Where Courage Calls: A When Calls the Heart Novel

by Janette Oke

  Beth also received a letter from Edward, describing in detail his return to his post in Athabasca. He seemed to be very pleased with the work and confident in his expanding abilities. Beth was happy for him. Of all their peers, it amused her that she and Edward were the ones to wander farthest from home. They no doubt would have been considered two of the least likely candidates.

  Since Julie’s letter, her thoughts more often drifted back to home and family. She imagined JW taking his first steps. She wondered too if there was news of another baby on the way. Mother had not mentioned it in her letters, but Beth would not be surprised. Margret had spoken often of her hopes for a large family.

  Beth considered how opposite Margret seemed to be from their mother—and yet how well the two of them got along. Her older sister was gentle and compliant, reserved yet warm. In many ways the kind of woman that Beth hoped one day to become. She wondered why, despite this, she felt a strong aversion to being perceived as having the same personality, the same characteristics, as Margret.

  Beth wrapped herself up and took a walk down to the river’s edge. She found the water still hidden beneath ice and banks of snow. She leaned against a pine tree to think, and she came to the conclusion that this issue had very little to do with Margret. Instead, Beth was feeling pressure to follow in her sister’s footsteps. Though they were similar in disposition, the two sisters shared few of the same goals. Margret was utterly fulfilled as a wife and mother. She had found her calling. Beth was convinced that she herself had been called to something different. Perhaps this is the source of the angst where Mother and I are concerned. Margret was satisfied to follow, where Beth preferred to cut through the thickets and make a trail of her own.

  Walking back again toward the small town, Beth contemplated the implications of it all. Idly, she noted the wet patches of shrinking snow giving way to spaces of muddy ground. But she had been cautioned not to perceive these warmer chinook days as the end of winter—only a windy respite. She would enjoy being outdoors for as long as it lasted, though.

  Saturday afternoon was particularly springlike, and Beth felt an inclination for music. Lifting her violin in its case, she went down to the parlor, but Henry already had stretched himself out on the long sofa with a book. Beth turned to the dining room, only to find Teddy and Marnie, along with Addison and Luela, engrossed in a game of pick-up-sticks. She smiled at the youths and wandered into the foyer, turning slowly to take stock of her options. She could play the instrument in her bedroom, but even upstairs her music might intrude on the rest of the household. On impulse, Beth reached for a wrap and wandered out into the warm sunshine, case in hand.

  Beth turned toward the road leading out of the town, strolling some distance before finding a small clearing close to where she and Marnie had picked berries in the fall. Her skirt brushed at small mounds of snow clinging stubbornly to branches and dry grasses. Her shoes, not as pristine as they had once been, showed signs of her frequent walks, along with a bit of today’s mud.

  Already Beth was anticipating the poetry of the experience—standing alone in a patch of warm sunshine amid the quiet sounds of nature, playing before only the Creator of such beauty and of music. Beth raised the violin to her shoulder and brought it into tune. Then she let the bow play across its strings, moving from note to note in exploration of their sounds rather than in practiced form. Could she—would she?—ever be able to play with the natural fluidity and artistry of Frank? She would not have dared to try—except that she was now out of sight and sound of others.

  She began with three simple chords, exploring a movement from one to another until she was pleased with the sound. She closed her eyes, feeling the notes more than listening—working with and then against the desired effect. Finding it even more difficult than she had hoped, she continued to attempt it, oblivious to all else.

  “Ain’t you awful far from home?”

  Beth gasped and snapped her head around at the sound of the raspy voice. She stumbled back a step and her pulse quickened as she realized she did not recognize the man.

  “I’m sorry if I’ve disturbed you,” she finally said, her voice sounding high and tight. “I’ll just pack up my . . . my things and be on my way.” Beth made a move toward the violin case resting on top of a nearby stump. But the man stepped between, blocking her way.

  “Don’t know me, do ya?” He spat on the ground defiantly.

  “I’m sorry. But no.”

  “Go ahead. Make a guess.” He was toying with her in an ugly tone.

  “I’m . . . I’m not good at guessing games,” she dared reply.

  “Then ask me.” His sneer as he spoke made Beth’s skin crawl. Was he serious or just baiting her? She dared not test him further.

  “Well then, sir, what is your name, please?” she responded in as firm a voice as she could manage.

  “‘Sir,’” he repeated. “I like that,” he said with a snort. “And ya better be showin’ me respect.”

  He tipped his weathered hat, then hooked his thumbs through his overall straps as if still considering her request. Looking down at his worn boots, he kicked at a clump of dead grass, then slowly let his eyes sweep back up to Beth’s face. “Funny I’m still a no-name to ya since I bin supportin’ ya so long.”

  Beth was certain she had never met the man before. “Please, I’m at a loss—”

  “Yup. I s’pose ya are. But ya spent plenty a’ time in my building.” He snapped a twig he had been holding. “I’m Davie Grant. Use’ta have a profitable tavern—now all I got is a school squatting in my place, usin’ up my wood an’ drinkin’ up my water. Strange—as I ain’t got no son no more, so that there school don’t do me a lick a’ good. An’ now I find ya here in my woods. Ain’t ya got no respect a’tall fer what ain’t yers?”

  Beth tried again to step around the man. In a flash, Davie had snatched the violin and held it away, high in the air, a slow grin spreading across his face as he loomed over her. “Thet’s real fancy, missie. An’ you was playin’ it jest so well.”

  She could hear Father’s voice commanding that she run—that she escape before danger could befall her. But she hesitated, casting a pleading look at her precious instrument. “Mr. Grant, please,” she whispered, “I just want to go in peace.”

  He took a menacing step forward. “An’ thet’s what I want too—ta be left in peace. But you had to come in here—all high an’ mighty, changin’ our town with all yer learnin’ and all yer religion and all yer fancy ways. An’ then bringing in all them vagrant foreigners—right here among us. Who the blazes ya think you are, anyhow?” He lowered the violin from the air and clutched his other hand around its neck. The strings made a sickening sound.

  “Leastwise, the school year being most over, it’s ’bout time fer ya to leave. An’ I say ya best git to it, then. I say let them widders take their kids an’ git too. What this here town needs is men—real men—not none of them there Eetalyuns either. Real red-blooded men. And the sooner them houses is rid of non-payin’ folks, the sooner new folk’ll come. Pro’bition won’t last—an’ it’ll all go right back to how it was. Ya hear me? All ya gotta do is git. Outta town. Outta the country, far as I’m concerned—jest git.”

  For a moment he raised the violin as if offering it back to Beth, then snatched it away before her hands could receive it. “See this perty thing? Bet it’d be easy jes’ to snap its skinny neck. Now, I ain’t a bad fella, so I’ll let it go—fer now. But ya best be careful, missie. ’Cause I don’t think it’d take much ta break a thin little neck like this. Best ya keep it in mind.”

  Slowly he passed the beloved instrument back to Beth, glowering into her eyes. With one last sneer, he turned on his heel to head toward the woods. Only then did Beth notice the gun he had left at the edge of the clearing. He hoisted it conspicuously to his shoulder and walked away, whistling.

  Beth’s heart was pounding as she stood alone once again. She frantically thrust the violin back into its case, snapped it shut,
and struck out quickly toward town. It wasn’t until then that she recalled Frank’s warning about not venturing into the woods. Was Davie Grant a dangerous man? He had referred to the woods as his. She had not realized they were privately owned—if that indeed was Davie’s meaning.

  Beth almost ran past the pool hall and on toward Molly’s home, closing the door behind her and leaning against it. She struggled to catch her breath.

  It appeared that her absence had not been noticed—nor her agitated return. Beth hurried quietly up the stairs and stowed the case safely back under her bed. Then she dropped onto the covers and wept silently, realizing the danger in which she had found herself. And now she was terrified to return to school. Will Mr. Grant make good on his threat? Who can help?

  Surely Molly would react too strongly—maybe even confronting the Grants and risking their classroom—to be considered a confidante. Beth shook her head. Frank too. And Jarrick—Jarrick, who could best protect her—might also react with the most negative results. She still needed the Grants’ pool hall to finish out the school year. If she were to disclose the conversation now, all her hard work and that of the students would be in jeopardy. Beth wiped her eyes, determining that she would tell no one for the time being. It was clear that she had been threatened if she did not leave—but he had not stipulated that she do so before the end of the school year.

  Setting the table for supper and assisting Molly in the kitchen, Beth kept her eyes averted as much as possible. She was certain if Molly paused to look deeply into them, her maternal affection would read the fear Beth was struggling to conceal. Her mind churned with wild and garbled thoughts. Memories that had once seemed disjointed and unimportant flashed before her. Was there more than she knew about Philip’s suggesting she not serve breakfast in the Grants’ tavern?

  What exactly is this man capable of doing? How worried should I be?

  On Sunday morning, Beth had not shaken the nagging sense of fear from yesterday’s frightening encounter. She picked her way across the rutted road, placing each step into Teddy’s footprint as she followed him toward the company hall for church.

  Upon entering the building and feeling engulfed in its sense of safety, she smiled toward the circle of children and adults gathered inside the door and joined them in exchanging boots for indoor shoes. The floors would have been impossible to keep clean if it weren’t for this practice. Beth tucked her boots under the bench. Soon there was a large jumble of boots spilling over near the door. Something about the sight warmed Beth’s heart. It spoke of community and closeness—of sharing and consideration. With a little smile she wondered if it would make the same impression on Mother.

  She moved forward to chat with a group of ladies. Philip was speaking with three of the mining men. With increasing frequency the miners had been attending services since the Christmas concert—first Paolo, Alberto, and his cousin Lucio. And then young brothers named Saverio and Roberto, each in their early twenties. Now there were others whose names Beth did not yet know. Thrilled to see them making an appearance, she was growing hopeful they would be fully accepted into the community in time. Then Davie Grant’s comments filled her mind and her heart clenched in fear. If he has his way, they will be banished from Coal Valley—from the mine too. Did anyone else resent their inclusion? Were there others who felt the same way as Mr. Grant?

  Philip spoke from the book of Psalms, introducing it as a whole collection of praise and prayers, and mentioning some of his favorite passages. He challenged the townsfolk to read through one psalm a day and to share the reading with a neighboring family if Bibles were not available.

  At the end of the service, Beth watched Philip from across the room and edged over in case she might be able to converse with him. She wondered if perhaps she should confide in him about Davie Grant. But she hesitated, uncertain.

  Philip had motioned toward Alberto and another man, drawing them aside, directing them toward a small box at the front of the room. They seemed to be surprised and pleased by its contents. Curiosity got the better of Beth, and she inched closer.

  She overheard, “Bardo and Giacobbe, they can’a surely read. Others also. I take and give out. Grazie, Pastore! Thank you.” They scooped up the box and carried it away, leaving Philip to finish packing away the other church items.

  Beth felt like a schoolgirl, shy and sheepish that she had listened in but too intrigued to draw away. “I’m sorry, Philip, I couldn’t help but notice. Were they Bibles? In Italian?”

  He placed the last hymnals in the box and turned to smile knowingly at Beth. “I thought you might like that. It wasn’t even my idea. Two older ladies from a church in Lethbridge heard me talking about what was happening with the men up here and immediately began asking if they had the Word in their own language. Imagine my delight when they tracked down several copies in Italian and brought them to me.”

  “That’s wonderful! Such a gift.”

  She lifted the cross from where it had been set aside, wrapped it back in its cover, and placed it on top of the crate of hymnals. “I knew Frank had a Bible, and I suspected Alberto might too. But it never occurred to me to find more. How lovely.”

  Philip pulled the purple cloth from the table and began folding it. “Sometimes God answers before we even know what to ask.” His comment stirred Beth’s heart. She had not prayed more than a few desperate words about her current difficulties. Ashamed of herself, she determined to spend some time in prayer that afternoon.

  She began by confessing her foolish decision to go into the woods alone. She prayed for Davie Grant. She asked the Lord for safety, for peace. But peace did not come. For the first time, Beth talked to God about her fears that perhaps He did not want her to return to Coal Valley—and that if true, it might have nothing to do with whether she had failed to stand in His strength. She wondered if there might no longer be a school in which she could teach—or enough children remaining in town. Will Davie Grant be able to accomplish his wish to send all us “outsiders” back to where we came from—get rid of the widows too?

  Feeling dejected, Beth could not bring herself to do the one thing she had promised herself she would not neglect—the letter home to Mother on Sunday afternoons. She knew she would never be able to present an honest assessment of the week without mentioning Davie Grant. And that was something Mother should never know.

  Fewer children came for breakfast and yarn rolling on Monday, which Molly insisted was good news—at least some of the mothers were feeling it was no longer necessary. But Beth could not shake the dismal thought, more frequent with each passing day, that they might have just a couple more months together.

  As she prepared to teach each morning, Beth grappled with her concerns about Davie Grant. She paid close attention now to any sound she heard from the residence above their classroom. Any thump might cause Beth to freeze in place, any squeak of the floorboards put her on alert.

  She found reasons—any reason—to never be alone in the pool hall, asking the bigger boys to help rearrange the furniture after school each day, inviting Marnie to help her with study materials in the morning. She of course did not expect the children to protect her should there be another altercation, but she was certain if anyone else was present there would be none.

  CHAPTER

  21

  MISS THATCHER, Miss Thatcher! You gotta come quick. An accident!”

  The loud rapping on her bedroom door startled her, but the frightened look on Teddy’s pale face when she answered brought fear to Beth’s heart. She couldn’t even voice her questions—Who? What?

  “It’s Grandpa Frank,” Teddy said, reaching for her arm and pulling her into the hallway. “He cut hisself. Bad.”

  Frank is hurt! Clutching Teddy’s arm tightly, she headed down the stairs—now pulling him along with her. “Where is he?”

  “Out back—at the woodshed.” The boy’s voice was unnaturally shrill.

  “What happened?”

  “He was—he was cuttin’ w
ood. Guess the ax musta slipped.”

  Oh, dear God, please— Beth’s silent prayer was cut short with her question, “How badly . . . ?”

  “His leg—it’s bleedin’ buckets.”

  The back porch door banged shut behind them, and they were running across the yard toward the woodshed. I should have brought supplies, she thought frantically. But what did she have at hand to deal with an open wound?

  “Get Molly—”

  “Already there.”

  Beth felt the air return to her gasping lungs. Molly would know what to do. But she tried to imagine their strong, dependable Frank in jeopardy. What will we ever do if . . . ? But Beth would not allow her mind to finish the thought.

  At the open door of the small shed, Beth saw Molly on her knees beside Frank, who was sitting on a stump and leaning against the wall for support. Quiet and pale, he looked woozy and uncomfortable with Molly’s ministrations, and blood was still flowing down his leg. Molly looked flushed yet determined.

  “How’d ya ever manage . . . ?” Molly was gently scolding as she worked. “Ya gotta slow down, Frank. Teddy here can chop wood now. Ya need . . .” She shook her head and ripped another strip from a bed sheet nearby.

  Beth moved forward. “How bad—?”

  “Yer here.” Molly did not even turn her head. “Good. I need ya to help me get this bleedin’ stopped. Teddy, run git the kettle from the stove—and mind ya, don’t slosh hot water on yerself. An’ bring the basin too. We gotta clean this wound.” He rushed to obey, and Molly called after him, “An’ git the disinfectant from the shelf by the basin.” She glanced at Beth. “Tear off some more strips while I try to stem the bleedin’.”

  Beth sank to her knees, following Molly’s instructions with shaking hands. The sight of so much of Frank’s blood made her feel sick, and she took little panting breaths to keep nausea at bay. Molly had already torn away his pant leg, and blood washed over his bare lower leg and covered Molly’s hands. Beth had to look away as she handed over the next strip.