“It would have been different,” he whispered. “If I’d let God change me earlier, my whole life would have been better. I would have been good to her...”
“She’s safe with God. She’s not in pain, and she’s not angry. You’ll see her soon.”
“I know.” He swallowed with some difficulty. His words broke off, and he gestured feebly toward the Bible in her hands. “Read to me.”
Eloise picked up her Bible and opened it to the twenty-third Psalm.
“‘The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not be in want...’”
The words were familiar and comforting. Mr. Bessler’s breath came more shallowly. She glanced up several times as she read through some of her own favorite Bible passages, and the last time she raised her eyes, Mr. Bessler’s chest was still, his face ashen, his mouth limp.
The old man had died.
“It’s over,” she murmured past the lump in her throat. She reached for the old man’s frail hand and took it in hers.
She hadn’t expected to cry. The tears welled up inside her until she couldn’t hold them back anymore. They spilled down her cheeks, silently at first, and then past her careful control until she wept openly into her hands.
Eloise cried for the heartbreak of a life lived with regrets, for the sorrow of a child whose father didn’t want him, for marriages that went sour, for husbands who walked out and for fathers who walked away.
Eloise cried for Philip, who hadn’t given them a chance, for the baby she’d longed for but never conceived, for the life of love and marriage that she’d worked so hard toward but had watched disintegrate.
But more than that, she wept for her friend Robert Bessler, a difficult old man who’d made his share of mistakes and had wrestled with them for a lifetime. Despite his shortcomings, he’d been a more honest friend than some people in her life.
When her tears were spent, the sun was just peeking above the horizon, scarlet light seeping into the room through the crack in the curtains.
“Rest in peace, Robert,” Eloise whispered.
Chapter Eighteen
The next day Eloise went home and slept for longer than she’d slept in months. She didn’t awake until nearly noon, and when she got out of her familiar bed in her own apartment, she sucked in a deep breath.
Another job was complete. She would put her name on the roster for a new position when she felt rested enough take on the work. Until then, she had some time to herself.
Eloise stepped into the bright kitchen and looked out the window over the park. Though her freezer was stocked and her cupboards always had a good stash of nonperishable items for times like these, she wasn’t hungry. She bypassed the food and went straight to her easel, standing up in the brightest corner of the kitchen.
I need to paint.
With brushes and tubes of acrylics waiting for her touch, she stood before the easel, her mind whirring.
Some thoughts were too deep for words. Some things she didn’t even know how to lift up to God in prayer, so she lifted them up in the only way she knew how—through her art.
Opening a tube of paint, Eloise squirted a dollop of yellow onto a paint board, a dab of red, some white.
Lord, hear my prayer...
* * *
Eloise parked her car in front the old house and looked at it with a pang of sadness. It had been two weeks since Mr. Bessler died, and just as long since she’d been in Haggerston. There hadn’t been a funeral, since Mr. Bessler had stipulated against one in his will. The windows gaped curtainless, and a steady flow of professional movers strode in and out of the front door, boxes in hand. A moving truck waited in the drive and she sat in her car for a moment, observing the scene.
Cory stepped out the front door, his gaze moving over the street and stopping at Eloise’s car. A grin spread over his rugged features and he angled his steps in her direction as she got out.
“Hi,” he said with a grin as she slammed the door shut. “You’re a sight for sore eyes.”
He wrapped his arms around her and gave her a squeeze. Eloise shut her eyes for a moment, enjoying the scent of him. Stepping back, he caught her hand in his and led the way toward the house.
“Thanks for coming,” he said.
“You knew I would,” she replied with a smile. “What’s happening?”
“They’re moving my dad’s things out. You gave my number to the pastor of his church, and he gave me a call and asked if there was anything I wanted to remember my father by. I asked for his and Ruth’s wedding rings.”
Eloise looked up in surprise. “Why?”
“Since scattering Ruth’s ashes went so wrong, I wanted to bury their wedding rings in that spot—to make it up to my father, somehow, I suppose.”
“That’s sweet.” She smiled. “I have a feeling Robert would have approved.”
As they crossed the lawn and walked up the steps and in the front door, she looked around. Bare walls were coated in fresh white paint. The footsteps of the movers echoed through the small house.
“It feels so different in here,” she said.
Cory nodded. “I know.”
Cory looked down at her hand still in his and ran a thumb over her fingers. “You’ve been painting this morning.”
She smiled and nodded. “I’ve finally painted a full portrait.”
“Head to toe?” he asked in surprise.
“Head to toe.” Eloise chuckled. “I was ready for it.”
“Who did you paint?” he asked. “Your mom? Your dad?”
“No, a self-portrait.”
Her mind went back to the canvas in the middle of her kitchen. It was a large piece, depicting herself standing with hands on hips, eyes directed toward the viewer. It hadn’t been easy to pull the pieces all together, but if she was going to capture an entire person, the layers and subtleties combined, who better to start with than the woman she knew best? It had taken nearly two weeks, and three new starts before she got it right. Eloise may have balked at capturing all of a person, but she now believed in embracing all of herself. In painting it, her heart raised in prayer, she’d also untangled a few knots in regard to her marriage. When she last looked at it, she’d felt a swell of satisfaction.
That’s me.
“Look,” Cory said, turning her to face him. “I’ve discovered a few things.”
“Like what?” She met his gaze, frowning slightly.
“In that stack of letters we found in the library, there was another envelope my mother tucked in there. It was full of bank receipts. My mother got monthly checks from Ruth.”
Eloise blinked. “I don’t get it. I didn’t think Ruth knew about you.”
“She must have, because she sent money regularly to help my mother out.”
Eloise shook her head. “She was willing to help her husband’s child from another woman?”
Cory and Eloise stepped back as two movers came by with a chest of drawers. Cory nodded toward Mr. Bessler’s empty bedroom and they moved in there for privacy. It echoed with their footsteps, awash in sunlight.
“This is part of why I wanted to do something for her—a thank-you of sorts.”
They stood in silence for several moments, the footsteps of movers echoing through the house. Finally, Cory cleared his throat.
“You asked me before if you were the kind of woman I needed, and I said no.”
Eloise nodded, the memory still painful. “It’s okay. It was the truth.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve had some time to think on that.” Cory dropped his gaze and hooked a thumb into a belt loop. “I thought I needed a certain kind of woman—a country girl who could rope a steer. The thing is, my dad had the right kind of woman, even if he didn’t treat her right. He had a woman who loved God, and her faith made her into a better lady tha
n any of us ever realized. And that’s what I want—a woman with heart. A woman connected to God.” He raised his dark eyes to meet hers. “You.”
Eloise felt her cheeks heat at his gentle scrutiny. A smile flickered at the corners of his lips. He pulled off his hat and tossed it onto the windowsill.
“I miss you,” he said.
She nodded. “Me, too.”
“The question is, can you trust me?” He reached up and moved a curl away from her temple.
Her gaze wandered around the empty room. “I always felt that I could trust you, Cory. I just couldn’t trust my own judgment.”
“And now?”
“Philip was a fraud, but I wanted to believe in him more than I wanted to see the facts. That’s where I went wrong—I was so concerned with the role of wife that I forgot to be me first.”
“If my vote counts, I like you the way you are,” Cory said.
She laughed softly. “Thanks. So do I.”
“Whatever happened between Robert and Ruth—” Cory began.
“He found God too late,” Eloise interjected. “Or at least that’s what he thought. Most of their marriage, he wasn’t a believer.” She paused, remembering her patient’s last hours. “But they’re both with God now.”
“And we’re here.” Cory caught her gaze and held it, as if he longed for her to understand something deeper in his words.
“We’re here.” Eloise nodded, swallowing hard. “Cory, I was so wrong. I let you walk away, and when I had time to think, all I could think about was you. I—”
The words caught in her throat.
“I love you,” he said softly.
“I love you, too, Cory.” The words came out in a breathy rush. She was relieved to finally say them.
“Then what are we waiting for?” He stepped closer and slid his strong hand down her arm. “I want to marry you.”
Eloise stood speechless for a long moment. She swallowed and looked away but felt her eyes drawn back to his ruggedly handsome face.
“I’m still not a rancher,” she confessed. “I obviously can’t ride, I’ve grown up in a city and I’ve told you what I do to houseplants.”
“I don’t care about any of that,” Cory replied with a shake of his head. “I’m in love with you. I love your depth and your sweetness, the fact that you paint your feelings out, the way you think, the way you move... I love you, Eloise. So you can be a downright terrible rancher. I don’t need you to fill a role for me, just be faithful. I need you by my side. And there is one thing I can promise—no matter what life throws at us, I’ll be the best husband to you I possibly can.”
Tears welled in her eyes. “You say that now...but what about later?”
“What about later?” he asked softly.
“Will you change your mind?”
“Eloise, you’ve had me from hello,” he murmured, running a finger down her cheek.
Her breath caught in her throat as he moved closer still, slipping his arms around her waist.
Eloise searched his eyes, looking for guile. Instead she saw the beginnings of a smile. He dipped his head, catching her lips in his. She sank into his embrace, his strong arms pressing her close against his heartbeat.
When he pulled away, her knees felt wobbly. “I just hope you aren’t too attached to your houseplants, Cory.”
“Is that a yes?” he whispered.
“Yes!” Eloise nodded, her eyes misting with unshed tears.
As he pulled her back into a kiss, Eloise felt safer than she had in a long time. She wouldn’t be able to describe the moment, the way her heart had soared, the fragility of her hope enveloped in the strength of his love. It would be a memory that left her blissfully speechless. A few years later, she would paint it—a couple silhouetted against a sunlit window, a cowboy hat balanced on the windowsill.
She would call it Coming Home.
It would be her deepest prayer of thanksgiving.
Epilogue
Cory dropped another pile of lumber at the base of a mature oak tree and looked up into the branches. The leafy canopy glowed green as the late-morning sunlight filtered through. He could already see the finished product in his mind’s eye—a stable floor and tall walls with windows cut into the sides. A rope ladder would hang down from the front door, brushing the grass and swinging in the wind. He hadn’t decided on the roof yet, whether it should be sloped or flat.
Cory turned back toward his truck for another load of wood and paused when he saw his wife strolling up to where he stood. Her hair hung down, loose and tangled from the wind. A cream sundress rippled around her growing figure, and when the wind blew against her, her pregnant form brought a slow smile to his face. They’d been married for two years now, and it still felt like yesterday that he’d said “I do.”
“What are you doing?” Eloise asked, lifting her lips for a kiss.
Cory kissed her and ran his hand over her silky curls. “Getting ready for the baby.”
She laughed, her gaze moving to the pile of wood at the base of the tree. “How, exactly?”
“You can’t see it?” Cory pulled her in front of him and slid his arms around her. “Do you see that bough there?”
He pointed toward the biggest limb.
“Mmm-hmm.” Her voice was low and sweet, like brown sugar.
“If you follow it back, there’s another bough at the same height. That’s going to hold up the floor of the tree house. I want the walls to be high enough that I can get inside there, too. I’ll have windows on two sides, and the third side is going to be against the trunk. Do you see?”
“A tree house?” She shifted to look back at him. “But the baby can’t use a tree house, Cory.”
“Maybe not right away, but little girls grow fast, you know.”
“You still think this baby is a girl?” Eloise grinned.
“With ginger curls like her mother’s.”
“And what if we have a boy?” she asked with a chuckle.
“Then I won’t do a shingled roof. I’ll make it into a ship, complete with mast and a sail.” Cory turned his attention back to the tree, the tree house coming together in his mind as he imagined the sunny, summer days that would be whiled away.
“I came to tell you that lunch is ready,” she said.
Cory pulled his thoughts out of the tree limbs and gave her a slow smile. “Are we on our own for the afternoon?”
“No.” Eloise laughed and gave him a swat. “My dad is waiting for us. You know that. Three more days, and then you and I are alone again.” The sparkle in her eye held promise. “Oh, he said that he wants to go riding with you this afternoon, if you’re not too busy.”
“I’ll take him with me to check on the herd.”
“This is such a vacation for him. He loves all this ranch stuff, you know.”
Cory took her hand and moved the pad of his thumb over the paint-stained cuticles on her slender fingers. He’d take her father riding, and she’d likely pour herself into another painting for her art show in the fall.
“What did you paint today?” he asked.
“Something I’ve been trying to put into words lately...”
“How ruggedly handsome your husband is?” he teased.
Eloise laughed and rolled her eyes. “No, how I felt when you asked me to marry you.”
“And how did you feel?”
“You’ll have to see it. Then you’ll know.” She shot him a grin. “Come on. Lunch will get cold if you don’t hurry up.”
Eloise pulled ahead of him, stepping high over the grass as she made her way to the waiting pickup. She moved more cautiously as her body grew with her pregnancy; she walked with the belabored grace of impending motherhood.
She’s beautiful... He’d never felt more love or
contentedness than when he looked at Eloise and remembered that she was his—Mrs. Eloise Stone.
Cory stole one last look at the towering oak, and he jogged to catch up. He was a simple man, but he gave what he could: a heart filled with devotion to his gorgeous wife, and a tree house, built too early, for the baby he couldn’t wait to meet.
* * * * *
Keep reading for an excerpt from HER COWBOY HERO by Carolyne Aarsen.
Dear Reader
I’m a city girl. Well, at least I was. I lived in Toronto, Canada, for many years, and I loved the city life—everything from the shopping to the restaurants. I enjoyed walking everywhere I went, or just hopping on a bus. There is something quite exhilarating about a city—the thrum of energy, the ebb and flow of people, and the ability to melt into a crowd.
Then I got married and we moved out to a small town. It’s small enough that every time I go out, I see someone I recognize. It’s not really possible to melt into crowds here, and I’m enjoying that. Everyone at church knows my little boy’s name. I can smile and wave at people I recognize driving past. It’s a whole new world, but a comfortable one. The thrum of energy has been replaced by the warmth of community, and I’m truly happy.
Change is never graceful, though, is it? At least not for me. I still have three locks on my front door. I lock people in when they visit me, because an unlocked front door just seems risky to my city-girl mentality. I still zone out when I grocery-shop so people have to actually ram their shopping carts into me to get my attention. Our “Stranger Danger” rules are probably a lot more excessive than everyone else’s. Yet here we are, and we are most certainly Home. For me, Home is in my husband’s arms.
You see, Home is about being exactly who you are—clumsy tendencies, horrible singing voice and a ridiculous number of locks on your door—and still belonging. Home might be about crayon-colored Mother’s Day cards, or about the man who pulls you close and tells you that you’re gorgeous. It might be about the group of girlfriends who pull you out of your funk, or about the church family that rallies around you and gives you the courage to face another week. Home is about the people who truly know you and say, “You’re one of us.”
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