Mama had believed in God. Mama had had faith. She had opened herself up wide. Our Father who art in heaven was in the same realm as Alex Stafford. Angel wasn’t fool enough to open herself up for anyone, least of all him. And if this man figured he could make her… She had learned early that what you don’t believe in can’t hurt you.
“Do you remember anything about the wedding?” Michael said, startling her from her grim thoughts.
“I remember some man in black talking over me with a voice deader than Jesus.”
“You said yes. Do you remember that?”
“I didn’t say yes. I said, ‘why not?’”
“It will do.”
Take my yoke upon you and learn from me,
for I am gentle and humble in heart,
and you will find rest.
JESUS, MATTHEW 11 : 29
Dressing was all Angel managed to do the first few days out of bed. After a week on her feet, she ventured outside. It gave Michael an odd pang to see her in Tessie’s clothes. No two women could have been more different; Tess, sweet and caring, uncomplicated and open; Mara, cold and indifferent, complex and closed. Tessie, dark and muscular; Mara, blonde and slender.
Michael didn’t try to fool himself that she’d come outside because she was lonely and wanted his company. She was just tired of being cooped up in the cabin. She was bored.
But Angel was lonely, and because of it she was edgy and defensive when Michael approached. After all, she didn’t want him getting any wrong ideas. “When do I start plowing the fields?” she said dryly.
“In the fall.”
She glanced up at him sharply.
Michael laughed and brushed the hair back off her shoulder. “You feel up to taking a little walk?”
“How far?”
“Until you say stop.” He took her hand, trying not to let it bother him that hers lay like a dead fish in his. Passive resistance. He showed her the corncrib and the gear shed. He took her to the log bridge over the stream where he planned to build the springhouse to store meat and dairy products—when he could afford to buy a cow. He walked her along the pathway to the small barn and showed her the two draft horses. He pointed out the fields he had plowed and planted, and then he took her out into the open meadowland. “I started out west with eight oxen and ended up with the two you see out there.”
“What happened to the rest?”
“Indians stole one, and five died in harness. It was hard going,” he said. “Animals weren’t the only ones dying along the Humboldt Sink.” Michael looked down at her and saw how pale she was. She wiped perspiration from her forehead with the back of her hand. He asked if she wanted to head back. She said no. He headed back anyway. She was played out and too stubborn to admit it.
Lord, is she going to be this bullheaded about everything?
On the way back to the cabin, Michael showed her where he wanted to put a grape arbor. “We’ll sit beneath it on hot days. There’s nothing smells better than grapes ripening in the sun. We’ll add a bedroom and kitchen and put a porch on the west side, so we can sit in the evenings and watch the sun set and the stars come out. On hot summer afternoons, we’ll sip apple cider and watch our corn grow. And children, someday, God willing.”
Her stomach dropped. “You’ve enough work planned out to last a long while.”
Michael tipped her chin and looked straight into her eyes. “It’ll take us a lifetime, Mara.”
She jerked her chin away. “Don’t go pinning your hopes on me, mister. I have my own plans, and they don’t include you.” She went the rest of the way by herself.
The walk had been good for her, but she was exhausted. Still, she didn’t want to be inside. She dragged his chair out the door so she could sit in the open. She wanted to feel the warmth of the sun on her face. She wanted to smell the fresh air. A soft afternoon breeze played with her hair, and she could smell the earth, strong and rich. Her muscles loosened, and she closed her eyes.
Michael returned from work to find her sleeping. Not even the bruises darkening her eyes and jaw marred her look of peace. He took a tendril of her hair and rubbed it between his fingers. It was silk. She moved slightly. He looked at the slender column of her white throat and watched the steady pulse there. He longed to lean down and press his mouth to it. He wanted to breathe in the scent of her.
Lord, I love her, but is it always going to feel like this? Like there’s an ache inside me I’ll never get over?
Angel roused. She opened her eyes and started, seeing Hosea standing above her. The sun was behind him, and she couldn’t see his face or guess what he was thinking. She pushed her hair back and looked away. “How long have I been sitting here?”
“You looked peaceful. Sorry if I awakened you. You’ve got some color in your cheeks.”
She touched them and felt the warmth. “Add red to the black and blue.”
“Are you hungry?”
She was. “You might as well start teaching me to cook.” She winced from pain as she got up and followed him inside. She would need to know how to cook for herself when she had a place of her own.
“First thing you have to do is get a good fire laid.” He poked the coals into a fiery bed and added more wood. He went out with the bucket and came back with a chunk of salted venison. He cut it into pieces and dropped them into the boiling pot. Angel could smell the pungent herbs as he rubbed them between his palms and dropped them into the bubbling water.
“We’ll leave that cooking awhile. Come on outside with me.” He took a basket, and she followed him to a vegetable garden. Hunkering down, he showed her how to tell which carrots and onions were ready for harvest. He pulled up a mature potato plant. She didn’t want to admit she was astonished. Had anyone asked, she would have said potatoes came from Ireland. The one plant he pulled up produced enough potatoes to last several days.
As Angel straightened, she saw Hosea hunkered down a few feet away, yanking plants up and tossing them aside. A piercing recollection of Mama in the moonlit garden froze her. “Why are you tearing up your garden?”
Michael glanced up at her tone. Her face was white and drawn. He straightened and brushed his hands on his pants. “I’m pulling up weeds. They’re choking everything else. I haven’t had time to work out here. One of the things I’ll ask of you is tending the garden. When you’re ready.”
He picked up the basket and nodded toward the hills. “There are other foodstuffs growing wild. Chicory, mustard, and miner’s lettuce mostly. I’ll teach you what to look for. Down the creek a half mile are blackberries. They come ripe in late summer. There are blueberries a half mile up the hill. We’ve got apples and walnuts as well.” He handed her the basket. “You can wash those vegetables in the creek.”
She did what he told her and came back to the cabin. Michael showed her how to peel and pare them and left her to it. The meat was boiling in the pot over the fire, and he took an iron hook and slid the pot to the outer edge of the fire. “Stir it once in a while. I’m going out and see to the stock.”
The stew didn’t seem to be boiling fast enough, so Angel slid the pot back over the fire again. Then it boiled too fast, and she slid it away. She hovered, stirring and sliding, sliding and stirring. The heat and work were draining. She brushed the damp strands of hair back from her forehead. Her eyes smarted from smoke.
Michael came in with a bucket of water. He slammed it down, sloshing it on the floor. “Watch out!” He caught her arm and yanked her back from the fire.
“What’re you doing?”
“Your skirt’s smoking. In another minute, you would have been in flames.”
“I had to get close enough to stir the stew!” The pot lid was banging, the meal boiling over the side and hissing on the red coals. Without thinking, she grabbed the handle. She yelped, swore vilely, and snatched the hook down again.
“Easy!” Michael warned, but she was in no mood to listen. She yanked too hard and dislodged the bar. It clanged and the pot fell, dumpin
g the contents. The fire hissed and sputtered violently. A cloud of smoke billowed and filled the cabin with the horrible stench of burning stew.
She couldn’t even do this right! Angel threw the iron hook into the fireplace with the mess and sat in the willow chair. Leaning forward, she held her aching ribs.
Michael opened the two windows and the door, and the smoke began to clear.
Teeth clenched, Angel watched a piece of venison go up in flames. “Your dinner’s ready, mister.”
He tried not to smile. “You’ll do better next time.”
She glared up at him. “I don’t know anything about cooking. I don’t know a weed from a carrot, and if you set me behind your plow, you won’t have a straight furrow worth planting.” She stood. “You want me to work. Fine. I’ll work. The only way I know how. Right there,” she said, pointing at his bed. “Right now, if you like, mister. If the bed doesn’t suit your fancy, how about the floor, or your stable, or anywhere else you’d like? Whatever you want, just let me know!”
He let out a breath. “It was only a pot of stew, Mara.”
She seethed with frustration. “How did a saint like you pick me? Are you testing your faith? Is that it?” She swept past him and went outside.
She wanted to run away but couldn’t. Every step hurt. She barely made it to the field before she had to stop and get her breath. He had jarred her when he pulled her away from the fire, and she hurt all over; but the physical pain was nothing to her own self-disgust and humiliation. She was stupid! She didn’t know anything! How was she going to manage on her own if she couldn’t cook a simple meal? She didn’t even know how to build a fire. She didn’t know anything necessary to survive.
You’re going to learn.
“Oh, no, I’m not! I’m not asking for his help. I’m not going to owe him anything.” She clenched her burned hand into a fist. “I didn’t ask him to come back. I didn’t ask for any of this!”
She went down to the creek to soak her hand and nurse her grievances.
Therefore, behold, I will allure her, bring her into the wilderness,
and speak kindly to her. Then I will give her her vineyards from there,
and the valley of Achor as a door of hope.
HOSEA 2 : 14 – 15 A
The mess in the fireplace was cleaned up when Angel came back, but Hosea was gone. She expected to feel relief at his absence, but she didn’t. Instead there was a hollowness inside her that made her feel she was drifting in empty space. Was he out there somewhere thinking up a suitable punishment for her outburst?
What a fool he must think her. She could bet his sister had known how to build a fire, cook a fine meal, plow a field, and do whatever else needed doing. She’d probably known every wild vegetable plant from the Atlantic to the Pacific, at a distance of a hundred feet. She probably had been able to smell out wild game and then shoot and dress it herself.
Dejected, Angel sat on the floor before the hearth and looked at the barren fireplace. My life is just like that: a bare, cold, useless hole in a wall. She was stupid and clumsy. Oh, but she was beautiful. She touched her face. Or she had been.
She got up. She had to do something. Anything. She needed light and warmth. She had watched Hosea build a fire often enough. Maybe she could do it herself. She took wood chips and piled them, then laid kindling and small branches. She took the flint and steel from the mantel, but no matter how hard she tried, she could barely strike a spark.
Michael stood in the doorway watching her. He had gone out for her earlier and seen her sitting beside the creek, so dejected she didn’t even notice he was there. He stood by, watching over her until she wandered back to the house. He might as well have been invisible. She was so tightly wrapped in herself, her own misery and dark thoughts, that she was blind to everything else. Especially him.
Cursing, she put her fists against her eyes.
Michael put his hand lightly on her hair and felt her jump. “Let me show you how to do it.” He hunkered down beside her and held out his hand. She handed him tools. “First of all, you can’t expect to get it perfect the first time. It takes practice.” Like cooking stew, he wanted to say. Like living a different way of life.
Angel watched him lay the fire and strike the flint. A spark caught, and he blew on it gently until the shavings smoked and began to burn. He added small kindling, then larger branches. Within minutes, the fire was going.
Michael sat back, his forearms resting on his raised knees. He intended to enjoy the fire and Mara’s closeness, but she had other ideas. She took the poker and knocked the branches off and scattered the kindling and wood chips. She smashed every last ember.
Kneeling closer, she laid the fire just as he had done. She did it exactly right, then struck the flint and steel. She made a spark, but it didn’t catch. She tried again, more resolute, and failed. Her burned hand hurt abominably, but she clutched the tools with such absolute determination that her palms began to sweat. With each failure, her chest ached more, until the pain was so permeating, so deep and disabling, that she sank back on her heels.
“I can’t.” What was the use?
Michael’s heart ached for her. She had never once cried, even when she was out of her mind with fever. And God knew she needed to. “Let go of it, Mara.”
“Fine.” Angel put the flint and steel between them. “You do it.”
“That’s not what I mean. You try too hard. You expect to do everything right. It’s not possible.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. All I want to do is build a fire.”
“We don’t even speak the same language,” he said flatly. He might as well be speaking English to a Spanish-speaking California girl. “It’s like fighting me when you don’t have to.”
She refused to look at him. “Build it again so I can see what I did wrong.”
He did as she asked. She watched closely and saw she had done nothing wrong. Why hadn’t her fire caught? The hearth was full of blazing light, and he had done it all in but a few moments. Her fire wouldn’t even start, but his would last the night.
Angel came to her feet abruptly and stepped away. She hated his competence. She despised his calm. She wanted to destroy both, and she only had one weapon she knew how to use.
She stretched sinuously, aware of his gaze upon her. “I suppose I’ll get it eventually,” she said and sat on the bed. “My shoulders ache. Would you massage them the way you did before?”
Michael did as she asked. He kneaded the tension from her muscles, increasing his own. “That feels good,” she said, and the sultry tone sent his pulse racing. Her hair slipped back and was like silk over his working hands. When he put one knee on the bed, she put her hand on his thigh.
So that’s it, he thought ruefully. She figured she couldn’t build a fire in the grate so she would build one in him instead. It hadn’t taken her any time at all to do it. He drew back.
Angel felt his retreat and followed him. She slid her arms around his waist, pressing herself against his straight back. “I know I need someone to take care of me and I’m glad you came back for me.”
Jesus, give me strength! Michael closed his eyes. When her hands moved, he caught her wrists and withdrew from her embrace completely.
When he turned, Angel was ready. She knew how to act the role. She knew all the words by heart. Soft, broken words… calculated words to tear at his heart, to make him feel his rejection had hurt her. Stir guilt in with the hot blood boiling. Give him reasons and excuses to give in. That last evening in the brothel had already weakened him. He was a lamb ready for the slaughter.
Angel came to him again, shutting down her emotions and using her mind instead. She pulled his head down and kissed him. Michael dug his fingers into her hair and kissed her back.
She used what she knew to wage war against him. She didn’t know anything about building fires or cooking stew, but she knew all about this.
He disentangled himself, gripping her shoulders. “You�
�re so relentless,” he said, unwilling to surrender.
Angel stared up at him and saw he wasn’t fooled. He knew exactly what she was doing and why. She tried to pull away, but he wouldn’t let her. “It doesn’t have to be the way you know.”
“Let go of me!” She struggled frantically. Michael saw she was hurting herself and released her. She stepped well away from him.
“Did all that make you feel any better?”
“Yes!” she hissed, lying through her teeth.
“God help me.”
She had wanted him to feel more than physical discomfort. She had wanted to annihilate him. She wanted to see him squirm like a worm on a hook. She plunked herself down in the willow chair, her neck stiff, and stared straight ahead.
Michael looked at her bleakly. Her silence screamed profanity at him. She thought she had lost, but did she think he had won? He went outside. Does this woman have a compromising bone in her body, Lord? Or is this what I’ve got to look forward to for the rest of my life!? Jesus, she doesn’t fight fair.
She’s fighting you the only way she knows how.
Michael went down to the creek and knelt, splashing cold water on his face. He stayed on his knees for a long time. Then he went to the barn for the metal washtub.
When he came in, Angel kept her back to him. He set the tub before the fire. She looked from it to him and away again, saying nothing. Had she made him feel dirty? Did he need a bath now to wash her off? He spent the next hour toting water from the well and heating it in the big black pot hanging over the fire. He tossed a bar of soap into the water.
“I’m going for a walk,” he said and left.
Surprised, she went to the door and opened it. He kept on going until she lost sight of him in the trees. Frowning, she closed the door. She took off her clothes and stepped into the tub. She scrubbed her hair and body vigorously, poured the warm water down over her to rinse, then stepped out. She wanted to be finished before he came back. He had left a towel draped over the back of the chair, and she rubbed her skin and wrapped her hair. She dressed quickly. She sat down before the fire again and unwound the towel. Her hair was a tangled mess, and she tried to work her fingers through the knots.
Francine Rivers Page 12