A Bride for Noah Read online

  HARVEST HOUSE PUBLISHERS

  EUGENE, OREGON

  Scripture taken from:

  The King James Version of the Bible

  The Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011, by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com

  Cover by Garborg Design Works, Savage, Minnesota

  Cover photos © Chris Garborg; Bigstock / Andrushko Galyna

  Published in association with the Books & Such Literary Agency, 52 Mission Circle, Suite 122, PMB 170, Santa Rosa, CA 95409-5370, www.booksandsuch.biz.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  A BRIDE FOR NOAH

  Copyright © 2013 by Copeland, Inc. and Virginia Smith

  Published by Harvest House Publishers

  Eugene, Oregon 97402

  www.harvesthousepublishers.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Copeland, Lori.

  A bride for Noah / Lori Copeland and Virginia Smith.

  pages cm.

  ISBN 978-0-7369-5347-4 (pbk.)

  ISBN 978-0-7369-5348-1 (eBook)

  1. Brides—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3553.O6336B75 2013

  813'.54—dc23

  2013010143

  All rights reserved. No part of this electronic publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, digital, photocopy, recording, or any other—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The authorized purchaser has been granted a non-transferable, non-exclusive, and non-commercial right to access and view this electronic publication and agrees to do so only in accordance with the terms of use under which it was purchased or transmitted. Participation in or encouragement of piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of author’s and publisher’s rights is strictly prohibited.

  I lift up my eyes to the mountains—where does my help come from?

  My help comes from the LORD, the Maker of heaven and earth.

  PSALM 121:1-2

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Epilogue

  A Note from Lori & Virginia

  Chief Seattle’s Letter

  Discussion Questions

  About the Authors

  Prologue

  November, 1851

  Elliott Bay, Oregon Territory

  That’s it! I’d bet my life on it!”

  The moment their dugout canoe rounded the Duwamish Head and plunged into the bay, Noah Hughes knew their search had ended. For days their Indian guides had led them on an exploration of the Duwamish River, skirting the vast mudflats of the river delta, but they’d seen no likely place to plant a new city. But here lay a small headland in the center of Elliott Bay’s eastern shore. The dense tree line came nearly up to the bank, the vast forest so thick Noah could barely see past the first row of immense cedars. The water of the bay moved swiftly, but even so the surface was smooth enough to be nearly glassy.

  “Would you look at that?” David Denny had his eyes fixed on the skyline. Noah had come to respect the young man over the past few months since joining the small group of frontier adventurers who’d recently arrived from Cherry Grove, Illinois.

  He followed David’s gaze. There, above the top of the trees, stood the tallest mountain he’d ever seen. The solitary Mount Rainier, with its snowcapped jagged peaks, seemed to stand sentry over the primeval forest that covered this lush part of Oregon Territory. Though they’d seen it from their current camp at Alki Point, from this perspective the mountain took on a majesty he had not noticed before.

  “Impressive.” He scanned the shoreline. Up ahead a flat peninsula of ten acres or so extended into the river, connected to the shore by an isthmus and forming a small tidal lagoon. Just beyond the peninsula a wide tributary emptied into the bay. Though he needed a closer inspection before being certain, it looked deep enough to suit their purposes. “What do you think?”

  The shadow of a smile played about David’s lips. “It’s worth exploring. This bay is isolated from the Puget Sound, so it’s probably sheltered from the harsh weather that Arthur is convinced will flatten Alki Point. Let’s test the depth.” Arthur Denny, David’s older brother and the acknowledged leader of the Denny Party in their exploration for a new home, had sent them on this expedition. After several days of fruitless searching, Noah had begun to worry that they would have nothing to report.

  He readied the hundred-foot length of rope they’d brought for this purpose, secured a half-dozen horseshoes to the end, and dropped the line overboard. To his surprise, the horseshoes took the line all the way down without touching bottom. Excitement flickered inside as he exchanged a grin with David.

  “Let’s test over there, closer to the island.”

  While Noah recoiled their makeshift sounding line, David spoke to their guides from the Duwamish tribe using a few words he had picked up in their language, accompanied by wide gestures and much pointing. When the good-natured natives maneuvered the dugout to the place indicated, Noah repeated the process. The line sank forty feet.

  He pointed toward the place where the river emptied into the bay. “I’m guessing the current from the river has dredged a natural channel here. Plenty deep enough for seagoing ships.”

  They requested that their Indian companions take the dugout ashore, and over the next several hours Noah’s certainty that they had, indeed, found the ideal location for their new settlement increased steadily. Timber grew in seemingly unlimited quantities, and yet they discovered several clearings of rich, arable land suitable for farming.

  As they entered one such glade, David stopped, a gleam in his eyes as he scanned the landscape. “This is it, Noah. I feel it here.” He planted a fist in the center of his chest. “As soon as I’m old enough, I’m going to stake my claim to this spot. I’ll build a cabin for Louisa right over there. And then we’ll be married.”

  Noah looked where he pointed. Yes, the landscape was flat here, the foliage sparse. Clearing enough space for a good-sized cabin wouldn’t be too difficult. He surveyed the area, surrounded on all sides by cedar and fir trees. Overhead, the sun blazed in a sapphire-blue sky. Birds called to one another from far above, their songs accompanied by the distant sound of water splashing over a rocky bed.

  “If I were you,” he told David, “I wouldn’t wait until I was old enough. I’d go ahead and stake this claim now in someone else’s name. Your father’s, perhaps, since he isn’t interested in living here. I have a feeling this settlement isn’t going to stay secret for long.”

  The younger man’s eyes narrowed, and then he nodded. When he looked back at the glade his lips formed a satisfied smile.

  Watching him, Noah experienced a pang of…something. Not jealousy, exactly, though any man might envy David for capturing the heart of the beautiful, vivacious Louisa. No, Noah’s recent experience w
ith a strong-minded woman was enough to put him off marriage for life. What he envied was the utter happiness he saw in David’s face.

  Maybe someday the Lord will see fit to send me a bride too.

  No. He shook his head to dislodge the unexpected thought. What he longed for after the disaster of the past year was peace and a quiet life. If the Lord really loved him, as his mother used to assure him, He’d grant him a prosperous life free from complications. Let David have the care and responsibility of a wife. Noah would stake his own claim in this fertile land of opportunity, and he would do it alone.

  One

  December 19, 1851

  Elliott Bay, Oregon Territory

  Dear Uncle Miles,

  Christmas greetings to you and Aunt Letitia, though no doubt by the time this missive reaches you the season will be long past. I must say, I look forward to bidding the holiday farewell. A fog of gloom has settled over the camp these past weeks, and grows heavier as Christmas day approaches. The men are obsessed with thoughts of past celebrations, and as a result, do not perform their work with the enthusiasm and energy they displayed when we first settled here. At times even the Denny brothers seem to lose their passion for this venture, though only a handful of us are privy to their concerns. Before the men they maintain a confident outlook.

  Of course, the lack of women in the camp contributes to the sense of gloom. The only women the men have seen since arriving are Mary, Arthur Denny’s wife, and her sister Louisa, and they are both spoken for. The men grow heartily sick of one another’s company. As for the weather, more than two weeks have elapsed since the sun appeared. The blue skies of autumn are gone, and winter has brought with it an unbroken canopy of gray.

  And rain. It seems an entire ocean has fallen from the skies in recent days. We pray for snow, because frozen ground would be more conducive to transporting our logs from the forest to the water’s edge. Sometimes the mules are fetlock-deep in mud. Alas, the natives tell us snowfall in these parts is typically light, if it falls at all.

  Regardless, my confidence in this venture continues. If fortunes are to be made in the West, I am convinced they will come from lumber, which we have in abundance. If we can produce a shipment large enough to command the attention of timber buyers in San Francisco, we will move forward with our plans to build a mill and turn this camp into a permanent settlement.

  If you feel like visiting this lush land, bring an ax. There is plenty of work for all. Or a wagonload of women, which would do wonders for the men’s attitudes! You will be hailed as a hero without splitting a single log. (In my mind’s eye I see Aunt Letitia’s spine stiffening in outrage. Please assure her that I merely jest!)

  With sincere regards, your nephew,

  Noah

  February 17, 1852

  Chattanooga, Tennessee

  Mr. Coffinger read the final words of the letter aloud. Though Evie Lawrence did not intend to snoop, there was no help for it. Her employers were settled in their sitting room, and the wide-open archway between the dining and sitting rooms did nothing to prevent her hearing their every word. Taking care to keep her attention fixed on polishing the mahogany buffet until it shone, she hid a smile. The Coffingers’ nephew had hit the peg squarely on the head with the prediction of his aunt’s response to his jest. The rotund woman’s backbone had become as rigid as a fire poker in her seat on the sofa, and her already-thin lips compressed into near invisibility.

  “From childhood that boy’s sense of humor has been base and uncouth.” Her long nose rose into the air to deliver a disapproving sniff. “Were his poor mother still living, I should be forced to inform her of his inappropriate comment. No doubt it would break her heart.”

  Evie made a final pass with her polishing cloth and then began wiping dust from the crystal and china before returning the items to their positions. Though she kept her back turned away from the sitting room and its occupants, the couple’s image was reflected in the glass doors of the hutch.

  Mr. Coffinger answered with a guffaw. “My sister would have laughed and then jumped up to assemble a wagonload of women to deliver to Oregon Territory.”

  After a chilly pause, Mrs. Coffinger spoke in a frigid voice. “Unfortunately you are correct. She may even have supported this ridiculous scheme of Noah’s from the start. Wisdom and good sense do not run strongly in your family. You are evidence of that, Miles.”

  Evie held her breath. If her mama had ever insulted her father—God rest his soul—in such a manner, his anger would have flared and, though he had been a patient man, he would have answered with a fiery reply. Nor would Evie have blamed him. But Mama had loved Papa too deeply to ever insult him. Had not her death of a broken heart six months after his passing proven so? Evie closed her eyes against the rush of tears that always threatened when she thought of the loss of her parents. Two years had passed since she’d laid Mama to rest. How long would it be before the memory failed to stir up such a painful response?

  Apparently Mr. Coffinger had grown familiar with his wife’s barbs. In the months since Evie had been in service here, she’d become accustomed to her mistress taking her vexations out on her longsuffering husband. Instead of becoming angry, he merely folded the letter and slid it inside the breast pocket of his evening jacket. He lifted his glass from the low table between them, leaned back in his upholstered armchair, and sipped the amber contents while watching his wife over the rim.

  Mrs. Coffinger seemed not to mind, or notice, his silence. “It begins to sound as though this scheme too will fail. Of course I warned Noah from the start against the foolishness of moving to the wild and unpredictable West. Such a waste of money should not have been permitted.” She leaned forward to pick up her teacup from the table. “You should have put a stop to it, Miles. Your responsibility as his uncle and only living relative demanded it.”

  “The money was his to spend, my dear, left to him by his father,” he replied mildly. “He would not have appreciated my interference.”

  “Interference?” Her teacup clanged down on the saucer with such force Evie thought it might shatter. “Guidance is what he needed. And what you failed to provide. Though perhaps Noah was better off without the benefit of your so-called wisdom. Your advice would have done him more harm than good. Since you exercise ignorance more than wisdom in your own affairs, how could you advise others?”

  Another haughty sniff, and the sound grated on Evie’s nerves like a shovel scraping across a grave. For a moment she considered offering her handkerchief in false concern for her mistress’s sniffles, but decided against the sarcastic gesture. She needed this housekeeping job. Besides, after several decades of marriage, Mr. Coffinger could certainly defend himself against his wife’s sharp tongue.

  His bland response proved her point. “My dear, one would almost think you dissatisfied with our manner of living.”

  Evie’s glance swept the room, taking in the spindly-legged French tables, the elaborately framed artwork on the walls, and the intricate design of the plush rug that warmed the polished wooden floor. She set a freshly dusted crystal decanter in its place on the buffet.

  Mrs. Coffinger leaned over her thickset middle to return her teacup and saucer to the table. “It is a miracle that we still have a home after the unwise investments you have made.” She shook her head as though chiding a child. “That odious man with the timepieces and that so-called doctor with his ice machine.”

  “I still say the machine is a sound idea.” He drained his glass and rose from the chair to head toward the sideboard. “Imagine being able to produce ice all the year round.”

  “The man took your money and disappeared to Florida.” Double-sniff this time.

  Evie balanced the last plate on its display stand and turned from her task to find Mrs. Coffinger’s gaze fixed on her. Red spots appeared on the woman’s already rouged cheeks. Apparently she had forgotten Evie’s presence.

  She recovered and straightened on the sofa cushion. “Evangeline, does your y
oung man work for his living?” Her gaze slid across the room to her husband, where he stood near the sideboard sipping from a refilled glass. “Or does he pretend to be an investor?” The word slid across her tongue as though it were rancid oil.

  Evie glanced at Mr. Coffinger, whose normally placid expression had begun to look strained.

  She schooled her voice before answering. “James works at the port, loading cotton and other goods onto the boats.”

  “A solid job, then.” The woman jerked an approving nod. “You can rely on a man who makes his living with his hands.” After a pointed glance toward her husband, she rose. “I must check with the cook to make sure dinner will be on time tonight. She has served the meal twenty minutes late twice in the past week, and my constitution is greatly affected.”

  She swept from the room, leaving Evie alone with Mr. Coffinger. Gathering her soiled cloths and the jar of furniture polish, Evie avoided the man’s gaze. She had never felt sorrier for anyone than she did him for being married to such a sharp-tongued woman. She wouldn’t want him to see pity in her eyes.

  As she turned to go, she caught sight of his face. He studied the doorway through which his wife had disappeared, his expression thoughtful. He gave no indication he was even aware of Evie’s presence. What thoughts circled behind those passive features? The object of his contemplation must certainly be his wife and her sharp words. But Evie saw no sign of anger, or irritation, or even sadness. Only a shade of speculation.

  When she headed for the doorway, her rags and polish in hand, he started out of his reverie. The eyes he turned her way focused, and the corners of his lips twitched beneath his mustache.

  “Miss Lawrence, please accept my apologies for”—he lifted his glass and gestured toward the doorway—“voicing our private concerns in your presence. Truth is, you’re so quiet I’d forgotten you were there. It’s no doubt disconcerting to one about to enter the bonds of matrimony to hear an old married couple exchanging tit for tat.”