Love Held Captive
Page 1
ACCLAIM FOR SHELLEY SHEPARD GRAY
“Shelley Shepard Gray has written a riveting tale that captures all the heartache, guilt and shame left by the Civil War. The historical details, memorable characters and sacrificial love combine to make Love Held Captive a compelling and enjoyable read.”
—MARGARET BROWNLEY, NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF
LEFT AT THE ALTAR AND A MATCH MADE IN TEXAS
“Be still my heart! Shelley Shepherd Gray has masterfully married the romance of the Old West with rich post—Civil War history to create a truly unique tale unlike any you have ever read. Without question, An Uncommon Protector is an uncommon love story that will steal both your heart and your sleep.”
—JULIE LESSMAN, AWARD-WINNING AUTHOR OF
THE DAUGHTERS OF BOSTON, WINDS OF CHANGE,
AND THE HEART OF SAN FRANCISCO SERIES
“Gray is a master at integrating rich details and historical accuracies to create an engaging tale that will take the reader back in time. Strong secondary characters are well integrated. It is a shame to see this series end.”
—RT BOOK REVIEWS 4-STAR REVIEW OF WHISPERS IN THE READING ROOM
“Shelley Gray writes a well-paced story full of historical detail that will invite you into the romance, the glamour … and the mystery surrounding the Chicago World’s Fair.”
—COLLEEN COBLE, USA TODAY BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF ROSEMARY COTTAGE
AND THE HOPE BEACH SERIES ON SECRETS OF SLOANE HOUSE
“Downton Abbey comes to Chicago in Shelley Gray’s delightful romantic suspense, Secrets of Sloane House. Gray’s novel is rich in description and historical detail while asking thought-provoking questions about faith and one’s place in society.”
—ELIZABETH MUSSER, NOVELIST, THE SWAN HOUSE
THE SWEETEST THING, SECRETS OF THE CROSS TRILOGY
“Full of vivid descriptions and beautiful prose, Gray has a way of making readers feel like they are actually in Chicago during the World’s Fair … The mystery surrounding the ‘Slasher’ keeps the reader engaged throughout.”
—RT BOOK REVIEWS, 4-STAR REVIEW OF DECEPTION ON SABLE HILL
OTHER BOOKS BY SHELLEY SHEPARD GRAY
LONE STAR HERO LOVE STORIES
The Loyal Heart
An Uncommon Protector
CHICAGO WORLD’S FAIR MYSTERY SERIES
Secrets of Sloane House
Deception on Sable Hill
Whispers in the Reading Room
ZONDERVAN
Love Held Captive
Copyright © 2017 by Shelley Shepard Gray
Requests for information should be addressed to:
Zondervan, Grand Rapids, Michigan 49546
Names: Gray, Shelley Shepard, author.
Title: Love held captive / Shelley Shepard Gray.
Description: Grand Rapids, Michigan : Zondervan, [2017] | Series: A lone star hero’s love story ; 3
Epub Edition September 2017 ISBN 9780718078027
Identifiers: LCCN 2017026649 | ISBN 9780310345473 (softcover)
Subjects: | GSAFD: Love stories. | Christian fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3607.R3966 L68 2017 | DDC 813/.6—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017026649
Any Internet addresses (websites, blogs, etc.) and telephone numbers in this book are offered as a resource. They are not intended in any way to be or imply an endorsement by Zondervan, nor does Zondervan vouch for the content of these sites and numbers for the life of this book.
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, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.
Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.
Printed in the United States of America
*
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To anyone who loves old westerns as much as I do
The apostles said to the Lord, “Increase our faith!” The Lord replied, “If
you had faith the size of a mustard seed, you could say to this mulberry
tree, ‘Be uprooted and planted in the sea,’ and it would obey you.”
—LUKE 17:5–6
The past is dead; let it bury its dead, its hopes, and its aspirations.
Before you lies the future, a future full of golden promise.
—JEFFERSON DAVIS
CONTENTS
Acclaim for Shelley Shepard Gray
Other Books by Shelley Shepard Gray
Prologue
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
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Discussion Questions
Acknowledgments
About the Author
PROLOGUE
Johnson’s Island, Ohio
Confederate States of America Officers’ POW Camp
January 1865
There was almost nothing there. Almost.
Examining his surroundings, knowing he was mere minutes from ordering his men to take whatever this place still had, Captain Ethan Kelly forced himself to focus on his orders. General McCoy himself had given him this specific assignment, and failure was not an option.
Ethan was to make sure he and his men scoured the area and procured as much food and provisions as possible. By whatever means possible. Their efforts would make the difference between life and death for the men in their camp. The soldiers were hungry, cold, and about to be sent into battle. The Confederacy needed them to be strong of mind and able-bodied. No matter how hard it was to prey upon the South’s women and children, Ethan could not allow any feelings of weakness to distract him from his goal.
His men weren’t going to starve and freeze to death. They needed whatever supplies they could scrounge up.
Practically feeling his men’s expectant stares on the back of his neck, Ethan steeled himself. Then he turned around to face them and began barking orders. “All right. You know what we came for. Wood. Ammunition. Food. Blankets. Fan out and be quick about it.”
But instead of rushing to do his bidding, the small band of five eyed their surroundings warily.
“What about the woman, Cap?” Baker asked before Ethan could berate their slow reaction.
Caught off guard, Ethan turned to look where Sergeant Baker was pointing.
That’s when he saw her. She’d come out to stand on the porch of the run-down ranch house. She was dark-haired and wore a dress that hung loosely on a form obviously too thin. A brown threadbare shawl was wr
apped around her shoulders, the edges of it fluttering in the cold wind. But what struck him the most—and most likely, struck Thomas Baker too—was the way she was staring at them. As though she was mentally preparing herself for harm.
Ethan reckoned this woman looked a lot like the rest of the South. Ravaged and in pain.
Then he noticed she bore a scar. Even from his distance, he could tell it was recent. Its jagged red line tore across her temple and into her hairline. An accident?
Ethan forced himself to look away. He turned to his sergeant. Ethan could count on Baker to follow his orders, even when he didn’t agree with them.
The man stared right back, bold as day. As he’d hoped, Baker’s expression was carefully blank. Without distaste. Without interest. Really, without any emotion at all.
Ethan swallowed the rush of sympathy that had threatened to overtake him. And because he was afraid he might give in and decide they didn’t need to search this house and barn, he turned to Baker. “Go explain to her what we’re doing. Tell her we mean no harm.”
“Yessir.”
“But, Baker, make sure she understands we aren’t going to leave until we get what we came for. The needs of our soldiers must come first.”
After nodding, Baker started barking to the others. “You heard Captain Kelly. Go!”
The four other men scattered like fleas in a barnyard while Baker walked over to speak to the woman.
Ethan watched two of his men enter her storm cellar and breathed an inward sigh of relief. There had to be something down there. Maybe even some meat curing. They could take it to their unit, and for once those boys could have something to eat besides mealy hardtack.
He was warmed by that thought as he watched Baker move into the house, and his unease about the woman dissipated.
Until he noticed she was now holding one of the posts of her front porch in a death grip. She looked terrified.
He should have done the talking. Announced their intention to gather supplies for the soldiers of the Confederacy by order of President Jefferson Davis himself rather than asking Baker to do it.
Feeling far older than his twenty-nine years, he moved closer and studied her when she turned to look at him. He was sure she couldn’t quite see his face in the shadows, but he could see tears forming in her eyes. She said nothing, but let go of the post and wrapped her arms and the ugly shawl around her chest and waist more securely. Almost as if she could shield her body from his men. Or perhaps he was the one she feared. He wasn’t a small man, and he was also the one giving orders. His soldiers would do whatever he told them to do.
Looking at her more closely, he realized her hair was darker than he’d earlier thought. Almost black, really. It hung in thick, riotous curls down her shoulders, and when she had turned, he could see it went down her back. Almost to her waist. Her loose dress was a faded pink calico with frayed cuffs. Her feet were in worn boots that looked too big. Obviously she’d done a little bit of requisitioning herself.
But what caught his attention most was the way she continued to stare at him. Her eyes were dark. Maybe blue? Maybe green? Did it even matter? Never had someone looked at him with such stark terror.
It drew him up short. He’d supervised dozens of these raids across the South. Most of the inhabitants were resentful. Some had been downright cordial and sympathetic, sharing stories about their own boys in uniform.
As the men brought up jars from the cellar and carried a comforter from the house, her vivid eyes turned from his and tracked every move. Another tear ran down her face when Baker carried out a sack of flour in one hand and a quilt in the other. Two privates behind him came out empty-handed.
“Where’s the rest, Baker?” he called out.
“Ain’t nothing more, sir.”
It wasn’t a surprise—it was obvious other bands of men had done their share of looting.
Knowing many homeowners hid their best belongings, even from their own troops, he hardened his voice.
“Look harder,” he called out.
The men paused, but after a nod from Baker, they rushed to obey.
The woman pressed a fist to her mouth as her eyes filled with more tears.
He hated seeing her cry. It went against everything he’d been raised to be. His father and mother had taken great pains to teach him to be a gentleman, as befitting their station in Houston society. But though he felt sorry for her, a far different emotion overrode his concern.
Resentment. He resented how her weeping made him feel—as though he were stealing from her for no good reason.
Now he had no choice but to speak to her. He stepped closer, out of the shadows. Close enough for her to see captain’s bars on his uniform. Probably not close enough for her to see much of his face under the brim of his hat.
“You’d best dry your tears, miss,” he called out. “Our soldiers need supplies. They are fighting for our cause. Everyone must make sacrifices. Everyone. Where have you hidden everything else?”
After a brief moment her fist left her mouth, but she didn’t reply. She simply continued to stare at him in silence. What was wrong with her? Had this conflict already taken its toll on her? Some women were far too delicate for the ravages of war. Imagining his mother or his sister in such circumstances, he inwardly winced.
Who had he become? A man reduced to ordering soldiers not just to fight the enemy but to raid innocents and the afflicted? His father would hang his head in shame.
“Can you speak?” he finally asked, his voice sounding unfamiliar and harsh even to his own ears.
She nodded.
“Well then, an answer please, if you will. Where are the rest of your food and provisions?” He knew his tone was severe. Impatient. But he couldn’t help it. This whole situation was hellish. He didn’t want to spend his day frightening young women.
After visibly attempting to regain her composure, she spoke. “There isn’t anything else, sir.”
Her voice was husky. Deeper than expected. It was also soft, almost melodic.
In spite of himself, Ethan climbed the steps. As much as he wanted to remain detached and hard, a part of him needed to hear a feminine voice, if only for a minute. Needed a reminder that while many hurting soldiers depended on his successful objectives, many of them were fighting for their sisters, mothers, wives, and daughters.
Well aware of his men watching and listening, he kept his voice low. “I know there is more. There always is.”
“There isn’t. Other men have already been here. And when they came, they took everything of worth.” The pain in her voice encouraged him to search her face. Once again, he eyed the scar running along her hairline on the left side. Jagged and thick, it curved from her forehead and temple, ending at the top of her ear. It was very red. It appeared to be fresh.
Deep emotion he’d tried so hard to forget existed slid into his heart and soul. Jolted him with a shock of pain as her silence and fear all made sense. Other soldiers had looted her house before. And she’d been attacked. Cut.
And now she was expecting that same of him and his men.
He turned on his heel. “Baker!” he called out. “Collect the men. We’re leaving.”
“But, Cap, we haven’t finished searching the barn.” His voice was filled with confusion.
“Silence, Sergeant,” Ethan ordered in a hard voice—one he was certain Baker knew better than to argue with. When the only sound was the bitter wind blowing across the plains, Ethan made a great show of staring at the map he’d just unfurled.
Ten minutes later, they were marching back down the lane, their wagon pulled by his horse. Though the woman hadn’t lied—she really hadn’t had much left—they’d still managed to take what was there. But it was hardly enough to make a difference to a camp of soldiers.
Still, it would no doubt make a big difference to one woman living alone in a run-down house. Desolation coursed through Ethan as he realized what that meant. They were no better than anyone else. And maybe a whole lo
t worse—even if they hadn’t physically harmed her.
Gasping for air, he tried not to care that he’d become everything he’d feared. He’d become everything—
“Wake up, Major!” a man said while giving Ethan a harsh shove. “You’re dreaming again. Wake up!”
Inhaling, Ethan sat up. Realized he wasn’t freezing. He wasn’t back in Texas in the middle of winter. He was on his cot in his barracks on Johnson’s Island. He was a prisoner of war, stuck in the Confederate Officers’ POW camp under the desultory guardianship of Yankee soldiers. He was reduced to waiting out the remainder of the war in boredom and misery.
He was also safe and dry.
And far away from a damaged woman living on a desolate ranch.
“You okay?” Thomas Baker asked. “You were gasping in your sleep. Sounded like you were choking.”
“I wasn’t. I was just dreaming. I’m fine, Sergeant,” he said, reverting to the man’s rank. Hating that his shirt was soaked in sweat.
“Want some water? I got a canteen-full last night.”
“Thanks, but I’m all right. Like I said, I was, uh, dreaming.”
“I’d ask if the dream was a bad one, but of course it was. I mean, they all are, right?” Thomas asked with a wry look.
He was right about that.
“You okay, Ethan?” Devin Monroe murmured from his cot.
“I’m fine. Sorry I woke you.” Realizing he had most likely awoken half the men in the barracks, he spoke again, this time a little more loudly. “Sorry, everyone.”
But instead of grumbling, the rest of the men in the room remained silent.