Argosy Junction

by Chautona Havig

  It’s been hard to hear the voice of Jesus when all I wanted to hear was yours. I was tempted—I can’t tell you how much I was tempted to tell you what you wanted to hear in order to be with you. I hope you can trust that if I can bring myself to trust Jesus again, it’ll be genuine.

  I love you. I don’t want to go. I’ll see you soon.

  With All My Heart (at least for now while I can truly say it’s all mine to give),

  Lane

  P.S. The sonnet won’t be in every literature book for the next five hundred years, but it’ll never leave my heart. Please email a copy. I want to show my father.”

  To: warren@argosyranch.com

  From: mattrushby@letterbox.com

  Subject: Merry CHRISTmas

  Warren,

  She’s coming home, and I know she’s ready to listen. I think there’s a chance. My tears right now are tears of joy. I feel like a blubbering idiot, but I’m so happy, I don’t care.

  Attached you’ll find my pathetic attempt at a sonnet that she asked me to send.

  It’s ridiculously silly and old fashioned, but I have to ask anyway. If she does yield to the Lord, will you give me your blessing if I ask to marry her? I’m not sure what we’d do; I don’t know how we’d make it, honestly. We’d have to live here because there isn’t a lot of welding to be done in Argosy Junction, and my parents need the money I give them. I’d move them to Montana, but you don’t have much use for subway superintendents.

  It’s a lot of information, but I had to be honest and show the whole picture.

  Oh, please tell Lane that I have the ballad of Lorna Doone almost completed. I’ll send it ASAP!

  Dancing like a fool,

  Matt

  Twenty-Five

  “Anyone around here or has this place gone to the dogs— er sheep?” Lane called out to a seemingly empty house.

  Her words echoed through familiar rooms. Nothing had changed in her absence. She wandered into her bedroom and found everything just as she’d left it. She swung her duffel bag onto the bed and changed into her favorite flannel lined jeans, a thermal undershirt, and a chamois flannel shirt. Once free of the braid she’d worn on the long drive she brushed her hair and let it hang loose to help keep her neck warm. Her Carhartt overcoat hung by the back door as though waiting for her.

  The Jeep felt awkward and unfamiliar after months of driving her smooth Camry. She bounced over rough roads and realized that in her time away from the ranch, she’d grown soft. The ranch trucks were parked near the closest paddocks. Patience spied the Jeep first and realized who was in it.

  “Lane!”

  New lambs and the ewes were forgotten in the race to greet Lane. Heedless of the wool-covered jackets, Lane hugged the family, yet instantly regretting it. Her eyes and throat swelled and she debated between her inhaler or the epi-pen she carried everywhere she went.

  Two puffs of the inhaler was enough to assure her she’d be fine. She held the pen in her hand as though confused. Warren watched her for a moment and then asked, “What is wrong with it?”

  “I’m trying to remember why I didn’t use it when Matt and I were in New Cheltenham. I’m sure I had it with me. I always do. Unless—”

  “Unless what?”

  “Nah, it’s silly. I am going to go change though. I’ve been away so long that I’ve forgotten basic survival skills out here.”

  Tad watched as she glanced longingly at a lamb. He’d always wondered if she wasn’t afraid of the sheep, but he knew she adored the tiny lambs. He’d seen that look ever since she was old enough to realize that she couldn’t ever touch one. He’d always wondered if it was the cuddly friendliness of the lambs or the longing for forbidden fruit.

  “I’ll go with you, Lane!”

  Patience’s voice broke though many thoughts. Warren, having just read Matt’s email that morning, was watching for a change in Lane—something to give him hope. Martha saw the brightness of Lane’s eyes, spring in her asthmatic step, and yet realized that there was something unsettled in Lane.

  “Let’s go, little sis! I brought presents!”

  ~*~*~*~

  To: mattrushby@letterbox.net

  From: lanesywoosey@letterbox.net

  Subject: I’m here. You’re not. Why not?

  Matt,

  I’m scared. The family fluctuates between walking on eggshells around me and treating me as if nothing has changed. I’m getting reacquainted with former Brethren. It’s still very awkward around Mr. Gideon. I know he is trying, and that makes me feel awful. I want to tell him that I understand, but I don’t know. What should I do? I see a difference in these men. I suppose you’d call it a new humility. They’re gentler with each other, and yet they’ve got a firmness about them that is different than the old ways. It’s like they’re all determined not to repeat the mistakes of the past. Am I crazy to think that they’re setting themselves up for failure? I think I’ll try to talk to some of the people I knew and give it a chance. You’d better be praying for me. I think I need all the help I can get. Didn’t you say something once about coming here in January? Care to make good on that *cough sputter* promise?

  Strangely missing the big city and a few of its most worthy inhabitants,

  Lane— with an “e” (Can you tell what we’ve been watching around here? Tad has borrowed stacks of movies from the Brysons.)

  Matt read the email with great delight. It took every ounce of self-discipline not to book the next flight to Montana. This was something Lane needed to do alone.

  He opened a new email and started to type, but his phone rang. Kirky Laas, Hope’s friend, was calling for information about Tad and Lane. Matt emailed Lane’s contact information to Kirky as they spoke. He wanted to ask about when and where they wanted his friends to sing, but managed to mind his own business as admonished in Thessalonians.

  ~*~*~*~

  Lane snuggled in her own familiar bed for the second night in a row. She smelled the fresh sheets, and though no one could complain about Charity Stafford’s housekeeping, nothing could compete with Martha Argosy’s homemade laundry soap for feeling and smelling fresh and clean. Her laptop roared to live and email spilled into her inbox.

  To: lanesywoolsey@letterbox.com

  From: mattrushby@letterbox.com

  Subject: Crazy

  Laney,

  I think that is going to have to be your pet name. I’ve tried to create one and none worked. I failed at creative pet names—sue me. I think I’ve heard your family call you that, so at least we’re in good company.

  Crazy, huh? Yeah, I do think you’re crazy. These men are working very hard to prevent the thing that drove them to unbiblical and ungodly behavior. How can that set them up for failure? Then again, I’m crazy too, but I’d say for other reasons completely. Would you care to guess why?

  I just got a call from Kirky. She asked for your contact number for bookings so I gave it to her, and I hope that is ok. I also hope it means it’ll bring you back here soon.

  As for January, I am sorry to say that we’re going to have to consider February or March for a visit at the very earliest. All those sick days means that my boss has to be in a very good mood, and January is one long, nasty month. We all look forward to the end of January/beginning of February. Someday, I should ask why.

  Oh, and Laney—I really like that btw, it fits you—go to Mr. Gideon. Sit down with him and tell him that you didn’t know how deep his hurts were and that you hope you can start a fresh friendship with no past marks on it. Trust me Lane; you won’t regret it.

  Can you email my mom? She’s worried that they offended you, and you didn’t tell me because it’d hurt my feelings, and that you’ll hold them against me and… you see where it is going. Can you reassure her that it is your own mixed up town and all the drama there instead of any imagined drama here that drove you away from them? Or maybe I just need that reassurance. I wonder.

  Wonder-FULL,

  Matt

  P.S. Please read Ep
hesians 4. Do it for me. Take off your Brethren blinders, pull out the earphones of years of “interpretation,” and just read. I look forward to hearing what you think.

  Lane dashed off a few quick emails and slipped the laptop between her bed and the nightstand. The sounds of Patience snoring in the room next to her were occasionally interrupted by a snort and then a snore from either Jude or Levi. Eventually, however, she drifted off into deep sleep dreaming of cozy city apartments and long drives to New Cheltenham where she sang ballads to little girls with Matt’s smile.

  ~*~*~*~

  To: mattrushby@letterbox.com

  From: warren@argosyranch.com

  Subject: Miracles and Ideas

  Matt,

  First, I want to tell you that I appreciate your email and of course, you may ask Lane to marry you any day you like. Do me a favor. Don’t wait until you think you can afford to marry to do it. Most people never will marry under those circumstances. The people who think like that are usually the ones that keep finding reasons that they need more money to “make it.” Let me tell you a secret. You don’t. Life has a way of making these things work out. I’m going to say something I haven’t said in a long time. Trust the Lord as you work for the outcome.

  Now for the miracles. Lane spoke to Frank Gideon yesterday. Drove right up to their place and knocked on the door. I guess Josiah scowled and tried to throw her off the place, but Frank sent him to do something out of the house. She came home looking more rested than I’ve seen her in years and Patience says she found Lane reading the Bible.

  Now for my idea. Well it’s not only my idea, but you know what I mean. I was telling the families about you the Sunday before Christmas. You know—how you helped me get past my bitterness and encouraged me to ask forgiveness. We got to talking about how the Brethren had gotten so off track and we finally decided that it was a lack of accountability. We were so proud of our non—denominationalism that we missed one serious issue in the Bible. Accountability between churches. When we lost our pastor, we lost all oversight. There wasn’t someone to see us straying from basic doctrines and creating a law unto ourselves.

  Well, we decided that we need a pastor. So, we talked it over with the other families at the Community Church, and they agree. I don’t know if you know how that church works, but for about fifteen to twenty years, they’ve been bringing in a pastor from any denomination represented in the congregation every week. Many from Spokane and Butte, some from smaller towns around here, and some who travel through on vacation stop and preach, and it gives them a bit of extra cash.

  Well, those kids have grown up with Episcopalian priests, Baptist fire and brimstone, Pentecostal revivals, and everything in between. The only ones they’ve never had are a Catholic priest and a rabbi!

  Here is where I hope you listen and really think about it. We want you to come here and preach for us as our resident preacher. You wouldn’t be the pastor—not at first. You’d have to take your classes and learn whatever it is you have to learn to be a pastor, but we’d pay you to preach if you had someone to be accountable to. They have a healthy budget. They’ve had to have for all these years. It’s a small area, but I think you could live on what they’d pay you, and I think you could earn what you need to support your parents from the ranch. The disadvantage is, of course, that you’d be leaving your parents. I’ll understand if you don’t want to do that.

  Matt, I know you never considered becoming a Pastor. I know you rejected the idea when Pastor Barnett suggested it, but I can see it in you. You have a love for the Lord and a way with words that makes people understand just what it is that they need to understand most. Please pray about it.

  Hitting send with eager trepidation,

  Warren

  Matt stared at the screen dumbfounded. Warren wrote like marriage to Lane was a given. He had a working plan in place to ensure it could happen. Matt’s stubborn resistance to the urgings of his friends and pastor to consider seminary suddenly felt foolish. His heart yearned for the people of Argosy Junction. Was it possible that he could help the remaining Brethren? Could he ever learn enough to make the idea plausible? For the first time in Matthew Rushby’s life, he could envision a life for himself out of the city.

  His email chime dinged as another email downloaded into his inbox. The sight of Lane’s name was all it took for him to abandon his thoughts of Greek and Hebrew. “Well Lane, what do you have for me tonight?”

  To: mattrushby@letterbox.com

  From: lanesywoolsey@letterbox.com

  Subject: Forgiveness

  Matthew,

  Thank you. Really. I need to thank you. I don’t know if it was coincidence, divine Providence, or some combination of the two, but I read Ephesians 4 just before I went to see Frank Gideon. Looking back, I can’t figure out why it was such a big deal to talk to him at all. His son was the one who was always rude and unfriendly. His son gave me grief and pain. I had issues with the son more than anything. But, I went. We talked. I shared Ephesians 4 with him, and do you know what he said? He said that he hadn’t read that chapter in over twenty years. He said he often quoted the “one Lord, one faith, one baptism” part, but he ignored the rest of it because it hurt too much.

  So, I came home and put on three layers of thermals and my flannel-lined jeans. (Did you know that I wear a whole size bigger in winter because of all the under layers that I wear? Weird, huh?) I climbed up to the top of the hill where I first watched you preaching to your “flock,” and I waited. Nothing happened. I know, I know, you could have told me that yourself, but I wanted something to happen! I liked the idea of it. So I prayed. Can you believe it? Me!

  No, I didn’t ask forgiveness for these years “I spent in vanity and pride,” but I did ask God to show me good memories of the Brethren. Things about them that weren’t self-serving or controlling. I begged for memories like that.

  I got them. There are many. These people are very scary people theologically, and they are very controlling and prideful. Ouch. Like I’m not. They made a lot of mistakes that were very hurtful and unkind, but I do understand a little bit now. It doesn’t make their actions acceptable. I’m still angry when I think of the families torn apart and the pain my family endured. A single pair of jeans became the definer of our faith—or supposed lack of faith.

  I don’t agree with you, by the way; I think these men are so focused on not being something they don’t want to be, that they’ll never grow into what they do want to be. I think they need to take their eyes off Satan and avoiding his pit, and put them on Jesus, the only One keeping them from that pit!

  No, I’m not back in “the fold,” but I’m circling it. I’m listening and testing the waters, so to speak. Thank you. I think I’ll read Ephesians 4 every night for a month. I need it to soak into my soul. Right now, my soul is hard and dry like desert clay. It’s cracked and blistered, and when rain falls on it, the drops just bounce back and lay on the surface. But if I let it keep falling, it’ll eventually penetrate that hard crust and soak into my soul and help the seeds you’ve been planting to grow.

  I love you. I miss you. I promise you that if I ever reconcile completely with the Lord and His people, I’ll make sure you know as soon as possible.

  Lane (who will be in New Cheltenham on February 10, at the dinner theater. Be there. Please?)

  Twenty-Six

  Standing room only had a new meaning for Lane as she stood waiting in the wings of the Globe Theater in New Cheltenham. She scanned the room looking for Matt, but couldn’t find him. She knew he was there—the box office had confirmed that he’d claimed his ticket.

  “Come on, let’s go!” Tad’s voice was eager.

  This show was different than most of their others. They’d worked hard and fast and paid extra to have cases of CDs ready for this event. Ballads of the Isles was a better compilation of songs than their first set of cowboy tunes. Kirky’s friend couldn’t be disappointed now.

  “Go on out and make jokes about pasties and
looking pasty. I’ll be there in a minute.”

  “He’s not out there?” Tad understood a great deal more than Lane realized.

  “I know he’s here, but I can’t see him. I just need—”

  “To trust. Trust, Lane, it’s time you gave it another chance.” Tad hugged her and strode toward the curtains. Just as he reached to flip it aside, he glanced back at her. “I’m glad you wore that outfit. It fits the program, and Matt’s going to be so glad he spent that minor fortune on it.”

  Before she could demand to know more about the expense of her ensemble, Tad lumbered onto the stage wearing his cabled cream-colored sweater, slacks, and a golfer hat. He looked like John Wayne in the Quiet Man, albeit significantly scrawnier. “Whew! It’s hot out here.”

  Tad watched as an oscillating fan was set up on his right. “It’s great being up here. They’ll do anything to make you comfortable, because they secretly fear they’ll be asked to sing if they don’t.”

  The crowd tittered. Tad grinned. “Look at that! I now have stage effects. There is a coastal breeze that would ruffle my hair if I had any to speak of—speaking of hair, where is my sister? She has enough for both of us!”

  “I’m coming! Sheesh! A girl has to look her best you know! There just might be a handsome man out there waiting to sweep me off my feet!” Lane’s voice echoed from behind the stage curtain.

  “Well your singing isn’t that bad! I don’t think they’ll carry you out of here!”

  Lane couldn’t respond. The applause thundered through the theater as she stepped onto the stage. Matt, watching from the back corner, sensed a change in her that he only hoped wasn’t his imagination.