by Dawn Kinzer
Still...she couldn’t put Peter out of her mind. Why was it so important to talk after the dance? Not knowing would probably cost her sleep. The way he gazed at her while dancing, she thought he might have strong feelings for her. But later at Clara’s, his eyes showed brotherly affection. So confusing.
They reached the porch to Sarah’s house, and Will touched her arm. “Could we sit for a few minutes?”
“Of course.” She slid onto the porch swing and he joined her. A bit strange—the last time she’d retreated to that spot in the middle of the night, Peter had sat next to her.
Will started to speak several times, but stopped. His body relaxed, and he leaned back into the swing. “What was that all about?” His quiet tone hinted that he wasn’t judgmental, only curious.
“Pardon?”
“Praying. Do you really think there is a God? And if there is, that he actually cares?”
“I do.” His question surprised her. “I assumed you felt the same way.”
“Because I occasionally attend church with George and Alice? I go out of respect for them.”
“Oh.”
“I might be persuaded to believe if I had someone like you to teach me.” He slid closer to Sarah and laid his arm on top of the swing. His fingers lightly caressed her neck, sending uncomfortable waves through her. She slid out of reach.
“There’s something I need to tell you.” Will deserved to know, especially if his feelings were growing toward her. “I may not be here for much longer.”
He stiffened. “You’re leaving?”
Could someone who questioned God’s existence understand? “Will, I not only believe in God, but I want to serve him. So, I’m going to Africa—to work in the mission field for a while. I don’t have the final details yet, like my departure date, but I should hear soon.” She’d taken a chance and confided in him. Hopefully, he wouldn’t betray her trust. “Can you keep my plans to yourself until then?”
“Of course.” His voice held a mixture of surprise and frustration. “But why go all the way to another continent? Seems there’s plenty you could do right here in Riverton. Just look at how you helped Mrs. Boyle tonight.”
“There are other reasons. I’m not entirely unselfish.”
“I—I just assumed...” He slumped against the back of the swing. “You seemed happy here. You have a good job, friends, people who love you...”
“It’s complicated.” She grasped the empty locket hanging from her neck. “My parents made a mess of their lives and then left me here. I haven’t heard from them since. Everyone—well, everyone except you and a few others—has known me since childhood. And some won’t let me forget about the past. As long as I stay here, I’ll never be able to put what my parents did behind me.”
Will let out what sounded like a resigned sigh. “I knew you and I were alike. I’ve come here to get a fresh start myself.”
His unexpected confession unsettled Sarah, but she’d wondered at times why he’d left the city to work in a small town, even with the excuse that he wanted Mr. Carter to teach him about store management. Milwaukee afforded many such opportunities.
“I got into some trouble back home.” He took a deep breath. “My father gave me two choices—either work for George Carter and get my life in order, or be cut out of his will and lose my inheritance.”
“I see.” Everyone liked and respected Will. What could he have done that was so bad his father threatened him? “I’m sorry your father gave you an ultimatum.”
“I’m glad he did—because I met you. And now that I have, I’m not eager to see you traipsing off to another country.” Will gently trailed his finger along her jawline. “So, I’m warning you, Sarah McCall. I’m going to do everything in my power to persuade you to stay.”
chapteR SEVENTEEN
Bright, warm sunrays streamed through the open window across Sarah’s bed. She glanced at the clock sitting on the stand next to her. Only three hours of sleep—she’d tossed and turned most of the night.
A robin perched on the tree outside sang its Monday morning greeting. Sarah rolled over and covered her head with her pillow. What occupied Peter’s mind the night of the dance remained a mystery, but it must have been important. She’d approached him after church the day before, but he’d accepted an invitation to dinner from a parishioner who’d cornered him.
Determined to get answers, she threw off her covers and rolled out of bed with energy that came more from adrenaline than rest. She wasn’t needed at the store until tomorrow and could spend today however she liked.
Sarah could soon be thousands of miles away living in an African village. How would she use her time then? Telling Bible stories to the children? Caring for babies? Perhaps befriending women at a nearby village. Learning the language would be difficult, but she’d never shied away from a challenge. She’d do anything necessary to help where needed.
But for now, she’d chosen to pack a picnic and help Mrs. Jorgenson in her flower gardens. Mary would join them. Sarah would see Peter that morning at the parsonage when she stopped to pick up his daughter. It would be a perfect opportunity to hear him out.
Dressed for the day, Sarah marched down the stairs into the kitchen. She set a bowl of canned peaches on the table and made fresh coffee, scrambled eggs, and toast.
“You’re up early.” Her grandmother shuffled into the kitchen. “I thought you didn’t have to work at the store today.”
“I don’t. But it’s a gorgeous day. No sense in sleeping it away. Isn’t that what you always say?” Sarah poured two cups of coffee. “I made breakfast.”
“Smells like burnt toast.”
Sarah bit her lip. “It’s not burnt, Gram. But if you don’t like the way I made it, I can either scrape the top off or toast fresh pieces for you.”
“I don’t believe in being wasteful. I’ll make do.”
“If you sit, I’ll bring your food into the dining room. While we have breakfast, you can let me know if there’s anything around the house you want me to do for you before I leave for the day.”
“Leave?” Her grandmother stopped on her way to the dining room and turned her head so she could see Sarah. “Where are you going?”
“Remember? I told you that I’m taking Peter’s daughter over to Mrs. Jorgenson’s house today.”
“I don’t understand why you need to go over there and take care of her business when you’ve got plenty to do here. You were over there three nights last week.”
“I enjoy it, Gram. I’ve not been lax in any of my responsibilities here. You won’t find a cobweb in one room or a weed in any of our own gardens.” No matter what she did, her grandmother would never be satisfied. Why even try to please the woman?
Her grandmother pursed her lips, making a sour face, then shook her head as though disgusted—but at what? That Sarah was going to spend the day with someone else? Or that she couldn’t dispute that Sarah had taken care of her chores?
“Besides, Gram, aren’t you having lunch with your friends after the Ladies Aide Society meeting? You won’t even be here much of the day.”
“I suppose.” Her face relaxed, and she didn’t look quite like she’d just bitten into a tart crab apple. “Bessie’s husband is coming by at eleven this morning with the buggy so I don’t have to walk to church.”
“See? You’ll have a perfectly lovely day as well.”
The cane helped a great deal, but walking any distance had become more difficult for Gram. Sarah should be more sympathetic to her grandmother’s lack of freedom to go anywhere at will. If Sarah lived with similar limitations, she might be less than congenial too.
After breakfast and catering to her grandmother’s whims, Sarah finally escaped with a basket containing sandwiches, apples, and half a lemon cake to share with Mary and Mrs. Jorgenson. She hoped four-year-old little girls liked chicken sandwiches. If not, they’d find something for the child to eat so she wouldn’t tell her father they’d only given her an apple and cake for lunch.
Eager to get on with her day, she headed down the street. “Good morning!” Sarah waved as she approached Millie Kahl and her daughter, Rachel, weeding flower beds in their own front yard.
“Hi, Miss McCall!” Rachel, a beautiful young girl and a member of the Young People’s Society, returned the wave.
“Your roses are beautiful.” The peach and yellow flowers growing next to their two-story white house made the home cheerful and inviting.
Millie, a gentle soul, smiled. “Thank you. Their glory is all God’s doing, along with Rachel’s persistent care.”
“Then you certainly have a way with them, Rachel.” Sarah kept up her pace. “Would you mind giving some advice? Our roses aren’t nearly as pretty as yours.”
Rachel beamed. “I’d be happy to help.”
“Gram and I would both appreciate it. Whenever you have time.” Sarah waved good-bye and continued on past several more homes.
After passing the blacksmith shop, she headed down River Street and soon spotted Peter and Mary sitting on the parsonage steps. “Good morning.”
Peter’s face lit up. “It certainly is.”
“Are you ready to have a fun day, Mary?”
The little girl bounced on her father’s lap. “We’re—goin’—ta—’ave—a—fun—day!”
Peter tickled his daughter and she squealed. “I was just telling her the story about Noah and the ark.”
“I hope I didn’t come too soon. I wouldn’t want to interrupt the part about the rainbow. It wouldn’t be fair to leave the animals stuck on the boat.”
Peter chuckled. “The animals are safe.”
“Thank goodness.” Seeing Peter embrace Mary like she was the most precious thing in the world made Sarah’s heart melt like ice cream on a hot July afternoon. A twinge of envy nagged Sarah—she couldn’t remember her own father holding or playing with her.
“Mary, go play with your toys while I talk to Sarah. It won’t take long.”
She crawled from Peter’s lap, kissed him on the cheek, and then skipped to the end of the porch where a doll and stuffed bunny sat propped in a small chair.
He gestured toward the steps. “Please sit—just for a minute.”
Sarah set her basket of food on the ground and joined him.
His eyes twinkled. “Thank you for taking Mary with you today.”
“My pleasure. I promised I’d make her feel like this was home, and Mrs. Jorgenson is just the person to help me. Her own grandchildren live so far away she doesn’t see them often. You can imagine her excitement when I mentioned Mary would be visiting.”
“I appreciate it. I have some visits to make.”
“Are you ever going to take a day off?” She had only an inkling of how much time a pastor spent taking care of people’s needs outside of Sunday services and church meetings.
“I don’t want to let anyone down.”
“It must feel rewarding to help people the way you do.”
His eyebrows furrowed. “You must know how much you’re needed—how much you do for people. Just the other night you were willing to leave a party to help Frank Boyle get home.”
“That was nothing—it just felt like the natural thing to do.”
“It wasn’t nothing.” Peter offered a generous smile. “I’m sure your kindness made an impact on his wife.”
“I hope so. I think Clara felt better.” Sarah clasped her hands in front of her knees. “So, what did you want to talk about at the dance the other night?”
He leaned forward, seeming to study his hands. “What’s important now, Sarah, is what I saw after we left.” His voice had taken on a serious, thoughtful tone. “You were so strong and loving with Clara. I saw the joy in your eyes when you talked about God’s love for her and the family.” His voice caught. “I felt his presence while you prayed.” Peter straightened. “Whatever I had on my mind isn’t as important as what’s in your future. You’re needed in the mission field.”
“I don’t understand.” She’d wanted so much for Peter to believe in her, but why did it now feel that it came at a cost? To her—to him—to them both?
chapteR EIGHTEEN
So much for taking a “day off.” Instead of spending time with his daughter or on the river fishing, he’d driven into the country to visit an elderly woman unable to get to church, had lunch with the Methodist minister and his wife, and spent several hours with a young man in trouble with the law. He could only blame himself for giving the day away—he had a hard time saying no. Besides, serving others came with his calling.
He leaned back from his desk and flipped open his watch. The blacksmith shop had been closed for an hour, so the Boyle family should have finished their supper. Peter set his sermon notes aside and closed several open books.
Now he needed the strength to march up to the blacksmith’s door, ask to be invited in, and find a way to talk about what happened at the dance the other night without offending his hosts. He might not get a warm reception from Frank, but Clara may welcome a visit.
“Lord, if it’s your will that I speak to Frank Boyle, I ask that you go before me and make a way.”
Peter massaged his tight and burning neck muscles. Then he put on his suit jacket and donned his fedora. A calm and pleasant evening as any other in June, he saw no reason to rush the few blocks to the Boyle home, but it seemed to take mere seconds to reach his destination.
A screen door with a slight rip in the mesh stood as the only barrier between Peter and the inside. He rapped on the wood frame several times. “Hello?”
A boy about five or six with brown hair that needed a good trim ran to the entrance from somewhere inside the house, but stopped several feet away, not saying a word.
Peter smiled at the boy, hesitant to come near. “You’re James, right?”
“Yep, that’s James. He’s kind of shy.” Another boy, a little older with red hair and a face buried under freckles, approached the screen door from inside. “I’m Daniel.”
“Nice to meet you, Daniel. You, too, James.” Peter removed his hat. “I’m Reverend Caswell, and I was wondering if I could speak to your parents.” He had no idea of what he was going to say. The good Lord better have a plan.
“I know who you are. I seen you around town.” Daniel turned on his heel. “Ma! A preacher is here!”
James chased after Daniel, but soon returned, clutching his mother’s skirt.
“Reverend Caswell.”’ Boyle shifted the baby girl she carried to her right hip. The child had enormous blue eyes and red curls.
“Good evening, Mrs. Boyle.”
“Please call me Clara. After the other night, it doesn’t feel like we should be quite so formal.” Her cheeks pinked. “Thank you again for helping Frank home.”
“You’re welcome.” Peter cleared his throat. “I was wondering if I could talk with you and your husband—well, specifically your husband—that is, if you’re done with supper.”
“Please come in.” She waved him in as she balanced the baby on her hip. “We’re finished, but would you like a piece of lemon pie? It’s my husband’s favorite.”
“Thank you—maybe next time.” If there’d be a next time. “Beautiful baby.”
A smile broke on Clara’s face. “Thank you. Her name is Lucy.”
“Hi, Lucy.” Peter held out his finger, and the child grabbed on.
“She likes you.” Clara gave her daughter a quick peck on the cheek. “I’m so glad you came back. I was hoping you would.”
God, you do work in mysterious ways...
“Is your husband feeling better?”
“Frank won’t bite, Reverend.” The hint of teasing in the woman’s voice surprised Peter. “He’s in his rocker out back. I was just getting him a glass of lemonade. I’ll pour one for you too.”
In the kitchen, Clara handed the baby off to a girl. “Rose, take Lucy into the other room and play with her.”
“Yes, Ma.”
Clara poured two large glasses of lemonade a
nd handed one to Peter. She stood silent for a moment, then looked at him with misty eyes. “I know men don’t talk about their feelings, ’cause they got lots of pride. But this hurt he’s carrying ain’t gonna get any better unless he gets it talked out of him. He needs a man to tell him so.”
“I can only try, Clara.” This woman’s hopes were riding on a miracle.
“Whatever happens, I thank you for being here.”
Peter gulped a drink of the tart liquid in his glass and followed Clara out the kitchen door to the back porch.
“Reverend Caswell is here to see you, Frank.” She handed the glass she carried to her husband.
Frank stood and offered Peter his hand, but his wary eyes revealed his mistrust. “From what Clara tells me, you helped Mr. Reed haul me back here the other night. Don’t remember much about it, but thanks the same.”
“I was glad we got you home safe.”
“I need to warn you. We aren’t church-going people, and I’ve got six mouths to feed, so you’re wasting your time if you come looking for support.”
“Frank,” Clara put her hand on his forearm, “he didn’t come askin’ for money. He’s just here to visit.”
Her husband waved toward a second rocker a few feet from his. “You’re welcome to sit and talk, Reverend. Can’t promise I’ll join you.”
“Sounds fair.” Peter gave a short nod to Clara. She got the hint and went back into the kitchen, leaving the two men alone.
Peter sank into the other rocker and glanced at his companion. The smithy with hair as black as coal had changed into a clean shirt and trousers, but stubble covered his face. His hands gripped the front of the rocking chair’s arms, and stains surrounded the fingernails where soap hadn’t quite done the job.
Frank stopped rocking, and his dark eyes pierced through Peter. “Just what is it you wanna talk about, Preacher?”
Peter kept rocking at a slow pace. From his experience, sermons were better preached on Sunday mornings. Frank certainly didn’t need a message on the dangers of imbibing too much alcohol, nor would it help to judge and condemn him. “I’d rather listen and let you do the talking.”