Somewhere to Dream (Berkley Sensation)

PRAISE FOR

Somewhere to Dream

“Bold adventure combined with historical detail and complex relationships make this a beautiful book . . . If you lost your heart to
The Last of the Mohicans
, then you’ll love
Somewhere to Dream
.”

— Susanna Kearsley,
New York Times
bestselling author

“With fearless realism and flawless prose, Graham reaches into the minds of her characters and the hearts of her readers to create one unforgettable story.”

—Kaki Warner, national bestselling author

Sound of the Heart

“Captivating and heroic . . . An amazing tale of adventure and the power of true love.”

—
Fresh Fiction

“Beautifully written. The characters had depth, passion, and they made the tale feel genuine.”

—
Caffeinated Book Reviewer

“Sweeping and epic.”

—
Truly Bookish

“Another well-crafted, historically accurate novel that is as much historical fiction as sizzling romance.”

—
RT Book Reviews

“With a rich flair of history and a great deal of romance, readers will fall in love with Genevieve Graham’s second novel,
Sound of the Heart
. I am definitely looking forward to reading more from this fantastic author.”

—
Moonlight Gleam’s Bookshelf

“A gem that really can’t be missed.”

—
Turning The Pages

Under the Same Sky

“A beautifully written, riveting novel that had me hooked from the opening sentence. Genevieve Graham is a remarkable talent.”

—Madeline Hunter,
New York Times
bestselling author of
The Counterfeit Mistress

“
Under the Same Sky
weaves together the lives of its two protagonists with such skill and poetry it’s like entering a dream, one that will leave you both marveling and richly sated.”

—Shana Abé,
New York Times
bestselling author of
The Deepest Night

“The type of book that you can get lost in . . . A story that will hold on to you until the last page (and beyond).”

—
A Bookish Affair

“Absolutely rapturous, full of lush imagery and a quiet, confident voice . . . Graham is one to watch for historical romance readers.”

—
Historical Novel Review

“I felt like I was right there, inside the book for every moment from the very first sentence . . . Outstanding work by Genevieve Graham. Stunning, beautiful,
epic
.”

—Bookworm2Bookworm

“A uniquely crafted love story . . . Readers will wait with bated breath for the sequel.”

—
RT Book Reviews

Berkley Sensation titles by Genevieve Graham

UNDER THE SAME SKY

SOUND OF THE HEART

SOMEWHERE TO DREAM

Somewhere to Dream

G
ENEVIEVE
G
RAHAM

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

Published by the Penguin Group

Penguin Group (USA) LLC

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

USA • Canada • UK • Ireland • Australia • New Zealand • India • South Africa • China

penguin.com

A Penguin Random House Company

SOMEWHERE TO DREAM

A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with the author

Copyright © 2013 by Genevieve Sawchyn.

Excerpt from
Under the Same Sky
by Genevieve Graham copyright © 2013 by Genevieve Sawchyn.

Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

Berkley Sensation Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group.

BERKLEY SENSATION
^®
is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) LLC.

The “B” design is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA) LLC.

For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

a division of Penguin Group (USA), LLC,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

eBook ISBN: 978-1-101-61283-5

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Berkley Sensation mass-market edition / November 2013

Cover art by Gregg Gulbronson.

Cover design by George Long.

Hand lettering by Ron Zinn.

Interior text design by Laura K. Corless.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

To my real life hero, Dwayne, and our incredible daughters, Emily and Piper

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

When Adelaide Johnson woke me from a sound sleep and whispered that she had her own story to tell, I was as surprised as anyone. In a good way. I’m glad that after everything she’d been through she still wanted to step out of the shadows to share her adventure. Thank you to my editors, Wendy McCurdy and Katherine Pelz, for giving me the opportunity to tell Adelaide’s story.

An ongoing thank-you to my literary champion, my agent Jacques de Spoelberch, for being the voice of reason when he’s bombarded by my emails, and the velvet hammer when it comes to plot ideas. He’s the consummate professional and a legend in the field, and I’m extremely fortunate to be represented by him.

I humbly thank my readers, who surprise me constantly with their enthusiastic support and encouragement. Just knowing that the stories in my head and heart touch yours as well means so much. Yes, I will keep writing. I promise.

Thank you to Ironhead Vann at www.CherokeeByBlood.com for generously sharing his expert knowledge. Any errors in the book regarding the mighty Cherokee are mine, not his.

Thank you to my medical expert—and the woman who literally saved my life—Dr. Terri Staniland, for helping me diagnose the ruptured spleen at the end of the story.

To my long distance mentor and friend, Kaki Warner, for always being there to listen and cheerlead.

And speaking of cheerleading, my mom leads them all, and has for my whole life. She brought me up with the belief that I could capture that brass ring, and now I’m holding on tight! My friends and family have been amazing, spreading the word, helping a new author succeed in this crazy world of publishing. I wouldn’t be here without you all.

When I was thinking about writing this—incredibly, my third novel’s acknowledgements!—my husband told me I shouldn’t dedicate this book to him. What a sweet but silly thing to suggest. I dedicated the first two books to him because he’s my soul mate, the reason I’m able to write what I write, the inspiration for the unshakable, eternal love running through my stories. Nothing has changed about that, so of course this book is dedicated to him. I love you, Dwayne, and I will always be grateful for the support, encouragement, cups of tea, impulsive lunches, and unconditional love you give me. You’re my everything.

But I did take his suggestion to heart, and I have decided to include our team of beautiful and brilliant daughters, Emily and Piper, in the dedication. The two of them are growing at an alarming rate, despite the fact that their mother is perpetually locked in her office, tapping on her computer. I love you both so much, and I’m incredibly proud of the compassionate, honourable, loving young women you have become.

Thank you Adelaide and Jesse, Maggie and Andrew, Dougal and Glenna, Janet, Wahyaw, Soquili, and everyone else I’ve met along this journey. I know you have more adventures to share, and I can hardly wait to write them.

PART
1

Adelaide

CHAPTER
1

The Colour of Dreams

My mother’s hair was blond, but it never attained the near snowy white my hair turns in the summertime. Hers was the colour of straw. Like tattered wisps of grass after the autumn chill had stripped the land of any green. And though she loved to comb my hair until it shone, humming songs without words, hers was rarely tended. Like the grass again, dry and brittle, as if it might splinter at the slightest wind. In that way, strange as it might sound, my mother was much like her hair.

On the other extreme, little Ruth’s curls bounced with shiny abandon, a perfectly blended white and gold, as if the sun had painted the strands one by one, taking time to choose the exact gold, the exact white. Everything about Ruth bounced and glowed. Ever since that cloudless day of her birth in the summer of 1736, the most difficult thing about Ruth was getting her to sit long enough so mother could comb the tangles from her lively tresses. Even then, her rosebud lips constantly moved, telling stories, singing songs she made up herself, filling the stale air of the room with a light warmer and more illuminating than any candle.

The last time I saw my mother’s hair, it blew in a moth-eaten veil over her eyes, their fading blue locked forever open and sightless under a neat black hole. Blood the shade of crimson maple leaves trickled in a thick path down the side of her face, sticking wisps against her cheek and turning them a dark chestnut, more like Maggie’s hair.

And when I last saw Ruth, there was no more bouncing. The joy that had lit every part of her had been snuffed out, the soft white curls knotted around eyes red and swollen from tears. She looked like a doll that had been left in the dirt, and I imagine that’s how they saw her as they tore her to bits. Nothing but a sweet, helpless rag doll with which they could play then discard.

When the wind brings them back, I blame myself. It can be almost anything—the sharp smell of charred meat over a fire, an evergreen’s fragrant cloak. Even the sound of running water can call to mind the voices and smells and sights little girls should never imagine. So I built myself a wall. It is thick and sturdy, able to hold back all the pictures, the sounds, the smells, the pain I can’t bear to relive. If thoughts seep through, threatening to weaken my wall’s resistance, I immediately plug any holes. I refuse to see any of it ever again.

But the wall itself will always be a reminder of that day. Though I no longer see the evil, I know very well it lurks there, just beyond. I am often left empty while my entire soul is taken up by fighting. And when I lose myself in the pain of it all over again, I know I should have tried harder.

I should have practised. Even in secret, like Maggie did. After all, I always knew the power was there. If I hadn’t always been so scared of what might happen, who might find out, what I might do, maybe I could have done something.

But I didn’t. I spent my childhood watching Maggie, seeing what her dreams did to her, and vowing never to wake my own hidden secret. It was enough that I knew it was there.

My secret wasn’t exactly like my sister’s. Our messages came in dreams, but unlike Maggie, I could walk away from them when I was awake, ignore their existence. I had that choice, and I took it because I was too afraid.

When they came as nightmares, I fled. From an early age, I taught myself to burst from the monstrous images when they became too real. A useful skill for me, without question. A selfish one, perhaps. Because by doing this, I never saw the endings to my dreams. And by missing that elemental part of them, I didn’t know the inevitable conclusion.

But that was the dilemma. Were the endings inevitable? If so, was it worth forcing myself to stand up to the images, daring to push past the invisible wall that sent me screaming to the surface? If I had seen the ending, could I have changed it, or had that been the only possible outcome anyway?

So I chose to block them out entirely. I avoided the question, as well as any answers that might follow.

Other than that, my life was straightforward. We lived simply, surrounded by little that should frighten a child, yet stepping outside my regular routine—testing the water, so to speak, doing anything I didn’t understand—sent me skittering back into the shadows. That fear was intimidating in itself. Simply put, I was afraid of fear. I never understood how Maggie—or, for that matter, how little Ruth—could run into the unknown and embrace it. I ran the opposite way and never let it touch me.

Everything in my life changed that day in the forest. Everything except my fear. That only got worse. So, like I have always done with my nightmares, I blocked it all out. The images, the pain, the knowledge that day had wrought on us was gone for me. Never happened. Because admitting it had happened was too terrifying to consider.