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The sounds of a spring night filtered in easily through the walls of the bungalow. A chorus of crickets repeated their creaking behind the distinct call of a whippoorwill. It was a haunting call, unlike anything Amber had ever heard, and she rolled herself into a ball to drive the sound away.
Patrick’s hand lay on her naked thigh, his fingers curved over her flesh in a gesture possessive yet insulating, and her face grew warm. He was as considerate in his lovemaking as he was in real life, more determined to satisfy her needs than his own. She’d never had that before—any of her own desires in it.
He shifted in bed, and his hand moved upward over her breast. His cheek rested on her shoulder. She closed her eyes. Never had she wanted a man to stay for the night either, for him to be there beside her as she slept and be the first face she saw when she awoke.
She drifted to sleep, awakening hours later with the sunrise bright in her eyes. The bed beside her was empty, Patrick’s shape remained imprinted in the sheets. Rolling flat, she stretched her limbs and stared at the ceiling. She’d lain there several minutes, her stomach already grumbling for food, when the bedroom door opened and he returned.
He’d thrown on his pants and a shirt, not bothering to button it. In his hands, he held a food tray set on top with a vase of flowers, a mug of coffee, and a plate heaping with eggs, bread, and ham.
“Hungry?” he asked.
She smiled and tugged the sheet over her exposed flesh. “Always.”
He settled in beside her, and she pulled herself more upright. She snatched the bread from the tray and took a bite.
“When did you get up?” she asked. She hadn’t heard him rise.
“Dawn sometime. I didn’t want to wake you. I needed to pray.”
She swallowed the bite. “About Cullen?”
He stilled. “Yes. But I pray most mornings. I think better, before the pressures of the day get to me.”
She took another bite and waited a minute while she chewed. “Pat, how do you pray?”
His shirt fell away from his chest and the sight of his skin simmered in her belly. She looked down at the food.
“Me personally? Or prayer in general?”
Lifting the fork, she poked at the eggs. “Anne said I should ask God to be with me, but I don’t know what to say.”
“Jesus’ disciples asked that question as well,” he said.
She sliced the ham with her fork. “What’d he say?”
“He gave them a prayer to repeat. ‘Our Father which art in heaven, Hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done in earth, as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil: For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, for ever. Amen.’”
She set down her fork. “What does all that mean?” It seemed like so much.
He smiled and reclined against the headboard. “It means, ‘Thank you, Father, for what you’ve already done, and for what you’ve promised to do.’”
“Father?”
He reached across her lap for the tray and moved it to the floor. Then lying on his side, he pulled her against him. “Heavenly Father. When you ask him to be with you, you acknowledge Jesus’ death and resurrection and then He becomes your father.”
She rested her cheek on his chest. Become her father? But she’d had a father and he was gone.
“Why did Jesus die?” she asked at last. She’d only ever vaguely heard the story and even then had never really listened to it.
“There are many reasons,” Patrick replied. “One, because He would do his Father’s will. Two, because He came to earth for that reason. Three, because we were so dirty, so full of sin, that there was no other way to buy us back. I like the words from the book of Isaiah the best.” His hand traced down her spine. “Come now, and let us reason together, saith the Lord: though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool.”
A sob shook her shoulders.
“What is it, love?” he asked.
But she couldn’t speak. Scarlet. Crimson. That was her. And black as midnight. Dirty. Rotten. How could she ever feel clean?
Patrick kissed her cheeks, and she cried, inhaling shuddering breaths.
His next words pricked her heart. “Christ’s forgiveness is a gift. It isn’t anything you earn or buy. In fact, the Scripture cautions against that. You cannot be good enough for it nor do enough to receive it. As a gift it is meant simply to be received, opened, and enjoyed, otherwise it wouldn’t be a gift at all.”
“So I’ve been doing it wrong.” It was so clear now. Always she’d strived on her own to fix the mess of her life, if she could simply stop, if she could get out, if she could be with one man, if she could find Michael. And none of that was worth the effort she’d applied to it.
It was true she’d never be good enough. It was true she’d never be clean enough. But neither would all those people who condemned her. Not without God’s forgiveness.
She gazed up at her husband, this wonderful man who’d shared his faith with her, and desire surged in her heart. Desire to have what he did. That calm, peaceful assurance that God loved her for who she was.
“Pat, help me pray,” she said. “I want to be clean again.”
He kissed her lips softly, then tucked her head beneath his chin. “Repeat after me ...”
“You look like a happy man,” Anne said.
Patrick set the food tray down on the table and offered a smile. “I am,” he said. He sank down into a chair. “But not for what you think.”
She shifted young Michael to her other arm and deftly reached for her cup of coffee. “What do I think?” Her eyes sparkled as she said it.
“Now, Mrs. O’Fallen, perhaps I will indulge you since this is my first day as a married man, or perhaps I will not for the same reason.”
“Oh, please indulge me.”
He glanced past her through the doorway into the living room. “Where is that fine husband of yours that he’s not here to pick on me as well?”
She grinned. “He went to the lumberyard.”
“The lumberyard? But he can’t ...”
“Talk,” she finished for him. “Yes, I know, and I told him if he’d only wait I’d go with him, but he refused.” She snorted. “Such a stubborn man. I only hope they can read hand signals over there.”
They laughed together for a moment, and then she returned to her topic. “You are happy because ...”
“Because Amber and I prayed together.”
Anne’s face lit up. “Really? As in prayed-prayed?”
He nodded. “As in prayed-prayed.”
“That’s so wonderful. Why? What made the difference?”
The doorway filled with Amber’s shape, and she leaned there. Her eyes met his. “I saw what a fool I was. You can’t know what a burden it is to feel like nothing you ever do will be good enough.”
“And now?” Anne asked.
Amber moved across the kitchen to the stove. She picked up a piece of ham from the skillet and stuck it in her mouth. When she’d swallowed, she turned. “And now I am as light as a feather.” She took her plate from the tray and set it in the washbasin. “Figuratively.” She laughed. “I should prepare something for Grace.”
“Grace has already eaten,” Anne said. She smiled wide at them both. “She came into the kitchen and ate.”
Patrick sat up straight. “Really?”
Anne gestured toward the porch. “Yes, and now she’s on the porch with Ella.”
Patrick gazed toward the front of the house. “Miracles do happen,” he said.
His marriage. Amber’s salvation. Grace leaving the house on her own. Maybe things weren’t as bad as he’d thought.
Amber’s last words only made the moment better. She looked him square in the eye and smiled. “Sunday, I want to go to church.”
Michael turned his gaze from the remains of the house toward the street.
Climbing from a large wagon, the man who owned the lumberyard crossed the overgrown grass with his hand outstretched. “Mr. O’Fallen.”
Michael clasped it and gave a vigorous shake. He then motioned toward his throat.
The man nodded. “I’m sorry to hear about your voice,” he said. “My wife, she was there that day you sang the first time, and she still talks about it.”
Michael smiled at the color rising in the man’s cheeks and inclined his head. Typical husband’s reaction.
“Anyhow, the house?” the man said.
“Rebuild it,” Michael croaked. His throat burned with the effort of talking, and he rubbed his neck.
The man brushed his hands through his hair. “It’s a bit big. Don’t you think?”
Michael smiled. “Yes.”
The man forged ahead. “And it’ll take an awful lot of wood. I’ll have to scare up additional workers. You ... you’re aware of the expense of that?”
Michael nodded and gave a dismissive wave.
“Not that I can’t work you a deal. Not that I can’t use the work,” the man said. “But I believe in being up front. I don’t like surprises myself.” He cleared his throat and fell silent.
For a moment, the sounds of the neighborhood filtered in—horses, children, the whisper of the wind. The man walked forward, his shoes crunching over broken wood and scattered ashes. Michael followed along behind and touched his hand to the house.
“Might can save the bottom story,” the man continued. “Well, not the walls. They are gone, but some of the floor and definitely the fireplaces. Will take some doing, but probably that’s what you want?”
Michael acknowledged this with a nod.
“I can start Tuesday, maybe Wednesday. I have to gather things and have some plans drawn. If you’re agreeable, I’ll contact you then with a final price. And Mr. O’Fallen,” he said. “I ... I wish to let the Reverend know how sorry I am for my previous words to him. I had no right to judge him like that, and I deserved whatever I got.”
Patrick would be glad to hear that, though Michael suspected it wouldn’t make any difference now. Pat always managed to forgive and move past things. And today, he’d be uncommonly happy.
He smiled at that.
The man made to leave, but paused. “Say, I sure hope you get the singing voice back. I’ll pray for you.”
Michael nodded. Me too.
Cullen Innis leaned over the rail of the ship and spat into the black water moving underneath. He followed the path of his spittle until it blended in with the rest of the ocean.
An image of Amber flickered in his mind, and he scowled, gripping the rail tighter. No matter what it took. No matter how far he had to travel. No matter the cost, he’d find her and bring her back. No way O’Fallen or any preacher would keep her from him. She carried his child. His child!
He spun about and caught the eye of a young girl clutching a boy to her side. Her eyes widened at sight of him, and she yanked the boy away.
“Come,” she said. “We must find mother.”
Hatred for Amber coiled in his gut. His child. His son. His daughter. His. His.
Michael wrote the words carefully on the page, then slid it over the table. It’s all taken care of, he said.
Patrick stared at him. “Taken care of? How’d you manage that?”
Michael grinned back at him. “I asked.”
At the sound of his voice, Patrick jumped in place. “You can speak.”
“Aye. Hurts though.”
A lot. But he’d managed.
“You have no idea how good it is to hear you,” Patrick said. “Have you told Anne?”
He shook his head. He was waiting for the right moment to do that. Recapturing the page, he scribbled the lumberman’s apology across the bottom.
Patrick’s face turned solemn. “He said all that?”
“Aye.”
“I’m speechless. It seems like everything is looking up. Doc said you’d not get your voice back for months, but you have. And now, the house will be rebuilt, and ...”
Michael chuckled and coughed. “And.”
Patrick broke into a smile. “Don’t you say it. I’ve had enough ribbing from your wife.”
“Don’t say what?” Anne swept in and deposited the baby in Michael’s lap. “Honestly, if he doesn’t begin to walk around on his own, I will go nutty. I am tired of being chomped and chewed on.”
Michael coughed again. “Sorry.”
She froze in place and whirled around. “You ... you ...”
“Aye.”
With a squeal, she descended on him, grasping his cheeks and raining kisses on his face. He laughed and pushed her away. “Stop drowning me.”
“But the doctor said ...” she gushed.
“That is precisely the comment I just made,” Patrick added. “It seems today is made for miracles.”
Michael tapped the paper where he’d written about the house. “Money,” he said.
Patrick sighed. “You do know how to take the air out of the room. Don’t you?”
Michael snagged the paper and wrote a response. We pay half.
“You don’t have to do that,” Patrick protested. “I have enough ...”
But Michael shook his head. “No, you don’t.”
They’d lived on Patrick’s inheritance for a year now, and though it was substantial, it wasn’t enough for a lifetime.
“It’s our house too.” He scratched at his throat. “Water.”
Anne opened the tiny icebox and extracted a pitcher, pouring water into a glass. He emptied the glass before attempting to speak. “Sing again.”
Patrick laid his arm on the table. “Sing? I thought you didn’t want to sing in public, and besides, you have to heal completely. It might be a year before you can do what you did before.”
All of that was practical advice, and Patrick was right. But he missed the point. Michael reached for the paper again. I messed up, and I won’t blow God’s will for me again.
Quiet stretched in the room. Patrick leaned back against the wall. “Is that what you thought? Michael, this isn’t some punishment from God. Did you think that?”
Michael nodded. He’d messed up. He didn’t step up when God gave him the opportunities, and so he’d lost his voice. He had to toe the line now or else.
“You’re wrong.” Patrick’s voice was sharp with those two words. “People spend so much time blaming God for things that they forget there is a devil. Think of the influence you have. That’s God-given. Do you think Satan wants people to hear you say God did this for you? Of course not. He doesn’t want God to get any credit.”
“So all of this ...” Michael began.
“All of this? You mean the fire?”
He nodded. “And Amber and Joe.”
“Amber’s life was the result of the greed of men. God doesn’t have control over that. We are each of us given a free choice. We can decide to walk uprightly or to shun God and do our own thing. Joe also had a choice. He chose wrong. God’s will is never evil nor to teach us something through the effects of evil.”
Patrick waved his hands. “Why even Job is grossly misunderstood. People say God was teaching him something. But the Scripture tells us Job was afraid, and so it was his fear which allowed the devil to come in and work against him. God didn’t allow it. In fact, God told Satan he could only go so far. God protected Job and blessed him afterword with greater than he had before.”
Michael stared at his friend, his mind soaking up his words, and then smiled broadly. “You should preach,” he said.
Patrick chuckled. “I think you’re right.”
Attending church was her idea, yet now Amber was nervous, her insides fluttering. She focused on the wooden building with its whitewashed sides and counted the people around the steps.
The churches in New York were distinctly different from this one. Enormous structures with towering spires and leaded glass, they looked as austere on the outside as the people who shunned her.
How many times had she scurried past, her head hung, wallowing in her guilt? Now, she had no guilt. She was as clean inside as she’d ever been. Cleaner even. It was a marvelous feeling.
She held her head high while Patrick helped her dismount from the wagon and clung to his arm on the way toward the door. She wouldn’t look away. God had forgiven her. If the people never did, it didn’t matter. Still, heads turned at sight of her, swiveling further as she walked down the aisle on Patrick’s arm. A pair of older ladies whispered her name behind large, paper fans. A mother snatched her daughter back from exiting the pew.
Judgment. They’d judged her for being what she was, and now, they’d judge her for being his wife? Yet she smiled at them all, seating herself at Patrick’s side, simply grateful for his love, and hungry to learn more about her new faith. There was so much she didn’t understand. They’d lain awake last night into the wee hours talking about it until Patrick had laughed at her and pleaded exhaustion.
“Give me time to rest,” he’d said.
Mr. and Mrs. Compton entered the building. She looked tired and worn, and he more than a bit frazzled. Amber gripped Patrick’s hand tightly in her own and smiled in their direction. It was bad about Joe, and that was something she still didn’t understand, why they had to pay for his behavior.
She bit her bottom lip and forced thoughts of Joe from her mind.
The service started with a lively tune played by a distinguished lady, obviously an accomplished musician as she had no music sheets before her. Her fingers fairly flew over the keys. The congregation sang wholeheartedly, and Amber muddled along, not knowing the words, but enjoying it nonetheless.
The pastor emerged at the end and greeted the people effusively. He was a square-built man with a ruddy complexion and a very friendly face. “I didn’t have a sermon prepared this morning,” he said, “but late last night the Lord dropped this verse in my heart.”
Patrick placed his arm behind her and with his other hand turned through the pages of a Bible he’d found at Old Mr. Jones place.
“I think it is appropriate given recent events,” the pastor continued. “Let us read.”
Pages rustled across the sanctuary.
“These are the things that ye shall do: Speak ye every man the truth to his neighbor; execute the judgment of truth and peace in your gates.”
He looked up and scanned his gaze across the people. “Now, this sounds a bit confusing to us, so let me simplify it. In essence, the writer is saying, ‘Speak the truth that brings peace.’ You see, we’ve had it all wrong. We’ve spoken things that hurt others instead. We’ve gossiped, telling private things about other people’s lives, without any thought towards the effect of our words. But this verse says our words should bring peace to our neighbor.”
He moved from behind the pulpit and stepped toward the front pew. Beads of sweat had already formed on his brow. “Ask yourself this: Did what you spoke about Bessie help or hurt her? God came to earth to forgive our sins and instructed us to do likewise.”
He stretched out his arms on either side of him. “And more than that, our Savior also said, ‘Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you.’”
Amber flinched at his words. Pray for her enemies? She should pray for Cullen? Her palms sweated, and she mashed them in her skirt. How could she pray for someone who had used her and beat her, who had told her to do away with their child?
How could God expect her to do that? Especially since Cullen would kill her if he found her. He’d not hesitate to hurt Michael or Patrick. He was an awful, dangerous man. She couldn’t possibly forgive him.
Lost in her thoughts, the remainder of the service slipped past. It wasn’t until Patrick hooked her arm through his that she realized it was over. She followed him down the aisle and outside the sanctuary. But there, a church member snagged him, beginning what promised to be a long discourse. Uncomfortable, she disengaged herself and wandered toward the wagon to wait.
Her feet hit the wooden boardwalk and her vision slanted across the street where a buggy, pulled by a sleek, black stallion, lurched into view. The horse was obviously green, pawing the ground, tossing his head and snorting. In response, the driver sawed desperately at the reins. But all hope of calming the animal was lost when a tremendous crack came from somewhere across the street.
The stallion, rearing up on powerful hind legs, screamed in terror and yanked the reins from the driver’s hands. Careening wildly down the street, he hopped the boardwalk and headed straight for the church. People shrieked, their eyes wide with fear, and dashed from his path.
Then came the voice of one man, shouting and waving his arms to someone straight ahead. “Move out of the way!”
Amber followed the direction of man’s gaze, and terror clogged her throat. For standing frozen directly in the horse’s path was her new husband, Patrick Finnegan.