The Meeting Place Read online

  The Meeting Place

  © 1999 by Janette Oke & T. Davis Bunn

  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.

  E-book edition created 2011

  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—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  ISBN 978-1-5855-8725-4

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

  Cover by Dan Thornberg.

  “Blessed are the peacemakers;

  for they shall be called

  the children of God.”

  MATTHEW 5:9

  Books by Janette Oke

  Return to Harmony • Another Homecoming

  Tomorrow’s Dream

  ACTS OF FAITH*

  The Centurion’s Wife • The Hidden Flame • The Damascus Way

  CANADIAN WEST

  When Calls the Heart • When Comes the Spring

  When Breaks the Dawn • When Hope Springs New

  Beyond the Gathering Storm

  When Tomorrow Comes

  LOVE COMES SOFTLY

  Love Comes Softly • Love’s Enduring Promise

  Love’s Long Journey • Love’s Abiding Joy

  Love’s Unending Legacy • Love’s Unfolding Dream

  Love Takes Wing • Love Finds a Home

  A PRAIRIE LEGACY

  The Tender Years • A Searching Heart

  A Quiet Strength • Like Gold Refined

  SEASONS OF THE HEART

  Once Upon a Summer • The Winds of Autumn

  Winter Is Not Forever • Spring’s Gentle Promise

  SONG OF ACADIA*

  The Meeting Place • The Sacred Shore • The Birthright

  The Distant Beacon • The Beloved Land

  WOMEN OF THE WEST

  The Calling of Emily Evans • Julia’s Last Hope

  Roses for Mama • A Woman Named Damaris

  They Called Her Mrs. Doc • The Measure of a Heart

  A Bride for Donnigan • Heart of the Wilderness

  Too Long a Stranger • The Bluebird and the Sparrow

  A Gown of Spanish Lace • Drums of Change

  www.janetteoke.com

  *with Davis Bunn

  Books by

  T. Davis Bunn

  The Book of Hours

  The Great Divide

  Winner Take All

  The Lazarus Trap

  Elixir

  Imposter

  Lion of Babylon

  All Through the Night

  My Soul to Keep

  ACTS OF FAITH*

  The Centurion’s Wife • The Hidden Flame

  The Damascus Way

  SONG OF ACADIA*

  The Meeting Place • The Sacred Shore

  The Birthright • The Distant Beacon

  The Beloved Land

  HEIRS OF ACADIA†

  The Solitary Envoy • The Innocent Libertine

  The Noble Fugitive • The Night Angel

  Falconer’s Quest

  *with Janette Oke †with Isabella Bunn

  JANETTE OKE was born in Champion, Alberta, to a Canadian prairie farmer and his wife, and she grew up in a large family full of laughter and love. She is a graduate of Mountain View Bible College in Alberta, where she met her husband, Edward, and they were married in May of 1957. After pastoring churches in Indiana and Canada, the Okes spent some years in Calgary, where Edward served in several positions on college faculties while Janette continued her writing. She has written forty-eight novels for adults and another sixteen for children, and her book sales total nearly thirty million copies.

  The Okes have three sons and one daughter, all married, and are enjoying their fifteen grandchildren. Edward and Janette are active in their local church and make their home near Didsbury, Alberta.

  T. DAVIS BUNN has been a professional novelist for twenty years. His books have sold in excess of six million copies in sixteen languages, appearing on numerous national bestseller lists.

  Davis is known for the diversity of his writing talent, from gentle gift books like The Quiltto high-powered thrillers like The Great Divide. He has also enjoyed great success in his collaborations with Janette Oke, with whom he has coauthored a series of ground-breaking historical novels.

  In developing his work, Davis draws on a rich background of international experience. Raised in North Carolina, he completed his undergraduate studies at Wake Forest University. He then traveled to London to earn a master’s degree in international economics and finance before embarking on a distinguished business career that took him to more than thirty countries in Europe, Africa, and the Middle East.

  Davis has received numerous literary accolades, including three Christy Awards for excellence in fiction. He currently serves as Writerin-Residence at Regent’s Park College, Oxford University, and is a sought-after lecturer on the craft of writing.

  Table of 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

  Authors’ Note

  Prologue

  Lieutenant Andrew Harrow clicked to his horse and moved down the trail to a break in the trees. In the distance, smoke rose from what he knew was Fort Edward, his destination and his home. His heart beat like a drum calling to quarters. But whether his excitement came from seeing his home again, or dread over the news he carried, Andrew could not tell.

  After four long days of marching through primeval forest, the first sight of his home village made the blood thrum through his veins. Yet danger lurked nearby, and the reports he carried were equally ominous. War was brewing in the home countries, and though a broad ocean separated England and France from this peaceful land, he and his countrymen might well be caught up once more in the sport of kings. Such a time was not ideal for making plans to wed. But as the colonials were wont to say, the world kept turning whether they liked it or not. Andrew’s wedding day was soon to come.

  His horse tossed its head, as though it too could feel his anticipation. Andrew ran a hand down its withers, patted the sweaty neck, and murmured, “Not long now.”

  He turned at the commotion of two dozen soldiers in full kit rounding the bend behind him. “Sergeant Major!” he called.

  “Sir!”

  “Ten-minute water break. See the men keep their weapons at the ready.”

  “Ten minutes it is, sir.” The ramrod-straight man with bristling mustache stomped about and roared, “Water boy!”

  The heavily laden wagons cla
ttered into view. Andrew pressed his knees into the horse’s sides and moved away from the soldiers and the clamor. The noise level was a major difference between new arrivals and those who had served longer in the colonies. The seasoned colonials learned from the natives and the forests. They moved with such stealth that a battalion could pass without disturbing the birds.

  But these were soldiers fresh off the boats from England, and they masked their nervousness with noise. The forests and the empty reaches had already left their mark. Four days they had traveled since disembarking, and in that time they had not seen a soul. Such emptiness was unheard of back home. Here in the provinces of Acadia, however, only the thin strip of land between the sea and the forests had been cultivated. Farther inland the interior was all mystery and danger. The Micmac Indians who lived there had never been counted. Not even the number of their villages was known.

  Andrew now rode a ridgeline of hills steep enough to have been called mountains in his native Somerset. But here they were mere shadows to the spine rising in the heart of this strange land. Stranger still that he, Andrew Harrow, younger son to the seventh earl of Sutton, would have come to call this land home.

  Andrew lifted his hat and ran a grime-streaked sleeve over his heated brow, his gaze taking in the full sweep of land exposed to his view. Under the morning sun, the earth descended like giant steps, and each level told a story. Below the forested hillside spread the broad ledge of cultivated land. Scores of farmhouses dotted the meadows. Smoke curled from countless chimneys, and faint cries of animals and children rose upon the gentle June breeze.

  A village of stone and wood lay directly beneath him, a village they would do their best to skirt. Andrew’s eyes moved across the lanes and market square, but he saw no signs of danger. No matter how eager he might be for what awaited at the end of his journey, still he studied the terrain like the soldier that he was.

  The village of Minas below him was French. Nowadays the French were rumored to be allied with the Micmac Indians, and together they posed a possible threat. Or so his generals claimed. Personally, Andrew was not so sure. Two years he had been stationed in this scarcely tamed land, and neither the French nor the Indians had signaled any threat at all. Not within his territory. Andrew had discovered that as long as he treated both with respect, they responded in kind. But such attitudes were called treasonous by his superiors, and he had learned to keep his opinions to himself.

  “Beg your pardon, sir, care for a drink?”

  Andrew turned in the saddle. “Thank you, Sergeant Major.” He accepted the heavy metal dipper and drank deeply, then flung the remnants toward the trees and handed back the ladle. “Much obliged.” A foot soldier lifted a dripping bucket to his thirsty horse.

  The sergeant major, new to the garrison but a ten-year veteran of the New England colonies, pointed with his blade of a chin. “That a Frenchie village down below, sir?”

  “Minas, yes.” Andrew nodded toward the scattering of hamlets surrounding Cobequid Bay. “Almost every second village you see here is French.”

  “Seems quiet enough.” The officer sniffed as he stared down the steep slope. “ ’Course, you never can tell with them Frenchies. Sneaky, so I’ve been told. Bad as the Injuns.”

  Andrew bit back a sharp retort. It would not do to publicly rebuke the man, not for stating the belief shared by almost every member of the officer corps. “Prepare the men, Sergeant Major.”

  “Sir!” The man stomped away, shouting, “All right, you lot, on your feet!”

  Andrew pulled on his reins and swiveled in his saddle to check the seven high-wheeled wagons, the only ones capable of managing the muddy trail. The men assembled to either side with another contingent fore and aft, weary and footsore.

  Andrew turned back around, raised his hand, and let it fall.

  The sergeant major shouted, “Foooorward, ho!”

  The wheels creaked; the tin plates rattled upon the cook wagon; the soldiers shuffled and muttered and coughed and marched. Andrew knew them all by now, not just by name but by noise and habits. He liked to bring the new troops in himself. It gave him an opportunity to test their mettle in the field.

  When the trail jinked around a steep curve, their destination finally came into view. Once again he felt his heart rate surge. There, off beyond the river and more fields and farmhouses, Fort Edward rose stolid and stern and safe, and beyond it the village of Edward itself. Andrew squinted against the morning glare, trying to make out the stone cottage at the village entrance. The one where the love of his life lived and awaited his return. No, he could not quite make out the individual houses, not yet. But the search alone was enough to bring a smile to his lips. Catherine was there, and she waited for him. He was as sure of that as he was of his own name.

  A sudden boom caused his horse to rear, and the mules pulling the wagons started their noisy braying. Andrew quieted his horse as he searched the horizon. He spotted a cloud of smoke rising from the fort’s cannon.

  The sergeant major trotted up beside him. “Trouble, sir?”

  “Not at all.” Andrew pointed beyond the land’s final shelf, out to where billowing squares of white indicated a ship of the line sailing up Cobequid Bay. He called to the troops behind them, “Easy now, they’re just signaling to an incoming ship!”

  As though to confirm Andrew’s words, the ship responded with a booming reply of its own. Andrew spotted the signal flag below the Union Jack. “Press the men hard, Sergeant Major,” he urged. “We need to arrive in time to greet the governor’s representative. General Whetlock himself sails in that vessel.”

  Andrew spurred his horse on ahead. He was eager to arrive, to see Catherine again. Almost a month he had been away, a month of disturbing news and unwelcome developments. He could not help but cast another watchful glance at the French village below, as though some enemy lurked there unseen.

  North of the New England colonies stood the disputed lands of New France, settled for a century and a half by people who had named the region Acadia, their “beloved home.” The British had come soon after. Building upon the strength of their southern colonies, they battled the French here as they had in Europe for over six hundred years, enemies ever.

  Now, in the year 1753, the lines were firmly drawn. A man was either French or English, and though the villages were but a stone’s throw from one another, most inhabitants would go an entire lifetime without speaking to the other side. Certainly there was some contact in the markets, but those who did not travel—and most did not—lived in a state of constant suspicion and fear. They avoided open contact with people who were considered enemies because they were strangers. Villagers whispered rumors and grim warnings behind secured doors. On both sides, raw fear haunted their days and troubled their sleep with terrifying nightmares, knowing that they might be the ones to be conquered and displaced.

  Two nations of hard-calloused farmers and crude-crafted village shopkeepers lived side by side and never knew the other. They vied for possession, hoping their troops would somehow protect them from the other. Praying to the same God, imploring His help to make them the victor—the undisputed owner of the territory.

  Andrew shook his head and turned away. Strange how he could be filled with so much joy and so much worry, so much happiness and so much concern, so much love and so much alertness for battle.

  It was almost enough to tear his heart in two.

  Chapter 1

  Catherine Price watched the world unfold outside the carriage window. She felt such joy she could scarcely contain it. So many events of magnitude were coming together in her life, it was enough to make a girl raised on the rough frontier believe that she had been transported into some magical fairy tale.

  Fort Edward kept just one carriage, usually reserved for the king’s representative, the provincial governor. But the general had personally invited Catherine to dine on board a ship of the line. It was the first time an official invitation had been addressed to her, the first time Catherin
e was not going just as her father’s daughter. The written invitation had read that General Whetlock, the regimental commandant recently arrived from England, requested the pleasure of her company on board the vessel Excalibur for a banquet in celebration of the sacking of Fort Louisburg.

  Her father sat ramrod straight beside her, pride showing in spite of his efforts to appear nonchalant. John Price had served in the King’s Own Fusiliers for eleven years, until a French cannonade had injured him and cut short his career. He deeply missed the pomp and circumstance, the honor and the glory. No matter that he now served as the provincial notary, answering only to Fort Edward’s senior officer and the governor in Halifax. John Price had never forgiven the French for ending his rise within the military, and he loathed them to a man.

  The carriage rocked like a boat in high seas as the trail descended and forded yet another stream. The woman seated across from Catherine sniffed her disdain. “I do not see why on earth we must suffer through this endless journey. The ship is almost close enough for me to reach out and touch it.”

  “That may be so, ma’am.” John Price’s voice was as stiff as his bearing. “But there is only one docking station between Fort Edward and Chelmsford. We must make for that in order to meet the ship’s boat.”

  Mrs. Priscilla Stevenage sniffed even more loudly. “Even a provincial town such as your own, sir, should be able to afford a proper docking facility. Why, our new capital of Halifax is but a few years old, and already we have a decent rock-lined harbor.”

  “I daresay you do,” John Price said, a red flush creeping up from his collar. “Since the fleet must winter there and at Annapolis Royal.”

  “Then why on earth can’t a fort as old as yours—”

  “Mud, ma’am. Good, rich, fertile mud.” He waved an angry hand out beyond the open window. “The very same mud which allows this provincial town to feed not only its own citizens but Halifax and Annapolis Royal as well.”