Praise for Catching the Wind and other novels by Melanie Dobson
Catching the Wind
“Another captivating weave of great characters, superb storytelling, and rich historical detail from talented wordsmith Melanie Dobson. A story to remind us all that resilience springs from hope, and hope from love.”
SUSAN MEISSNER, author of Secrets of a Charmed Life
“A childhood bond, never forgotten, leads to a journey of secrets revealed and lifelong devotion rewarded. Readers will delight in this story that illustrates how the past can change the present.”
LISA WINGATE, national bestselling author of The Sea Keeper’s Daughters
“Intricate and lyrical, Catching the Wind tells intertwining stories of lost souls and faithful hearts. Once again, Melanie Dobson pens a novel full of fascinating historical detail and characters as real as your best friends—and worst enemies. Engrossing, beautiful, and thoughtful, this is a novel to be savored.”
SARAH SUNDIN, award-winning author of When Tides Turn
“Catching the Wind is a sweeping and beautifully written historical novel that showcases Melanie Dobson’s ability to tell a complex and enduring tale—one that will captivate readers with how love transcends the ravages of war.”
KELLIE COATES GILBERT, author of the Texas Gold novels
“My heart raced and at times broke as I read Catching the Wind. As I’ve interviewed refugees in the Middle East and Europe, I’ve heard countless stories of people being ripped away from family, home, and country. I’ve also heard stories of hope and redemption. And ultimately that is the story of this book, that grace can take us further than we can imagine . . . to a place our hearts feel at home.”
TAMARA PARK, producer, director, and author of Sacred Encounters from Rome to Jerusalem
Shadows of Ladenbrooke Manor
“Masterful. . . . mysteries are solved, truths revealed, and loves rekindled in a book sure to draw new fans to Dobson’s already large base.”
PUBLISHERS WEEKLY
“Dobson’s latest is a splendid combination of the past and the present, skillfully woven together with an interesting mystery. The fascinating British setting, exploration of family secrets, and hopeful ending create an engaging reading experience.”
ROMANTIC TIMES
“[This] poignant mix of historical and contemporary family drama . . . delivers a beautifully redemptive love story that will appeal to a diverse audience of readers.”
SERENA CHASE, USA Today’s Happy Ever After blog
“Melanie Dobson’s magical story of the lives and loves of the Doyle women, and the healing that finally comes for them, is a beautiful tale of the redemption that can happen even when we’re not consciously looking for it.”
BOOKREPORTER.COM
“For the second year in a row, Melanie Dobson has penned my absolute favorite novel of the year. I was swept into the world of English gardens and intertwined families. Do not miss this novel!”
SARAH SUNDIN, award-winning author of When Tides Turn
Chateau of Secrets
“Amazing characters, deep family secrets, and an authentic French chateau make Dobson’s story a delight.”
ROMANTIC TIMES
“A satisfying read with two remarkable heroines.”
HISTORICAL NOVEL SOCIETY
“Intriguing and suspenseful; rich in secrets, hidden tunnels, and heroic deeds—Melanie Dobson’s Chateau of Secrets weaves a compelling tale of a family’s sacrifice for those in need. A beautiful story.”
CATHY GOHLKE, Christy Award–winning author of Secrets She Kept
Visit Tyndale online at www.tyndale.com.
Visit Melanie Dobson’s website at www.melaniedobson.com.
TYNDALE and Tyndale’s quill logo are registered trademarks of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc.
Catching the Wind
Copyright © 2017 by Melanie Dobson. All rights reserved.
Cover photograph of airplanes copyright © Everett Historical/Shutterstock. All rights reserved.
Cover photograph of girl copyright © Mark Owen/Trevillion Images. All rights reserved.
Cover photograph of petals copyright © injenerker/Depositphotos.com. All rights reserved.
Cover photograph of magnolia blossom copyright © Neirfys/Depositphotos.com. All rights reserved.
Designed by Ron Kaufmann
Edited by Sarah Mason Rische
Published in association with the literary agency of Natasha Kern Literary Agency, Inc., P.O. Box 1069, White Salmon, WA 98672.
Scripture taken from the New King James Version,® copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson, Inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved.
Catching the Wind 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.
For information about special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Tyndale House Publishers at [email protected], or call 1-800-323-9400.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Dobson, Melanie, author.
Title: Catching the wind / Melanie Dobson.
Description: Carol Stream, Illinois : Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., [2017]
Identifiers: LCCN 2016055744| ISBN 9781496424785 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781496417282 (softcover)
Subjects: LCSH: Women journalists—Fiction. | Missing persons—Investigation—Fiction. | GSAFD: Romantic suspense fiction. | Christian fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3604.O25 C38 2017 | DDC 813/.6—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016055744
Build: 2017-02-28 09:53:47
To Tosha Lamdin Williams
My forever friend and the heroine of a beautiful story.
Thank you for loving me at and through all times.
PROVERBS 17:17
“Better that one heart be broken a thousand times in the retelling . . .
if it means that a thousand other hearts need not be broken at all.”
ROBERT MCAFEE BROWN
Preface to Night by Elie Wiesel (1986)
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
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Ep
ilogue
Author’s Note
About the Author
Discussion Questions
Chapter 1
Moselkern, Germany, July 1940
Maple leaves draped over the tree house window, the silvery fronds linked together like rings of chain mail to protect the boy and girl playing inside.
Dietmar Roth charged his wooden horse across the planks, knocking down two of the Roman horses with his toy knight as he rushed toward the tower of river stones. In his thirteen years, he’d become an expert on both knights and their armor. Metal rings were useless for protection on their own, but hundreds of these rings, woven tightly together, could withstand an opponent’s arrows. Or sword.
Standing beside the tower, a miniature princess clutched in her hand, Brigitte yowled like a wildcat. As if she might really be carried away by warriors.
At the age of ten, Brigitte was an expert on royalty. And drama.
Instead of an army, Brigitte played with one toy—the princess Dietmar carved out of linden wood and painted for her last birthday. He liked renaming his knights, but Brigitte never changed the name of her toy.
Princess Adler.
Eagle.
Brigitte thought her princess could fly.
Dietmar drew a tin sword from his knight’s scabbard and began to fight the black-cloaked opposition that advanced in his mind. Stretched across the tree house floor was an entire army of battle-scarred knights, all of them with a different symbol painted on their crossbows. All of them fighting as one for the Order of the Ritterlichkeit. Chivalry.
He’d carved each of his knights’ bows from cedar and strung them with hair from Fonzell, their family’s horse—at least, Fonzell had been the Roth family horse until Herr Darre stole him away. Herr Darre was a German officer. And the Roths’ neighbor. He was punishing Herr Roth for not bringing Dietmar to Deutsches Jungvolk—the weekly meetings for Germany’s boys. Brigitte and her father were the only neighbors his family trusted anymore.
Dietmar was too old to be playing knights and princesses, but Brigitte never wanted to play anything else. And Dietmar didn’t want to play with anyone else. He and Brigitte had been the best of friends since her family moved into the house across the woods six years ago, playing for hours along the stream until his father built the tree house for them. Their mothers had been best friends too until Frau Berthold died from influenza.
Once, Herr Berthold asked Dietmar to care for Brigitte if anything ever happened to him. Dietmar had solemnly promised the man that he’d never let anything or anyone harm his daughter. Not even an army of toy knights.
He lifted one of his knights off the horse. “Brigitte . . .”
She shook her finger at him. “Princess Adler.”
Cupping his other hand around his mouth, he pretended to shout, “Princess Adler, we’ve come to rescue you.”
Brigitte flipped one of her amber-colored braids over her sleeve, calling back to him, “I will never leave my tower.”
“But we must go,” he commanded, “before the Romans arrive.”
She feigned a sigh. “There’s no one I trust.”
Dietmar reached for Ulrich, the knight who’d sworn to protect the princess at any cost, and he solemnly bowed the soldier toward her. “You can trust me, Your Majesty.”
“‘Your Majesty’ is how you address a queen,” Brigitte whispered to him as if his words might offend the princess.
Dietmar knew how to address a queen, of course. He just liked to tease her.
With his thumb, he pounded the knight’s chest. “I will protect you with my life.”
Brigitte studied the knight for a moment and then smiled. “Very well. Perhaps I shall come out.”
Outside their playhouse window, six rusty spoons hung in a circle, strung together with wire on a tree limb. The warm breeze rustled the branches, chiming the spoons, and Brigitte leaned her head outside to listen to their melody. The whole forest was an orchestra to her. The strings of sound a symphony. Brigitte heard music in the cadence of the river, the crackling of twigs, the rhythm of the wind.
Dietmar checked his watch. Only twenty minutes left to play before he started solving the geometry problems Frau Lyncker assigned him tonight. The world might be at war, but his mother still expected him to do schoolwork between four and five each afternoon. Even though everything outside their forest seemed to be foundering, his mother still hoped for their future. And she dreamed of a future filled with Frieden—peace—for her only child.
Brigitte leaned back in the window, her freckles glowing like a canvas of stars. “I shall make a wish on this tree, like Aschenputtel.”
“Should I capture the evil stepsisters?” he asked.
At times it seemed the threads of imagination stitched around her mind like rings of armor, the world of pretend cushioning her sorrow and protecting her from a real enemy that threatened all the German children. She was on the cusp of becoming a woman, yet she clung to the fairy tales of childhood.
“I want you to capture the wind.”
He laughed. “Another day, Brigitte.”
Her fists balled up against her waist. “Princess Adler.”
“Of course.”
Her gaze traveled toward the ladder nailed to the opening in the tree house floor. “I’m hungry.”
“You’re always hungry,” he teased.
“I wish we could find some Kuchen.”
He nodded. Fruits and vegetables were hard enough to obtain in the village; sweets were impossible to find, reserved for the stomachs of Hitler’s devoted. But his mother’s garden was teeming with vegetables. He and his father had devised a wire cage of sorts over the plot to keep rabbits away, though there seemed to be fewer rabbits in the woods this summer. More people, he guessed, were eating them for supper.
He’d never tell Brigitte, but some nights he felt almost hungry enough to eat a rabbit too.
“I’ll find us something better than cake.”
He left Princess Adler and her wind chimes to climb down the ladder, rubbing his hand like he always did over the initials he’d carved into the base of the trunk. D. R. was on one side of the tree, B. B. on the other.
He trekked the grassy riverbank along the Elzbach, toward his family’s cottage in the woods. Beside his mother’s garden, he opened a door made of chicken wire and skimmed his hand across parsnips, onions, and celery until his fingers brushed over a willowy carrot top.
Three carrots later, he closed the wire door and started to march toward the back door of the cottage, the carrots dangling beside him. He’d bathe their dirt-caked skin in the sink before returning to battle. Then he’d—
A woman’s scream echoed across the garden, and Dietmar froze. At first, in his confusion, he thought Brigitte was playing her princess game again, but the scream didn’t come from the forest. The sound came from inside the house, through the open window of the sitting room.
Mama.
The woman screamed again, and he dropped the carrots. Raced toward the door.
Through the window, he saw the sterile black-and-silver Gestapo uniforms, bloodred bands around the sleeves. Herr Darre and another officer towered over his parents. Mama was on the sofa, and Papa . . .
His father was unconscious on the floor.
“Where is the boy?” Herr Darre demanded.
“I don’t know,” Mama whispered.
Herr Darre raised his hand and slapped her.
Rage shot like an arrow through Dietmar’s chest, his heart pounding as he reached for the door handle, but in that moment, in a splinter of clarity, his mother’s eyes found him. And he’d never forget what he saw.
Fear. Pain. And then the briefest glimpse of hope.
“Lauf,” she mouthed.
Run.
He didn’t know if the officers heard her speak. Or if they saw him peering through the window. He simply obeyed his mother’s command.
Trembling like a ship trapped in a gale, Dietmar turned around. Then the wind
swept him away, carrying him back toward the tree house, away from his parents’ pain.
Coward, the demons in his mind shouted at him, taunting as he fled.
But his mother had told him to run. He just wouldn’t run far.
First, he’d take Brigitte to the safety of her home. Then he would return like a knight and rescue his father and mother from the enemy.
CHAPTER 2
_____
London, England, 2017
Dear Miss Vaughn,
I received your e-mail and am deeply offended by your implication that my mother participated in some sort of secret Fascist network during the war. I object to your accusations and question the integrity of the entire World News Syndicate for proposing an article founded on lies.
If you decide to pursue this course of action, I will contact my solicitor in London. Fenton & Potts will put an end to this fallacy.
Signed,
The Hon. Mrs. Samuel McMann
Quenby’s finger hovered over the Trash icon on her iPad as she skimmed the e-mail one more time, but she flagged it instead. Not that she would forget the woman’s message. Her next feature for the syndicate was banking on an interview with the Honorable—and much-appalled—Louise McMann.
Sighing, she closed the iPad cover, and her gaze wandered past the kitchen table in her flat, through the patio’s sliding-glass window. Fog veiled the hills and trees of Hampstead Heath like a filmy curtain draped over a production on the West End. Any moment the curtain would lift, revealing the spring flowers and pond below.
Usually the beauty of the view energized her, but this morning she wished she could slip back into bed. Chandler Parr—her editor and best friend—was planning to feature the espionage story next week, but even though Chandler had asked her to focus solely on this article right now, Quenby still had nothing even close to ready for publication.
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