The Rescue Read online

  Contents

  What Others are Saying

  Books By Tanya Eavenson

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Scripture

  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-1

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Epilogue

  Author's Note

  Acknowledgments

  Excerpt of Book 2

  The Proposal

  Chapter 1

  About the Author

  To Gain a Mommy

  To Gain a Valentine

  To Gain a Bodyguard

  Be the First to Hear

  What Others Are Saying

  “As a fan and author of true Christian fiction, I always love to find other authors who weave a spiritual message, lesson, into their books. Tanya Eavenson has done just that with The Rescue, a wonderful story of learning to trust God no matter the circumstance, to remember that He is always with you and will be your ever-present help in times of trouble. He is the ultimate Rescuer. Thank you, Tanya, for the reminder. I definitely recommend this this enjoyable page-turner to all those who relish a good western inspirational romance.”

  —Crystal L Barnes,

  author of the Marriage & Mayhem series.

  “Ms. Eavenson writes a poignant tale filled with emotions. One can’t help but feel for the characters as they battle an evil man intent on getting his way. A genteel lady and a gentleman cowboy on the race for their lives. This is a historical not to be missed!”

  —Laura V. Hilton, author of Married to a Stranger (Whitaker House)

  “Eavenson knows how to ratchet up the action and suspense, carried all the way through to the last chapter. Rosalind and Trent are endearing characters hounded by a villain that truly gave me chills, with a supporting cast as well-drawn as the hero and heroine. The Rescue will draw you in, pump you up, and touch your heart.”

  —Carole Towriss, author of By the Waters of Kadesh

  Books by Tanya Eavenson

  Unending Love Series

  Unconditional

  Restored

  Gaining Love Series

  To Gain a Mommy

  To Gain a Valentine

  To Gain a Bodyguard

  The

  Rescue

  BOOK 1

  Tanya Eavenson

  THE RESCUE

  Published by All Roads Publishing

  Copyright © 2019 by Tanya Eavenson

  On file at the Library of Congress in Washington, DC.

  All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-945981-04-3

  ISBN-10: 1-945981-04-0

  Scripture quotations, whether quoted or paraphrased by the characters, are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

  Cover Design by Suzanne D. Williams, Graphic Design

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used.

  “He delivereth and rescueth, and he worketh signs and wonders in heaven and in earth, who hath delivered Daniel from the power of the lions.”

  Daniel 6:27 (KJV)

  Chapter One

  Charlestown, Boston

  May 1886

  Rosalind Standford’s heart thudded against her ribcage as she lifted her pale green ball gown and stepped into the foyer. Where is he? She stood on tiptoe and scanned the dinner guests, trying to catch a glimpse of Trenton Easton. Disappointment and the worry that had plagued her for the last few days clutched her. Was the gossip true?

  Surely Trenton would have told her. Or her own mother, if she knew. Mother was the only person who encouraged Rosalind’s feelings for her childhood best friend, feelings that had recently begun blooming toward something more.

  Rosalind’s stomach quivered at the thought. She ran her fingertips along silver threads and embroidered sequins at her waist. She’d picked this satin gown for Trenton, knowing it would accent her gray eyes, a trait he only last week said gave her a dove-like beauty.

  Again she swept her gaze over the room, past her mother, her father—her gaze, unfortunately, snagging on that of Mr. Glover Richards, a man almost her father’s age. He walked toward her, the click of his heels on the wooden floor lifting above the hum of scattered conversations and the hammering of her eardrums. She forced a smile and nodded, then turned to step away. His stiff, damp fingers slid around her upper arm, halting her movement.

  A chill ran up her spine. “Mr. Richards.” She pulled back.

  His dark eyes narrowed, assessing. An amused smile twisted his lips. He bowed. “How are you this evening, Miss Standford?”

  She trembled as her name slid past his thin lips with a hissing sound. It was silly, but she couldn’t help herself. The man gave her the cold shivers. She didn’t want to talk to him, let alone suffer his touch, though lately he’d spent so much time with their family he’d become hard to avoid. It was as if he and her father had become dearest friends. Manners demanded she give a polite response, but she couldn’t bring herself to like the man. “Doing well, thank you. And you?”

  “I’m grateful for your father’s invitation to Mr. Easton’s home.”

  “Being the bank’s vice president has its advantages, does it not?” She folded her gloved hands and squeezed them together, wondering if Mother felt the same unease at Mr. Richards’s constant presence.

  “Indeed it does. It’s my hope this new partnership between your father and me will secure more”—the corners of his mouth rose as if he enjoyed a private joke—“pleasant opportunities to come.”

  “I see,” she answered, although she didn’t understand his meaning. Father never spoke of business around her or her mother, but whatever the dealings, Mr. Richards seemed happy. “I hope you and my father have a great partnership.”

  Trenton descended the stairs, so handsome in his formal wear he took her breath away. He strolled past her, his jaw tense and his blond hair nearly touching his collar. Without looking to the right or left, he headed toward the dining room.

  It’s true. Trenton and his family were leaving Boston. The dinner was not a celebration but a final farewell. Tears stung her eyes. How could Trenton have kept this to himself? “If you will excuse me, Mr. Richards.”

  “Allow me?” He crooked his arm.

  “Thank you, but no. My father is waiting.” She hurried away before Mr. Richards could insist. Another minute with Mr. R
ichards might cause her to miss speaking to Trenton altogether.

  She made her way across the crowded room, but the laughing, milling guests converging on the dining hall prevented her from reaching Trenton in time. Resigned, she joined her father and let him escort her into the dining hall. Music wafted in behind her while the spice of men’s aftershave and the flowery scent of women’s perfume clashed like cymbals. She reached the doorway and hesitated as dozens took their places in the wooden high-back chairs lining the tables. How many guests had been invited? She scanned the room. Fifty. Sixty. And they would all be finding out at the same time.

  Her father escorted her to the table and selected for her the chair next to Mr. Richards. Mr. Richards stood, and his dark eyes met her father’s with approval. Everything in her wanted to balk at not being seated next to Trenton, but her father’s beaming smile gave her pause.

  Throughout the meal, Rosalind pushed the roast lamb around her plate, glancing at Trenton from the opposite side of the table, hoping her imagination had gotten the better of her. When Trenton’s father stood at the head of the table and clanked his knife against his water glass, a knot grew within her throat.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I want to thank you for attending our gathering this evening. It is an honor to have our friends here on this night. As some of you have heard, there is gossip circulating that we are moving.” Mr. Easton glanced at his wife and then his son. Trenton frowned. “It’s true. The Eastons are moving to Graham, Texas. We leave tomorrow.”

  A collective gasp rose from the guests.

  Rosalind bit her lip and forced herself to stay seated, though every part of her wanted to drag Trenton outside and confront him for not telling her. She deserved to know the truth.

  Mr. Easton’s parting speech seemed endless, and through its entirety, Trenton steadfastly avoided her gaze.

  After supper, Rosalind headed to the balcony. It was warmer than usual for the time of year, and the other guests had gone to the ballroom, giving her a few moments alone to compose herself. Instead, she paced, thinking. Was there no idea she could offer? No sound reason to discourage the move?

  She could find none, except those growing in her heart.

  Blinking back tears, she stopped at the rail and looked into the night sky; the stars, like her mood, seemed dim. Even the rose-scented breeze—her favorite—failed to bring comfort.

  “Why are you upset, little girl?”

  Her heart ached. She’d know Trenton’s voice anywhere. She turned toward him, her chin raised. “I am not little.”

  “Are you not shorter than I? And are you not a girl?” A smile played on his lips.

  How she would miss his teasing. How she would miss him. “I am shorter, but I’m a woman. I’m sixteen. Women my age are married, I’ll have you know. And if I wanted to be married, I would be.”

  “And who would you marry, Rosalind?” His voice lowered as he took a step closer. “Who would be able to keep up with a wife who climbs trees and steals chocolate bars?”

  She planted her palms on her hips. “I didn’t steal them. You laid them down in plain sight, and besides, you said I could have them.”

  “Only because you left me none.”

  Rosalind giggled, then it hit her again. He was leaving. Her hands slipped from her waist. “I’ll miss you.”

  Trenton stared at his feet. She studied the top of his blond head until he lifted his blue eyes to hers. “May I write to you, Rosalind?”

  “Yes. You better.”

  A heart-stopping smile lit his features, and a dimple appeared in his right cheek, stealing her breath. Whether what she felt was a mere crush or whether she was in love ... well, with time, she’d learn her true feelings. Either way, she would treasure his letters.

  She took a deep breath. “I guess I should go. Papa said we were leaving soon, but I wanted to come out here one last time.” She slowly turned, forcing herself to go.

  Trenton reached out and took her hand. “Rosalind, wait.”

  From the lightest of touches, her fingers warmed. Though propriety dictated she move away, she let her hand linger in his for a moment. Mother had told her a woman’s feelings sometimes grew in baby steps, other times in leaps and bounds. What did it mean that she wanted to lace her fingers with his and never let go?

  “What was the matter earlier?” He regarded her, squeezing her hand slightly. “You seemed upset.”

  “How long have you known you’d be moving?”

  “I heard the gossip like everyone else, but I thought it was only gossip.” His gaze moved to their hands. “Mother told me tonight, right before everyone came for supper.”

  “I feared you knew but didn’t tell me.”

  He ran his thumb over her fingers. “I would have told you.”

  Heavy footsteps sounded behind them, and her hand slipped from his. “We’re going, Rosalind,” her father said. “Your mother is waiting for you by the door. She’s feeling a bit ill.”

  “Yes, Papa,” she called, then blinked back tears. “Until I see you again, Trenton.”

  “Goodbye, Rose.”

  Her heart squeezed as she walked away and followed her father out the door. Trenton had never called her “Rose” before, and she liked the sound of it. How long would it be before she heard it again? Would she ever?

  She heard sputtering and gagging even before she saw her mother standing outside by another’s carriage, one hand gripping Mr. Richards’s arm, the other covering her mouth, her eyes wide and frantic. Father rushed to her side. Mr. Richards yelled for his driver to bring his own carriage around.

  “Father, what is happening?”

  Her mother coughed violently as the carriage wheels crunched to a stop before them. Mr. Richards assisted her father, but as they lifted Mother inside, her hand fell from her lips, revealing bloody fingers.

  “Mother?” Rosalind trembled. Dear God, please ... What does the blood mean?

  Mr. Richards came to her side and placed a gentle hand on her elbow. “Come, Rosalind. We must go.”

  She nodded quickly and allowed him to assist her inside the carriage. Her mother had been feeling poorly for months now and had tried to hide it, but the coughing fits had worsened. God, take care of my mother.

  The hacking cough increased, and her mother jerked and writhed.

  “Father, can we do nothing?” Rosalind asked. “Mother?” She looked from one to the other, but they both looked afraid and lost, an expression she’d never before seen on either of their faces.

  When they arrived at the house, Father instructed Mr. Richards to find the doctor, and only after several stumbles did they manage to get Mother inside. Mother’s strength had simply vanished, leaving her pale and aged, too weak to even keep her eyes open as they helped her to bed.

  It seemed a lifetime passed before the doctor arrived. During the examination, Mother lay still. Too still. Fear surged to Rosalind’s core at Mother’s motionless state. Then another cough raked through Mother’s body, blood dripped from her nose, and Rosalind didn’t know which was worse—watching Mother lie still as death or seeing the spasms and hearing the awful retching. Tears filled Rosalind’s eyes as she stroked strands of soft brown hair from her mother’s face and tucked them behind her ear.

  “Do you know what’s wrong with her, Doctor? Is it consumption?” her father asked.

  Kneeling next to the bed, the physician wiped her mother’s nose and folded the cloth. “Her coughing is worse. I’m afraid you are correct. She has tuberculosis.”

  Rosalind shook her head and ran from the room. She flew down the stairs, faltered into the stagnant night air, and stopped on the porch as reality weighed heavily on her shoulders. She swallowed down her screams. “God, are You listening? Don’t You see? You must help my mother. Please don’t take her. Don’t ...” She fell to her knees, sobbing into her palms.

  Arms came around her shoulders, and she jerked back, biting back her tears. “Mr. Richards.” She moved from him and stumbled on th
e hem of her gown but caught her balance.

  “It’s all right.” He followed her. “I have your father’s permission.”

  She wiped her cheek with the back of her hand. “What do you mean you have his permission?”

  “We will be married.”

  Rosalind fought to understand what Mr. Richards was saying, but the words seemed scrambled, incomprehensible. Her mind a fog. “What do you mean, married?”

  “Earlier tonight I asked permission to court you, but moments ago, he gave me his full blessing.”

  Surely she’d misheard him. “You asked for my hand in marriage now, while we’re learning my mother is dying? My father is as distraught as I am.”

  “Perhaps the doctor’s wrong,” Mr. Richards whispered against her ear. “Perhaps she will recover. Nevertheless ...”

  “We shouldn’t be ... you shouldn’t be alone with me here like this. Propriety ...”

  He dragged a fingertip along her jaw, then down her bare arm, his expression declaring ownership even as it dared her to argue.

  Though her heart galloped, she fought her instincts to flinch. Glover Richards was a very powerful man, she’d overheard her father saying once, powerful enough to harm his enemies. Father must need the man’s friendship, otherwise he would never have agreed. “Why? Why me?”

  “I will court you as your father wishes.” A slow smile slid up one side of his face. “And at nineteen you will be my bride.”

  Rosalind’s pulse pounded in her ears. None of this made sense. If only Mother were well. She’d never let Father agree to this marriage, and he would listen to her.

  She balled her hands into fists at her waist, squeezing the satin lace crisscrossing there—satin meant to draw Trenton’s eye. Yet Trenton was packing his trunk for Texas, even as Mr. Richards’s gaze roamed her hair, her face and throat, and her bodice and cinched gown.

  “We don’t have to announce our betrothal ... yet,” he said as if the deed was done.