by Alana Terry
Jillian never understood how that woman could talk so long. Jillian had no problems with the short, simple kind of prayers her family offered around the dinner table, but her version of saying grace was like a child’s crude stick figure and Grandma Lucy’s was a Michelangelo masterpiece.
Maybe Jillian would have turned into a prayer warrior like that. She’d certainly been spiritual enough as a kid that she might have carried that fervor into her adult life if things hadn’t turned out the way they did.
“Don’t hold too low now or you’ll squeeze off the milk.” Connie repositioned Jillian’s hands on the udders. They were milking later than normal since Connie was taking time to walk her through each and every step. Jillian felt about as patient as the swollen goat to get the barn chores over and done with.
I knew this would happen if I moved back here.
When she and her family left for Seattle, she’d sworn to never step foot in this wretched part of Washington state again. Of course, having her grandmother living here made it hard to avoid Orchard Grove entirely, but aside from Christmases and other major family events, Jillian was done with this stupid town.
Or at least that’s what she had thought.
Yet another one of life’s unexpected twists. God was probably laughing his head off.
At least she was away from her parents, but in some ways she’d just traded in one set of conservative, judgmental guardians for another.
Grandma Lucy hadn’t talked about what brought Jillian back to Safe Anchorage Farm this morning in the prayer room. She didn’t give the lecture Jillian had prepared for, but what did that matter? Even if she didn’t say how disappointed she was, Jillian knew it anyway.
As if she were the first pastor’s kid who ever fell off the deep end. Some people were so stupid and arrogant. Closed-minded fools who lived in a world where children were sold into slavery, teens were dying from drug overdoses, terrorists were strapping bombs to themselves and blowing up crowded buses filled with innocent civilians, and folks acted as if one tiny indiscretion was enough to send the entire world to its destruction.
So Jillian had started dating someone she shouldn’t have. The way her parents treated it, she would have been better off joining the Taliban as long as she kept herself pure in the process.
Ridiculous. Here she was, a grown adult in the twenty-first century, and her parents were so scandalized they sent her off to an entirely different part of the state. It wasn’t like they were living in Victorian England where girls were quietly and conveniently put away in situations like this. It wasn’t like Jillian was the first or the last pastor’s daughter to find herself pregnant out of wedlock.
But conservative Christianity was her birthright, as much a part of her biological makeup as her strawberry blonde hair or her sunophobic complexion. She couldn’t cut that part of her upbringing out of her any more than she could scrub off the small freckles that spotted her cheekbones. Her parents acted as if her departure from the faith happened the moment she decided to date that no-good-loser-turned-boyfriend-turned-ex-boyfriend-turned-stalker.
As if she could have known the kind of person he was back then.
As if the moment she agreed to dance with him when she went out with her friends, God removed his Holy Spirit from her, branded her a backslidden believer beyond any hope of redemption, and condemned her soul to hell.
“I think she’s dry now. We better get her down and keep moving along.” Connie gave a half-hearted chuckle. “It might be lunchtime before we’re done.”
Jillian sat on the milking stool while her aunt got the spotted Nubian down and led forward a large goat with an almost pinkish coat. “Say good-morning to Peaches.”
Did her aunt expect her to remember each and every one of their dozens of goats’ names? Did she seriously think Jillian cared?
“Peaches is a sweet one. Uncle Dennis sometimes calls her my puppy goat because she’ll follow me around the entire yard if I let her, just like she was a dog.” She patted the animal gently between the ears and crooned sweetly to her in a babyish voice.
Jillian sighed as she washed the udder. At least Peaches wasn’t as skittish as the Nubian had been.
Connie handed her a new pail. “I’m going to take what we’ve already got into the house and be right back. Just holler if you need anything, but I’m sure Peaches won’t give you any trouble at all. She’s a good girl, isn’t she? Isn’t she?” Connie puckered up her lips and brought her face so close to the goat’s, for a moment Jillian thought she was going to kiss it.
No wonder her aunt always smelled like goats.
Connie bustled out of the barn, a pail of milk swinging from each hand.
Her back aching from hunching over, Jillian leaned her head against the animal’s slightly swollen belly.
“All right, Peaches,” she whispered, wondering how long it would be until she started baby-talking to the goats just like her aunt. “Let’s see what you’ve got for us today.”
CHAPTER 5
RICKY ALWAYS ENJOYED the drive out to Baxter Loop, or at least he enjoyed it when he had the car entirely to himself.
He turned the radio onto scan, listened to two full cycles, and finally ended up on the oldies station Mom always listened to anyway.
What kind of gift should he find for his mom? She always liked the things from the Safe Anchorage gift shop, but he’d already given her four scented candles and two new goat milk lotions for her birthday last month.
Oh, well. If Connie was there this morning, she’d help him pick out something appropriate, and if it was one of the other workers instead, he could always browse through all the jewelry.
His mom was always asking him when he’d find a girl to date, but if having a girlfriend was even half as expensive as taking care of his mother, at his current pay scale he could afford to date once he hit fifty and might consider getting married when he was a senior citizen.
It could have been simpler. Susannah Peters, his best friend since they were toddlers and his longtime crush, had recently gotten married to some missionary from the East Coast. Ricky had been more than a little disappointed — devastated might be a better word for it — but his reaction wasn’t nearly so vehement as his mom’s or her friends from the Women’s Missionary League. In their minds, it was bad enough Susannah chose to marry less than a year after her mother’s death. It was even worse to marry someone she’d met in that nebulous, shady region known in some seedy circles as online.
Ricky was happy for Susannah, who from the time they were both twelve years old and attended the same junior high winter retreat wanted nothing else but to become a missionary. Secretly Ricky had always hoped he might be able to change her mind and convince her to settle down in Orchard Grove, but there was no denying that she and her new husband were perfect for each other.
It was after Susannah’s wedding that his mother grew even more insistent and pestered him about finding a girlfriend.
“It’s a pity about that Peters girl.” From the moment Susannah announced her engagement to a man no one at Orchard Grove Bible Church had ever heard of, Susannah had become nothing more than that Peters girl.
“It’s a pity she didn’t realize what a fine, godly husband you would make,” Mom sighed dramatically. “Well, it’s her loss, not yours.”
Which never made much sense to Ricky since Susannah was the one happily married and he was the one still single.
He pulled up in front of the Safe Anchorage Farm gift shop. It was early enough that there were no other vehicles here. He’d probably be Connie’s first customer of the day, and if he was lucky she’d have some cinnamon rolls or other tasty treats left over from breakfast.
He got out of the car, nearly losing his balance when his arm got stuck in the seatbelt, and checked his watch to make sure he still had plenty of time to shop for his gift and still make it back to the chiropractor’s in time to pick up Mom.
CHAPTER 6
EITHER HER AUNT WAS right an
d there was something special about this goat, or Jillian was already starting to lose her mind after less than a full weekend in Orchard Grove.
“You’re a pretty thing, aren’t you?” She stroked Peaches’ side. Her fur wasn’t soft — as far as Jillian knew, there was no such thing as a fluffy goat — but her body was warm, and Jillian could almost swear the animal would wag her tail when Jillian rubbed a certain spot. The milking had gone well, but Jillian didn’t know how to get her out of the stand.
“Are you itchy?” She scratched gently, and Peaches swayed her back half. The motion reminded Jillian of the way Grandma Lucy would shut her eyes and rock her body back and forth in the throes of her prayerful passion.
“That feels good, doesn’t it?” She couldn’t remember if Peaches was one of the goats her aunt told her was pregnant or not. “You got a baby in there making you uncomfortable, pretty mama?”
She shook her head, envisioning herself at her aunt Connie’s age, coming out here every morning and sweet-talking to all the animals.
I’ve got to get back to the city.
As soon as she stopped scratching, Peaches stomped her foot and let out a snort of complaint. Jillian held onto the milk pail, afraid the goat might knock it over.
“Okay, okay. I’m sorry. I’ll pet you some more, you spoiled little thing.”
“Hey, that’s no way to talk to your favorite animal, is it?”
The voice from the barn entrance startled her. “Oh!” Her quick movement spooked the goat. Peaches kicked the pail and sent warm goat milk spilling onto Jillian’s lap and running down her legs.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to do that. I thought you were Connie.”
“Do I sound like Connie?” It was hard to say which was more irritating, the warm milk soaking into her jeans or the fact that someone had overheard her talking to one of the animals like some crazy goat lady.
She stood up with a half turn, straightening up the pail — as if there had been any milk in there left to salvage.
“I’m so sorry,” The tall, lanky intruder started unbuttoning his flannel overshirt. “Here, I don’t have any towels, but you can use this. I had no idea Connie hired someone to do her milking.”
Jillian wasn’t exactly sure how a single flannel shirt was supposed to help her clean up, but she dragged it across her legs for show and handed it back to him. “She didn’t hire me. I’m her niece, and she was just teaching me how to do it.”
The stranger had his head cocked to the side and was staring at her. Great. She knew exactly what was coming next.
“Jillian? Is that really you?”
If there was any possible way she could have denied it, she would have. “Yeah. Who are you?”
“It’s me.” he stared at her expectantly. “Me,” he repeated as if she hadn’t heard his unhelpful declaration the first time. “Ricky Fields.”
“Oh.” What else was there for her to say?
“You don’t remember me, do you?”
“No, I remember you just fine. You’re that guy from church.” It was as safe an answer as any.
“Yeah. That’s me.”
“Ricky, did you say?”
His expression dropped. “You really don’t remember me.”
She shrugged. “It was a long time ago.”
He stared at the dirty flannel in his hand. “Yeah, it was. But now that you’re here, how have you been doing? Last I heard your family was out in Seattle. When did they all get back?”
“They didn’t,” she answered. “It’s just me.”
“Oh, I guess that makes sense. Because you’re older now and stuff.”
Was this guy for real? “Yeah,” she replied. “And stuff.”
Apparently lost to her sarcasm, he leaned over and gave her a hug that was one part shoulder and one part chin, emphasized by a single pat. “Well, it’s really good to have you back. Where’s Connie, by the way? I came to grab something for my mom at the gift shop, but it wasn’t open yet.”
“Yeah, we’re having something of a late start this morning.” As if he couldn’t very clearly see that for himself.
The spilled milk had soaked into her socks. She needed a shower and a change of clothes and then a plane ticket to anywhere that wasn’t Orchard Grove.
Where was her aunt?
“Hey,” she said, “do you know how to get the goat out of this thing?”
“Yeah, let me show you.” He reached out and scratched Peaches between the ears just like Connie had earlier. Leaning down, he crooned, “Aren’t you a good little girl? Did you make lots of yummy milk today? Who’s a good goaty goat. You are.”
Jillian rolled her eyes. Six more months until her due date.
Six more months stuck here in Orchard Grove so her family didn’t have to deal with the shame of her baby bump that would soon inflate to the size of a beach ball.
Six more months trying to keep her sanity while she was surrounded by a herd of goats and the idiots who loved them.
CHAPTER 7
“YOU’RE LATE. DIDN’T I tell you to be here by 10:30?”
Ricky held his arm out to keep the elevator doors from closing shut on his mom.
“You said eleven.”
“Oh, did I? Well, you’re still late.”
“It’s 10:45.”
Mom acted as if she hadn’t heard, and Ricky hurried to get in front so he could hold the door open on their way out of the medical center. “How did your appointment go?”
Mom shrugged. “I’m not planning to die anytime soon if that’s what you’re asking.”
Inside the car, she turned down the volume on the radio and scowled. “What did you do with yourself all morning?”
“I just went down to see what Connie had at the gift shop. Did you know her niece is back in town? You remember Pastor Joel’s daughter, don’t you?”
“He’s no pastor of mine.”
“Yeah, I remember something weird about that family, but I never got what the problem was. I just remember they left all of a sudden, but I never heard why.”
Mom sniffed. “That’s because your father and I felt you were too young to understand at the time so we were sheltering you from the bitter truth. That man cheated on his wife, broke his family’s heart, and moved them all to Seattle in disgrace. Last I heard, their oldest son was into drugs, and who knows what that girl of theirs has been up to, although if she’s back in Orchard Grove and living with her aunt, I can’t imagine it’s good news.” She shook her head. “There was something off about that family from the beginning. I told your father so the first time I met them. Too perfect to be real. Their kids were too clean, too polite, too good for it to be anything but a show.” Another dramatic shake of the head, which sent her earrings jingling. “I wasn’t surprised to find out what he did. Not surprised one bit. If anything, I expected it to happen sooner. He was behind the pulpit here for three or four years.”
“I don’t remember any of that. That’s pretty sad,” Ricky said.
“What’s sad is that we didn’t see him for what he was, at least not soon enough for it to make a difference. The church nearly shut its doors. It’s only by the grace and mercy of our Heavenly Savior that Orchard Grove is still standing.”
Ricky was paying more attention to the road now. If you were to believe everything Mom said, Orchard Grove Bible was in danger of closing for good at least once a quarter even though the church must be nearly a hundred years old by now.
“So how was that McAllister girl?” his mom asked. “What did she look like?”
Ricky shrugged. “She looked like a girl.” In fact, the barn had been so dark he couldn’t have even said what color her hair was. It wasn’t until then that he realized she still had his flannel shirt. He’d have to get it back before Monday when Mom did the laundry, or he’d be in big trouble for losing it.
“Is she pretty?” Mom demanded.
“Is she what?” Ricky gripped the top of the steering wheel.
“I ask
ed, is she pretty?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.” What did she expect him to say?
“Well, don’t get any ideas in your head, young man. Girls like that niece of Connie’s never spell anything but trouble.”
CHAPTER 8
SHE HAD BEEN STUPID to move out to Orchard Grove over the weekend. If she’d been thinking clearly, she would have moved in first thing Monday morning, which would give her an entire week to warm up to the idea of stepping foot through the doors of Orchard Grove Bible Church again.
How many times had she sworn to never come back here? Yet here she was, pregnant and unmarried no less, just like so many of the old busybodies here would have expected.
She’s just like her father.
It can’t be helped. Remember what her dad did?
Stepping through the open doors into the high-ceilinged foyer, Jillian was overcome for a moment with dizziness. Dizziness and the overwhelming desire to either throw up Connie’s cinnamon rolls or run back to Seattle and face whatever horrible memories were waiting for her there.
For all her issues at home, Seattle certainly couldn’t be worse than here, could it?
“Jillian McAllister? Is that really you?”
Great. And so the onslaught began, sloppy hugs from heavily perfumed women with fake smiles proclaiming how happy they were to see her back in Orchard Grove. Grotesque and probing questions about her family. Is your father still preaching? Are your parents together, dear? How is your brother? We heard he had a small problem, and we’ve all been praying for him.
Just wait until everyone found out the truth about Jillian’s pregnancy. She was surprised Aunt Connie hadn’t put it on the prayer chain already.
Or maybe she had.
That would probably explain at least a few of the personal comments. You look pale, sweetie. Are you eating well? You’re still such a petite little thing, aren’t you?