Resurrected

By Fran Shaff

"Resurrected"
Book One of the Inspirational Historical Romance "Tender Mysteries Series"

His interference infuriates her.

Her passion inspires him.

July, 1895. Hope, Nebraska. For years Deborah Willet has been protecting her sisters without the interference (or aid) of any man. Though she’s often resented the responsibilities heaped on her after her parents and brothers are killed in a flood, she’s done her duty just fine on her own. When family treasures begin to disappear, she’s confident she can locate the nasty villain stealing from her family without the help of any outsiders--until Steven Paxton raises doubts about everything she’s always believed in.

For months Steven has convinced the world he isn’t the least bit upset about the accident which put him in a wheelchair. Secretly, he spends most of his time wallowing in self pity, refusing to do the rehabilitation exercises the doctor has told him will restore the use of his legs. He believes he’s half a man now, and he simply must accept his fate--until Deborah makes him realize he can accomplish anything he sets his mind to doing.

Except, perhaps, winning the heart of the beautiful woman who’s stolen his heart.
“Resurrected” is the first book in the Inspirational American Historical Romance “Tender Mysteries Series” from Award-Winning Author Fran Shaff.

Excerpt:

Setup: Deborah and Steven are at a social looking for a thief.

A flash of red on her periphery caught Deborah’s attention, and she immediately turned to determine the source of the bright color. Seeing Albert, a possible thief, had put her senses on alert, and the presence of one suspect reminded her of the purpose of being at the social with Steven.

Marcie Wilhelm, another suspect, dressed in a bright red, form-fitting dress, stood a few yards away gazing at Deborah. She nodded and twirled her red and white parasol when Deborah caught her eye. “It’s Marcie.”

“Where?” Steven said.

“There, near the man with the handlebar mustache, white shirt and black bow tie.”

Steven glanced in the direction Deborah had indicated. “Do you mean that lovely blonde woman dressed in red is the despised Marcie Wilhelm Susan wants to torture?”

Deborah touched Steven’s hand, and he looked at her. “She only wants to torture her if she’s taken our mother’s cameo.”

“Yes, of course.” Steven glanced at Marcie again. “I hope she’s not the thief. I’d hate to see any harm come to her. She’s a very beautiful woman.”

His complimentary declaration set Deborah’s stomach on fire. Humph, she thought as she recalled what he'd said earlier, I’m fetching, but she’s beautiful?

“I suppose she is, if you like that kind of girl.”

“What man wouldn’t?”

“What did you say?” she asked indignantly.

Ooh, she hadn’t meant to add such an annoying tone to her words. In fact, she hadn’t meant to say the words out loud at all. She sounded and, worse yet, felt like a jealous shrew when she had no reason to be jealous at all. She and Steven were not sweethearts.

“I said Miss Wilhelm is a beautiful woman, the kind most men would find quite attractive--even men who were in love with someone else altogether.” He tilted his head, a gesture she found terribly attractive, and grinned at her. “A fact is a fact, Miss Deborah, and the fact is that Miss Wilhelm is a lovely lady. Surely you can’t argue against evidence anyone can plainly see,” he said, leaning his head in Marcie’s direction.

Deborah glanced at Marcie briefly before settling her gaze on Steven again.

“You’re absolutely correct. Marcie Wilhelm is beautiful.”

“That’s all I’m saying,” he said with a wave of his hand.

"But she just might be a black-hearted thief too!"

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fran Shaff
• Release date: Oct 9, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301976997

Fran Shaff

Just about all of us want to get away from the demands of everyday life from time to time. Unfortunately, most of us don’t have the luxury of being able to take off to some new, exciting place whenever we feel the urge--unless we like to read.A book can take us anywhere we’d like to go. For readers who enjoy living vicariously in pastimes or in modern times Fran Shaff provides a great escape in the more than twenty novels she’s published over the years. Fran’s fictional books have won awards from readers, reviewers and fellow authors, and her non-fiction has been acknowledged in this way too.Love is the main focus of all of Fran’s books, whether they’re contemporary or historical, serious or humorous, written for adults or teens. Love between men and women and among friends and families is featured in her books because there is nothing most of us want more than to love and be loved. Happy endings abound, but the journey to reaching that joyful final moment is always a rocky struggle, just the way we want our fiction (even though we could do without the drama in our real lives).Look for new, full-length historical romance novels from Fran Shaff in the ten-book “Tender Mysteries Series,” available now and debuting throughout 2013 and 2014. The first novel in the series “Resurrected” is available as a free download at most Internet bookstores. The series is available in single e-book and two-pack paperback formats.Reviewers say:“Ms. Shaff is a gifted writer that always delivers in her stories.” (The Romance Studio)“I have discovered a great new author in Fran Shaff. She writes with depth and understanding and digs deep into the emotional lives of her characters bringing the reader with her all the way.” (A Romance Review)“Fran Shaff is a wonderful writer whose prose speak with passion from her heart.” (Fallen Angel Reviews)“Ms. Shaff writes about characters that warm your heart and give you a good chuckle as well.” (Coffee Time Romance)

Book preview

RESURRECTED

Book One of the Tender Mysteries Series

By Fran Shaff

Inspirational Historical Romance

For Everyone Who Loves a Little Mystery in their Love Stories

Resurrected: Book One of the Tender Mysteries Series By Fran Shaff

All Rights Reserved

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012 by Fran Shaff

Characters, names and incidents used in this story are products of the imagination of the author and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system without permission in writing from the author.

Discover Fran Shaff books and short stories available in e-format, paperback and hardcover by visiting her website at: http://sites.google.com/site/fshaff

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This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Dedication

For the unsung heroic women who, over the last several hundred years, helped build the United States of America into a strong, caring country. Thank you for your dedication and sacrifice.

RESURRECTED

MOLLY’S PROLOGUE

The Longfellow Wagon Train Encampment on the Wishek River in Nebraska

The dawn of May 6, 1888 was shrouded in darkness. Black thunder clouds frightened early rays of light from the sky. Rain pelted trees, horses, and the Conestoga rigs in our encampment.

I, Molly McKee Longfellow, a red-headed, fair-skinned Irish woman, thirty-four years of age on that day, was in the Green family wagon which had been placed on high ground fifty yards from the Wishek River. Because Elizabeth and Liza Green, twelve and eleven-year-old angels, ailed with severe colds, their kind father Mitchell had parked the wagon away from the travelers camped near the river to avoid spreading their infections.

On that dreadful May morning, while I was soothing Liza’s forehead with a cool cloth, I heard screams filling the air. The deafening shrieks mingled with the roar of thunder and the stabbing strikes of the ominous rain against the stretched canvas above and around us. I moved deftly to the rear of the wagon and peered through an opening. When lightning flashed I saw figures of all sizes, some moving quickly, some paralyzed on their feet, almost all of them looking up river.

As I followed their gazes, a roar filled my ears, growing, growing, until it overtook the sickening sounds of the screams. Seconds later, lightning flashed, and I saw a flush of water descending down the Wishek. I estimated the giant wave to be twelve to fifteen feet high, though I learned much later others farther upstream believed it was only half that.

Whatever the height and breadth of the deadly liquid wall, the evil murderer took what it willed, its power seeming to equal the potency of the Almighty Himself.

Fathers, mothers, siblings struggled to fight the wrath of the river. I watched helplessly as some gave their lives to save others.

I wanted desperately to spring from my perch and find my three precious daughters, but my duties forbade me from doing so. I had two cherished charges who were too sick to help themselves if the water rose to the height of the wagon we occupied. I owed my allegiance to these girls and my trust to my husband who, I prayed, would take our daughters to safety.

Twice I threw up the coffee and biscuits I’d swallowed an hour earlier. The sight and sounds of all that transpired during my confinement in the wagon made me terribly sick.

An hour after I’d first peered into the storm from the back of the wagon, the rain softened and the sky brightened. It was then I realized the results of the river’s rampage.

We’d been a train of nine Conestoga wagons and six families, eleven parenting adults and eighteen children, some of age and some not. When we took an audit of survivors, as soon as the conditions allowed us to do so, I learned I was the only remaining adult, alone on the deluged prairie of eastern Nebraska with nine little girls ranging in age from eleven to fifteen years.

My dear husband James Robert Longfellow, a forty-five-year-old dark-haired, fair-skinned, handsome Englishman, who’d been with me since our wedding day on December 31, 1871 and all three of my baby girls, Mary Elizabeth, aged thirteen, Joanna, aged nine, and my beloved daughter Annie, aged eight, had been eaten alive by the furious flood.

A sadder, more horrifying day I had never known.

After the flood, we quickly located and buried as many bodies as we could find. Unfortunately, we didn’t find all of our loved ones. We did, however, encounter another child, a parentless, brown-skinned little Indian girl. We took her in and unanimously adopted her as one of our own. We called her Angie as we believed God sent the little angel to soothe us during our time of sorrow. I gave her my surname and my birthday, December 25. We estimated Angie’s age to be eight years at the time we found her, and we have kept her chronology of years according to that estimate ever since.

The nine child survivors whom I also adopted included the Willet girls, Deborah, aged fifteen, Susan, aged fourteen, and the twins Bonnie and Becky, aged eleven. Mary Phillips, who was fourteen at the time of the flood, and Amy McKittrick, who was fifteen, joined the Green sisters, Liza and Elizabeth, and Flossie Marquez, aged thirteen, as part of my new family.

Throughout the years since the flood, my ten espoused daughters have been a great blessing to me. They’ve given me the courage I’ve needed to provide them with home and hearth, with love and patience, with food and encouragement.

All of them have reached womanhood as I write this in the year 1900. I have earnestly beseeched God for one favor besides granting good health to all of my girls--I have asked often that each and every one of them find men who will cherish them and give them bountiful family lives. I have believed my girls would be able to find relief from the horrible suffering they’ve endured due to their familial losses only by creating progeny with dearly beloved husbands.

I’ve always had faith that nothing is impossible with God, but I have often wondered, would He hear me and answer my prayers according to my will, or did He have plans of His own which countered mine?

When it came to my wishes for Deborah, a fair-skinned, brown-haired, green-eyed, insightful girl, I began to believe she would never take a husband. She’d rebuffed many a gentleman caller between the time we set up housekeeping in the three-room shack we’d been able to purchase after the flood and the years after that when we moved into our big house on Lincoln Avenue in Hope, Nebraska.

In the summer of 1895 Deborah had just turned twenty-three years of age. She’d become a terribly serious woman who worried about almost everything. When she and her sisters began to be plagued by intermittent thefts of their personal belongings, she grew even more stern and worried.

More than ever, she needed someone strong to lean on. She needed someone besides her sisters and me to ease her burdens, though she’d never admit to a soul just how difficult bearing them had become for her.

But Deborah had no interest in finding a man. She had other plans for her life.

Chapter One

Hope, Nebraska. July, 1895

Deborah’s mind was so focused on the stolen goods she barely noticed she was approaching the entry to the Nebraska National Bank. She stopped her deliberate march along the boardwalk when she reached her destination and gave the bank a good looking over.

Odd that the wooden framed building appeared vulnerable to thieves when the purpose of her visit was to discuss a matter of stolen property, she thought. Fortunately for her peace of mind, she kept her funds in the fortress-like, stately brick and stone Merchants Bank, the only other financial institution in Hope, Nebraska.

She set aside her silly, intruding deliberations, opened the six-panel oak door ahead of her and stepped out of the hot summer sun and onto the cool, gray marble floors inside. She looked past the dark oak tellers’ cages, each with short lines of depositors waiting to do business, toward the area filled with desks and suited men.

She observed her sister Becky, wearing her favorite green plaid frock, standing next to a handsome young man sporting a dark suit and white shirt who was seated at a large brown desk on the other side of the bank’s open office area.

Deborah had done business with Nebraska National a time or two in the past, but she didn’t remember ever having seen the man near Becky.

She’d have remembered him, had she ever seen him before. She was certain of that.

She angled her body toward her sister and moved in her direction. The urgent business on her mind distracted her so much she hardly noticed the elderly gentleman patron who nearly bumped into her upon rising from his chair near one of the desks.

As she pressed on, the scent of roses caught her attention. She glanced around to locate the source of the fragrance and saw a vase of flowers sitting on the desk of a dark-haired, attractive young woman who was scrutinizing a ledger. A wistful smile tugged at Deborah’s lips. Judging by the mammoth size of the red bouquet, the woman’s sweetheart must have been apologizing for some misdeed, or, perhaps, he was trying to impress her with his generosity and good taste.

She set aside her musings and continued toward her destination.

When Deborah reached her sister, Becky glanced at her.

I need to speak with you, Deborah said curtly.

Good afternoon, Deborah, Becky said politely.

This is Deborah? the gentleman sitting at the desk asked.

Yes, Becky answered.

Deborah looked directly at him.

He smiled at her, and, to her great surprise, her heart skipped three beats. His jet-black hair was neatly combed, his fair skin cleanly shaven. His deep blue eyes twinkled as though something had amused him.

I’m Steven Paxton, he said, extending his hand toward her.

She jerked slightly at the sound of his voice. Deborah Willet, she said, shaking his hand. The fact that he didn’t stand upon greeting her annoyed her, yet she couldn’t help but notice his grip was warm, strong--and the feel of his skin against hers strangely interfered with her breathing.

Deborah pulled her hand away from him and looked at her sister. Becky, we four sisters are going to meet at five to discuss the recent thef--the family business we need to discuss. She’d almost said thefts. Fortunately, she’d cut off the word before she’d completed it. She certainly didn’t want Mr. Paxton to be privy to private family problems.

Becky tucked a strand of coffee brown hair behind her ear. I’m pretty sure Mr. Paxton and I will be finished with our work on time to meet you, Bonnie and Susan by five, won’t we Mr. Paxton?

I should think so, yes, he said to Becky. He cleared his throat, looked up at Deborah and leaned forward, his dark suit jacket touching his desk. I’m terribly sorry to hear of the recent cases of larceny your family has experienced. From what I’ve learned in the few months I’ve been in Hope, thefts are fairly uncommon here.

She gave her sister a spiteful look. Becky, have you been exposing family troubles to the public?

Of course not! she said, her brown eyes filling with trepidation. I’ve mentioned the problem only to Mr. Paxton.

Deborah smoothed her hands over her dark green skirt in an attempt to calm the ire rising inside her.

Wasn’t it bad enough that her family was fully aware of her complete lack of competence in caring for her sisters? Now even this stranger knew what a terrible protector she’d been. How humiliating!

There’s no harm done, Miss Willet, Steven said. I haven’t mentioned anything Becky has told me to anyone.

Deborah looked at Steven and touched her light green shirtwaist, placing the palm of her hand over her heart in an effort to stop the thudding this man seemed to cause every time he looked at or spoke to her. Thank you, Mr. Paxton, but that’s not the point. She glanced at Becky. "My sister knows well I do not appreciate anyone knowing anything about our private family matters."

Becky bit the corner of her mouth. I’m sorry, Deborah, but, honestly, am I not allowed to have a confidant? Just because you are intent on keeping every emotion you’ve ever experienced bottled up inside doesn’t mean the rest of us are obliged to live that way.

Becky!

Steven raised his hands. Perhaps we should take a moment to calm down, he said gently.

Deborah gave him a nasty look. She wanted to tell him to tend to his own business, but if she used the tone and volume she felt necessary in issuing such an order she’d garner the attention of every person in the bank. She, therefore, had to be content with conveying her feelings by the nasty facial expression she’d delivered to him.

I’m sorry, Becky said.

Deborah took a deep, calming breath and gazed at her sister. "Me too. I didn’t come here to argue with you. I wanted only to let you know we four sisters will meet at Gianni’s Restaurant at five to discuss how we’re going to handle the matter troubling us."

You mean the thefts, Steven said.

Deborah looked at him, and, once again, found amusement twinkling in his gorgeous blue eyes.

Did he find their problems entertaining?

I’d like to help you ladies solve your mystery, Steven said.

Deborah gave him a terse shake of her head. Thank you, Mr. Paxton, but we are quite capable of handling our difficulties ourselves.

But I’d really like to help. I’m quite imaginative, and I’m brilliant when it comes to making deductions from pieces of evidence. Just ask Becky.

Deborah glanced at Becky and found her younger sister’s countenance filled with enthusiasm. Why, he’s the smartest man in this bank, she said.

I’m sure he is, Deborah said in a halfhearted tone. However, she said, looking again at Steven, you certainly have better things to do than to assist us with a problem we can surely take care of without anyone’s help.

Steven touched the lapel of his dark suit with the palm of his hand. Your competence is beyond reproach, I’m quite certain. However, being a gentleman and a man who’s constantly willing to render assistance, it would be my great pleasure to help you--and Becky, too, as well as your other sisters--with this dilemma.

A gentleman? Deborah said indignantly. It hadn’t escaped her notice that not only had he neglected to rise when they were introduced, but he’d remained seated throughout their entire conversation while Becky and she had been on their feet.

Mr. Paxton is every inch a gentleman, Becky said defensively.

Yes, of course… That is why he was so quick to join us in standing when I approached his desk, isn’t it? she said scathingly.

She wanted to take back the vicious words as soon as they’d left her mouth.

How could she be so vulgar?

Apparently the guilt engulfing her heart due to her inability to protect her sisters from thieves was destroying her temperament more effectively than she’d imagined.

I’m terribly sorry for my lack of manners, Steven said, but--

Deborah, you don’t understand! Becky exclaimed. She seemed to want to say more but, instead, she walked away.

Steven pushed away from his desk. You see, he said, bracing his hands on his desk and leaning forward, "I had an accident a