Breathe (The Homeward Trilogy Book #1)

T. Bergren Lisa

Description

Embark on this western epic in Book One of the Homeward Trilogy.It's Colorado, 1883. A publishing heiress is on the brink of life and death. Her beautiful younger sister is called to the forbidden stage. Her brother and troubled guardian is raging inside. A veiled treasure map leads to a hidden silver mine while a threatening villain hovers in the shadows. And a hero is bent on saving his bride.Just BREATHE.

Informations

• Publié par: Baker Publishing Group
• Date de parution: 01 juin 2009
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781493420667
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 2 Mo

Extrait

© 2009 Lisa T. Bergren
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
Previously published by David C Cook
Ebook edition originally created 2011
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 978-1-4934-2066-7
This story is a work of fiction. All characters and events are the product of the author’s imagination, although some are based on real-life events and people.
All Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®. NIV® . Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved.
Cover Design: DogEared Design, Kirk DouPonce
Cover Photos: iStockphoto
For my friends in Colorado Springs with love

“The Lord God formed the man from the dust of the ground and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and the man became a living being.”
—Genesis 2:7
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
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Authors Note
An Interview with Lisa T Bergren
Group Discussion
Back Ad
Back Cover
Chapter 1
March 1883
Odessa tried to shove back the wave of fear as the slow suffocation began. It was too much, this long ride west. Three days they had been on cursed trains chugging across endless tracks—three days! Hours of dust and dark, choking smoke from the train, the sweet-sour body odor from fellow passengers. She could even smell herself, and the combined force seemed to pour sand in through her nose and down into her lungs, filling them, filling them like two sacks of concrete.
Her father had meant for her to chase the cure; instead, she was merely hastening her own demise.
“Odessa? Dess!” Dominic said, leaning forward in his seat. “Moira, quick. Dampen this handkerchief.”
Odessa closed her eyes and concentrated on each breath, her brother’s voice, her sister’s movement. She willed herself not to panic, not to give in to the black demon that loomed over her. This was worse than before. The creature had moved in and around her, tormenting her as he sat upon her chest.
“Dess, here. You must take your laudanum. Just this once. You’ve made it this far; we’ll be there within hours.”
Odessa could feel the cold stares of the people in the seats next to them as she sipped from the blue bottle. She knew she was not the only consumptive patient on this train, but the healthy passengers seemed to consider all of the consumptives a nuisance. She had not the strength to care at this point.
She had to keep herself from coughing.
To begin coughing was to never stop.
But her throat, the mucous, the tickle, the terrible desire to try and take a deep breath, to give it just one attempt, one huge cough to clear the way, to free her from the storm cloud that covered her now, roiling like a summer thunderhead. Oh God, she cried silently. I can’t breathe! I can’t breathe! Don’t let me die!
Visions of her little brothers filled her mind. Gasping piteously. Blue lips, blue fingernails, eyes rolling back in their heads. Michael, thirteen; Clifford, eleven; Earl, eight; tiny Fred, only three …
“Dess,” Dominic said urgently. “ Dess!”
She could feel herself sliding sideways, her head spinning. She knew it improper, such public loss of control, but she was helpless, giving in to the dark demon that was casting her about, twirling her about like a chicken on a spit.
Dominic picked her up in his arms and laid her gently on the floor between the seats. From far away, she could tell he was placing his coat beneath her head. She could feel the rough woolen fibers at her neck. But how was that possible? Spinning at this rate—
“Stay with us, Odessa St. Clair,” he called to her firmly. “We are almost there! Fight it! Fight back! Stay with us!”
It was as if he called to her from the mouth of a long, dark cave. Could he not see the monster? The demon cloud that was spiriting her away? How was she to fight such a thing? Why did they call it the White Death when it was dark, so dark?
The laudanum, the blessed drug, moved through her and began its soothing work. She did not wish to be the latest St. Clair invalid, wasting away of consumption, wasting away the family money, the family’s time, the family’s attentions. If she was not strong enough to chase the cure, she didn’t deserve it at all. She had to find it within her, the hope, the desire, hovering somewhere deep within. Was it even there any longer?
Moira returned to her side and placed a delicate white handkerchief over her nose and mouth, cool and light and smelling faintly of soap—clean, clear soap. It reminded Odessa of her mother, of years ago when she would come to Odessa’s sickroom to care for her, to nurse her back to health. She wanted to thank her sister, knowing this collapse was embarrassing her, embarrassing them all, but she could not find the breath to utter one word.
“Nic!” Moira said in alarm. Was she outside, floating away from Odessa? Or was Odessa floating away from them? Out of this train, out of her cave, breaking free?
“Is there a doctor on the train?” Dominic yelled. “Is there a doctor? Can anyone assist us?”
“You listen to me,” Dominic said lowly and fiercely in her ear, suddenly right beside her. “You are not going to die on this train. You are going to reach the sanatorium and regain your health. You have a life ahead of you, Odessa St. Clair. A life. Not as an invalid. But as a vital, healthy woman. You will know freedom. You will beat this curse on our family. We will be friends into our old age. Do you hear me? Do you hear me, Odessa?”

“Is there a doctor aboard this train?” Dominic yelled as he watched Odessa slip into unconsciousness. He looked down the aisle of the rocking, swaying train car, meeting the doleful glances of thirty other passengers. No one moved to help. Moira, his younger sister, wept behind her hand. Odessa grew more lax in his arms. Never had he felt so helpless. What had Father been thinking? He could barely keep himself out of trouble; he was supposed to watch over his sisters, too?
He rose, Odessa in his arms. “Is there anyone who can help us?” he cried.
Halfway down the car, a man rose, hat in hand, and a woman beside him. They hesitantly made their way toward the St. Clairs. Nic studied their faces, then saw the man’s collar. A preacher. Nic looked over his shoulder, hoping another was rising, a physician, a nurse, anyone. But no one moved.
“Not the doc you’re seeking, man,” said the tentative preacher. “But it looks like we’re the only ones. Why don’t you put your wife—”
“Sister.”
“Put your sister down, and we’ll pray over her. Heading to the sanatorium, I take it? Best there is in these parts.”
“And not far,” put in his wife. “We’ll be there soon.”
Nic studied them a moment longer, then glanced down at Odessa in his arms and Moira on the floor in a heap. “Quit your weeping, Moira,” Nic hissed. “And get back on the seat. She’s not dead yet.” Her tears chafed at him, made him feel more helpless.
Moira only cried harder, but she rose and went back to the bench seat by the window as instructed. Nic gently set Odessa down beside her, head in Moira’s lap, then moved aside to let the preacher and his wife gain entrance to the bench seat facing them.
Moira kept crying, her slender shoulders shaking, one hand on her unconscious sister’s forehead, the other on the handkerchief dabbing at the corner of her eyes. Her face depicted the same horror Nic felt inside.
He pinched his temples between his third finger and thumb, trying to think his way out of this. “Use your brain as well as your brawn,” Father had said to him as they said good-bye in Philadelphia. “I’m counting on you as a St. Clair.” If he failed in this, failed his father again, here on the border of hope, if he failed his sisters … But try as he might, he could not think of what else to do.
“Nothing to do but pray,” said the preacher, staring up at him, waiting, as if reading his thoughts. The preacher’s wife stood beside him, silently seeking his permission with her eyes. Odessa was still deathly pale and her breathing now emerged as a tight, wavering whistle.
“No other option, I guess,” Nic groused. “Go to it.”
The preacher stared at him with eyes of understanding and pity. “It’s in God’s hands for sure, friend. Let’s ask Him to help her make it to the sanatorium. Let’s ask Him to restore her to life itself. Will you join us?”
Nic pulled back a little. “No. I mean, you do what you need to. I’ll … I’m going to go and ask the conductor how long until we reach the Springs.” He turned away and headed down the aisle.

The preacher’s wife handed Moira a clean handkerchief and patted her arm. “What’s her name?” she asked softly. There was something in her voice that soothed, warmed Moira. Something that reminded Moira of her own mother, dead and gone a year now.
“Odessa,” she whispered.
“Your older sister?”
Moira nodded. “By two years.” She smiled and stroked Odessa’s cheek. How many times, grow