That Certain Spark

by Cathy Marie Hake

  That Certain Spark

  CATHY MARIE HAKE

  That Certain Spark

  Copyright © 2009

  Cathy Marie Hake

  Cover design by Jennifer Parker

  Art direction by Paul Higdon

  Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  Published by Bethany House Publishers

  11400 Hampshire Avenue South

  Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

  Bethany House Publishers is a division of

  Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan.

  E-book edition created 2009

  ISBN 978-1-4412-0459-2

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

  There are many forms of courage—

  Blazing a new trail,

  Taking an unpopular stand,

  Stepping out in that moment of faith,

  Laughter instead of tears for someone else’s sake,

  Enduring physical, spiritual, and emotional anguish,

  Holding on to God with trust instead of desperation,

  Forgiving as we were forgiven.

  Loving one another.

  Asking for help to bear a burden.

  This book is dedicated to Jesus Christ, who showed the ultimate courage by going to the cross. His love cleanses me, humbles me, and woos me. With that certain spark only He can give and foster, I’m able to step out in faith. Jesus is my example, my Lord and Savior. I want to walk in His footsteps, sit at His feet and be brave enough to love as He taught. He is my everything, and I praise His name.

  Books by

  Cathy Marie Hake

  FROM BETHANY HOUSE PUBLISHERS

  Letter Perfect

  Bittersweet

  Fancy Pants

  Forevermore

  Whirlwind

  That Certain Spark

  That Certain Spark

  Content

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  One

  November 1892

  Gooding, Texas

  Miracles are going to start happening, Karl Van der Vort. I can feel it in my bones.” The labyrinth of wrinkles on Mrs. Whitsley’s face added to the almost mystical quality of her comment. Blue eyes lively as could be, she winked. “Miracles.”

  Thump. Karl shut the door on her now-full coal bin. Humoring the sweet old woman, he asked, “Like what?”

  “You’re going to get your heart right with Jesus.” Nodding sagely, she leaned on her cane and extended a glass to him. Silently agreeing it would be nothing short of a miracle, Karl reached for the drink; but to his surprise, the widow continued on. “Then you’re going to find yourself a wife.”

  “A wife!” The idea rattled him so much, he was glad she’d held on to the lemonade a breath longer before letting go, lest it tumble from his grip.

  Her smile widened, arranging her wrinkles into rays of delight. “Yes, a wife, Karl. The Good Book says, ‘Seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness; and all these things shall be added unto you.’ A blacksmith owning his forge and livery couldn’t have a steadier job, and you have a home and dog. The only things that’re missing are God’s peace and a wife. Sure as we’re standing here, you’re going to find both. You’ve started coming back to church, and that’ll set your feet on the right path.”

  Unwilling to respond, Karl chugged down the lemonade. He’d emptied half the glass before the sheer bitterness made him come to a shuddering stop.

  “What’s wrong?” Mrs. Whitsley swiped the glass from him and took a sip. “I forgot the sugar! I do apologize, Karl. This is terrible. Just terrible. I don’t know what came over me.”

  Karl stooped and placed his hands on his knees, then tilted his head and tenderly kissed the old woman’s cheek. “There.” He straightened up. “That was sugar enough for me.” He grabbed the handles of the oversized wheelbarrow he used to make coal deliveries and walked off.

  Within a few strides, Karl muffled a groan as he realized he’d probably been too bold and shocked the poor old lady. What was I thinking? He stank at trying to figure out women, and the proof of that very fact was that at the age of twenty-eight, he’d not yet married. After a box social or a few after-church strolls, he’d inevitably scared off the few eligible young women he’d met—and if he couldn’t handle a woman near his own age, how was he supposed to figure out how to treat a woman double, maybe even triple that?

  He steered the wheelbarrow around a large jagged rock and toward the mountain of coal next to the railroad tracks. Lyrics from Sunday’s hymn stole into his thoughts. “When peace like a river attendeth my way . . .” I would like this. In my heart, though, there is yet a drought.

  Old Mrs. Whitsley said I’d have to make peace with God before I’d find a wife. My soul has been in turmoil now for fifteen years. Why should I even bother thinking of a wife at this point?

  Karl shook the thoughts from his mind, and the remainder of the morning flew past while he delivered coal to his neighbors and filled the huge bins at the smithy. As he brought back the last load, his brother called out loudly, “Come! We have cookies!”

  Karl didn’t need any explanation. The slight edge to Piet’s voice warned that Linette Richardson had delivered the cookies and was making a nuisance of herself. He and Piet regularly rescued each other from Linette’s husband-hunting schemes.

  “Cookies!” Karl set down the handles of the wheelbarrow and went into the smithy.

  “They’re shortbread and torn pants.” Linette grabbed hold of Karl’s arm. “Your favorites.” Coming from Mrs. Orion, the woman who ran the boardinghouse and bakery, torn pants was merely a whimsical name for cookies. Recently she’d hired Linette, however, and Linette saying torn pants was enough to make both brothers determined to send her off immediately. Even Skyler, their faithful collie, slunk into the corner instead of wildly wagging his tail in hopes of earning a treat for himself. Smart dog.

  Karl frowned down at his arms and Linette’s hand upon him. “I’m covered in coal dust, Miss Richardson. I’d better wash it off. You’ll want to wash right away back at the boardinghouse before you start helping Mrs. Orion again.”

  “You’re a hardworking man. Both of you are.” Linette’s green hair ribbon started slipping as she looked around the shop. Due to a fever her hair had been chopped short, so she wore a ribbon to try to keep from looking mannish. She turned loose of him and slid the ribbon back into place. “This place is bursting with proof of your industry.”

  “Ja, and it’s shouting at us to get back to work.” Piet turned back to the anvil. A second later, the clang of his hammer filled the air.

  Karl timed his words to fall between the hammer strikes. “Much obliged for the cookies. Know you have to get back to work, too.” He turned to the side and plunged his hands into the water barrel—a not-so-su
btle dismissal, but it wasn’t right to give the girl false hope. Sluicing icy water over his arms and face felt bracing. Even in the dead of winter, the forge put out so much heat that Karl relished the cool relief of the water. Even greater, though, was his relief that she’d left by the time he shook off the last splash of water.

  Just off to the side stood a plate of cookies. The twisted and fried “torn pants” were crispy, just the right mix of butter and sweet. But best of all—shortbread. His long, thick fingers dwarfed the flaky chunk. How did Linette know it was his favorite? The poor girl. He pitied her. The eldest in her family, she didn’t have a beau, yet the next two sisters in line were both planning their weddings. If Linette had her way, it would be a triple wedding. Piet and Karl vowed neither of them would fall into that trap. No matter if she occasionally came by with a delicious treat, no bribe was sweet enough to convince either of them to pop the question.

  Though known for flattery, Linette had spoken the truth. Their business thrived. Blacksmithing required brute strength; by working together, they were able to fabricate impossibly heavy and unwieldy items. They never lacked for work. In fact, when another blacksmith opened a forge in town, they’d tried to send business his way—but Baumgartner did shoddy work. Once his laziness became apparent, Karl and Piet no longer referred clients to him. Soon Baumgartner packed up and moved on, leaving Piet and Karl with as heavy a workload as ever.

  Piet paused momentarily. “It took you forever. Mrs. Orion must have fed you. Next time, I deliver the coal.”

  Karl cocked a brow. “Only if the hammer says so.” Their father taught them their trade and how to settle arguments. A hammer tossed straight up would fall, and the direction of the handle would dictate the result.

  Leaving a sooty smear across his forehead as he wiped away sweat, Karl’s brother scowled. “Then I toss the hammer. My hammer.”

  “Fair enough.”

  A few big bites of shortbread, then Karl covered the plate with the napkin. Later, he’d eat his other piece. Piet was right: He’d filled his belly earlier with Mrs. Orion’s tasty breakfast after delivering her coal.

  Karl pulled his work apron from the nail, and the thick latigo leather, supple from years of use, filled his hands. Scarred and stained, the piece bore mute testimony of untold times when it had protected him from the sparks and shards that abounded in his profession. The strap ruffled past his hair and rested at the base of his neck. Instead of a bulky tie at the middle, a belt buckled behind Karl’s waist—loose enough to let a little air circulate. That modification was Karl’s idea. Matteo over at the saddlery had been happy to affix the belt and buckle when the wraparound ties snapped. Ready for business, Karl picked up his hammer.

  “What,” bang, “are,” clang, “you,” bang, “working,” clang, “on?” Piet spaced his words between each blow, but because he wanted to elongate the iron bar as well as flatten it, he swiveled his hammer and struck the bar with the side of the hammer every other blow.

  “Hooks for Widow O’Toole to hang her velocipede.”

  Piet snorted. “A woman who wears bloomers and rides a bicycle.”

  “She’s a lonely old woman.”

  “Not really that old. She wouldn’t be so lonely if she stopped scolding grown men for enjoying a drink now and then.” Piet hefted his hammer. “But since you’ve been going to church, you’re getting holier-than-thou. Judging everybody. Saints—” he pointed one direction with his hammer, then the other way—“and sinners.” direction with his hammer, “I’ve judged no one!”

  “You’re arguing with me and standing up for her right now. That says it all.” Piet’s hammer crashed down in an attempt to cease the conversation.

  Karl didn’t allow that ploy to work. “You’re a grown man. You make decisions for yourself. I am a man, and I make the decisions for myself. I decided to go to church, Piet. It does not make me a saint. I sit there and know how far from God I have wandered.”

  Ever since he’d started attending church without his brother, Karl had been paying an unexpected price. Piet was growing as sour as Old Mrs. Whitsley’s lemonade. Like all brothers, they’d had a day here or there in the past when they were put out with one another—but it had been weeks now, and Piet showed no signs of letting up. Compared to Piet, Widow O’Toole might be a pleasant change.

  At that preposterous thought, Karl picked up his own hammer, pulled a long iron rod from the furnace, and started to work on the orange, glowing end. Again, the hymn in his mind kept the heartbeat-like cadence of strike and rebound strike of his hammer. “Whe-en. Pea-eace. Like. A. Riv-er.” The iron didn’t feel right. Shoving it back into the fire, he shouted, “Did Clicky telegraph an order for more iron?”

  “Ja.” Steam rose as bubbling and hissing filled the suddenly quiet shop when Piet plunged the bracket he’d made into the water bath. “Tomorrow it will come.”

  Thinking of the previous winter when they’d had some appreciable snowfall, Karl twisted the rod in the fire. “Weather’s turning. Next time we’d better double our order.”

  “Tripled it.” Piet lifted the bracket from the water but looked past it, directly at Karl. “Though I didn’t need to. You stand around jawing and go warm a pew while I’m the one working.”

  Anger flashed through him. “The forge has never operated on Sunday. For me to go to church makes no difference in how much work gets done. When I get home from church, you’re just rolling out of bed.”

  “Home from church?” Piet scoffed. “Home with a full belly.”

  So that’s what this is all about! “The same people who invite me to Sunday supper would gladly have you over, too.”

  “But I’m not good enough because I’m not there.”

  “That’s not why.” Karl let go of the rod, turned, and looked at his brother with disgust. “Saturdays you drink so much, you’re sick most Sundays, thus I’ve had to thank them for their kind offer and turn them down. Even then, you cannot complain—the women have still sent plates of food for you.”

  Piet bristled. “I’m a man. I don’t complain.”

  “You just complained that I don’t do my share of the work because I worship on Sundays when our forge is closed.” Piet’s face grew thunderous, but Karl stared right back. “Have I ever once complained about how you like to drink beer? About you getting so drunk I had to clean your mess and work alone the next day? No. Not once have I complained.” He refused to let his brother minimize the truth of the problem. “It used to happen very seldom—but it is once a week now. Sometimes twice.”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “Your drinking is my business.” Now that he’d finally broached the topic, Karl refused to back down. “I clean up after you and work without you, so our shop earns less.”

  “Get back to work. This is exactly what I meant. You stand around jawing. That’s why there’s less money.”

  “Always in the past, we’ve held our funds in common, but you’re drinking away the profits and the savings. It’s time for us to split the money so this is a partnership. That way, you can drink away your half if you wish, and I can save mine.”

  Only the crackle of the forge sounded in the entire place.

  “Hullo! Hullo in the smithy! Could I please have a bit of help?”

  Karl started toward the barnlike doors. Suddenly, he crashed to the ground. My own brother kicked my legs out from beneath me. My own brother. Piet sauntered on out. “Mrs. Creighton, how may I be of service to you?”

  That was it. He’d taken all he’d take from his brother. Grabbing his hammer with his right hand, Karl reached for the iron rod with his left. Until Piet came back in, he’d pound out his anger. Two solid, satisfying strikes, then he gave the rod a quarter twist. But with the next blow, a portion of the rod splintered off and shot backward.

  Karl dropped his hammer, shoved the rod into the water bath, and picked up the bucket of sand to tend to the sparks and embers. Pouring water on the embers only resulted in steam, but
sand smothered out the air. Convinced he’d averted any fire danger, Karl finally focused on the searing pain in his thigh.

  It took a moment for him to realize he had to remove his huge leather gloves. That done, he leaned into a workbench, curled forward, and wrapped his hands around a metal shard. The part sticking out of his leather apron was long as a ten-penny nail and every bit as thick. Rough-edged, it tore at his hands as he tightened his grip. Gritting his teeth, he yanked.

  “Decided to pull your weight, did you?” Piet said as he came back in.

  The shard had barely moved—but it sent his thigh into horrific spasms. Karl clamped his jaw and broke out in a cold sweat. Sensing his need, Skyler came over beside him and let out a soft whimper.

  Piet started toward the forge. “You—Karl!” He rushed over and manacled his brother’s hands. “Tongs. It will take tongs to pull that out. Standing, you make the muscles tight. Sit down. Here. Ja. Ja. Goed.”

  Bracing his thigh in both hands, Karl gritted out as his brother dithered, “Just get the tongs.”

  “No. First must I cut off the apron from you. If not I do this, it could on the way out break off or cut you more.” For the ugly fight they’d had minutes before, his brother’s love was still evident. The most telling thing was how Piet mixed up his word order. On rare occasions when he grew extremely upset, he’d speak in English but revert back to Dutch word order.

  It took a couple of well-placed swipes before Piet hacked off the bottom quarter of the leather apron. He rose and picked up the tongs. “Now has come the time.”

  “Do it.” And, God, if you’re listening, please help me. Gritting his teeth, Karl braced himself as his brother clenched the shard with the tongs. Just the contact hurt, yet when Piet began to pull, the tongs lost traction and slipped off.

  Piet groaned.

  Karl gritted, “Rubber band.”

  With the aid of a rubber band’s traction, the tongs stayed in place on the second try. Piet dropped back down to his knees. “I cannot tell if out all of it came.”