Sing (The Homeward Trilogy Book #2)

T. Bergren Lisa

Description

Moira St. Clair has done exactly what her father forbade her to do: chased her dreams to sing on the stage. But even as her star rises, she becomes more vulnerable to those who wish to use her--or bring her down . . . .It is 1886, and the St. Clairs are living out their dreams in three very separate parts of the world--Paris, Brazil and Colorado. And while each has found a measure of success and joy, each is haunted by past sins and secrets.Once home in Colorado, the St. Clairs struggle to learn what it means to sing praise to God--even in the face of tremendous loss--and trust Him in all things, even when forced to fight for their very lives.

Sujets

• Historical romance

Informations

• Publié par: Baker Publishing Group
• Date de parution: 01 avril 2010
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781493420629
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 2 Mo

Extrait

Also by Lisa T. Bergren
CHILDREN’S BOOKS:
God Gave Us You
God Gave Us Two
God Gave Us Christmas
God Gave Us Heaven
God Gave Us Love
How Big Is God?
God Found Us You
NONFICTION:
The Busy Mom’s Devotional
What Women Want
Life on Planet Mom
NOVELS:
The Bridge
Christmas Every Morning
The Northern Lights series:
The Captain’s Bride
Deep Harbor
Midnight Sun
The Gifted series:
The Begotten
The Betrayed
The Blessed
The Homeward Trilogy:
Breathe
Sing
Claim

© 2010 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 2012
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 978-1-4934-2062-9
This story is a work of fiction. All characters and events are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is coincidental.
All Scripture quotations, unless otherwise noted, 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: iStockphotos
For Diane
A woman who picks her children up when they stumble, turns their eyes ahead when they focus on what lies behind, and teaches them to sing out with all their heart.
But I will sing of your strength, In the morning I will sing of your love; For you are my fortress, My refuge in times of trouble.
Psalm 59:16
Contents

Cover
Also by Lisa T. Bergren
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
An Interview with Lisa T. Bergren
Discussion Questions
About the Author
Back Ad
Back Cover
Chapter 1
15 March 1887 Paris
Surely she hadn’t heard him right. Moira stared with disbelief at the ledger the bank manager turned toward her. “What do you mean I cannot withdraw this much? I have thousands of francs here.”
“You did , Mademoiselle. Until this morning, when Monsieur Foster came and extracted all but the last thousand.”
“Max? Mr. Max Foster came and withdrew these funds?”
“Oui. It was his biggest withdrawal yet. But as you know, he has full access to your bank account. He makes withdrawals all the time. I assumed this was no, as you say … different.”
“Different?” The word emerged from her mouth in a high-pitched squeak. She swallowed hard and looked above that final ledger entry—10,000 francs—to other withdrawals. A thousand. Fifteen hundred. Sometimes twice a week. Her mind raced. Max, her manager of almost three years, paid her servants, the landlord. He paid for the groceries delivered each day. The oilman for the oil that filled her lamps. It took money, a lot of money to pay for all those things. But this much?
“Mademoiselle,” the bank manager said carefully, peering over tiny spectacles at her, “has something transpired here that causes you alarm?”
“Non, non,” she said, gathering herself. “Monsieur Foster and I merely need to converse. I am certain there is good reason for him to withdraw funds today. I simply have forgotten. Forgive me, Monsieur. My run at the Opera Comiqué has left me a bit … weary.”
“I understand,” he said, rising with her. “And may I say that your performance has been unparalleled in this city for some time? Paris is fortunate to have you, Mademoiselle St. Clair.”
“You are too kind,” she said. “Bon jour.”
“Bon jour,” he said with a nod. But his dark eyes still held the same concern that flooded Moira’s heart.
Max Foster would be at Madame Toissette’s tea later today—she would speak with him then. But before he took a sip of her fine Earl Gray, he would explain to Moira where her money had gone.

Colorado
15 March 1887
Hoarfrost covers every branch and every bit of every tree within sight. It is beautiful, a sight I always favor, but in this instance, it makes me more fearful than ever. For below it is more snow than I’ve ever seen. More snow than Bryce or Tabito have ever seen. And while it has ceased for the moment, leaving behind a brilliant blue sky that showcases mountains in bridal white, Tabito believes more is on the way. Tonight? Tomorrow? It would take weeks to melt the snow already here. The men—
Samuel’s cry brought Odessa’s head up, and she set her pen aside and went to the babe in the next room. Now seven months old, the child quieted when he spotted his mother, gurgling a pleased coo and wiggling his arms and legs in vigorous excitement. She lifted him and cradled him close for a moment, running her lips over his sweet, soft cheek. She reached for another blanket, frowning at the chill in the room, and returned to the window over her desk, one of only two in the house that were not either frosted or sealed over by the vast snowbanks.
Her eyes traced the channel the men had dug from the bunkhouse to the main house and then over the hill to where the stables and shelters stood. She’d watched them taking turns with the digging until the bank on either side was shoulder high. Against the house, where the wind had driven into drifts, the white piles had been as high as the second-story windows on the western side and not much lower to the south and north. The men had dug them out each day, but each night as they slept through the high, dry wail of the wind, the drifts returned.
“Never, ever, have I seen this much snow,” Bryce had said, staring out a whitewashed window as if he could somehow bore through it and see his horses. That had been yesterday, when they wondered if the snow would ever stop. And then this morning it had.
The men were immediately at it, attempting to get to the hundred horses that had been left to battle the elements on their own. Only fifty could be in the stables at a time or sheltered in the corrals that lined it. They had found food and water throughout the storm. But the others? Those who had naught but the small snow breaks that dotted the fields? Odessa shook her head. Judging from the house, they might have all long been buried. Please, God, please … please let them be all right.
The passageway through which the men had disappeared remained silent and empty, a yawning chasm of doubt and fear. After a couple brutal years of drought, much of Odessa’s inheritance had gone into an extension of acreage that gained the Circle M increased water rights. Could the horses out there even get to water? Were they pawing and digging their way down to streams that were frozen solid?
Odessa blinked twice and turned, deciding to do something rather than stand there and fret. Bread, six loaves, she’d bake. A thick and hearty beef stew the men would love after their bone-chilling, hard work. An apple cobbler from her stash of summer preserves. “Come, Samuel,” she whispered, drawing comfort from the weight of him in her arms. She carried him down the stairs and into the kitchen, then set him on the floor atop a thick blanket, near the stove, which she blocked off by turning a chair on its side. It was so dark with the snow that embalmed the windows—despite the bright sun outside—she lit a couple of lamps, stoked the fire, handed Samuel a tin cup to play with, and turned to pull out flour and sugar.
Later, with the bread rising by the stove, she fed Samuel while she sat in her rocker, wondering how much longer it would take for Bryce, anyone, to return to her. She was desperate for word. By now they had surely made it to the snow breaks, assessed the losses—
It was then that she heard the stomping on the front porch, the low murmur of voices. She hurriedly pulled Samuel from her breast. She ignored his indignant cry, her eyes only on the front door as she rushed to meet her husband. He turned to her, and she could see the men walking away with stooped shoulders. But it was Bryce, her dear, sweet Bryce, who captured her whole attention. It was as if he had aged a decade, or suffered from consumption again, so weary and ill did he appear.
“Bryce,” she said.
He stepped forward and slowly closed the door behind him, then gradually raised his eyes to meet hers. Tears welled and threatened to roll down his cheeks.
“Oh!” she said, clamping her lips shut, feeling tears clench her throat. “All of them, Bryce? Are they all dead?” She moved forward to wrap one arm around him. Samuel wailed louder than ever, infuriated by the crush of his parents. But the two adults remained there as each gave way to the tremors of sobs.
Her husband wiped his cheeks with the palms and then the backs of his hands, trying to regain control. “Best we can tell, the storm took many of them.” He took another deep breath. “Some might have made it to the far side, instinctively heading for the shelter of the trees. But we’ll need a week of melt before we can make it across to see. And we can’t—” his voice broke and he wept for a moment—“we can’t even be sure how many are there, by the snow breaks. They’re buried, Dess. Buried. Stood there, waiting for us to save them.”
She moved back in to hold him, crying with him again. Dear God … Please. Please. The mere idea of it, the overw