© 2018 by Peterson Ink, Inc., and Kimberley R. Woodhouse
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
Ebook edition created 2018
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 978-1-4934-1360-7
Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.
This is a work of historical reconstruction; the appearances of certain historical figures are therefore inevitable. All other characters, however, are products of the authors’ imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Cover design by Dan Thornberg, Design Source Creative Services
Kimberley Woodhouse is represented by the Steve Laube Agency.
This book is lovingly dedicated in memory of:
Raymond Earl Frappier
My beloved grandpa.
Married for seventy years to an equally amazing lady, father to five children—who’ve all served in full-time ministry, grandfather to twelve, great-grandfather to a continually expanding number (and soon to be great-great-grandfather), godly example, prayer warrior, WWII veteran, Bronze Star recipient, lover of mashed potatoes and gravy and all things sweet, jokester, and all-around wonderful man.
You never hesitated to be there. Whether it was in the middle of the night when I had growing pains in my legs and you sat with me at the piano for hours to keep my mind off the spasms, or the times you told me a silly story when I needed cheering up, or when you sent notes of encouragement before big competitions, or made me cry at my own wedding, there are a million beautiful memories of you being there.
But the biggest and most marvelous gift you ever gave was your prayers.
You and Grandma prayed for me—and every single member of our big, beautiful family—every day, without fail, for hours on end.
What a legacy you have left us. Thank you. I love you and miss you, oh, so very much.
—Kim
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
A Note from the Authors
Prologue
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
Dear Reader
Acknowledgments
About the Authors
Other Books by the Authors
Back Ads
Back Cover
A Note from the Authors
Welcome to the second novel in THE HEART OF ALASKA series—Out of the Ashes.
As we go back to Curry, Alaska, in the 1920s and the Curry Hotel, we journey with some very broken people. Like so many of us today, they experience pain—physical and emotional—that only our great God can help us endure and overcome. But that’s the beautiful part—He is there. Amidst all the junk.
During the writing of this book, Tracie and I both went through some very difficult circumstances. I had an adventurous two-hour ride in an ambulance that led to numerous surgeries and a long road to recovery. Tracie’s beloved nephew suffered a seizure, and they ultimately had to say good-bye to a family member who was all too young. It all happened within the same month. And we feel that the title of this book is even more significant in our lives—as we’ve come out of the ashes ourselves to see the beauty only God can make.
In the Shadow of Denali, book one, started this series in 2017. It introduces the reader to Curry from its inception and tells the love story of Allan and Cassidy, whom you’ll see again in this story. Each book in the series is designed to stand alone. You don’t have to read each one to enjoy the series; however, reading each in order will definitely add to your enjoyment.
In this story, we have used real historical details and real people intermixed with our fictional characters. And since we didn’t know the people personally, we’ve had to use our imaginations along with our historical research to depict some of their personality traits. Please see the Dear Reader letter at the end of the book for more details, links to pictures, and our own research.
Many of our readers have written in asking about visiting Alaska. We definitely recommend taking a trip to the Last Frontier if at all possible. The Alaska Railroad is a wonderful way to see Alaska and the only way to see the remains of Curry at milepost 248.
Denali is just as magnificent as ever and one of the most beautiful sights to behold, but be prepared for him to shroud himself in clouds for weeks on end. While in Alaska, if you hear the beloved phrase “The Mountain is out,” make sure you chase the mountain that day in case you don’t get the chance again. Take lots of pictures, because it will be a treasure to show your friends and family.
And now, we head back in time to Curry. Our prayer—as always—is that you see the beauty of redemption in this story. But most importantly, we hope you see that God can take our worst circumstances—our shattered pieces—and transform the ashes into an exquisite masterpiece.
Enjoy the journey,
Kim and Tracie
Prologue
AUGUST 1925
AL-MAZRAA, SYRIA—ROUGHLY 100 KM SOUTH OF DAMASCUS
Horrific, gut-wrenching wails brought Jean-Michel Langelier awake. Face-first in the hot sand, he tried to push up from his prostrate position but couldn’t lift his head. Where was he?
Syria.
He took a few deep breaths. He’d been stationed in Syria to serve out the rest of his term in the French Army.
The army.
Blinking away grit and sand, he worked to remember his surroundings and all that had happened. He’d offered to serve his country in hopes of helping stabilize Europe after the Great War, the war that had devastated them all. But who was he kidding—in all honesty, he’d run off after the love of his life left France without a good-bye. Not that he’d expected one. Once her father had forbade them to marry, all communication was cut off.
So he found himself in the army. And it brought him to Syria.
All had been peaceful.
Until a rebellion of Druze tribes and Syrian nationalists rose up against French rule little more than a month ago. No one expected it. In fact, the French had been pulling out troops.
But now the rebellion was fighting against the French troops that were left. Jean-Michel shook his head again to clear the fog. Hadn’t he heard screaming?
Turning to take in his surroundings, he realized that their ammunition convoy had been attacked as they’d approached the village. Some sort of blast must have rendered him unconscious, which accounted for the pain in his head. He wiped his eyes, hoping to clear them of the grit and smoke.
Every muscle in his body protested as he pushed to all fours, and the ringing in his ears grew louder. Blinking against the bright light, he forced himself to focus. But sounds were indistinct—almost muted against the drumming and rushing of his own blood pumping as he pushed himself to stand and move.
Jean-Michel looked down at his torn uniform. There were splotches of blood here and there, but upon inspection he found it was nothing serious. Just small lacerations, no doubt from the explosion.
The explosion. What had caused it? Where was George? And Luc? The two younger men had become dear to him. As their commander, Jean-Michel had earned their respect. However, over time something more had developed—a deep, abiding friendship.
Rapid gunfire and explosions erupted around him. The ringing in his ears gradually subsided, but the pounding pain in his head increased. He staggered to the right, still trying to assess the situation. He was in command, but he couldn’t even focus on what should be done.
Desperate screams brought his attention around. Flames engulfed a building several hundred meters north. A bullet ripped past him, bringing Jean-Michel’s attention back to his own precarious situation. He staggered toward the small structure that was a gathering place for the women of the area. The desperate cries and screams of those inside made his stomach roil.
Someone had chained the only door in and out. They were trapped!
Jean-Michel tried to pull away the heavy chains, but they had been secured with a lock. He struggled to think amidst the conflict and noise. He had to get help. He needed something to cut the chain. He started off across the compound toward the supply depot.
Just then another explosion sent him to his knees. Looking back, he saw that now the back of the building was on fire. This couldn’t be happening. Not now. He’d spent a lot of time around the Syrian people. Earning their trust.
And for what?
He struggled once again to his feet and turned in a circle to survey the world around him. It was as if everyone had gone mad and time stood still. Were those French soldiers igniting other buildings around him? His soldiers? No. It couldn’t be. Not when there were innocents inside.
Jean-Michel didn’t understand what was happening and why they were fighting. So far, all he’d had to do was follow orders and pass them on to his soldiers. But as he watched the flames grow, he couldn’t fathom who would order such outright evil.
A figure Jean-Michel recognized all too well strode around the building, a torch in his hand and a sneer on his face. Phillippe.
Phillippe hated the Syrian people. Hated being posted here. Hated being under Jean-Michel’s command when he was fifteen years Jean-Michel’s senior. The motivation behind the abhorrence was clear, but his actions were so barbaric Jean-Michel found it difficult to believe. What had made the man snap like this?
This new “war” obviously fueled the man’s hate. Phillippe lit another small building and moved on.
“Non!!” The guttural cry exploded from Jean-Michel’s lips amidst the raging sounds of war around him and he forced his legs to run faster. He had to free the women and children.
George and Luc emerged from a cloud of gunfire after his shout. Off to the west about a hundred meters, they looked toward his destination and came on the double. Whether they saw Phillippe or the innocent people inside the buildings that were burning, Jean-Michel wasn’t sure, but at least they would help stop the madness.
The heat from the fires intensified the heat of the desert and sweat poured from Jean-Michel’s body as he ran. There weren’t any orders to kill villagers and innocent people. The rebellion hadn’t even reached their area yet—at least not until their convoy was attacked. What had happened?
A small face appeared in the tiny window high up the building wall. Mouth open in cries. A small hand beat the glass pane. Someone had to be holding him up to gain that height. Their only hope of escape—a window they couldn’t reach.
The face was familiar—the same little boy who’d watched him try a magic trick and giggled when Jean-Michel failed.
They didn’t have much time left.
Oomph!
Jean-Michel’s right leg buckled underneath him and he crumpled into the sand as his body ignited in pain. Glancing down at his leg, he watched the bloodstain grow on his uniform. He’d never been shot before, and as the agony grew, he ground his teeth. He couldn’t think about his own pain right now.
But there was no cover. The rebels had him. Probably thought he wanted to see all those people burn to their deaths, since it was his own troops lighting the fires.
“Jean-Michel!” George’s voice cut through the gunfire. “Ne bougez pas!”
Don’t move? He didn’t think he could even if he tried. Jean-Michel attempted to wave him off—to convince them to stay put. He couldn’t risk anyone else’s lives. It was his own fault for taking off into the open. Maybe he could still crawl to the building. But how could he save those people?
Spots danced in his eyes. He shook his head.
Sound began to dim. He heard George’s voice again. Then Luc’s. But Jean-Michel’s gaze was fixed on the building.
A haze filled the outline of his sight as familiar faces entered his vision. George and Luc dragged him backward.
“Non! Non!” They were dragging him away from the building. Didn’t they hear him screaming? Didn’t they know about those people inside?
Jean-Michel squirmed in his buddies’ arms. “Help me save them! Please!”
“We’ll get them, but we can’t risk you being shot again. You’ve lost a lot of blood.” Luc’s calm voice did nothing but grate on Jean-Michel’s nerves.
“I don’t care about me”—a cough choked him—“save . . . them!”
Did they hear him? They were speaking to him, but the words made no sense.
Were his eyes open anymore? He commanded his eyelids to lift, but he couldn’t see anything. Only black.
Muffled sounds were the only evidence that he was still somewhat conscious. That and the throbbing pain.
A sudden jerk from side to side released his arms and he plummeted.
Where were George and Luc?
Maybe this was death. And he deserved it.
1
SIX MONTHS LATER
FEBRUARY 25, 1926—NEW YORK
Katherine Harrison Demarchis paced the floor of Grandmother’s formal sitting room. The older woman had once again taken to arranging her life—without consulting her. Not that she was doing a good job of it herself or even wanted the job.
Not anymore.
Grandmother was a dear and loved to keep Katherine on her toes—which used to make her smile. But now? Did she feel anything anymore?
It wasn’t Grandmother’s fault that Katherine didn’t care a whit about her future. The careless thought made her wince. All the cynicism and negativity swirling in the dark fog around her had turned her into . . . what exactly? What had happened to the carefree, joyous girl of her youth? Always looking forward to the days ahead . . .
Now, all she wanted was to retreat to a quiet life of widowhood. Alone.
A knot formed in her stomach. Hard like stone and heavier than an anvil, as ugly words—his words—rushed in.
Destroyed by the harsh reality of a miserable and loveless marriage, the days of dreams and happy endings were long gone. Katherine straightened her shoulders and stepped to the window to watch the busy, snow-filled street below. How long would it all haunt her? How long would his words continue to wound her? How long before the world realized that everything Randall Demarchis had said about her was true?
She was worthless. A poor excuse for womanhood. She didn’t deserve to live.
The gauzy curtain fluttered in the crisp breeze from the slightly opened window and made her take a breath. The chilly air froze her lungs much like her heart. She wanted to matter . . . longed to, in fact, like she used to . . . before she married a monster.
“Katherine?” The sweet voice held just a hint of concern. “I thou
ght you were going to join me in the library.”
“I needed a bit of fresh air.” That should appease the dear woman for the moment. Until she could rein her thoughts back in. Grandmother always insisted on having fresh air flowing throughout the house, no matter the temperature outside.
“We need to discuss our plans, dear.” The scent of peppermint pierced the air.
Katherine didn’t want the discussion, nor the plans. Yet how was she supposed to deny her last living relative—a woman who had become her lifeline over the past few years?
Randall had done all he could to isolate her from her family, but Grandmother would not be managed then, nor now. The determined woman had inserted herself into Katherine’s married life, despite her husband’s open protests. At one time, he’d threatened Grandmother, but she reminded him she was a powerful woman with friends in high places. If Randall wanted to continue climbing his political ladder, he would do best to humor her and allow for her visits. He conceded, but not without severe punishment meted out on Katherine. Of course, Katherine never revealed that to her grandmother.
When Randall Demarchis died suddenly, Grandmother was the one who’d picked up the pieces. She’d taken Katherine home with her after the funeral and wouldn’t let her be alone during any of the night terrors she suffered. The same woman who’d dried her tears as a child now comforted her as an adult. And daily, the woman prodded her to step out of her dark shell and back into the light. Not that Grandmother had much luck, but God bless her for trying.
Katherine turned away from the window to look at her dear elder. “Grandmother, you know I am not interested in taking any trips—”
“You’re not interested in much of anything these days.” She pointed a knobby finger. “And don’t take that irritated tone with me. It won’t work, and you know it. One of these days, my Katherine will be free to come out again, and I’m looking forward to it.” The finger dropped as the older woman squared her shoulders. “And this is not just any trip, my child. This is the last trip your dear Grandpapa wanted to take . . . he planned and planned, God rest his soul. You wouldn’t deny me that, would you? The last trip I would like to take before I leave this earth?”
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