3

Tomorrow, the long journey would end. But the hard part was still before him.

Michael Archer stood on the ridge looking down into a wide valley. In the gathering twilight, he saw a wide river flowing between broad banks. His destination, the town of Riverbend, nestled like an infant in the crook of land formed by a bend in the river. The white steeple of a church rose into the still air, a bright beacon gleaming in the setting sun.

He prayed over what lay ahead, asking for wisdom and favor in his approach to Ben Carstairs’s father. He didn’t expect it to be easy. Letter after letter he’d helped the young man write had never been answered. The night before the hanging, Ben had sobbed over his father’s continued rejection.

Michael touched the cross Ben had given him. It hung around his own neck now, a physical reminder of his purpose. Wearing it brought back the memories of those weeks of visiting Ben in his cell, talking with him about Jesus and heaven, listening to Ben talk about his father, Ben’s claims of innocence woven throughout the conversations.

Life is strange, Michael thought. Here I am trying to reconcile a dead son with his father when Pa and I couldn’t stand each other. At least I had Ma . . . and Ellie. Ben never knew his mother, never had any love in his family.

The rabbit in the frying pan sizzled, and he turned back to tend to his simple supper. Afterward, he read his Bible by the flickering light of the fire and sipped coffee. He closed his eyes to pray, but sleep soon enveloped him. And the nightmare returned.

Rachel Stone slipped through the small grove of trees a few yards behind the parsonage of Riverbend Church and emerged into a little meadow. It was her favorite spot for watching the sunset. She loosened her hair from its bun and shook it out so it fell to her shoulders. She leaned against a tree, her hands behind her back, the rough bark pressing into her palms, lazing in the warm, waning sunlight like a cat before a fire.

She marveled at the quiet panorama of color and light, the changes of each passing moment. Such a simple thing. Happens every day. But each one is so different. So beautiful.

Until six months ago, sunsets like these were something that happened outside her world. Sunset meant the time of day when more men came to survey her and the other girls like sides of beef—pick one, head upstairs. Her heart clenched at the memories.

“Thank You, Father,” she whispered, “for Martha and Pastor Luke and for their courage and obedience to You. Thank You for forgiving me and rescuing me from that life.” She looked at her hands. “Martha says You’ve blessed these hands with the ability to sew. I hope she’s right. I’m scared, God. I want people to accept me. I want the past forgotten. I’m tired of the stares and whispers. Maybe my store will show them who I can be, not who I was.” She closed her eyes. “Help me to trust You, God.”

Tension eased as peace washed over her . . . and then, something else. Something she hadn’t experienced before, something hard to understand. It wasn’t heavy or oppressive. It settled on her like a warm shawl on a cold night.

“What is it, God? What’s going to happen? Help me to see more clearly. Help me to understand.”