Legacy of Secrets
Indulge your fantasies of delicious Regency Rakes, fierce Viking warriors and rugged Highlanders. Be swept away into a world of intense passion, lavish settings and romance that burns brightly through the centuriesAmid the splendors and miseries of the Gilded Age, Neala Shaw suddenly found herself entirely alone.The innocent young heiress–penniless now–had no choice but to face her family's fatal legacy of secrets and lies. And as she fled from a ruthless killer, nothing stood between her and certain death but a man unlike any she had ever known. . . .Grayson Faulkner's years as a detective and bounty hunter had marked him forever, leading him far from his once-strong values. But as he sought to protect this very special young woman–masquerading as her suitor, to save her reputation and her very life–he began to wonder if her selfless love and limitless faith could somehow guide even him home. . . .
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“Halt this instant! You’ve been shooting at me!”
Gray swiveled toward the voice, which emanated from behind a large, two-trunk oak. “Shooting at you?” he shouted back, marching across the glade. “Stop spouting nonsense and show yourself. I’m here to guide you back. You’ve nothing to fear.”
“I don’t believe you.” Neala Shaw, the bedraggled young woman with curly brown hair, brandished a tree limb in his face. “Who are you? You’re trespassing.”
Gray propped his shoulders against the tree. “You wouldn’t deter a kitten with that twig, much less a man with a gun.”
“Are you one of the sheriff’s new deputies?”
“No! I’m Isabella Chilton’s nephew. I just arrived for a visit. And I certainly didn’t plan on rescuing any damsels in distress today.”
“Well, what on earth are you angry for? You’re not the one who was almost killed!”
SARA MITCHELL
A popular and highly acclaimed author in the Christian-fiction market, Sara’s aim is to depict the struggle between the challenges of everyday life and the values to which our faith would have us aspire. The author of eight contemporary, three historical-suspense and two historical novels, her work has been published by many inspirational book publishers.
Sara has lived in diverse locations, from Georgia to California to Great Britain, and her extensive travel experience helps her create authentic settings for her books. A lifelong music lover, Sara has also written several musical dramas and has long been active in the music ministries of the churches wherever she and her husband, a retired career air force officer, have lived. The parents of two daughters, Sara and her husband now live in Virginia.
Jesus wept.
—John 11:35
For I am convinced that neither death nor life,
neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.
—Romans 8:38
For B.K. and Barry—neighbors and dear friends who
not only walk the extra mile, but provide new shoes, food for the journey and umbrellas for all the storms of life battering our family these past few years.
Thanks for being there.
Contents
Acknowledgments
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
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Acknowledgments
Many thanks to:
Dr. Robert S. Conte, historian, the Greenbrier
at White Sulphur Springs, for his hospitality, help and endless patience with all my questions. Any historical inaccuracies fall solely on my shoulders!
Melissa Endlich, my editor, whose enthusiasm and
insight warm the heart and energize the creative soul.
Janet Kobobel Grant, my long-suffering agent,
whose belief in me never falters.
Prologue
Richmond, Virginia
September 1862
On a humid, chilly evening in late September, the boy finally reached his goal. His journey had lasted three terrifying nights and four equally terrifying days; except for the first night, when he’d stowed away on a northbound freight train, he was forced to evade swarms of soldiers, rebel and bluecoats alike. They roamed the countryside and main roads like the biblical plague of locusts his grandmother talked about, the ones inflicted upon the Egyptians.
For two of those nights the boy hid shivering in fear under cover of a forest, in a thicket of wild rhododendron, his nose filled with the ripe odors of leaves and wet earth while a hundred yards away the awful sounds of bloodcurdling battle rent the air. The thought of killing a human being twisted his insides. When he could no longer bear the cold and fear and uncertainty, he clapped his hands over his ears, choking on tears wept in desperate silence.
Swallowing hard against the memory, he focused on his present surroundings—a narrow alley on a busy street. Tall brick buildings engulfed him instead of trees; a cluster of wooden crates shielded him instead of bushes. Instead of the noise of battle, the sounds of a city filled his ears. Buggies and wagons rattled past in the street. Crowds of people choked the walkways. As the moments passed, gradually he crept onto the sidewalk and huddled in the shadow of the doorway to some kind of store. Directly across the street, a fancy hotel rose in lofty grandeur between two nondescript brick buildings. Inside that hotel, the man he had traveled over a hundred miles to see dined with his family, oblivious to the existence of the scrawny thirteen-year-old boy who was his nephew.
Time passed while he tried to decide what to do. He could feel his heartbeat clear up inside his ears. Dusk settled in, and he watched the lamplighter’s progress along the street, lighting up the tall streetlights. Several times shiny carriages stopped in front of the hotel, collected and discharged men in top hats and expensive-looking suits, along with women in their hooped skirts wide enough for a flock of chickens to hide under. A colored man clad in a hideous purple uniform guarded the hotel entrance, nodding to arriving guests as he held open the door.
