Through Each Tomorrow, page 36
5. In 1883, we get a peek at the opulence in Newport, Rhode Island. Have you ever visited there? What is one aspect of the lifestyle you’d love? What is one you would dislike?
6. This story explores the idea of family obligations. Can you relate? What are some things you’ve sacrificed for family or loved ones?
7. An overarching theme in the Timeless series is dealing with disappointment when life doesn’t go the way we hope or plan, and God’s faithfulness to meet us amid those disappointments. How has this played out in your life?
8. Ultimately, Andrew chooses to remain in 1563 with Cecily, and Charles stays in 1883 with Evelyn. Were you happy with their choices? Would you have chosen differently?
Acknowledgments
I am blown away that this is my sixth novel in the Timeless series! What began as a seed of an idea for books one through three has grown into a complex world of time-crossers, with more on the way. I’m thankful for my acquisitions editor, Jessica Sharpe, who has been one of the biggest fans of this series. Every time I throw a wild idea at her, she’s quick to encourage me and see where it goes. A special thanks goes out to my editors, Jessica Sharpe and Bethany Lenderink, as well as my amazing marketing team of Rachael Betz, Raela Schoenherr, Joyce Perez, Emily Vest, and Lindsay Schubert. Thank you for partnering with me to share my books with the world. I also want to give a special thank you to my cover designer, Jennifer Parker, who outdoes herself with each new cover. Wow. The entire team at Bethany House inspires me to dig deeper and dream bigger.
Thank you also goes out to my agent, Wendy Lawton, and the whole team at Books & Such Literary Agency. I also want to thank my mastermind group, Fellowship of the Pen, and my writing friends, both near and far, who encourage me, equip me, and cheer me on with each new book.
And finally, I want to thank my family. I couldn’t write without their love and support. The very first time I spoke to my husband on the phone when we were sixteen, I told him I was going to be an author. From that day until now, he has believed in my dream without wavering. Every hero I create has a piece of Dave’s heart, character, or personality. When I started to write for publication, my children were 7, 5, 2, and 2. Now, they are 21, 19, 15, and 15. It has been difficult to balance being a full-time mom and author, but my children are my biggest cheerleaders and love the adventures my books take us on around the world. My daughters, Ellis and Maryn, are now adults and are often my brainstorming partners, first readers, and founts of inspiration. My twin boys, Judah and Asher, can’t remember a time when I wasn’t writing books, but with each new release, they are just as proud as if it was my first. Thank you, Meyer clan, for being the most incredible humans on this planet. I love you to the moon and back.
I always reserve my final thank you for my Heavenly Father, the Author and Perfecter of my faith. Before one word of the Timeless series was written, God was preparing my heart for the stories I would tell. I’m honored, humbled, and blessed to write for His glory.
Keep reading for a sneak peek of the next book in the Timeless series
Available summer 2026
1
SAN FRANCISCO
AUGUST 29, 1849
If I didn’t get help soon, my father would die.
“Can someone help me?” I held him upright in the small rowboat that had taken us from the Eugenia to shore. “My father is not well.”
Hundreds of men moved along the shores of San Francisco. Every conceivable race of humanity pushed and shoved as cargo was unloaded from the incoming ships and dozens of men scrambled from the boats to descend upon the city. Countless vessels sat in the harbor, abandoned and forgotten as their crews made their way to the goldfields in the Sierra Nevada foothills, a hundred or more miles to the east. Their masts reached toward the cloudless sky as their anchors dug into the muddy bottom of San Francisco Bay.
“Please,” I said as my father’s limp body weighed heavy against me. “Anyone.”
“Our daddy is sick.” Hazel’s small voice was lost in the din of confusion.
“Looksee here,” a man in a blue flannel shirt said as he stopped on the dock nearest our boat. “It’s a sunbonnet and a child!”
All the other men who had come with us from the Isthmus of Panama on the Eugenia had been so excited to get to California, they hadn’t stopped to ask if we needed help. They’d recently been in the East with their wives and children. But these men on the dock, clearly starved for the sight of a woman and child, were suddenly eager to assist.
“Do you need a hand up?” the first man asked me.
“Yes, please. Our father took ill with malaria in Panama City,” I explained. “He hasn’t been well since.”
It was an understatement. Father had been near death for six weeks. His illness had prevented us from taking the first ship that had come to Panama City after our arrival, and it had been another four weeks before the next one was available. Thousands of people had been waiting in Panama City because so many of the ships that sailed into San Francisco were abandoned by their crew and only a few made the return trip. The space was so limited, the ship had three times the number of passengers it should have carried, and we had spent ten times the reasonable amount for passage.
Which meant we were late to California and had no money left.
Several men stepped into the rowboat and lifted Father out as Hazel moved close to me. At the age of six, my half sister was far braver than I felt. She’d weathered the voyage from Boston to Colon, the city on the northern shores of the Isthmus, and then laughed and sang her way through the eighteen-day trek by boat and pack mules to Panama City. Not once had she complained or whined.
Even now, she stared at the teeming mass of men with a look of awe but not concern. I hoped it was because she believed I would take care of her, but I was having my own doubts.
Thankfully, she was too young and naïve to understand our dire circumstances.
Another miner in a red flannel shirt offered his hand to me, and I stepped out of the rowboat with Hazel not far behind.
The sun scorched my neck as the brim of my bonnet shaded my eyes. From the dock, I had a better vantage point of San Francisco.
It looked nothing like the city I knew in 1929.
“This old man can’t be your husband,” one of the miners said to me as he motioned to my unconscious father.
“He’s our father.”
“You’ll be looking for a man, then.” He took off his stained bowler hat, revealing a tan line on his forehead and greasy, thin hair. “I’d have need of you, miss. We can go to the parson right now.”
I stared at him as my father was manhandled onto the dock. Not knowing what to say, I simply stepped around him and went to Father’s side. Though he was unconscious, sweat beaded on his ashen brow.
“Can someone tell me where I might find a room to rent?” I asked the men who were congregating around us. “Preferably close, since my father is unable to walk. And I’ll need a doctor.”
Even as I said the words, I had no idea how I would pay for anything. We didn’t have a single penny to our name.
Hazel slipped her hand into mine as the men crowded closer. Some touched her golden braids or patted her head.
“Please,” I said as I moved her away from one man who was far too familiar. “We need a place to stay. Preferably fifty cents a night. Could someone point us in the right direction?”
“You won’t find anything for less than ten dollars a night,” a rough-looking man with a British accent said as he stepped forward. He had a strange gait, and ragged scars wrapped around his neck and into his jaw.
The other men parted, either in respect, awe, or fear of the menacing man.
“Bess will put you up.” He nodded to the men who were holding my father by the arms and legs. “Take the old man to Bess’s Place.”
Unease slithered up my spine as the men began to haul Father away without waiting for my response. No one seemed to question the newcomer.
“Wait.” I took a step forward and called out to the others to stop. “Is Bess’s Place respectable?”
A chorus of laughter erupted as Hazel pressed closer to me. I knew what I was getting into when I talked Father into leaving Massachusetts, but I hadn’t realized it would take us this long or that we’d lose all our money getting here. We needed to travel to the Yuba River by the end of September to be primed for the next big gold strike. It was the only chance Father had to restore his finances, though he had adamantly refused to look for gold. He thought we were coming to start a school.
I had other plans.
But the end of September was only a month away. If he didn’t get better soon, or I didn’t find a job in San Francisco to pay for the hundred-and-forty-mile trip by ferry and then pack mules, I would have put Father and Hazel at risk for nothing.
“It’s as respectable as they come in this city,” the British man said. “Tell Bess that English Jim sent you. She’ll treat you right.”
“Or else,” another man said under his breath.
English Jim either didn’t hear or ignored the man as he nodded for the others to continue carrying Father.
“Do you have luggage, miss?” an older miner asked. “I’d be happy to carry it for you.”
I pointed to the trunks and bags we’d brought with us, trying to keep one eye on Father as I held Hazel’s small hand.
“Go on,” the man said in a kind voice. “We know where Bess’s Place is. We’ll be right behind you. I’ll make sure your things get to you without being mussed.”
I had little choice but to trust him.
The sound of hammers, saws, and shouts echoed across the dock as Hazel and I followed the men carrying Father. Hundreds of canvas buildings climbed the hills of the city, with several in the middle of construction. There were a few brick and adobe buildings sprinkled throughout, but the majority were hastily built of boards and canvas. Shelters made of sticks and clothing dotted the landscape, but very few trees softened the scene. To the right was a tall, rugged hill, different than the others.
“That’s Telegraph Hill,” said a man near my elbow. His stench suggested he hadn’t bathed in months. “You’ll find Bess’s Place at the base of it.”
Thankfully we didn’t have far to go.
Father’s head lolled back, and I prayed that the movement wouldn’t be the end of him. He had started to recover from the malaria when we boarded the ship in Panama City, but the close, dank quarters of the Eugenia had brought on another bout of sickness. He’d been feverish and delirious for the past two weeks and had passed out when they lowered him into the rowboat earlier.
If he died, I wasn’t sure what I would do. I didn’t plan to stay in 1849 on my twenty-fifth birthday on November 3rd. That’s why I needed Father to get well and get him to the gold strike near Nevada City. I knew about the gold discovery from my life in 1929, and though I couldn’t change history and have Father be the first to find the gold, I could have him there, before thousands of other miners descended on the Yuba River.
If Father died or was penniless, who would look after my little sister? I couldn’t leave her to fend for herself as an orphan—but I didn’t want to forfeit my life in 1929, either. As a time-crosser, I would have to give up one life on my birthday. I had no other choice.
The closer we came to the start of the dock, the more crowded it became with men of every shape, size, and color. Foreign languages mingled with unfamiliar English accents, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t see a woman among them.
Hazel and I followed the men along a level, dusty street that ran parallel to the shoreline. Signs on canvas buildings promoted everything from gambling halls and saloons to restaurants, banks, laundry services, real estate brokers, and general stores. We passed several hotels and boarding houses, but No Vacancy signs hung on the doors.
The closer we came to Telegraph Hill, the rowdier and louder the crowd became. Here, there wasn’t as much diversity in appearances. Most of the men looked like they were of Western European descent. Their accents were English or Scottish or Irish.
And there were women, standing on porches, lounging at the end of alleys, and sitting in upper-floor windows—all of them scantily dressed.
“Welcome to Sydney Town,” a man said as he followed us and spit into the dusty street. “Best watch your back, miss. This is the meanest piece of God’s green earth.”
Sydney Town?
My pulse began to race as I realized where they’d taken us.
The most notorious and dangerous place in the burgeoning city.
Perhaps in the world.
The men pushed open the door into Bess’s Place before I could stop them. A hand-painted sign at the front of the building said Hotel and Restaurant, but I wasn’t convinced that was all I would find.
“Please,” I said as I pushed my way through the group to get to the front, my hand clasping Hazel’s in a death grip. “Is there nowhere else we can—?”
“What’s going on?” A young woman entered the front room of the building, wiping her hands on an apron. Her British accent was just as strong as the others.
The room was full of a dozen roughhewn tables, surrounded by three-legged stools.
“We got us some newcomers, Bess,” a man said. “English Jim sent them your way.”
I scanned the wood floor of the flimsy canvas building, looking for a trapdoor. A movie I’d seen in 1928 had been about Sydney Town and the gang known as the Sydney Ducks. They were hardened criminals who had escaped from the British penal colonies of Australia. The story was about one of the more infamous gang leaders among them, Sam Kendal. It was rumored that the Ducks had trapdoors in the floors of their buildings to capture unsuspecting customers. The men would be sold to the ship captains to be pressed into service, and the women—I didn’t even want to think about what they did with the women they took captive. The movie had been violent and garish, highlighting the atrocities of the vicious gang that had wreaked havoc on San Francisco until a vigilante committee broke them up in 1851.
That was two years from now.
I lifted Hazel into my arms, holding her tight. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d held her on my hip, but I did now. Had they brought us here to abduct us?
Bess looked me over without emotion. I wore a simple cream-and-brown-checkered cotton dress with a brown bonnet. It wasn’t fancy or expensive, but serviceable and proper. She was young—perhaps in her early to mid-twenties—but she looked hardened by life, and her clothes were worn and simple. She was still pretty, but her eyes lacked sparkle, and her skin lacked luster.
“The lady and her father need a place to stay,” one of the men said to Bess, a bit of awe in his face. “And the little one. English Jim thought you could put them up.”
Bess sighed. “Of course he did.” She lifted her chin at me. “You have money to pay?”
My mouth slipped open to say no, but I couldn’t bring myself to speak, so I shook my head.
She pressed her lips together in disapproval. “What about your father? What ails him?”
“Malaria,” I finally said, choking on my voice, anxious to get out of there. “We can go someplace else. Just point us in the right direc—”
“There’s nowhere else that will take you without money.” Bess nodded at the men who held Father. “I don’t have any empty beds. You’ll have to put him on the floor upstairs.”
“We can’t stay—” I stepped forward.
“You don’t have much choice.” Bess looked me up and down as the door to the back room opened and a little boy walked in. He stepped next to Bess, and she put her hand on his shoulder without taking her eyes off me. “What’s your name?”
I swallowed as dozens of eyes stared at me. All the men who came from the dock had filed into the room, and there were many others who had been sitting at the tables when we walked in.
“Ally Adams,” I said, trying not to sound panicked as some of the men disappeared up the stairs with Father.
“And where are you from, Miss Adams?”
“Concord, Massachusetts.” I stepped closer to her. “Please. We can leave. I don’t want to be an imposition.”
“It’s too late for that. You and the girl look like you’re about ready to collapse. I can feed you and give you space for the night, but you’ll need to work it off.”
My throat tightened as I stared at her. What kind of work did she have in mind?
“I could use some help in the kitchen,” she said, lifting an eyebrow, as if she had read my thoughts.
I had been a teacher in Massachusetts in Father’s school. My stepmother, Hazel’s mother, had seen to all the domestic work before she passed away. In 1929, my family owned a movie studio, and I had been acting since I was a child. I didn’t have any experience in a kitchen and wouldn’t even know how to help. But I couldn’t tell Bess, because I had no other choice.
“The rest of you can get out,” Bess said to the men, “unless you’re here to eat.”
“Come on, Bess,” said a man at the back of the group. “Miss Adams is the prettiest thing I’ve laid my eyes on in months. I’ll pay you just to look at her.”
“I don’t run that kind of business,” Bess said. “If you’re looking for that, go on down to the Boar’s Head or the Jolly Waterman.”
There was a chorus of protests until a large man stepped out of the corner of the room and they quieted. He was broad and bulky, and the scars on his hands and face suggested that he had seen his fair share of brawls, though his eyes lacked a depth of understanding or recognition.
“Paddy will see that you men stay in line,” Bess said to the crowd, and then she motioned to me. “Come into the kitchen.”
I followed her and the little boy into a back room, still holding Hazel. The kitchen was small and warm, with a cookstove, a work table, and various kitchen utensils. A cupboard sat against one wall, and hooks hung from the ceiling with pots and pans dangling overhead. Barrels of salt pork, flour, and sugar sat alongside bags of beans, coffee, and oats. Jars of pickled cucumbers and honey sat on a shelf with various spices. There were no windows in the room, but the thin canvas walls offered enough light.
