Farmer's Daughter Romance Collection : Five Historical Romances Homegrown in the American Heartland (9781630586164)

by Peterson, Tracie; Davis, Mary; Hake, Kelly Eileen; Stengl, Jill; Warren, Susan May

  “Does your stomach hurt?”

  Myles snatched his hand from his belly.

  “Eunice says you must be hungry a lot because you rub your belly so much.”

  He felt warm. “Nervous habit.”

  After several saucers of milk, Pushy made an effort to groom. As soon as she lifted her paw to her mouth she remembered the impossibility of using her tongue, but she wiped the paw over her ear anyway.

  “Do you think her kittens will live?”

  “I felt one moving while I held her. Unless she eats, she will not have milk enough for them.” Squatting, Myles rubbed the back of the cat’s neck with one finger, and the purr began to rumble. “I’ll chop some meat for her tonight. It will have to be soft and wet. I’ll keep her in my room until she is well. Poor Pushy. I think she has wanted to be my pet all this time, but I was too busy to notice how special she is.”

  “You are too busy. I hardly ever see you. I wish you would come by for coffee again some evening. My parents wouldn’t mind.” Beulah rose and shook out her rumpled apron. “I think even I would enjoy having a cat like this one. She’s special.”

  Rising, Myles watched her fold the stained garment. She looked smaller without that voluminous apron. Her simple calico gown complemented her pretty figure. The sunbonnet hung down her back.

  The ache in his soul was more than he could endure. I’m not an honorable man. Al can’t have her! I want Beulah for my wife. Whatever it takes, God. Whatever it takes.

  “Would you like to own Pushy?”

  “I’m sure she will be happiest here with you.” Beulah smiled. “I don’t think my mother would want a cat. We already have one animal in the house, and that is enough. I had better be going home now. No one knows where I am. Take care of Pushy, Myles…and thank you for coming to her rescue. You may think I’m bossy, but I think you’re wonderful!” Rising on tiptoe, she kissed his face above his beard.

  He slipped his arms around that slim waist and pulled her close. Her face rested within the open vee of his shirt; her breath heated his skin.

  “Why did you do that?” Myles asked gruffly, his cheek pressed against her head.

  “I saw my mother kiss Papa Obie that way not long after we met him.” She sounded defensive. “She told me she did it to demonstrate gratitude for his kindness.”

  “No wonder Buck is besotted with your mother.” Eyes closed tight, he spoke into her hair.

  “I was trying to show affection.” Beulah’s arms wriggled free and slid around his waist. “Now I understand why Mama likes it when Papa holds her. It’s nice.”

  When her hands pressed against his back, he released her and stepped away. “Come. I will walk with you as far as the dam.”

  Beulah looked shaken. Myles could think of nothing to say, so they walked in silence.

  “Did I shock you?” she asked meekly.

  “No.”

  Beulah had been walking ahead of him on the narrow path, but now she stopped to face him. “I wish I knew what you were thinking. Sometimes I feel as if you are laughing at me on the inside. I must seem young and naive to you.”

  “Believe me, I’m not laughing,” he said. “Do I seem old and dried up to you?”

  “Of course not, but you never seem happy. Even when you smile and laugh, there is sadness in your eyes.” She tipped her head to one side and searched his face. “Do you ever wish you could talk with someone about…about things? I don’t think I really know you, Myles. You’re like a carrot—most of you is underground.”

  His lips twitched at her choice of analogy. Fear of overwhelming her prevented him from revealing even a fraction of his desire to be known and loved. “I’ll let you know when the carrot is ready for harvest.”

  “Now I know you’re laughing at me!” Dark eyes accusing yet twinkling, she gave him a little shove and hurried away along the trail. “Good-bye, Myles.”

  “Beulah?”

  She glanced back.

  “You can demonstrate gratitude to me anytime you like.”

  Aghast, she turned and ran into the woods. He chuckled.

  Chapter 9

  Thou openest thine hand, and satisfiest the desire of every living thing.

  PSALM 145:16

  Myles found the Bible in the bottom of an old saddlebag, smelling of mildewed leather. A spider had nested on the binding—years ago from the looks of it. The title page bore his name in his brother’s hieroglyphic script: “Myles Van Huysen, from his brother Monte, 1875.”

  His squared fingertip caressed the page. “Monte.” Memories assailed him: A childhood filled with Monte’s derogatory name-calling and cruel tricks whenever Gram’s back was turned. Years of adolescent jealousy and competition. Then Monte showing up at the circus—mocking, yet for once honest about his feelings and plans.

  Myles stared vacantly at the saddlebag. In Monte’s final days something had happened to change him, to turn him from his reckless ways. Was it the shock of finding himself a hunted man? Was it the realization that someone wanted to kill him? Myles shook his head. Danger had never fazed Montague Van Huysen.

  He recalled faces around the campfire, cowboys of assorted sizes and colors squatting to drink scalding coffee before heading out to keep watch over the herd. Monte had smiled, a genuine smile containing no scorn, when he handed over the brown paper parcel. “Happy birthday. The boys gave you a lariat, so I got you something you didn’t want. It took me years to stop running from God; hope you’re quicker to find Him.”

  Now, clutching the Book to his bare chest, Myles closed his eyes. “You were right, Monte. I didn’t want it. Nearly tossed it away when I saw what it was. Wish I had. Stupid to carry an old book around with me all these years.”

  He opened it at random. “Isaiah. Never could make heads or tails of those long-winded prophets.” Frowning, he looked at the heavy log beams overhead. “All right, God,” he growled, “if You exist, explain Yourself to me. Beulah says I’m unhappy. Antonio says I’m carrying a burden of unforgiveness. I don’t see how I can be held responsible for the wickedness of other people!”

  Rising, Myles began to pace back and forth across the small room, his Bible tucked under one arm, a finger holding his place. “I’m not the one who sinned. First my mother gave up on living and left me to Gram. Then Gram favored Monte and made me work like a slave. Monte never gave me a moment’s peace; then he followed me around the country all those years as if he really cared what became of me. It’s his fault he got killed—” A surge of emotion choked Myles’s voice. Grimacing, he struggled to hold back tears. Vehemently he swore.

  Sorrow and loss were incompatible with his anger at Monte. Myles clenched his fists and screwed up his face. “I hated him, God! Do You hear me? I hated him! I’m not sorry he died.” A sob wrenched his body. “I hate him for being such a fool as to get himself killed. I hate him for being an outlaw. I hate him for being so kind to me right before he died, just so I would mourn him!” Tears streamed down his face and moistened his beard.

  He climbed onto his bed, bringing the Bible with him. Flat on his back with the Book lying open on his chest, he continued, “You tell me to forgive people if I want to be forgiven. Ha! What they did was wrong, God! I can’t pretend it wasn’t and absolve them from guilt.” Self-righteousness colored his voice, yet speaking the words gave him no relief. “They didn’t ask to be forgiven. They weren’t even sorry. I hope they all burn in hell. What do You think of that?”

  He pressed upon his aching stomach and groaned aloud. Antonio’s words rang in his head: “You cannot offer Beulah an unforgiving heart.” Poison. Hatred. The bitterness was eating him alive from within.

  “Can You offer me anything better?” he demanded.

  If I want God to explain Himself, I’d better read what He has to say. He’s not going to talk to me out loud. As if this Book could answer any real questions.

  His finger was still holding a place in Isaiah. Myles opened the Book, rolled over, and focused on a page. “ ‘Ho, eve
ry one that thirsteth, come ye to the waters, and he that hath no money; come ye, buy, and eat; yea, come, buy wine and milk without money and without price,’ ” he read aloud.

  How can he that has no money buy something to eat? His soul was thirsty, but this couldn’t be speaking about that kind of thirst. Myles read on: “ ‘Wherefore do ye spend money for that which is not bread? and your labour for that which satisfieth not? hearken diligently unto me, and eat ye that which is good, and let your soul delight itself in fatness.’ ”

  So maybe it really is talking about feeding the soul. I suppose spending “money for that which is not bread” means trying to fill the emptiness inside with meaningless things. Maybe only God can fill that aching void, the hunger and thirst in my soul.

  His gaze drifted down the page. “ ‘Seek ye the LORD while he may be found, call ye upon him while he is near: Let the wicked forsake his way, and the unrighteous man his thoughts: and let him return unto the LORD, and he will have mercy upon him; and to our God, for he will abundantly pardon.’ ”

  Myles stared into space and brooded. Much though he hated to admit it, his hatred and anger were wicked. He was that unrighteous man who harbored evil thoughts. He was in need of pardon.

  He read on: “ ‘For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways, saith the LORD. For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways, and my thoughts than your thoughts.’ ”

  Myles snapped the book shut, eyes wide. A chill ran down his spine. There was his answer: God does not need to explain Himself. Period.

  Myles suddenly felt presumptuous. Insignificant. Like dust. He tucked the Book under his bed, blew out the lamp, and lay awake until the early hours of morning.

  If Buck Watson was surprised when Myles started asking him questions about Scripture, he didn’t say so. The two men spoke at irregular intervals, sometimes drawing a simple conversation out over hours.

  “There are parts of the Bible I can’t understand,” Myles said as he raked hay on a newly cut field. He felt small beneath the dome of cloudless blue sky. Trees surrounding the pastures flaunted fall colors, reminding him of the passage of time.

  “Such as?” Buck prompted.

  The two worked as a team, tossing hay into a wagon. The mule team placidly nibbled on hay stubble. Myles looked at other crews around them, their burned and tanned backs exposed to the autumn sun. “I was always told to obey God’s commands and He would take care of me. But the Bible tells many stories about good people who were killed or tortured. I’ve had bad things happen in my life. Wicked people seem to reign supreme; tornadoes, floods, and droughts come; and God sits back and does nothing. The Bible says God is the Author of good, not of evil. I know He knows everything and doesn’t have to explain Himself to us lowly people, but my head still wants to argue the point.”

  “Man has free will to choose good or evil, and those choices can affect the innocent. The whole earth suffers under the curse of sin, and we all feel its effects. Sometimes God intervenes; sometimes He doesn’t.”

  “But why? If He’s all powerful, loving, and holy, why doesn’t He prevent evil or crush wicked people?” Myles stabbed too hard, driving his pitchfork into the earth.

  Buck considered his answer, brows knitted. “There are things we won’t know until we reach eternity. You see, Myles, our faith is based not upon what God does but upon who He is. God tells us that He is just, loving, merciful. We must take Him at His word and know that He will do what is best. He doesn’t explain Himself. He doesn’t guarantee prosperity and good health. But He does promise to be with us always, guiding and directing our lives for His purpose. Once you place your faith in Him, you will discover, as I have, that He never fails, never disappoints. He will give you perfect peace if you will accept it.” Buck forked hay atop the mound in the wagon bed.

  “Peace.” Myles studied Buck’s face and beheld that perfect peace in action. God’s reality in Buck Watson’s life could not be denied. There was no other explanation for the man.

  Myles lifted his shirttail to wipe his sweating face. Over the course of the day, he had peeled down to an unbuttoned shirt. Buck worked shirtless; his shoulders were tanned like leather beneath his suspender straps. “I do want the kind of peace you have,” Myles admitted. “I know I’m a sinner, but I’m not as bad as some people.”

  “When you stand before God, do you think He will accept the excuse that you weren’t as bad as some other guy? What is God’s requirement for entrance into heaven?”

  “I don’t know,” Myles grumbled.

  “Then I’ll tell you: Perfection. No sin. None.”

  Myles jerked around to face his boss. “But that’s impossible. Everybody sins. If that is so, then nobody could go to heaven.”

  A slow smile curled Buck’s mustache. “Exactly. The wages of sin is death, and we are all guilty. Doomed.”

  Myles shook his head in confusion. “How can you smile about this? You must be wrong.”

  “No, it’s the truth. Look it up for yourself in Romans.” Buck’s gaze held compassion. “But here is the reason I can smile: God loves us, Myles. He is not willing that any should perish. You see the quandary: God is holy—man is sinful. Sin deserves death—we all deserve death. No one is righteous except God Himself. Do you know John 3:16?”

  Myles thought for a moment. “Is that the one about ‘God so loved the world’?”

  Buck nodded. “ ‘For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life. For God sent not his Son into the world to condemn the world; but that the world through him might be saved.’ ”

  Myles stared into space. “I think I’m beginning to see…”

  “I would suggest that you start reading the book of Matthew. Read about Jesus, His life and purpose. He is God in the flesh, come to save us. Ask God to make it clear to you.”

  Myles climbed atop the pile in the wagon, arranging and packing the hay. His brow wrinkled in thought.

  “Jesus died in your place, Myles, so you could go to heaven,” Buck shouted up to him. “He loves you.”

  To Myles’s irritation, tears burned his eyes. He turned his back on Buck and worked in silence. His work complete, Myles jumped down and leaned against the wagon wheel. A muscle twitched in his cheek, and his body remained taut. “I still have questions.”

  Gray eyes regarded him with deep understanding. “Nothing wrong with that. God wants you to come to Him with your questions.”

  Myles glanced at his friend and drew a deep breath. “Buck, I haven’t forgotten your past. I don’t know how you continued to trust God all those years, especially while you were in prison through no fault of your own.”

  “I had my ups and downs,” Buck said. “Times of despair, times of joy. But I clung to God’s promise to bring good out of my life. Sometimes that promise was the only thing I had left.”

  “But didn’t you hate the men who did it to you? I mean, they’re all dead now. You’ve had your revenge. Although I never understood why you went and tried to lead that rat Houghton to God before he died. I should think you would want him to rot in hell!”

  Buck stopped working and studied Myles. “Hmm. I see.” He rested both hands atop the rake’s handle. “I tried hating, Myles. For months, I hated and brooded in that prison, vowing revenge on the lying scum who put me there. Then a friend read me a parable Jesus told about forgiveness; you can find it in the book of Matthew, chapter eighteen. That story changed my life.”

  Myles grunted. Forgiveness again. He didn’t want to hear it.

  Buck took a deep breath. “Myles, it comes down to one question: Are you willing to make Jesus your Lord or not?”

  Myles stared at a distant haystack and brushed away a persistent fly. There was one thing he could do to make his past right. “I must return to New York.”

  Buck lifted one brow. “Oh?”

  “I’ll never have peace until I
let my grandmother know where I am and apologize for running away. I can’t bring my brother back for her, but I can give her myself. This is something I know God wants me to do.” Myles slipped a hand inside his open shirt and scratched his shoulder. “Maybe I should write a letter. If I go back, I might lose everything that’s important to me here.”

  Buck looked into his soul. “Beulah?”

  “You know?”

  “I’m not blind. Her mother asked me to question your intentions.”

  Myles swallowed hard. “What about Al?”

  “Wrong question. What about Myles? Listen to me, my friend. You can’t make your heart right with God. Only Jesus can do that for you.”

  Myles’s head drooped. “I know I’m not good enough for Beulah. A friend told me once that I would poison her with the bitterness in my heart. I’ve got to work this thing out with God.”

  Buck crossed his arms, shaking his head sadly. “Until you do, better leave Beulah alone.”

  Myles lifted his hat and ran one hand back over his sweaty hair. Then he nodded. Climbing into the wagon seat, he loosed the brake, called to the team, and headed for the barn. Buck moved to a new spot and began to rake.

  Al and his crew waited near the barn to unload hay into the loft. After turning his load over to them, Myles watered his team at the huge trough. One mule ducked half its face beneath the water; the other sucked daintily. Myles pushed a layer of surface scum away with one hand, then splashed his face and upper body with the cold water. Much better. He slicked water off his chest with both hands, then plastered back his unruly hair.

  Just as he finished hitching the team to an empty wagon, Beulah’s voice caught his attention. There she was at the barn, serving cold drinks to the hands. Slim and lovely, dipping water for each man and bestowing her precious smiles. Myles suddenly noticed his raging thirst. Eyes fixed upon Beulah’s face, he started across the yard.

  Better leave Beulah alone.

  Myles halted. Shaking his head, he closed his eyes and rubbed them with his fingers. The woman was like a magnet to him. Buck was right to warn him away from her. Guess I’ll have to do without the drink. He jogged back to the wagon, leaped to its seat, and slapped the reins on the mules’ rumps. “Yah! Get on with you.”