IF YOU KEEP IMPROVING at this rate, you’ll be strong enough to travel soon.”
Larson returned Isaiah’s grin across the table and felt a rush of gratitude for this couple sitting opposite him. “Thanks for sticking with me, Isaiah. You too, Abby.”
Abby’s blue eyes crinkled in answer, and Isaiah merely laid a hand over his heart and nodded.
In the past weeks, Larson’s body had responded to Abby’s cooking and Isaiah’s exercise and medicinal regimen better than he’d imagined possible. This morning, following the normal ritual of exercise, or torture, as he’d taken to calling it, Abby had slathered her thick mixture of herbed poultices over his furrowed flesh, commenting on how his chest and arms were filling out. Even Larson was noticing a difference.
He spooned in another mouthful of venison and boiled potatoes, eager to push Isaiah’s contraption in the woodshed to its full limit this afternoon.
“How’s your leg feeling after this morning?” Abby asked, slicing him a generous portion of apple pie.
He nodded his thanks and washed his food down with water. “Better. That concoction you rubbed into it helped. It drew a few flies, but it helped.” He shot her a look he knew would earn a grin.
Abby patted his arm and chuckled.
The wound where the bullet had entered his right leg had healed considerably but still pained him when he overexerted himself— something Isaiah constantly warned him against. Larson hoped to walk without a limp someday, but right now even his limp couldn’t dampen his spirits.
After lunch, he followed Isaiah to the shed behind the cabin. Using the staff Isaiah had carved for him, Larson only managed one stride for Isaiah’s every three, but at least he was walking on his own now. As with the walker, Isaiah had crafted the walking stick from sturdy pine, and it supported Larson’s burden well. Amazing what a difference the independence made in his attitude.
He breathed in the chill of the late April day and smelled the promise of spring. White-laced boughs of towering blue spruce, no longer bent low to earth under the weight of heavy snow, seemed to be declaring their independence from winter’s frosty grip. Stands of stalwart birch stretched their icy arms heavenward. All around him were signs of the land’s awakening from a frozen slumber, much like the recent stirrings he sensed inside himself.
In the distance, the sun reflected off the snowy mountain peaks with a blinding brilliance that stung his eyes. How could he have lived here all his life and not been more appreciative of this land’s beauty? And of God’s hand in it all?
The last thought caught him by surprise, slowing his pace. God’s hand . . . He’d always believed in God. What he hadn’t realized, something that Isaiah and Abby were showing him, was . . . that God believed in him.
Larson’s grip tightened on the staff in his right hand. He looked from the brilliance of the snowcapped mountains to the modest— and that was being generous—cabin where he’d spent nearly four months. Isaiah’s words pierced his heart all over again. Strange how words, even those dried on a page—he smiled ruefully—could rob him of his sense of completeness while fostering a hunger inside him at the same time.
It was a hunger Larson had never known, and he wasn’t completely sure what to do with it even now.
“Come on, we don’t have all day,” Isaiah goaded good-naturedly, holding open the door of the shed.
Isaiah’s contraption of rudimentary weights, consisting of rocks of various sizes tied in bundles and hoisted over beams, pushed Larson’s strength to exhaustion—far more than the bricks ever had. Without a word they began their rigorous routine, and later that night, after dinner, Larson undressed and fell into bed.
He rose the next morning well before dawn and carefully maneuvered his way through the dark cabin, mindful not to waken Isaiah or Abby. Once outside, his staff in one hand and their Bible tucked beneath his arm, he wound his way down a wooded path that he and Isaiah had traveled once before. He shuddered in the predawn chill, his muscles stiff, but determination urged him forward.
Within a half hour, he reached his destination, his body tired, but in a good way. Lacking the smooth agility he had once possessed, Larson managed to awkwardly climb up onto a boulder that overlooked a serene mountain lake. His breath came heavy as he stretched out, welcoming the cool of the stone against his back. He cradled his arms behind his head and watched the last vestiges of night reluctantly surrender to dawn.
Despite his peaceful surroundings, a restlessness stirred inside him.
Up until a few months ago, the whole of his life had been centered on seeing his ranch succeed, in making a name for himself— something his illegitimate birth had denied him all his life. And he’d done it all so that Kathryn would be proud of him, so that he could earn her love.
He grimaced, knowing that wasn’t the entire truth. No, he’d done it to ensure her faithfulness—though at the time he hadn’t been sure if such a thing could even exist between a man and woman.
In watching Isaiah and Abby together over the past weeks, he’d observed their stolen glances and kisses, their quiet exchanges over things he’d once deemed unimportant. And studying how they were with each other had challenged his reasoning. While strengthening his view of marriage in one sense, it also laid bare the shortcomings of his own.
Besides Isaiah’s and Abby’s obvious differences, which he scarcely noticed anymore, Larson couldn’t help but compare their marriage to his. Isaiah had attained nothing in terms of worldly wealth, and yet Abby adored him. Isaiah had no name to bestow on her, yet Abby bore the title of his wife as though it lent her kinship to royalty.
Dawn’s first light trilled a finger across the lake, and Larson marveled at the shimmers of sunlight playing off the tranquil surface. He breathed in the air scented of pine.
He used to think that if he provided well enough for her, Kathryn would remain loyal to him. Or if he watched her closely enough, he could keep her from straying, from seeking a better man’s arms. But how did a husband entrust his heart to his wife?
Larson scrubbed a hand over his face and sat up. The scant beard still felt foreign to him but helped hide the scarring on his face. His whiskers had grown back in patches, like his hair. He eased off the boulder and went to stand at the lake’s edge, remembering his first afternoon here with Isaiah. Not until that afternoon, when he first saw his reflection in the water, had it occurred to him that there were no mirrors in the cabin.
He reached for the Bible resting on a nearby rock and turned to the place Abby had marked for him. He drank in the verses, hearing Abby’s voice again as he read.
“Who hath believed our report? and to whom is the arm of the Lord revealed? For he shall grow up before him as a tender plant, and as a root out of a dry ground: he hath no form nor comeliness; and when we shall see him, there is no beauty that we should desire him.”
Larson stopped and read that part again.
“This scripture is about Jesus,” Abby had explained. “Isaiah is prophesying about the Lord’s coming and how Jesus will be treated.”
No form nor comeliness. No beauty that we should desire him. The Scripture about Jesus could have easily applied to him. Larson read on.
He is despised and rejected of men; a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief: and we hid as it were our faces from him; he was despised, and we esteemed him not.
Larson closed his eyes and imagined walking the path home to their cabin, past the grove of quaking aspen and past snowy mountain-fed Fountain Creek. Though the threat of Kohlman having called his loans due haunted him, Larson still clung to the sliver of hope that Kathryn had been able to keep things going. Maybe he’d find her working in the garden or walking back from the creek, her hair still damp from bathing. He pictured her lovely form, the curves of her body he knew so intimately. A fire stirred inside him. He tensed his jaw. Though he still desired to be with Kathryn in that way—how could he not?—he yearned just to be in the same room with her. When he thought of seeing her again, when he pictured her tender brown eyes lifting to meet his . . .
And that’s where the image suddenly faded.
How would Kathryn react to seeing him now? Would she despise him? Would she hide her face from him?
Larson laid the Bible aside and bent toward the lake’s placid mirror. The man staring back was a stranger to him. He removed the cap Abby had knit for him using yarn from an old sweater, and he ran a hand over his head. His scalp was ridged in places and waxy smooth in others where the fire had melted the layers of skin. Prickly patches of hair grew at random, and at his request, Abby kept them shaved clean. He examined his marred reflection. Could Kathryn ever learn to see past his scars to the man beneath? Would she abide him long enough to see the changes in his heart?
Conviction stung him, and his searching knifed inward. Before all this had happened to him, if their fates had been reversed, would he have extended the same compassion to Kathryn that he would soon ask of her? Without hesitation, he knew his answer—now. But before all of this, before the reality of seeing his own reflection repulsed him, would he have possessed the heart to see past it all if it had been her?
A whisper of wind swept across the lake, rippling the water. Larson stood and tugged the cap back on his head, then rubbed his hands together. The scars did little to keep out the cold. It went straight to the bone. He sighed, fighting the familiar sense of failure that dogged his heels. The date the loan payment was due to the bank had long since passed, but he knew Isaiah was right. Not everything in life could be measured in dollars and cents. And the things that were could be stolen in the time it took to draw a single breath. He’d learned that in the crucible.
He picked up the Bible and his staff. He wanted to rebuild his life on something that would last this time. And he wanted to build it with Kathryn, if she would still have him.
Before heading back, he looked up at the sky and cleared his throat. But no words came.
He wished he could talk to God like Isaiah and Abby did. No doubt their prayers reached heaven’s throne. His felt anchored to earth, tethered there by the kind of man and husband he had been. Lord, help me to be the man Kat wants me to be. As he walked back to the cabin, he thought better and amended his feeble request. Help me to be the man you want me to be, Jesus.
Soon his body would command the strength to make the journey home. However, the question remained—would his heart?
She couldn’t sleep for anticipation of the day before her.
While it was still dark, Kathryn rose and dressed, buttoning up her skirt as far as she could. She would need to make new clothes soon to accommodate the slight swell in her belly. Straightening the bedcovers, she allowed her memory to drift back to the last intimate moments she and Larson had known here as husband and wife. Little did either of them know that night what blessing was being planted deep within.
She pictured Larson’s muscled physique, far more at ease in handworked leather and rawhide than silk shirt and tailor-made suit. And his arms, so incredibly strong, yet they possessed a tenderness so intoxicatingly gentle that it wooed her heart even now, leaving her with a physical ache for him.
She ran a hand over his pillow. O Lord, that you would grant me a second chance. Instead of wishing her husband to be someone he wasn’t, she would love him for who he was. And she would gratefully accept the precious pieces of his heart he was willing to share, without passively demanding more.
In the past weeks of self-reflection, her insatiable need for physical safety and security had also become evident to her. She realized now that she’d sought to obtain them through Larson’s aspirations for the ranch. But great wealth hadn’t provided it for her in her youth, or for her mother. So what had made her think it would now?
Smoothing the coverlet, Kathryn remembered the emptiness in her mother’s eyes and in her parents’ less than loving marriage, and the physical longing within her hardened to bitter regret. She stared down at her empty hands as truth wove a grip around her throat. While coveting the dream of something beyond her reach, she had overlooked—and lost—the treasure in her grasp.
Looking down at Larson’s side of the bed, a familiar sense of grief swept through her, but she wouldn’t allow herself to dwell on those punishing thoughts, at least not today. Too much was at stake. As she walked to the kitchen, she turned her mind to the hope blossoming inside her.
Tearing a piece of bread from yesterday’s loaf, she was thankful that the queasiness had passed. By her estimations, she had just completed her fourth month, and the baby was quickly filling the tiny space inside her. She marveled at the changes her body would go through to accommodate the little one’s growth. When could she expect to feel the child move inside her? She assumed that time was near. Oh, for another female, a trusted confidante who had experienced this before. Someone she could share this knowledge with that she kept secreted and who could answer the questions crowding her heart.
But there was One who knew. Who waited for her even now.
Lord, thank you for this child growing within my womb. Make him strong, make him like his father. She smiled as she pulled on her coat. Some nights ago, she’d dreamed she would bear a son, though she would welcome a daughter with equal joy. It didn’t matter, so long as the child was healthy. Perhaps it would help to secure the slender thread still tying her to Larson and the fading hope of ever seeing him again.
She walked outside and a mild breeze ruffled her long hair. Leaving her coat unbuttoned, Kathryn watched the first rays of morning reach through the treetops to touch the towering blue spruce. The light mingled with the dew-kissed boughs to create a shimmer of a million tiny crystals on the April breeze. For a moment she stopped, thinking she heard something in the distance.
She searched the cloudless blue overhead and waited. The air around her quivered with an almost tangible anxiety. Finally deciding it was nothing, she walked to the barn to start her morning chores. As she worked, she silently spoke her heart to the One who knew it perfectly already. She scooped feed from the burlap bags, careful not to lift anything too heavy.
Footsteps crunched the hay behind her, and she peered over the stall door. She smiled at the unexpected sight.
The hulk of a man who’d pounded her door weeks ago stood nearby, cradling a kitten against his chest. He stroked its black fur and cooed in hushed tones.
She came around to stand beside him. “Good morning. I see you’ve found Clara’s litter.” She’d seen him several times since that morning but only at a waving distance.
His blue eyes danced. “Yes, ma’am. It’s so tiny and soft. Wanna hold it?”
Kathryn took the kitten and brushed the shiny black of its coat. The size of the man’s hands and strength of his thick fingers belied their gentleness. He was certainly different from any of the other ranch hands she’d met. She was thankful to have him, especially with the task before them today.
“My name is Kathryn.”
“I’m Gabe,” he said, a grin lighting his face.
Kathryn listened as he told her how he’d found the litter a few days ago and had been checking on them ever since. Two other ranch hands strode in, and Kathryn nodded their way.
“Mrs. Jennings,” they murmured back in greeting, touching their hats as they walked to the back to gather their gear.
Gabe gave the kitten’s tiny head one last brush with his thumb. “I better get to work now. Mr. Taylor told me this is an important day.”
“Yes, Gabe, it is.” She had to remind herself not to speak to him as though he were a child. Gabe was easily her age, if not a few years older, but with his childlike manner it was hard to tell.
She heard riders approaching, so she put the kitten down and went to meet them. Mr. Taylor reined in and dismounted. The four men riding with him stayed astride. Only one of them looked familiar to her, and Kathryn instantly recalled where she’d seen him. The day Matthew had first come to the cabin.
Even smiling, especially then, the man had a reproachable look about him. He rested his forearms on the saddle horn and stared down. “Nice to see you again, ma’am. You’re lookin’ real nice this mornin’.” He grinned and the scar along his jaw bunched and twisted. “I wasn’t so keen on workin’ for a woman at first, but I might be changin’ my mind.”
His high-pitched laugh made Kathryn’s skin crawl, and she retreated a step.
“Mornin’, Mrs. Jennings,” Matthew said. “Can I have a word with you, please?” He shot the man a dark look over his shoulder, then took Kathryn’s arm and led her inside the barn.
“Is there a problem, Mr. Taylor?”
“No, ma’am, I just need to make sure you still want to do this.”
“I’m very certain. You went over the ledgers with me, Mr. Taylor. You know the numbers.”
“I just wish there was another way. This is going to leave you with no breedin’ stock, no bulls. Nothing.”
She laid a hand to his arm. “But at least I’ll have the land and my home, and then someday I’ll—” She stopped. “Someday my husband and I will start over again.”
Something akin to admiration shown in his eyes, and he nodded. “Two days ago I sent men to round up the larger herd from the north pasture.” He glanced at the group on horseback waiting outside. “I had to offer higher wages, but I found a few more hands. We’ll round up the strays on the south side this mornin’, then join up at the pass with the others. I’ll get top dollar for the herd, Mrs. Jennings, don’t you worry.”
“I’m not worried one bit.” She wished that were true, but truth be told, she would breathe much easier once everything was settled with Mr. Kohlman and the bank. She could always buy more livestock, but this was their land—hers and Larson’s—and she wasn’t about to let it go.
“I’ll be back in two, maybe three days—but no more than that. I’ll oversee the sale of the cattle as well as all the supplies we loaded up yesterday. You’ll have the money to pay Kohlman. Don’t you worry.” He searched her face for a moment and then turned to the men in the barn. “Let’s mount up.”
He walked a few paces before turning back. He looked at her and then down at the hat he twisted in his hands.
Kathryn laughed softly. “What is it, Mr. Taylor? You’d better be out with it before you ruin a perfectly good hat.”
Giving a half-hearted grin, he shook his head. “I’m just wondering . . . are you healing all right from your fall, ma’am?”
She smiled. Matthew Taylor was a good man. He’d become like a brother to her in the last few weeks—showing up to help her with chores, seeing that firewood was chopped and stacked. Larson was right to have entrusted him with so much. “Yes, I’m fine. Still a bit sore, but I’m healing fine.”
“If you need me to take you back to that doctor you saw, just let me know. Or to Doc Hadley in town. I’d do it for you.”
“I know you would and I appreciate that. But I’m fine, thank you.”
Seeing the kindness in Matthew Taylor’s eyes, it was on the tip of Kathryn’s tongue to share her secret. Then she thought better of it and kept it hidden in her heart.
Loud pounding on the door later that night caused Kathryn to bolt from bed. She got as far as the bedroom door before a dizzying rush pulsed in her ears. She grabbed hold of the doorframe to steady herself.
The pounding continued.
“Just a minute,” she called out, groping in the dark for an oil lamp. She struck a match and a burnt-orange glow haloed the immediate darkness. The clock on the mantel read half past four.
She moved to the door. “Who is it?”
“It’s Matthew Taylor, Mrs. Jennings. Please . . . open the door.”
He sounded out of breath, but she recognized his voice and slid the bolt.
Dread lined his expression, telling her something was terribly wrong. He reached for her hand and squeezed it. Kathryn’s chest tightened as the anguish in his face seemed to pass through his grip and up her arm. She shuddered.
It was then she noticed the blood staining his shirt at the waistline. “You’re hurt! What happened?”
He waved off her concern, his breath coming heavy. “I’m fine. But . . . I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“The cattle? Did you get the cattle to market?”
“When we got to the pass with the strays, we waited for the others. After a while, I took another man and went to see what the holdup was.” He winced and held his side. “Bloated carcasses were everywhere . . . littering the field.”
Her body went cold. “The entire herd?”
“All we could see. Been that way for at least two days. And there was no sign of the men I posted with them.” He leaned on the doorframe.
Kathryn saw through Matthew Taylor’s pained expression to the harsh reality. She waited for a flash of rage to heat her body. Instead, she felt . . . numb.
For ten years Larson had waged war for this ranch. He’d battled disease that siphoned off livestock by the hundreds. He’d taken on this willful, stubborn land with its brutal winters and drought-ridden summers. And though Kathryn didn’t know the full depth of it, she knew her husband had fought a war within himself as well. A battle so personal, so consuming, that at times it almost became a living, breathing thing.
A fatal truth arrowed through her heart, taking her breath with it. Larson had come so close to achieving his dream, and she had lost it all in a single blow.