My Heart Belongs in Niagara Falls, New York Read online

  © 2018 by Amanda Barratt

  ISBN 978-1-68322-341-2

  Adobe Digital Edition (.epub) 978-1-68322-343-6

  Kindle and MobiPocket Edition (.prc) 978-1-68322-342-9

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the publisher.

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

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.

  Series Design: Kirk DouPonce, DogEared Design

  Cover Model Photograph: Lee Avison/Trevillion Images

  Published by Barbour Books, an imprint of Barbour Publishing, Inc., 1810 Barbour Drive, Uhrichsville, OH 44683, www.barbourbooks.com

  Our mission is to inspire the world with the life-changing message of the Bible.

  Printed in the United States of America.

  Table of Contents

  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

  Dedication

  To my mom. You ushered a little girl with pigtails into a world of magic that only stories can create. I’ve never turned back since! Thank you for your unconditional support, for encouraging me during each and every chapter, and showing me through your example how to live victoriously as a daughter of the King.

  Soli Deo Gloria … always.

  Acknowledgments

  Though a book may bear a single name on its cover, many hands and hearts are part of the process from start to finish.

  My deepest thanks to:

  Amazing editors Becky Germany and JoAnne Simmons—the former who championed this project, the latter who added sparkle to the story with fabulous editing. The talented team at Barbour Publishing never ceases to wow me!

  My wonderful agent, Rachel Kent. Thank you for walking with me on this writing journey, and for taking a chance on an unknown novelist all those years ago.

  Cynthia Van Ness and the Buffalo History Museum. Your willingness to take the time to answer obscure historical questions added an accuracy to the novel that it would have lacked otherwise.

  Angela Bell, for reading the story and offering invaluable feedback—and for being a proud member of the Drew Dawson fan club. Your insight, encouragement, and friendship are blessings beyond reckoning!

  The love of friends does much to brighten long hours spent tapping away at the keyboard and “Aunt” Jocelyn Scully and Schuyler McConkey are two such friends. I can’t praise God enough for bringing the both of you into my life!

  My sister, Sara. For loving Drew (almost) as much as I do, for your willingness to hash out plot issues, and being game for instant brainstorming sessions. You were the first to think writing about a funambulist hero would actually work … and you were right! You daily bless my life in more ways than I can count, and I am immeasurably blessed to call you not only beloved sister but BFF!

  Thanks to my dad, for being willing to watch rom coms instead of action movies, taking me to Victorian dances, and helping me figure out any and all medical issues related to my characters. I’m so proud to be your daughter!

  Mom—if another name deserves to be added to the cover, it’s yours! Thank you for taking me to the library while growing up, reading and critiquing the story multiple times, putting up with me whenever I have a bad writing day (it’s not pretty, folks!), and being the best mother a daughter could ever ask for. I love you!

  And to Jesus. You are my Savior, Strong Tower, and the Giver of indescribable, extravagant love. If these words draw even one individual closer to You, my goal in penning this book will be met.

  Derbyshire, England April 1870

  As the coachman loaded her trunk onto the carriage, nausea churned in Adele’s stomach.

  This was a terrible mistake. One begun that long-ago day when she’d watched her father wobble atop the balustrade framing the roof of their home and take three wavering steps.

  Then plummet to the ground below.

  She’d been a girl of sixteen then. Was a woman of twenty now. A woman born on that chill October evening when she traded in her carefree childhood for the crushing mantle of responsibility. Her mother had been too weak to handle it, her brother too intoxicated.

  So she—Adele Louise Linley—had become overseer of the Linley family fortune. A fortune that now fell faster than her father had.

  Hence the reason for her journey.

  She wrapped her cloak more tightly around her shoulders, facing her mother who stood in front of their stone manor house. The bitter wind buffeting Rosamunde Linley’s slight frame made her appear even more fragile.

  “I still cannot understand how you intend to make this journey alone. A single woman. Not even an escort to assure your safety.”

  “I’ll have Nora. And Aunt and Uncle Osbourne will send a carriage to the depot.” Adele found a smile, added comfort to it.

  Worry pooled in Mother’s eyes. “But it’s across the ocean. And who knows how civilized America actually is? There might be savages. Or wild men who hunt and fish and rarely avail themselves of the comforts of a bath and clean clothes.”

  Adele laughed. “There are people like that in England too, Mother.”

  In our own family, she wanted to say but didn’t add. In his pursuit of the gaming tables, her own brother, Tony, often didn’t bother to change his clothes or comb his hair for days. “The Osbournes live a very happy life, I’m sure. They have a fine house, same as ours.”

  “Well, you know best, dear. But still—” The creak of the front door opening cut off Mother’s words. Adele turned, her cobalt blue skirt sweeping the graveled avenue.

  “Where you off to so early, Del?” Tony rubbed his eyes, as if the wash of morning light proved too much for his no doubt splitting head. What time had he gotten in? Two in the morning? Three?

  “I’m leaving for America this morning, Tony. I’ve told you of my plans.”

  “Did you?” He approached, gait half steady, necktie splattered with the remnants of last night’s drinking spree. “I don’t remember.”

  Truer words were never spoken. Sometimes she wondered how he managed to keep straight the rules of baccarat versus those of whist. Adele could hardly do so, and she was never under the influence of too many brandies.

  “I’m sure I told you. At any rate, it matters little now. Everything’s been arranged.” She pressed her lips together. No one, least of all her brother, would stand in her way.

  “When will you be back?” His tone put her in mind of the ten-year-old boy he’d once been. Though the older sibling by two years, Tony never acted like it. Everyone else—family, staff, schoolfellows—had melted under his fretful pouts and winning smiles. Adele had been the only one to see straight through them.

  Some things never changed.

  “Once I’ve accomplished my purpose for going.”

  The wind blew his unruly black hair over his eyes. Standing this close made her even more aware o
f dissipation’s rule over his life. His eyes, once a clear green like her own, were now bloodshot. His complexion had been that of an English country boy, one who engaged with gusto in various outdoor activities. Now hollows stood stark on his cheeks, his lips and forehead pale and sallow.

  Long ago, his breath smelled of peppermint candy instead of liquor.

  How much worse would things become before she returned?

  “I’ll miss you, Del.” He put his arms around her as he hadn’t done since the day they stood beside their father’s newly turned grave.

  Adele let herself hug him back, her once inseparable friend and companion. Unexpected tears filled her eyes.

  “Will you? Then take care of Mother while I’m gone. Spend some time at home, instead of in London. It will be summer soon; the gardens are never prettier.” It was useless to say such things. But she did so anyway, hanging on to the narrow thread of hope that should have been snipped long ago.

  “You know I don’t care twopence for gardens.” He released her and stood next to their mother. Adele embraced her next, breathing in the whispery fragrance of lemon verbena perfume. As a little girl, she’d often doused herself in the scent, enamored by the fancy glass bottle and sensation of being a grown-up lady. If only she could go back, look her younger self in the eye, and admonish—Being grown up isn’t all it’s made out to be, silly girl. Stay young. Where life is all play and you’re not fretting about bills and tradesmen and how you’re going to reduce the number of household staff. Where you’re not about to take a trip across the sea, leaving everything near and dear in the hope of saving just that.

  A respectful distance away stood Bridges, the estate steward. If not for him, she wasn’t sure she could leave her hapless family at all. Forsaking all schoolroom lessons about underlings being kept at arm’s length, Adele hugged the man tight. He stiffened, not a surprising reaction, since her behavior bordered on unprecedented.

  “Don’t you worry, Miss Linley. You just go on and have a fine time.” If he’d known what pursuits she intended to undertake once in America, Adele doubted he would have said such a thing. “I’ll be here, keeping Linley Park in order.” Looking into his angular face filled her with what the other partings had not—a trace of peace.

  “You’ll have to do everything yourself.” Adele stepped back, lips upturned.

  “That’s my job, is it not?” He returned the smile, his gray eyes softening. “I’ll manage.”

  “You don’t know how grateful I am to hear you say that.” She pressed his larger hand with her properly gloved one, then turned away, entering the carriage.

  The vehicle lurched into motion, taking her down the avenue and onto the road ahead. A sheen of tears blurred her vision. She swiped them away, gaze pressed to the window, fixed on the beloved home she’d held dear since her childhood days. The aged stone walls rich with the splendor of centuries long gone, the gardens soft with springtime flowers. Every tree meant more than roots and trunk spreading upward into leafy boughs. Each possessed some memory, an ode to a past that was no more.

  Soon, the familiar sights would be lost to her, exchanged for something altogether new and entirely frightening.

  She’d never met Arnold Osbourne—her mother’s younger brother and his American family. They lived in New York State, only a short drive away from a popular honeymoon destination. Niagara Falls, she thought it was called.

  If all went well, she’d be taking a honeymoon of her own before the year was out. Married to some wealthy American, who didn’t mind dipping into his expansive coffers to lend enough capital to see the Linley family back on their feet.

  There were riches aplenty to be found on American soil. Tycoons. Fortunes. Scores of them, she’d heard.

  Well, she didn’t need scores.

  All she needed, all she intended to secure, was one.

  Niagara Falls March 1870

  If this did him in, if he died…then what?

  Hope would lose a brother. The Falls, claim a victim.

  It was too loud. Couldn’t everyone just stop cheering? And the water, that pounding, teeming froth and fury that bludgeoned whatever crossed its path. Whirring through his brain, dancing before his vision. Dizzying. Nauseating.

  “You going to be all right, lad?”

  Drew Dawson zeroed in on the voice, forced himself to focus on Henry Godfrey’s pool-ball eyes, coattails flapping behind like out of control duck feathers.

  “Fine.” He swallowed, his tongue dry as cotton batting.

  “Then I’d say it’s time to begin. Mr. Conway will be waiting on the other side.”

  “Yeah.” He could do this. How many times had he climbed atop the orphanage fence and walked across? Skipped, almost, to the cheers of half a dozen admiring playmates. How often had he scampered over the high wire during his adolescence, while spectators gobbled peanuts and caramel candy?

  A few feet off the ground was a million tons of difference compared to what he faced now.

  The balance pole clutched in Drew’s fist seemed made of lead as he ascended the small platform. The chorus of hurrahs rose to a deafening pitch.

  I’d rather not die today, Lord. Though it’d be my own stupid fault if I did.

  The first step onto the rope was easier than he’d thought it would be. The tightrope and the guy ropes securing it, stretched and stretched, a giant web meant to ensure his safety. Jaw tight, he steeled his gaze onward, refusing to look down, blocking out the mental picture of what he’d see if he did—the mighty Horseshoe Falls in all their foaming, snarling rage. Daring him to keep moving forward, closer and closer into their grip.

  A few more steps. The balance pole became an extension of his limbs, steadying him as wind whipped the air, rattled the guy ropes, and licked his face like a dog, half ravenous. Sweat slithered down his back, though chills broke out on his forehead. The costume he wore—acrobat’s tights, shorts, and a thin shirt—wouldn’t slow him down. Neither would it keep him warm.

  So…if this killed him, what then? The thought rose again, unbidden and unwanted. He wouldn’t get a cent of the one hundred dollars promised by Franklin Conway. And if he didn’t, neither would Hope.

  Her face filled his mind like a summer breeze, at total variance to the tempest around him. Sweet Hope. The reason for this mad battle against the elements.

  Only for her, the sister who held his heart in the palm of her slender hand, would he do this thing.

  The closer he got to the middle, the farther the rope dipped downward, sagging like a clothesline weighted with one too many undershirts.

  Wind. Stronger. If he fell, now would be the most likely time.

  He could sense, though not see, the sizzle of anticipation in the crowd lining both shores. As if he were a gladiator, the Falls a feral beast. They held their breaths, eyes riveted. Waiting. Watching for the merest stumble. Wondering if the next step would be the one that led to his downfall. Literally.

  Just.

  One.

  Blast the wind.

  More.

  Every muscle in his body cried for relief.

  Step.

  There. Another one accomplished. Still fifty more to go.

  Focusing too much on either expanse—the one before or behind—would only add to the agony engulfing his tissues and ligaments.

  Drew blinked and he was eight again, doing stunts on the orphanage backyard fence. He’d never looked at the throng of boys, hooting and hollering for him to fall on his face. Instead he kept his eyes on Hope as she clasped her hands in front of her, drawing him forward with the trust in her gaze. Willing him to succeed, and by the strength of her willing, making him do just that.

  She was helping him forward now. As surely as air blasted around him, he knew this. For Hope, he would gather strength.

  For her, he would not die.

  The second the thought flashed through his mind, a cramp seized his left calf. Keeping his breathing even, he took another step, as if by sheer force of mind,
he could relax the knotting muscles.

  It lingered. The cramp. At any second, he would slip. Not a lot. Just enough to send him into the roiling cauldron that would kill him in an instant, without a scrap of mercy or shred of remorse.

  Help, Lord.

  The spasm in his leg eased, as if erased by a divine hand that willed him live another day.

  The crowd—cheering, whistling, bemoaning, or exulting—increased in volume the closer he came to the other side. He completed the final steps as if in a trance, body soaked with spray and sweat, joints stiff with clutching the heavy balance pole.

  The man behind it all, Franklin Conway, was the first to greet him once dry earth replaced the slender, heaving thread of rope and wire.

  “Congratulations, Dawson!” The firm clap the man administered to Drew’s back was hardly helpful, though the sturdy hand he kept on his shoulders aided in grounding him.

  “Thank you, sir.” Drew couldn’t help the grin that crept over his lips. It felt familiar, reminiscent of boyhood and the swell of success that came each time he bested his own feats.

  He’d certainly done so this time. Not like Charles Blondin, perhaps. No one could best that funambulist. But Drew hadn’t died. For that, he let a long and profound swell of gratitude warm his middle.

  “You know why the crowds came out today?” Conway steered him away from the mass of people, who, rather than surging forward to show their appreciation, seemed to drift away like wrapping paper pushed aside after the thrill of Christmas morning. As if in disappointment. As if, by saving his own life, he’d done them a disservice.

  “Why?” Wherever Conway was leading him, Drew hoped it was in the direction of a mug of strong black coffee.

  Conway faced him, his thin ebony mustache forming a half smile. “Because they were just about a hundred percent certain you were going to die. It was a lucky thing, that Spaniard who was supposed to do today’s stunt spraining his knee when he did and my finding you that very afternoon in time to get new posters printed. ‘Inexperienced Youth Takes on Blondin’s Feats!’ I guarantee, at this very moment, there are a hundred gambling men who’d like to push you into the Falls for cheating them out of easy money.” Conway chuckled as he motioned for Drew to enter the carriage—manned and guarded by a cadre of policemen.