Waiting Out the Storm

by Ruth Logan Herne

“He what?” Rita cast a quizzical glance up the stairs.

  “Never mind.” Laughing, Sarah hurried the rest of the way. “I’ll explain in the car.”

  “Amazing.” Rita pressed her point as they headed home following the evening service. “How they used the Good Shepherd story right after that farmer brought you the sheep.”

  “Saint John used sheep and lamb analogies often,” observed Sarah. “It’s not that unusual.”

  “But laying down your life for your sheep,” Rita continued. “Sarah, that was almost you.”

  “Almost being the operative word.” Sarah kept her tone light with effort. She, too, had been touched by the focus of the prayer service. “It was nice to have Rev. Weilers there with Pastor Zigarowicz.”

  “Doing it together brings a nice crowd,” Rita noted. “Craig was there.”

  “Oh?”

  “In the back. On the other side.”

  “I didn’t see him.”

  “He made sure you didn’t.” Rita turned, facing her sister-in-law. “He ducked out as the pastors offered the blessing.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah. Oh.” Rita sent her a look she only half caught as she concentrated on driving. “Most guys would have given up by now, Sarah.”

  “He’s a slow learner.”

  “Or especially vested.” Rita gave her arm a little poke. “Name me two things wrong with the guy.”

  “He’s cocky and hates Slocums in general.”

  “I’d say self-assured and handles certain Slocums with an understandable air of diffidence,” Rita corrected her. “Others he finds singularly attractive.”

  “A new turn of events,” Sarah retorted, her newfound peace evaporating. “Reet, look at me. My face is a mess. A train wreck, minimal. I have no idea what the outcome of all this will be, but I know one thing. Craig Macklin likes beauty. It’s in everything he does. His home, his family, the sweep of his yard, his old girlfriends. He’s a man who appreciates God-given splendor and I’m fresh out. Not like I had all that much to begin with,” she finished with a self-deprecating scowl.

  “You’re nuts,” Rita shot back. “Yeah, you’ve hit a rough road right now, but you’re beautiful, Sarah. A man looks at you and sees the forces of nature come together, that’s how lovely you are. Don’t you see that?”

  “I see a woman of mixed blood who never truly belonged in the realm of man, but does well in a field of sheep,” Sarah replied.

  Rita smiled. “Marriage to a sheep will never be sanctioned in the church.”

  “Not everyone is meant for marriage,” Sarah told her. “I’m content with my home. My family. Some of them, at least.” She offered Rita a little smile. “I want to be grateful for what I have, Reet. Not hunger for what’s out of my reach.”

  “But what if it’s not out of reach?” Rita pressed. She faced Sarah more fully. “What if your stubbornness blocks you from discerning God’s plan?”

  Sarah remembered the morning’s reflection in the upstairs mirror. “I’m hideous, Rita.”

  “Sarah—”

  “What’s this?” Turning into the driveway, Sarah noted Brett, Liv and Skeeter at the barn entrance. “Is everything okay?” she called. She shoved Rita’s car into park and pushed open her door, then hurried to the waiting children.

  “More sheep, Aunt Sarah,” crowed Skeeter, rubbing her fingers through the wool of the ewe behind her. “People dropped them off while you were gone.”

  “God love them,” breathed Rita, reaching in to stroke the new arrivals. “How many?”

  “Six more,” said Brett. “I isolated the others so we won’t spread anything. What do you think, Aunt Sarah? Pretty nice?”

  “Very nice,” she confirmed, stepping into the confined area where Brett had the new arrivals. “And you did just the right thing, Brett. Who brought them?”

  Brett named three local farmers and their wives. “They were sorry to miss you,” he told her sincerely. “They all wished you well tomorrow.”

  Tomorrow. Somehow these people knew her surgery loomed and were doing their best to raise her spirits. Strengthen her.

  You shouldn’t go into surgery all riled up like this. Craig’s voice came back to haunt her.

  Had he done this? Arranged this? Even just encouraged it, hoping for her peace of mind before surgery?

  Her heart spun at the thought. Could he have pulled this off, then sat there in church, praying for her?

  Oh, yeah. He was plenty capable of it, that’s for sure. But, why? Why on earth would he bother?

  Only one answer came to mind and it wasn’t one she found easy to believe, but she went to bed that night hoping and praying the facial surgeon could work magic. Despite her words in the car, Sarah wanted to emerge from her surgical chrysalis a butterfly, strong and lovely.

  She’d had more than enough of being the worm.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “More coffee?” Craig asked, nodding to Rita’s foam cup the next morning.

  She jerked, glanced at the cup as though just aware of it, then brought her gaze to his. “I didn’t drink this one.” Rueful, she rose and dumped the cold contents into the waiting room sink, then trashed the cup. “I’m a tea drinker, actually. How long has it been?”

  “Nearly an hour.”

  “The surgeon said it wouldn’t take long,” Rita reminded him. “Fairly simple. Those were her words.”

  “Better she takes her time,” Craig consoled. “Gets it right. Sarah’s pretty sensitive about the whole thing.”

  “You got that right.” Rita’s tone left no room for dispute. Concerned, she eyed the arch separating the surgical unit. “I hope this works. Sarah’s never been assured about her looks. To have this happen…” Her voice faded. She clasped her hands, fingers straining.

  Craig eyed her, surprised. “Sarah’s one of the most self-assured women I’ve ever met.”

  “It seems like that, doesn’t it?” Rita noted. “And she is, in many ways. She relies on her faith to see her through. But her looks? Her appearance?” Rita shook her head, her expression grave. “She’s always had a rough self-image. She just hides it well.”

  “But she’s beautiful.” Craig’s assertion left no room for discussion. He pictured Sarah’s face, the warmth of her features. The perfect blend of cultures that gave her honeyed skin, soulful eyes, the black wave of hair that reached mid-back in a braid. How often had he wondered what it would be like to run his hands through that hair. “How could she not know how lovely she is?”

  Rita snorted, disgusted. “You can’t figure it out?”

  Marc’s words came back to him. His hands clenched, imagining what Sarah’s life had been like with Tom Jr. and Ed. The years without her mother’s protection. Sarah may not have been physically harmed by her older half siblings, but emotional abuse? Mental anguish? The probability became crystal clear. Tom and Ed were clever enough to cause long-term suffering. His grandparents were living proof of that. Why hadn’t he realized the seriousness of their effect on Sarah?

  Sarah’d run as far as she could. You couldn’t get much farther than New Zealand. She’d come back mature, ready to forge a life of her own, but ended up in the North Country because Rita needed her. The kids needed her.

  And now he needed her.

  Craig clenched his jaw. No wonder she erected instant battlements after the accident. If she’d been uncertain of her attractiveness before, the current reflection must seem horrific. He shook his head. “I had no idea,” he confessed to Rita. She frowned, puzzled. “Her thoughts. Her fears. I mean, I see banged-up victims all the time.”

  “Comparing Sarah to one of your four-footed friends might not get you far,” Rita cautioned, smiling.

  Craig smiled back. “Good point. No, I mean the disfigurement. I see it from a doctor’s viewpoint, another thing to fix.” He lifted his shoulders, nonchalant. “No big deal. We observe, assess and delegate.” He shook his head, his fingers clasped. “I never thought of it from Sarah’s mind-set.”


  “Sarah keeps her emotions private.”

  “But I should have realized,” Craig argued, standing. He paced the room. “I looked at the physical and ignored the psychological.”

  “Oh, your little sheep campaign was a positive touch,” Rita offered with a smile. “Sheep campaign?”

  “The farmers who came last night, donating sheep. Eight, in all. All pregnant ewes. To help Sarah rebuild her flock. You encouraged them, right?”

  Craig shook his head. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I didn’t—” With a start, he stopped mid-sentence. “I was ordering new rotational fencing for her at Tractor Supply,” he recalled out loud. “One of the farmers asked how many sheep were lost and I told them.” He frowned, remembering. “Floyd Shackles was saying what a shame it was, that she was such a good example and all. I agreed. Mentioned her upcoming surgery. Then they loaded the fencing and I brought it home. Figured I’d install the fence today, while she’s here. The farmers must have worked it out amongst themselves.” He shot Rita a half smile. “They admire her.”

  “Me, too,” Rita agreed. “She stood by me all along. Who knows where I’d be now, where my kids would be, if it weren’t for Sarah White Fawn.”

  “White Fawn?”

  “Her middle name,” Rita explained. “Peg wanted both heritages reflected in her name. As the story goes, Old Tom was too drunk to care, so Sarah was christened Sarah White Fawn Slocum. Since Sarah means ‘Princess’, it translates to ‘Princess White Fawn.’”

  “That’s beautiful.”

  “And it suits. But her mother taught her that names change with life stages. You can grow out of one name and into another. Her hope was for Sarah to grow into her grandmother’s name. Wise Woman.”

  “I’d say she got her wish.”

  “Me, too. But our little Wise Woman got knocked for a loop in that storm. Lately she’s been more like Wise-mouth Woman. Snippy.”

  Craig didn’t argue that point. Inspired by their conversation, he withdrew his cell phone. “I’ve got to make a quick call. Grab me if you hear anything.”

  Rita nodded. “I promise.”

  Outside, Craig dialed Brooks’ wood shop. The woodman answered on the third ring. “Woodcrafter.”

  “Brooks?”

  “That you, Doc?”

  “Yeah. I’ve got two things to get straight with you. It’s a definite yes on the Adirondack bed. The log one. King-sized. Let’s go with a medium-toned stain. Not too dark, but not too light, either.”

  “Fruitwood might be nice,” Brooks offered, his voice mulling. “Or a honey tone. Maybe pecan.”

  “Can you do up a sample?”

  “I’ll have it ready this afternoon,” Brooks promised. “If you’re ready, you can pick out dressers to match and I’ll blend enough stain for everything.”

  “Good.”

  “And the second thing?” Brooks’ voice held a note of interest.

  “I need Hy Everts to carve me a deer. A fawn. A white fawn. Maybe even a doe and fawn together.” Hy’s intricate carvings were marketed online and through Brooks’ store. His work was well respected. A widower, the older man gave glory to God and nature by re-creating it in various types of wood.

  “A white fawn, you say?” Brooks’ voice went thoughtful. “Like the ones on that old army base?” The Seneca Army depot had become home to a full herd of rare white deer. Because of the base’s fenced-in structure, the recessive gene reproduced itself in unusually large numbers. What was rare in the wild became commonplace there, drawing tourists in hopes of photo ops. “Exactly.”

  “You need it quick?”

  “Naw.” Craig knew better than to rush an artisan. “Tell him to take his time. Any pose he wants.”

  “I’m on it,” Brooks replied, the pencil scratch audible. “Anything else?”

  “No. I’ll stop by this afternoon and check out those color samples.”

  “How’s our shepherd doing? Still in surgery?”

  Craig hadn’t mentioned where he was, but not much got by Brooks. “Yes. No news yet.”

  “I’m praying for her.”

  In all Craig’s years he’d never seen Brooks Harriman enter a church, yet a more spiritual man he’d never met. “Thanks, Brooks. That means a lot. I better get back upstairs.”

  “You do that. I’ll catch you later.”

  Disconnecting the call, Craig mulled Brooks’ words.

  Obviously the woodcrafter had a pretty good handle on Craig’s personal life. Hadn’t he cautioned Craig about the differences between hardwood and veneer?

  And here Craig was, wanting hardwood all the way. Go figure.

  The scent of flowers stirred Sarah’s senses. She glimpsed her mother running, laughing as she gathered wildflowers. “We’ll dry them with baby’s breath,” she called over her shoulder. “Make pretty bouquets for winter.”

  “Like in Sarah, Plain and Tall?” little Sarah asked, chasing her mother’s flowing skirt.

  “Exactly like that.” Turning, the older woman caught Sarah in a hug, spinning her through the meadow. “Only there is nothing plain about this Sarah. She’s beauty, through and through.”

  “Really?”

  “Really, truly. I would never lie to you, Sarah White Fawn. A mother always tells the truth.”

  “Hey. You’re waking up. How we doing, Princess?”

  “I smell flowers.” Confused, Sarah scanned the room, searching. “Is Mama here?”

  Craig leaned down. “Afraid not, honey. Just Rita and me. And flowers. You must have been dreaming.”

  His voice sent warmth cruising through her. The tenderness in his tone was not unlike her mother’s, but his eyes reflected a different kind of caring. She swallowed hard, then brought a hand to her cheek. “How did it go?”

  “Very well.” The surgeon moved into Sarah’s viewing range and beamed. “There’ll be some understandable swelling and bruising, but there was no apparent nerve damage or serious fragmentation. We’re clear. You may—” she pointed out, nodding to Sarah’s face “—experience some numbness from swollen tissues pressing on the nerve, but that should dissipate as the healing progresses.”

  Sarah hated to ask this question with Craig around, but she needed to know. “How will I look when it’s done?” She felt Craig’s eyes on her, but kept her attention turned to the doctor.

  “Beautiful,” he interjected.

  Sarah ignored him. The doctor’s lips twitched in sympathy. “He’s right. I anticipate no lasting damage. You should heal well and we’ve hidden the surgical scars. You can feel some stitches inside your mouth.” Watching Sarah probe her cheek with her tongue, the doctor nodded. “The other cuts are at the hairline of the temple and the lower edge of your eyebrow. They shouldn’t be discernible once healed.”

  Craig pressed a kiss to her forehead. His tenderness coupled with the doctor’s assurance had hot tears stinging her eyes. “You’re sure?”

  The surgeon didn’t waver. “It’s my job, Sarah. I do it well. I’ll stop by later to check on you.”

  “Thank you.” Sarah clasped the doctor’s hand. “Thank you so much.”

  “You’re welcome.” Nodding to Rita and Craig, the doctor left, her footsteps firm against the speckled tile floors.

  “I want a mirror.”

  “Remember what the doctor said,” Rita warned. “Bruising and swelling are normal. There’s a six-week recovery from this.”

  “That bad, huh?” Seeing Rita’s discomfort, Sarah shifted her eyes to Craig. “I’m hideous.”

  “Nope.”

  “Freak of nature.”

  “Sarah—”

  “Circus material.”

  “Stop it.” His voice showed little patience with this line of thought. “Surgery leaves reminders. That’s normal. At least you’re not a dog. She didn’t have to shave your face, denude your jowls.”

  “Your bedside manner could use practice.”

  The look on his face said he agreed. She ignored it, thrusti
ng out a hand. With a flick of her wrist, she opened the hinged personal compartment on her service tray. The mirror sprang into view. Her color drained at the first look.

  Craig reached to flip it down. Her hand impeded his. “Don’t.”

  The reflection was no better than when she’d checked in hours before. Worse, actually. She had no idea where the lump of bitter disappointment sprang from. She’d known what to expect, the healing entailed post-surgery, but somehow, she’d prepared herself for some kind of improvement. Some vestige of repair.

  Hadn’t happened. Biting her lip, she flipped the tray top down with a thump and slid beneath the covers. “Please go.”

  “Sarah.” Craig leaned forward, his hand stroking her forehead. “Give it time. Please.”

  “Just go.” Her voice wavered, precarious.

  Rita touched his arm. Her look of sympathy was accompanied by a nod to the door. He understood and agreed, but didn’t like it. Still, upsetting Sarah with his presence wasn’t the best idea. He straightened. “I should get to work. I’ll see you soon.”

  “No.”

  He drew a breath, ready to argue, then stopped, common sense pushing him to walk away, allow her time.

  How could he? She needed him, despite what she thought. No way could he turn his back on her now. She needed his comfort, his reassurance.

  Craig’s stomach churned. The look of anguish marring Sarah’s bandaged features urged him to soothe. How could he reject that silent summons?

  “For the Lord comforts his people and will have compassion on his afflicted ones.” The words from Isaiah pressed upon his heart. He needed to trust in God’s strength, His love for Sarah a constant, ever-present.

  To leave Sarah broken and bandaged, hurt and hostile, went against his grain. He was a doctor, trained to heal. He’d spent no small number of sleepless nights treating sick and injured pets and livestock. How could a man dedicated to saving all creatures, great and small, turn from the woman who’d won his heart?

  Craig swallowed hard.

  Maybe this was a hurdle he couldn’t scale with Sarah, much as he’d like to. Maybe it was a battle she had to forge alone. Not alone, he corrected himself. God was with her, holding her. Cherishing her, even after Craig had yelled at Him in indignation. He stepped back and nodded. “All right, then. When you’re feeling better, let me know. Or come visit. You know where I live. Well.” He gave Sarah a rueful nod. “Almost live.”