A Home for the Heart

by Michael Phillips

  I hitched Blue Star to our small carriage, then went back inside to change.

  I put on the new dress I’d been making over the last month. I’d worn the calico blouse yesterday. Today I would wear the cream. I felt so happy I could have burst out singing. Maybe I would sing on my way into town, where no one could hear me!

  I set out for town a little after one-thirty. About half a mile out of town, I passed Becky on her way back home. She gave me a wave and an understanding smile. But I wondered if anybody could possibly understand how I felt that day.

  Chapter 23

  Christopher!

  This time the afternoon went by more quickly, and I had my wits more about me too. I didn’t feel like I was in quite the same sorry state Becky had said I was in the day before.

  Everybody in town seemed to be watching me, wondering why I had come to town with a new dress on for the second day in a row. I noticed that several of the more curious women from church “just happened” to be in town for most of the afternoon, hanging around the General Store and the bank and the dressmaker’s longer than any amount of business could possibly account for.

  I didn’t care.

  This was one time none of the gossip and the curiosity would bother me. I didn’t care who said what . . . what a fool I made of myself!

  About three, the time began to go slower and slower, and I looked at the time more and more. As for my being of help to Mr. Ashton . . . he probably knew he would have to rewrite every invoice I was absently trying to compute at the desk while glancing out the window every five minutes or less.

  Three-fifteen . . . three-thirty . . . three-forty . . .

  It was hopeless to try to keep my mind on my work!

  “Corrie, would you like to go over to the bank for me?” asked Mr. Ashton.

  “Yes!” I answered quickly, jumping up. Anything to get out of the office—to be able to do something!

  He handed me the deposit. I walked outside and up the street as slowly as I could, straining my ear for any hint of the stage.

  Suddenly I heard horses!

  Yes—from the sound of it—more than one!

  I glanced toward the end of town, unconsciously running a few steps in that direction. Here they came!

  Then I stopped. It was only Mr. Douglas and Mr. Shaw riding into town. I continued on toward the bank.

  When I was finished with my business, I walked back out onto the street and looked at my watch again. Four-ten. Slowly I walked back to the Supply Company.

  I went in and again sat down with the stack of invoices.

  Four-fifteen . . . four-twenty-five. . . .

  I had only gotten through three or four of them when I sat my pencil down, stuck my elbows up on top of the desk, and propped my chin in the palms of my hands.

  Are you ever going to come? I thought. What if he didn’t come today?

  I had to be patient. He would be here eventually. What was the harm if it took another day?

  Oh no! Suddenly it dawned on me—did the stage run on Saturday? I couldn’t remember! And I knew for certain that it didn’t operate on Sunday!

  Be patient! Don’t worry! I told myself. What would Christopher say if he were here right now? He would tell me not to fret so much.

  Then for some reason I thought of the conversation we had had on our way back to Mrs. Timms’ farm from Richmond after I had seen Derrick Gregory. I don’t know why I thought of it just then, probably because I was thinking of Christopher. He had become so enthralled with the scenery as we had bounced along in the wagon.

  He had become so excited about everything—the grass in the fields we were passing, the trees—and then we’d begun talking about how some people are able to receive what nature is trying to tell them, while others are unseeing and oblivious to it. I could almost remember his exact words: It is the heart of God that dwells within the essence of nature. He communicates pieces of himself in a very personal way through these things we look upon and say, “I behold beauty therein.”

  Vague familiar sounds began to intrude into the back of my mind, but I was too lost in my reverie to pay any attention to them. Not only was I remembering Christopher’s words, I could even hear the wagon slowly bouncing along as we went. It was such a vivid daydream!

  God is everywhere, Christopher’s voice was saying again in my memory, right in front of our eyes. The very—

  “Miss Corrie,” said a voice. “Miss Corrie . . .”

  I glanced up. It was Marcus Weber.

  “Miss Corrie, wasn’t you waitin’ on the stage?”

  “Oh . . . oh, yes, Marcus—yes, I was.”

  “Well, it’s comin’ in, ma’am.”

  Suddenly I woke up and looked out the window. The sound of horses and a wagon hadn’t been part of my daydream at all! The stagecoach was already halfway down the street and heading right toward us!

  In two seconds I was flying out the door, leaving a flurry of invoices settling to the floor from off the desk behind me.

  I forgot I was wearing a dress. I forgot I had tried to fix my hair so it would look nice. I altogether forgot that I was a grown woman—I felt like an excited little girl again. I picked up the bottom half of my dress and petticoats to get it away from my ankles. My bonnet flew off my head, but I didn’t stop for it.

  Nothing was going to slow me down!

  My boots pounded along the wooden sidewalk for half a block, then I ran off and into the dirt street as fast as my legs could move.

  Here came the stage toward me.

  There was a head leaning out the open window!

  My heart was pounding . . . tears began to cloud my eyes. . . .

  It couldn’t be . . . oh, but it was!

  “Corrie . . . Corrie!” cried that wonderful, lovely, strong, tender, manly voice I had waited so long to hear.

  I slowed . . . his hand was stretched out toward me . . . I couldn’t help it—I could feel myself starting to cry.

  His face filled the small stage window, a huge smile spread across it.

  “Christopher!” I called, but my voice was drowned out from the approaching din of horses and the clattering carriage.

  The stage rumbled past me and, slowing, jostled toward the stage office amid the sounds of hooves and wheels, creaking leather straps, and shouts from the driver.

  I ran after it down the middle of the street, tears streaming down my face. Christopher was leaning out the stage window now and waving frantically and yelling to me.

  The stage stopped before I could catch it. Before it had even come to a standstill, Christopher had thrown the door open, jumped to the ground, and started running toward me.

  “Corrie!” he cried again.

  We ran toward each other and met in the middle of the street.

  Suddenly I was in his arms.

  “Oh, Christopher . . . Christopher, I can’t believe you’re here at last!” I was crying now in earnest.

  “It’s me . . . and I am really here,” he said softly. “Oh, Corrie, words can’t say . . . how wonderful you look.”

  I couldn’t say a word, but just wept all the more.

  How long we stood there I don’t know. There was no place else in the universe I wanted to be.

  But then a voice called out from behind us, near the stage.

  “Hey, buddy—these bags yours?”

  A moment more we stood, then Christopher released me. “I’ll be right back,” he said. “Don’t go anyplace.”

  He ran back to get his suitcases as the driver handed them down from the top of the stage, then carried the bags over to the stage office. As he did, I wiped my sleeve across my eyes. That’s when I noticed probably eight or ten people standing watching from several of the shops. Three women were gawking in front of the dressmaker’s, including Mrs. Sinclair, one of the worst of the town’s gossips. Everybody would know everything now—probably before sunup tomorrow!

  I waved to them with a smile, then walked slowly toward the stage. By now Christopher
was running back toward me.

  He stopped and walked the last few steps slowly. We stood and held each other’s eyes for several moments. Then Christopher took both my hands in his.

  “I love you, Corrie,” he said softly.

  I opened my mouth, but instead of words only more laughter and crying came out.

  Gently he stretched his arms around me and pulled me close to his chest. His hand stroked my hair and he leaned his face over the top of my head. I felt him blow a warm breath from his lips through my hair.

  I couldn’t believe this was happening to me!

  Chapter 24

  Christopher in Miracle Springs

  I have a buggy in town,” I said as we began walking together slowly back to the stage office. “What do you want to do first—go out to the house and meet everyone . . . or go to Mrs. Gianini’s?”

  “Who’s Mrs. Gianini?” asked Christopher.

  “Oh, she has the boardinghouse where you’ll be staying.”

  “She’s expecting me?”

  I nodded.

  “Good. Why don’t we get my bags over there then. How far is it?”

  “Just down the street.”

  We’d reached the sidewalk now. Christopher stooped down and laid hold of the two handles of his two bags.

  “Do you see those three ladies standing over there in front of that shop?” I said.

  Christopher glanced in the direction I’d nodded.

  “They’re the town gossips. They’ve been watching me all day, and unless I’m mistaken right now they’re positively dying of curiosity about you.”

  “Then why don’t you take me over and introduce me to them?” suggested Christopher.

  “You’re not serious?” I laughed.

  “Certainly. Why not? We might as well give them something substantial to talk about—that is, as long as you don’t mind.”

  “Why should I mind—they’ve been talking about me anyway . . . all right then!”

  Christopher put his bags back down. We turned and began walking briskly up the sidewalk toward Mrs. Hutchens’ shop. I couldn’t help smiling.

  The instant they realized we were headed straight for them, I could see Mrs. Sinclair’s eyes widen in panic as she tried to decide what she should do. Should they retreat to the safety of the shop or stand there and wait to see what would happen? Now that the object of her curiosity was walking right for her, she was paralyzed. She hadn’t expected this!

  “Mrs. Sinclair,” I said as we walked boldly up, “I would like you to meet my dear friend, Christopher Braxton. Christopher, may I introduce Mrs. Sinclair, Mrs. Hutchens, who owns this shop, and Mrs. Gilly?”

  “Charmed, ladies!” said Christopher in his most polished tone. “I am delighted to meet you.”

  He bowed slightly. He shook each of their hands gently.

  “You . . . you—er . . . are Corrie’s . . . friend?” asked Mrs. Sinclair, a little nervously but smiling, still unsettled by the turn of events, and emphasizing the last word.

  “I would go further than that, Mrs. Sinclair,” replied Christopher, playing right into her hand, “I would even go so far as to say we are very close friends. We met in Virginia and have been corresponding ever since.”

  “Oh . . . yes, of course . . . I see,” said the more than intrigued Mrs. Sinclair with a significant tone.

  “But now, ladies, you must excuse us,” said Christopher. “I must make arrangements concerning my lodgings here in your fair town.”

  Christopher bowed again, I smiled, and we turned and left the three speechless gossips gaping after us. A moment later I heard the door to Mrs. Hutchens’ shop close. I glanced back. They had all gone inside.

  “I have no doubt all three tongues are wagging now!” I laughed. “How could you have carried on so with a straight face?”

  “Remember, I had dealings with women like that all the time when I was pastoring,” laughed Christopher. “The best remedy for their affliction is the straightforward approach. If they’re going to talk, you might as well let them do it in front of you rather than behind your back.”

  “Which is exactly what they’re doing at this very minute!”

  “Some things never change,” rejoined Christopher. “Old ladies will forever talk about young people, and I doubt you and I are going to change it!”

  He picked up his bags again and we walked off along the sidewalk.

  “There’s our office,” I said, pointing across the street. I could see Marcus and Mr. Ashton inside, looking out the window at us and just as curious as everybody else.

  “Hollister Supply Company,” said Christopher, reading the sign. “I thought I remember your calling it the Mine and Freight.”

  “It used to be called Parrish Mine and Freight,” I explained. “Almeda and her first husband began the business during the gold rush days. Back then it was mostly mining supplies and freight hauling. As the community grew, gradually the business changed and broadened. When Pa and Almeda were married, they changed it to Hollister-Parrish Mine and Freight, then eventually Almeda decided to drop the Parrish. It’s still mostly her business, but she wanted it only to say Hollister. They changed it from ‘Mine and Freight’ to ‘Supply Company’ when I was in the East.”

  “And you all work there?”

  “Mostly just Almeda and Becky and I. Pa and Zack and Tad all are familiar with the business and help with deliveries or heavy work when it’s too much for Marcus—”

  “Marcus? He’s a hired man?”

  I nodded. “But they’re all busy doing their other work most of the time, so besides the people Almeda hires, it’s us three women.”

  “What kind of supplies does a Supply Company sell in California?” asked Christopher.

  “Just about anything farmers, ranchers, or miners might need—from seed to saddles to new wagons to wire fencing to shovels, picks and rope, feed, grain . . . hundreds of things.”

  Now we had reached Mrs. Gianini’s. We walked up onto the porch. Christopher set down his suitcases, and I knocked on the door. In a moment it opened.

  “Hello, Mrs. Gianini, this is the man I told you about,” I said.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Gianini,” said Christopher, extending his hand. “I am Christopher Braxton.”

  “Come in, Corrie . . . Mr. Braxton. I have your room all ready for you.”

  We went inside. I waited downstairs while she took Christopher upstairs to the room where he would stay. He took his suitcases up, and in a minute or two they both returned.

  “Will you be here for dinner tonight, Mr. Braxton?”

  “No,” I answered for him. “He will be with us, Mrs. Gianini.”

  “Breakfast in the morning, then?”

  Christopher glanced at me.

  I nodded.

  “Yes, then—thank you very much,” said Christopher.

  We moved toward the door.

  “Don’t be too late, Mr. Braxton,” she said behind us. “I lock the door at ten o’clock.”

  “I’ll be sure he’s back by then, Mrs. Gianini,” I said.

  As we walked away, I told Christopher of our first few days in Miracle Springs thirteen years earlier, when we too had stayed at the boardinghouse.

  By then it was after five and the sun had just set.

  “It’s going to be dark before long,” I said. “We’d better go get the carriage hitched up and ride out to the house.”

  Chapter 25

  Supper with the Family

  What a wonderful evening it was!

  Christopher was so nice and polite and gracious. How could everybody not be taken with him?

  Before supper we all went up to Uncle Nick and Aunt Katie’s and then came back down the path in the darkness to our own place for supper.

  As we walked through the door, I suddenly realized how much I loved this simple home of ours, which Pa had built with his own two hands and added on to twice as his family had grown. The walls had always been only rough wood, though Almeda had done
some painting while I was away. Shelves and pictures and other things were hanging about here and there and lanterns hung up several places around. The floor, too, was wood, except for two large rugs Almeda and we girls had made.

  There were enough chairs for everybody to sit comfortably, and two sofas gave enough room even for a few guests. Then there was the kitchen and the huge eating table between it and the main living room. It was all so familiar, so homey, so comfortable. Usually there was a fire in the fireplace and in the kitchen stove. But even when there wasn’t, it was a warm place to be just because it was home.

  I liked it better because it wasn’t fancy. I had been in lots of fancy hotels and homes back East—including the White House!—but there was no place I would rather be than right here in our home in Miracle Springs.

  Especially now! It felt all the better, all the more homey, now that Christopher could share it with me.

  We ate the stew and biscuits and sweet potatoes Almeda and Becky had prepared, and we must have stayed at the table two hours.

  As well as I thought I knew Christopher, I couldn’t help being nervous after what he said in his letter about being shy and not knowing what to say around people when he first met them. What if they didn’t like him? What if Pa didn’t like him? He would soon be home from Sacramento.

  But Christopher didn’t act timid in the least. Maybe it was because I was there, so he didn’t feel like he was among strangers. But from watching him I could hardly believe those things he’d written earlier. The conversation was so lively and fun that the time flew by. After just one evening I think everyone—except Pa, of course—knew Christopher as well as I’d hoped and already realized what a special man he was.

  When it came time for dessert, we all stood up and walked around a bit while I cut the pies.

  When everyone was seated again, I served Christopher the first slice.

  “Do you remember last Christmas dinner,” I said, “when you told me all about your preservation methods for Mrs. Timms’ apples?”