© 2017 by Karen Witemeyer
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 2017
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 978-1-4412-6943-0
Scripture quotations are 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 Dan Thornberg, Design Source Creative Services
Author is represented by Books & Such Agency
To Wyatt and Wes.
Wyatt—
Your sweet disposition, punny sense of humor, love of God, and kind spirit inspired this latest hero. Someday a godly woman is going to recognize what a treasure you are and snatch you up! Keep flashing those dimples, and remember you’ll always be your mama’s hero.
Wes—
My favorite glasses-wearing, bicycle-riding, technology nerd. 25 years, and we’re still going strong. You are my rock, my best friend, and the romantic inspiration behind all my fictional heroes. Real life with you is better than any story.
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Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
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12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
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21
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24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
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35
36
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38
Epilogue
About the Author
Books by Karen Witemeyer
Back Ads
Back Cover
The Lord seeth not as man seeth; for man looketh on the outward appearance, but the Lord looketh on the heart.
—1 SAMUEL 16:7
Prologue
January 1894
Denver, CO
The cheerful tinkle of a bell alerted Grace Mallory to the arrival of a guest. Immediately setting aside the ladies’ magazine she’d been perusing, she rose gracefully to her feet, smoothed the front of her bodice, then put on a welcoming smile. It wouldn’t do for a patron of the Oxford Hotel to be kept waiting.
It had been hard enough to get this job in the first place. Her father had to call in a favor with one of the investors to get her on staff, and she wasn’t about to give her supervisor any excuse to let her go. Thankfully, the predominately male clientele of Denver’s most progressive hotel seemed to enjoy conducting business with a young female telegraph operator once they deemed her skill satisfactory.
But this man didn’t have the look of her usual client. He was still wrapped in a snow-dusted overcoat, scarf, and hat, as if he’d come in off the street rather than from one of the guest rooms.
“Good afternoon, sir,” she said to his back. He’d yet to turn around. “How can the Western Union office serve you today?”
He closed the door and turned the lock.
Grace’s throat pinched and her heart thundered in her chest. “What are you do—?”
The words, along with her fear, died away when the customer turned. A pair of familiar brown eyes gazed at her from above the striped blue scarf that covered half his face.
“Daddy?”
He grabbed at the scarf with frantic hands as if it were choking him. “Have to send a wire. Now. The rumors are true. All true.”
“Calm down.” Grace rushed around the counter to help her father unwind the scarf and brush the snow off the shoulders of his coat. “What rumors?”
“The Haversham estate. There’s another heir,” he said as he pushed away her helping hands and marched up to the counter. “A child by the first wife. A girl.” He pulled his fogged-over spectacles from his eyes and rubbed the lenses clean with the edge of his scarf. “She’s the rightful owner of Haversham House. Not the son.”
Grace gasped. There’d been talk of another heir ever since Tremont Haversham died three months ago. Whispers, innuendo, but no name, no proof. Grace had assumed the rumors were built on wishful thinking by the miners’ families.
When his father’s health declined a year ago, Chaucer Haversham had taken over the running of the Silver Serpent Mine in Willow Creek only to have it plunge into ruin after President Cleveland repealed the Sherman Silver Purchase Act and the bottom fell out of the silver market. Whether it was stubborn pride, blind ambition, or even a noble desire to keep his father’s company in operation, Chaucer refused to close the mine. Instead, he demanded longer work hours from his miners with no additional compensation as he switched from mining silver to the more commonplace minerals of lead and zinc. Conditions were said to be deplorable, but with so many out-of-work miners, no one dared complain for fear they’d be replaced by one of their neighbors.
“Quit your woolgathering, Gracie.”
Grace dashed back around the counter and grabbed a telegraph blank. Herschel Mallory was a scholar by nature. Quiet. Kind. A bit absentminded. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d seen him so worked up.
“Who do you want to wire?” she asked, pencil poised.
“The Pinkertons.”
Grace hesitated. “But doesn’t Chaucer Haversham have a pair of Pinkertons on his payroll to keep the miners in line and prevent strikes? Wouldn’t they support his claim, no matter what proof you’ve uncovered?”
“I want you to wire the Philadelphia office. A Detective Whitmore in particular.”
She jotted the name down on her form, needing no further explanation. Tremont Haversham had grown up in Philadelphia and married his first wife there—a woman of whom his wealthy family did not approve. At least that was the version of the tale Grace had heard. The woman died in childbirth. The baby, too, or so it had been believed. Brokenhearted, Haversham returned to his family and within a year took a second wife, a woman of means and social standing this time. One who knew how to push her husband into a position of power, leadership, and great financial triumph. One who had given him a son.
“Found your report to Tremont Haversham dated October 12, 1892.” Her father slung his satchel up onto the counter as he dictated his message. The bag thumped against the wooden shelf with the sound of heavy books. “If female still alive, she is rightful heir to Haversham fortune. I have documents to prove her claim. Need to dispatch to you immediately. Please advise. Herschel Mallory.”
Grace finished scribbling the message then looked into her father’s frantic eyes. “What did you find, Daddy?”
>
As a scholar and professor of literature at the University of Denver, Herschel Mallory had been hired by Chaucer Haversham to catalog his father’s extensive library in the family’s Denver mansion. A mansion Chaucer had inherited but never visited. From what Grace had heard, he avoided Denver altogether, preferring the estate in Boston where his mother maintained a residence.
Tremont and Caroline Haversham had lived apart for the last decade, Caroline seeing to the raising and education of their son while Tremont oversaw the mining operations. Apparently the situation suited both parties, a state Grace had always considered rather sad. She’d never met Chaucer Haversham, but she couldn’t help feeling a little sorry for the young man who’d been separated from his father during the very years he was coming of age. She would have been lost without her own father. He meant the world to her—his love and acceptance never in question.
Grace’s mother had been her mentor, teaching her to pick out the dots and dashes of Morse code as a child in her telegraph office, then guiding her in the ways of womanhood and domestic responsibilities. But when she died two years ago, the shared grief of that loss had bonded Grace and her father as tightly as if the broken halves of their hearts had been melted down, reshaped, and forged into an unbreakable, interlocking design.
It was that closeness that had her senses on full alert when her father fiddled with his satchel strap instead of answering her question.
She reached out and covered his fidgeting gloved hand with her bare one. “Tell me, Daddy. What did you find?”
“Proof, Gracie.” His gaze met hers, and the mix of dread and determination in his eyes set her stomach to cramping. “Proof that Haversham’s first child didn’t die with her mother. Proof that Haversham tried to find her. Proof that the odd wording of his will makes his daughter an heiress and his son simply a business owner.”
“You found this proof in the library at Haversham House?”
Her father nodded.
“But if the documents are Mr. Haversham’s property, what can you possibly do about it?”
He dropped his gaze.
“Daddy?”
He jerked his hand away from her touch and paced away from the counter. “The documents were Tremont Haversham’s property, and he’s dead. If Chaucer’s not the true heir of the Denver mansion and its contents, then the documents don’t really belong to him, do they?”
The knots in Grace’s stomach twisted. “What did you do?”
“Nothing you need to concern yourself about. I just borrowed a couple books from the collection. Chaucer plans to sell them off anyway. It’s what he did with the art—had an appraiser come in a week after his father’s funeral, then sold the finer pieces at auction by month’s end. He has no respect for his father beyond the price to be fetched from his belongings.” Herschel paced back toward the counter. “The books I took were ordinary editions. Nothing of monetary value. He won’t miss them.”
Suddenly, the full satchel on her counter held a whole new significance. “You can’t just take them!”
Her father’s face hardened. “I can’t stand by while an injustice is perpetrated, either. Tremont Haversham was my friend, Gracie. More than a friend. If it hadn’t been for his influence, the university would have let me go during that dark time after your mother passed.”
Grace dropped her head. She remembered that time. Both of them steeped in grief. She’d been young with no real responsibilities, and her father hadn’t noticed or cared if the house went uncleaned or if dinner had burnt. But the melancholia had brought Herschel Mallory to the brink of unemployment. Papers and exams had gone ungraded for weeks. His clouded mind turned his organized lectures into meandering, meaningless forays. Students had stopped attending. Parents had complained. Board members had threatened. Only Tremont Haversham had spoken on her father’s behalf. Had taken him aside and reminded him of his responsibilities, made him see that destroying himself would only dishonor his wife’s memory. He had to pull himself together for his daughter’s sake.
She glanced around her tidy little office with its elegant oak furnishings and carpeted floor. Her stomach swirled. She owed Tremont Haversham a debt, as well. He was the investor responsible for hiring her. The hotel manager had insisted on a male operator even though she’d proven more skillful than the other applicants—until Mr. Haversham had convinced him to reconsider.
Grace’s father reached across the counter and captured her hand. “Tremont Haversham had a daughter. One stolen from him. One he desperately tried to find before his death. One, I believe, he loved very much.” His eyes softened as he looked at Grace. “I know what it is to have a daughter. And if anything ever separated her from me, I’d move heaven and earth to get her back.”
Moisture gathered behind Grace’s eyes.
“She needs to know her father loved her, Gracie. To have something to remember him by. I owe him that much at least.” He paused, then released her hand to pat the top of the leather satchel. “There are letters, too. Love letters between Tremont and his first wife. Chaucer would burn them if he knew of their existence. I can’t let that happen. The daughter deserves a chance to know her parents.”
Grace stared down at the telegraph blank, legal technicalities warring with moral responsibility.
“Send the wire, Gracie,” her father urged, his voice gentle.
She met his gaze a final time. The love in his eyes melted away the last slivers of icy indecision. She nodded, sat down at the key, and started tapping.
Two days later they waited in a rented, second-floor room in a nondescript boardinghouse. Across the street stood the café where her father was scheduled to meet the agent Detective Whitmore had sent to collect the documents. Whitmore had warned them not to trust anyone else with the evidence. Not even the postal system. Several parcels delivered to him over the last few months had shown evidence of tampering, and he had yet to discover the culprit. Best not to risk such valuable information falling into the wrong hands.
“Are you sure we can’t just turn the documents over to the marshal?” Grace clutched her father’s suit coat to her chest, the coat she was supposed to be helping him into.
Her father shook his head and glanced over his shoulder at her. “As far as the local law is concerned, the books are Chaucer’s property. They have no obligation to investigate whatever may have been found inside. They’d simply return the items, and Chaucer would destroy them.
“Detective Whitmore is right. We can’t trust anyone else. I’ll not hand the books over to anyone other than Whitmore or the man who carries his recommendation.” He attempted to smile, but the sad twisting of his lips did nothing to reassure her. “Come, Gracie. Help me on with my coat.”
Grace obeyed, sliding the wool sleeves of the slightly rumpled sack suit jacket over his arms and up onto his shoulders. She stepped around him and tugged on his lapels until the coat hung evenly on his slender frame, then smoothed them flat against his chest.
“Everything will work out for the best,” he said. “You’ll see. The only people who know about this meeting are Detective Whitmore and the Pinkerton agent he sent.”
And the telegraph operator who received our message as well as any others listening in on the line. Grace kept that disquieting thought to herself. Telegraph operators signed contracts of confidentiality, after all, vowing only to reveal message contents to intended parties. But operators were human. Susceptible to bribes or threats.
As were Pinkertons. She still didn’t like the fact that they had confided in the same agency that had men working for the Silver Serpent mine. Chaucer Haversham’s pockets were deep. All it would take was the quiet promise of a payday spread by the agents already in his employ to convince someone in the Philadelphia office to pass on any suspicious information.
But none of that could be helped. Her father was too noble to abandon a quest once begun. He was going to see this through, come what may. So she would see him through.
“You’re a goo
d man, Daddy.” Grace glanced up from buttoning the top button on his vest. He always had something on his person coming undone—buttons climbing out of their holes, watch chains tangling, scraps of paper falling out of his pockets. She forced a smile to her lips. “Be careful.”
He smiled back, then leaned in and placed a kiss on her forehead. “I will, pet.” He winked at her then stepped over to the chest of drawers near the door to fetch his satchel. He lifted the leather strap over his head and fit the bag against his right hip, tucking it close to his belly. Then he settled his dark gray fedora on his head and straightened his posture. “Be watching for my signal.”
Grace nodded. “Forehead, you’ll bring him here. Glasses, I’m to take the box and head for the carriage.”
He grinned. “That’s my girl.” He reached for the door handle and let himself into the hall.
Grace moved to close the door behind him, but he stuck his head back through the opening. “Whatever happens, Gracie,” he said, “God will see us through.”
Her throat grew tight.
“I love you, girl.” His gaze held hers for a heartbeat, then he spun away and marched down the hall.
“I love you, too, Daddy,” she whispered as she closed the door with a quiet click. It would take him a few minutes to descend the boardinghouse stairs and exit to the street, but Grace rushed to the window anyway, her gaze darting between the street below and the café window across the way. Pedestrians meandered along the boardwalks, a few dashing between wagons and men on horseback to cross to the other side. The bustling scene matched that of any other Thursday morning, but Grace’s pulse throbbed a ragged rhythm anyway.
Please watch over him, Lord.
As determined as Herschel Mallory was to turn the documents over to the Pinkertons, he was still approaching this meeting with caution by not taking the actual books with him. His satchel carried old literature tomes from his personal library. The Haversham books rested in a pink-and-white hatbox pilfered from Grace’s closet, a disguise they’d decided most men would overlook.
Her father had reserved a table next to the large plate-glass window at the front of the café. If the agent showed adequate proof that he’d been sent by Whitmore, her father would remove his hat and use his handkerchief to wipe his forehead, signaling Grace that all was well. If, on the other hand, the agent roused suspicion, her father would instead use his handkerchief to clean the lenses of his glasses. That was the signal for Grace to collect the bags they’d packed that morning along with the all-important hatbox and exit through the alley, where they’d paid a driver to hold a carriage for them. She was to purchase a train ticket to Colorado Springs and wait for her father there.