Within My Heart (Timber Ridge Reflections Book #3) , livre ebook

Baker Publishing Group - Tamera Alexander

Découvre YouScribe en t'inscrivant gratuitement

Je m'inscris

Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne
En savoir plus

194 pages

English

Vous pourrez modifier la taille du texte de cet ouvrage

Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne
En savoir plus

A propos
Informations
Extrait

Description

Widow Rachel Boyd struggles to keep her ranch afloat and provide for her two young sons, though some days it feels as though her efforts are sabotaged at every turn. When her cattle come down with disease and her sons' lives are endangered, she must turn to Rand Brookston, Timber Ridge's physician and reluctant veterinarian. While Rachel appreciates his help, she squelches any feelings she might have for Rand--her own father was a doctor and his patients always took priority over his family. Rachel refuses to repeat the mistakes her mother made. But when she's courted by a wealthy client of the local resort, she faces a choice: self-sufficiency and security or the risk inherent in the deepest of loves.

Sujets

Historical fiction

Informations

Publié par	Baker Publishing Group
Date de parution	01 septembre 2010
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781441212962
Langue	English
Poids de l'ouvrage	1 Mo

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0259€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

Praise for Tamera Alexander’s T IMBER R IDGE R EFLECTIONS series
“Pull up a comfy armchair! The main and secondary characters [in Beyond This Moment ] instantly become people to care about, and the plot twists will keep you turning pages long into the night. The themes of racial tolerance and second chances are as timely today as they were back in the early days of Colorado’s history.”
Romantic Times, 4½ star review
“Tamera Alexander is, without question, a must-read author who appreciates exceptional writing and loves to close a book with a heartfelt and satisfied sigh of delight!”
Relz Reviewz
“. . . thought-provoking plot and poignant prose. . . . You will be whisked Beyond This Moment into another time and place.”
Historical Novels Reviews
“Tamera Alexander . . . is extremely talented in how she paints the scenes so vividly you think you’re there watching the story unfold. The story as well as her characters are written with depth . . . you can feel the emotions they are experiencing.”
Once Upon a Romance
Honors for F OUNTAIN C REEK C HRONICLES series
Rekindled was named to Library Journal ’s Best Books of 2006 list, was a nominee for Romantic Time ’s Best Inspirational Novel of 2006, and was a finalist for the 2007 RITA Award for Best First Book and for Best Inspirational Romance.
Revealed won the 2007 Romance Writers of America RITA Award for Best Inspirational Romance.
Remembered won the 2008 Christy Award for Best Historical Romance and the 2007 National Readers’ Choice Award for Inspirational Fiction.
Honors for T IMBER R IDGE R EFLECTIONS series
From a Distance won the 2009 Christy Award for Best Historical Romance.
Beyond This Moment won the 2010 Gayle Wilson Award of Excellence for Inspirational-Single Title and the Holt Medallion for Long Inspirational, and was a finalist for the 2010 Christy Award for Best Historical Romance.

© 2010 by Tamera Alexander
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 2010
Ebook corrections 10.23.2018
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—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—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 978-1-4412-1296-2
Scripture quotations identified KJV are from the King James Version of the Bible.
Cover design by Studio Gearbox Cover photograph by Steve Gardner, PixelWorks Studios, Inc.
To my precious mother, June Gattis. Heaven is sweeter still, knowing you’re there.
Keep thy heart with all diligence; for out of it are the issues of life.
P ROVERBS 4:23
Contents
Cover
Endorsements
Honors
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
Epilogue
A Note from Tamera
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Other Books by Tamera Alexander
Ad
Back Cover
P ROLOGUE
D USK, HOURS FOLLOWING THE B ATTLE OF N ASHVILLE D ECEMBER 17, 1864
H alf hidden beneath the bare-limbed canopy of a dogwood tree, the gravedigger kept a reverent distance, patiently waiting for the last whispered prayers to be uttered and for the final mourner to take her leave. Only then did he step into the fading light, a worn spool of string clutched tight in his gnarled hand. Not much time left. It would be dark soon. And the last grave still needed tending before the pewter skies let loose their winter white.
The distant squeak of wagon wheels and the clomp of horses’ hooves faded into the night, leaving only the faint chirrup of crickets to companion the silence. Jessup Collum lifted the lid of the oblong pine box and with painstaking care, his arthritic fingers numb from the cold and marred with time and age, he tied a trailing length of string around the soldier’s right wrist. Mindful not to tie the string overtight, he looped the other end through a tiny bell.
He stared for a moment at the soldier’s face—the fallen Confederate a mere boy judging from his features—then he glanced around at the freshly covered graves. Deep in his bones he knew what he was doing was right, even if a bit out of the ordinary. There was no malice in his actions, and no sin, most certainly. Nothing that would bring serious offense. Though folks would surely think him a touch senile, if they saw. If they knew . . .
So many ways for a man to die, yet only one was needed for the earth to cradle a body back from whence all life had come.
Jessup turned that thought over in his mind as he’d done countless times before, not indifferent to the shadows stealing across the graveyard as the December sun hastened its retreat. Nightfall brought bitter cold, but not a breath of wind stirred, and each snowflake lofted downward from heaven, unhindered in its journey. He worked hurriedly to cover the last grave, mindful of the trailing string.
After the last shovel of dirt, he straightened, slowly, his crooked spine bearing the brunt of forty-two years of tending this hallowed ground—and of the last few hours of burying the bloodied remnants the Federal Army had abandoned following their assault. If the once-valiant Tennessee Army had been crippled in the battle at Franklin two weeks ago, then the past two days of fighting had delivered a mortal wound.
Jessup lit a torch and stared over row after row of mounded earth, the light casting a burnished glow around him. Too many and too young were those who lay here, going before their time. Before their lives had been lived out. He thought again of the young woman earlier who’d been last to take her leave.
Dark-haired with skin pale and smooth as cream, she’d knelt for the longest time at the grave on the far end, one he’d taken care in covering not two hours earlier, as he’d done the one at his feet just now. She’d huddled close by that grave, weeping, arms drawn around herself, looking as if she’d wanted to lay herself down and mark an end to her own life, what little she had left after losing the man buried there—“a decorated lieutenant from the Tennessee regiment, and my only brother,” she’d whispered through tears.
The wound on the lieutenant’s neck had told Jessup how the man had died, and the sutures and bloodstained bandages told him how hard some doctor had fought to save him. Shame how fast these soldiers were buried. No proper funeral. No time for one—not with the Federal Army bearing down hard, void of mercy, bent on conquering what little was left.
He tugged the worn collar of his coat closer about his neck and begged the Almighty, again, to intervene, to put an end to this war. Surely it couldn’t go on much longer.
A heavy mist crept over the rise from the creek, shrouding the stone markers. The fog seemed to deepen the pungent aroma of upturned earth, and a beguiling trace of honeysuckle clung to the cool night air, despite the wild vine not being in bloom. Jessup took a deeper whiff and could almost taste the sweet summer nectar. A smile pushed up his whiskered cheeks. Maybe folks were right. Maybe he was a touch senile after all. These days recent memories skittered off about as quickly as he reached for them, while others that should have been long gathering dust inched closer as the years stretched on.
He sat down against an ancient poplar, borrowing its strength. Still no wind, and the snow had ceased falling. He imagined the boy’s face again, able to see it clearly in his mind’s eye as he stared at the bell, willing it to move.
Even the slightest bit.
He put his head back, resting his eyes, only for a moment. But the moments lengthened and gathered and pulled taut, coaxing him along on a gentle wave, absent of the throb in his lower back and the ache across his swollen knuckles.
He was a boy again, running through fields knee-high with summer grass, the sun hot on his face, sweat from a humid Tennessee afternoon beading on his forehead and matting his hair to his head. Someone called to him in the distance. A voice so sweet . . . A lifetime had passed since he’d heard that voice. Mother . . .
He ran, youthful legs pumping hard, trying to reach her, wanting to see her again. But the faster he ran, the farther away her voice seemed to—Jessup awakened with a start, his breath coming in sharp staggers.
An uncanny sense of presence crowded the darkness around him, and he realized the torch had gone out. He sat straighter, head cocked to one side, and listened, straining to hear his mother’s voice again.
But her voice was gone.
He wiped the telling moisture from his cheeks and rose, the joints cracking in his knees. In all his days, he couldn’t recall so still a night. So loud a hush over the graves. With a sinking feeling, he looked down at the grave of the young boy. It was late now. Too late.
He prayed the boy was at peace, wherever he was. Same for the decorated lieutenant down the way. He didn’t know much about the afterlife—not like folks expected him to—but he reckoned if God was as kind as he believed Him to be that there was some sort of special welcome going on right now for those men who’d laid down their lives in this terrible—
The distant tinkling of a bell brought Jessup upright.
A skitter shimmied up his spine. The air trapped viselike in his lungs. Praying he wasn’t still dreaming, he searched the darkness at the end of the row where the woman had knelt earlier, and his skin turned to gooseflesh. If this was what some folks felt when they visited this place late at night,