Shining Light (Home to Amana Book #3) , livre ebook

Baker Publishing Group - Judith Miller

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168 pages

English

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The kind people of Amana have been her guiding light, but her greatest trial is yet to come...West Amana, Iowa, 1890After Andrea Wilson receives the devastating news that her husband has been lost at sea, she returns home to Iowa with her young son, Lukas. But what she finds there causes more heartache: The family farm has burned and her father has died, leaving Andrea with nothing.Andrea must rely on the kindness of the people from the nearby Amana village who invite her to stay with them for a time. She discovers much generosity and contentment among the Amanans--especially from the tinsmith, Dirk Knefler, who takes her son under his wing. But is the simple, cloistered life in Amana what Andrea wants for Lukas's future? Is she willing to give up the comforts and freedom of the outside world? And when yet another round of shocking news comes her way, will Andrea ever be able to find the serenity and hope that have eluded her for so long?

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Historical fiction

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Publié par	Baker Publishing Group
Date de parution	04 mars 2014
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781441263599
Langue	English
Poids de l'ouvrage	1 Mo

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0432€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

© 2014 by Judith A. Miller
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438 www.bethanyhouse.com
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan
www . bakerpublishinggroup . com
Ebook edition created 2014
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
ISBN 978-1-4412-6359-9
Scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover design by Lookout Design, Inc.
Cover photography by Aimee Christensen
Author is represented by Books & Such Literary Agency.
To Mary Greb-Hall for her many years of friendship and unfailing assistance.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
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
Note to Readers . . .
Special thanks to . . .
About the Author
Books by Judith Miller
Back Ads
Back Cover
Chapter 1
Early March 1890 Baltimore, Maryland Andrea Neumann Wilson
Unable to grasp the totality of Mr. Brighton’s message, I gripped the brass doorknob and attempted to steady myself against the splintered doorjamb. Concern shone in the eyes of the owner of Brighton Shipping Lines, a well-dressed gentleman who looked out of place in this brick tenement with its leaking roof, cracked dormer windows, and wooden cornices that begged repair. My mind told me I should invite him inside, but the words would not come. Instead, my lips tightened into a thin line, and a lump the size of a hedge apple lodged in my throat.
“I hope you’re not going to faint on me, Mrs. Wilson.” Mr. Brighton nodded toward the interior of the small apartment. “You should sit down.”
Still holding my arm, he propelled me toward one of the rickety wooden chairs not far from the entrance. Of course nothing was far from the doorway of the one-room tenement that had become our Baltimore home. Lukas, my seven-year-old son who had been napping on a narrow bed lodged against the wall, rolled over and rubbed his eyes. His gaze settled on Mr. Brighton.
“Who is that, Mama?” The moment he asked, he cast a glance about the room. “Is Papa home?” A hint of fear edged his childish voice.
Pity clouded Mr. Brighton’s eyes. He leaned close and kept his voice low. “Do you want me to tell the boy?”
“No. I’ll speak with him after you’ve gone.” I crooked my finger to motion Lukas to my side. His bare feet slapped on the wooden floorboards as he crossed the room. “Put on your shoes and go downstairs to Mrs. Adler’s rooms. She told me she would have a piece of bread and butter for you when you got up from your nap.”
His lips curved in a smile that tugged at my heart. Instead of growing too large for his clothes, his shirt and trousers hung loose on his frame. He was too thin. So was I. So were most of the people who lived in these run-down tenement buildings.
Unlike me in my youth, when I’d never felt the sting of abuse or felt the pinch of hunger, Lukas had experienced the opposite. He’d lived with his father’s wrath and gone to bed hungry far too often. While I had experienced the wonders of nature on our Iowa farm, Lukas had been deprived of a carefree childhood. Instead of running through fields and meadows, he lived in an aging tenement building where I did my best to keep him safe. Too soon, fear and worry had caused my son to seem far older than his seven years.
“I’ll come back and share it with you,” he offered.
I shook my head. “No. You eat every bite yourself. And stay with Mrs. Adler until I come and fetch you. Understand?”
He shoved his right foot into one of the worn brown shoes, then pulled the end of his sock forward and tucked it over a small hole in the toe of his sock before donning the other shoe. Looking up at me, he grinned. “Now my toe won’t poke out.”
I tucked a wisp of hair behind my ear. “I’ll darn that for you when you come back home. Be sure you remind me before bedtime.”
“I will, Mama,” he called as he flew out the door. His shoes clacked a familiar beat on the narrow wooden steps that provided the only means of passage from our third-floor room.
Our building was situated in a row of tenements near the foul and ruinous sweatshops where many of our neighbors worked for meager wages and hoped for a better life. Others, like me, were wives of sailors who depended upon the earnings their husbands might—or might not—bring home after returning from sea. The area was plagued with poverty and crime, but right now I didn’t need to worry about Lukas going outdoors without me. The expectation of an extra piece of bread provided ample assurance that he’d go directly to Louise Adler’s apartment. And Louise wouldn’t permit him out of her sight without me.
Mr. Brighton remained standing near the doorway, and though he gave no indication, I knew he wanted to be on his way. “I wish I came bearing better news, Mrs. Wilson, but . . .” His voice evaporated like a morning fog drenched with sunlight.
“You truly believe my husband is . . . dead?” My voice trembled, not so much from fear or sorrow, but from utter disbelief. “If the men didn’t recover his body, how can you be certain?”
He drew a step closer and touched my shoulder. “There isn’t a person on the crew who believes your husband is alive, Mrs. Wilson. Had there been any hope, I would have waited before coming to call on you. I realize it’s difficult to comprehend, but when there’s a storm at sea—well, I don’t want to go into the details. Suffice it to say that your husband was not seen after the storm. The ship’s records reveal your husband boarded the ship in Martinique for the return to Baltimore. However, John Calvert, one of the sailors who is said to be a friend of your husband, reported he saw him wash over. In addition, the crew assures me they searched every nook and cranny of the ship, and he wasn’t found after the storm.”
“So you believe he was washed overboard during a storm and there’s no hope his body will be recovered?” My mind reeled as I attempted to digest the news. Could I truly believe Fred would never again enter this room in a drunken stupor and crawl into bed beside me at night? That he would never again shout profanities and strike me? That he would never again hurt Lukas with his odious words and deeds?
“I’m afraid so.” He reached into his pocket and withdrew an envelope. “I know this doesn’t in any way make up for the loss you’ve suffered, but we at Brighton Shipping hope this contribution will assist you and your son. Your husband’s final pay is included, as well.” When I didn’t immediately extend my hand to accept the envelope, he leaned around me and placed it on the dilapidated table. “Will you stay here in Baltimore? I’d be willing to help you find some sort of work.”
The man appeared befuddled and uncertain what more to offer, yet it was likely he’d been required to perform this unpleasant duty on previous occasions. After all, sailors frequently were lost at sea, and many were injured or died in accidents on the wharves, as well.
Perhaps it was my lack of tearful emotion that baffled him. “I’m not yet sure what I will do, Mr. Brighton, but I doubt I’ll remain in Baltimore.”
He cleared his throat. “Well, should you change your mind and desire my help locating work, you need only send word to my office, and I’ll do what I can.” With a final glance around the room, he took a backward step. “If there’s nothing else I can do, I suppose I should get back to my office.” When I rested my hand on the table for support and began to rise, he waved me back to my chair. “No need to get up, Mrs. Wilson. You relax and gain your strength.”
I wanted to explain that it wasn’t the news of Fred’s death that had caused my weakness. Truth be told, the news caused more relief than pain, but I would never utter those words aloud—at least not to this stranger. Touching the envelope he’d placed on the table, I realized I hadn’t acknowledged his gift. “Thank you, Mr. Brighton. I appreciate your kindness. I am sure your gift will be of great help to us.”
“I wish you well, Mrs. Wilson.” He gave a brief nod before he hurried out the door and down the steps. He appeared eager to leave now that he had performed his official duty, and I didn’t blame him. No one wanted to remain in this section of Fells Point unless he had nowhere else to go.
Through the open window, I heard the children in the street below begging for money, but when Mr. Brighton ignored them, their beseeching pleas soon turned to angry invectives. If he didn’t give in to their demands or make a quick escape, they would soon hurl stones at him. Prepared to shout at the children, I stepped to the window, but Mr. Brighton had already disappeared from sight. He’d obviously chosen to quicken his step.
Returning to the table, I picked up the envelope and lifted the flap. Carefully, I counted the sum. Mr. Brighton had spoken the truth. It wasn’t much. Still, any amount was better than nothing. Along with the cash, Mr. Brighton had included an accounting of Fred’s wages. I scanned the carefully penned figures. The number