Francine Rivers

by Redeeming Love

  Miriam warmed her hands over the fire, smiling across at Angel. “Whatever you’re cooking, it smells good.” Angel kept stirring without comment. “How long have you been in California?”

  “A year.”

  “Oh, then you didn’t marry Michael until you came here. He said he arrived in ’48. Did you come overland?”

  “No. By ship.”

  “Is your family in the valley Michael’s been describing to my father?”

  Angel had known the questions would come and that making up lies would only tie her into tighter knots. Why not get it over with now, and then the girl would let her be? Maybe if they all knew the truth, they’d winter someplace else. Certainly that woman wouldn’t want to sleep in the same bed where a prostitute had slept. “I came to California alone. I met Michael in a brothel in Pair-a-Dice.”

  Miriam laughed and then, seeing Angel meant what she’d said, fell silent. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.” Elizabeth was looking at her with an indefinable expression. Angel’s gaze fell, and she kept stirring.

  Miriam didn’t say anything for a long moment, and Elizabeth closed her eyes again. “You needn’t have said anything,” Miriam said finally. “Why did you?”

  “So you wouldn’t have any shocking surprises down the road,” Angel said bitterly, her throat tight.

  “No,” Miriam said, “I was prying again, that’s why. Mama says it’s one of my failings—always wanting to know everyone else’s business. I’m sorry.”

  Angel kept stirring, troubled by the girl’s apology.

  “I’d like to be friends,” Miriam said.

  Angel glanced up in surprise. “Why would you want to be friends with me?”

  Miriam looked surprised. “Because I like you.”

  Taken aback, Angel stared at her. She glanced at Elizabeth. The woman was watching them, a tired smile on her face. Blushing, Angel looked at the girl and said softly, “You don’t know very much about me other than what I just told you.” She wished now she hadn’t said anything.

  “I know you’re honest,” Miriam said with a rueful laugh. “Brutally so,” she added more seriously. A thoughtful look came into her eyes as she studied Angel.

  The boys came in, and with them a blast of cold air. The girls awakened and Ruth started to cry. Elizabeth sat up and held her close, admonishing the boys to quiet their excited chatter. John came in and with one word hushed them. Angel saw Michael just behind him. When he smiled at her, her relief was physical. Then she worried what he would say when he found out she had blurted out the truth.

  Wet coats shrugged off, the men hunkered by the fire while she served beans into the bowls Miriam passed out. When everyone had their meal, John bowed his head, his family taking his lead. “Lord, thank you for delivering us today and bringing us Michael and Amanda Hosea. Watch over our lost loved ones, David and Mother. Please give Elizabeth renewed strength. Keep us all well and strong for the journey ahead. Amen.”

  John asked questions about land, crops, and the California market while Jacob and Andrew asked for second helpings of beans and biscuits. Angel wondered when Michael would be ready to return to their wagon. She felt Miriam watching her. She didn’t want to know what questions were running through the girl’s head now that she’d had time to think about it.

  “The rain’s stopped, Papa,” Andrew said.

  “Shouldn’t we go to our own wagon now?” Angel whispered to Michael.

  “Stay here with us,” John said. “We’ve room enough. With the fire going, it’s warmer in here than it’d likely be in your wagon.”

  Michael accepted, and Angel’s heart dropped as he went for their blankets. Excusing herself quickly, she went after him. “Michael,” she said, searching for words to convince him they should sleep in the wagon and not in the tent with the Altmans. He reached out and pulled her close, kissing her soundly. Then he turned her back toward the tent, saying next to her ear, “Sooner or later you’ll learn there are people in the world who don’t want to use you. Now, buck up your courage and go back in there and get to know a few.”

  Pulling her shawl tightly around herself, she ducked back inside the tent. Miriam smiled at her. Angel sat self-consciously near the fire and didn’t look at anyone as she waited for Michael to come back. The two boys pleaded for their father to read from Robinson Crusoe. John took a worn leather volume from a pack and began to read while Miriam laid out the bedding. Little Ruth, thumb still tucked in her mouth, dragged her blanket from where it was placed and put it next to Angel. “I wanna sleep here.”

  Miriam laughed. “Well, I think you’d better ask Mr. Hosea, Ruthie. He might want to sleep there, too.”

  “He can sleep on the other side,” Ruthie said, clearly staking her claim.

  Miriam came over with two quilts and handed one to Angel. Bending, she whispered, “See? She’s likes you, too.”

  Feeling an odd pang in her stomach, Angel glanced around at them. Michael came in with more blankets. “Storm’s coming. If we’re lucky, it’ll blow itself out by morning.”

  As the others slept, Angel lay awake beside Michael. The wind howled, and the rain pelted against the tent. The sound of the storm and the smell of the wet canvas reminded her of her first weeks in Pair-a-Dice.

  Where was Duchess? And Megan and Rebecca? What had happened to them? She tried not to think about Lucky dying in the fire. She kept remembering her saying, “Don’t forget me, Angel. Don’t forget me.”

  Angel couldn’t forget any of them.

  When the rain ceased, Angel listened to the breathing of the sleepers around her. Turning slowly onto her side, she looked at them. John Altman lay beside his frail wife, his arm curled protectively around her. The boys slept nearby, one sprawled on his back, the other curled on his side with the blanket over his head. Miriam and Leah were curled together like spoons, Miriam’s arm around her sister.

  Angel’s eyes came to rest on Miriam’s sleeping face. This girl was a new entity.

  Angel hadn’t known many good girls. Those on the docks had been warned away by their mothers. Sally had said once that good girls were dull and critical and that’s why when they grew up and married, their husbands frequented brothels. Miriam was neither dull nor critical. She had poked good-humored fun at her father all evening while seeing to her ailing mother. Her sisters and brothers clearly adored her. Only Jacob balked when she told him what to do, and one glance from his father ended that. When it was time for the children to settle down, it was Miriam who tucked them in and prayed with them quietly while the men talked.

  “I’d like to be friends.”

  Angel closed her eyes. Her head ached. What would she and Miriam have to talk about? She hadn’t a clue, but it seemed she was going to be faced with it. The men had already developed an easy rapport. Both loved the land. John Altman talked about Oregon as though it were another more desirable woman, and Michael talked about the valley in the same way. “Papa,” Miriam had said in amused exasperation, “you were convinced California was paradise until we rolled down out of the Sierras.”

  He shook his head. “It’s more crowded here than in Ohio. The whole territory is crawling with fortune hunters.”

  “All those good boys from good homes,” Miriam said, and a dimple showed in one cheek. “Maybe even a few from Ohio.”

  “Gone wild,” John Altman remarked grimly.

  Miriam poked his shoulder. “You’d be panning for gold in a stream, too, Papa, if you didn’t have all of us to watch over. I saw the gleam of greed in your eyes when that gentleman was telling you about making a good strike on the American.” She included Michael and Angel. “The man owns a big store now with goods to the rafters. He said he arrived in California with little more than a shovel and the clothes on his back.”

  “One chance in a million,” John told her.

  “Oh, but think of it, Papa,” Miriam went on dramatically, a hand to her heart and her dark eyes sparkling with mischief. “You and th
e boys could pan and work the Long Tom while Mama and I run a little cafe in the camp and serve all those poor, dear, downtrodden, handsome young bachelors.”

  Michael laughed, and John tugged his daughter’s braid.

  The Altmans fascinated Angel. They all liked each other. John Altman was clearly in charge and would tolerate no disrespect or rebellion, but it was clear he was not held in fear by his wife and children. Even Jacob’s brief rebellion had been handled with good humor. “Whenever you don’t listen, there’s going to be stern discipline,” his father said. “I’ll supply the discipline, and you’ll supply the stern.” The boy capitulated and Altman ruffled his hair affectionately.

  What if they did decide to stay in the valley? Angel massaged her throbbing temples. What did she have in common with them? Especially a young, doe-eyed virgin? When she had blurted out her past profession and how she and Michael had met, she had fully expected the girl to be shocked and leave her alone. The last thing she expected was that look of questioning concern and an offer of friendship.

  Angel felt movement beside her and opened her eyes against the pain in her head. Ruthie snuggled against her seeking warmth in her sleep. Her thumb had slipped out of her mouth. Angel touched the smooth pink cheek—and suddenly she saw Duke’s enraged face swimming before her eyes. She felt the slap across her face again. “I told you to take precautions!” She could feel him grabbing her by her hair as he dragged her up from the bed so that his face was right in hers. “The first time was easy,” he said through his teeth. “This time I’m going to make sure you never get pregnant again.”

  When the doctor came, she had kicked and fought, but it had done no good. Duke and another man strapped her to the bed. “Do it,” Duke ordered the doctor and stood by watching to make sure he did. When she started to scream, they put a strap in her mouth. Duke was still there when the ordeal was over. Consumed in pain and weak from loss of blood, she’d refused to look at him.

  “You’ll be fine in a few days,” he told her, but she knew she would never be all right. She called him the foulest name she knew, but all he did was smile. “That’s my Angel. No tears. Just hate. It keeps me warm, my sweet. Don’t you know that yet?” He kissed her hard. “I’ll be back when you’re better.” He patted her cheek and left.

  The black memory tortured Angel as she gazed at little Ruth Altman. She wanted desperately to leave the tent but was afraid if she got up she would awaken the others. Staring up at the canvas ceiling, she tried to think of something else. The rain started again, and with it came all her old ghosts.

  “Can’t sleep?” Michael whispered. She shook her head. “Turn on your side.” When she did, he drew her back against him, tucking her into his body. The child shifted, snuggling deeper into the quilts and pressing into Angel’s stomach. “You’ve got a friend,” Michael murmured. Angel put her arm around Ruth and closed her eyes. Michael put his arm around both of them. “Maybe we’ll have one like her someday,” he said against her ear.

  Angel stared into the fire in despair.

  You shall love your neighbor as yourself.

  JESUS, MATTHEW 19 : 19

  Michael settled the Altmans comfortably in the cabin and shouldered his own trunk. Angel followed him to the barn, biting off any protest. She could see his mind was set. What in the world was he was going to get out of this deal? Why do this for total strangers?

  The rains came day after day. After the first few nights, Angel found comfort in the sounds of the owl in the rafters and the soft stirring of mice in the hay. Michael kept her warm. Sometimes he would explore her body, rousing alien sensations that unnerved her. When his own desire became too great, he drew away and talked about his past and especially the old slave he still loved. In those quiet, unthreatening moments, Angel found herself telling him what Sally had taught her.

  Head propped up on his hand, Michael toyed with her hair. “Do you think she was right about everything, Amanda?”

  “Not by your rules, I guess.”

  “Whose do you want to live by?”

  She thought before answering. “My own.”

  Outside the confines of the barn and Michael’s protective arms, Angel was affectionately accosted by Miriam. At every turn, the girl undermined Angel’s determination to remain aloof. Miriam made her laugh. She was so young and full of innocent mischief. What Angel could not comprehend was why this girl should want to be her friend. She knew she should discourage her, but Miriam grew obtuse at her rebuffs and continued to tease and delight her.

  Starved of any family life as a child, Angel did not know what was expected of her when she and Michael spent evenings in the cabin with the family. She sat quietly and observed. She was captivated by the respectful camaraderie between John and Elizabeth Altman and their five children. John was a hard man who seldom smiled, but it was clear he adored his children—and that he had a special affection for his eldest daughter, despite their constant arguing.

  Dark-eyed Andrew and his father were much alike in appearance and manner. Jacob was gregarious and given to practical jokes. Leah was solemn and shy. Little Ruth, open and bright, was the darling of the whole family. For some reason Angel could not contemplate, the child adored her. Perhaps it was her blonde hair that drew Ruthie’s infatuation. Whatever it was, every time she and Michael came in to join the family, Ruthie sat at her feet.

  It amused Miriam. “They say dogs and children can always pick a tenderhearted person. Can’t argue with that, now, can you?”

  For a full week after they moved in, Elizabeth was too weak to get out of bed. Angel cooked and took care of the household duties while Miriam saw to her mother and the children. Michael and John dug up stumps in the field. When they came in for supper, John sat with his wife and held her hand, talking to her softly while the children played pick-up sticks and string games.

  Watching John, Angel was reminded of all those weeks Michael had cared for her after Magowan’s beating. She remembered his tender care and consideration. He had tolerated her worst insults with quiet patience. He was in his own element with these people. She was the one who didn’t belong.

  Angel couldn’t help but make comparisons. Her father had hated her enough even before she was born to want her thrown away like so much trash. Her mother had been so obsessed with him that she had almost forgotten she had a child. From her life with harlots, Angel was used to women who worried incessantly about the shape of their bodies and whether they were beginning to age. She was used to women who fussed with their hair and clothing and talked about sex as easily as the weather.

  Elizabeth and Miriam were new and fascinating to her. They adored one another. They spoke no harsh words, were clean and neat without being preoccupied about their appearance, and talked about everything but sex. Though Elizabeth was too weak to do any work, she organized and orchestrated Miriam’s and the children’s days. At her urging, Andrew made a fish trap to set up in the creek. Leah fetched water. Jacob weeded the vegetable garden. Even little Ruth helped, setting out the dishes and utensils and picking wild flowers for the table. Miriam washed, ironed, and mended clothes while overseeing her siblings. Angel felt useless.

  Once Elizabeth was up, she assumed full command. Unpacking her Dutch oven and pans, she took over the cooking. The Altmans had replenished their own supplies in Sacramento, and she made delicious meals of fried salt pork with gravy, baked beans sweetened with molasses, cornbread, and stewed jackrabbit with dumplings. When the fish trap worked, she fried the trout in seasonings. She skillet-baked johnnycakes while she spit-roasted two ducks. Most days, she made sourdough biscuits for breakfast. As a special treat, she soaked dried apples and made a pie.

  She sighed one evening as she set the food on the table. “Someday we’ll have another cow and have milk and butter again.”

  “We had one when we left home,” Miriam said to Angel, “but the Indians took a liking to her near Fort Laramie.”

  “I’d give Papa’s watch for a spoonful of plum jam,�
� Jacob said, making his mother laugh and cuff him lightly.

  Following supper, it was the Altman family custom to have devotions. John frequently asked Michael to read the Bible. The children were bright and full of questions. If God created Adam and Eve, why did he let them sin? Did God really want them running around Eden naked? Even in winter? If there was only Adam and Eve, who’d their children marry?

  Eyes twinkling, John settled back to smoke his pipe while Elizabeth tried to answer the endless questions. Michael shared his own opinions and beliefs. He told stories rather than read them. “You’d make a fine preacher,” John said. Angel almost protested and then realized he meant it as a compliment.

  Angel never joined in the discussions. Even when Miriam asked her what she thought, she shrugged it off or turned the question back on the girl. Then, one evening, Ruthie went straight to the heart of the matter. “Don’t you believe in God?”

  Unsure how to respond, Angel said, “My mother was Catholic.”

  Andrew’s mouth fell open. “Brother Bartholomew said they worship idols.” Elizabeth blushed bright red at his comment, and John coughed. Andrew apologized.

  “No need,” Angel said. “My mother didn’t worship any idols that I remember, but she prayed a lot.” Not that it ever did her any good.

  “What’d she pray for?” irrepressible Ruthie asked.

  “Deliverance.” Determined not to become part of a religious discussion, she took up the materials Michael had purchased for her new clothing. There was a still silence in the cabin that made Angel’s skin prickle.

  “What’s deliv’rance mean?” Ruthie asked.

  “We’ll talk about it later,” Elizabeth hushed her. “Right now, you children have school work to do.” She got up and took out the children’s school books. Angel looked up after a moment and saw Michael’s gentle gaze on her. Her heart fluttered strangely. She wished for the cool, quiet darkness of the barn and no one noticing her, not even this man who had come to matter entirely too much.