Concealing Grace (The Grace Series Book 1) (36 page)

Sneak Peek

Saving Grace

Elizabeth Courtright

PROLOGUE

The sound was a low, consistent rumble of thunder, tumbling over the landscape. The sight was a shadow, a waft of black smoke, hurtling onward in a backdrop of darkness. Not even the moonlight could glint upon the powerful stallion, for every piece of its equipment—the bridle, the bit, the saddle, the stirrups—were forged in black.

Its rider, hunkered low, was equally adorned. From his knee-high boots to his leather gloves, to the cloak billowing out behind him and the knitted scarf around his neck, he was shrouded in obscurity. More of that indistinguishable color, in the form of a kerchief, covered his head from his forehead to where the ends were tied off at the back of his neck. A second one, stretched taught against the bridge of his nose, hid the bottom half of his face. For months the black had concealed him. The nights were his haunt. The ghost-like figures adorned in white costumes were his nemesis.

This night the Klan’s terror was extreme. The illuminating flames from their burning cross revealed the bodies of two of their victims. They’d been shot in the head, execution style. Two others had been lynched. As the mighty stallion abruptly halted beside one of the hanged men, its rider, brandishing a knife, rose up to reach the rope extended to the tree limb above. In seconds the lynched man’s body thumped to the root-covered ground below. The second body followed.

Dismounting quickly, the rider knelt by the first man to unbind the rope from his throat. With the same urgency, he untangled the second man. Then, after forcing that victim’s head back and opening his mouth, the rider dropped over him. He took a deep breath, covered the victim’s mouth with his own and blew.

Again and again he bowed over the victim to force air into his deprived lungs. He kept at it until the victim began to sputter. But then, he didn’t wait for him to fully recover. He was already beside the other victim, doing the same to him.

Tirelessly he worked. He worked until his chest heaved, until his own lungs demanded he stop. But he didn’t stop. As the minutes ticked by, he was aware of the victim he roused first sitting up. He was aware of the gasps and choked hisses coming from him as he struggled to breathe normally again.

“Ma sista,” the victim choked out gravelly. “Dey took ma sista.”

Only then did the rider look up. “Where? Which way did they go?”

In the firelight, the victim raised a battered hand and pointed toward the woods. “Dat way. Ova dere.”

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” the rider rasped. “I’ll get her.”

He whistled for the stallion, but it wasn’t necessary. The horse was in tune enough with his movements to know he was needed. In seconds man and beast were galloping toward the trees. He could only guess how far the Klan had taken the victim’s sister. He could only guess what they had done to her. He didn’t know how old she was, or whether he would find her alive or dead. He didn’t know, inside the denser shade of the forest, if he would find her at all.

And then he heard the distant cries. They were little more than whimpers, barely discernable under the crackling rustle of winter branches, but they were enough.

Several yards away, he dismounted. As he approached, treading carefully over fallen limbs and brittle foliage, he wrenched the cloak from his shoulders. She was next to a thick tree trunk, curled in a fetal position. Her wrists had been tied together and stretched upward by a rope secured to a high branch. What remained of her tattered clothing wasn’t adequate protection against the frigid elements. Her shivers were evident in the shudders of her hiccoughing sobs. She was young, no more than thirteen, and they’d bloodied her.

The rider didn’t want to scare her, but the moment she caught sight of his dark shape, she began to scream. She scrambled to move away. Bound as she was, she could go nowhere.

“It’s okay. I’m a friend. I’m not going to hurt you. I’ve come to take you home.” Hoping to lessen her fear, he staggered his approach, repeating his intentions, until her screams diminished, until he was hunkered to his haunches beside her, and she stilled.

“Let me put this around you,” he said of his cloak. “I’m going to cut the ropes,” he said of his knife. He held it up so she could see it, so she wouldn’t feel threatened.

Carefully he slid the blade between her skin and the twine. The first binding was the most difficult. The second had more give and separated easily. Even so, the flesh around both of her wrists was raw and blistered. Her face was so swollen, her eyes were barely visible. With the drape of his cloak surrounding her, he could no longer see the rest of her, but he’d seen enough of the rips in her skirt and the stripes on her thighs to know what had been done to her.

How many of them had been there? How much of their terror had she endured? God be with her! God help her! She’s just a girl… a little girl…

“Do you think you can stand? Take my hands. Let me help you,” he coaxed gently.

“Did dey kill ma bruddas?” she asked.

“Three men died tonight. I don’t know if any of them were your brothers. I can only tell you one of your brothers will be okay. He told me where to find you.”

Tears trickled from her swollen eyes. “You is da spook?”

“Yes, I am,” he said. “I am the spook.”

“Why din’t ya come sooner?” she cried. “Ya hep’d udder people ’afore da Klan come afta dem! Why din’t ya hep us? Why din’t ya make dem stop…”

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Concealing Grace
, Book 1 in the Grace Series. If you enjoyed the story, please leave a rating or a review on Amazon or Goodreads.

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Thank You…

All proceeds from the sale of this book benefit the Third Chance Foundation.

The Third Chance Foundation is a nondiscriminatory, nonprofit corporation which provides postsecondary scholarships to foster and adopted children. Our sole purpose is to help today’s youth achieve career goals and follow dreams. We believe there is no aspiration too trivial or undeserving.

Our scholarship funds are raised through book sales. For more information, please visit us at www.thirdchancefound.org. The more books we sell, the more scholarships we will provide!

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

“It was hard to keep a straight face!” says Elizabeth’s mother of the tales Elizabeth wrote as early as six years old. Her parents sure got a kick out of them anyway!

Today, this diehard romantic owes her inspiration and imagination to her family. Proceeds from the sales of her books benefit the Third Chance Foundation, a non-profit organization which provides scholarships to foster and adopted children, like her own. She and her husband of twenty-two years—her knight in shining armor—amidst their chaotic house full of kids and pets, consider themselves extremely blessed.

Connecting

Elizabeth enjoys hearing from readers! Your questions, comments and feedback are most welcome. Please feel free to visit Elizabeth’s website at
www.elizabethcourtright.com
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www.thirdchancefound.org
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To contact Elizabeth directly:

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Other Titles By This Author

In the Grace Series