Just as I Am

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  BOOKS BY KIM VOGEL SAWYER

  What Once Was Lost

  The Grace That Leads Us Home

  Echoes of Mercy

  JUST AS I AM

  PUBLISHED BY WATERBROOK PRESS

  12265 Oracle Boulevard, Suite 200

  Colorado Springs, Colorado 80921

  All Scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version.

  The characters and events in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual persons or events is coincidental.

  eBook ISBN 978-1-60142-589-8

  Copyright © 2013 by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  Cover design by Kelly L. Howard

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Published in the United States by WaterBrook Multnomah, an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Random House LLC, New York, a Penguin Random House Company.

  WATERBROOK and its deer colophon are registered trademarks of Random House LLC.

  2013

  v3.1

  And the LORD shall help them, and deliver them:

  he shall deliver them …, because they trust in him.

  —Psalm 37:40

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 1

  Brambleville, Kansas

  April 1902

  Oh, her hair! Daisy Forrester slapped the brush onto the scarred top of the bureau and glared at her reflection in the mirror. Why hadn’t she left it alone? All the brushing, intended to tame her flaming-red coils into a sleek, smooth cap, had instead created a wild, fuzzy mess. Turning from the mirror, she dug a faded calico bonnet from the top bureau drawer and jammed it over her head. She flicked a hopeful glance at the mirror. Yes, the bonnet covered her hair.

  But of course it didn’t hide her plain face.

  Closing her eyes, she tied the bonnet strings so tightly they cut into the underside of her chin. But she didn’t care. If she found no pleasure in her own reflection, why would anyone else want to look upon her? The tighter the bonnet, the more of her it would hide. Her morning toilette complete, she trudged to the bed and poked Marion on the shoulder. She might have poked a little harder than was necessary to waken her roommate, but the long locks of spun gold spilling across Marion’s pillow seemed to mock her.

  Marion sat up with a start, her big blue eyes blinking in confusion. Her bleary gaze settled on Daisy. First she squinted, then she formed an O of surprise with her rosy lips, and finally she began to laugh. “What do you have on your head?”

  Daisy fingered the unembellished brim of the gray calico bonnet—the ugliest one from the last “benevolence barrel” sent by ladies from town—and scowled at the younger girl. “Are you so sleepy you don’t recognize a sunbonnet when you see one? It’s time to get up. This is your week to help with breakfast.” Daisy helped with breakfast every week. And with lunch, supper, gardening, sewing, rocking the babies … Whatever task Ma Jonnson needed, Daisy did without a word of complaint.

  Marion flopped back against the pillow and groaned. “I hate kitchen duty. I’d rather work in the barn.” Propping herself up on her elbows, the ten-year-old sent a hopeful look at Daisy. “Do you think my new parents will let me help with the horses and cows instead of making me cook and wash dishes?”

  The innocent question stabbed Daisy. During her nine years at the Dunnigan Orphans’ Asylum, she’d watched dozens of children skip out the door, holding hands with their adoptive parents. But not once had anyone indicated a desire to make her their daughter. Parents only wanted petite, comely children like Marion, not gangly, homely ones like Daisy.

  “I think most people who adopt girls your age want help in the kitchen.”

  Marion’s bright expression faded. Twin tears winked in her eyes.

  Daisy hung her head as guilt smote her. Just because no one wanted her didn’t mean she should be spiteful toward those who were wanted. She sat on the edge of the bed and smoothed Marion’s thick, tangled locks from her cheek. “But didn’t I hear your new father tell you that you’d have a pony at your house? So I’m sure you’ll have time in the barn, too.”

  The tears disappeared, and Marion’s smile returned. “I can’t wait until the end of the month when I get to go to my new house and have my very own pony. It’ll be a girl pony, and I’ll name her Daffodil. I’ll ride her every day, and I’ll feed her carrots or apples, and I’ll braid her mane, and she’ll love me so much she’ll never leave me.” The girl’s tone turned dreamy.

  A shaft of pain pierced Daisy’s middle. No matter what she did, no matter how helpful she was or how cheerful or how good, no one had ever loved her enough to remain in her life. Not her father, who’d left before she was even born, nor her mother, who disappeared after leaving her with her grandparents. Not Grandma and Grandpop, who delivered her to the asylum’s porch and rode away without a backward glance. Not even Ma and Pa Jonnson, who’d told her only last night she’d have to leave the asylum when her sixteenth birthday arrived next month. They’d seemed sorrowful, and she understood why. As the oldest of the orphans residing beneath the asylum’s roof, she carried the greatest responsibility. Of course they’d miss her helping hands. Just as they’d missed Robby’s help with the farm work when he’d left almost a year ago.

  Thoughts of Robby brought a second jolt of reaction, but this one of bittersweet remembrance. Pa Jonnson had branded Robby a rapscallion. During his four years at the asylum, he’d been taken in by families three different times, but they always brought him back, claiming he was incorrigible.

  Rascal or not, Daisy had loved him from the first moment he’d stepped over the asylum threshold and sent a disparaging glance across everything … except her. When he’d seen her, his narrow face had broken into a grin, and he’d tromped right over and given one of her tight curls a light tug. “I like you,” he’d proclaimed. “You an’ me are gonna be friends. I can tell.”

  She let her eyes drift closed, remembering how he’d confided that he acted up just so the folks would bring him back … to her. Oh, how she missed him. He wrote faithfully every month, and she treasured his letters more than anything else she possessed. But sitting there mooning over Robby wouldn’t get breakfast fixed.

  Daisy rose and headed for the door. “Hurry now. Dress and come down. I can stoke the stove and fry the hot cakes on my own, but I’ll need your help setting the table and pouring the milk.”

  “Yes, Daisy.”

  Daisy waited until Marion tossed the covers aside and climbed out of bed before leaving the small room that had been her home for more than half of her life. What would she do next month when she was too old to remain at the asylum? She’d spent most of her sleeping hours lying awake, considering the question, and as she lit a fire in the stove’s belly, mixed a huge batch of nutmeg-laden hot cake batter, and heated lard in preparation for frying crisp cakes, she continued to seek an answer.

  Her pondering was forced aside when the children—currently seventeen orphans in residence, plus Ma and Pa Jonnson’s trio of stairsteps—clattered into the dining room and filled the long benches on both sides of the table. Ma Jonnson joined Daisy in the kitchen, fill
ing platters with steaming hot cakes and carrying them to the dining room. Marion splashed milk into tin cups for everyone while Pa Jonnson circled the table, ascertaining napkins were in place before breakfast began.

  The morning cacophony, thundering yet familiar and somehow joyful, filled Daisy’s ears and raised a wave of confused emotions. This was her home, her surrogate family. Yet it wasn’t a real home or family. How could she fear leaving when she’d never wanted to stay? Her tangled feelings made no sense.

  When everything was on the table, Daisy slid into her spot in the center of the toddler bench so she could help the smaller children. From his chair at the head of the table, Pa Jonnson cleared his throat, and the chatter quieted.

  Daisy bowed her head in readiness for the orphanage leader’s morning prayer.

  “Daisy?”

  Startled, she peered at her surrogate father through the tunnel of the bonnet’s brim.

  He winked. “Would you please remove your hat? Then I’ll pray.”

  A titter made its way around the table. She must look ridiculous wearing a sunbonnet indoors where the only sunshine was two slanted beams filtering through the lace curtains on the window. But she’d look even sillier without it, considering what she’d done—or tried to do—to her hair that morning. Why, oh why couldn’t her bright-colored locks lie smooth and feminine across her head? Wasn’t it enough she was taller than a girl should be, so skinny the boys called her Beanpole when the Jonnsons weren’t close enough to hear, with skin so pale and colorless people always thought she ailed? Couldn’t she at least have lovely flowing hair like every other female from Ma Jonnson down to two-year-old Emily?

  Ma Jonnson prompted, “Quickly now, Daisy. The food is growing cold.”

  Everyone had joined hands. She alone remained unlinked to the chain. Sadness welled up inside of her. Hadn’t she always been unlinked? Pulling in a breath, she yanked the bow loose and slipped the bonnet from her head. At once laughter exploded from the opposite side of the table where the nine six- to eleven-year-olds sat in a row. Two of the oldest boys pointed at her, openly guffawing. Most of the girls covered their mouths to muffle the sound of their merriment, but it still came through, harsh and grating and hurtful.

  Daisy pulled the bonnet back into place and clambered out of her seat as Pa Jonnson smacked his palms together and ordered, “That’s enough!” The children’s laughter changed from raucous blasts to restrained sniggers, and Pa Jonnson delivered a second order for them to behave themselves.

  Unwilling to wait to see if they obeyed, Daisy ran straight through the kitchen and out the back door into the damp morning air. As she ran, the bonnet slipped from her head and bounced on her shoulder blades. She dashed across the dew-kissed grass to the big rock barn, where she finally collapsed in a stall with her arms wrapped around a sturdy upright beam. The hard, smooth length of wood couldn’t take the place of a person’s warm embrace, but at least it offered stability.

  Her throat ached with the desire to cry, but crying accomplished nothing. Hadn’t she learned that truth when Grandma and Grandpop left? She’d wailed for two days until her raw throat couldn’t release even a whimper, but it hadn’t brought them back. So she’d given up the childish release of tears. Now, instead of crying she hugged the beam and clenched her teeth so tightly her temples throbbed. No one came after her, but it didn’t disappoint her. She hadn’t expected anyone to come. The younger children needed attention, and she was capable of taking care of herself.

  Taking care of herself. She sat up, her heart leaping in recognition. The years of being Ma Jonnson’s “best helper,” as the woman had always put it, had taught her housekeeping and cooking and gardening skills. Of course she knew how to take care of herself. She only wanted to stay because the asylum was familiar. But what might be waiting away from the Dunnigan Asylum and little Brambleville, Kansas? She knew what was waiting—or rather, who. Robby. In Sinclair. A flutter of excitement replaced the lump of dread.

  In Robby’s last letter he’d told her all about the factory where he worked as a packager. He’d promised to send her a box of the chocolates manufactured in the Dinsmore’s World-Famous Chocolates Factory for her birthday, but wouldn’t he be surprised if she showed up to receive his gift in person? The thought of seeing her dear friend—her only friend—provided the impetus she needed to leave the orphanage now rather than waiting until her birthday.

  Pulling herself up hand over hand on the beam, she made her plan. There was a mouse-chewed carpetbag in the basement no one would miss. She could send all her wardrobe items down the laundry chute to the washroom—Monday was wash day, so no one would wonder why she was down there—and pack the bag. Then after everyone had gone to bed, she could leave. Marion slept like a log, so she wouldn’t even notice Daisy wasn’t there until morning.

  For a moment guilt tried to wrap its tentacles around her. Ma Jonnson relied on her to get breakfast started while she dressed the littlest ones. Would the youngsters all be crying with hunger before someone realized she wasn’t there to fix their morning meal? She pushed the emotion aside. They needed to get used to making do without her help since she wouldn’t have stayed much longer anyway—not with her birthday waiting around the corner.

  The decision made, she yanked the faded sunbonnet, which dangled along one shoulder, and threw it into the empty stall. She touched her fuzzy mop of hair, remembering how the children had laughed. Then she set her shoulders square and lifted her chin. So what if they laughed? She wouldn’t have to hear their derisive hoots again after today.

  She set off for the house with a determined stride, already looking ahead to her new life in Sinclair.

  Chapter 2

  Daisy peeked into the kitchen through the screen door. Baby Claire sat in the highchair in the corner, chewing on a rag doll’s foot, while toddlers Emily, Ted, and Marvin clacked blocks together on the floor. Ma Jonnson and Marion stood at the dry sink with their backs to Daisy, washing the breakfast dishes. Guilt panged as she gazed upon the scene. Marion should be in the asylum’s classroom with the other children. By neglecting her duties, Daisy had stolen learning time from the younger girl. But, she reminded herself, Marion would soon be with her new family and attending school daily, so one lost classroom morning wouldn’t do much damage.

  The momentary guilt assuaged, she entered the kitchen, letting the screen door slap into its frame behind her. The little ones glanced up, then went on playing, unconcerned, but both Ma Jonnson and Marion turned from the dry sink with a start. Daisy braced herself for a scolding, but when Ma Jonnson set the washrag aside, her face held a grimace of sympathy rather than an angry scowl.

  “Daisy …” Ma Jonnson moved toward Daisy, carrying the scent of lye soap with her. She placed her wet hands on Daisy’s shoulders and pressed her cheek briefly to Daisy’s. “I’m glad you came back. The children are sorry for their behavior this morning, and at lunchtime you can expect them to apologize.” Her gaze flitted to Daisy’s hair, and a small frown pinched her eyebrows. She looked into Daisy’s eyes again. “We’re all so accustomed to the delightful curls framing your face, the change took us by surprise. I feel bad that you suffered hurt feelings.”

  Daisy stepped away from the woman’s kind touch. “It’s all right. They’re only children.”

  “Yes, but they know the rule in our home: treat others as you want to be treated. When they saw how their laughter affected you, they should have stopped, and they need to tell you they’re sorry.” She angled her head, pinning Daisy with a meaningful look. “If apologies aren’t forthcoming, let Pa Jonnson or me know. We’ll remedy the situation.”

  A forced “I’m sorry” wasn’t worth much in Daisy’s opinion, but she pasted on a weak smile for Ma Jonnson’s sake. “I’m sure the children will do as they’ve been told.”

  Approval gleamed in Ma Jonnson’s eyes. “You’re a kindhearted girl, Daisy, and the children are lucky to have you to emulate. You always set such a good example. Now,”—as she
moved in the direction of the dry sink, she gestured to the little table tucked in the corner where a red-checked napkin covered a plate—“I saved a hot cake for you. Sit and eat, and when you’re finished, you can … dampen your hair to bring back your curl.”

  An hour-old hot cake, no matter how well flavored with nutmeg, held no appeal. Nor did the idea of bringing back her curl. Daisy edged toward the hallway, which led to the staircase. “I’m really not hungry. Let Marion feed my hot cake to the goat. I want to”—she gulped, realizing she was about to tell a half truth—“start the wash.”

  Ma Jonnson nodded. “That’s a fine idea. I had the children drop the last of their soiled clothes down the laundry chute before coming to breakfast. Once I peel the potatoes for lunch and get the little ones settled for their morning naps, I’ll come help you.”

  “No need,” Daisy said. Tackling all the wash on her own, even using the Triumph Rotary Washer purchased by the asylum’s founder, Mr. Dunnigan, would take her nearly all day. But if she worked alone, it would be easier to pack her belongings. “I can do it. That is, if you don’t mind cooking lunch on your own.”

  Ma Jonnson laughed, a sweet sound of merriment that made Daisy want to smile for having enticed it from the woman’s throat. “I will cheerfully trade you wash duty for cooking duty today, Daisy. Thank you.”

  Daisy scurried off before guilt could grab hold of her again.

  When the train ticket window opened at six o’clock Tuesday morning, Daisy was waiting, money in hand. After she had turned thirteen, the Jonnsons had begun paying her a bit each week for the additional chores she performed at the asylum. Not being one to care much about gewgaws or girlish frippery, she’d simply placed the coins in a little purse she’d received as a Christmas gift one year. When she’d counted it last night, she’d been amazed at how much she’d accumulated. Enough to purchase a train ticket, pay for a room at least for a month, she presumed, and buy simple meals until she’d secured a job.