Legacy of Secrets. Sara Mitchell

      Legacy of Secrets

      Sara Mitchell

      

www.millsandboon.co.uk

      “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.

      Several passersby glanced askance at the boy, and one frowning man in a greatcoat actually stopped, asked him what he was about, loitering on the walk.

      “I’m waiting for my uncle.”

      “And where might your uncle be, boy, that he left you here on the street after dark?”

      Sweat gathered on his palms and at the small of his back. “Oh, he’ll be out in a few moments. He had to leave a message for someone in the hotel.”

      “Hmm. Well—” his voice