by Amanda Cabot
“Thank you.” As Mark extended his hand to shake the doctor’s, Aaron skittered to a stop next to him.
The doctor gave Mark’s hand a brief shake, then fixed another quizzical look on him. “You remind me of someone. Been nagging at me since you stormed into the office.” He stared at Mark’s face, as if memorizing his features. “Problem is, can’t remember who.”
6
“You’ll be all right, sweetie,” Celia said as she wrung out the cloth and placed the cold compress on her daughter’s head. She’d repeated the action dozens of times since the doctor had left. Each time she removed the compress, Celia felt Emma’s head, and each time she frowned, for there appeared to be no change. This time was different. It might be nothing more than her imagination, but it seemed as if Emma was a bit cooler. Celia shivered. Although her daughter might be burning with fever, she was so cold that her teeth chattered. Fear did that to a person. She’d been shivering ever since she’d realized that her precious child was ill.
“The doctor says this helps,” she crooned as Emma protested having her forehead covered with a cold cloth. He’d also said that it would take awhile, and he’d been right, for it was the middle of the night and the fever had yet to subside. Celia watched as her daughter tried to brush the compress away. Perhaps it wasn’t her imagination that Emma was cooler, for this was the first time she’d done more than lie there, her passivity a symptom that all was not well. Perhaps the fever was breaking, and they’d both be able to sleep.
Celia removed the cloth from Emma’s head, placing her hand on her daughter’s temples. It wasn’t her imagination. The fever was gone. “Thank you, Lord.” She sank to her knees and bowed her head. “Thank you for healing Emma and for sending Mark.”
Mark had been a gift. While she had been practically paralyzed with fear, his presence had comforted her as much as—perhaps even more than—the doctor’s diagnosis. When he had stood next to her, his arm wrapped around her shoulders, Celia had felt as if they were a family: she, Mark, and Emma. Mark had shared the burden of her fears, and for those moments when only a heartbeat had separated them, she had not been alone. She knew it wouldn’t happen again, and yet it had felt so good that Celia wished there were some way to capture those feelings, saving them for the years that stretched out in front of her.
Mark smiled as he carved another lily onto the blanket chest. It seemed like a small miracle, but dropping his tools onto the lid hadn’t destroyed it. When he’d returned to the workshop after Celia had taken Emma to her room, he’d inspected the damage, expecting to have to replace the entire top. Instead, he’d discovered that the chisel had dug into the lid at one of the spots he had planned to remove to create a lily. He wouldn’t have to make another top, and he wouldn’t be behind schedule with his Christmas orders. Though that was good news, it couldn’t compare to the knowledge that Emma’s fever had broken.
Celia had delivered that news at breakfast, and Mark knew he’d grinned like a fool, filled with relief. Emma would be fine, and so would her mother. Though her eyes were rimmed with dark circles, testament to the sleepless night, Celia’s smile had been brilliant, and Emma had cooed as if she hadn’t frightened both her mother and Mark the previous day. Children were far more resilient than adults.
He positioned the gouge, carefully removing the top layers of wood as he began to carve another leaf. Though he couldn’t forget his fear, sweeter memories warmed his heart as he worked on Mrs. Pearson’s Christmas gift. It had felt unbelievably good to wrap his arm around Celia’s shoulders and draw her close to him.
It wasn’t his first time to hold a woman, but it had never felt like that. In the past his thoughts had been of what he could take—a touch, a kiss or two. Yesterday had been different. For the first time, he had sought only to give. He had wanted nothing more than to comfort Celia, to provide the strength she so desperately needed. Surprisingly, when she left the shelter of his arms, Mark realized he’d received far more than he’d given. For, while she’d rested her head against his heart, he had felt as if they belonged together. It was impossible, of course. He knew that, and yet it had felt so good, so right, that he’d found himself dreaming of a life in Easton, a life with a wife and daughter who looked exactly like Celia and Emma.
“Mr. Williams?”
Mark turned, his momentary euphoria shattered by the sound of the physician’s voice. Doc Rudinski didn’t strike him as a man who was looking for carpentry services, and if his solemn expression was any indication, this was not a social call. That meant . . . Mark’s heart lurched as he asked, “Is Emma all right?”
To Mark’s relief, the physician nodded. “Just saw her. Fever’s gone.” He looked around the room, his eyes darting from one corner to the next. When most people visited the workshop, their attention was drawn to Mark’s projects. Doc seemed to be assuring himself that there was no one else in the building. “You’re the reason I came,” he said brusquely. “Couldn’t sleep for thinkin’ about you. Folks told me you’re looking for your pa.” He frowned, as if blaming Mark for his insomnia. “Knew you reminded me of someone. Finally remembered the hermit. Same eyes and nose.” The doctor studied Mark’s face for a moment. “Yep. You look like the old hermit.”
Mark’s breath escaped in a whoosh. He’d known that Doc had been treating a hermit somewhere in the woods the day he had arrived in Easton, the day Emma had been so ill with croup, but Mark had given the recluse no further thought. It seemed he should have.
“My father? You think he could be my father?” Mark took a deep breath, trying to settle his nerves. Though he had had dozens of leads, this was the first time in more than two years that anyone had seen a resemblance. In the past, Mark had been so far behind his father that all anyone remembered was his name and the fact that he was a tall man with gray hair. When Mark had shown them the wedding portrait, most people had shrugged. “Mebbe, mebbe not” was the typical reply. This was different. Doc hadn’t seen the picture.
Mark inhaled sawdust and varnish and listened to the sound of his own heartbeat while he waited for the response.
“Could be.” Nodding once again, the doctor pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and extended it to Mark. “Made a map. Decision’s yours.”
When Doc left, Mark stared at the blanket chest, then laid down his chisel. It would be foolhardy to try to carve when his mind was whirling. It seemed almost incredible that his father might be less than ten miles away and that his search might have ended. In the back of his mind, Mark had known it was unlikely that his father was living in a small mining town, but he had had no other leads, and he couldn’t—he wouldn’t—stop searching until he’d followed every trail, no matter how faint.
On nights when he’d been unable to sleep, he had acknowledged the possibility that he would never find his father, that he might have died or simply disappeared. With those thoughts twisting his gut, sleep was impossible, but when daylight broke, the doubts faded like dew on the tall grasses, and Mark knew that he would continue searching. Someday, somewhere he would find his pa.
Mark sank onto a bench as new fears assailed him. What would he say? He had never been this close to finding his father, and so he had never considered what words to use with the man who’d deserted him and his mother. He closed his eyes, trying to picture the scene. What would happen if he started the conversation by demanding to know why his father had left? Would the man reply, or would he simply turn his back? And if he did respond, would the answer bring Mark peace or would it confirm what he feared, that the man who had fathered him didn’t love him?
Clenching his fists in frustration as the questions mounted, Mark rose and walked to the door. Opening it, he let the cold air in as he stared at the back of the boardinghouse and tried to corral his thoughts. The hermit might be his pa, but then again, he might not. If he wasn’t, what did that mean? He had no other leads. As a knot formed in his stomach, Mark grabbed his jacket. Maybe some coffee would help clear his mind.
; A cup of coffee and Celia. That’s what he needed.
Celia turned, startled by the sound of the back door opening. She might not have heard the muted creaking on a normal day, but today was unusually quiet, for when Celia had put Emma in the bassinet for her midmorning nap, Aaron had plopped himself on the floor next to her and was now fast asleep.
The firm footsteps told Celia that her visitor was Mark, and that was unusual. He rarely came into the house between meals, especially with so many Christmas gifts to make. There was only one reason Celia could imagine for Mark’s presence: he had hurt himself.
“Could I trouble you for a cup of coffee?”
She started to relax. An injured man would not ask for coffee, and yet something was amiss, for Mark’s expression was almost as grim as it had been when he’d felt Emma’s forehead and realized how high her fever was.
“Coffee’s no trouble,” Celia said as she pulled a cup off the shelf. “By now you should know that there’s always a pot on the stove. My mother used to say you could always tell when a Swede was home by sniffing the air. If you smelled coffee, it was fine to come in.” She gave an exaggerated sniff, hoping that Mark would laugh, but he did not. Instead, his eyes remained somber, and furrows deepened between them as he took a seat at the table and reached for the cup.
Perhaps she should wait for him to speak, but patience was not one of Celia’s virtues. “What’s wrong?” she asked.
Mark sipped the dark brew. While he stared at the floor as if counting the bits of sawdust that clung to his boots, Celia’s concerns multiplied faster than weeds in June. She’d rarely seen his expression so solemn. Something was definitely wrong.
“You’re worrying me.” She leaned across the table, trying to close the distance between them. Though she wanted to lay her hand on Mark’s in a gesture of friendship and comfort, she would not, for that would be unseemly. A lady never initiated a touch, and so she waited for Mark to respond.
When he met her gaze, Celia almost shuddered. Never before had she seen Mark’s gray eyes so filled with pain. He swallowed, then laid the cup on the table. “Doc thinks I look like the old hermit living in the woods.”
It took a moment for the significance to register, but when it did, Celia’s heart leapt. “That’s wonderful!”
Mark shook his head, and though she had not thought it possible, the anguish on his face deepened. Surely this was what he wanted, to be reunited with his father. That was why he had come to Easton.
He picked up the cup and drained it before he spoke. When he did, his voice was so low Celia had to strain to hear it. “I’m not sure I want to meet him.”
She took a deep breath, trying to quiet the butterflies that were beating frantically in her stomach. She could understand nervousness but not the dread that colored Mark’s voice. “You’ve been searching for your father for more than two years,” she said as calmly as she could. “Why would you do that if you didn’t want to meet him?”
A soft cry came from the storage room, telling Celia her daughter was stirring. If she wakened, Aaron would too. Please, Lord, let her sleep. Let them both sleep. And show me how to help Mark. For though he might deny it, Mark needed someone to help him make sense of his feelings. Finding his father had been his quest for so long that Celia could not fathom his ambivalence. All she knew was that he could not stop, not now when he was so close to the answers he sought.
When she heard nothing more than Emma’s soft snuffling, Celia knew the first part of her prayer had been answered. She would have a few more minutes without interruptions.
She looked at the man who sat opposite her as she searched for the right words. “It’s important, Mark. You need to find out whether this man is your father.” He gave no sign that he’d heard her. Celia’s lips tightened. There had to be a way to get his attention. Casting aside propriety, she reached across the table and placed her hand on Mark’s. It was surprising how different his hand felt from hers. His was firmer, the skin rougher, and of course it was much larger, larger even than Josef’s had been. “If you don’t go, you’ll always wonder about the hermit. You need to know the truth. Don’t you remember how Jesus said, ‘Ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free’?”
Though she had placed her hand on the back of his, Mark turned his over, pressing his palm to hers as he said, “Perhaps.”
Waves of warmth washed over Celia. It had been so long since a man had held her hand, and it felt so good that for a second she forgot why she was sitting here, her hand in Mark’s. And then she remembered. “I don’t understand why you’re hesitating. I know you’re not afraid.”
Mark’s eyes darkened. “Perhaps I am. The truth is, I’m not sure how I’ll feel if the man is my father.” His voice roughened with something that sounded like anger or perhaps something stronger: hatred.
“Do you hate him?”
Mark threaded his fingers through hers, his expression pensive as he considered Celia’s question. “No,” he said at last, “but I am angry. There are times when I’m so filled with anger that I feel as if I’ll erupt.”
Tightening her grip on his hand, Celia nodded slowly. It was what she had thought. Mark harbored deep anger. The only way he would find peace was to release it. “I can understand that. I’d be hurt and angry if my father had left me.” As a parent, she couldn’t imagine what would have made Mark’s father leave his family. Nothing, absolutely nothing, would tear her away from Emma.
“It’s not just my father,” Mark admitted. “You’ve asked me why I won’t go to church with you. The reason is I’m angry with God.” Mark’s lips twisted with anger. “Why did he let my father leave? If he’s as powerful as everyone claims, he could have stopped my pa. Why didn’t he?”
Celia’s heart thudded at the pain she heard in Mark’s voice. Though his touch had comforted her yesterday, it appeared that hers was not as powerful. Mark needed more. When she had been angry with God, words had not helped her, but perhaps they would help heal Mark. “I asked the same questions when Josef was killed. We both went to church every Sunday. We loved God. We trusted him. So why didn’t God stop the mine cart before it crushed my husband?”
Mark’s eyes darkened. “Why didn’t he? He must have known about Emma and that she would need a father.”
Celia’s heart resumed its normal beat as Mark echoed her thoughts. He understood what she had felt. Perhaps after he heard her answer, his anger would begin to subside. “I asked myself the same question. When I stopped being numb, I railed at God, demanding to know why he’d abandoned me.”
Mark nodded, and she suspected he was thinking of how his earthly father had abandoned him. But God hadn’t abandoned her. She simply hadn’t understood his ways.
“It took me awhile, but I learned that God’s plans aren’t the same as mine. I may never know why Josef was killed, but I’ve learned to trust God’s wisdom.” She looked down at her hand clasped in Mark’s, wishing it were as simple to open his heart as it had been to place her hand on his. “There’s a verse in Romans that says God will make everything work out for our good if we trust him.”
Raised eyebrows signaled his skepticism. “Do you believe that?”
“I do.” Celia had to make him understand what she had learned. It was so very, very important. “I’ve seen the proof. As awful as it was that your father left you, something good came from it. If he hadn’t left, you wouldn’t have come to Easton, and my daughter might not still be alive.”
Mark stared into the distance for a moment. “That’s one way of looking at it. Another is to say it was pure chance that I arrived when I did.” His expression left no doubt which explanation he preferred.
“I don’t believe in chance or coincidence. I believe that was part of God’s plan for me . . .” Celia paused before adding softly, “And for you.”
Shaking his head, Mark turned back to her. “I’m not sure I’ll ever believe that, but it’s a nice story.”
Celia bit back a sigh. “Thi
nk about it. That’s all I ask. Just think about your life and see if you can’t find evidence of God’s hand in it.”
“You sound like Ma. She claimed God loved me, and she was always quoting the Ten Commandments. I guess she forgot the one about bearing false witness.” Mark’s lips curved in a scornful smile. “Why did she lie to me? Why did she tell me Pa was dead when he wasn’t? I spent most of my life wondering why she wouldn’t remarry and give me a father.”
Mark’s voice bristled with anger, but underneath that, Celia heard the pain of a young boy trying to understand why his family wasn’t like others. Somehow she had to ease that pain. She remained silent for a moment, choosing her words. “I’m trying to imagine how I would have felt if I were in your mother’s position,” she said slowly. “I know I would have been angry at first. When Josef died, I wasn’t just angry with God. I was also angry with Josef for leaving me. Doesn’t that sound silly? It wasn’t as if he had a choice, but that didn’t stop me from blaming him and being angry. I imagine your mother felt some of that.” But anger faded; at least Celia’s had. What would Mrs. Williams have felt as the weeks turned into months? Celia took a deep breath, exhaling slowly before she said, “I might have been ashamed that my husband had left me and our child. If that was the case, I wouldn’t have wanted anyone to know the truth. I would have done anything I could to protect my child from the shame of knowing his father abandoned us, and so I would have claimed he was dead.”
Celia watched the play of emotions on Mark’s face. Surprise mingled with resignation. “You could be right.”
There had been two parts to Mark’s question. “Embarrassment would explain the lie. As for not giving you a stepfather, it’s possible your mother had no desire to remarry.”
His eyes widened. “Why not? She could have used help around the farm, and I sure could have used a father.”