Copyright

ISBN 1-58660-772-3

Copyright © 2003 by Tamela Hancock Murray. All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the permission of Truly Yours, an imprint of Barbour Publishing, Inc., PO Box 719, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683.

All Scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

All of the characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events is purely coincidental.

One

“Abigail Pettigrew! Get in this house right now or you’ll catch your death of cold!” Griselda Pettigrew’s shrill voice, calling from the verandah, cut through the autumn twilight.

Sitting with her back against a great oak with shriveled brown leaves still clinging to its branches, Abigail looked up from writing in her diary. “Yes, Mother,” she shouted. Abigail tried not to wrinkle her nose when she used the familiar name.

Obviously satisfied that Abigail would obey, Griselda shut the heavy front door behind her. As soon as the woman’s soot black curls disappeared from view, Abigail stuck out her tongue. The gesture gave her a sense of satisfaction even though her stepmother couldn’t see it.

Once Abigail’s dearest Mama had been taken home to the Lord after a prolonged illness, Griselda had wasted no time in becoming the second Mrs. George Pettigrew. As soon as Father’s new bride had set foot on the estate, she’d insisted Abigail call her “Mother.” Never mind that Griselda had been brought into the world only a decade earlier than her new stepdaughter.

When Abigail had protested to her father that she’d prefer to call Griselda by her first name, he’d dismissed her wishes. “Better to make your new stepmother feel welcome in our home, Abigail. As high-spirited as you are, she’ll have her hands full teaching you to be a proper lady.” Then he’d chuckled.

As his head moved with the rhythm of his laughter, Abigail had noticed how his graying hair shone in the light of the oil lantern. Not so long ago, his hair had been a burnished brown, so deep in color that it appeared almost black. Since he had wed Griselda, gray hairs had appeared with increasing frequency.

“My Griselda will earn the right to be called your mother before all is said and done,” Father had admonished her.

As she sat remembering the determination that had filled his words, Abigail quivered with anger.

“No, she won’t! Never!” Abigail muttered, banging the diary against her bent knees. An angry breath filled the air in front of her, forming a thick whiff of steam that quickly dissipated against the frigid temperature.

“My, but are we not peppery on this fine evening!”

Abigail gave a start at the sound of a horse’s whinny. A stranger had stopped in front of her, a fine figure of a man perched high upon an ebony steed. Since night was falling in haste, ...