Rose Legacy (Diamond of the Rockies Book #1) , livre ebook

Baker Publishing Group - Kristen Heitzmann

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236 pages

English

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Driven by hope and vengeance, Carina Maria DiGratia leaves her idyllic home in Sonoma, California, for a new life in the mining town of Crystal, Colorado. Though the town has a rough element, Carina is determined that it is the place her dreams will come true. Early on, two men vie for her trust, but neither is what he seems. Will Carina discern the truth in time to prevent tragedy?

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Publié par	Baker Publishing Group
Date de parution	01 novembre 2009
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781585588015
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.

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© 2000 by Kristen Heitzmann
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 04.14.2016 (VBN), 12.19.2016
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 978-1-58558-801-5
Scripture quotations identified NASB are taken from the NEW AMERICAN STANDARD BIBLE,® Copyright © The Lockman Foundation 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, 1995. Used by permission. ( www.Lockman.org )
Cover design by Jennifer Parker Cover image of mining town courtesy of Telluride Historical Museum, all rights reserved. Cover model photography by Mike Habermann
To Trevor for your laughter, your zeal, and your exuberance.
Thus will I bless you while I live; lifting up my hands, I will call upon your name. As with the riches of a banquet shall my soul be satisfied, and with exultant lips my mouth shall praise you.
Psalm 63:4–5, NASB
To Virginia Campbell, whose generosity and dedication to the Pikes Peak branch of The National League of American Pen Women is a joyful inspiration to me.
C ONTENTS
C OVER
T ITLE
C OPYRIGHT PAGE
D EDICATION
CHAPTER O NE
CHAPTER T WO
CHAPTER T HREE
CHAPTER F OUR
CHAPTER F IVE
CHAPTER S IX
CHAPTER S EVEN
CHAPTER E IGHT
CHAPTER N INE
CHAPTER T EN
CHAPTER E LEVEN
CHAPTER T WELVE
CHAPTER T HIRTEEN
CHAPTER F OURTEEN
CHAPTER F IFTEEN
CHAPTER S IXTEEN
CHAPTER S EVENTEEN
CHAPTER E IGHTEEN
CHAPTER N INETEEN
CHAPTER T WENTY
CHAPTER T WENTY-ONE
CHAPTER T WENTY-TWO
CHAPTER T WENTY-THREE
CHAPTER T WENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER T WENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER T WENTY-SIX
CHAPTER T WENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER T WENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER T WENTY-NINE
CHAPTER T HIRTY
CHAPTER T HIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER T HIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER T HIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER T HIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER T HIRTY-FIVE
A CKNOWLEDGMENTS
B OOKS
B ACK COVER
O NE

It is a fact that the human heart differs from all other species. While its function to the body is the same of all animals, its participation with the human soul is both rhapsodic and fatal.
—Rose
June 7, 1880
W ITH A HOLLOW CRACK the wagon lurched to the side and lolloped like a large lamed animal. Yanking on the reins, Carina DiGratia set the brake with one deft foot and brought it to a grinding halt. She pressed a hand to her chest while her heart pounded in her throat. A quick glance to the left made her head swim.
It was not that the grade of the road was so steep, but rather that it wound upward until it brought her to a dizzying height that overlooked the chasm below—a chasm filled with teeth ready to chew and swallow her. She closed her eyes and resisted the swelling fear. Nothing in the traveler’s guide she had read mentioned a road more fit for mountain sheep than human travel.
Praying the brake would hold, Carina jumped down and snatched up a rock the size of a Bantam hen. This she shoved behind the wagon’s outside back wheel, then she hurried to the other side. There, between the wagon and the rock wall of the canyon, she crouched to survey the damage. Loose rungs and a cracked felly that rendered the wheel worthless. This after everything else! Perchè? Why?
She stood up and kicked the wheel’s rim. The shock of the blow jarred her shin up to the knee and she gasped in pain, gripping her leg and hopping backward. Then she balled her fists and stood still, feet planted, and scowled at the wheel as though that could make it right.
Carina should have known that the old wagonwright was cheating her, the way he wouldn’t look her in the eye. She had sensed it but ignored her feelings because she trusted. Always she trusted! The old man had thought her a fool, and she had proved him right. She pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead and paced behind the wagon, halting well short of the edge.
Turning, Carina shaded her eyes with her hand and surveyed the trail that snaked up the canyon wall. She should be grateful; a broken outside wheel might have tipped her over the brink. Her stomach lurched at the thought, and she stumbled, gripping the wagon bed.
She edged around the side of the wagon to the large umber mule harnessed there and ran her hand along the enormous dusty back, then tangled her fingers in his wiry mane, taking comfort in his company.
“Bene!” And in English, “Well! What now, Dom?”
He snuffled her hand, the stiff whiskers of his velvety muzzle tickling her palm. His deep brown eyes looked wise and sympathetic, but he had no answers . . . in English or Italian. He was only a mule. Carina felt very alone.
She unhitched the harness and led him over to the pink granite wall of the canyon where the thin shade would succor him for the moment. Half a mile down and half a mile up, the trail widened, but here, perched on the side of the mountain, it was scarcely the width of the wagon. Naturally the wheel broke at this precarious location. Carina raised an open hand to heaven. “ Grazie, Signore .”
A thin, sparkling stream seeped from the rock wall and ran across the road. Flecks of black and white stood out from the darkened pink granite, catching the sun like facets of gems. She glared at the rut that had jolted the wheel. It wasn’t much of a rut, but large enough to find the flaw in her wheel and expose it, causing the awful hollow pop, the sudden dip and lurch that had sent her heart to her throat.
Carina glanced down over the edge to the blue and white water rushing far below, the pointed spires of pines along its banks, the long stony slope, clifflike in pitch. She had avoided the sight these last miles as the road dug its way more steeply and sharply up the side, climbing away from the creek’s edge, toward the blue expanse of sky.
What was she doing? She signed herself with the cross, then sank to the ground where trail met wall. Above her, a single stunted pine sprang from a crack in the rock amid a shock of dry buff-colored grass. Its stringy roots dangled at her back, a lacy veil where the earth had fallen away from the stone. A precarious perch, yet it clung there and grew.
That tenacity, that spirit. Did she not possess the same? Had not Papa said so from the time she was small, calling her tigre , his little tiger cub? She didn’t feel like a tiger now, so far from home and family. But she must. She must make the fight rise up inside. So the wheel was broken, the road narrow, the canyon steep . . . Would she be defeated by so little after coming so far?
She need only wait. This was the road to Crystal, Colorado, the diamond of the Rockies. A magic city where dreams came true. She felt her chest swell with hope and determination. From the branches above, a crow cackled. She didn’t care. Let the foolish bird laugh. She would show it what Carina DiGratia was made of.
The shade was no more than a foot’s width under the noonday sun, but it cooled her. For the last several hours, the sun had burned from a sky the azure blue of Tía Marta’s bread bowl. The travel journals were right to declare the air thin at this elevation. She must be higher than ten thousand feet now that she was near the summit of the pass. Dom’s heaving breaths and her own were witness enough.
She dropped her head back against the mountainside and untied the wide-brimmed hat that Mamma had sent. She wanted to see clearly, without the brim blocking her view, no matter how frightful the prospect. Again thoughts of the steep drop invaded her mind.
So she was not good with heights. She had known that already, ever since Divina lured her onto the roof when she was only four. Carina closed her eyes and heard her sister’s voice. “Do not lean so, Carina. Carina, don’t . . .”
Opening her eyes, Carina rubbed her forearm. The break had healed well, the youthful bone knitting easily. But the fear had stayed, though she tried again and again to conquer it. And she had never forgiven Divina that. She sent her gaze across the valley to the opposite slope. So why was she now on this mountaintop? Why did she tempt God?
Unbidden, another memory came, sharp and clear as though etched onto the plate of her mind. Voices, low and soft, through the barn wall where Carina pressed close to listen, a dim shadow in the moonlight. Murmurs and quiet laughter, a whisper and an answer, deeper and far more dear, sending shards of broken dreams, jagged and piercing, to Carina’s heart.
How she had screamed, cursing them as they scrambled apart in the hay. The names she had called, thrusting her thumb into Flavio’s chest when he tried to excuse the inexcusable. And Divina, Divina laughing behind her hand. That, too, she would not forgive.
Even now, the humiliation, the hurt was as fresh as that night three weeks ago. She had prayed, What do I do? How do I endure this? She had begged God for an answer, and there, the very next morning, had been the advertisement: a home and opportunities. Grazie, Dio , it was her answer. So here she was, climbing the mountain into the sky, half a continent from Sonoma, California. If Flavio wanted her, let him come and prove it.
She raised her knees and dropped her elbows into the skirt draped between them. There she rested her chin, eyeing the beige linen hem. Bent that way, the bones of her corset pinched her lower ribs beneath her white cambric blouse. She couldn’t sit long. Smacking her palms on her thighs, she stood up and tossed the hat into the wagon bed, then paced, considering her dilemma.
She could unload the wagon and