Surrendered: The Warm Heart Series

By Roe Braddy

Nezzie Fergerson came to Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania looking for solace from her life of deprivation and poverty in the south. Arriving in Pittsburgh was an eye-opening experience. There she found that pushing through her painful past wasn't going to be as easy as she suspected. Nezzie was drawn to the nightlife and found comfort in slinging drinks in a local nightclub. A life of obscurity was the life she was looking for, at least that's what she thought.

 

Mathias Whaley was good-looking and soft-spoken. Spending his days hoisting steel in the steel city and his evenings sipping coke under the soft glow of lights the local nightclub offered. Where he runs into "His good thing." Mathias is a man of few words but one full of action. Acting on the pull of his heartstrings and the tug of the struggles occurring in the turbulent year 1960 might keep him from winning the heart of Nezzie Fergerson.

 

Will Nezzie surrender to the desires of her heart and let love take the wheel? Does Mathias have the fortitude to press on beyond the hurt and capture the woman who struggles to break free?

 

Only time will tell.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Roe Braddy
• Release date: Oct 29, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215864425

Roe Braddy

Roe Braddy is a retired educator who lives in Pennsylvania. She is the author of ten books. She has a passion for history and the theatre. She grew up in the Hill District of Pittsburgh, which is the setting for the second book in this series, Surrendered. Roe is the recipient of six Emma Awards. (Awarded by Diverse Writers and Readers Inc. for excellence as a diverse romance novelist). Roe is also a playwright. She has written and produced three community theatre productions. Roe also has a love for vintage clothing, antique jewelry, and funky eyewear. You can find her hanging out at coffee shops or at the theatre.       

Book preview

ROE BRADDY

SURRENDERED

Surrendered. Copyright© 2021 by Roe Braddy. All rights reserved. Cover Design by Rebeca

Cover photos from Shutterstock.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, products, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

––––––––

ISBN:

ISBN:

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS AND THANKS

There are many things in life where a village is required, such as raising a child and writing a book. I’d like to thank the village that stood behind me as I wrote this book. First there’s Kristi Tailor, who I am proud to call friend and editor. You my dear, are a good egg, with a hearty shell and a big heart.

Then there’s the late-night tribe of my writer/reader ride or die ladies. Thank you, Shannon Cover-Bond, and Leila E. Hart. It’s been a treat staying up night after night and pounding the keys to get our words and stories out to the world.  I would be remiss if I didn’t mention the Literary Ambassador, Miss Queenie Clem who rounded up an ARC team for my novella, Scarred. You are my go- to girl.

To my readers, thank you for wanting to take another journey down the road and travel with my characters as they navigated their way through the turbulent times of the Civil Rights Movement. This is my village, but the one who gives me strength is my Lord and Savior, without you nothing is possible, but with you all things are possible. It is because of you that I live, breathe, and find my being. You are why I write, so that others will come to see you high and lifted.

Look for Wading, the next novella in the Warm Heart Series coming in 2021.

For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven

Ecclesiastes 3:1 ESV

Prologue

Nezzie

1959

It had been another long day of cleaning houses. I couldn’t understand how two people felt the need to have so much house. What’s the point of having three or four bathrooms when there’s only two of you living there? I wondered aloud to myself as I opened the door to my little efficiency apartment on Bedford Avenue. Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania had been the place where I now called home after leaving Escambia County in Brewton, Alabama one year ago. Pittsburgh had a lot to offer. Rich, white folks were looking for housekeepers, chauffeurs, and nannies. Lord knows I knew how to clean. Grandma would put me to work scrubbing men’s work shirts in a tin wash tub every day of the week if she could. She took a little pity on me and gave me Sundays off. Only money coming to her was taking in wash. When my momma dropped me off on her door stop and never looked back, she had little to nothing to share with a twelve-year-old girl, so she put me to work like an old pack mule.

Grandma and I ain’t never had much, so the night I packed my bag and snuck out of the house taking with me the money Grandma kept in the mason jar behind the pie safe probably left her dry and destitute. I couldn’t bear the thought of staying in Escambia County one more second, so I found the gumption to catch a train and leave Grandma and the past behind me. I was only twenty- three years old.  

I sat down on the edge of the bed and took off my shoes. My feet were tired, and I was hungry. I couldn’t bring myself to move from the bed to find something to eat. Besides, there wasn’t nothing in that half-empty refrigerator that grabbed my attention. I yawned and found myself with my head resting on my pillow and my eyes getting heavy. I soon drifted off into a fitful sleep. Every night sleep would come, but peace was illusive. I would tangle myself in my bedclothes as the horrible visions from my past would float through my memory and cause me fits of pain.  

The moon was glistening, and that old night owl had his say—somehow, I found my way back to the house. The back woods of Escambia County in Brewton, Alabama was no place to be this time of night.  I sat down on the porch step to catch my breath. This night just seemed so unreal to me. I looked down at myself, he had torn my dress to shreds, and there was a throbbing between my legs. I knew Grandma would pitch a fuss when she discovered I had come back home without the water. The old biddy would send me back down to Murder Creek. Pulling myself to a standing position, I managed to get to the door. Before I could knock, it flew open, and I stood looking into the eyes of the meanest, old woman that ever lived.

Gal, what in the world took you so long . . . where— Stopping mid-sentence to glare at me through those beady, grey eyes, she scowled.  I had no reply to her question. I had no thoughts about anything. My mind and my body were experiencing shock. All I could remember was taking a step toward her and falling into her arms. I believe I remembered her walking me to my bed and mumbling something about being a worthless good for nothing that was dropped off on her step, by my worthless, good for nothing mother, Zenobia Ferguson.

I knew I had no escape from the dreaded task of fetching the water. Grandma would beat me to the inch of my life if I didn’t do this chore. The sun thumped its bright face into my room. Another day had come, and mercifully she let me sleep. I opened my eyes and turned my head toward the door.

Get your lazy tail up and get your good for nothin' self-down to that creek and bring that water, she bellowed.  As she walked toward me, yielding a hickory stick, I forced my body to move from the bed.

Grandma, please, please don't make me go back down to Murder Creek, I pleaded. I could feel every muscle in my body cracking in agony as I pulled myself to a full standing position, ducking the sting of the green hickory against my bare skin.

You got one minute to put some clothes on your black behind and make it down to that creek and fetch some water back here, she said, slewing her bitter words at me.

Yes, Ma'am.

I was moving as quickly as I could, throwing on the only other dress I owned over my head. I took a deep breath and cautiously moved toward the door. A full minute passed; the hickory stick came my way again. I ran toward the door. Please, grandma, please don't make me go back down to that place again, I begged without much result. Grandma pushed me toward the door and threw the old wooden bucket out after me.

You best get down to that creek and get that water, if you know what's good for you. She closed the door behind her and left me standing on the porch riddled in pain.

I sat down on the step