Whispers from Yesterday

by Robin Lee Hatcher

  Sophia sighed. “Fifteen. That young. I’d hoped I was wrong.” She sighed again, then added, “I’m not saying the days ahead of us will be easy. There are consequences for all of our actions, for the foolish choices we make when we insist upon our own way. But that doesn’t mean God won’t be there with us. It doesn’t mean He won’t forgive us and meet us at the point of our need. Jesus loves us.”

  “Oh, honestly,” Karen muttered before striding out of the house.

  Billy, Noah, and Ted were standing in the corral; their gazes were turned toward the bunkhouse. For an instant, she considered joining them. Maybe she could put their minds at ease. But she quickly discarded that notion.

  How could she ease their minds when she couldn’t ease her own?

  She took off in the opposite direction, walking down the dirt drive toward the highway. Miracles … Perfect peace …

  Right. Like such things existed in this world.

  Jesus loves us, her grandmother had said, and there hadn’t been a shred of doubt in her statement.

  Karen halted in her tracks, looked upward, and cried, “If You love us, then prove it. Find a solution to Patty’s problem, if You can.”

  She half expected a bolt from heaven to strike her dead.

  It didn’t.

  Of course it didn’t. God wasn’t interested in their problems. They were going to have to muddle through this on their own. They? As in, us? As in, me, too?

  Karen groaned and resumed walking.

  This was not her problem, she reminded herself. This was their problem—Dusty’s and Sophia’s and Hal’s and Patty’s—but not hers. She wasn’t anybody’s counselor. She wasn’t anybody’s friend or mom or sister or aunt. She had no words of wisdom to dispense to others. She wasn’t responsible for anybody but herself.

  And she had plenty of trouble trying to cope with that.

  “I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be involved in their lives or in their problems. I don’t want to live on this falling-down ranch. I hate the sagebrush and the bugs and the snakes and the dirt and the wind. I hate it all.”

  So why didn’t she swallow her tattered pride, pick up the phone, and throw herself on Mac’s mercy? If she told him how miserable she was, he would pay for her transportation back to California. He was a kind and generous man, an old and good friend. He would let her stay in his home again, as he’d done before.

  Sure, Mac would give her charity—if that was what she wanted.

  Yes, she could go back to California. Back to L.A., where everyone was whispering behind their hands about her: Poor Karen Butler. Her father was a crook … Poor Karen. Her father killed himself … Did you know she tried to commit suicide? Have you heard that she …

  It was too awful to contemplate, let alone endure.

  Why don’t you just kill yourself and get it over with? Do it right this time.

  She stopped again. Her breath caught painfully in her throat even as her pulse began to race. Perspiration broke out on her forehead. She wondered if she would be sick.

  She knew that dark, twisted voice, the one tempting her to take the easy way out. She’d listened to it before. Her father had listened to it too.

  Go ahead. Do it. No one would miss you.

  As soon as those words passed through her mind, another thought followed: Grandmother would miss me. Billy would miss me. Maybe Dusty …

  She sank onto the ground and began to sob, overwhelmed by the horrible pain in her chest.

  “All right,” Hal said at last, his tone belligerent, his stance stiff. “So I slept with her. I didn’t mean for her to get pregnant. It’s her own fault. She should’ve been on the pill.”

  “Placing the blame on Patty isn’t going to help matters.” Dusty glanced out the window of his room and saw Karen walking down the drive. Briefly, he wondered where she was going.

  “Are we finished yet?” Hal started for the door.

  Dusty’s attention returned to the boy. “Stay right where you are, Hal Junker. We’re not finished.”

  “What d’you want from me? What’s the big deal? Kids my age have sex. So what? It’s a fact of life.” He released a guttural sound, then faced Dusty again. “Patty probably got pregnant on purpose. You saw her old man. Who wouldn’t want to get away from him? But I’m not gonna marry her, baby or no baby. And that’s something you can’t make me do.”

  “Hal—”

  The boy swore at him. “Save it. I’m through listenin’ to you.” He slammed out of the room.

  Dusty stared at the closed door, debating whether or not to go after him. Finally he decided it would be better to let the kid cool off a bit before they tried talking again.

  Besides, he wasn’t sure himself what needed to be done. Hal was sixteen. Patty was fifteen. Marriage wasn’t the answer. The best thing was for the baby to be placed for adoption. But what Mr. Call wanted was Hal’s hide nailed to the barn door. Period.

  It was the strangest thing. One moment Karen was sobbing inconsolably, and the next, she grew quiet. Her unhappiness and despair were gone. Her desire to run away was gone. Vanished. As if cut from her heart by a surgeon’s knife. She looked at the scars on her wrists again, symbols of all that was wrong about her, and she realized she was no longer afraid.

  The older I get—Sophia’s voice repeated in her mind—the more times I’ve seen the hand of God miraculously change circumstances and bring good out of all kinds of disasters.

  Was it possible?

  She looked up at the blue sky, dotted with cumulus clouds. Was it possible?

  She stood, still looking upward. A moment later, she heard the roar of an engine. She turned to see her Mustang barreling down the drive, coming directly toward her. Just as she took a step back, the car swerved, missing her by mere inches. And then it was past her.

  Hal! That was Hal behind the wheel, driving like a maniac.

  Heart hammering, she spun toward the house. “Dusty! Dusty, come quick!” She took off running. “Dusty!”

  Even before her frantic cries, Dusty must have heard Hal driving away, for he appeared instantly through the kitchen doorway, Sophia right on his heels.

  “It was Hal. He’s taken my car.”

  Dusty leapt off the porch and raced toward his pickup truck. Karen headed in the same direction, yanking open the passengerside door as he turned the key in the ignition.

  “I’m going with you,” she said needlessly.

  He didn’t offer any argument.

  The truck raced down the drive. A haze of dust hovered at the junction with the highway, proclaiming Hal’s recent exit. Dusty braked to a halt and stared west.

  “Did you see which way he turned?”

  “No,” she answered, gazing down the highway to the east. If that was the direction Hal had taken, the swells of rolling desert obscured any sign of the battered Mustang.

  With a few muttered words of frustration, Dusty laid his forehead on the back of his hands where they gripped the steering wheel.

  “We’ll find him,” she said without much confidence.

  He turned his head enough so he could look at her. “It never solves anything to run away. Ultimately, you’re running from yourself.” He sat up straight. “And there’s no escape.”

  Karen wanted to touch his shoulder. She wanted to help him in some way. Worry darkened his eyes and creased his brow. He was suffering because he loved Hal. Despite everything that boy had done, Dusty loved him. She didn’t understand, but she wanted to. She wished she could.

  He pressed on the accelerator and turned left onto the highway, headed toward the small town of Murphy. “There wasn’t much gas in the Mustang. He’ll need a service station.”

  They made it about a mile down the road, driving about twenty miles per hour over the speed limit. Then the truck suddenly coughed, sputtered, and died. As it rolled to a stop, Dusty slapped his right hand against the steering wheel in frustration while staring at the gas gauge. “He siphoned my tank!”

 
They sat in silence for a long while, both of them gazing straight ahead, staring at the point where the road disappeared over another swell in the land.

  Finally, Karen looked at him. “You can’t save them all, Dusty. No matter how hard you try. Even I know that.”

  Saturday, June 5, 1937

  Dear Diary,

  It is 4:00 in the morning. My wedding day. The house is quiet. Papa will not be up to milk the cows for another hour or so. The rooster has yet to crow. For now, the air is cold and I am wrapped in a blanket as I sit, writing in my journal, occasionally glancing out the window so that I might see the sun rise.

  Today, I become Mrs. Mikkel Christiansen. Tonight I will lie down with my husband. Mama has explained to me what to expect on my wedding night. I am not certain I completely understand, but Mama was so embarrassed as she tried to explain the act of marriage that I could not ask her any questions.

  Strangely, my fears have subsided. I am at peace. God has said a man is to leave his mother and father and cleave to his wife. He has said the marriage bed is undefiled. I know in my heart Mikkel loves me as Christ loves the church, enough to sacrifice himself for me. Because of that, I know I can trust him with my body, my mind, my heart, my soul.

  I pray I will be a good wife to him and that our marriage will be blessed with children. I pray I will be able to minister to God’s people at my husband’s side. I feel very certain the future that lies before us will be a simple and tranquil one. That is all I want or need.

  Father God, keep me ever mindful of You as I step into this new phase of my life. In Jesus’ name, Amen.

  Esther

  Sunday, June 20, 1937 Dear Diary,

  This morning, Mikkel and I bade farewell to our congregation. Tomorrow we leave on the train and begin our journey to Denmark.

  It was a tearful parting at church. So many people who have touched my life through the years. So many friends whom I will miss. Not knowing when, if ever, we will return to Oregon made it all the more difficult. For even if Mikkel and I are only in Denmark a year or two, as he believes is true, the Lord may call him to minister anywhere else in the world.

  I have promised many people that I will write to them, and they have all promised to write me in return.

  Except for Sophia. She is as cold and unyielding as ever. She does not seem to care that I am going away and we may never see each other again. My heart is broken.

  My beloved Mikkel tries to comfort me. He says I should not despair, that one day Sophia will find the truth. He says we must pray for her salvation, that we must forgive her hardness of heart and trust the Holy Spirit will hear our prayers.

  O God, please make it so.

  Esther

  TWELVE

  You can’t save them all, Dusty. No matter how hard you try. Even I know that.

  Karen’s softly spoken admonition dogged Dusty’s thoughts in the anxious days that followed Hal’s disappearance. Those words were in the back of his mind when he talked to the police. They were in the back of his mind when he drove to Kuna on the outside chance Hal had gone to see Patty; he hadn’t. They were in the back of his mind when he prowled the streets of Caldwell and Nampa and Boise on warm summer evenings, searching for any sign of the boy or the old Mustang in the crowds of teens who congregated on street corners.

  You can’t save them all, Dusty. No matter how hard you try. What could he have done differently? What could he have said differently?

  There were so many things that could happen to Hal out there. So many things that could go wrong. You can’t save them all, Dusty.

  When she heard the piano music, Karen set Esther’s diary aside and left her bedroom. She paused at the parlor entrance, watching Sophia’s arthritic fingers move over the keys, plucking out the melody of a vaguely familiar hymn. Karen waited until her grandmother stopped playing, then crossed the room to stand at the side of the old upright.

  Sophia offered a sad smile. “I used to play well.” She held up her hands, crooked fingers extended. “The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak.”

  “It was lovely, all the same.”

  “I was remembering the way my sister and I used to play duets when we were girls. My, those were delightful evenings.”

  “I’ve been reading her journals,” Karen said. “I didn’t think I would find them interesting, but … well, they are a bit captivating, aren’t they?”

  Her grandmother’s smile broadened.

  Karen glanced toward the kitchen door. “It’s quiet today. Where is everyone?”

  “Grant took the boys into town to pick up supplies. And Dusty …” She let her voice drift into silence as she shook her head. Then, more softly, she said, “He’s trying to repair the old bridge over Bonnet Creek.”

  Karen sat on the piano bench beside her grandmother. “He’s taking this thing with Hal awfully hard.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why is that? Hal and Patty must have been seeing each other before Hal came to the Golden T. I mean, the boys have only been at the ranch since the start of summer. She was already pregnant by then. And Dusty couldn’t have prevented Hal from taking off the way he did. So why is he acting like it’s his fault?”

  Sophia turned a thoughtful gaze on Karen. “I think you should ask him that yourself.”

  “He doesn’t want to talk to me.”

  “Try anyway.”

  Karen couldn’t deny she’d like to follow her grandmother’s advice. She wanted to understand Dusty. She wanted to know about his past, about his thoughts and his beliefs, about so many things.

  “Go on, dear. Just follow the creek up the draw. You’ll find him easy enough.”

  Against her better judgment, led by her heart and not her head, Karen rose to her feet. She took a few steps toward the door, then stopped and glanced behind her. “If God is love, the way you say, why is this happening to all of you?”

  “I don’t always know God’s purpose,” Sophia answered after a thoughtful pause. “But if I need to know, He’ll reveal it to me.”

  Karen shook her head in bemusement and left the house.

  The July sun beat down on Dusty’s back. His shirt was damp with his own perspiration, and his muscles ached from hours of exertion. But he didn’t stop to sit in the shade, didn’t try to take a rest. He wanted this bridge fixed. He wanted anyone who came up this trail to be able to use it. It had been in disrepair for too many years.

  Hear Me, My son, the beloved voice spoke to his heart. Anyone who separates himself from Me, sets up his idols in his heart, puts right before his face the stumbling block of his iniquity.

  Ezekiel, chapter 14, verse 7. He’d read that passage this morning, and he hadn’t been able to escape the words since.

  “I don’t understand, Lord. I haven’t any idols in my heart.” Kneeling on the ground, he held a nail against a plank of wood and raised his hammer. “I haven’t separated myself from You. I’m trying to serve You.” He struck the head of the nail. “Everything I do is because I want to serve You. This ranch.” He hit it again. “These boys.” And again. “Everything is for You.”

  He straightened his back, resting his bottom against the heels of his boots, then wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his wrist.

  For the Lord, whose name is jealous, is a jealous god.

  He gazed upward. “I have no idols. I serve no other gods.”

  The silence in his heart was more eloquent—and more disturbing—than any audible voice could be.

  Dusty rose from the ground and walked to the stack of lumber he’d earlier hauled up the trail using a team of horses and an old rickety wagon that wasn’t in much better shape than the bridge he was attempting to repair. Selecting another plank, he started to slide it from the stack. He stopped when he heard a sound behind him.

  Turning, he saw Karen riding the black-and-white paint toward him.

  She stopped her horse, then slipped from the saddle. She patted the gelding’s neck with one hand while holdin
g the ends of the reins in the other. Shifting her weight from one foot to the other, she glanced toward the bridge, then back at Dusty.

  “Could you use some help?”

  “You want to help?”

  He’d meant for her to be insulted by both his question and his tone. He’d meant for her to become angry and leave. She didn’t do either.

  “Yes, I want to help.”

  “All right.” He turned his back toward her. “Grab the other end of this, and help me carry it to the bridge.” She did as he’d instructed.

  After the board was set in place, she took a step backward onto firmer ground. “Now tell me how I can really help.” There was a stubborn spark in her light blue eyes.

  He saw the challenge in them, but he hadn’t the strength to do battle with her today.

  “You can’t,” he said as he knelt and reached for the hammer and nails.

  “Sometimes it helps to talk. Remember?”

  He set the hammer down again, then lowered his head toward his chest and pressed the palms of his hands against his thighs. “I’m tired,” he said under his breath. “So doggone tired.”

  “Correct me if I’m wrong. After all, I’m new around here. But it seems to me you can’t possibly take one summer and expect to turn around the lives of every boy who sets foot on this ranch. They can’t all be success stories. So why are you beating yourself up over Hal?”

  “I can’t save them all,” he said softly. Then, a little louder, he added, “I can’t save any of them.” Understanding swept through him. He raised his eyes and looked at her again. “Idols in my heart. My efforts to save Hal have become idols in my heart.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “It’s what He’s been trying to tell me all morning. No. For much longer than that.”

  “Who’s been trying to tell you?”

  “God.”

  She frowned.

  “You were right. I’ve been trying to save them. And I can’t.”

  Confusion darkened her pretty face. “Isn’t that why you run this camp? To give them some sort of chance?”