|
On Top Shelf
|
Exclusive Marketing Opportunities for Authors
Curious about how Fresh Access helps authors gain more visibility and connect with active readers?
Discover premium promotional opportunities, enhanced exposure, and author-focused services designed to help your books stand out.
|
Tyndale House Publishers Read Kindle PreviewCassie Kendrick is on the run. Her abusive father arranged her marriage to a despicable man, but sheβs discovered an escape. Disguised as a man, Cassie enlists in the Union army, taking the name Thomas Turner. On the battlefields of the Civil War, keeping her identity a secret is only the beginning of her problems, especially after she meets Gabriel Avery, a handsome young photographer. Anxious to make his mark on the world and to erase the darkness and guilt lurking from his past, Gabriel works with renowned photographer Matthew Brady to capture images from the front lines of the war. As Gabriel forges friendships with many of the men he encounters, he wonders what the courageous, unpredictable Thomas Turner is hiding. Battling betrayal, their own personal demons, and a country torn apart by war, can Cassie and Gabriel learn to forgive themselves and trust their futures to the God who births hope and healing in the darkest places? Excerpt June 4, 1851 New York City Gabriel Avery hit the unforgiving pavement with a grunt. Above him, the thin, dirty faces of his foes looked down on him with sneers. βGive it up, Avery.β A kick to his middle caused him to fold his body inward as he clutched his burning stomach. βIβve not a penny to give you.β A few more blows to his back and legs before the oldest of the boys heaved an impatient sigh. βCome on. He ainβt got nothinβ.β Their shuffling scrapes faded from the bottle-littered alley. Gabe sat up with a groan but couldnβt suppress a smile of victory. Hiding the nickel inside his shoe had worked. Theyβd always discovered the coinage in his pockets, but heβd finally found a spot safe from their eager hands. Rising, he swiped at the dirt clinging to his trousers. Mither would scold him hard if he were to put another tear in them. x i Clothing came dear, and Da was working long enough hours as it was. They could ill afford to buy new clothes. It was difficult enough for Scottish immigrants in New York without adding clumsiness and neighborhood bullies to the list of living expenses. Gabe sighed. The slums gobbled up more and more of the city. With their encroaching darkness came more troublemakers. More boys wanting to scrap, and fewer places he could go to be left in peace. The odor of rotting cabbage, urine, and musty newspapers thickened the air. A door in the alley creaked open just before the contents of a chamber pot were thrown onto the uneven stones with a splatter. Gabe winced and took a step backward. Mr. Giuseppe scowled. βI donβt want any street rats hanging around.β βIβll not trouble you. Iβm passing by.β The barrel- chested Italian narrowed his dark eyes to slits. βSee you do, or my aim will be better next time.β Mr. Giuseppe meant it too. The hot-tempered man had done more than bluff in the past. Gabe wasted no time scampering from the alley. Cramming his hands into his pockets, he burst onto the crowded sidewalk, thankful for the sunshine despite the sweat trickling down his back. He shuffled through the teeming mass of people scurrying to their various destinationsβwork, appointments, restaurantsβwhen a shop window captured his attention. A new business inhabited the old abandoned bakery. The formerly empty glass front that had boasted nothing more than spiderwebs was now filled with pictures of every size. Blackand- white faces stared back at him. Mothers and children, proud military leaders, a boy with his dog, an elderly couple leaning against the porch of their farmhouse . . . every framed portrait was more captivating than the last. Curling his against the glass, Gabe pressed in for a better view as the crowds around him melted away. βDo you like what you see, lad?β Gabe startled and looked up to find a man with a handlebar mustache smiling at him. His blue eyes danced. βIβve never seen such wonderful pictures before. Each one is like a story.β βWell said.β The lean fellow knelt until they were eye level and studied the images. βHow are they created?β βItβs called daguerreotype. Youβve heard of cameras before?β βYes, sir.β The man nodded. βGood. Well, a daguerreotypist takes a sheet of silver-plated copper, exposes it to the light of a camera lens, and uses mercury vapor on it. After that, other chemicals are applied before itβs sealed behind glass. Whatever image was captured by the camera lens remains forever.β βItβs . . . wonderful.β Gabe drank in the sight of the little boy with his arm slung around his dog as they stood watch on a rough-hewn log porch. Surely that boy didnβt have to fight off hordes of pickpockets and greedy tormentors each day. He must not deal with the stench of a cramped city constantly swelling ever larger, or watch his mother and father scrimp and save for the smallest pittance of comfort. Did his ceiling leak when it rained? Was his da too exhausted each evening to play with him? This daguerreotype must be a sort of magic in its own way. Still moments of perfection in happy lives. Something yawned wide in Gabeβs chest. βI want to learn.β The man rose and placed a hand on his shoulder. βMy name is Franklin Adams, and this is my shop. Come inside. Iβll show you how itβs done.β Chapter 1 Ten y e a r s later April 12, 1861 Howell, Michigan βCassandra Kendrick! What have you done?β Cassie cringed at the slurred, booming voice hovering just beyond the barn door. She crouched, pressing her back against the prickly wood wall, and breathed through her mouth lest the sweet motes of hay floating around her cause a sneeze. She could not let Father know her whereabouts. Not until his temper cooled or his alcohol-sodden brain plunged him once again into a sleeping stupor. For him to find her in his current condition would not bode well. In her eighteen years, history had taught her that much in abundance. βCome out, come out, wherever you are.β The ominous timbre slithered down her spine. She squeezed her eyes shut. Thud, thud, thud. Her pulse pounded dully in her ears, the rhythm far too rapid. Could he hear? His sluggish footsteps faded, as did his familiar curses. She allowed her back to relax a fraction and dropped her head against the barn wall, wincing when strands of her hair stuck and pulled against the splinters of wood. She waited for several long moments. He had deceived her before. She had crept from her hiding spot only to have his meaty fingers clamp around her throat. The barn door squeaked open on rusty hinges. Her breath snagged, but it was Motherβs careworn face that appeared. Sunlight streamed around her silhouette. βHeβs gone.β Uttering a sigh of relief, Cassie pushed away from the wall and brushed poking shafts of straw from her skirt. βHe found out, then?β Mother nodded. βCame from town and went straight to the crock.β Cassie grimaced, imagining his reaction when his calloused fingers scraped the inside of the empty container. βHe didnβt accuse you, did he?β Mother waved her hand in dismissal, though the tight lines around her eyes remained. βIt doesnβt matter. He laid not a hand on me. In truth, itβs unlikely heβll remember come tomorrow.β Cassie stepped over tackle and crates, squinting against the bright sunlight. She straightened. βIβm not sorry. You know Iβm not.β βI know.β With a sad smile, Mother turned to leave, murmuring instructions over her shoulder. βTime to hang the wash.β That was all? No reprimand? Cassie said not a word. ing Father was the part she had fretted over most, but fearing her actions had disappointed Mother . . . Perhaps Mother wasnβt sorry either. The thought gave her pause. Cassie trudged through the grass-splotched yard as chickens squawked and flapped around her skirts. The worn garment tangled around her ankles. At least sheβd bought them time. Yes, sheβd taken the only money to be had from the crock, but the tax manβs demands were sated. If Mother had agreed with her actions, why did she not say so? Why could she never stand up to Father? Before they had rounded the corner of the cabin, a wagon careened down the dirt road in front of the house, churning up splatters of mud and jostling with enough clatter to wake the dead. Cassie frowned. The driver was recognizable enough. Peter, her sister Eloiseβs husband, jumped from the bouncing wagon a hairsbreadth after heβd set the brake. His blond hair was windblown as if tossed by a dervish. His eyes were bright, sparkling with an excitement sheβd rarely, if ever, witnessed from the sulky man. Motherβs face filled with sudden angst. βWhatβs wrong? Is it Eloise?β βOf course not.β His Irish brogue lilted high as his chest puffed out with a billow. He hooked his thumbs around his suspenders. βYouβve not heard the news, then?β Cassie stepped next to Motherβs side. A cold stone sank in her stomach. βWhat news?β His lips curved into a smile, revealing crooked yellow teeth. βWhy, war, sister. War has been declared.β Start Reading WHERE DANDELIONS BLOOM Now
Our Past Week of Fresh Picks |
|
| |||
|
||||
© 2003-2026