertise on fiber-based paper.
Thank you to the following members of American Christian Fiction Writers for so willingly sharing their expertise: Anne Love, Deb Kinnard, Kim Zweygardt, Leslie Pfeil, and Ronda Wells, MD for medical information. Tamara Cooper, Deb Raney, Linda Rondeau and her husband, for information on child custody laws. Dave Bond and Ane Mulligan, for sharing their remodeling stories. Terry Burns, for teaching me how to disable a car from the inside.
If I say, “Surely the darkness will hide me
and the light become night around me,”
even the darkness will not be dark to you;
the night will shine like the day,
for darkness is as light to you.
PSALM 139:11–12 NIV
Table of Contents
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
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
About the Author
Discussion Questions
PROLOGUE
September 2, 1852
Hannah Shaw lingered on the last line of the letter she’d vowed to destroy, pressed her lips against the soft paper, and tucked it in her apron. As she opened the heat grate in the ceiling with the handle of her broom, she commanded the smile to leave her voice. “Biscuits or corn cakes, Papa?” she called through the opening.
Wiping the biscuit cutter on a flour-sack towel, she waited for the rhythmic sweep of the trowel to slow. Papa didn’t talk and work at the same time. She lifted the blue-striped bowl from the sideboard with one hand and set the biscuit pan on the table with the other.
The swishing stopped. “Is there buttermilk left?”
Peering out the back door, Hannah winked at the cardinal on the porch railing preening himself in the dawn light. “Just enough for a batch of biscuits.”
“Then you knew what I wanted before you asked.”
Hannah smiled. “You are the one who taught me that every man should have the right to choose his own destiny.”
Laughter rumbled through the grate. “Impertinent child. Fetch the buttermilk and—”
The front door rattled under the knock of a heavy hand. One rap, followed by two.
Hannah clutched her apron. “Someone’s at the door, Papa.” Her voice quivered. Too early for visitors. Too insistent for one of Papa’s customers. “Should I answer?”
“No.” Her father’s footsteps echoed as he crossed the empty second floor. The walls seemed to shake as he thundered down the stairs.
Hannah waited in the dining room. Warning shot from her father’s eyes as he reached the bottom step. “Carry on as you were.” Worry etching his face, he turned to the door.
How was she to carry on when her hands trembled and her thoughts raced like the river after a hard rain? Liam. Lord, let it not be about him. Keep him safe. S
he ordered her legs to carry her to the cupboard in the corner. With whitened fingers frozen on the handles and her ears straining toward the whispers in the parlor, she could not have remembered what went into buttermilk biscuits if her life depended on it. She opened the doors. The scent of cinnamon erased the past eight months, as if Mama stepped beside her, reaching from the grave for a pinch of spice for her apple butter.
“…danger is increasing…trust no one…” Scraps of sentences fell like quilt block trimmings. “Dr. Dyer, I assure you…” Her father’s voice rose then dipped again. Hannah held her breath, listening for the only name that mattered.
“…should send her to Elizabeth’s sister until…”
The men spoke of the growing risk, but what should have set her on edge calmed her. Their talk had nothing to do with Liam. She smiled. Dr. Dyer did not know her well, or he would never have suggested sending her to Aunt Margaret’s as if she were a child. Her grip on the cupboard handles relaxed.
Flour, salt, baking soda, lard. The recipe filled the part of her mind not occupied by deep dimples and midnight blue eyes. She pulled out the ingredients, filled the bowl with flour to the first blue line, and pressed a deep well in the center. She snatched the market basket off the hook by the back door, letting her hand graze the black iron shaped by Liam’s own hand. She loved how it stood out against the pale yellow paint Mama had started and Hannah had finished.
Two rooms away, the conversation grew intense yet more hushed. She gripped the handle and stood, still as death, but couldn’t decipher a single word. With a prayer-filled sigh, she opened the cellar door.
The earthy cold crept beneath her skirt. Goose pimples scampered up her arms like countless baby mice. The weak light from the only window hadn’t the strength to reach the corner. In the dark, she counted out five eggs, found the lard crock, and felt for the half barrel of spring water. Plunging her hand into it, she snatched the buttermilk jar and ran up the stairs. As always, the apple tree stenciled on the cellar side of the door gave her pause. Mama’s paints sat in a box atop the cupboard. If only she could paint like—
We will not speak of what might have been. Papa’s words, bracing as the water in the barrel, brought her back to the moment. She set the basket and the buttermilk on the kitchen table then pinched salt into the bowl. The talk at the front door ceased, and Dr. Dyer left.
“Papa?” She darted through the dining room. “Is everything all right?”
“Everything is fine.” The creases in his brow had never seemed so deep. His shoulders slumped. “Make some corn cakes, too. We will need them tonight.”
With her heart choosing a tempo to rival Big Jim’s fiddle, she nodded. Emotions clashed inside her. The risk was great for all of them, but fear mingled with joy. Tonight they would have guests, which meant tomorrow night she would see Liam. “How many rugs?”
“Two.” He turned away and stared through the lace on the north window.
Hannah followed his gaze to the river. Tomorrow night.
“Hang two rugs. And pray, my dear.”
CHAPTER 1
What do you call the place you live if it isn’t home?
Emily Foster blew her bangs off her forehead and tapped the steering wheel to “Haven’t Met You Yet” as she searched the afternoon shadows for a street sign, and the house she wouldn’t call home. For the next few months. Or weeks, if she was lucky.
Rochester, Wisconsin, population 1100. She’d have eleven hundred neighbors—and she’d try to get to know as few of them as possible. Michael Bublé said it would all work out. Emily turned at the corner, hoping he was right.
The old, white clapboard house framed in her windshield had shrunk in nineteen years. Or maybe the rest of her world had gotten too big since that innocent summer. She parked in a short strip of gravel that pointed toward the river. Opening the car door, she stared at the house across the street. It occupied the spot where she’d found God, and almost missed her first kiss. A long, measured sigh bowed her cheeks. With deep, controlled breaths, she swiveled in the seat then eased her feet to the ground. Moving like a woman three times her age, she unloaded the car and hobbled up the stone walk to the paneled door. The lock complained at the twist of the key.
In the front parlor, the plank floor groaned beneath her feet. With nothing to absorb the sound of her intrusion, each tap of her paisley-covered cane echoed off the peeling plaster.
The house was as hollow and weary as its new owner.
“Counter with a positive.” The ever-nagging voice of Vanessa, her therapist—the one who therapied her mind, not the one who pummeled the rest of her—whispered a warning. “Counter with a positive thought before you teeter off the brittle edge.”
Dropping her sleeping bag and air mattress in the middle of the room, Emily turned in a slow circle. First positive Wisconsin thought: Empty is not always bad. This place is full of potential.
Am I?
The front parlor was no larger than a hospital room. A poor excuse for sunlight struggled through warped glass in the nine-pane windows. Pale ovals patchworked dingy beige walls where long-dead faces had once kept watch, and spider-vein cracks trailed like quilt stitching between the phantom frames.
Emily closed her eyes, envisioning the space as it would soon be. Sans claustrophobia. By knocking out the walls that divided the main floor into five rooms, she’d create an open floor plan. New windows, gleaming floors, rich colors. Modern. Roomy. Sellable.
In the dining room, she unzipped her fleece jacket and yanked open a window. Storm-scrubbed air transfused the staleness with hints of apple blossom and made her hungry for more. On her way to the back door, she checked her watch. Fifteen minutes to kill until the first contractor arrived. Fifteen minutes best spent without walls. She hung the key ring on a black hook by the door. Kicking off her shoes, she stepped onto the porch.
The swollen Fox River bursting the hem of her temporary backyard rushed through Rochester on its way from Menominee Falls to northern Illinois. It bubbled over a massive limb hanging at a grotesque angle from a fresh gash in an oak tree. All that anchored the limb to the trunk was a narrow strip of twisted bark.
She hadn’t thought about lawn care or tree trimming. She hadn’t thought about much, other than putting Lake Michigan between her and the eggshell walkers.
A flash of red drew her attention from the water to a solitary pine on the north side of the yard. A male cardinal landed on a low bough. His mate called down from the top of the tree.
Emily imagined a hammock next to the pine. Maybe the white noise of the river would muffle the specters in her head.
A child’s high-pitched wail caused her pulse to stumble. Laughter followed the squeal, and Emily breathed a sigh. She walked to the end of the porch and bent over the railing. Two young boys wrestled over a basketball in her side yard. On the ground beside them, a circus-colored beach ball rocked in the breeze.
Some things she wouldn’t get away from, no matter how far she moved.
Turning back to the pine tree, Emily tried to conjure her imaginary hammock, but it wouldn’t return. She opened the screechy screen door and stepped into the kitchen.
The floor sloped toward the back of the house. In front of the sink, a layer of pink-and-gray-flowered linoleum showed through a hole in the brick-patterned vinyl. She padded across the uneven surface to a white corner cupboard. Resting her cane against the windowsill, she unlatched a tall door, releasing memories mingled with cloves, cinnamon, and coriander. She’d been fifteen when she spent the summer visiting her best friend’s great-grandmother. Cara’s Nana Grace was the quintessential grandma. Memories of that magical summer and the big white house in Rochester chronicled all five senses—violets, fireflies, apple crisp, a cobwebby cellar, and the trill of tree frogs. Exploring the town on Nana Grace’s wobbly old Schwinn bikes, giggling about the bare-chested guy washing his car down the street, dangling their feet in the river, talking for hours about that clumsy, dream-spinning kiss. Carefree.<
br />
The way young girls should be.
Her shoulders shuddered, an invisible weight constricting her lungs. Closing her eyes, she repeated the words branded in her brain. “Release…relax…let it go.” With a fierce exhale, she tugged on the window next to the cupboard. It stuck. She banged on the frame with the heel of her hand and tried again. The sash gave way, sliding up so quickly she almost lost her balance.
Sweet spring air thwarted panic. Be present in the moment. The cardinals still sang. In the distance, the metered cadence of the basketball on cement joined the rhythm of the afternoon. She concentrated on the steady slap, slap, slap as she labeled the smells. Wet leaves. River mud. Charcoal smoke. Violets.
