by Delia Parr
Ruth held very, very still. It just was not fair that she would have to give up the one place she hoped to call her own. Not fair at all. Resentment that God would allow her private sanctuary to be taken away from her tugged yet again at her troubled spirit.
She quickly reassessed her situation and focused her gaze on the man who was struggling to get back to the cabin. He was not the elderly man she had first assumed him to be. In point of fact, he was probably only a few years older than she was. The sun highlighted his dark auburn hair, which he wore pulled back into a queue, and his eyes were a deep shade of hazel. He was not a particularly tall man, but next to her slight frame, even a short man would look quite tall. He had a deep cleft in his chin that added a bit of impishness to his features, but he was definitely in no physical condition to pose any threat to her well-being.
Her father had always enjoyed robust health, but she had nursed him through enough minor illnesses to know that he found his weakened state to be an embarrassment that often displayed itself in gruff words and complaints he later regretted and tried to assuage with a host of apologies.
Hopeful that the man who was walking so painfully away from her was no different and that she might be able to forge some sort of compromise that would allow them both the privacy they desired, she hurried forward and easily closed the short distance he had put between them. “I’m not certain what folks do wherever it is that you come from, but I wasn’t harvesting rocks,” she offered, following only a few paces behind him.
He ignored her and kept walking.
“No one harvests rocks. They harvest crops, of course, but I doubt anyone would ever consider rocks to be a crop. They’re quite a nuisance, actually, and I had to work very hard just to remove a few of them this morning. See? I even tore one of my gloves,” she offered and held out her hand, hoping he would turn around to see it.
Again, no response from him as he entered the shaded area beneath the trees where she had first seen him.
Frustrated, she refused to give up until she had prompted him to acknowledge the fact that she was walking right behind him, instead of acting like she had simply evaporated when he had dismissed her. “I was trying to clear the rocks from the soil so I could replant the garden that once grew here. I’m told Jane Canfield grew the prettiest flowers in the village.”
“Well, she doesn’t live here anymore. I do, and I’m quite certain I’ve no need for flowers,” he grumbled, without bothering to stop and turn around so they would be able to have a normal, face-to-face conversation.
“Perhaps if you would stop, for just a moment, we might—” She swallowed the rest of her words and charged forward when the poor man stumbled and dropped his cane. “Here. Let me help you.”
When his hand gripped her shoulder, she planted her feet in order to bear some of his weight without losing her own balance. Grimacing, he held onto her long enough to regain solid footing before he let go. “Thank you,” he offered, although he kept his gaze averted, no doubt embarrassed that he’d needed to accept her help.
She took a step back after handing his cane back to him and nodded. “You’re welcome. Perhaps … perhaps your decision to live here alone, without anyone to help you, was a mistake. I could help you,” she offered, voicing the idea before she had quite thought it through herself.
He snorted. “The next time I stumble over my own two feet, I’d rather not have to worry about whether or not I’ll snap you in two if I lean on you too hard. I’ll manage on my own, thank you.”
“You’re probably right in that regard, but I could help you in other ways. Assuming we could come to some sort of arrangement that would let me tend to my garden, that is.”
He cocked a brow. “I already told you. I don’t need any flowers.”
“Yes, you made that very clear,” she said.
“I can also cook for myself, so if you’re thinking that you might—”
“I wouldn’t want to cook for you. I don’t have the time,” she insisted. “But I could bring you supplies from the village from time to time or take something into the village for you. Some mail, perhaps.”
He let out a long sigh, but before he offered yet another objection, she continued. “You can barely manage to walk and—”
“Which is one of the consequences of falling off a roof and breaking your back, which I did several months ago. I assure you, lying abed, waiting to see if my back would heal well enough for me to even attempt to walk again was far worse,” he said quietly. “Now that I can get around a bit, there’s nothing I need more right now than a place where I can finish healing up with a bit of privacy, especially when my back decides to indulge in very painful spasms.”
Her heart swelled, both with admiration for his courage to survive such a devastating injury and in hope they might find common ground. “One of the consequences of becoming a widow with no means of supporting a little one is having no choice but to move into a relative’s home. And … and there’s nothing I need more right now than a place where I can go for a few hours each morning for a bit of privacy,” she replied.
He dropped his gaze.
For several painfully long moments she was afraid he would turn her down and send her away, but she was completely unprepared for the offer he finally made.
“Pile up the rocks you dig out, but leave them for me. I’ll need some of them to repair the cabin hearth. There’s a small shed behind the cabin. You can store your garden tools there and take or use anything else you might find in there. If I need something from the village, I’ll leave a note for you in the shed. Otherwise I expect you to respect my privacy; in turn, I’ll respect yours.”
Nine
Ruth was more than halfway home before she realized she did not even know the name of the man now living in the abandoned cabin.
There was a bit of traffic up and down Main Street now, and she waited until several wagons passed by before she paused midway on the bridge and glanced downriver. Just beyond her garden on the narrow tip of land that jutted into the river, she could see smoke was still curling up from the top of the chimney that just barely poked over the treetops. The cabin itself, however, was completely hidden from view.
Ruth assumed the occupant was back inside and shook her head. “Poor man,” she whispered, thankful that the heavy burdens that troubled her own life did not include a devastating injury like the one he had suffered.
“Poor man, middling or rich, to each a natural body is sown, but to each, a spiritual body must be raised, for a home in Paradise awaits only the faithful.”
Ruth looked up, recognized the man who was standing at the railing just a few yards away, and clapped her hand to her heart to keep it from leaping out of her chest. “Reverend Haines!”
He walked over to her, his eyes glistening. A good thirty years her senior, he was quite ordinary in looks, but he had been blessed with a deep, rich voice. “I’m so sorry, Ruth. I didn’t mean to startle you. I was just sounding out an idea for a sermon. I thought you saw me standing here when you stopped.”
She let out a long breath. “No, I didn’t see you, which isn’t your fault at all. I’m afraid this is the second time this morning that I’ve been too preoccupied to notice what’s going on around me.”
He smiled. “Since you were working again this morning in that garden you’re trying to restore, I can only assume you met Jake Spencer at some point.”
“You know about my garden?” she asked, and tucked Jake Spencer’s name away for future reference.
Turning back to face the railing, he pointed downriver. “It’s right over there. Same spot as Jane Canfield’s garden used to be.”
“I suppose it’s the talk of the village,” she said, disappointment edging her words. She stared down at the water flowing beneath the bridge.
He chuckled. “No, not yet. It won’t be long before folks take notice, though, unless those flowers you plant don’t bloom until fall.”
“How did you know that I—?”
“I slip out here to the bridge early in the morning to think and pray a bit when I’m having trouble with my sermon, which is how I came to see you over there for the past few days. I’m usually gone by the time most folks even start their day and before you cross the bridge on your way home.”
“But not today,” she noted.
“Perhaps we’re both a bit … unsettled,” he offered.
When she looked over at him, she saw that he was leaning against the railing now and had dropped his gaze to stare at the waves below.
“My wife, Wealthy, passed six years ago tomorrow. As the date approaches, I’m afraid it’s still a difficult time for me, even though I know with all my heart that she’s safe and happy again now,” he whispered.
Ruth was surprised by the pain that laced his words. Even this long after her death, he was still pining for his wife. She now understood why the childless widower had not remarried, although she could not explain why the women she had overheard gossiping about him did not know why their efforts to attract his attention had been in vain.
He cleared his throat and gazed at her. “Being strong of faith doesn’t mean we don’t grieve or question God’s will. It just means we have to learn to trust Him more completely, which our faith helps us to do. I still struggle with trusting Him, just as everyone else does when their lives seem overburdened. Just as you must do. I know it’s still difficult to accept your husband’s recent passing and how hard it must be to be forced to accept the charity of relatives, but you still have your precious Lily to love and to hold and to remind you of the love you once shared with her father. God will help you. Trust in Him.”
Trust in Him.
Those were the very last words her father had spoken to her in the final moments before she left with Capt. Grant. She missed him desperately. How she longed to hear the whisper of his voice when he said farewell each morning before he took to the streets. Or the sound of his boots when he cleared off the mud before he entered the house at the end of the day to share supper with her.
She fought the tears that threatened to spill down her cheeks by clenching her jaw and taking long, slow breaths of air, and her throat tightened with guilt. Deceiving others in the village about her true identity might be necessary, but deliberately withholding the truth from a minister, especially this very kind minister, was even more difficult.
Her conscience trembled, striking chords of need that tempted her to put her trust in him. But fear that she would somehow put her father’s fate at risk forced her to keep her secret to herself. “Yes, yes I do have Lily and … and family to take us in. Your words are very comforting. I think perhaps,”
she added with sincerity, “you’ve found the heart of your message for this week’s sermon after all, since trusting in God is quite often a challenge for any believer.”
When Rev. Haines finally glanced over at her, his smile was back. “Perhaps I have. Thank you.”
She cocked a brow.
“For listening to an old man’s troubles and reminding me to trust that He would guide me to the message He wanted me to share with the congregation this week,” he explained, then offered his arm. “Come. I think it’s time for both of us to get started on the rest of our day. Let me walk you partway home, at least. I promised Spinster Wyndam that I’d drop by for breakfast, and I don’t want to be late.”
She took his arm and they started across the bridge. “I don’t think I’ve met her yet.”
“She’s been a bit sickly of late, but I have no doubt you’ll meet her soon,” he replied. “She’s nearly eighty now. Lived all her life in the village, but still hasn’t given up her favorite pastime, I’m afraid.” He met her gaze of curiosity with a bit of a grimace. “She’s a relentless matchmaker.”
When Ruth stiffened, he patted her arm. “Don’t worry. She’s still too determined to make sure she introduces me to someone so I marry again to bother you, although that may change once she finally meets you. And in the meantime, you shouldn’t worry about Mr. Spencer bothering you when you’re working on your garden, either,” he offered when they stopped at the end of the bridge.
She let go of his arm. “Oh?” she prompted, anxious to learn more about the man.
“He stopped by the parsonage yesterday to tell me that he wouldn’t be attending services until he was more fully recovered. I’d like to think that he was sincere, but in truth, he was so adamant about how much he valued his privacy while he was recuperating, I think he was more interested in making certain I wouldn’t drop by to invite him to join the congregation. He really doesn’t seem to want any visitors at all.”
“He does appear to be rather obsessed with his privacy,” she seconded.
He raised a brow. “Then you’ve spoken with him.”
She nodded and moistened her lips. “Just this morning. Briefly.”
“I thought I spied you talking with someone, but you were just a bit too far away for me to know for certain. At least you now know that you won’t have to worry about trying to find another place for your garden.”
“But how would you know he agreed to let me—?”
“I took the liberty of making certain he understood that you might need a bit of privacy yourself, and he should think long and hard before he tried to keep a poor young widow away from her garden.”
“But why would you … I mean, I appreciate that you spoke up for me, but why would you do that?”
He grinned a bit sheepishly. “When I was first called to my ministry here many years ago, Jane Canfield always made certain there were flowers at Sunday services. I thought I might convince you to do the same.”
“Of course … assuming I actually get to put some plants into the ground,” she replied, but she felt guilty for not telling him that she planned to no longer be here when the plants actually had flowers in full bloom.
“Well, you don’t have to worry about Mr. Spencer stopping you. Before he left the parsonage, he assured me that he wouldn’t mind at all if you did your gardening there.” He looked over her head for a moment and waved at someone on the other side of Main Street before glancing back at Ruth. “I’m sorry. I really do need to talk to Mr. Landrus now that he’s spotted me. Would you mind awfully much if I left you here?”
“Not at all,” she said.
While he crossed the street, she turned and clomped down the alley. “Jake Spencer, you’re a miserable man. Just because you’re in a bit of pain, that’s no excuse for being so mean to me,” she grumbled, frustrated that she had practically begged him to let her return to her garden when he knew he had already promised Rev. Haines that she could.
When she remembered that he had only agreed to her request after she had promised to do errands for him, she stomped even faster. “You’re more than miserable. You’re a conniving, manipulating … ugh!” she cried, too annoyed to think clearly enough to find just the right words to describe him.
She slipped back into the storeroom and sat down on the bottom step of the staircase. “Poor man, indeed,” she said, loosening her laces and tugging off her boots. “If I had any other place on this earth where I could find a piece of ground for a garden and some privacy, I wouldn’t step one foot on that precious land in front of that cabin you rented. Not one.” She grabbed her boots with one hand and the railing with another before she started up the stairs.
She had not climbed more than two steps before she had to slow her pace because the bottoms of her feet were so tender from the ill-fitting boots. She mounted two more steps, stopped abruptly, and groaned in frustration. She had left her garden tools in his shed, but to make matters even worse, she realized she had forgotten her shawl, which meant she had to go back and fetch it later.
“Mercy!” she exclaimed and grumbled her way up the rest of the steps. She eased the door at the top open and was barely in the hall before she caught the aroma of fried bacon. With her stomach growling, she stopped in her room only long enough to deposit the boots before hurrying down to th
e kitchen.
Phanaby met her in the hallway. “I thought I heard you come home,” she said and handed Ruth several newspapers. “Amos Sloan sent these over special, just half an hour ago when the first ship at the docks was unloaded, because he was afraid once the news spread, he wouldn’t be able to keep his wife from selling them at twice the price. Reverend Livingstone’s trial is over, Ruth. It’s finally over.”
Trembling with joy and disbelief that the nightmare had finally ended, Ruth stared at the headline in the Sun for several long heartbeats and whispered it out loud: “Not guilty.”
One by one, she scanned the headlines in the Herald, the Transcript, and the Galaxy, all of them dated several days ago, to make certain the verdict was the same in each newspaper before she remembered to breathe. Her heart fairly quivered with happiness, and with tears pouring down her cheeks, she finally looked up and met Phanaby’s gaze.
Phanaby was crying now, too. “Reverend Livingstone’s been acquitted! He’s been acquitted! Now he can continue with his ministry so he can help other women like you,” she managed and swiped at her tears. “Most folks won’t be satisfied with this verdict, and they wouldn’t understand why we are simply overjoyed,” she cautioned, “but it’s a blessing to be able to share this news with you here, in the privacy of our own home.”
Ruth smiled through her tears and trembled with many emotions that wrapped her heart with a joy not even Phanaby or Elias could understand. They did not know that Rev. Livingstone was her beloved father.
Now his faith in God had been rewarded and he was free.
Now the whole world had to accept that he had been wrongly accused of a very horrific crime, and when she clipped these articles and added them to the ones she had cut out from the newspapers before, she would not have to fear there would be any more.
And now, one day very soon, she would finally be able to go home and reclaim the life she had left behind.