Heirs of falcon point, p.1
Heirs of Falcon Point, page 1
Cover image: Close Up of Thoughtful Brunette Woman © Alexey Kazantsev / Trevillion Images
Cover design by Natalie Brown
Cover design copyright © 2021 by Covenant Communications, Inc.
Published by Covenant Communications, Inc.
American Fork, Utah
Copyright © 2021 by Traci Hunter Abramson, Sian Ann Bessey, Paige Edwards, & A. L. Sowards All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any format or in any medium without the written permission of the publisher, Covenant Communications, Inc., P.O. Box 416, American Fork, UT 84003. The views expressed within this work are the sole responsibility of the authors and do not necessarily reflect the position of Covenant Communications, Inc., or any other entity.
This is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, places, and dialogue are either products of the authors' imaginations, and are not to be construed as real, or are used fictitiously.
First Printing: October 2021
ISBN: 978-1-52441-781-9
Praise for Heirs of falcon point
“The beginning of [Heirs of Falcon Point] is intriguing, and I was engrossed in reading, hoping the three children would find their way back to each other. Then the story switches decades later to the present time. There was a lot going on, with lots of different characters to meet, but I enjoyed the continued story of meeting the Lang family’s ancestors. I loved Anna, Cole, and Tess, and their friends, and I was so scared for them at times. There was a lot at stake, more than anyone realized. The riveting story of Heirs of Falcon Point ended well and will stay with me for a while. If you enjoy historical fiction, you will especially enjoy this story.”
—Readers’ Favorite five-star review
“Be sure to take your heart medication when reading Heirs of Falcon Point because the suspense and surprises are sure to raise your heart rate. Four award-winning authors have come together to create a multifaceted book: thrillers, mystery, multiple romances, and a settling of scores for ancient crimes—and some really determined villains to boot. For those of us who love historical fiction, this book is particularly satisfying in that it creates historical scenes that are brought forward to the present day to tell the rest of the story. I highly recommend it.”
—Jerry Borrowman, author of the ‘Til the Boys Come Home
World War I and World War II fiction series and other
award-winning nonfiction
For Amy Parker,
whose tireless efforts are known by few but valued by so many.
We love and appreciate you.
Acknowledgments
We have so many people who helped us bring this book to life, but we must begin by thanking Paige Edwards, who came up with the original idea of bringing the four of us together, and Samantha Millburn for letting us run with it. Thanks to the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum for providing the backdrop for the original brainstorming session.
Also, thank you, Samantha, for sharing your amazing editing talents with us. This book is so much better because of you. Our continued appreciation goes to the rest of the Covenant family for supporting us in our creative endeavors. A special thanks to Amy Parker for your tireless efforts in marketing and helping launch this novel into the world.
Thank you to Tyler Sommer and Coco Francois for sharing your medical expertise, often at crazy hours of the day and night. And thanks to Ellie Whitney for your help during the early stages of this manuscript and for sharing your wealth of artistic knowledge.
We also want to thank the CIA Publication Review Board for your assistance and for clearing this manuscript so quickly.
Finally, we want to thank our families for your constant support and our readers for your unfailing encouragement. You are the ones who enable us to continue doing what we love.
Author Contributions by Main Character
A. L. Sowards
Karl Lang
Ingrid Lang
Anna Lang
Wilhelm Sauermann
Traci Hunter Abramson
Gunnar Sauermann
Cole Bridger
Isabelle Roberts
Paige Edwards
Anna Cavendish
Beckett Campbell
Petra Sauermann
Sian Ann Bessey
Tess Hendriks
Lars Hendriks
Bram Dekker
Chapter 1
February 1940
Karl Lang kept his back ramrod straight as his father bid Herr Sauermann farewell from the gravel drive in front of their two-hundred-year-old manor. Part of the posture was upbringing—boys from families like his didn’t slouch when seeing visitors off. Part of it was a desire to close the gap in height. Herr Sauermann loomed over all of them like a statue of a Hapsburg war hero.
Herr Sauermann shook Karl’s hand. “You look just like your father did when I met him. That blond hair and straight nose. Fine Aryan specimens.” The warmth of the compliment lessened the effect of the bitter winter wind slicing through their coats. Herr Sauermann turned to Papa. “Give it some thought, Leopold. You’re needed.”
“I’m a widower with three children to care for.” Papa kept a polite expression, but his blue eyes contained a hardness that Karl wasn’t accustomed to seeing from his father, especially not around old family friends.
With a wave of his hand, Herr Sauermann directed his driver to open the door of his black Gräf & Stift automobile. “You’ve the means to hire help for the children. And your son will soon be in uniform just like you.”
The muscles along Papa’s jaw hardened. “Karl is only seventeen. He’s too young to fight.”
“For now.” Herr Sauermann slipped into the car. “I’ll see you in a few days, Leopold. Be ready.”
At a nod from Herr Sauermann, the driver closed the door and walked around to the driver’s seat.
Karl held his tongue until the man climbed in and started the engine. “I’m not afraid to be a soldier.”
Papa folded his arms. “But for whom will you fight?”
“For Austria. Just like you, in the last war.”
Papa watched Herr Sauermann’s car pull away. “Austria no longer exists. Do you wish to fight for Herr Hitler, Karl?”
Karl didn’t answer immediately. He’d found little to like of the Führer in the newsreels, and he’d picked up on his father’s less-than-enthusiastic response to the Anschluss of two years before, but Karl couldn’t very well change the course of history. Herr Kaufmann, the literature teacher at his boarding school, was quick to point out the economic benefits of union with Germany. Most people agreed with him, but now Karl wasn’t sure. “I just want to be brave like my father.”
“Courage isn’t always about fighting.”
“Herr Sauermann seems to think you should fight again.” Karl watched Herr Sauermann’s automobile disappear around the stone lions that marked the estate’s entrance. “I would think you too old to fight.”
“He’s not asking me to pick up a rifle again.” Papa chuckled. “Too old? Is forty-four so old?”
Karl straightened his back again, trying to stretch the inch of height he had over his father into something more impressive. “No, I don’t suppose you’re that old or that short. But I imagine they’ll give the rifles to strapping recruits like me.”
“Well then, my strapping son, run to the top of that hill to make sure Sauermann really leaves. Then meet me in the study and bring your sisters.”
“You think he might not really leave?”
Papa shrugged. “I need to know for sure. Plan the first has failed, and I don’t expect plan the second to work out either. Which brings us to plan the third.”
“What’s plan the third?” Papa always had multiple plans, but this was the first Karl had heard about anything related to Herr Sauermann. “And what was plan the first and plan the second?”
“Later, Karl. I’ll tell you later.” Papa pointed to the hill. “You brought your field glasses, as I asked?”
Karl nodded and ran off. He wore his best suit and dress coat in honor of Herr Sauermann’s visit, not his normal choice for taking a shortcut through the damp woods that encircled the manor, but none of the staff would reprimand him if he abused the clothing just a bit. His father certainly wouldn’t, not after being the one to send him on this errand.
Thick growths of spruce, pine, and larch surrounded the snowy lawns and gardens of the estate. Karl ran awhile, then trudged the rest of the way over the brambles and uneven roots. The top of the hill cleared just enough to offer a view of the entire estate. Schloss die Punkt Falke stretched out to the north and the west. Falcon Point. The turrets of the limestone manor house peeked above a thick curtain of tree branches, and flashes of light reflected off the surface of the lake to the east. Most of Kristall Lake was still frozen, but parts had thawed over the last week. Karl turned to the village and caught sight of the black automobile making its way down the slope. He pulled the small field glasses from his pocket and verified there was still a passenger in the back seat.
Wilhelm Sauermann had been his father’s friend for years, and he’d stayed at Falcon Point time after time. Karl didn’t buy the excuse that there was less staff now, so the Lang family wasn’t in a position to host. They still had a maid, a gardener, and a cook who doubled as a housekeeper. Welcoming Herr Sau
Karl watched until the car passed the kirche, with its pointed spire, and disappeared between the steep-roofed buildings of the village. The small inn on the settlement’s eastern end hadn’t anything so grand as one of the rooms at Falcon Point. Would Herr Sauermann resent not being asked to stay?
Karl was at the wrong angle to see the rest of Herr Sauermann’s progress, so he trekked back to the manor. Going downhill was far easier than going uphill, but he didn’t rush. He avoided the roots that seemed determined to trip him and did his best to ignore the way the cold mud clung to his shoes, making them ever heavier. What was his father planning? And which two plans had already failed? Karl could keep a secret—his father should have confided in him.
When he reached the manor, he left his muddy shoes by the kitchen entrance and grabbed a slice of gugelhupf while the cook’s back was turned.
“I know what you’ve taken, young man.” Frau Pichler scrubbed out a pot from the early supper they’d shared with Herr Sauermann.
“But you don’t mind, do you?”
She chuckled. “No, I remember what an appetite teenage boys can have. But don’t track dirt across my kitchen, or Gerta will put green wood in with your coal. She just cleaned the floor.” Frau Pichler turned around and nodded when she noticed Karl’s stockinged feet.
“Have you seen Ingrid and Anna?” Karl asked.
“I believe I heard Miss Anna making some sort of noise on the piano.”
Karl climbed the flight of stairs to the foyer, then took the wide floating staircase to the next level and went through the hall to the music room. Anna’s simple tune drifted out to meet him. She played the notes with precision but without feeling. Maybe that would come with time. She was only seven years old, and as Karl walked around the piano to get a view of her wheat-colored curls and furrowed concentration, he held his tongue rather than comment on her unemotional style.
Anna finished her line with a flourish and smiled up at him. “Did you hear that? No mistakes.”
“Well done, Anna. Are you finished? Papa wants us in his study.”
Anna stood and scurried toward the hall.
“Have you seen Ingrid?” he asked as Anna dashed through the door.
“I’m over here.”
Karl followed his sister’s voice to a wingback chair turned toward the window. Ingrid sat with her feet pulled up and tucked at her side. A novel lay in her lap.
“You’ll strain your eyes reading in the dark.”
Ingrid pulled a ribbon into her book to mark her place. “It wasn’t dark when I sat down.”
Karl turned the chair—with Ingrid still in it—to its proper position. “Papa asked to see us in his study.”
“I heard you tell Anna.”
“Let’s not keep him waiting.”
Ingrid ran her finger along the spine of her book. “I can’t very well stand up while you’re moving the furniture.”
“It would have been a lot easier to move if you weren’t still sitting in it. And anyway, I’m not moving it now. Come on.”
Ingrid took her time putting her book away and heading for the hallway. Sisters. Brothers would have been easier. If Ingrid were a boy, Karl could use a little more force, but Papa would scold him if he didn’t treat Ingrid like a lady, regardless of how she acted.
Papa was crouched by the hearth when they arrived, coaxing a fire from the day’s embers. He stood and pulled the curtains shut against the fading daylight and gestured to a table overflowing with piles of paper. “Ingrid, I need you to burn these. Anna can help, but make sure she doesn’t get singed.”
“Burn them?” Ingrid’s mouth pulled into a frown. “Why?”
Papa put one hand on Ingrid’s shoulder and his other on the table. “Just trust me. Don’t go too fast, or you’ll smother the fire. And don’t read them; just destroy them. Only the ones here.” He tapped the table again, then pointed to his massive Victorian-era desk. “Those aren’t to be touched.”
“Yes, Papa.” Ingrid picked up a folder and held it. Anna picked up a pile too, but she didn’t hesitate. She went right to the hearth and began feeding the fire, one paper at a time.
“Good, Anna. Just like I told you. Not too fast,” Papa said.
Anna grinned. Karl would have, too, at her age, had their father granted permission to play with fire.
“Come, Karl. I need your help.”
Karl followed Papa from the room. “What papers are those? And why are you burning them?”
His father held a finger to his lips. “Not now.”
Karl grunted his irritation, but he obeyed. Curiosity as much as discipline kept him from rebelling.
“You’ll need shoes.”
“Mine were muddy, so I left them by the kitchen.”
“Fine, we’ll go that way.” But Papa didn’t head toward the kitchen. He led Karl upstairs to the manor’s top floor, toward the suite where Karl’s parents had once slept. Since Mama’s death, Papa had slept in one of the other suites—one that was still comfortable but not quite so grand.
They passed through the main room, with its enormous four-poster bed, and went into a dressing chamber off to the side. Papa bent to pick up one end of a trunk. “Grab the other end.”
The trunk was about the size of a wine crate, so Karl was surprised by how much it weighed when he lifted his end. “What’s inside?”
“Some of your mother’s things.”
The dressing room still held most of Mama’s gowns. At fifteen, Ingrid wasn’t quite old enough for them to be reworked to fit her, and some were no longer in fashion. The trunk had to have more than clothing inside, unless the clothing was made of chain mail. “Why is it so heavy if it’s full of satin and velvet?”
Papa’s eyes flashed with memory, something sweet and sad at the same time. “Not her clothes. Her jewelry.”
Karl glanced at the trunk. “She had that much?”
Papa nodded. “And a little more. I asked Gerta to sew a few pieces into all your coats.”
“Why?”
“Wait until we’re outside. Gerta is trustworthy enough, but it’s best she stay ignorant about most of it.”
“And Herr and Frau Pichler?
“I’ve given them the evening off. Frau Pichler might be tinkering in the kitchen still, but I imagine Herr Pichler has gone down to the village.”
“You don’t trust them?”
Papa shrugged the shoulder that wasn’t involved in hefting the trunk. “I prefer to keep as much as I can a secret. Only those who must know the truth should have to bear its burden.”
Was truth a burden? “I don’t understand.”
Papa motioned for them to set the trunk down before descending the stairs. They switched sides, then lifted it again. “I’ll explain once we’re outside.”
Karl held his tongue. The trunk seemed to grow heavier as they made their way down two long flights of stairs, then a shorter set to the kitchen and back entrance, but Karl wouldn’t complain about the weight, not after the conversation they’d had when they’d said farewell to Herr Sauermann. If Karl wanted to be treated like a man, he couldn’t very well complain that a trunk full of his mother’s jewelry was too heavy. But he was relieved when they set the trunk down long enough for him to put on his boots. He followed his father’s example and pulled on wool mittens and a coat.
The sun had sunk beyond the western horizon by the time they left the manor, turning the sky a dim gray that matched the shadowed snow.
“Do you remember the gamekeeper’s home?” Papa asked.
Karl changed his hold on the trunk. The mittens helped with the cold, but they didn’t help with his grip. “No. I remember hearing about it, but I’ve never seen it.”
