Apparently church attendance was a part of this town’s social makeup, because as his gaze scanned the room, he noticed faces and profiles of most of the people he’d seen in Phillips. Missy and Libby were in the front row, and there was the guy who ran the hardware store down the row from him, and JB was two rows up on the right. He looked for the Nobles but didn’t see them, and a pang of disappointment went through him.
Next time Lincoln put his life in jeopardy, he would make sure his sacrifice panned out. What had he been thinking, coming to church? He’d believed too much of his press again, thinking he was untouchable. His head began to throb.
“‘As Jesus was walking along,’” the pastor read.
Lincoln glanced at the open Bible on the lap next to him. John 9.
“‘. . . he saw a man who had been blind from birth. “Rabbi,” his disciples asked him, “why was this man born blind? Was it because of his own sins or his parents’ sins?”’”
Both, of course. Although Lincoln had never met his real father, he knew that the man had hightailed it toward the Texas line when he’d discovered Lincoln’s mother was expecting. The next “dad” had stuck around all of two years. Then one day Lincoln came home to find all their belongings gone. Then again, the relief of never having to dodge the man’s anger had made up for having to sleep on the bare floor.
Lincoln placed the blame of growing up on food stamps and sleeping on the sofa in a rickety trailer soundly on his deadbeat dads.
Pastor Pike’s reading interrupted Lincoln’s dark memories. “‘“It was not because of his sins or his parents’ sins,” Jesus answered. “This happened so the power of God could be seen in him.”’”
Lincoln wondered if Pastor Pike could feel his glare from where he was sitting.
“See, the Pharisees wanted to blame the man’s ailments on something he did or the sins of his parents. Because if they could, they could insulate themselves from the pain of this world. If they simply didn’t sin, then they wouldn’t experience blindness or sickness or anything else they considered a punishment of sin.”
Pike seemed to look right at Lincoln. “But it doesn’t work that way. We can’t behave our way out of accidents or sickness or dark circumstances. This man wasn’t blind because he was a sinner. And the evidence of his blindness didn’t convict him as a sinner. That was the condition of his heart, regardless of his ability to see. But God used the man’s blindness to bring him to Jesus. To healing. And He’ll do the same in our lives.”
Okay, Lincoln was out of here. He checked his watch.
“If we let our situation define us instead of lead us to God, then there is no victory.”
What victory could there be in losing his body? his career? everything he’d worked for? Lincoln tested his hand just to make sure it felt fine.
“Consider Hebrews 12. God says that we are to endure divine discipline, remembering that God is treating us as His children.”
Yeah, that sounded about right. Lincoln had grown up with exactly that image of God, based on his stepfather’s fists.
“Not every suffering is discipline from God, but we can react as if it were—allowing Him to use it for good in our lives, producing a harvest of trusting God in all situations. We don’t have to let circumstances define us, but we can let them produce definition in us. Circumstances can bring you to God so He can teach you how to grow in the character of Christ.”
Lincoln didn’t want definition or character from God. He wanted healing. But he knew better than to ask. Just like he knew better than to stick around and get beat over the head with a sermon. Besides, he didn’t agree with Pastor Pike. Not at all. God wasn’t disciplining Lincoln because He loved him. Lincoln was being punished. For both his parents’ sins . . . and his own. He knew exactly why he’d been afflicted, why his body was giving out on him.
He got up, and although he knew everyone in town would watch and that news of his cold and barren heart would be fodder for Phillips gossip for days, he ducked his head and stalked out.
Maybe Stefanie had been right. He wasn’t her type at all.
Because her type wasn’t a man who had gotten his mother murdered.
Stefanie watched Lincoln leave and sat there on the far edge of the back row, something hot and painful in her chest. Could it be that she actually felt sorry for him?
A man didn’t walk out on a sermon without having a burr in his soul.
He’d looked forlorn or even pained by Pastor Pike’s words. Words that she probably should have been paying attention to, but dragging her attention off Lincoln as he’d strolled into church and slid into the pew next to Clarisse Finney had proven to be more than a girl could manage. Especially a girl who couldn’t get the supposedly nice Lincoln Cash off her mind.
Besides, deep down inside, she was starting to believe his claim of being a good man. Or at least she wanted to. Gideon returned home every night with a new report from the work site of how Lincoln bought lunch for the workers, told them stories over break time, and brought Gideon a soda. Clearly, the actor had Gideon awed.
Lincoln could start his very own fan club—or at least another chapter—right here in Phillips, complete with membership badges and den meetings.
Not that she’d sign up or anything.
The door closed softly behind Lincoln, while Stefanie listened to Pastor Pike finish his point from Hebrews 12. “‘Look after each other so that none of you fails to receive the grace of God. Watch out that no poisonous root of bitterness grows up to trouble you, corrupting many.’”
Stefanie bowed her head, nearly choking on the words and on the rampant thistle of bitterness that she’d let twine around her heart and choke out every attempt by Lincoln to be her friend.
She hadn’t exactly been nice to him. Maybe she’d let him provoke her into behaving in ways she’d never thought possible. She’d been downright cruel to him. And for a terrible, evil moment, she’d felt justified. That probably made her feel the most shame.
No, he wasn’t her type. But maybe, despite his apparent throng of fans, he could use a friend. A neighbor.
She remembered last summer when she’d believed they’d had the beginnings of a friendship. For some crazy reason, she’d thought she’d sneaked past the glitter to the real Lincoln Cash and found a guy who really liked her. Who was really interested in knowing her and her life.
His description of their conversation filled her mind: “I spent time with a beautiful girl who has an interesting life.” Sure, and in the next breath he’d try to tell her that he wanted to move to Montana, settle down, start a family. Regardless of the truth, she had the distinct feeling that she had somehow cut off grace from his life, at least the grace she could give him.
The grace he was so apparently trying to earn.
As the congregation stood to sing the final hymn, she slipped out of the back pew and out the door.
Lincoln was climbing into his truck.
“Lincoln!”
He turned, and the expression on his face looked so wretched, so torn, it stopped her midway down the steps.
“Wait!”
He seemed to hesitate. Maybe she really had hurt him, gotten through that perfect exterior and wounded something inside.
No, that was just too hard to fathom.
Yet, as if he knew she’d seen his agony, or maybe just because he couldn’t let someone see inside to the real Lincoln, he manufactured a smile and raised his hand. “Hey, Stefanie.”
She walked across the gravel lot. “I thought I saw you here.”
He came around the truck, fiddling with his keys. My, he cleaned up well for church, in his white shirt, black pants, and shiny boots. His shaggy hair and not-so-clean-shaven whiskers only added wildness to the rather tame attire. Always ready for a photo shoot.
She leaned against the truck. “You okay? You ran outta church pretty fast.”
He put on his sunglasses. “I’m just fine. Thanks.” He didn’t offer more, his I-am-a-star demeanor sol
idly back in place now.
“You sure? Because, you know, if you want to talk—”
“Nope. I’m just . . . not in the mood for church.” He flashed another smile, but she read ever so clearly the warning in his voice: Back away from the church topic.
Being a pure Montana girl, she hadn’t been born with a tendency to spook. But she also knew when to let something go. “I hear your house is done, that you moved in.”
“Finished about three days ago.” He glanced past her toward the church. “How about you come over and let me show you around?”
Now that would be a colossally bad idea. Because even as he said it, his mouth slid into a slow, devastating smile, and he pulled his glasses down, letting her see the twinkle in his blue eyes.
Her gullible heart, which apparently didn’t listen to the warnings in her brain, began to gallop in her chest. “Uh, I don’t think—”
“C’mon, Stefanie. Let me be neighborly.”
Neighborly? Was that what he was calling this waterfall of charm? “I don’t think so.”
“The entire family can come—Macey and—”
“I’m not sure that’s a great idea. Haley is just starting to get used to being with us, and I don’t want to put her into a new situation, and even Macey isn’t thrilled about leaving the ranch yet.”
“Then just you. I promise to be on my best behavior.” If she were on a movie set, she would have thought he’d rehearsed the way he tilted his chin to look right into her eyes, the tenor of his voice husky and low. “Please?”
Please? Oh, brother, was that all it took? A steamy look, a wicked smile? She disgusted herself.
Don’t let him miss the grace. She pursed her lips.
“Besides, I need your help.”
Yeah, sure, to do what? Pick out curtains?
The congregation had begun to spill out of church. A few people looked their way, and she greeted them with an overly wide smile. JB saw her, and along with his lifted hand, she noted a frown.
“How so?” she asked, looking back at Lincoln. For a second, she wished that one of the kids or Nick or Piper had come to church today. She could use the rescue. But no one was ready for the nosy questions, and although Gideon had asked about attending, when she’d knocked on his door this morning, all she’d gotten was a sleepy grunt.
“I recall you telling me how good you are with horses.”
“I didn’t say that. I said I trained horses.” But the fact that he remembered their conversation sent another blow to her defenses.
“Well, that’s good enough for me.” He twirled his keys around his finger. They glinted in the sun. “I need to get horses for the ranch, and I was wondering if you’d help me pick some.”
He wanted horses? As he said it, an idea—a magnificent idea—filled Stefanie’s thoughts, slid right into those nooks and crannies of frustration she’d been nursing ever since she’d rescued her recent quarter horses.
Just yesterday, JB had called her again with the final number of remaining horses. She’d spent most of the night downstairs in front of the fire in their massive stone fireplace, curled up on the leather sofa, casting her prayers toward heaven. “Don’t worry about anything; instead, pray about everything. Tell God what you need, and thank him for all he has done. Then you will experience God’s peace, which exceeds anything we can understand. His peace will guard your hearts and minds.”
Lord, could this be Your peace?
Admittedly, she didn’t love Lincoln’s idea about filling Phillips with celebrities. The minute movie stars and notables flooded the town, they’d also have obnoxious tourists who parked on the sidewalks, ridiculed their food, and generally made Phillips feel like a throwback to the forties. Everything decent and ordinary and safe would vanish.
However, if she could get Lincoln to embrace his new ranch life, maybe he could see past his big dreams for glory and do something to really help this community.
“I’m really a nice guy when you get to know me.”
Yeah, prove it.
“Sure, I’ll help you.” Stefanie smiled up at Lincoln, past the glasses and the swagger, trying desperately to glimpse the potential inside. “I’ll be by tomorrow. I think I know just what you’re looking for.”
CHAPTER 9
“THESE ARE HORSES?”
That hadn’t come out quite like he’d meant it. Especially not how he’d hoped. Lincoln had been nearly holding his breath for the past twenty-four hours, counting the moments until he could get Stefanie alone and maybe prove to her that he wasn’t the guy she so easily mistrusted.
But if she really wanted to make him suffer, really wanted to put his nice-guy claim to the test, then she’d picked exactly the right herd of horses.
These were not the horses he would have chosen for a Lincoln Cash herd. These horses were . . . ugly. Big and clumsy and bony. Could a person even ride them?
“Yes, they’re horses,” Stefanie said, and judging by her tone, he’d made her mad. “They’re Clydesdales.”
She looked especially fetching today in a pair of dark jeans, her long hair captured under a brown Stetson, wearing a faded brown leather jacket and a pair of work gloves. Practical yet pretty. The real deal.
Lincoln felt overdressed in designer jeans, the shiny snakeskin boots, and his brown calf-hair blazer that would be more appropriate while enjoying a chardonnay at Morrell on Rockefeller Plaza than in the middle of a muddy fairgrounds pen inspecting a motley herd of skeletal animals that looked like fodder for a glue factory.
He wasn’t about to say that, though. Not with Stefanie looking at him with her best X-ray vision.
“Clydesdales?”
“You know, like the Budweiser horses?”
He surveyed the animals and did a quick mental comparison. “I don’t think so. These animals don’t look anything like those horses that pull the Budweiser wagon.”
“They’re draft horses, or quarter horse–draft crosses bred for their size. The smaller ones of the lot and a number of quarter horses have already been purchased. These mares were rescued a year ago from a PMU farm in Canada. They were bought by a couple who wanted to start a herd, but as you can see, they did a pitiful job.”
Indeed. Although they might have been beautiful once, or maybe could be someday, these horses had suffered something terrible, attacks that could only be described as feral, with some of them nursing gashes and wounds that would disfigure their hides forever. They had empty eyes and milled about as if confused, afraid. Lincoln had ridden many horses, but he’d never seen any so skittish.
“What’s a PMU farm?”
“Pregnant mare urine.” Stefanie held a burlap bag and now opened it, stepping up to the corral and digging out what looked like a dried piece of manure. “It’s used to create a hormone replacement therapy drug as well as over-the-counter antiaging drugs.”
“You mean like face creams?”
“Among other things, yes.” A large black horse was eyeing Stefanie’s outstretched hand and the apparently yummy manure ball she held.
“Why would anyone want to put horse urine on their face?”
Stefanie’s attention was on the black mare, which had started to walk her direction. “Vanity. Apparently it’s more important to look good on the outside than to care for God’s creatures.”
Lincoln noticed the animal step near Stefanie. The horse was so big that despite its clear lack of nutrition, Lincoln had the sudden urge to pull Stefanie back.
But she didn’t move, just kept her hand out. Clearly she wasn’t made of meek stuff.
“What’s that?”
“An alfalfa ball. It’s a treat for the horses.”
The horse stretched out her neck, ever so far, and licked up the ball. Lincoln expected Stefanie to move, maybe rub the mare’s nose, but she stayed completely still.
The horse took another step toward her.
“So, what happened to these horses? They look so beat-up.”
Stefanie lowered her v
oice, her tone soothing, her gaze on the creature. “The PMU horses are constantly being bred because it’s only when they’re pregnant that their urine is useful. They’re kept in these tiny ‘collection’ stalls, where they can’t move or lie down flat for long stretches of time—like six months. So they don’t get any exercise and are very weak.”
The horse took another tentative step and, this time, touched her nose to Stefanie’s hand. Stefanie rubbed the horse’s nose gently, then traveled up her face, petting. The horse took a final step until her head was over Stefanie’s shoulder. Stefanie reached along her neck, ran her hand over her withers.
Lincoln held his breath and wondered if he’d ever seen anything so beautiful. It churned up a feeling that he couldn’t place, a softness inside him or maybe a longing. Stefanie had patience and authenticity that . . . well . . . scared him. He wasn’t used to women not caring if they wore makeup or stepped in manure, wasn’t used to women seeing beyond the obvious to something beautiful inside.
The more he got to know her, the more Stefanie Noble intrigued him.
The more he wanted her to like him.
“Recent discoveries of synthetic drugs have dropped the demand for these horses, and they were headed for the slaughterhouse,” she continued, oblivious to his eyes on her. “Obviously they weren’t worth much, and their previous owners saw an opportunity to create a number of dude strings, horses for dude ranches.”
“These horses? To ride? They’re so big!”
“But they have wonderful temperaments.” She laid her head against the black neck of the horse. “They are incredibly versatile, making great trail and pack horses.”
She’d attracted attention, and another horse, this time a bay, edged toward her.
“Unfortunately, these horses were moved here to a ranch located near the Bighorn Mountains. Because they’d been kept in such confinement, they weren’t prepared to react when cougars and even bears preyed on them. When our group found them, the pasture was littered with the carcasses of foals and mares, and most of the surviving horses had terrible wounds.”
Finding Stefanie Page 12