Hope's Design (The Daughters of Riverton Book 2)

by Dawn Kinzer

  “Of course. Sounds romantic.” Hope could stand to hear a happily-ever-after ending.

  “I could tell it, but it would be a fairytale.”

  “Jake!” Annie gave him a shove. “That’s mean.”

  “Sorry, Hope. Didn’t think you’d fall for it. But isn’t a joke better than a ghost story while riding in the deep, dark woods?” He raised his hands like he was going to attack Annie and made an oohing sound.

  “That’s your defense?” Annie’s reprimanding tone didn’t fool Hope. Her cousin adored the man. “Hope, we’re riding through a sugar bush.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Maple trees—lots of them. Ole Larson owns the property, and he makes syrup. He sells some to stores in the area and gives the rest away.”

  “I know Mr. Larson. He’s the older man I see every Sunday at church with his sweet wife, Martha.” They’d smiled and greeted her every Sunday since her arrival in Riverton.

  Jake grabbed a fresh piece of hay and stuck the end in his mouth. “In mid-February to mid-March, when the sap starts running, he’ll come out here with a small crew to tap the trees. He can’t do all the work on his own anymore. Thomas helps, and last year, Ben and I came over a couple of times to help take buckets off the trees. It’s fun.”

  Annie turned to Jake. “You told me once, but I can’t remember. How much sap can you get from one tree?”

  “About twenty gallons, and that only amounts to about two quarts of syrup.” Jake removed the hay from the corner of his mouth and flicked it over the side of the wagon. “Sap contains a lot of water, so it has to boil down over a hot fire for about five days to thicken up.”

  “I had no idea.” The next time she ate pancakes, Hope would have a greater appreciation for the pools of maple syrup she poured.

  The students in the wagon behind them began singing a lively tune, but the lyrics were carried away with the night’s breeze.

  “Listen to them.” Annie, always drawn to music, pulled herself up and sat on her ankles. “Come on, everyone.” She started waving at their companions. “We don’t want them to have all the fun.”

  “You start us, Annie,” someone shouted.

  She played around with a few notes, then seemed to find the pitch she wanted, and her clear voice belted out the new song by George M. Cohen, “The Yankee Doodle Boy.” She’d been singing it around the house for days, so she knew the verses well, but the rest joined in on the chorus. After once through the sad ballad, “A Bird in a Gilded Cage,” she switched to the more upbeat “Bill Bailey, Won’t You Please Come Home?”

  Hidden in the shadows as the wagon bounced along, Hope didn’t feel compelled to mouth the words. No one would notice whether her lips moved or not. Listening to the music felt both comforting and sad as she was part of—yet apart from—the group.

  As they sang about wanting Bill Bailey to come home, Hope pleaded in her heart with Ben to come home—to her, to their friendship, or whatever they could have together. She longed for what they’d shared before she’d messed up, again. The laughter, the teasing, the mutual interest in art. She had no one else to talk to who understood what creating something pleasing to the eye or inspiring meant to her.

  Did he miss her? Was he having a good time tonight? It was impossible to tell in the dark with him at the other end of the wagon. A young woman who was sitting with several of her friends moved closer to Ben and leaned in, as though whispering in his ear. His head bobbed silently. Was he laughing at some witty thing she’d said?

  How could one feel so alone in the midst of song and laughter? The blanket of hay no longer warmed her, and she shuddered. She should have never come. It was a mistake to pretend that Ben’s distance didn’t pierce her heart.

  Annie and Jake were so focused on each other, they seemed to have forgotten Hope. She forgave them. How could she not, when she preferred it that way? They’d come on the hayride for fun, not a night of taking care of her and trying to mend her wounds. Hope lay back in the hay, not caring that her hair would be filled with it later, and watched the moon follow them wherever the wagon turned.

  An owl hooted nearby, the sound barely noticeable in the mix of storytelling and jokes. But the bird’s sad and eerie call echoed what Hope felt in her heart. Who would love her for who she was? Despite her faults? A stubborn, independent, creative woman, who out of good intentions, sometimes leapt ahead and did things without thinking. What was it in Hope that made her want to fix things, even rescue people? Was she willing to be used by God and in his own timing? Or had she too often raced ahead, believing she knew better than him?

  “We’re almost there.” Annie tapped Hope’s shoulder as the wagons emerged from the woods, and her view no longer held dark branches clawing the air, but an open sky filled with glittering stars. Annie pointed. “Ole’s farm is up ahead.”

  Hope sat up and brushed hay from her sleeves. The wagon bounced as it moved onto an open field that had already been harvested, and she grabbed the side of the wagon to steady herself. Her gaze moved to the back of the wagon where Ben leaned against the wooden side, his face hidden in dark shadows. Was he staring at Hope, or giving a listening ear to the young woman who clearly wanted his attention?

  The wagon train pulled into the farmyard lit with lanterns. Any other night, Hope might have thought the scene enchanting, but not tonight. She just wanted to go home and hide in her room, in her bed, under the covers, in the dark.

  Be strong and of a good courage; be not afraid, neither be thou dismayed: for the Lord thy God is with thee whithersoever thou goest. Joshua 1:9 was a verse her mother quoted whenever Hope became fearful of going to new places, trying new things, or even making new friends. They had become words to cling to whenever she feared failing at anything, but it had been some time since she’d called upon them.

  Benjamin Greene had undone her. Hope loved him, and she didn’t know what to do about it. She should trust God in all matters, and she was trying to depend on him for answers pertaining to her design work, but when it came to love...Why would God let her feelings grow so strong for Ben, only to have them rejected? Why didn’t God protect her from getting hurt—again? The people in Riverton had embraced her—and she them. But Ben was also a part of the community, and if she remained, every day could potentially bring fresh emotional injuries.

  People riding on their wagon began climbing off. Hope followed Annie, and they trudged through the hay to the back of the wagon so they could follow suit, Hope’s eyes focusing on where to step next. They reached the end, but Annie blocked the view straight ahead. Jake, already on the ground, whisked Annie into his arms and moved aside.

  There Ben stood, ready to help Hope down from the wagon.

  Her heart racing, she accepted his extended hand. “Thank you.”

  Annie’s questioning eyes searched Hope’s, but Jake grasped her arm and led her away. Brother looking out for brother.

  Hope, the last person off the wagon, stepped with care down the wooden steps. All the other passengers had gone on ahead, eager to join the festivities. As soon as she reached the bottom and got her balance, Ben released his hold and hitched his thumbs in his front pockets. He nodded toward the crowd circling several tables set up in the front yard. “Martha and some of the other ladies from church have enough hot cider and cookies to feed the county.”

  Hope tucked a strand of loose hair behind her ear. “Sounds nice.” She couldn’t look at him. Why was he doing this? Was he just being polite because of the audience present?

  “No one beats Martha’s sugar cookies.” He shuffled his feet. “It’d be rude not to try them.”

  “Cookies.” Ben wanted to talk about food?

  “And cider. I thought you might be hungry. Or thirsty.”

  “I see.” Did he think this was funny? Hope crossed her arms and tilted her head to look up at him. Didn’t he realize joking around with her like they were strangers was more painful than him ignoring her? “That’s all you’ve got to say, Mr. Greene?�
�

  “No,” he said firmly. “But I hoped it might be a place to start.” He took a deep breath. “Thought we’d get a cup of cider and find a place to talk. Maybe continue the conversation on the ride back.”

  The moon suddenly seemed to glow with more intensity, the stars twinkled more vividly, and laughter sounded more joyous. Ben must dislike the tension between them just as much as she did. Now they’d get a chance to repair things between them. Warmth flowed through her, melting the icy chill that had earlier claimed her body.

  She smiled up at him. “I’d like that, Ben. I’d like that a lot.”

  To stroll beside him toward the tables felt natural. He poured her a cup of warm cider. The sweet apple nectar laced with cinnamon complemented the spices in the molasses cookie she nibbled on. A bonfire nearby helped light the area, and its heat gave comfort from cool evening breezes.

  Ben grabbed a blanket lying over a chair. “Would you mind...”

  He gestured to an area away from the group, and she followed him to a grassy spot not as well lit. The farther they moved from the fire, the cooler the night air. Hope shuddered.

  “Will you be warm enough?” Ben sounded concerned, even a bit protective. “I can find another blanket.”

  “No, thank you. I’ll be fine.” With many thoughts and questions flying through her head, she sat on the blanket he spread out on the grass.

  He dropped next to her, took a long drink of his own cider, then fiddled with the empty cup. “I don’t like how things have gone between us.”

  “I don’t either.” Where was this conversation leading? She clutched her drink to steady her shaking hands. “I thought we’d become good friends, maybe even more. Was I wrong?”

  “No.” He put his cup to the side and lightly caressed her arm, but only for a brief moment.

  That gesture—that simple touch—made her breath hitch and her heart start pounding all over again. Could she dare hope his feelings were strong enough for her that they could overcome mistakes made in the past? If he’d opened his arms to her, she would have dissolved into them, right there, in front of the entire congregation of Peace Lutheran Church.

  “I’ve missed you, Hope. It’s been almost four weeks since we’ve talked, or at least said anything meaningful to each other.” He gazed up at the night sky, as though gathering courage from the stars, then turned back to her. “It’s been difficult to stay away from you. I don’t know why I thought I could—or even should.”

  “I’ve missed you too.” There was so much she wanted to say, but something within told her to listen. “But we’re here now, and I want to hear what’s on your mind—and in your heart.” She gave him a smile for encouragement.

  “I’ve done a lot of thinking, and I need to apologize. I was too hard on you for not telling me about Henry earlier.” His forehead furrowed, and he sounded earnest. “That was something not only personal, but painful, and I didn’t have any right to get upset about you keeping it to yourself. I believe you’d have told me in time, when you were ready.”

  A weight lifted now that he’d accepted that truth. “I promise. I would have explained everything. I would never have kept my relationship with Henry a secret from you.”

  “When he laid his hands on you, all I felt was rage toward him. After the promise I’d made to myself, it scared me that I wanted to hurt him.” He paused for a lengthy moment. “I realized how much I care about you.” Ben’s voice was thick with emotion. “That was pretty terrifying too.”

  He did have strong feelings for her, maybe even love her. She wanted to nestle in close to him and tell him she loved him, but he took a deep breath and hesitated. Ben wasn’t finished. She forced herself to not move.

  “I spent some time talking to Reverend Caswell, and I told him everything. About my painting. About Percy and what happened in that schoolyard. How losing my temper and fighting with him caused his blindness. Everything.” Ben got quiet, as though lost in his own thoughts.

  “What did he say?” she whispered.

  Ben rubbed his eyes. “He said God had forgiven me a long time ago, and that I needed to forgive myself.”

  “He’s right.”

  “I know. I’ve spent a lot of time thinking and praying since then, and I’ve finally been able to do it. With my parents’ help, I also did some digging and found out where Percy lives. You know, he’s married and has two children. Knowing that gave me the courage to write him and ask for his forgiveness. I haven’t heard from him yet, but I hope to. Anyway, it sure made me feel better.”

  “I’m glad.” Maybe now Ben could move on. He wouldn’t carry that burden or hide his art anymore.

  “Me too. It feels good. Like one of those tall New York City buildings has been lifted from my shoulders.” He chuckled.

  She smiled at hearing the relief in his voice. “That’s wonderful.” Dare she suggest what she was thinking? They were just starting to find a tender new common ground. But if they valued honesty, she needed to tell him. She took a slow breath. “Now that you’ve let go of that burden, there’s no reason for you not share your talent.”

  He twitched. “What?” Ben shook his head. “That’s not what forgiving myself is about.”

  Ben still couldn’t see. She shifted on the blanket. She had to convince him. Otherwise, if they were married one day, how could she carry on with her creativity while his languished away in a shed? “But you haven’t shown anyone your work because you thought you had to do penance for hurting Percy.” Her voice rose in volume, but she couldn’t help herself. This was too important. “Now that you’ve realized there’s no need, what reason would you possibly use to hide your artistic gifts?”

  “Why are you being so stubborn about this?”

  “I have too much faith in you to let you make weak excuses.”

  “Then you’re believing in the wrong person. I don’t have what it takes. If I had any talent, you would’ve heard from the man who’s kept my painting for, what has it been now? Six weeks? Still no word. It’s probably been tossed in the corner of the gallery’s basement and is buried beneath a pile of rubbish.”

  “That’s not true. You will hear from him.” She clenched a fist. “Why do artists have to be so temperamental?”

  “Don’t forget, you’re speaking about yourself.”

  “Maybe I am.” She loosened her fingers and tried to calm her heart. “Ben, I don’t want to fight.”

  “I don’t either.” He locked his fingers through hers. “It means a lot that you see me as a worthy artist, and I appreciate how much you care about me and my work. It was a crazy childhood wish to have my paintings on display, but they’ll never hang in a gallery like Arthur Woodlin’s. That’s not ever going to happen. So, I’m going to continue painting for myself, and only myself, and I hope you’ll be able to respect that.” He squeezed her hand, and in the dim golden light cast by the bonfire, his gaze locked on hers. “I love you, Hope, and I want you in my life. So, I need you to accept that.”

  Hope’s emotions mirrored a rainbow-colored kite being lifted by the wind. He wanted her as much as she wanted him. “I love you too.”

  Ben didn’t understand why it was so important to her that he share his work, and there were times when she didn’t understand her need to push him either. All she could do now was love him and pray for answers. Hope did know that Ben was a talented artist, and if his work inspired her to experience God and his love for his creation through paint brushed on canvas, it could move others too.

  chapter TWENTY-SEVEN

  Almost in a mindless fog, Hope folded the women’s handkerchiefs in front of her on the store counter. She’d gone through the morning, and now most of the afternoon, struggling to focus on customers’ needs. Psalm 27:14 continued to run through her mind. Wait on the Lord.

  “I know it’s only been a few days since the hayride, Lord,” Hope whispered as she fingered a white handkerchief’s lace edging, “and I need to trust that an answer will come, but I sincerely pray
that you don’t keep me waiting too long.”

  She hadn’t mentioned it again to Ben, but she’d been praying that God would reveal to both of them what he wanted for Ben in the art world.

  “Miss Andrews?”

  Her head jerked up, and her gaze flew from the cloth to her boss, who now stood before her. “Mr. Carter, sir.”

  Although she tried to appear relaxed, obviously Hope was startled by her employer’s intrusion on her prayer. She didn’t need a mirror to know that her face had turned a fiery red. She wouldn’t have been surprised to see Mr. Carter calling for a bucket of water to douse out the flame.

  Hope cleared her throat. “Is there something I can do for you?”

  “Not me, but this gentleman is looking for you.” Mr. Carter smiled, then stepped to the side and gestured toward the man next to him.

  Hope suddenly felt a little lightheaded. She grabbed the edge of the counter as her knees threatened to buckle, but she gained her composure before toppling over. She’d asked for a quick answer to prayer, but none had ever come on the heels of saying amen before.

  “I happened to be up front when he walked in and inquired about where to find you.” He held out his hand. “Nice meeting you, Mr. Woodlin. I’m sure Miss Andrews will be able to assist you, but if you need anything else while you’re in town, please don’t hesitate to call upon me.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Carter. You’ve been very helpful.” He shook the store owner’s hand, then turned to Hope. “Hello again, Miss Andrews.”

  “Mr. Woodlin, I don’t understand.” She’d written letters, requesting that he return Ben’s painting—her painting—but no response had come.

  “I’m sure you don’t, and for that, I owe you an apology.” He placed his fedora on the counter. “I have a lot of explaining to do, but my reasons for not contacting you earlier will have to wait. You have a job, and I assured Mr. Carter that I wouldn’t take much of your time.”