Title Page
The Ways
of Heaven
a Tall Pine novel
LINDSEY BARLOW
Durham, NC
Copyright
Copyright© 2018, by Lindsey Barlow
Lindsey Barlow
lightmessages.com/lindsey-barlow
Published 2018, by Light Messages
www.lightmessages.com
Durham, NC 27713
United States of America
SAN: 920-9298
Paperback ISBN: 978-1-61153-221-0
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-61153-220-3
Library of Congress Control Number: 2017963045
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, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise, except as permitted under Section 107 or 108 of the 1976 International Copyright Act, without the prior written permission except in brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used to advance the fictional narrative. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
Dedication
To Dad
Thank you for being my hero, my champion, my guide, and the greatest father a girl could have. I love you with all my heart!
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty–Nine
Thirty
Thirty–One
Thirty–Two
Thirty–Three
Thirty–Four
Thirty–Five
Thirty–Six
Thirty–Seven
Thirty–Eight
Thirty–Nine
Forty
Forty–One
Forty–Two
Forty–Three
Forty–Four
Forty–Five
Forty–Six
Forty–Seven
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Tall Pine Novels
One
Cade could hear the soft and steady click of shoes approaching his cell. Each step was like the beat of a battle drum, reminding him that he was about to lose everything. He shook his head; the lack of sleep was playing with his mind. Some foreboding instinct told him that in the next few minutes his marriage would be over. Cade squinted his eyes and shook his head. No, he would never lose Rose. He couldn’t lose her. She was the only good thing in his life, the light that had stayed with him despite his habits.
“Your wife, Cade.” A policeman, who frequented the gambling tables alongside Cade, said with a tight clip in his voice.
Cade knew the policeman didn’t like escorting Rose to the cells. The whistles and comments shouted out as she passed were enough to make a grown man blush, though it did not surprise him to look up and see Rose looking as calm as a meadow on a spring day. She wasn’t always this way. The first two years of their marriage had been a constant stream of tears and fights until something changed. He wasn’t sure what had caused it, but she suddenly became happier, more content, though not with him. It was as if something else took his place in her heart, something other than himself. At first he suspected another man, but that theory was quickly extinguished. Being a member of one of the wealthiest families in Denver, he had the means to tail her.
There were no trysts, no secret meetings... only charity events, orphanages, and even Indian reservations where Rose handed out clothing and blankets. It drove him nearly insane. He wanted to see indiscretions on her part, something—anything—to justify what he did. He could handle their verbal fights, but the silent calm was as aggravating as the ten seconds in a duel before someone draws.
“I brought you food.” Rose handed the basket to the policeman who took it, avoiding her glance. “Are you warm enough?”
Cade rubbed his temples. Why couldn’t she scream, cry, or call him the miserable husband he was? Instead she stood there with a gentle smile, but with eyes empty of any of the romance she might have once felt for him.
“I am sorry, Rose,” he said, the timbre of his voice etched with anger. He was always angry it seemed, angry at himself, angry at Rose for being better than he deserved. “I swear this is the last time.”
Rose sighed and shook her head. “So you keep saying.”
“You’ll see I mean it this time,” He said, fisting his hands in determination.
“No, I won’t, Cade.” Rose’s voice was firm with resolve. “I am leaving to New Orleans tonight. Nell … poor Nell, may she rest in peace, left a baby without a mother or father.”
Cade stood up crossing over to her and grabbing the iron bars that separated them. “I thought we talked about this Rose.”
The slight arch of an eyebrow let him know she was suppressing frustration. “No, Cade, you told me what to do.” She broke her gaze and gently brushed a piece of hair from her face. “I love you Cade, I do, but I came to tell you that … that I am not just leaving to New Orleans. I am leaving you, too.”
Cade’s blood seemed to freeze and his knuckles turned white as he gripped the bars. “What do you mean you’re leaving me?”
Her bottom lip began to tremble and she bit down on it for a moment to steady herself. “I am taking that child. I will not leave her parentless in New Orleans.”
Cade refused to let emotion overtake him. He blinked quickly. If Rose had a baby, what did he have to offer to make her stay?
His money? He was losing most of it on a daily basis at poker.
A child? She’d wanted one from the day they married. If she procured a baby, there was nothing he could offer her. A happy marriage, a stable husband, a good man, he couldn’t give her any of those things.
“The baby is black!” he blurted out in desperation.
An amused smile tugged at Rose’s lips and Cade’s heart sank, realizing he had just justified her decision. “All the more reason for me to go and get her. Nell’s letter begged me to take her daughter out of the South. Even through the delirium of typhoid she was lucid enough to request that.”
“Rose, don’t do this. I am begging you.” Cade’s throat tightened as Rose slid off her wedding ring. “Rose!” he growled and gripped the bars, refusing to take the wedding ring she held out to him.
“I begged too, Cade,” she said softly. “I begged and pleaded each night as you went out, but the cards and whiskey were too enticing, weren’t they?”
“I couldn’t help myself, Rose.” Cade pressed his head against the bars, closing his eyes. This couldn’t be happening. Some fragment of his mind begged him to wake up, but when he opened his eyes Rose still stood in front of him with the smell of fresh rain swirling around her.
Again she smiled softly and placed
one of her hands over his as she stepped closer. “I know Cade, and I know I can’t help you, nor can I change you. Only one thing has the power to do that.”
Cade rolled his eyes. “I will not be lectured on God, Rose.”
“I know,” she said pragmatically with a casual shrug. “I also know that I won’t allow my new daughter to be raised in a home where your vices are put before all else.”
Cade shook his head unbelievingly as Rose placed the ring in his palm. The cold gold band seemed to mock Cade as its weight settled in his palm. This was a reality. He was losing Rose, his marriage—everything. Rose believed in marriage, through thick and thin, ’till death do them part. For her to divorce Cade meant he was despicable enough that she was willing to betray her beliefs. His wife took a step back, her shoulders relaxing as if the ring had been a weight resting on them. “I have already talked to your family’s lawyer, and he will be contacting you shortly.”
“Rose, I can change.” Cade tried to place the ring back in her hand, but she moved further away, out of his reach. “I can change, Rose. I swear to you this person you see in here is not me! It is not the real me.”
Her blue eyes glistened with controlled tears. “I know Cade, and that is the tragedy of the situation.” She turned and paused before looking back, “Good-bye, Cade. I hope you find peace one day.” With a quick inhale she turned and walked down the hall without a glance behind.
Cade sagged against the iron, dropping his head. He was heartbroken, his wife was gone, and yet all he wanted to right now was to feel the rush at a poker table and the burn of whiskey.
Two
Meg winced as she placed a bit of ribbon over her swollen brow. It was not fashionable, but purple and black bruises were not in style either. The small vanity wobbled with age as she reached for an old Christmas tin filled with hairpins. She loved that tin. To her it was not simply a convenient container, but rather it held her last happy memory... before her father disappeared, and before her mother became a hollow shell and married Charles Lars.
The tin had been full of caramels. Meg’s favorite. Of course, that was before her father had left to seek investors, and in turn found a new woman, a new family. It didn’t matter that he had destroyed his daughter’s life and his wife’s happiness; only he mattered. Shaking her head, the young girl pulled her mind back to the present. Luckily, most employees at the Red Bear Hotel ignored her injuries, or pretended to, and she was grateful for that. Not that she didn’t desire sympathy—she craved it. She craved to scream the truth from the rooftops. She hungered to have someone, anyone, reach out to her with a gentle word or sincere smile. Yet such attention, no matter how benign, would embarrass her stepfather, and in turn would result in more bruises and more unwanted touches and advances from his odious hands. A knock on the door made Meg jump. She knew who it was. That dreaded knock caused her hands to shake and her chest to burn with waves of acid. Why did he always appear before she needed to head to the kitchen? She held her breath. Maybe he would think she’d already left. A second knock told her that if she waited anymore, there would be hell to pay.
“Coming,” Meg hurried to the door and gingerly opened it. “Charles,” she greeted coldly and opened the door fully.
A smooth smile spread over his flat facial planes. “Good evening, Meg.” His suit made the crisp sound of expensive fabric that had been perfectly pressed. He looked around the small room: simple with its white walls, worn blue star quilt, the little vanity nestled beside the yellow wardrobe.
“I have offered many times for you to move into your mother’s adjoining room. She could certainly use the companionship, and it is much larger than this hovel you chose.” He grinned and walked over to her bed, stroking the quilt with a long, smooth finger.
Meg shuddered. The room next to her mother’s would mean hearing her mother sob while overly-powdered women were invited to her stepfather’s chambers. It would mean more interaction with Charles, and Meg would rather march into the inferno then be closer to him.
“I like the privacy,” she answered truthfully. He shrugged and casually walked closer to her. Instinct demanded that she step back, but Meg held her ground and lifted her chin defiantly. Charles chuckled and closed the gap between them. His long fingers stroked her hair, removing the ribbon she’d so carefully placed across her brows.
His dark eyes glistened, an artist admiring their own work, a hunter ready for the next prize. “Such innocence you possess Meg,” his words were soft and alluring like the gentle hum of a wasp. “It entices even the strongest man to see such a closed flower in need of blooming.”
Meg clenched her hands as his fingers trailed down her neck and played along her quivering Adam’s apple. She glared and knocked away his hand, “And I shall remain innocent.”
Instantly his right hand flew out and grasped her neck with a tight squeeze. Meg could feel the excitement in his fingertips. This was why he taunted her—it was a game of cat and mouse. This was also why she defied him, despite the beatings and sleepless nights of working in penance. She wouldn’t allow herself to be one of the many women he loved to seduce and then torture for his pleasure.
“Innocent,” he purred, letting his hand drop to her covered collarbone. “No woman remains so for long. God gave all women two choices. Either they give it to a man who can—” his face grew closer, the Cuban cigar smell of his breath washing over Meg, “provide for their needs, or they desperately give it away in some dirty alley because they no longer have an opportunity for better male companionship, leaving them to make a living by tearing their flower apart.”
Meg spat in his face and braced herself for the slap that followed, sending her flying into the wall.
“Impudent girl,” he chuckled, rubbing his palm. “How long until I break you of that?” he asked himself. “How long until the sin of Eve manifests itself in your hidden lusts? When will your well of evil lust be tired of denying its insatiable hunger?”
Meg swallowed the blood in her mouth, not giving him the satisfaction of seeing her bleed. “I am not my mother, Charles. I don’t ‘break’ easily. As for my hidden lusts, personally I think you could dry up just about any woman’s well with your ridiculous advances.”
Charles’s face went red. He saw himself as both holy and seductive, a dangerous combination in a revolting man. Finally, he shrugged off her insult as comical and walked toward the door. “We have some important guests tonight. Pray they are impressed by your creations.” He gave her a gentlemanly bow and exited the room, his footsteps echoing down the hall.
Meg shuddered. For years she had kept Charles’s advances at bay, but even then she felt soiled and dirty. Him merely looking, touching, and sneering with constant insults eroded her dignity. She knew, logically she knew, that she had worth, but emotions were not made up of logic.
“’Pray they are impressed’?” Meg tried to force out a wry laugh, but it ended with a cough. To the guests of the Red Bear Hotel, she was non-existent, but to all the workers, she was the chef—the real reason why so many people flooded the hotel to dine.
True, Frank Teale took the visual role of the chef. He came out to talk to especially-pleased customers, and he signed the raving reviews in papers. No one ever guessed the plain little kitchen maid was the maestro of Red Bear’s gourmet dishes.
Meg turned back to the vanity. Maybe she was trapped in this life, having nowhere to go and no proof she was an accomplished cook, but in the kitchen Charles couldn’t touch her.
There she could be wild, untamed, and unashamed.
“My cooking will beckon angels,” she told the thin face in the mirror. Then with a nod more confident than she felt, Meg once again adjusted her hair and headed towards the kitchen.
Three
Rose felt naked despite her modest dress. She looked over herself clandestinely just to be sure. Of course she knew she was dressed, yet she felt utterly vulnerable and bare, especially without the wedding ring ensuring some respectability.
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br /> “Excuse me, Miss?” A soft voice broke Rose out of her reverie. Rose looked up at an old man; he was a colored man, with white hair and crooked spectacles. She smiled. There were not many colored men in Denver.
“Are you in the right place?” he asked, his eyebrows knitting in concern.
Rose clutched her emerald green silk purse, her favorite with the silver snake for the clasp. She scanned the street where more than a few pairs of eyes looked at her with earnest curiosity. Here she was, a white woman, standing in a well-tailored ensemble and fine boots, in what appeared to be a poor and predominantly black neighborhood.
She smiled nervously at the kind stranger, trying to decide what to do next. “I’m looking for a woman … I believe her name is Martha. You see, my cousin passed away and before her death she sent me a letter to—”
“Oh,” his face relaxed with understanding. “You’re here to claim little Daisy.”
Rose could have kissed him with gratitude as her stiff shoulders relaxed with relief. “Yes!” she sighed. “I have the address, but I don’t see numbers for the flat.”
His eyes twinkled. “Happens with old buildings; the numbers fade. Luckily for you, Miss, I know where Miss Martha lives.” His smile faded. “It was heartbreaking for the whole neighborhood when our minister and Miss Nell died.” He shook his head, “Typhoid is a terrible sickness. It takes our loved ones away so quickly. A thief in the night.”
Yes, a cruel thief to whom poor, vibrant, and perfect Nell had fallen victim.
Nell had always seen life differently than most. She saw love and beauty everywhere. It was one of the many things Rose had admired about her. She had loved Nell dearly, cherishing the summers her cousin would come to visit Rose in Colorado. She was the only cousin Rose had. After Rose’s marriage, the visits ceased, but the letters continued. Two years ago, Nell confided her love for a Negro minister, Thomas. Rose had laughed at the irony. She by then had married a well-to-do white man whose family owned a good deal of the railways in Colorado. Rose had naively believed Cade would love her more than a wasted hand of cards and a shot of whiskey. She thought marriage would bring her happiness. It hadn’t. But Nell … Nell was happy. Then, one month ago, Rose received a letter that changed her life. Her cousin knew death was imminent, as it had been for her beloved husband.
The Ways of Heaven Page 1