44

Marta stood in the almond orchard beneath the white blossom canopy, the heady scent of spring in the air. Overhead, bees hummed, gathering nectar and spreading pollen, promising a good crop this year. Petals drifted like snowfall around her, covering the sandy soil, reminding her of Switzerland. It wouldn’t be long before new-growth-green leaves deepened into darker shades and almonds began to form in tiny nubs.

Niclas used to stand in the orchard just as she did now, looking up through the white-clothed branches to blue sky. He had always been thankful to God for the land, the orchard, the vineyard, crediting the Almighty for providing for his family. He’d never taken anything for granted, not even her.

How she missed him! Marta had thought the years would dull the pain of losing him; and in part, they had, just not in a way she wanted. She couldn’t remember every detail of his face, the exact color of his blue eyes. She couldn’t remember the feel of his hands upon her, the abandon when they came together as man and wife. She couldn’t remember the sound of his voice.

She could remember clearly those last weeks when Niclas had suffered so much and tried so hard not to show it because he knew she watched in helpless agony, anger boiling against God. As cancer ate away the hard muscle of his body and left him skin and bones, his faith had grown stronger and more unwavering. “God will not abandon you, Marta.” She believed it because she believed Niclas.

Though he hadn’t feared death, he hadn’t wanted to leave her. When she realized his worry, she had told him she had done very well on her own and she didn’t need anyone to take care of her. His eyes had lit with laughter. “Oh, Marta, Marta . . .” When she had wept, he took her hand weakly in his. “You and I are not finished,” he whispered, his last words to her before he fell into a coma. She sat beside him until he stopped breathing.

Niclas had been so vigorous; she expected they would grow old together. The children had grown up and gone out on their own. She thought she and Niclas would have many happy years together, alone at last, with limitless time to talk, time together without interruption. Losing him was hard enough without the awful cruelty of how he died. She had told God in no uncertain terms what she thought of that. A good, God-fearing and God-loving man like Niclas shouldn’t suffer like that. She had come out here and stood in this orchard night after night crying out to God in anger, hurling her questions at Him in fury, pounding the ground in her grief.

She hadn’t stopped with her complaints over losing Niclas, but had moved on to other pent-up grievances: her father’s abuse, her mother’s life of illness, her sister’s suicide. She dredged up every resentment and hurt.

And God had let her purge herself. In His mercy, He didn’t strike her down. Instead, she would feel the whisper of air, the silence, and would feel Him close, leaning in, His presence comforting.

Marta held to Niclas’s promise. How she loved that man still. And they would be together again, not because of anything she or Niclas had done in this life to make it so, but because Jesus held them both in the palm of His mighty hand. They were both in Christ and always would be, though she had to endure this physical separation for however long God decided. The Lord had already set the day of her death, and she sensed it would be a long time in coming.

After those first painful weeks following Niclas’s death, when she’d finally drained herself dry, she began to see God all around her. Her eyes opened to the beauty of this place, the tenderness of her family and friends who still offered aid and comfort, Hitch and Donna Martin, who shouldered the work. She took long drives to think and talked easily to the Lord while she did. She apologized for her unruly behavior and repented of it. While she had ranted, God had bestowed grace upon her. He had watched over, protected, and cared for her when she was at her worst.

She laughed now, knowing how surprised and pleased Niclas would be if he could see the change in her. She didn’t just pray over meals; she prayed all the time. When she opened her eyes in the morning, she asked God to take hold of her day and lead her through it. When she closed them at night, she thanked Him. And in between, she constantly sought His guidance.

Even so, loneliness sometimes snuck up on her as it had today, catching her by the throat, making her heart flutter with an odd sense of panic. She had never been one to cling or depend solely on her husband, but he had become integral to her existence. Niclas now stood in heaven, and she remained captive on this earth. Jesus was with her, but she couldn’t see Him; she couldn’t touch Him. Never one for hugs and kisses from anyone but Niclas, she missed human touch.

Why this restlessness inside her? Was she floundering or simply at a crossroads?

She missed so many things, like watching her children or the Summer Bedlam boys hunting for doodlebugs and horned toads or crossing the barnyard on stilts.

She missed the sound of their laughter and shrieks when they played tag or had one of their moonlight snipe hunts. Only the humming of bees filled the silence now. The air, cool and refreshing, stood still.

Marta admonished herself. She had no patience for self-pity in others. She despised it in herself. She had started her journey alone, hadn’t she?

“Look at the birds, Liebling. An eagle flies alone,” Mama had told her so many years ago. All right. Life wasn’t fair. So what? Life was difficult. It didn’t mean she had to become a grumbling old woman dragging her feet all day. She would mount up with wings as an eagle. She would run and not grow weary; she would walk and not faint. She would fly alone and trust God to keep her spirit airborne. Consider it all joy.

She had plenty of blessings to count. Her children had grown strong and flown off to build their own nests and families. Bernhard and Elizabeth’s nursery in Sacramento was doing well. Movie companies pursued Clotilde for her expertise in costume design. Rikka, dreamy and lovely as ever, still had Melvin dangling. How long before that poor young man realized Rikka loved art more than any man?

Only Hildemara still troubled her. Marta had no peace about Hildemara. Her eldest daughter hadn’t looked well the last time Marta saw her. And how many months ago had that been? Of course, everything could have changed for the better by now. Of the four, Hildemara shared the least about her life. She kept a distance. Or did Marta just imagine that?

She missed Hildemara terribly, but if her daughter wanted to keep a distance, so be it. Marta wouldn’t poke her nose in where it wasn’t wanted. At least Hildemara knew how to take care of herself, especially if she’d learned keeping up a house wasn’t as important as taking care of her health.

Shaking her head, Marta chuckled, remembering how Hildemara had come home from nursing school and spent her vacation scouring and scrubbing everything in sight—floors, walls, counters, shelves. She’d been obsessed with ridding the farmhouse of germs, as if that were possible. Marta had been insulted at the time, annoyed past enduring.

Her mind often went back to the day Hildemara had left home. Marta had pushed her hard that day. She’d hurt her girl and made her good and angry. Hildemara had never done anything easily, and stirring her anger had served Marta well in motivating the girl. If she got Hildemara mad enough, her daughter forgot her fear. But now she wondered if the anger lingered, even after the blessings became apparent. She hoped that wasn’t true.

Hadn’t anger had its way with her as well? Would she have left Steffisburg if she hadn’t been raging mad at her father? Or had it been pride?

Her girl had been a godsend during Niclas’s illness. Hildemara had proven her great worth during those last difficult months. She’d been knowledgeable, efficient, overflowing with compassion. She hadn’t allowed her emotions to rule. She had been like the balm of Gilead in the house. Once or twice, she had stood up to Marta as she guarded her patient. It couldn’t have been easy on Hildemara to watch her papa die. Marta was proud of her.

It had been in the weeks that followed Niclas’s death that Marta had recognized the growing threat to both her and her daughter. Hildemara had remained to keep her company, to serve, and Marta had drawn comfort from it. She had become used to Hildemara doing for her. God had opened her eyes to it, and she’d been furious. Marta, who had sworn never to become a servant, was making her daughter into one. Her conscience rubbed her raw. Mama had set her free. Would she now cage Hildemara? What did an able-bodied woman need with a nurse? Mortified, she saw how Hildemara cooked and cleaned and fetched and carried. Only the constant activity and search for new things to do revealed the inner turmoil inside her girl. And it had come to Marta like a blow.

Hildemara doesn’t belong here! Cut her loose!

The more Marta considered the truth of it, the angrier she’d become—at herself, more than Hildemara. It shamed her now to remember how long it had taken to do what was right. She had pushed Hildemara right out the door. It broke her heart, but a good mother teaches her children to fly.

Some, like her sister, Elise, never even spread their wings. Others, like Hildemara, had to be shoved to the edge before they’d take wing. Marta regretted pressing her daughter so hard, but if she hadn’t, where would they be now? She, sitting like the queen of Sheba in her rocker, reading for the pure pleasure of it while Hildemara worked her fingers to the bone on that wretched rag rug? God forbid!

If only she’d been able to send Hildemara off in Mama’s gentle way, with words of blessing rather than a lie: “I don’t want you here.”

Marta had often been amazed at the differences between herself and her eldest daughter. Marta had set her mind long ago against ever being anyone’s servant. Hildemara made a career of it. Serving others seemed to come naturally to her. Marta had dreaded being pulled home again by Mama’s illness and Elise’s dependency. Hildemara had come willingly, pouring her heart into caring for her papa—and mama, as it turned out.

Marta’s father had clipped her mother’s wings and caged her. He’d worked Mama until her health gave out. Had he the opportunity, he would have done the same to Marta. Mama knew it as well as Marta. Marta had fretted constantly, her conscience plaguing her. How could she leave Mama, ill as she was, and go after her dream? How dare she take her freedom at the cost to others she loved so dearly! Mama had understood the guilt that imprisoned Marta and lifted it.

“You have my blessing, Marta. I give it to you wholeheartedly and without reservation.”

So many years had passed and Marta held fast to those words.

“You have my love.”

Words had power. Papa’s crushed. Mama’s lifted and sent her out free to find her way in the world. Perhaps, had Mama known how far from home Marta would go, she might’ve had second thoughts. Perhaps that had been an added reason for holding Elise so close, inadvertently clipping her wings and making her unable to fly.

Marta had so often been tempted to hold Hildemara as close. Sickly from birth, a tiny, homely baby prone to sickness, Hildemara Rose had torn at Marta’s heartstrings. She had wanted to protect and shower love on her girl. What a tragic waste if she’d given in and done it! No, Marta told herself firmly, she would’ve crippled her. She had done the right thing in stifling those yearnings.

Bernhard, Clotilde, and Rikka had all been born with an independent spirit. Hildemara Rose came into the world dependent. If it were left up to her, Hildemara might still be here, working for Mama, forgetting she had a life of her own to live. Marta hadn’t been willing to wait and watch the years pass, or to see an old pattern be reborn. Mama had done the right thing by her, but the wrong thing for Elise. Marta couldn’t allow herself to make the same mistake with Hildemara Rose.

Why was the girl so much on her mind lately? Why couldn’t she find any peace about her?

It was time to stop second-guessing whether she had done things right or not. She had done her best by all her children. She had other decisions to make. She had her own life to consider.

As much as she had come to love the orchard and vineyard, this ranch had been Niclas’s dream, not hers. She felt restless here. What of her plans set aside so long ago? Was she past the age where she could go back and pursue them? Or had they been too big? She’d wanted to own a hotel. She couldn’t care less about that now, but what about getting an education? She sniffed, imagining what people would say if a woman her age showed up for a college lecture. Then again, why should she care what anyone thought about it? Had she ever cared what others said?

Would she be allowed in without a high school diploma? They would undoubtedly want to test her. Let them. She knew more than any eighteen-year-old she had met in a dozen years. Hadn’t she read and reread her children’s textbooks while they slept?

Maybe she was just being an old fool. Did having a high school diploma matter anymore? She should just get over not having one and be done with it. She could keep going down the shelves in the library, reading one book after another, until she lost her eyesight or dropped dead.

Self-pity again. Lord, don’t let me get into that disgusting habit. And while we’re about it, God, I don’t know what to do. But it seems an unholy waste of time to stay here and go on as I am. I pay the Martins a fair wage and have more than enough to get by, but I feel . . . What? What do I feel? I don’t even know anymore, what I want, why I’m still breathing air. Everything used to be so fixed in my mind.

Hildemara.

Her mind’s eye saw her daughter again. What about her? There was unfinished business between them, but Marta didn’t know what to do about it. She wasn’t even sure what it was, and she had no intention of apologizing for being hard on her when that hardness had been necessary.

What about Hildemara, Lord? What’re You trying to tell me? Just spell it out!

“Mrs. Waltert!” Hitch Martin came striding toward her. Niclas had been right about the Okie being a hard, dependable worker. Hitch kept up the place the way Niclas would have wanted, and Marta didn’t mind paying him wages above the going rate. “Donna and me was going to town for supplies and wondered if you’d be needing anything.”

Polite, always respectful, considerate, too, he and Donna never failed to ask, even knowing the answer would always be the same. “Not a thing, Hitch.” Marta liked having ready excuses to get in her car and take a drive.

Hitch stood arms akimbo, admiring the trees. “Looks to be a good crop coming, don’t it?” The hives they had set out were busy.

“It does, indeed.” Barring a strong wind or late driving rain to ruin it. The bees were certainly doing their work.

“Someday I hope to have a place of my own like this.” He gave her a quick, shy glance. “In case I haven’t said it lately, Mrs. Waltert, I surely do appreciate you hiring me and letting us use the big house.” Hitch looked more fit than when she’d hired him—plenty of good food, a decent roof over his head, and fewer worries about how he was going to take care of his four children brought change.

“It’s as much to my benefit as yours.” Maybe more so. She had hours to herself these days to do what she pleased, which made her grateful. She remembered what it had been like to live in a drafty tent with four children and only a barn for respites of privacy with her husband. She remembered spending three years slaving through blistering summers and arctic winters for a man who cheated them of their fair share of profits. She swore she’d never treat anyone who worked for her that way. The Martins were good people and she intended to see they did well.

Hitch seemed in no hurry to leave. “Listen to them bees.”

“We’ll have plenty of honey to sell.” She would smoke the hives and steal the honey soon. Donna spun the rich sweetness from the combs and filled and labeled the jars for market.

“Nothing tastier than honey from almond blossoms, ma’am. Oh, by the way, I heard your phone ringing on the way out.”

Probably one of her friends from church needed something cooked for someone sick or bereaved. “They’ll call back.”

Marta and Hitch talked farm business on the walk back to the wide drive. The windmill needed repairs. They’d have to start digging the irrigation ditches soon, get a head start. Now that they had a bathroom with a shower in the house, the small building with a water tank on top could be converted to something more useful. The barn would need repainting in another year. She could hire extra help if he wanted it for that project. “I don’t want to see you up on an extension ladder, Hitch.” He laughed and said he’d send one of his sons up to do the high work.

Hitch told her the tractor was acting up again, but he felt sure he could fix it, if he had a few parts. Marta gave him the go-ahead to buy whatever he needed. She always had a list of chores, but he’d begun anticipating her requests and getting the work done before she needed to ask. He was a good man, a good farmer.

After the Martins drove off in their old truck, Marta wandered the place. The fruit trees alongside the big house had grown. She and Donna would be canning peaches and pears together. The plums would make good prunes and jam. Plenty of apples for Donna’s growing children and a few neighbor kids to pluck and eat. And there would be lots of oranges and lemons, too.

Now that Donna tended the chickens and rabbits and kept up the vegetable garden, Marta had little work to do. She’d done laundry yesterday and baked bread this morning, enough for herself and the Martins. She could always spend the rest of the afternoon finishing up that five-thousand-piece puzzle Bernhard and Elizabeth had given her for Christmas last year. Bernhard had laughed and said that ought to keep her busy and out of Hitch Martin’s hair for a while. She calculated how many hours she’d already spent on it and groaned. All that work for what? To break it up when she finished, put it back in the box, and give it away to someone else with time on their hands.

God, help me. I do not want to spend my life working puzzles and watching game shows. Time enough for that when I’m really old. At eighty-five or ninety.

The telephone rang.

Marta let the screen door slam behind her. She answered on the fourth ring.

“It’s Trip, Mama.”

She knew by his voice he hadn’t called with good news. “Hildemara’s sick again, isn’t she?” She eased herself onto a kitchen chair. Maybe there had been a reason she’d been thinking so much about her eldest daughter lately.

“She’s back in the hospital.”

“She should start getting better then.”

“She’s been there two months and no improvement.”

Two months! “And you’re just telling me about it now?”

“Hildie thought she’d be home in a few weeks. She didn’t want to worry you. We both hoped . . .” He fell silent again.

Lies, all of it, but Marta could imagine the worry on his face and calmed herself. “How are you managing alone with the children?”

“A neighbor lady takes care of them while I’m at work.”

A neighbor lady. Well, wasn’t that just grand. Hildemara and Trip would rather have a stranger taking care of their children than call her for help. How had this happened? Marta rested her elbows on the table. Holding the phone in one hand, she rubbed her forehead with the other. She could feel a headache coming on. She’d better speak before she couldn’t. “She needs time, I suppose.”

“Time.” His voice choked up. “All she does is worry about hospital bills and leaving me in debt.” He cleared his throat. “She says if she’s going to die, she wants to die at home.”

Marta felt the heat rise up inside her. So Hildemara had given up again. “You remind her she has a husband and two children to live for. She’s not done with this life yet.”

“It’s worse this time. Wanting to live isn’t always enough.”

It seemed Hildemara wasn’t the only one who had given up. Marta thought of her mother. Had she wanted to live? Or had she given up, too? Had she become so tired of the struggle to hold on to life, even for Elise, that she gave up?

“We could use your help, Mama.”

“If you’re asking me to come up and help bury her, the answer is no.”

He drew in a sharp breath and swore. His tone hardened. “Hildie said you wouldn’t help her.”

The words stabbed deep. Marta wanted to say she’d helped Hildemara more than the girl would ever understand, but that wouldn’t help Trip handle what was happening or make Hildemara get better.

Squaring her shoulders, Marta scraped her chair back and stood. “If my daughter can hold on so tight to old grievances, with God’s help, she can hold on to life, too, Trip Arundel.”

“I shouldn’t have called.” He sounded defeated.

“No. You should’ve called sooner! The trouble is I can’t do anything right this minute.” She had things to settle, and she’d have to work quickly. She and Hitch Martin had made a gentleman’s agreement. Maybe it was time to put things into writing. She’d need to talk to Hitch first and then a lawyer. She wanted to make certain things were spelled out good and properly so both she and the Martins benefited.

“I’m sorry,” Trip mumbled, voice tear-soaked.

Her son-in-law sounded so tired, so out of hope, Marta felt the sorrow rise up in her. Would she lose her daughter after all? Would she have to watch Hildemara suffer as Mama had, gasping for breath, coughing up blood into a handkerchief?

“We’re talking now. And we’re going to pray hard and get others praying with us. I’ve got a whole group of women with plenty of time for that kind of work. Come down to Murietta, Trip. I’ll have to get busy and sort out a few things here. But you come. Do you hear me?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good. We can sit under the bay tree and talk about what I can and can’t do.”

Trip said he’d drive down with the children on Saturday.

Marta sat down and wrote a list in her journal. First things first. Talk to Hitch and Donna about taking over the ranch. Hitch had said today he’d like to have a place of his own someday. Running this place in her absence would move him toward that goal. They’d need a legal contract to protect both of them. Charles Landau had a good reputation as a lawyer. She had accounts at the hardware store and feed and grain. She’d add Hitch to them so he could get what he needed without having to clear everything through her. She needed to copy the ranch maintenance schedule from her journal and give that to Hitch as well, though he seemed to know it already. Niclas had wanted to be sure she knew what needed to be done and when throughout the year.

Marta spent all day thinking over ranch business and things she’d need to get settled. Concerns buzzed like flies in her head, and she swatted them with prayers. Finally exhausted, Marta went to bed, but couldn’t sleep. She’d talk to Hitch and Donna first thing in the morning, then go to town, set up an appointment with Charles Landau, and take care of the store accounts. Annoyed, she told herself to let go of it all and get some sleep.

Hildemara hadn’t wanted Trip to call. “Hildie said you wouldn’t help her.” Did her daughter really believe that?

Lying in the darkening room, Marta weighed her actions from the past. She prayed God would help her see through Hildemara’s eyes, and as she did, she wondered. Does Hildemara Rose even know how much I love her?

If only she’d been a gentler person, like Mama, one given to prayer and trusting in God from the beginning no matter how bad the circumstances. Life with Marta’s father had been dire indeed. Nothing pleased the man. And yet, Mama had treated him with loving respect. She worked hard, never complained, never gave in to despair, and continued to love him, even at his worst. Marta saw how she had made her mother’s life even more difficult. Hot-tempered, stubborn, willful, she had never been an easy child. She’d fought her father, refusing to be cowed, even when he beat her. How many times had Mama been in the middle, pleading, trying to protect?

Mama had only hurt her once. “You are more like your father than you are like me.”

Marta had been offended at the time, but she should’ve listened. She should’ve been warned! Harsh words, fierce anger, a desire to achieve her goals at all cost—hadn’t she inherited all that from Papa? Mama hadn’t meant to hurt her. She had only wanted Marta to see her father in another way, without hatred and condemnation.

Did Hildemara look upon her the same way? Did her daughter see her as unbending, never satisfied with Hildemara’s efforts, always looking for faults, unfeeling, unable to love? If Hildemara didn’t feel she could ask for help, didn’t that say it all?

How could such misunderstanding have grown between them?

Yes, Marta conceded, she had hurt her daughter at times, but to make her strong, not to tear her down. Had she been so determined to make Hildemara rise up and fight back that she had become as intractable, cruel, and heartless as her own father? God forbid!

But she saw clearly how she had been harder on Hildemara than the others. She had done it out of love. She had done it to save Hildemara from Elise’s fate. She didn’t want her girl growing up frightened of the world, hiding away inside a house controlled by a tyrant, utterly dependent on her mother.

And Hildemara hadn’t.

Marta had hated her father. She realized now she’d never forgiven him. When he wired for her to come back, she had burned his message and wished him in hell. How dare she hope for forgiveness from Hildemara if she couldn’t forgive her own father?

Pain clutched at Marta so fiercely, she sat up and hunched over.

She had never used her fists on Hildemara, or whipped her with a strap until she bled, the way her father had. She never called her ugly or told her she was stupid. She’d never told her she had no right to go to school, that education was wasted on her. She’d never made Hildemara work and then taken away her wages. Despised and rejected, Marta had fought back, lashing out in fury against her father for trying to bury her spirit beneath the avalanche of his own disappointments.

And Mama had held her and whispered words of encouragement. Mama had held her head up so she could breathe. She’d sent Marta away because she knew, if she remained, she’d become exactly like him: discontent, selfish, cruel, blaming others for what hadn’t turned out well in his life.

She’d always been Papa’s scapegoat.

As you made him yours.

Getting up, Marta went to the window and looked out on the moon-cast yard, the closed barn doors, the white-veiled almond trees.

Would she have left Switzerland and set out on her own journey if not for her father? She’d always credited Mama for her freedom, but Papa played a part, too. She’d been the least favored child. Hermann, firstborn son; Elise, so beautiful, like an angel.

She could see now how she had treated her own children differently. She’d taken pride in Bernhard as her firstborn son. Clotilde thrived, possessed from birth of an independent spirit. Nothing would hold that girl down. And Rikka, with her ethereal beauty and childlike delight in God’s creation, had been like a star fallen from the heavens, not quite of this world. Rikka knew no fear. She would flit and float through life, delighting in the wonder of it, seeing shadows, but ignoring them.

And where had Hildemara fit in?

Hildemara, the smallest, the least hearty, the most dependent, had struggled from the beginning—to live, to grow, later to find a dream, to build her own life, to thrive. And now, she must struggle to survive. If she didn’t have the courage to do that on her own, Marta must find a way to give it to her.

A flash of memory came of Hildemara racing home, terrified after Mr. Kimball had tried to rape her. But it occurred to Marta now, her daughter had kicked free of a grown man stronger than Niclas. She had been smart enough to run. Hildemara had shown real spunk that day, and at other times, too. She’d gone out and gotten herself a job. She’d said no to college and gone off to nurses’ training. She’d followed Trip from one base to another, finding housing in strange cities, making new friends. She’d crossed the country by herself and come home to help Bernhard and Elizabeth hold on to the Musashis’ land despite threats and fire and bricks through their windows.

My daughter has courage, Lord!

Despite appearances, and though Marta loathed to admit it, she’d always favored Hildemara a little above the others. From the moment her daughter came into the world, Marta had bonded fast to her. “She looks like her mother,” Niclas had said, unwittingly setting things in motion. All the cruel words her father had said about her appearance rose up inside her when she saw Hildemara Rose was plain. And like Elise, she was frail.

But she wouldn’t stay that way. Marta decided that first frightening week she wouldn’t cripple Hildemara Rose the way Mama had crippled Elise.

Now she wondered if she hadn’t pushed Hildemara too hard, and in doing so, pushed her away.

Oh, Lord, can I bring her close again?

Hildemara had Mama’s constitution. And now, it seemed she had Mama’s disease. Would she share Mama’s fate as well?

Please, Lord, give me time.

She covered her face and prayed. Oh, God, I wish I’d been more like Mama with her and less like Papa. Maybe I could’ve made Hildemara strong without wounding her. But I can’t go back now and undo the past. Hildemara Rose has no faith in me, no understanding. And that’s my fault, not hers. Does she understand I’m proud of her and her accomplishments? Does she know me at all?

She can.

Marta lowered her hands, drew back the curtains, and looked up at the stars. “Jesus,” she whispered, “will she be willing to meet me halfway?”

What does that matter?

Marta bowed her head. It was just her pride butting in again.

Hildemara had worked hard and done well. She’d had her moments of despair when she’d wanted to give up, but she’d grasped hold when hope was offered and rose again. She wasn’t Elise. She might be depressed, but she wouldn’t give up. Not if Marta had anything to say about it.

Hildemara might be quieter than Bernhard, who thought he could tackle the world, less self-possessed than fiery Clotilde with her quest for fame and fortune, not as intuitive and gifted as Rikka, who saw the world through angel eyes. Nevertheless, Hildemara had spunk. She had her own special gifts.

Marta lifted her chin again.

My daughter has a servant’s heart that should please You, Lord. Like Your Son, she’s meek, but no coward. She might be a broken reed now with the cold wind of death in her face, but You won’t allow her spirit to be crushed. You said it and I believe it. But give me time with her, Lord. I beg You. Help me mend my relationship with her. You know how I’ve fought against being a servant all my life. I confess it. I’ve always hated the very idea of it!

A gentle breeze drifted in through the open window, as though God whispered to her. Marta wiped tears from her cheeks.

“Lord,” she whispered back, “teach me how to serve my daughter.”

Marta got up early the next morning and prayed. She went out the side door toward the garden, leaving her journal open on the kitchen table. Walking around to the front of the big house, she knocked on the front door. When Donna opened the door, Marta asked to speak to her and Hitch together about something important. They both looked nervous as they invited her to sit at their table and share a cup of fresh coffee. Marta told them about Hildemara and that she had been thinking about the ranch and making some changes. Hitch’s expression fell.

Donna gave him a sorry look and then offered a pained smile to Marta. “With your husband passing on and all, and your daughter needing you, it’s understandable you’d want to sell.”

“I’m not selling. I’d like to offer you a contract to run the place. You tell me what you want. I’ll tell you what I need. And we’ll have Charles Landau put it all in writing so there will be no question about it.”

Hitch’s head came up. “You’re not selling?”

“That’s what I said.” She gave Donna a teasing look. “Better see that he cleans his ears.” She looked at Hitch again. “It may come to that, but if it does, you’ll get first shot at buying it. If you want it, that is.”

“We don’t have the money,” he said glumly.

“Knowing how hard you work, I might even be willing to hold the paper rather than have some banker come out the winner in the deal.” She looked between the two of them. “So?”

“Yes!” Hitch grinned.

“Please,” Donna added, face aglow.

That settled, Marta drove to town to take care of the rest of the details.

Then, on impulse, she drove to Merced and went shopping.

She wrote to Rosie that night and told her about Hildemara.

I started thinking about Lady Daisy and our afternoons at Kew and tea in the conservatory. I think it’s about time I shared some of these experiences with Hildemara Rose. So I went to Merced and looked through all the stores and couldn’t find anything as fine as what I wanted.

After hours of searching, I was discouraged. Actually, I was annoyed. I ended up in a little shop, but one look around and I was ready to walk out the front door. Fortunately, the proprietor cut me off. Gertrude! Swiss, from Bern! We talked for an hour.

I’d completely forgotten why I’d come to Merced in the first place until we both noticed the time. She needed to close the shop, and I needed to drive home to Murietta. Before leaving, I finally got around to telling her what I’d been looking for and why. G went into her back room and came out with an old, dusty box filled with dishes. She said she’d forgotten all about them until that very moment.

I am now the proud owner of a Royal Albert Lady Carlyle tea service—four plates, four teacups, and saucers! G also sold me some dainty spoons and forks, well worth every dollar she extracted from me. I will make all the wonderful sweets and savories for Hildemara Rose that I once served to Lady Daisy. I will pour India tea and lace it with milk and conversation.

God willing, I will win back my daughter.