20

Tuesday evening, Rachel locked the door to her store. She rested her hand on the glass panel. A good day—with three more orders. Thank God Mr. Carstairs had advanced enough money for the Singer.

Her body ached with the satisfying fatigue of hard, clean work—her workday done instead of just beginning. She looked forward to the parsonage and Martha’s cooking. Venison tonight—Isaac Walters had delivered a haunch early that morning. Her mouth tingled in anticipation of Martha’s sure touch with herbs and spices.

Would Michael be there tonight? He’d spent the day with Pastor Luke, and she had to admit she’d missed seeing him today. Remember, he’s just a man.

No, he’s more than that. The debate had nagged her all day.

Two things struck her as she entered the parsonage. First, the aroma of meat cooking that triggered the rumbles of hunger. Second, the silence. Her footsteps echoed off the hardwood floor as she made her way to the kitchen. Where were the children? The house was rarely this quiet so close to the evening meal.

In the kitchen, Martha stirred a pot. She wiped her hands on her apron and turned. “I thought I heard footsteps, and I knew they were too dainty to be Luke’s. The man can clomp like a horse sometimes. And smell like one too.” She covered her mouth. “There I go again. I’m sorry.”

Rachel reached to tie an apron around her waist. “Where is everybody?”

“Daniel’s out chasing fireflies. Abigail’s upstairs working on her lessons. Or more likely playing with her doll, if I know her. Luke and Michael aren’t back yet.”

“Michael’s coming?” Rachel tried to keep her voice casual.

“That’s what they told me this morning after you left. Michael said he’d be pleased to join us for supper when he and Luke returned from visiting families up the valley.” She glanced out the window. “And there they are.”

The sound of horses in the yard was drowned out by Daniel’s yell. “Daddy’s home!”

Abigail galloped down the stairs. Luke walked in, Daniel on his hip. He embraced his daughter with his free arm. “Are we late for supper?”

Martha poked at the meat, then turned with a hand on her hip. “Almost. Did you have lunch?”

“We ate at the Ramseys’. Why?”

She picked up a sack hanging from one of the chairs. “Because you forgot the lunch I packed for you and Michael.”

“Oh.”

“I don’t care if you starve yourself, but it’s not polite to force a guest to starve.” She pointed at Michael, who seemed to be looking for a hole to crawl into.

“Sorry, dear.”

She smiled. “You’re forgiven. Again. Now get over here and give me a proper greeting.”

He put the children down, took Martha in his arms, and kissed her, long and hard.

Rachel watched Michael, who was trying to look anywhere but at Luke and Martha. His eyes met hers, and his mouth twitched. She thought it was a smile that turned into a grimace at being caught in the situation. Why does it please me that he seems embarrassed?

After supper, Rachel and Michael sat together on the porch swing, the sounds of children being prepared for bed faint in the background. The silence between them grew until it became uncomfortable. What should she say? What did he want from her?

Well, that was easy—in a way. He was a man, after all, and she knew he was attracted to her. In her old life she would have known just how to handle that, how to manipulate him to her own advantage. But that was her old life, and Michael was different. She didn’t want to manipulate him.

So what do I want?

The answer came suddenly and surprised her. I want to be in control of my own life. No one was going to control her ever again. But how could she tell him that?

“Sam Carstairs should be back by the end of the week,” she said. Anything to break the silence.

“So Sheriff Davis told me.”

Oh, what I wouldn’t give to read your mind. Well, there’s one thing I won’t give, but beyond that . . .

She turned to face him. “Are you ready to do what you need to do?”

He shrugged. “I think so. I’ll need to pray for the right words. I think I’ll only have one chance to get it right.”

“I think you’re right.”

Michael willed his fidgety hands to be still. Why so nervous? Why was it so important to impress this girl? Yes, she was beautiful, but so were many others. Why was she the first one to stir feelings and yearnings he hadn’t felt in such a long time, if ever? There had been plenty of opportunities. It seemed like every family in Zechariah’s church had someone to match him up with. Some were reasonably attractive.

What makes Rachel different? He thought of the picnic they’d shared on Sunday and the lunch on Monday.

“You know, you’re easy to talk to.”

She smiled. “I am? You haven’t said more than a few words all night.”

“I mean, you don’t make me feel pressured to talk. You handle just sitting here real well.”

“Most of what I learned to talk to men about ain’t fit for polite ears.” She blushed. “I mean isn’t. I’m trying to clean up my mouth in more ways than one.”

“How hard has it been? You know, giving up your past life?”

She plucked at a pleat in her dress. “Giving it up was the easy part. I would never want to go back to what I was doing. But moving past it has been hard.” She ran her fingers through her hair. “The looks from people, the comments, old habits. Some of the men in the restaurant or the general store brushing up against me, trying to touch me—people like Mark Carstairs.”

“Why do you stay? Why not move someplace else—where nobody knows?”

She bit her lower lip. “I’ve thought of it, prayed about it. Even had my bags packed a couple of times ready to jump on the next stage.”

“What changed your mind?”

She stood and walked to the railing, leaned against the post at the head of the stairs, and spoke into the darkness. “Remembering I’ve been saved—that I’m not the same girl I was. That’s real important to me. And I didn’t want to let Martha and Luke down or people like the Phelpses and the Barkstons, who’ve been so kind.”

She turned to face him, folding her arms. “And I guess a part of me was afraid that if I ran away, I’d run right back to whoring. But that’s not what kept me here. Not really.”

“So what was it?”

“No one knows about this—just Martha and Pastor Luke.” Her face was soft in the lantern light, her expression far away. Michael waited.

She closed her eyes. “One night I was sitting at the kitchen table, mending a dress for Abigail. I’d been here just a month. The next thing I knew, I was standing in the street in daylight, right in front of my store. Everything was exactly the way you saw it yesterday. Every bolt of cloth, every spool of thread. The tea service, the workroom. That store in that building in this town. Even the sign: Rachel’s Hope. Then I was back in the kitchen, Abigail’s dress in my hands.”

She opened her eyes and looked at him, her face unreadable. “Luke says I had a vision, like in the Bible. That maybe I have a gift. But why would God give somebody like me a gift like that?”

He wanted to stand, to walk to her, to take her in his arms . . . to what? She was a gift, no matter what she thought, and she deserved so much better than what he had to offer—a pastor’s helper, a man whose highest career ambition was clerking in a general store.

A man who couldn’t seem to let go of his own past, when she had moved so gracefully beyond hers.

His heart seemed to be squeezed in a massive fist, no room to beat. How could he ever be worthy of a woman like Rachel?

And how could he convince her she was worthy of so much more?