This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
© 2001 by Deborah Bedford
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
Published in association with the literary agency Alive Communications, Inc., 7680 Goddard Street #200, Colorado Springs, CO 80920.
Scripture quotation, except those noted below, are taken from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Ind., Wheaton, Illinois 60189. All rights reserved.
Scripture quotations on pages 79 and 93 are taken from the Holy Bible, King James Version.
Scripture quotations on page 96 is taken from the HOLY BIBLE: NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®. Copyright 1973, 1978, and 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan Publishing House. All rights reserved.
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First eBook Edition: May 2008
ISBN: 978-0-7595-2633-4
Contents
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twnety-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Transplanting Harison’s Yellow
Author’s Note
STRANGERS AT THE DOOR
Bea came out on the porch behind them and took one wary step down. “Can I ask you one thing?”
“Yes.”
“Why did you really come here?”
A pause. “To find you.”
“Why?”
The girl seemed to choose her words with great care. “Nathan always said that if anything ever happened to him, we ought to come to find you.”
“He told you that?”
A breeze worried the maple leaves in the tree at the corner of the yard. Bea heard the whistle of mallards overhead, flying toward the little pond where children fished for perch at Goose Leg Park.
The words emerged quickly and quietly, as if she could not keep herself from saying them. “Of course, when you say those things to people, you never actually think they might happen.”
“No, you don’t.”
An astonished silence hummed between them.
“Triumphant and full of hope . . . an unforgettable story.”
—Robin Lee Hatcher, author of Ribbon of Years
“The hope in Bedford’s writing beckons like the sun over the western mountains.”
—Tim Sandlin, author of Social Blunders
“A beautiful story of faith and renewal . . . a must-read . . . a book by Deborah Bedford is always a joy.”
—Carol Lampman, author of A Window in Time
“Deborah Bedford delivers a winner in this tender, heart-tugging tale of love and loss, endings and beginnings, and the miracle of second chances. Savor and enjoy!”
—Carole Gift Page, author of Becoming a Woman of Passion
“A poignant novel that is impossible to put down. Deborah Bedford holds up a mirror to the universal flaws in our faith and shows us how the grain of a mustard seed can triumph in the most dire situation . . . a touching tale of tragedy and reawakening.”
—Carolyn Zane, author of The Coltons
“A wonderful book, rich in love and tears. If you love having your heart touched and you delight in surprise, A ROSE BY THE DOOR is for you.”
—Gayle Roper, author of Spring Rain
“One of the best books I’ve read all year. Could not put it down!”
—Lori Copeland, author of Glory and coauthor of the Heavenly Daze series
To all whose broadswords have become marred and battered and tarnished in battle;
To those who would return to the shining, simple faith of a child.
Acknowledgments
To Jack, my helpmate, thank you for your love, your opinions, and your willingness to cook supper. Without your encouragement, and that of our children, this project might never have even begun, much less been finished. I have brought you all along on this wild journey for the Lord, and I have watched, astounded, as each of you have obediently taken your seats and not grumbled too much during the ride. This makes my joy complete.
To Bill Jolliffe, thank you for your thorough down-homey tours of Oshkosh, the Ash Hollow area, the cemetery, the senior center, and the Garden County golf course. Here’s hoping you find plenty of time to play through that course twice.
To Bill Patterson and Clara May McConkey, thank you for answering so many questions about Garden County.
To the coffee-drinkers at the Garden County Senior Center, I salute you!
To BettySue Allen, rose expert at McIntyre’s Garden Center in Cheyenne, Wyoming, for keeping pioneer rose traditions alive and for letting me glimpse them.
To Julie Barker, Michael Barker, Carolyn Lampman Brubaker, and Richard Brubaker, dear friends and family, who were willing to share their stories. May the Father bless your own willingness to risk and love and believe.
To carpool moms Bobbi Wild, Eileen Thomsen, Charlene Zuckerman, Karen Hodges, Maria Miller Henderson, Deb Sanford, and Natalie Stewart. Thank you for chauffeuring my children to and from basketball tournaments, football games, play practices, dance classes, and the snowboard mountain while I was writing.
To Tim Sandlin, who has broadened all my horizons and has been like a brother to me.
Sherrie, Jonnie, and Barb—there are not words to tell you how blessed I have been by your wise counsel and by your prayers. You are a firm foundation sent by the Father, and I humbly offer thanks.
To Sherrie Lord, Pam Micca, and Pat Markell, intercessors who have kept the arms of prayer around this novel and around my family. May the Father who sees in secret reward you openly.
To Sandy Sandburg and Justice Court Judge George Kurinka. Sitting in the courtroom that day was almost as much fun as hanging out at Cowpasture Ballpark.
To Mike Atkins, senior pastor of the Jackson Hole Christian Center. Your one-mindedness, your thirst for God’s Word and for the Father’s Holy presence continues to be a wellspring for all who are privileged to learn from you and to worship beside you.
Finally, to Kathy Helmers, Agent 007 with a briefcase and a cell phone and so much more! Your insight, encouragement, and enthusiasm have been a mighty pillar to me. And to everyone at Warner who has caught the vision and given me this opportunity—Rolf Z., Jamie R., Leslie P., Preston C., Paul S. and Kathie J.—Paul says it best in 1 Corinthians 9:25: Run in such a way as to get the prize. Everyone who competes in the games goes into strict training. They do it to get a crown that will not last; but we do it to get a crown that will last forever.
May all our work rest soundly in the Father’s hands.
“The shame of your youth and the sorrows of widowhood will be remembered no more, for you
r Creator will be your husband. The Lord Almighty is his name! He is your Redeemer, the Holy One of Israel, the God of all the earth. For the Lord has called you back from your grief—as though you were a young wife abandoned by her husband,” says your God.
ISAIAH 54:4-6
But now the Lord says, “Do not weep any longer, for I will reward you. Your children will come back to you from the distant land of the enemy. There is hope for your future,” says the Lord. “Your children will come again to their own land.”
JEREMIAH 31:16-17
“Set up road signs; put up guideposts. Mark well the path by which you came.”
JEREMIAH 31:21
Chapter One
Beatrice Bartling jolted awake. Something banged on her front door, twice, three times, cutting through the stark silence of night. The sharp blows came again. A fourth time. A fifth, terse, hollow, insistent.
She hadn’t any idea what time it was or what the emergency might be. “Just a minute,” she croaked into the darkness. Just a minute, while, to no avail, she did her best to quell the pounding in her own heart.
Across the room, she could just make out the silhouette of her bureau, the shapes and shadows of the night reflected back to her in the mirror, rainbow shades of gray. The digital clock in the corner read 3:08 A.M.
Who could need her at this hour?
Why would someone come to the house in the middle of the night?
Fear made her move slowly. She folded back the covers, swung her feet to the floor, gathered her nightgown around her with one clutched hand.
“I’m coming.”
She stumbled her way to the hall, flipped on a light in the bathroom, and donned her robe from the hook.
Her feet felt their way down the stairs; she made certain every step supported her before she put her full weight on it. When she reached the front foyer, she turned on the porch light and squinted through the peephole.
Parts of two people extended into her vision—an officer’s hat, a beehive nest of someone’s hair. “Who is it?” She didn’t dare open the door before she heard an answer.
“Mrs. Bartling?”
“Who are you? What do you want?”
“Deputy Triplett from the Garden County Sheriff’s Department. Can you open the door, please?”
She opened it partway, saw the whole of the sheriff’s deputy and his cohort.
“Can we come inside?”
“What is this about?”
He glanced past her left ear, as if he expected someone else to be standing there. “Are you here alone, Mrs. Bartling?”
Bea kept her fingers wrapped around the edge of the doorknob, unwilling to let them enter. Even though she wondered whether or not she should tell them that she was alone, she nodded anyway. He showed her his badge and she read his name. Jay Triplett. He motioned to the woman who stood at his side. “This is Jane Rounsborg, from Garden County Social Services.”
She knew Jane. They’d sat at the same table during the BPO Doe’s meeting, a female version of the local Elk’s Club, last month. The woman was several years her junior, with a tendency toward domed hairstyles and the profession of counseling those who couldn’t afford mental-health services anywhere else. Beneath her tortoise-shell bifocals, Jane Rounsborg’s skin was bare. She smelled faintly of Pond’s Cold Cream.
“Is there someone you could call to come be with you?” Jane asked. “I’m afraid we have difficult news.”
The officer’s car waited beside the curb, its engine still running, its lights throbbing blue-red-blue-red against the leafy limbs of her neighbor’s trees. From someplace far away she heard the broken static of a police radio.
“No.” She removed her hand and stepped aside so the pair could enter at last. “There isn’t anyone I can call.”
Later Bea would remember how she’d led them to the stiff old armchair in the family room, how the deputy had gestured for her to sit there instead, how he’d waited for her to situate herself with Jane Rounsborg beside her so she’d have support as he delivered the news. He wore so much leather—his holster, his belt, his boots—that his body creaked when he knelt before her. Handcuffs jangled. She smelled the starch of his shirt, saw the sharp crease etching a line of shadow. His nose bore a smattering of freckles. All of this seemed real to her; the deputy’s words did not.
“We’ve had a report from the coroner’s office in Omaha, Mrs. Bartling. There was a motorcycle accident in the city yesterday morning.”
Bea stared at him.
“A man named Nathan Roger Bartling was killed.”
The only reality around her the buzz of the overhead light in the kitchen, the flashing red and blue through the gauze curtain in the front window.
“How did you find me?” she asked and she could see, the moment she said it, that he was startled by the unreasonable hope in her voice.
Had Nathan asked for her? Had he told someone where to find his mother?
“They ran a search of birth records, Mrs. Bartling. In this case, it’s taken almost twenty-fours hours to notify the next of kin.”
Her hopes plummeted. “I’m the next of kin.”
“Yes.”
The realization, the anguish, began somewhere deep inside her spirit and burgeoned within her, filling her until there was no room for anything else inside her— not breath, not even the beating of her own heart.
Numbly she counted backwards in her head. Yesterday morning. Where had she been and what had she been doing?
Heavenly Father. She remembered repeating it even twelve hours ago while she’d snipped wilted blossoms off her pioneer rosebush in the heat of the day. When will you bring Nathan home?
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Bartling. Apparently your son was traveling at a high rate of speed when the accident occurred. There wasn’t another—”
Bea held out a hand to stop him. “No. Don’t tell me about it. I can’t bear it right now.” She gripped the arms of the chair with both hands.
Yesterday morning. So long ago. If only Nathan had been home, this might not have happened. Perhaps she could have done something; perhaps she could have stopped it some way.
“Let me call someone for you.” The social worker brought over a glass of water and a wrinkled hanky that she must have found on the writing desk in the corner. “Bea, I have sedatives. Would you like to take something?”
She shook her head at them.
“Isn’t there a friend? A neighbor? A pastor? Someone?”
“No.” She saw her own hands gripping the armchair as if they belonged to someone else, the knucklebones white knobs beneath the skin. She whispered the words to no one. “Nathan is never going to come h-home.”
Jane stood and moved toward the door. She talked as if Bea wasn’t even in the room with them anymore. “I’m going to find one of her neighbors. Surely there’s someone who can sit with her until the sun rises. Or until we can contact someone in her family.”
The officer laid his hat beside him on the floor. “I’ve heard she doesn’t have family.”
“I know her. She drives to the Antelope Valley Church over in Oshkosh. Call her pastor, Jay.”
He creaked again as he rose to his feet and Bea could smell the leather of him. A pistol dangled in the tooled holster at his side. He had kind, sad eyes. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Bartling. Jane and I won’t leave until somebody else comes.”
Most visitors arrived on Bea’s front stoop during the time of early summer gardens, when children were kept busy catching katydids and lightning bugs, when fathers fired up outdoor grills and lawnmowers whirred from faraway yards, when whole neighborhoods smelled of supper and new-cut lawn.
A stream of cars pulled up to her curb and parked there for long moments, the drivers and passengers trying to decide whether they should intrude at someone’s private home.
But intrude they eventually did, spilling out onto the carefully trimmed grass, moving closer toward the house, oohing and aahing over the profusion of yellow roses that grew en m
asse on the sunny side of the porch.
“We were just passing through town,” they would explain when Bea met them, smiling her welcome, at the door. “The curator at the museum told us about your place.”
Bea would point to the blossoms lining her walk and proceed to tell stories that they’d already heard once at the museum. How a pioneer woman had brought the roses with her along the Oregon Trail. How she had grown the bush from a cutting. How she’d kept the cutting alive poked in half of a raw potato, wrapped in burlap on cold nights, while the wagons jolted across the moving, shaggy red grass and the swells of unbroken prairie. She told how the wagon had broken down near Ash Creek and how they’d decided to not go along further, but to stay.
“Did they build a house right here?” someone would always ask.
“In this very spot. A sod house made of thick mud and fine grass.”
“This is right where she planted the roses?”
“She planted them right here.”
“Can we pick one?”
“No. Because if everybody did, then they’d be gone.” Then, because she couldn’t stand for them to be dejected by her answer. “If you’d like to take a cutting with you, I’d be happy to pass one of those along. Long ago, these roses grew in some places where grass couldn’t grow. In places they couldn’t find the ruts or the trails anymore, some people followed the roses instead. Just one sucker is all you’ll need—one wood stem with a bud. Keep it in water and, I promise you, it will root when you get home.”
More often than not, after the tourists had seen what they’d come to see, Bea would bring out a tray of warm cookies and hurry along to brew up a pot of tea. “Don’t rush off.” She’d set the teapot and a tray of cups in the shade beneath her maroon-striped awning. “Stay a while longer. I’ll tell you more about the area’s history. There’s so much.”
But those who came were just traveling through with other places to go, other attractions to see, and nobody spent too much time there or wanted to linger. They would make their excuses, Bea would wave them off, and she’d be alone again. Every time it happened, folks in the little town of Ash Hollow, Nebraska, thought it sad. Because everyone from miles around knew the history of Beatrice Bartling’s roses. And everyone knew the history of her family as well.
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