Where Dandelions Bloom Read online

  Praise for Tara Johnson

  “Bringing facets of Civil War history to life, Where Dandelions Bloom is an engaging journey of hidden identity and of discovering what’s most important in life—and in love. A story certain to delight fans of historical romance!”

  TAMERA ALEXANDER, USA TODAY BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF CHRISTMAS AT CARNTON AND A NOTE YET UNSUNG

  “In her sparkling debut . . . Johnson crafts an inspirational tale of love, fortitude, and what it means to do the right thing when the very concept of ‘right’ is challenged.”

  PUBLISHERS WEEKLY, STARRED REVIEW

  “A timeless and timely theme of helping persecuted people blooms into an unusual Civil War romance that explores Keziah’s search for a purpose, the intersection of faith and practice, and how single acts have far-reaching effects.”

  FOREWORD REVIEWS

  “Debut novelist Johnson does not shy away from the horrors of slavery and the important role of the Underground Railroad, but the tone of this historical romance is much lighter than expected. . . . Fans of the genre will be pleased.”

  LIBRARY JOURNAL

  “Keziah and Micah brave danger and death to help slaves journey to freedom, reminding readers that choosing right often involves great sacrifice.”

  CBA CHRISTIAN MARKET

  “A truly lovely debut novel. [Told] through the eyes of an unlikely heroine awakening to the injustices of slavery, Engraved on the Heart brings Savannah, Georgia, during the Civil War to life. Tara Johnson writes with honesty and compassion, undergirded with solid research. The characters are lovingly drawn, and Keziah’s growth from sheltered weakness to faithful courage is simply radiant. A book to savor and an author to watch!”

  SARAH SUNDIN, AWARD-WINNING AUTHOR OF THE SEA BEFORE US AND THE WAVES OF FREEDOM SERIES

  “Set amid the beauty of Savannah, Georgia, at the onset of the Civil War, Engraved on the Heart is a story that is as spiritually profound as it is romantic, its heroine as memorable and unique as her lovely name. Johnson weaves a tale of secrets, selflessness, and service where love and truth triumph. A remarkable, memorable debut!”

  LAURA FRANTZ, AUTHOR OF THE LACEMAKER

  “Through the eyes of pop-off-the-page characters, readers are whisked into turbulent Confederate Savannah, from charming balls to the intrigue and danger of the Underground Railroad. Woven throughout this vibrant tale are strong spiritual threads sure to inspire. Lovers of Civil War fiction will rejoice to add Engraved on the Heart to their collections. I’ll be looking for more from Tara Johnson!”

  JOCELYN GREEN, AWARD-WINNING AUTHOR OF THE HEROINES BEHIND THE LINES CIVIL WAR SERIES

  “Blending realistic, relatable characters and the heartrending issue of slavery against a beautifully painted backdrop, Tara Johnson presents a debut novel that will leave you satisfied and yet still wanting more. Both major issues—living with an uncontrollable health issue and being trapped in servitude—could become oppressive or maudlin, but Johnson expertly handles both and weaves them so intricately into the story’s fabric that a beautiful tapestry of overcoming hardship and experiencing freedom emerges. I highly recommend this engaging and intriguing historical novel.”

  KIM VOGEL SAWYER, BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF BRINGING MAGGIE HOME

  “Tara Johnson delivers a stirring tale of danger and hope in Engraved on the Heart. I was invested in Micah and Kizzie’s love story from the very first chapter—and fell more than a little in love with Micah myself.”

  ROBIN LEE HATCHER, RITA AND CHRISTY AWARD–WINNING AUTHOR OF YOU’LL THINK OF ME AND YOU’RE GONNA LOVE ME

  Visit Tyndale online at www.tyndale.com.

  Visit Tara Johnson’s website at www.tarajohnsonstories.com.

  TYNDALE and Tyndale’s quill logo are registered trademarks of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc.

  Where Dandelions Bloom

  Copyright © 2019 by Tara Johnson. All rights reserved.

  Cover photograph of dandelions copyright © by Anatolii/Adobe Stock. All rights reserved.

  Cover photograph of girl copyright © by Ellie Baygulov/Stocksy.com. All rights reserved.

  Designed by Eva M. Winters

  Edited by Danika King

  Published in association with the literary agency of Books & Such Literary Management, 52 Mission Circle, Suite 122, PMB 170, Santa Rosa, CA 95409.

  Unless otherwise indicated, all Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, King James Version.

  Scripture quotations marked NLT are taken from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.

  Where Dandelions Bloom is a work of fiction. Where real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales appear, they are used fictitiously. All other elements of the novel are drawn from the author’s imagination.

  For information about special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Tyndale House Publishers at [email protected] or call 1-800-323-9400.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Johnson, Tara, date- author.

  Title: Where dandelions bloom / Tara Johnson.

  Description: Carol Stream, Illinois : Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., [2019]

  Identifiers: LCCN 2018038406 | ISBN 9781496428356 (sc)

  Subjects: | GSAFD: Christian fiction. | Love stories.

  Classification: LCC PS3610.O383395 W48 2019 | DDC 813/.6—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018038406

  Build: 2019-06-07 14:17:25 EPUB 3.0

  For those who have been hurt, broken, and discarded . . .

  There is a God who sees you. He causes beauty to bloom in the hardest places. You are treasured and held in his heart.

  “He will give a crown of beauty for ashes . . .”

  ISAIAH 61:3, NLT

  Contents

  Prologue

  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

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Epilogue

  A Note from the Author

  Preview of Engraved on the Heart

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Discussion Questions

  Prologue

  JUNE 4, 1851

  NEW YORK CITY

  Gabriel Avery hit the unforgiving pavement with a grunt. Above him, the thin, dirty faces of his foes looked down on him with sneers.

  “Give it up, Avery.”

  A kick to his middle caused him to fold his body inward as he clutched his burning stomach. “I’ve not a penny to give you.”

  A few more blows to his back and legs before the oldest of the boys heaved an impatient sigh. “Come
on. He ain’t got nothin’.”

  Their shuffling scrapes faded from the bottle-littered alley. Gabe sat up with a groan but couldn’t suppress a smile of victory. Hiding the nickel inside his shoe had worked. They’d always discovered the coinage in his pockets, but he’d finally found a spot safe from their eager hands.

  Rising, he swiped at the dirt clinging to his trousers. Mither would scold him hard if he were to put another tear in them. Clothing came dear, and Da was working long enough hours as it was. They could ill afford to buy new clothes. It was difficult enough for Scottish immigrants in New York without adding clumsiness and neighborhood bullies to the list of living expenses.

  Gabe sighed. The slums gobbled up more and more of the city. With their encroaching darkness came more troublemakers. More boys wanting to scrap, and fewer places he could go to be left in peace.

  The odor of rotting cabbage, urine, and musty newspapers thickened the air. A door in the alley creaked open just before the contents of a chamber pot were thrown onto the uneven stones with a splatter. Gabe winced and took a step backward.

  Mr. Giuseppe scowled. “I don’t want any street rats hanging around.”

  “I’ll not trouble you. I’m passing by.”

  The barrel-chested Italian narrowed his dark eyes to slits. “See you do, or my aim will be better next time.”

  Mr. Giuseppe meant it too. The hot-tempered man had done more than bluff in the past. Gabe wasted no time scampering from the alley. Cramming his hands into his pockets, he burst onto the crowded sidewalk, thankful for the sunshine despite the sweat trickling down his back. He shuffled through the teeming mass of people scurrying to their various destinations—work, appointments, restaurants—when a shop window captured his attention.

  A new business inhabited the old abandoned bakery. The formerly empty glass front that had boasted nothing more than spiderwebs was now filled with pictures of every size. Black-and-white faces stared back at him. Mothers and children, proud military leaders, a boy with his dog, an elderly couple leaning against the porch of their farmhouse . . . every framed portrait was more captivating than the last. Curling his fingers against the glass, Gabe pressed in for a better view as the crowds around him melted away.

  “Do you like what you see, lad?”

  Gabe startled and looked up to find a man with a handlebar mustache smiling at him. His blue eyes danced.

  “I’ve never seen such wonderful pictures before. Each one is like a story.”

  “Well said.” The lean fellow knelt until they were eye level and studied the images.

  “How are they created?”

  “It’s called daguerreotype. You’ve heard of cameras before?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The man nodded. “Good. Well, a daguerreotypist takes a sheet of silver-plated copper, exposes it to the light of a camera lens, and uses mercury vapor on it. After that, other chemicals are applied before it’s sealed behind glass. Whatever image was captured by the camera lens remains forever.”

  “It’s . . . wonderful.” Gabe drank in the sight of the little boy with his arm slung around his dog as they stood watch on a rough-hewn log porch. Surely that boy didn’t have to fight off hordes of pickpockets and greedy tormentors each day. He must not deal with the stench of a cramped city constantly swelling ever larger, or watch his mother and father scrimp and save for the smallest pittance of comfort. Did his ceiling leak when it rained? Was his da too exhausted each evening to play with him?

  This daguerreotype must be a sort of magic in its own way. Still moments of perfection in happy lives. Something yawned wide in Gabe’s chest. “I want to learn.”

  The man rose and placed a hand on his shoulder. “My name is Franklin Adams, and this is my shop. Come inside. I’ll show you how it’s done.”

  Chapter 1

  TEN YEARS LATER

  APRIL 12, 1861

  HOWELL, MICHIGAN

  “Cassandra Kendrick! What have you done?”

  Cassie cringed at the slurred, booming voice hovering just beyond the barn door. She crouched, pressing her back against the prickly wood wall, and breathed through her mouth lest the sweet motes of hay floating around her cause a sneeze. She could not let Father know her whereabouts. Not until his temper cooled or his alcohol-sodden brain plunged him once again into a sleeping stupor. For him to find her in his current condition would not bode well.

  In her eighteen years, history had taught her that much in abundance.

  “Come out, come out, wherever you are.”

  The ominous timbre slithered down her spine. She squeezed her eyes shut.

  Thud, thud, thud.

  Her pulse pounded dully in her ears, the rhythm far too rapid. Could he hear?

  His sluggish footsteps faded, as did his familiar curses. She allowed her back to relax a fraction and dropped her head against the barn wall, wincing when strands of her hair stuck and pulled against the splinters of wood.

  Breathe in; breathe out.

  She waited for several long moments. He had deceived her before. She had crept from her hiding spot only to have his meaty fingers clamp around her throat.

  The barn door squeaked open on rusty hinges. Her breath snagged, but it was Mother’s careworn face that appeared. Sunlight streamed around her silhouette.

  “He’s gone.”

  Uttering a sigh of relief, Cassie pushed away from the wall and brushed poking shafts of straw from her skirt. “He found out, then?”

  Mother nodded. “Came from town and went straight to the crock.”

  Cassie grimaced, imagining his reaction when his calloused fingers scraped the inside of the empty container. “He didn’t accuse you, did he?”

  Mother waved her hand in dismissal, though the tight lines around her eyes remained. “It doesn’t matter. He laid not a hand on me. In truth, it’s unlikely he’ll remember come tomorrow.”

  Cassie stepped over tackle and crates, squinting against the bright sunlight. She straightened. “I’m not sorry. You know I’m not.”

  “I know.” With a sad smile, Mother turned to leave, murmuring instructions over her shoulder. “Time to hang the wash.”

  That was all? No reprimand? Cassie said not a word. Avoiding Father was the part she had fretted over most, but fearing her actions had disappointed Mother . . .

  Perhaps Mother wasn’t sorry either. The thought gave her pause.

  Cassie trudged through the grass-splotched yard as chickens squawked and flapped around her skirts. The worn garment tangled around her ankles.

  At least she’d bought them time. Yes, she’d taken the only money to be had from the crock, but the tax man’s demands were sated. If Mother had agreed with her actions, why did she not say so? Why could she never stand up to Father?

  Before they had rounded the corner of the cabin, a wagon careened down the dirt road in front of the house, churning up splatters of mud and jostling with enough clatter to wake the dead. Cassie frowned. The driver was recognizable enough. Peter, her sister Eloise’s husband, jumped from the bouncing wagon a hairsbreadth after he’d set the brake. His blond hair was windblown as if tossed by a dervish. His eyes were bright, sparkling with an excitement she’d rarely, if ever, witnessed from the sulky man.

  Mother’s face filled with sudden angst. “What’s wrong? Is it Eloise?”

  “Of course not.” His Irish brogue lilted high as his chest puffed out with a billow. He hooked his thumbs around his suspenders. “You’ve not heard the news, then?”

  Cassie stepped next to Mother’s side. A cold stone sank in her stomach. “What news?”

  His lips curved into a smile, revealing crooked yellow teeth. “Why, war, sister. War has been declared.”

  Chapter 2

  APRIL 15, 1861

  NEW YORK CITY

  Gabe Avery snaked his way through the swarm of people clogging Broadway, suppressing the urge to vent his frustration at the slow progress. After growing up in the city, he was rarely bothered by the crowds any
more, but this was different. Urgency bade him hurry. He must know if the rumors were true.

  As he tipped his hat to an older matron coming toward him, he almost collided with a wayward boy of no more than six. The dirty moppet scurried past him without a pause, reminding him of a rat slinking between broken crates in an alley. He shook his head. The lad was likely to cause an accident.

  The odor of horse dung mingled with the sharp sting of axle grease as people and carriages clattered past. Only a little farther . . .

  There. The Brady Gallery was within view. A pulse of euphoria traveled his veins.

  Please, God, let him say yes. . . .

  He slowed as he approached the prestigious gallery and stopped to catch his breath. He’d been here dozens of times before, but never had he been so anxious. So unnerved. Tugging his vest into submission, he inhaled a thick pull of air, grasped the doorknob, and tugged.

  He stepped into the gallery, his senses heightening despite the calming effects of green strategically gracing the papered room. Faces met him at every turn, each photographed form boxed within a gilt frame. Some somber, some cheery. Some lithe of form and some frumpy.

  All of them were fascinating.

  The faintest traces of iodine wafted toward him. Someone must be readying glass plates for exposure in the back.

  His boots sank into the plush carpeting as he stepped into the main salon. A solitary couple perused the displays, murmuring softly to each other as they commented over the Imperials. The painting-size photographs were so lifelike, he felt if he reached out and touched the glass, the images would jump in response. Gabe stood off to the side and fisted his hands behind his back, willing his frayed nerves to cease their buzzing.

  A man stepped through the dark-green velvet curtains concealing the workrooms from the gallery. Gabe’s breath strangled as every coherent thought scattered from his head.

  The man was of medium height but exuded quiet confidence with his slow, smooth gait. His dark hair was peppered with gray, though most of the hair of his goatee was still black, and he wore a cream-colored duster. The spectacles perched on his aquiline nose framed dark eyes that were sharp, missing nothing.