by Dawn Kinzer
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Frank’s eyes narrowed. “You trying to trick me into spilling my guts?”
“No.” Peter stopped the chair and shrugged. “I have plenty of opportunities to speak my piece. Just thought it might be kind of refreshing to be on the other end for a change.”
Frank pulled out a pipe and pouch of tobacco from a pocket in his trousers. “I suppose this is about what happened the other night—me drinking.” He filled the pipe.
“Your wife is concerned.”
“I didn’t mean no harm. It just happened.”
“Nothing just happens, Frank.”
“I guess it don’t.” The blacksmith lit the pipe and took several puffs. “I know I embarrassed my wife in front of the town folk, and I’ve already apologized.”
“Glad to hear it.”
They rocked in silence—Peter sipping his drink and Frank puffing on his pipe, watching the sun sink closer to the tree line.
They must have sat that way for a half hour. Time for Peter to leave the man alone. He’d come back another evening—maybe Frank would talk a bit more then.
“You being a reverend, you wouldn’t understand.” Frank spoke just as Peter was about to call it a night.
“I wear a preacher’s collar, but I still have my struggles just like any man.”
“You saying you’re a sinner just like the rest of us?”
“I still make my share of mistakes.” Peter carried the weight of his own every day, but he wanted that to change. How he longed to find peace for what he’d done to Lily.
“Never heard a preacher say anything like that.” Frank went quiet—as though mulling something over. Several minutes passed in silence. “I got drunk the other night ’cause I was thinking about my son. He died a year ago.” His shoulders slumped, and anguish filled his heavy voice.
“I’m sorry, Frank.” Peter stopped rocking. “I know how it feels to lose someone.”
“I heard you was a widower.”
“My wife died a few years back. Right after my daughter’s second birthday.” If something happened to Mary, he didn’t know how he’d survive.
“It was my fault.” Frank’s chest rose and fell. “He begged to learn the trade, so I talked my boss into letting Lewis work a few hours every day.”
“At a blacksmith shop?”
Frank nodded. “Before we come here.” The man rubbed the pipe’s bowl, as though it comforted him. “I warned Lewis to be careful, but you know fourteen-year-old boys. They think they’re so smart they don’t have to listen.” Frank wiped his nose with his shirt sleeve, then stiffened. “When I left to check on something, he tried to shoe a horse—one with a wild streak. Prove himself to me and the boss, you know. The horse kicked him in the head.” A sound that Peter couldn’t describe escaped the man’s throat.
Lord, what am I supposed to say? The strong, muscular man sat like a lump, still heartbroken and vulnerable after a year, and possibly the only thing that held him together now was pride.
“I lost my job ’cause I drank too much, so I promised my wife I would stay away from booze. But the other night...I know she misses him, but she still doesn’t understand.”
“No one can truly understand what you’re going through—except God.”
Frank spit on the ground. “I’m so angry with the Almighty I could—” He spoke through gritted teeth. Then he hit the chair’s arm with his palm. “And I hate myself for not protecting my son.”
“God didn’t cause the accident.” Peter swallowed hard and looked straight into the other man’s eyes, brimming with pain. “And you’re not to blame either.”
“Then why do my insides feel like they’re rotting?”
“Because instead of letting go, you’re allowing the pain to keep eating away at you.”
“It haunts me—seeing him so still.” Frank leaned his elbows on his knees, then he dropped his head into his hands.
Peter flinched. The vision of Lily’s twisted body at the bottom of the stairs continued to visit his dreams. He and Frank were more alike than the other man realized.
“I believe the Devil tortures us with bad memories of the past.” Peter chose his words carefully. “He wants us to dwell there and blame ourselves for things we can’t change.”
The other man sat up and stared at Peter. Frank didn’t say a word, but he didn’t stop listening either. Peter might as well spit everything out. “I understand what it’s like—wishing you could go back and do or say things differently—but you can’t. No one can.” Not even me.
“I don’t know what to do.” Frank sounded defeated.
Peter kept eye contact. “Learn from the past, so you don’t make the same mistakes. Try to move on, and focus on what God has planned for the future.” Peter could have been preaching to himself—he needed to hear and believe the same words he offered the grieving father.
“You laying one of your Sunday sermons on me, Preacher?”
“That wasn’t my intention.” Peter swatted a mosquito that buzzed around his head. “But if you tell me I’m doing a good job, I just might use it for the next church service.”
A small chuckle escaped the other man’s lips.
“Frank, I’m an ordinary man. I don’t have all the answers, but maybe you and I could try hiking the road ahead together.” Peter had arrived at the home with a purpose in mind, but he’d leave feeling better than when he arrived. The blacksmith could be a little gruff, but he was also an honest soul—one that Peter wanted to know better.
“I don’t read the Bible, and I don’t talk religion.”
“I don’t smoke, and I don’t touch anything stronger than the lemonade your wife made. But I could always use another friend.” Peter meant it.
“Do you like to fish?”
chapteR NINETEEN
Sarah wiped moisture from her brow and mentally checked off possible spaces Mary might have crawled into or hidden behind. “Gram, where could she possibly be?” Sarah’s corset, now dampened by her physical exertion in the summer heat, felt even more confining, and her shirtwaist clung to her skin.
“Are you sure you’ve searched everywhere for that child?” Gram wrung her hands. “Why would a coyote come into town? They avoid people, and there’s no need to scavenge for food this time of year.”
“Rabies, Gram. Mr. Kahl said the coyote has rabies.” Sarah could barely breathe. A small child wouldn’t stand a chance against a mean and unpredictable animal. “I’ve checked the shed, under the willow tree, behind the hedges. I’ve gone through every room in the house—even checked the cellar.”
The doorbell rang.
“That must be Peter.” The day had been so perfect, and Sarah had been eager to share it with him. Now he’d never want to leave Mary in her care again.
Gram threw a wave toward the entrance. “Go on! Let the poor man in.”
He’d know where Mary liked to hide—maybe places Sarah hadn’t dreamed of thinking to explore. She inhaled, grasped the knob, and swung the door open.
“I’m sorry I left Mary with you so long.” Peter removed his fedora and stepped across the threshold. “What’s wrong, Sarah?”
She tried to swallow, but her mouth was as dry as stale bread. “Peter, we’ve looked everywhere inside and out, but we can’t find Mary.” There. She’d said it, and now they could band together in the hunt. “You know she loves to play hide-and-seek.”
He paled. “When did you last see her?”
“After supper she wanted to play on the back porch while I washed dishes. It’s such a nice evening, the porch is enclosed, and I thought the fresh air through the windows would be better for her than being inside this stuffy house. But when I went to get her, she was gone.”
“We’ve got to find her.” He stormed toward the kitchen. “A rabid coyote was spotted in town. Someone came by Frank’s and asked us to help spread the word,” he called over his shoulder, fear permeating his voice.
She raced after him. “I know, Pe
ter. That’s why I’ve been so frantic to find her.”
He threw the back door open and flew down the steps into the yard, with Sarah close behind. “Mary, where are you? Daddy could really use a hug right now.”
It would be dark soon. Sarah’s gaze darted left and right, searching for Mary’s blond curls and any sign of the coyote lurking. Gram’s pink peonies at the far end of the yard swayed. The evening lacked any breeze, so Sarah strained to see what caused the movement. Was that golden hair?
Would a sick coyote cower behind a bush? She rushed toward the peonies, but as she reached them, Rachelle’s yellow tabby from next door jumped out and scampered across the yard, heading for home.
Sarah had already checked there, but Peter entered the large shed where they stored gardening tools and countless other items they didn’t have room for in the house. A crashing sound came from inside the shed, and he let out frustrated yell.
Sarah stepped inside the door frame. “Are you all right?”
“I knocked some pots off a shelf and one hit me on the head, but I’m fine.”
A high-pitched giggle came from somewhere behind her and Sarah spun around. Mary was edging out from the crawlspace beneath the back porch through a small hole in the lattice covering the left side. She must have been hiding in there the entire time.
Air escaped Sarah’s lungs and her shoulders relaxed. “Peter, she’s fine.” Sarah turned back toward him. “She was hiding underneath the porch.”
Peter’s eyes, focused on something behind Sarah, widened. “No, Mary,” he whispered.
Sarah whirled around, and her breath caught. “Oh, dear God in heaven.”
A coyote, with foam dripping from its mouth, stood about twenty feet from Mary. He gave a low growl and crouched as though getting ready to spring.
Mary smiled at Peter and Sarah and pointed to the animal. “Look at the doggie!”
The wild animal, the rumble from his throat a bit louder, took several steps toward her and stopped. Mary looked to her father, her eyes enlarged. “Daddy!” she cried, her delight replaced by fear.
“Don’t move, honey.” Peter spoke with a steady and calming voice. Then whispered something inaudible—perhaps a prayer.
Sarah and Peter stood at least forty-five feet away. What could they possibly do? Sarah stopped breathing, and her legs felt like petrified wood. Dear God, please keep her safe.
The coyote, bearing sharp teeth, snarled, and advanced slowly.
Mary, her body stiff and her eyes focused on the animal, whimpered. “Don’t bite, doggie.”
“Make noise.” Peter reached around the opening of the shed, pulled out a shovel, and yelled as he charged the coyote.
A tin pail sat next to the shed, and following his example, Sarah banged on it with a stick, creating a loud racket. “Get! Get out of here!”
Gram stepped out on the top porch step, slipped back inside, but returned within seconds, striking a kettle with a spoon. “Go on! Go on!”
The coyote recoiled, spun one way and then the other, as if confused by the aggressive humans and noise. Then it took off and ran between two thick lilac bushes growing at the edge of the property.
Within seconds, Peter had thrown the shovel aside and scooped Mary into his arms. He sank to the ground, cradling her.
Sarah’s knees went weak, and she dropped to the grass carpet. At any time, the coyote could have attacked and bitten the child, and it would have been Sarah’s fault for not taking better care of her.
A gunshot rang in the air, followed by a yelp.
Matthew Kahl, the muscular town butcher, came running into Gram’s backyard carrying a rifle. “Everyone all right over here?”
Sarah strode over to the rest. She slumped next to Gram, who sat on the top porch step, clutching her pot and spoon.
“We’re fine, Matthew.” Peter kissed the top of Mary’s head. “Thank you.”
“That coyote won’t be bothering you or anyone else.” Matthew gestured toward his place. “I’d better go take care of it and let the neighbors know.” He started hiking back in the direction he came from.
“I think I’ll make some tea to calm my nerves before I go to bed. I’m feeling a bit rattled.” Gram lost her balance as she tried to stand, but Sarah caught her arm and steadied her.
“I’ll be in later, Gram.” Sarah’s own nerves were jittery, but tea wouldn’t help.
Peter still carried Mary in his arms. “I need to get you home, little one.
“I’m coming with you.” Sarah not only wanted to apologize—she felt almost a motherly urge to make sure Mary felt safe and sound.
Peter’s glare pierced her heart. “There’s no need. We’re fine.” He took several steps away, then swung around and faced her again. “I—I couldn’t handle losing her, Sarah.” He turned and walked away without saying good-bye.
***
Sarah hunched on the back porch steps, fighting with the evening breeze, trying to keep loose hair from blowing across her face. They’d all been frightened, but by God’s grace and quick thinking no harm had come to Mary. Earlier in the evening, burdened with guilt, Sarah believed it was her fault they’d experienced the terrifying encounter with the rabid coyote. Peter had marched off as though Sarah had been careless and neglectful, but he was wrong. She’d done everything she could to ensure Mary was well cared for that day. Children got into mischief, and as angelic as she was most of the time, Mary liked to play games with grownups.
The sun had set below the trees. Faint light still lingered, but darkness would descend in minutes. There would be no sleeping tonight if she didn’t make peace with Peter. After all the excitement, her grandmother had retired for the evening. Sarah wouldn’t be missed. She pushed herself off from the steps and dabbed her nose with a handkerchief from her skirt pocket. Carrying two pails of planted flowers, she lumbered to the parsonage.
She knocked several times before Peter opened the door, his suit coat now removed and his shirt sleeves rolled up.
“What are you doing here?” He sounded weary.
Sarah breezed through the doorway past him into the parlor. “I can’t let—we need—” The confidence she’d felt only moments ago evaporated like boiling water in a tea kettle.
Mary wandered into the room. “Sarah!” The little girl, now clean and dressed in a nightgown, leaped into Sarah’s arms. “Did you come to say good night?”
“I did.” Sarah snuggled her nose into the child’s freshly washed hair. “You smell like lilacs. My favorite scent in the whole wide world.”
“Daddy used soap from your store.”
“I brought your flowers—the ones we planted today. They’re right outside the door.” She released her hug, and the child jumped up and down. Mary seemed to have recovered from the earlier incident.
“My flowers! My flowers!” She twirled around, obviously none the worse for wear. No fear or concerns lingered. “Daddy, come see them.”
“We’ll find a place for them tomorrow.” Peter rolled down his sleeves. “It’s bedtime.”
“Sarah can tuck me in.” Mary grabbed Sarah’s hand and tugged her toward the stairs. “C’mon, Daddy. We need to say prayers.”
Sarah glanced back at Peter for permission. He didn’t respond, so she followed Mary upstairs, but his stare burned her back every step of the way.
Mary climbed into bed, and Sarah pulled a sheet and a thin pink blanket over the child. Then she knelt next to the bed. Peter stood in the doorway.
“Daddy, come pray.”
Sarah bowed her head and closed her eyes. Peter knelt, his upper arm grazing hers, and his body radiating warmth along her side.
“You can say prayers now, Mary.” He sounded calm, as though Sarah’s presence next to him—at his daughter’s bedside—was a normal occurrence. “We’re ready.”
“Thank you, God, for my house, for rainbows, and for flowers. Thank you that the mean ky-ot-ee didn’t bite me. Bless Mommy in heaven, Daddy, Mrs. Jor—gen—son, and Sarah. I’m
happy that she’s my friend. Amen.”
“Amen.” Sarah struggled to swallow the lump in her throat. Although a bit to handle at times, she’d fallen in love with the child.
Peter’s softened eyes held hers. “I’ll be down in a minute.”
“Good night, sweetheart.” Time to hug Mary, kiss her forehead, and leave the room. Peter had spent the majority of the day and evening away from his daughter. It was important to give them a few minutes alone.
Sarah slipped out of the bedroom and down the stairs. She wandered around the parlor and stopped in front of the fireplace mantel where a silver-framed photo of a lady in a fancy gown sat displayed. The lovely woman with striking eyes—a mature image of Mary—could only be Lily.
Sarah understood now why Peter had fallen in love and married the heiress. Not only stunning, Lily appeared confident and poised. It made even more sense that Peter acted overly-protective of his daughter—seeing his wife in the child every day—a living reminder of the woman he’d loved and lost. Sarah, with her wild hair and adventurous spirit, could never compete with a refined woman like Lily. Envy dropped its painful cloak over Sarah. No wonder Peter had chosen her over Sarah.
“She’s asleep.”
Lost in her thoughts, Sarah hadn’t heard Peter enter the room. “Lily was beautiful.”
A pained expression crossed his face. “Yes, she was.”
Sarah groaned within. Peter still grieved his dead wife. Maybe he’d never get over Lily. Maybe he didn’t want to. “Mary looks just like her.”
He nodded. “About Mary...” Peter gestured toward a blue settee, but chose a nearby chair for himself.
Sarah tried to get comfortable. “About what happened tonight—it was frightening and you have every right to be angry, but I wasn’t irresponsible. I may not have a lot of experience taking care of children, but I would rather suffer horrible things than have any harm come to Mary.”
“I know.” His body relaxed, and he spoke calmly. “I’m sorry if I said anything that hurt your feelings.”