Love's Story

by Christner, Dianne; Billerbeck, Kristin;

  “Any. We’ll find us a little cabin. I’ll work and you’ll write, undercover.”

  “And we’ll stay as long as it takes to finish my story.”

  “Probably as long as you can stay cooped up in a small cabin is more like it.” He bent and tasted her lips. They were sweet and gave promise of a wonderful life ahead for them. He drew back. “Let’s go to the hotel, shall we?”

  Meredith nodded shyly.

  Thatcher took her hand, then began to chuckle.

  “What’s so funny?” she asked.

  “I was just thinking of my father. When we move to Chicago, I’m going to love the moment he meets his new daughter-in-law. You’re going to be such a sweet torment to him.”

  “I thought you wanted to make amends.”

  “Oh, I do. It’s just when I think how you blew into my life, I can’t wait to see what happens when you storm into his.”

  “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that. Maybe we shouldn’t use my middle name at first. I’d hate to give him the wrong impression.”

  Thatcher laughed again.

  “Stop it,” she said.

  Dianne Christner lives in New River, Arizona, where life sizzles in the summer when temperatures soar above 100 degrees as she writes from her air-conditioned home office. She enjoys the desert life, where her home is nestled in the mountains and she can watch quail and the occasional deer, bobcat, or roadrunner.

  Dianne was raised Mennonite and works hard to bring authenticity to Mennonite fiction. She now worships at a community church. She’s written over a dozen novels, most of which are historical fiction. She gets caught up in research having to set her alarm to remember to switch the laundry or start dinner. But her husband of forty-plus years is a good sport. They have two married children, Mike and Rachel, and five grandchildren, Makaila, Elijah, Vanson, Ethan, and Chloe.

  She welcomes you to visit her website at http://www.diannechristner.net.

  Strong as the Redwood

  by Kristin Billerbeck

  Chapter 1

  San Francisco, California

  August 1863

  Rachel Phillips’ mother gazed at her daughter lovingly. The older woman had tears welling up in her hazel eyes, and her soft voice was shaky. “I know this is frightening, but your stepfather wants what’s best for you. From what I hear, Searsville is a beautiful place, and it’s not that far from San Francisco. We’ll be able to visit at Christmastime.”

  Her voice held no conviction, and Rachel was forced to question whether this move was beneficial to anyone other than her stepfather of one year, Marshall Winsome. Rachel was saddened by the thought, but also comforted knowing her mother would be well cared for by Marshall. She glanced angrily his way as the large man paced nervously along the wharf, obviously anxious to leave.

  “Oh Mother.” Rachel embraced Peg Winsome tightly. “I shall miss you so. I will forever be grateful for all that you’ve done for me. I am thankful that you are finally living the life Pa dreamed for you. He would have wanted it this way.” Rachel knew the words weren’t true. Her father would never have allowed Rachel to be shipped off, alone, at eighteen, to live among lawless loggers. But she also knew her mother was terribly burdened by this action of her stepfather, and Rachel had to be strong.

  She watched her mother’s pained expression. Rachel felt it, too, the pangs of separation. The young woman’s mind filled with memories, memories of all she and her mother had endured together, of their unusual partnership that had been created out of necessity. It had been over two years now since their life had changed course, shattering their plans and forcing them to become equals in order to withstand the hardships. The young woman’s mind drifted back.

  The 1849 wagon train rolled slowly to a stop. Rachel was only four at the time, but she could still recall her muscular father, Rodrick Phillips, jumping from their wagon to help her and her mother down, before exclaiming, “There it is, the mighty Sierra Nevada! We made it!”

  Before the seemingly endless line of wagons lay the magnificent, rugged mountain range they had heard tales about for months. The magnificent, snow-capped peaks beckoned, for the weary emigrants had only to cross them to reach their final destination: California.

  “Have you ever seen anything so beautiful? They sure don’t have mountains like these in Missouri! This here, my darling,” Rodrick scooped his little girl into his arms, “is the very handiwork of God!” Rodrick smiled broadly and reached for his wife as the young family realized their long and arduous journey was almost over.

  The family’s dream had been to homestead amidst the rolling hills of the new territory, building a better life for themselves. The trip to the wilderness of the West had been much more treacherous than they had expected, but they knew it had all been worthwhile at first sight of their very own property: ten acres in a golden valley.

  They had purchased land in Weberville, a small town nestled in the Sierra foothills. The original plan had been to work the land and raise livestock, but Rodrick soon discovered that he, too, had gold fever. Exchanging his plow for the tools of the mining trade, he soon began working as a miner in the great California Gold Rush of 1850.

  As a miner, Rodrick earned a meager income. But he was a doting husband and father who took special pride in his daughter. Rachel always felt like a princess around her Pa.

  “It’s a right good thing they have no kings here; I’d lose my daughter’s hand in the blink of an eye,” he’d say, tickling Rachel while she giggled uncontrollably. Later, as she grew older, Rodrick’s tone would become more serious toward his daughter. His voice would become gentle as he fondly brushed the hair from her face. “You’re the very image of my mother, Rachel. An exquisite beauty, you are. Such ivory skin and sparkling green eyes, the likes of which California has never seen. And I do declare, that shade of auburn is known only to the Phillips women.”

  The day her father didn’t return from the mines was still clear in Rachel’s memory, as if it had happened only the day before. She had just turned sixteen. She was setting the table for supper, when a family friend knocked on the door of their small cabin. When Mrs. Phillips opened the door the hardened miner had tears in his eyes. His words were few, but their meaning left the household silent with shock.

  The tragedy of Rodrick’s death was compounded by the fact that all his hard work had done little more than take care of the family’s daily needs. Peg Phillips and her daughter were left to fend for themselves in Weberville, which had few options for poor and unattached young women. No suitable opportunities presenting themselves, Rachel and her mother acted on the advice and invitation of a traveling preacher and joined his evangelizing caravan to San Francisco.

  “You’ll find more civility there,” The minister’s wife had said. Once in San Francisco, however, it was difficult to see the civility they had heard about. The streets were violent, and vigilante justice, often more vengeful than the original crime, ruled.

  They found many men willing to help them out of their lonely predicament. Marriageable women were a precious commodity in the city, and attractive women were even more valuable than gold.

  Peg Phillips was no ordinary widow. Only thirty-three at the time of her husband’s death, she was a comely woman, despite her many years of hard work and misfortune. Peg was blessed with an exotic dark complexion, hazel-green eyes, and an abundance of silky black hair.

  Mrs. Phillips, well aware of their precarious situation in San Francisco, would drop to her knees daily in prayer, asking God for His steady guidance. Their first stop in San Francisco was at the home of Marshall Winsome, a prominent banker and owner of three hotels in the city. Rachel couldn’t help but wonder what life might have been like if her mother had knocked on a different door.

  Marshall’s name had been given Mrs. Phillips by the traveling preacher, so that she could inquire about work. When the businessman saw the young widow, his gruff demeanor softened instantly, and two positions immediately became availabl
e.

  Although Marshall was overbearing and rough in personality, he had not taken advantage of the Phillips’s vulnerability. He had provided respectable housekeeping and cooking positions, as well as a decent room in one of his hotels. Additionally, he kept a close eye on the women, ensuring their safety.

  Peg and Marshall’s courtship had been brief, but it had also been extremely proper. Marshall made sure Peg understood that their personal relationship was completely separate from her work, and seeing him on a friendly basis was her choice.

  When Rachel’s mother decided to marry Marshall, Rachel had to ask if it was for love or their best interests. She certainly did not want her mother sacrificing her life to make Rachel’s a little easier.

  Peg’s answer was slow and carefully contemplated. “I’ve had my once-in-a-lifetime love, dear. No one will ever take your father’s place. You are the beautiful result of what we shared, but Marshall is a fine Christian man. He has been so good to me—to us. The Lord has used him to answer so many of my prayers and alleviate my fears. I am convinced it is God’s will that I marry Marshall. The Lord has given me the gift of knowing a new kind of love with him, one that has grown from mutual respect and friendship.”

  In August of 1862, when Rachel was seventeen, Marshall Winsome became her stepfather, a role he hadn’t taken lightly. Following the nuptials, the women moved immediately into Marshall’s elegant and expansive home. It was a stately mansion with three floors and countless windows, which provided sweeping views of San Francisco Bay when the fog cleared.

  The home boasted silver-plated doorknobs, imported French-cut glass doors, a ballroom, and parquet floors of maple, walnut, and mahogany. Rachel was most impressed with the great mahogany staircase that wound its way to the second floor from the foyer, and the servants that attended to every need.

  After only a week in the courtly residence, Marshall called for a private meeting with Rachel in his darkened study. He sat pompously behind a great desk and addressed her in a very solemn tone. “You will continue your education, Miss Phillips.” Marshall always addressed Rachel as “Miss,” as though the use of her name might unnecessarily endear her to him.

  He continued, looking over his spectacles. “You can receive your credentials for teaching within the year. As the state grows, there are many towns in need of competent instructors. This education, which I will happily finance, will provide you with the ability to earn an adequate income of your own, so that you may support yourself. Do you understand?” He stood up with finality, his butler waiting to escort her from the room.

  Rachel most certainly did not understand. California was no place for a lady to live on her own and the mansion was large enough that they might never see each other. Didn’t he understand? Rachel stood looking questioningly up at her stepfather, her generous mane of auburn hair falling loosely down to her lower back, her eyes wide and clear. “Am I to understand that you would like me to find accommodations elsewhere?” Rachel managed to stammer meekly.

  “Miss Phillips, your mother and I plan to start a family soon. Of course, we will need help with the baby for the first year, but then you will be free to pursue your teaching career.” And with that, Rachel’s future was arranged. Teaching was to be her “chosen” profession, and she completed her studies in June of 1863.

  That same month, Marshall and Peg welcomed George Timothy Winsome into their home. A darling, healthy baby boy with a sweet personality and a ready smile, his parents lavished him with love and attention.

  Although Rachel was to help her mother for the first year of Georgie’s life, Marshall soon found Rachel’s presence to be a hindrance to his new family and “released” her to begin her teaching duties. Through his many connections, Marshall located an immediate opening in the small town of Searsville, a logging community, just a day’s travel from San Francisco.

  Rachel roused from her memories to find herself once again on a journey. She stood on a crowded pier, saying “Good-bye” To her best friend and partner in life, her mother.

  Chapter 2

  The port of San Francisco was a frenzy of activity. Ships of every size and description could be seen both in port and shipping out to sea. In the distance, Alcatraz, a military fort on an island of solid rock, was barely visible through the fog. The schooner Redwood bounced about wildly in the choppy waters of the bay.

  Rachel was readying to board when her mother stroked her long chestnut curls and whispered, “Remember, Rachel, the only man for you is a believer in Christ Jesus who loves and cares for you as the Lord cares for His church. Believe that He will provide, and wait on Him.”

  Embarking on a new life, and for the first time making daily decisions entirely on her own, nothing could have been further from Rachel’s mind than finding a husband. Her main objectives now were to avoid men and handle a schoolroom full of children, which she must do without the aid of her closest confidante. Rachel’s mind quickly cleared of her mother’s words and her own thoughts as a loud voice bellowed a final call and passengers began quickly boarding the schooner.

  This is really happening, Rachel thought. I’m actually leaving my mother, my only family, to get on this ship headed toward who knows what kind of future. She clung to the words from her old, leather-covered Bible, “Thou wilt shew me the path of life: in thy presence is fullness of joy; at thy right hand there are pleasures for evermore.” She couldn’t remember where the verse was from, but it provided the momentary courage she needed to step onto the boat.

  Overwhelmed by her emotions, Rachel was numb as she watched her mother disappear in the distance as the Redwood pulled away from its slip. She extended her arm as if to touch her mother one last time. Rachel’s spirit that had been so strong in days past now seemed broken in the harsh reality of life alone. Rachel’s forest-green eyes dampened with tears amidst the cold, foggy backdrop of the San Francisco Bay.

  She was so lost in her thoughts during the trip that it seemed mere minutes before the Port of Redwood City came into view. This was to be the first stop on her journey. From here, she would board a stage in town en route to Searsville.

  As the captain maneuvered the ship through the muddy slough, the excitement of the embarcadero ahead stirred a rush of conversation among the passengers. The docks bustled as men rushed to unload their cargo-laden oxen carts onto waiting schooners and sloops before the outward turning of the tide, which could transform the bay into a depressed mud flat with disabled boats bogged down helplessly in the briny muck.

  Redwood was a logging port which supplied lumber to the many towns in California that had sprung up as a result of the Gold Rush. Lumber, shingles, firewood, and fence posts were piled high in stacks along the docks to help the men load quickly. Rachel briefly watched the confused scene before the boat docked and the passengers were hurried off to make room for cargo. Her trunk was dropped carelessly onto the pier before her.

  Stepping onto the dock, Rachel felt her first real tinge of panic as she tried to navigate the walk and steer clear of the shoremen and their work while lugging her oversized trunk by its worn leather handle. The men that weren’t behind a stack of lumber took time out to eye the beautiful stranger, and made their observations known with loud talk amongst themselves. No offer of help with her luggage came, though, and Rachel silently thanked God the men didn’t bother her.

  Rachel’s fear mounted when she noticed that all the women from the ship had quickly disappeared with escorts, leaving her utterly alone and without aid to find her stage stop. Afraid to ask one of the shoremen for directions, she began to wander from the docks into town, hoping to find a friendly woman there.

  Redwood was clearly a bachelor town. Rachel walked along the dusty path past the McLeod Shipyard and the various storehouses on the docks and soon found herself amidst a bevy of saloons, boot shops, and liveries. She spied a beautiful white building with the words AMERICAN HOUSE painted in black across its face.

  Rachel sighed with relief, feeling as though she�
��d found an oasis. She quickly crossed the street, dodging the horse-drawn carriages and oxcarts that lined the road.

  When Rachel reached the American House, she immediately realized with disappointment that this was not a hotel like her stepfather’s. The entry hall was grand, with elevated ceilings, red wallpaper, and dark mahogany furniture. Upstairs, however, Rachel spotted an open door to the sleeping quarters. The large room was bare, its white walls free of decor. Cots and bunks lined the edge of the room dormitory style, and men could be seen lying upon them. Rachel, disturbed by unwillingly invading their privacy, turned to leave the lobby before she was spotted.

  “May I be of service to ya, my dear?” A cheery-looking, older man presented himself behind the ornate wooden counter.

  “Yes. I’m looking for the stage. The one that goes to Searsville. I–I’m the new teacher for the loggers’ children,” she blurted carelessly, trying to conceal her uneasiness.

  “Teaching. Now, that’s a right important job, I’d say. And for someone so young.” He paused, looking dubious. “Ah, but I’m sure you’d know that,” he added quickly.

  The man’s face was warm and his voice seemed to offer genuine concern for the lost young woman. “The stop you want is on Bridge Street. That’s the small bridge in front of this hotel; do you know the one I mean? Well, no matter, it’s only half a block out front, so you really can’t miss it.”

  “That’s where I got off the ship, but I didn’t see a stage.” Rachel looked out the door to see how she’d missed the stop.

  “The mail stage to Searsville leaves at one o’clock, so you’ve got a little time to spend in our fair city. We keep a right good table, if you’re hungry,” The man said. “The men’ll be through loading soon, so it’s just as well you stay inside.”

  “Now that you mention it, I am hungry.” Rachel hadn’t thought about her stomach all morning, and up until now, her nerves had been too tightly strung for her to eat anything.