by Tammy Barley
Praise for Tammy Barley and Love’s Rescue
Tammy Barley paints a vivid picture of the rugged Nevada territory in this mid-1860s story wrought with adventure, romance, drama, and suspense. Lively narrative and rich descriptive detail make Love’s Rescue a definite page-turner!
—Sharlene MacLaren, best-selling author, The Little Hickman Creek Series, The Daughters of Jacob Kane Series,
Long Journey Home, and Through Every Storm
Tammy Barley brings a new voice to historical romantic fiction. Characters the reader bonds with are firmly anchored in a setting with just the right amount of description sprinkled in. A strong story that keeps the pages turning. A real keeper.
—Lena Nelson Dooley, award-winning author,
editor, and speaker
Tammy Barley delivers an action-packed adventure in Love’s Rescue. As Jessica and Jake struggle to free her brother from a Civil War prison camp, they endure hardships that test their mettle, their faith…and their steadily mounting feelings for each other. Every aspect of this richly woven tale—from the picturesque vistas to the dangerous and deeply emotional elements of war—will draw readers in and not let them go until they add Love’s Rescue to their “keepers” list!
—Loree Lough, best-selling author of more than
seventy award-winning novels, including
Love Finds You in Paradise, Pennsylvania
Love’s Rescue proves chivalry is not dead in an action-packed Western romance between two hurting people. In her fiction debut, author Tammy Barley pulls you in with her true-to-life characterization and tender message of finding hope in the midst of devastating loss.
—Vickie McDonough, award-winning author
of sixteen books and novellas
Set in the Nevada Territory during the War Between the States, Tammy Barley’s debut novel tells an unforgettable story of love and loyalty, hatred and healing, and the true meaning of family and friendship. Like the blanket the heroine weaves, Love’s Rescue blends fascinating details of Paiute culture, well-placed moments of humor, and heart-pounding drama to create a beautiful portrayal of a woman’s struggle to survive after tragedy.
—Amanda Cabot, author, Paper Roses
In Love’s Rescue, Tammy Barley writes a Western historical romance with great heart backed by solid research and packed with surprising twists and turns. Her setting is one that has seldom been used during the Civil War but which nonetheless was deeply affected by it. It was a pleasure to read from start to finish.
—Laurie Kingery, author,
The Outlaw’s Lady and Hill Country Christmas
Publisher’s Note:
This novel is a work of fiction. References to real events, organizations, or places are used in a fictional context. Any resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, are entirely coincidental.
Unless otherwise indicated, all Scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Holy Bible. Scripture quotations marked (niv) are from the Holy Bible, New International Version®, niv®, © 1973, 1978, 1984 by the International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan.
All rights reserved.
Love’s Rescue
Book One in The Sierra Chronicles
Tammy Barley
www.tammybarley.com
ISBN: 978-1-60374-108-8
Printed in the United States of America
© 2009 by Tammy Barley
Whitaker House
1030 Hunt Valley Circle
New Kensington, PA 15068
www.whitakerhouse.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Barley, Tammy, 1969–
Love’s rescue / by Tammy Barley.
p. cm. — (The Sierra chronicles ; 1)
Summary: “When Jessica Hale loses her family in a fire set to their home by Unionists targeting Southern sympathizers, she struggles to heal and rebuild her life with the help and protection of Jake Bennett, a godly ranch owner, and by the grace of God”—Provided by publisher.
ISBN 978-1-60374-108-8 (trade pbk. : alk. paper) 1. United States—
History—Civil War, 1861–1865—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3602.A77557L68 2009
813’.6—dc22
2009008856
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical—including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system—without permission in writing from the publisher. Please direct your inquiries to [email protected].
Dedication
To the memory of my dear friend, the sister of my heart, Lynette Moll. I wish you could have seen what you inspired.
And to my parents, family, and friends, especially Connor, Reece, and McKenna, the joys of my life. I couldn’t have done this without you.
Acknowledgments
My deep appreciation goes to…
Kurt Holman, Manager of Perryville Battlefield State Historic Site in Perryville, Kentucky—never have I met anyone so generous with his time and knowledge.
ACFW critiquers and friends Flavia Crowner, Lisa Lickel, Beth Shriver, and John Otte—you all are answers to prayers that I haven’t told you about.
My tireless literary agent, Terry Burns, who probably likes my writing because I write a little like he does.
The talented, talented editors and cover artists at Whitaker House. You all are a blessing to many.
Tim and Iris Gosselin, my parents, who inspired my love of history, horses, and nature, and who encouraged and believed in me.
My Lord and Savior, for whispering in my ear that I should be a writer.
My dear readers—I pray you are entertained, inspired, and drawn closer to God, who loves you always.
The Lord said,
“Go out and stand on the mountain
in the presence of the Lord,
for the Lord is about to pass by.”
Then a great and powerful wind tore
the mountains apart and shattered
the rocks before the Lord,
but the Lord was not in the wind.
After the wind there was an earthquake,
but the Lord was not in the earthquake.
After the earthquake came a fire,
but the Lord was not in the fire.
And after the fire came a gentle whisper.
—1 Kings 19:11–12 (niv)
Prologue
Carson City, Nevada Territory
April 1860
She was going to lose him. With trembling fingers, Jessica Hale pushed back the brown tendrils of hair the wind was whipping into her eyes. Further down the road, her brother handed the last of his cases to the driver on top of the stagecoach, then tossed his hat through the window onto a seat with an air of resolve. He turned and strode toward her.
His wavy, wind-tossed hair gleamed brightly in the morning sun, its sandy hue like gold coins dulled intermittently by shifting dust. His sky-blue eyes—eyes that gleamed with subtle mockery or shone with patient understanding—now attempted to disguise unspoken regret. He smoothed a hand over each of the sorrel coach horses and calmly took in the young town he was leaving behind. Jessica knew better. He was going to miss this—the town, their parents. But his heart called him home. Ambrose was every inch a Kentucky gentleman. He always had been. Her throat tightened.
“Jessica?”
She couldn’t help but smile. Jessica. Like always, he spoke her name with that deep, flowing timbre that made her think of the brook they had often played in as children.
“Now what is that smile for?”
“I’ll miss the sound of your voice. It’s so pleasant.”
“It is?” Ambrose’s eyes sparkled at her in a
musement. “You never told me that before.”
“Well, now you know.” She loved the Southern lilt of it, the quiet honor he wore just as naturally as his greatcoat. She took a deep breath to steady herself. “Are your bags loaded, then?”
“They are. The driver was kind enough to strap them down. With the rough going, I’ll get bounced out long before they will.”
Her smile faded. “Perhaps you should stay.”
“Jess…” Ambrose patiently drew her hand through the crook of his arm and tipped his head toward the road. “We have a few minutes left before the stage leaves. Let’s walk for a bit.”
Jess sighed in frustration but complied, letting her head fall against his shoulder as they walked. At the edge of town, she looked back at Carson City’s wide streets, lazy with the long, morning shadows of tall buildings and newly built frames that smelled of sawn wood. One by one, other pedestrians appeared, striding briskly; then came rattling wagons, kicking up trails of dust this way and that. The wind whipped at Jess’s skirt and Ambrose’s coat, cavorting among the silvery green desert sage leaves that fluttered around them. The sights and sensations that usually intrigued her had amalgamated into one frolicking, singing fool, playing cruelly to her burdened heart.
Jess’s gaze followed the road out of town, then lifted to rest on the peaks that rose high above. The Mexican people called these mountains the Sierra Nevadas—the snowy mountains. When she had come West with her family a year before, Jess had thought them magnificent. In a wild, untamed way, they reminded her of the Kentucky homeland they had left behind. Instead of the rolling green hills and broadleaf forests she had always known, the Sierras jutted boldly from the desert like a rare stone half buried in sand. Depending on the angle of the sun, their terrain was a glorious red or gold.
For a moment, Jess merely breathed, drawing in the fresh scent of the pinyon pines that dotted the distant slopes and mingled with the earthy aroma of sage. Only a few months ago, winter had prevailed, and so had the glittering snows on the Sierras.
Ambrose, dear Ambrose, had understood her need to be outdoors. He’d convinced their father a time or two to excuse him from work, then had taken her riding amid the stark beauty of the mountains.
Their father.
Jess frowned, pushing back strands of hair that had torn from their heavy twist and were stinging her eyes. A brusque but shrewd businessman and horse breeder from Lexington, their father had brought the family West to escape the growing turbulence in the South, and here, his import business thrived. With the recent discovery of untold millions of dollars in gold and silver buried in the land, the eager-to-be-rich swarmed to the Comstock from every major seaport in the world. Those fortunate enough to strike a vein of the mother lode scrambled to Hale Imports to stake their claims in society by acquiring French wines, Venetian glassware, Turkish carpets, and handcrafted furnishings made of dark German wood.
A golden dream for many, perhaps, but not for Jess. Her family had considerable wealth, but possessions beyond life’s basic comforts didn’t matter to her. What did matter were her father, her mother, and her brother, Ambrose, and the strength they had always given one another in face of the threat of war between North and South.
And the threat had become considerable.
Jess tightened her grip on Ambrose’s arm. He patted her hand reassuringly.
Worse, her family hadn’t left war fever behind as her father had hoped they would. Its effects were sweeping across the country like the unstoppable waves of the sea. Miners and other men in town chose sides as the conflict loomed nearer. Heated political discussions often erupted into fistfights in the streets. In the same way, tension had escalated within the Hale family as their loyalties divided. And now, Ambrose was about to return to Lexington—against his father’s will—to rejoin his militia unit. It was predicted that war would break out within a year. Two days earlier, when Ambrose had announced to Jess and their parents his intent to fight to protect Lexington, Jess had stood strong—stunned but unflinching. The announcement was followed by two days of her father and brother yelling and her mother pleading. A lifetime of paternal love was burning to cinders.
Their father was still so angry about his son’s decision that he had refused to see him to the stage stop, coldly disallowing all but the briefest of good-byes between mother and son.
Jess finally broke the silence. “I thought this place would be the answer, Ambrose. I thought here we would be safe from the war.” She stopped walking and tossed him a valiant smile. “What will I do without you?”
Ambrose considered her soberly. She’d hoped he would tease her gently. Not this time. “You’re seventeen now, Jess. At seventeen, most ladies stop concerning themselves with their families and set their eyes on marriage.”
“Marriage? Marriage! How could you suggest that?” She flung aside her earlier self-promise to remain calm. “This particular subject has never come up before, but since it has, let me tell you, Ambrose, I don’t need a husband to manage my life and order me about.”
“Jess—”
“I know you want to protect me, and I love you for it. But the South and its marrying traditions are a great distance away. Here, women are strong and independent”—she fought to control the anger in her voice— “and so am I. I’ve seen too many wives’ hopes destroyed by their husbands’ selfish wants and ambitions. I could never live my life under some man’s boot heel. I’ll make my way on my own.”
Ambrose gave her a reluctant smile. “All right. There’s no talking you into an idea your mind is set against. Keep yourself busy, then. Tell Father you want to keep books at Hale Imports. You’ve been schooled the same as I have. You’ll do well.”
Jess’s legs nearly gave out. “Keeping his accounts is your job!” Ambrose wasn’t coming back at all—not even after the war. She really was going to lose him.
“No, Jess. Not anymore.” He shifted his gaze to the territory around them. “This place has never fit me the way it has you. That house in Kentucky is our house. Its lands are Hale lands. I was born and raised at Greenbriar, and so were you. That’s my home, Jess.” He faced her squarely. “When the war comes, I’ll defend it, whether the invading army is from the North or the South.”
Jess’s throat ached to beg him to stay. Their friendship was special, rare, in spite of growing up together amid talk of secession and war. Or perhaps because of it. She wanted to keep her brother close—and safe. Yet she forced down the urge to give words to her feelings. Ambrose’s blood flowed for Greenbriar, for Lexington. A year away hadn’t changed that. Yes, she loved him. Enough to understand that. Enough to let him go.
“I guess I always knew you’d go back,” she admitted, “and I understand, I really do. I just hate knowing that you’ll be right in the middle of the fighting.” She raised a hand. “And I hate that Father’s turned his back on you when you need him most! How could he do that to you? How could he do that to Mother?” All at once, she knew. “He’s doing this because of Broderick, isn’t he?”
Broderick had died as a baby, when Jess was only five. Even now, she could clearly remember holding her little brother as his fever raged, could remember how helpless she had felt when she’d lain awake at night listening to his pathetic coughs in the nursery down the hall. Jess had been devastated when he died, but their mother…their mother had never been the same. Her joy and laughter Jess knew about only because Ambrose had told her of the way she had once been.
Ambrose acknowledged the fact. “Father doesn’t think Mother could bear to lose another son.”
Jess nodded slowly. “Then you’d best stay alive.”
The corner of his sandy mustache lifted. “You’re a Hale, that’s for certain. Idealistic and stubborn, through and through.”
“Hopefully stubborn enough to get through to Father. You know I can’t let things remain the way they are between the two of you.”
“Jess, I’d like to warn you against—”
“That would be
pointless.” At his gentle frown of censure, she ordered her thoughts and explained. “For as long as I can remember, you were the one who held our family together. Not Father, even when he was home. It was not Mother or anyone else, but you. You reasoned with Father when business made him unreasonable, you were a constant comfort to Mother, and you sat by my bed at night when storms and thunder threatened to shake the house apart.”
“You just wanted company while you were awake.” He lightly tugged a lock of her hair in a teasing way. “You never feared storms or anything else.”
“For the past few years, I’ve feared the coming war.” She lifted her chin and, with a mental step forward that she would never retrace, left the remnants of her childhood behind. “You won’t be here to keep us together. Now I’ll take your place and do what you’ve always done, and rely on solid Hale determination to see me through. Ambrose, don’t worry about Mother, or about Father’s anger at your decision to go. I’ll hold our family together, and I’ll do all I can to change his heart.”
Gratitude battled concern in his face as he studied his sister, but Jess knew that he also understood firsthand the inborn loyalty that drove her. “Just be careful you don’t jeopardize your relationship with him on my account,” he said.
“I will be careful.”
There was a movement near the stagecoach. A mailbag was slung aboard.
Jess’s heart lurched. It was almost time for him to go.
Ambrose patted her hand and looked intently into her eyes. “I don’t know when I’ll see you again. We’d better say good-bye.”
“No!” She shook her head, fighting sudden tears. “I won’t say good-bye.”
“Jess, I don’t want to frighten you, but if the war comes—”
“Then the war will end! Ambrose, if we say good-bye, it’s as if we won’t see each other again. I can’t do that. I have to believe—I have to know—that one day you’ll come back.”
