Secrets of My Heart Read online

  Books by Tracie Peterson

  WILLAMETTE BRIDES

  Secrets of My Heart

  THE TREASURES OF NOME*

  Forever Hidden

  BROOKSTONE BRIDES

  When You Are Near

  Wherever You Go

  What Comes My Way

  GOLDEN GATE SECRETS

  In Places Hidden

  In Dreams Forgotten

  In Times Gone By

  HEART OF THE FRONTIER

  Treasured Grace

  Beloved Hope

  Cherished Mercy

  THE HEART OF ALASKA*

  In the Shadow of Denali

  Out of the Ashes

  Under the Midnight Sun

  SAPPHIRE BRIDES

  A Treasure Concealed

  A Beauty Refined

  A Love Transformed

  BRIDES OF SEATTLE

  Steadfast Heart

  Refining Fire

  Love Everlasting

  LONE STAR BRIDES

  A Sensible Arrangement

  A Moment in Time

  A Matter of Heart

  LAND OF SHINING WATER

  The Icecutter’s Daughter

  The Quarryman’s Bride

  The Miner’s Lady

  LAND OF THE LONE STAR

  Chasing the Sun

  Touching the Sky

  Taming the Wind

  All Things Hidden*

  Beyond the Silence*

  House of Secrets

  Serving Up Love**

  *with Kimberley Woodhouse

  **with Karen Witemeyer, Regina Jennings, and Jen Turano

  For a complete list of Tracie’s books, visit her website www.traciepeterson.com

  © 2020 by Peterson Ink, Inc.

  Published by Bethany House Publishers

  11400 Hampshire Avenue South

  Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

  www.bethanyhouse.com

  Bethany House Publishers is a division of

  Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan

  www.bakerpublishinggroup.com

  Ebook edition created 2020

  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—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

  ISBN 978-1-4934-2274-6

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

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design by LOOK Design Studio

  Cover photography by Aimee Christenson

  To my sister Karen

  You are such an amazing woman,

  and I am so blessed to call you sister and friend.

  You’ve been an inspiration to me.

  Contents

  Cover

  Half Title Page

  Books by Tracie Peterson

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  About the Author

  Back Ads

  Cover Flaps

  Back Cover

  Chapter 1

  PORTLAND, OREGON

  MARCH 1879

  Oh, my poor dear Mrs. Pritchard,” the older woman declared as soon as Nancy opened the front door. “Poor grieving wife. But no! No longer a wife, but a widow.” She tsked and pushed into the house without giving Nancy a chance to offer an invitation.

  “I heard about your precious Albert’s death while I was visiting my daughter in California.” The stocky woman placed the basket she’d been carrying by the door. “I was completely overcome with grief for you and cut my visit short. I knew you would need the wise counsel of your closest friends.”

  Nancy would have rolled her eyes if she wasn’t being stared at as though she might burst into tears at any moment.

  “I can see it’s still such a shock. Come, we must sit, and I will have the entire story.”

  “Mrs. Mortenson, I’m afraid you have caught me at a bad time.”

  “Oh, pshaw. There are no good times when you are in a state of grief, but fear not, I am in no way offended.” Mrs. Mortenson took a seat on the large mauve sofa without being asked. “Now, come sit with me, child. I know very well how these things can be.” She carefully arranged her wool gown and shawl. “Although I have not been a widow myself, I have had many close friends who are. I believe I am well acquainted with this grief.”

  Nancy stared at her guest for a moment, noting the fixed look of expectation on the older woman’s face. Agnes Mortenson was well known in Nancy’s circle of acquaintances as the person from whom to get news—if one couldn’t afford a newspaper. Mrs. Mortenson was sixty-seven years old, but while her snowy head suggested possibilities of wisdom and sage advice, nothing could be further from the truth. She was insatiable when it came to sticking her nose into the business of others and sharing said details with anyone who gave her the time of day. Worse still, she was known to embellish those details. Nancy had dreaded her return to town and the stories she might spread about Albert’s death.

  Knowing there was little else to be done, Nancy sank into the wooden rocker by the fireplace across from the older woman.

  “I heard your husband was found floating facedown in the river near the ferry landing,” Mrs. Mortenson began.

  Nancy had envisioned the scene at least a thousand times. “Yes.”

  Mrs. Mortenson leaned forward. “And that he had fallen into the river farther upstream.”

  “Possibly.” Nancy wasn’t at all certain why she needed such detail.

  The old woman leaned even closer. “But . . . there are those who fear he was . . . pushed into the river. Murdered.” She let the word linger in the air.

  Nancy hurried to suppress that rumor. “I hardly think so. Albert had no enemies of which I’m aware.”

  Mrs. Mortenson shook her head and tsked once again. “I’ve yet to know a man who wasn’t wished dead by someone. Even dear Mr. Mortenson is constantly at threat. He does, after all, own a very productive ironworks. He’s in constant danger.”

  Nancy nodded, knowing it would do little good to suggest otherwise. She hoped the old woman would get her fill of information and particulars and move on quickly rather than keep Nancy imprisoned for the entirety of the afternoon.

  “It is possible, of course, that he fell,” Mrs. Mortenson mused. “I’ve often said the docks and boat decks are much too slippery. There’s so much activity amongst the ships that a man could be knocked into the water and never noticed until it was too late.” Without drawing a breath, she changed the subject. “Do you suppose you will sell this house? It’s such a lovely place.” She gazed around the room. “Just lovely. I’ve always admired the way you furnished it.”

  Nancy was momentarily taken aback. “I, uh, have no plan to sell.”

  Mrs. Mortenson nodded. “It’s just as well. A
widow should never make rash plans unless she is forced to.” She leaned forward again. “You aren’t forced to, are you? You must be honest with me. Did Albert leave you settled comfortably?”

  “No. I mean, yes. Well, that is, I don’t really know the details of my husband’s estate.”

  “Late husband,” Mrs. Mortenson interjected.

  “Yes, my late husband. I know he wasn’t one to carry debt, so the house and store are free and clear.”

  Mrs. Mortenson bobbed her head up and down like a daisy waving in the breeze. “That is good, because you don’t want to be known for debt. I would imagine the store he owned could provide a steady income, but you would have to hire someone to run it for you. Mr. Mortenson might be able to suggest someone. I’ll ask him when I see him tonight.”

  Nancy didn’t tell her not to bother. The old woman wouldn’t have listened anyway. Nancy had known many a gossip in Oregon City but had hoped to avoid them in a larger town. In Portland it was easier to blend into the background and be overlooked—at least she had hoped to be overlooked. Unfortunately, she was still expected to attend church, and the women of that holy institution were notorious for gossip. It was funny—when Nancy had been at home, her mother had instilled in her the absolute assurance that gossip was a sin no less looked down upon by God than murder. But the worshipers here didn’t see it that way. Even the pastor knew better than to preach sermons on gossip.

  “And of course there are other ways to manage such a large house.”

  Mrs. Mortenson was still droning on about how she thought Nancy should arrange her life. It seemed everyone thought Nancy an easy mark when it came to such matters. Perhaps it was because she kept to herself and remained quiet when others openly spoke their opinions. It was possible that people believed Nancy to be completely void of opinion, although nothing could be further from the truth.

  The problem was that everyone wanted to tell Nancy what was best for her, but Nancy wasn’t sure they were right. Mainly because she didn’t know what she wanted out of life.

  “You look so pale, my dear. Are you ill?” Mrs. Mortenson’s face took on a look of surprise. “You aren’t with child, are you? Oh my goodness, all these years of wanting a baby, only to find yourself with child and the father gone. Oh, the tragedy of it.” She put a gloved hand to her throat. “Yet many a poor woman has found herself in such a position with only the wee one to remind her of what she once had.”

  “I’m not with child, Mrs. Mortenson. Please don’t spread that rumor about.”

  The old woman gasped. “I am the soul of discretion, my dear. I would never tell such delicate news in a public forum. Such things should only be discussed in private, as we are here. But if you are certain that you are not with child, then perhaps you have taken on a fever. Mourning can bring that about, you know. I suggest you take yourself to bed with some strong chamomile tea and a hot water bottle. Perhaps your mother or sister could come tend to you. I would do so myself, but I did just return. I haven’t even had time to share news of our daughter with Mr. Mortenson. She is so very busy, don’t you know.”

  “I’m sure she is.”

  “Oh goodness, yes. With four boys under the age of twelve, it hasn’t been easy. She finds not one moment of time for herself.”

  And all I have is time for myself, Nancy thought.

  “She is fortunate enough to have a good maid and cook. Say, where is your housekeeper? Is this her day off? Honestly, I think domestic help expect far too much these days. I remember when a housekeeper might have a few hours in the afternoon to herself, but entire days? What will they think of next?”

  “I let my housekeeper and cook go,” Nancy said. “I never wanted them in the first place. I enjoy doing my own cooking and cleaning. It gives me a sense of purpose.” She wished there was a way to hurry this visit along, but she had to be polite. “I have hot water on the stove. I could make you a cup of tea, if you like. I have some cookies too. Mrs. Taylor brought them to me yesterday.”

  “Dear Mary. She’s a saint if ever there was one. She is positively without thought for herself and always striving to help the poor. I would do more myself, but Mr. Mortenson has so many clients who must be entertained. He could hardly bear to be without me these last three weeks.”

  “I’m sure.” Nancy could well imagine him enjoying his quiet evenings. “But I’m happy to offer you refreshments.”

  “No, my dear. I must be on my way soon. I have been shopping this morning, as you might have guessed from my basket.” She motioned toward the foyer. “A few personal items that I would not send my maid for.”

  Nancy fervently hoped that this would prompt her guest to reclaim her basket and be on her way. Unfortunately, it didn’t.

  “Will your mother and sister be coming to stay with you?” Mrs. Mortenson asked.

  “No. I would rather they remain at home. Mother does a great deal of healing work, and my sister is but fourteen and tends to be flighty.”

  “Girls today are often that way. When I was a girl, fourteen meant adulthood. We were already considering a young man for our future husband. We were much more serious, but we had to be. The times called for it, don’t you know.” Mrs. Mortenson gave a knowing nod and pursed her lips.

  Nancy had no idea what the old woman was thinking, but she looked ready to launch into another diatribe, and Nancy had little patience for it.

  “I believe you’re right, Mrs. Mortenson. I’m afraid I’ve not been myself since Albert’s passing. I would like to lie down for a while.”

  Mrs. Mortenson looked confused for a moment but then nodded. “Of course, my dear. I have a great knack for sensing these things.” Her expression suggested it was a great burden to bear. “I’ll come again to call in a day or two, depending on what Mr. Mortenson requires of me. We might well be hosting dinner parties this week. I simply have no idea.” She got to her feet, and Nancy rose as well. “He often finds it necessary to host his clients and then leaves me to settle the arrangements.”

  “I am grateful for your concern, but I’m sure with some rest and time, I’ll be fine.” Nancy made her voice sound as pathetic as she dared. She wanted Mrs. Mortenson to leave her alone but not be so worried that she spread it around town that Nancy was at death’s door.

  “I’ll see if I can’t locate some of that strong Chinese tea they use for illness. We had some when Mr. Mortenson took sick last winter. It did a world of wonder for him, and I’m certain it will restore your constitution as well.” Mrs. Mortenson paused and tapped her brow with a gloved index finger. “I count thoughts like that as words from the Lord Himself—otherwise I would have no reason to think of Chinese tea.” She smiled and reached out to pat Nancy’s arm. “Be brave, my girl. This is a hardship that women often must bear. Be strong.”

  “I will. I promise.” Nancy moved ever closer to the front door. “Thank you so much for coming to see me.” She reached down and retrieved Mrs. Mortenson’s basket.

  The old woman immediately laid claim to it and smiled. “I knew it wouldn’t do to wait until later. You would expect me to be here for you.”

  Nancy opened the door and stepped back. “I appreciate your efforts, but please do not put yourself out again on my behalf. You have so many responsibilities, and I would feel terrible should I cause you to be remiss in your duties.”

  Mrs. Mortenson paused and looked at Nancy as if she were some sort of angelic being. “You are truly amazing, my dear. Truly selfless and of such a pure nature.” She shook her head. “I know God will surely not call you to be widowed long. In fact, if I had more time, we might discuss that very thing. The West is not held to the same standards as the East. We have far too few women to let the young and beautiful go single for long. We will have to find you another husband, and soon.”

  Before she could launch into a further discussion about finding Nancy a husband, Nancy began to close the door. “Thank you so much.”

  She turned the lock as quietly as possible. She could risk the
hurried dismissal of the old woman—her new state of widowhood would excuse the brash move—but the lock would suggest a barrier that might very well offend. Nancy knew the penalty for offending Mrs. Mortenson would not be expulsion from her company but rather more attention in order to sort through the problem.

  A sigh escaped, and Nancy suddenly felt very tired. It had only been a few weeks since Albert’s death, but already the steady parade of concerned friends and family had wearied her of ever seeing another person.

  The grandfather clock chimed three o’clock. It was only midafternoon. What was she to do with the rest of the day? Perhaps a nap truly was in order. At least if she were asleep, she would have a good excuse for missing out on potential visitors.

  She walked from the foyer into the sitting room and retrieved the book she had been reading before Mrs. Mortenson descended. The book had been a gift for her twenty-sixth birthday the week before. It had come through the post from Aunt Hope and Uncle Lance—mailed prior to the news of Albert’s death. When family and friends had arrived for the funeral, her aunt had explained that it would be coming. Aunt Hope had confessed that she had not read the story herself but had heard from others that it was a romantic study of human nature.

  Nancy turned the book in her hand. The Europeans. So far she wasn’t all that impressed, though she did own that the author, Henry James, had an occasional turn of phrase that she enjoyed.

  She made her way to her new bedroom with the book. Until Albert’s death, the bedrooms were contained to the second story of the house. But after his body had been found and his coffin set up in the front room prior to burial, Nancy had felt better remaining on the first floor. She had taken what had once been a reading room next to Albert’s office and turned it into a bedroom. When her brother Gabe had come to town, she had imposed upon him to transfer her bed, chest, and wardrobe from upstairs to make the move permanent.

  As she made her way past Albert’s closed office door, Nancy couldn’t help but think of her deceased husband. He was a man of business and kept his focus on anything and everything that might benefit his investments. He was good at what he did and always seemed able to second-guess the value of property and stocks in such a way as to make money for himself. He was admired locally for his abilities as a businessman. Pity he couldn’t have been as good a husband.