Heart of Thornton Creek (Queensland Chronicles Book #1) , livre ebook

© 2005 by Bonnie Leon
Published by Revell a division of Baker Publishing Group P.O. Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287 www.revellbooks.com
Ebook edition created 2012
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, or otherwise without the prior written permission of the publisher and copyright owners. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
eISBN 978-1-4412-3939-6
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, D.C.
Scripture is taken from the King James Version of the Bible.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Acknowledgments
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

About the Author
Acknowledgments
No story is ever written without the help of others. This book is no exception. There are many who gladly shared their insights and knowledge with me.
I met some great blokes not far from home Richard and Becky Gamble. They own and operate a specialty shop called the Ozstralia Store in Bend, Oregon. It’s wonderful packed with treasures from the Land Down Under. Richard is an Aussie, born and raised. He and Becky answered my many questions as well as provided videos and books that helped me find my way.
Mark Viney, who not only grew up in Australia but also lived among the aborigines, visited Bend. He spoke to a roomful of Australia enthusiasts and the following day was a special guest at the Ozstralia Store. While he spoke I furiously took notes and did my best to soak in his enthusiasm and knowledge of Australia and its people. I was also privileged to visit with him at the Ozstralia Store, where he graciously answered my questions.
I would be greatly amiss if I were to omit my online Aussie friends. I regularly spent time chatting with some fine people who live in Australia. We had many interesting and fun exchanges while visiting online. They knew me as “the Yank” and graciously included me in their conversations and answered my endless questions. Thanks, mates.
And when I needed to know how to harness horses to a wagon, Steve Bruce came to my rescue. Thank you. If not for you, Rebecca would never have figured out how to harness that wagon.
And finally, I must say thanks to my editor, Lonnie Hull DuPont. You knew my first draft could be better, and your contributions and guidance made it so.
1
Boston, Massachusetts September 2, 1871
Rebecca Williams knew life had more to offer her than a position of docile wife and mother. However, it seemed that only while on her roan mare’s back did she truly believe it.
Wind snatched at her hat and ballooned the skirt of her riding habit, yet the young Bostonian kept a light hold on the reins and leaned farther over Chavive’s neck. The mare was sure-footed and reliable. Rebecca felt no anxiety, only confidence and pleasure amid the explosive energy and blast of air.
The horse charged past the broad trunk of an oak, then strode toward a wooden fence. Rebecca leaned closer to the mare, gripping the tall pommel at the front of the saddle. When the horse’s feet left the ground, the young woman’s delight intensified and a sensation of power and freedom surged. Rebecca felt a true sense of liberty.
Chavive landed and, without missing a step, moved on, her hooves tearing up damp sod. The prior evening’s rain had left its moist signature, and Rebecca breathed in the rich, heady fragrance of earth and vegetation.
Moving into a grove of maple and heavy underbrush, Rebecca slowed Chavive to a walk. The mare’s sides heaved, and she blasted air from her nostrils. She tossed her head, and the silver bit and headpiece jangled. Rebecca stroked the animal’s neck and spoke quiet words of gratitude.
Rebecca’s thoughts turned to home and the morning’s dispute with her father.
“If my own father won’t engage me, what am I to do about a career?” she’d demanded. “My education is worthless. Absolutely wasted! I don’t understand. I’ve worked beside you for years. I’m well trained, better than most men are when they obtain their first placement. I’m highly qualified. My schooling is completed, and I’m ready to step in and become part of the firm.”
“No man will be interested in a woman with a career!” her father had countered in an uncharacteristically cruel tone.
“I don’t care about a husband. I want more from life than a man and a flock of children.”
Rebecca had meant it. Since girlhood she’d spent countless hours at her father’s office, at first watching him work, then tidying files and such. But in more recent years she’d worked with him, puzzling over cases and discovering creative angles for a defense. She’d treasured the hours laboring alongside him.
There were almost no opportunities for women in the field of law. Still, she could have sought out a position in another firm. There were rare courageous women who had managed to find placements. She wanted to be one of them, but the only prize she truly wanted was to work with her father. Why couldn’t he understand that not all women were meant to be wives and mothers?
She’d been certain he would accept her into the firm. When he’d turned her down, Rebecca had been stunned. It was his nature to give her what she wanted. He’d always been compassionate and overindulgent with his only child.
His closed door had closed all others. Charles Williams was a well-known and respected attorney, and if he wouldn’t engage his own daughter, no other practice would violate his decision.
She rested on Chavive’s neck, stroking her damp coat. Still breathing heavily, the horse glistened with sweat and her nostrils flared with each breath. The ride had been demanding. Rebecca straightened, removed her hat pin, repositioned her felt hat, and attached it more securely. I must be a sight , she thought, brushing damp strands of dark hair off her forehead and smoothing the tendrils clinging to her neck back into place.
Patting Chavive, she thought, I know my father thinks I’m intelligent. I was top of my class. And how many times has he told me that it was only my sharp mind that saved a case? She smoothed her gloves. It’s time I had a career. I don’t fit in Boston society. I must make Father understand.
Rebecca studied the broad valley dotted with farms. Her eyes wandered to Massachusetts Bay with its waters glinting like finely cut gems. This place usually soothed her, but she felt only a scrap of peace. Today even with God’s creation laid out before her, she couldn’t rid herself of the sense of strangulation pressed upon her by society.
I don’t understand, Lord. You know my heart, and your holy Word says you will give us the desires of our hearts. You created me as I am. Why, then, would you restrain me from fulfilling my passion?
Chavive stomped a foot and tossed her head. Rebecca pulled up on the reins. “All right. We’re off.” She nudged the mare forward and turned her toward home. I’ll talk to Father again. I’m sure I can make him understand. He’s always been a fair man.
Their need for a good run satiated, horse and rider leisurely followed a trail through the forest and into an open field splashed with color. More than once Rebecca was tempted to stop and pick from summer’s last offerings. There were blue lobelia, scarlet trumpet creepers, dainty bluebells, and other flowers she couldn’t name. But she didn’t dally. The closer she came to home, the more urgently she felt the need to speak with her father. Passing through the final gate, which led to a broad pasture beside her home, she caught the heavy, sweet fragrance of honeysuckle. Rooted along the fence, the plant embraced the weather-battered planks.
The sprawling, three-story house peeked out from behind trees and shrubbery. Rebecca pulled on the reins and stopped to study her home. An expansive, well-trimmed lawn dappled by gardens bursting with color surrounded the house. Brick steps led to a covered front entrance framed by broad pillars supporting a second-story balcony. White-trimmed windows gazed out on the serene surroundings.
The home had always felt like a sanctuary to Rebecca, and the sight of it provided an inner quiet. She’d had many good days here.
Her eyes rested on a window on the second floor. Someone stood there, gazing out. It must be her aunt Mildred watching for her. Rebecca smiled. Mildred was always watching, always concerned. A spinster, she’d filled the role of mother since Rebecca’s mother, Audrey, had died of pneumonia. Rebecca had been only five years old.
Though she’d been young at the time, she had memories of her mother’s warm smile and her energy. Rebecca’s father had always said she was the spitting image of her mother not only in her looks but in her feisty spirit as well. Rebecca liked that she remembered the vibrant brown eyes that had said, “I love you.” She sighed. Her mother’s absence was a grave loss.
Rebecca gently tapped Chavive’s hindquarters with her riding crop and cantered across the field and to the stables. Jimmy, the stable hand, greeted her with his usual open smile.
“Did you have a good ride?” he asked, taking hold of the halter.
“We certainly did.” Rebecca lifted her right leg over the sidesaddle horn and attempted to slide from the horse. However, instead of making a graceful dismount, she fell forward when her dress caught on the saddle horn, and she nearly toppled on the boy as he attempted to break her fall.
“Dash it all!” Rebecca sputtered. As she pushed herself upright, her eyes met Jimmy’s. “Er . . . I mean, land sakes.” Rebecca detested profanity, but on certain occasions