Free Hidden in a Whisper by Tracie Peterson

  
    ESMERALDA HATED OLD AGE. She hated feeling less capable of doing the things she had to do. She detested looking in the mirror to see yet another wrinkle mar her once beautiful skin. And she loathed knowing that death was not far away.
    Dying had never frightened her, and it certainly wasn’t an issue of eternity and what would happen in the afterlife—it was more the inconvenience of it all. She had great plans for the future and aspired to do it all properly and in full control. Dying would definitely put a halt to those plans.
    It was both troublesome and a blessing to be classified as old. Troublesome because your body no longer cooperated with you as it did in youth, and people often considered it necessary to shield you from shocking events and scandalous thoughts. But being old could also be a blessing. People recognized that you had come this far by knowing something more than the count of chickens in the hen house. You were generally respected and often deferred to. But then there was that whole pesky issue of death. As far as Esmeralda could see, the only good thing about dying was the idea of joining her beloved Hezekiah. He had been gone for five years now and it seemed like an eternity.
    Hezekiah had known her better than anyone. He had shared his hopes and dreams with her, and in turn they had become her own hopes and dreams. Now that he was gone, she was a lonely old woman, although she would never have allowed anyone to know that fact. Instead, she created a facade of strength and dignity that set her apart from others.
    The Needlemeier mansion, a two-story native stone Queen Anne house, stood as an oddity against the adobe and clapboard buildings of Morita. Until Casa Grande had been erected in its wealthy beaux arts eclectic styling, Esmeralda’s home had commanded the attention of everyone in the community. Now, standing in the shadow of Casa Grande, Esmeralda wondered if she’d made a mistake allowing the resort to be built so close to her own home. There was no doubt that Casa Grande was beautiful—she wouldn’t have had it any other way— but having it steal away the attention her home had otherwise enjoyed was a bit like being passed over at the dance for a more beautiful belle.
    Staring down at the collection of letters on her desk, Esmeralda sorted through the replies to her advertisements. She had taken up the cause of her dear husband’s dream and had worked to create a town that would flourish and grow with the ages. Hezekiah had wanted to be remembered for something, and Morita embodied that memorial. Now, with Esmeralda hard-pressed to let go of his desires, Morita was slowly but surely taking shape.
    It hadn’t been easy to convince investors to consider the small whistle-stop as a possible location for development. After all, Albuquerque wasn’t that far away. It wasn’t until she had convinced the Santa Fe and Fred Harvey to come to Morita with the idea of creating a resort hotel that Esmeralda had found any real portion of success. She had spent a fortune cultivating acres of gardens and creating bridges over the hot springs and falls. She’d given up equally large amounts of money to support the development of a proper town and to entice businesses to fill the buildings once completed. Her fortune was completely tied up in Morita, and now more than ever she intended to see it succeed.
    Some said she was a bit touched in the head. She had no family except for her uppity niece, Ivy Brooks. But she was working to create a legacy that perhaps no one but those left behind could appreciate. She felt her emotions stir. The years had left a void inside her that couldn’t be denied. Sometimes the loneliness of carrying on Hezekiah’s 57 dream herself was more than she could bear.
    Stiffening her resolve, Esmeralda refused to allow her feelings merit. She would simply give her attention to the job at hand. There was no sense in allowing