Sarah Redeemed
Table of Contents
Girls from the Mountain
Sarah Redeemed
Tabitha
Tory
Part 1
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
Part 2
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Part 3
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Appendix: More on the Subject
Group Discussion Questions
Books by Vikki Kestell
A Prairie Heritage
Girls from the Mountain
Nanostealth
About the Author
Sarah Redeemed
©2018 Vikki Kestell
All Rights Reserved
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Scripture Quotations Taken From
The King James Version (KJV)
Public Domain
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Faith-Filled Fiction™
http://www.faith-filledfiction.com/
http://www.vikkikestell.com/
~~**~~
Girls from the Mountain
The full stories of a select group of women introduced in the little mountain village of Corinth and later at Palmer House in Denver, the mile-high city (hence the series title, Girls from the Mountain). Tabitha, Tory, and Sarah Redeemed are three such stories—the testimonies of fallen women redeemed by God’s amazing grace, led out of darkness to become lights in this sinful world. Each book can be read as a standalone volume but having already read A Prairie Heritage may increase your enjoyment.
—Vikki Kestell, Author of Faith-Filled Fiction™
Girls from the Mountain
Book 1: Tabitha
Book 2: Tory
Book 3: Sarah Redeemed
Sarah Redeemed
Girls from the Mountain, Book 3
by Vikki Kestell
Available in Print and eBook Format
Denver 1919
Martha Palmer, the generous benefactor of Palmer House—a most extraordinary refuge for young women rescued from prostitution—has died. Denver society turns out in strength to honor the elderly woman, as do many of the young women who have lived, at some point during the past decade, under the roof of Palmer House and under the steady and godly leadership of Rose Thoresen.
For Sarah Ellinger, Rose’s trusted right hand, an invitation to the reading of Martha’s will raises the possibility—and the fervent hope—that Martha has endowed Palmer House with funds to keep the ministry running. However, Sarah expects to receive nothing from Martha for herself. She is as stunned as every Palmer House girl present at the reading to hear:
“To every young woman who lives or has lived at Palmer House and remains unmarried at the time of the reading of this will, I bequeath the sum of five hundred dollars as a bridal gift, payable upon her marriage. To those girls who have already married, I bestow the same amount, payable upon the execution of this will. If, however, a young woman who has lived at Palmer House remains single, I bequeath the same sum, five hundred dollars, payable upon her thirty-ninth birthday.”
Five hundred dollars was a fortune many a Palmer House girl would never in her lifetime see again in a lump sum; it could enable a newly married couple to begin their marriage debt-free, perhaps buy a little piece of land or leverage a mortgage to purchase a home.
While the girls of Palmer House, current and former, wept and rejoiced aloud, Sarah did not. She slowly shook her head.
Oh, Martha. You left me a wonderful gift, for which I am most grateful. However, I cannot claim this gift unless I marry—or until I am quite near middle-aged. Why, Martha? Why did you arrange your generous bequest this way? I shall not be able to claim your gift for nearly eleven years . . . because I shall never marry, whatever the inducement to do so.
Tabitha
Girls from the Mountain, Book 1
by Vikki Kestell
Available in Print and eBook Format
From the author of the groundbreaking series, A Prairie Heritage, comes the compelling story of fiery-haired, fiery-tempered Tabitha Hale. Rescued from a life of depravity, Tabitha gives her heart to God and her life to nursing.
As this tenacious, redeemed woman perseveres toward her vocation, her temper and stubborn independence threaten to derail her aspirations. Will Tabitha pass the trial by fire that is necessary for God to truly use her?
And what is Tabitha to do with her feelings for Mason Carpenter, the man who simply refuses to give up on her? Is it even possible for God to ordain a shared future for two such different people, both with fervent callings upon their hearts?
When the Great War erupts in Europe, Carpenter leaves for England to train British pilots to fly reconnaissance missions over Belgium and France. Soon after, Tabitha hears God asking her to nurse the war wounded. However, because America has not joined in the fight, Tabitha has few options. Will the elite British Nursing Service make a place for her? Will they accept the services of an American volunteer?
And will Tabitha and Mason overcome the differences that stand between them?
Revisit Palmer House—a most extraordinary refuge for young women rescued from prostitution. Renew your acquaintance with Rose Thoresen, Joy Michaels, and the others who live at Palmer House. Glimpse the years between Stolen and Lost Are Found.
Tory
Girls from the Mountain, Book 2
by Vikki Kestell
Available in Print and eBook Format
Victoria Washington—sophisticated and elegant, owner of Victoria’s House of Fashion, designer of haute couture gowns for the wealthy and elite of Denver, a brilliant and successful businesswoman in her own right. Tory, as she is known to her friends, is also a supporter of Palmer House—a most extraordinary refuge for young women rescued from prostitution.
Deceived, kidnapped, and beaten into submission, the girls of Palmer House had been held captive in Corinth, the little mountain village above Denver, forced into an occupation not of their own choosing, until freed by the combined efforts of U.S. Marshals and Pinkerton detectives. Through no fault of her own, Tory was one of those girls—also rescued from a life of shame and degradation.
And Tory’s past hides more than one dark secret: She was born in the Deep South to Adeline Washington—a negress, the daughter and granddaughter of slaves, and the “kept” woman of a wealthy, married white man. Tory’s mixed blood, her illegitimate birth, and the shame of her exploitation follow her down the mountain and haunt her, even to the cusp of her success.
What will happen when those who hate Tory expose her secrets? Will her business and reputation survive the scandals? Or are the rumors a cover for a more sinister plot? Is Tory’s life also in danger? And, if so, why?
Acknowledgements
I give up!
In every way I can imagine
(except, maybe, via the gift of a Hawaiian cruise),
I have offered thanks and appreciation
to my esteemed teammates,
Cheryl Adkins and Greg McCann.
You give of yourselves selflessly,
heart and soul,
to help me make each new book
the most effective instrument
of God’s grace possible.
I love and appreciate you.
/>
I always will.
Cover design
Vikki Kestell
To My Readers
This book is a work of fiction,
what I term Faith-Filled Fiction™.
While the characters and events are fiction,
they are situated within the historical record.
To God be the glory.
Part 1
Be ye angry, and sin not:
let not the sun go down upon your wrath:
Neither give place to the devil.
(Ephesians 4:26–27, KJV)
Chapter 1
Denver, Colorado
August 1919
The trolley shuddered and jerked to a stop in the center of the roadway. Sarah stood and stepped down onto the street with two other passengers on their way to their respective places of employment. The threesome, although not formally acquainted, waited together as they often did for the line of oncoming vehicles to thin before crossing from the middle of the street to the sidewalk.
Exchanging cordial nods, the passengers parted ways. Sarah Ellinger, with a brisk stride, moved in the direction of Michaels’ Fine Furnishings. By the time she reached the shop, she was overly warm, and the thin fabric of her simple muslin blouse clung to her back. The bright summer morning promised another day of sweltering heat—and the only relief to be found within the walls of the shop was a single oscillating fan. The fan moved stuffy air about the shop but did little to lower the temperature.
“Oh, my.” Sarah used a handkerchief to pat the back of her neck where she had gathered her dark mane and braided it up one side of her head, across the top, and down the other side. The braid lifted her heavy hair from off her neck and fashioned a shining russet coronet across the top of her head—a crown that framed a widow’s peak set above a smooth forehead. She carried her straw chip hat in her hand for, in the oppressive heat, she preferred a breeze (what there might be of one) rippling across her upswept braid to the stifling confines of a hat.
Perhaps we shall be blessed with a cooling rain today, Sarah suggested to herself. She was hoping for a monsoon thunderstorm, a heavy afternoon rain shower common from mid-July through mid-September.
Before Sarah unlocked the shop door, she paused to study the window displays, one on either side of the entrance. Ornate black-and-gold paint scrolled across the window glass, from the outside corners of the window casing and along the glass edges. But, instead of the displays within the windows, she caught sight of her own reflection in the shining glass.
She was always surprised at the image staring back at her, for she thought little of her appearance. No longer in the first flush of youth but not yet thirty years old, she disdained frivolous tokens of femininity in favor of expediency. The overall impression of the image in the window, then, was that of a practical, pragmatic woman. The soft cleft in her chin gave way to a rounded but firm jawline and a wide, reserved mouth. Her grave, dark eyes only added to the impression that she was no one’s fool.
Her mouth opened in a sigh when she saw that the bow of her blouse—forever a nuisance—was askew yet again. The brows over those serious eyes drew together into a frown.
“Oh, bother,” she remarked to no one.
Peering beyond her reflection, she studied the window displays. They were pleasant and enticing: a stylish boudoir occupied the left-hand window; an artfully composed parlor comprised the right. A skillful arrangement of dried roses adorned the parlor’s side table.
“I suppose it is too early for fall flowers,” a voice at Sarah’s shoulder considered aloud, “but my roses have quite faded in this heat.”
Sarah spun about and smiled. “No matter how lovely you make our displays, you are never satisfied, Corrine.”
Sarah was glad to see her friend and co-worker after her three-week absence.
Corrine laughed. “I suppose you are right.”
Sarah fit the key to the lock and swung open the heavy entrance door. The gust of air that greeted them was but marginally cooler than that outside.
“Ugh. I reckon we shall suffer the heat today,” Corrine grumbled as they closed the door behind them. “I already miss the coolness of Lake Louise.” In contrast to Sarah, Corrine was all softness and femininity—auburn hair, gently rounded figure, plump cheeks and dimples, and a composed expression, perfected by a cheerful demeanor.
“My, yes; temperatures in the daytime have been miserable, and nights have been near unbearable. Even with the windows open, the upstairs bedrooms at Palmer House are stifling. It is difficult to sleep soundly.”
“Oh, how I remember! And how is everyone at the house?”
“We are well, but we miss you, of course. Welcome back, by the way. And how fares everything at the Johnston residence?” The corners of Sarah’s eyes crinkled with undisguised mirth.
Corrine blushed and giggled. “Do not tease me, Sarah.”
“Ah, but it is not every day my dear roommate abandons me to marry and embark upon a Canadian honeymoon for a fortnight and a half, is it?”
The two women laughed together then.
“Who would have dreamed?” Corrine shook her head, smiling her happiness. “It is still such a miracle, a miracle that Albert loves me, that he loves me despite my . . . past.”
The words, “despite my past,” were unnecessary. Sarah and Corrine understood each other without them. A full decade had elapsed since a contingent of U.S. Marshals and Pinkerton detectives had arrested those who ran the two “elite gentleman’s clubs” situated in Corinth, a little mountain village above Denver. The arrests had liberated Sarah, Corrine, and a number of other young women and girls who had lived—and labored—in those houses.
It was true that Sarah and Corrine had been prostitutes, but hardly by choice. They and the other girls had been deceived, most of them lured to Denver by false promises of employment. Once in Denver, they had been abducted, beaten, and starved into submission; forced into a life of ongoing degradation; watched and supervised continually; and imprisoned in their rooms each night.
Sarah had been a prisoner in the Corinth brothel for more than a year when a stranger arrived in the village, a young widow who introduced herself as Joy Thoresen. With her own money (rumor had it), the widow—herself but twenty-six years old—purchased a disused, two-story log house, made it over into a mountain guest lodge at great expense, and began receiving paying lodgers.
Then, risking her safety and that of her few but loyal companions, this Joy Thoresen also began receiving escapees from the two brothels—and she dared to take them in, hide them, bind their wounds, and smuggle them down the mountain to Denver—and to freedom.
By defying the man who owned the brothels, Joy’s actions had cost her dearly: His men had set Corinth Mountain Lodge ablaze in the night and burned it to ashes. Joy and her friends escaped the inferno, only to be captured and herded to the town center. However, in the closing chapter of Corinth’s heinous gentleman’s clubs, the U.S. Marshals and Pinkerton men had arrived to save Joy, her friends, and fifteen young prostitutes.
Weeks afterward, an elderly Denverite, Martha Palmer, had given Joy and her mother, Rose Thoresen, the keys to a neglected, three-story Victorian house. Joy and Rose Thoresen moved to Denver—taking with them Sarah, Corrine, and those girls from the two brothels who chose to accompany them. In the years since, Sarah had resided at Palmer House—a most extraordinary refuge for young women rescued from prostitution.
Sarah understood all too well what Corrine referred to when she said with wonder, “It is a miracle that Albert loves me.”
“The greater miracle is the blood of Jesus that has washed away our sins and removed the stain of what we once were,” Sarah whispered. “No more shame.”
“No more shame,” Corrine echoed. Without another word, she and Sarah reached for each other, embracing in the fellowship of their shared sufferings and mutual salvation.
“I find my little room at Palmer House barren without you, Corrine,” Sarah confes
sed. “Ten years is a long time to have shared so many joys, trials, and confidences, only to have lost you now. When I awake in the night and do not hear your gentle breathing from across the room, I feel quite bereft.”
Corrine gave Sarah another squeeze. “I understand, my dearest friend.”
With a final comforting hug, they parted and set to their morning tasks: Sarah withdrew a money bag from her reticule, sorted the bills into the shop’s cash register, and began to wipe down the register, countertops, and the shop’s china. Corrine dusted the window displays and the shop’s furniture before picking up a broom to sweep the walkway outside the shop.
Having set the shop to rights, Sarah and Corrine declared themselves ready for the day’s customers. Corrine turned the sign hanging against the door’s glass from “Closed” to “Welcome.”
“Will Joy be in today?” she asked Sarah. The shop belonged to Joy Thoresen Michaels (now Joy O’Dell), the same woman whose brave actions had led to the downfall of those who operated the houses of evil in Corinth.
“I believe she will be. She wishes to assure herself that the accounts and inventory are in proper order before she takes leave. And now that you are home from your honeymoon and have resumed your duties, she will not fret that I might be alone in the shop while she is homebound.”
The pleasant tinkling of the bell over the shop’s door interrupted them. Sarah and Corrine smiled and greeted their first customer of the day.
ACROSS TOWN, EDMUND O’Dell pulled his aging Bergdoll touring car to the curb before a fine mansion constructed of dressed stone. The estate and its expansive lawns were encircled by a wall built of the same stone. He shut off the motor, jumped from the driver’s side, turned around, and held out his arms.
“Come to Papa, Matthew.”
A tot four months shy of two years, whose dark hair and eyes marked him as O’Dell’s son, bounded from the seat into O’Dell’s waiting arms. “See Liam, Papa? See Liam?”