The weeks after Christmas, Betsy kept busy with sewing on the quilt and doing her winter chores. Ty came over each morning and evening—not just for meals, but for Bible reading. It felt right to have him there—natural. Greta and Marie demanded good night kisses from him, and though the boys didn’t ask, they clearly loved it when Ty tucked them in bed. Ty pulled the blanket closed so the boys would drift off, then looked at Betsy. “What’re you doing, Sunshine?”
She nudged the table over a bit more. “Making room for the loom. I need to start weaving.”
Ty gently set her aside and pulled the table back to its usual spot, then looked at her pa. “If you don’t mind, we could go set up the loom in my old cabin. It’ll be out of the way, but close by. No use in you being so cramped here.”
“That seems like a right fine notion.”
“Are you sure you won’t mind?” Betsy chewed on her lip. Did he really want her near him all day long? She’d finally admitted to herself that Ty wasn’t carrying a torch for her cousin, and Mantha nearly laughed herself silly at the notion that the blacksmith and she might ever be more than friends. Still, Betsy couldn’t allow herself to believe …
“It’d be a pure pleasure to look out my forge door and see you weaving,” Ty said. “There’s no reason for you to give up precious room when I’ve plenty of spare space. Soon as I rise of a morning, I’ll start a fire so it’ll be cozy for you and little Greta. Having my Sunshine and Sunbeam there will chase away the winter gloom. You just get things ready—I’ll tote them over in the sleigh tomorrow afternoon.”
Secretly pleased by his words, Betsy murmured, “I’m obliged.”
Two days later, Betsy sat in the sewing circle, making another square for the quilt top. Ten to the inch, the stitches marched up her needle before she pushed it through and rocked the needle back and forth again to gather the next inch of fabric.
Diana Montclair was visiting. She didn’t work on the quilt with everyone else, but instead embroidered pansies on the yoke of a fine lawn nightgown. “I hear you’re at that blacksmith’s cabin every day, weaving and cooking for him,” she said in a tone as airy as the fine fabric she stitched.
“She’s weaving for her family,” Samantha said at once.
“The way I see it, her father and the children are there for all of the meals. It’s fine for her to cook,” Elsa added on. “None of the rest of us would expect Mr. Walker to eat alone—especially since he hunted so much!”
Betsy felt glad of her friends’ loyalty. She’d worried about gossip.
Diana arched her brow and stared pointedly at Betsy. “Are you telling me the two of you aren’t courting?”
Betsy shook her head. She swallowed hard, and tears filled her eyes and voice, “I’ve told him we cannot be more than friends. Pa and my youngers need me.”
“Well,” Diana sniffed, “if you’re silly enough to let them use you as a slave so you sacrifice your future, that’s your own fault, and I think it’s a mistake.”
Betsy stuck her finger and quickly pulled back so she wouldn’t bleed on the quilt. She looked at Diana and shook her head. “Life isn’t always about what you want; it’s about others you love and what they need. Most of the time, I’m very happy with my life. Yes, I have days when I start to wallow in self-pity, but then I remember God doesn’t glory in a daughter who’s being a martyr.”
“What verses do you think Betsy can claim for this?” Mrs. T asked quietly.
“‘Seek ye first the kingdom of God, and His righteousness; and all these things shall be added unto you.’” Elsa smiled brightly. “I claimed that one during the days when Shane arrived and turned my world upside down.”
“How about Psalm 37:4?” Clara Bucey’s beautiful brown eyes sparkled as she quoted, “‘Delight thyself also in the LORD; and he shall give thee the desires of thine heart.’”
“And Psalm 40:8,” Samantha added. “‘I delight to do thy will, O my God: yea, thy law is within my heart.’”
“Yes,” Mrs. T nodded. “Our covenant with God isn’t written on stone anymore; it is written in our hearts by the Grace of Christ. Our focus is to desire to do God’s will, to love the things our Father loves. Because He is our Heavenly Father, He wants the very best for us. By trusting in His will, we live in the faith that though we go through trials and are tested, God will bless us in His own way and time.”
As she walked home, Betsy paused under a tree and stared ahead at the smoke rising from Ty’s forge. Father, I do want to do Your will, to please and glorify You. Give me discernment and courage to walk the path you put before me. Through Jesus I pray, Amen.
She continued on toward home with a restored sense of peace.
Ty stood in the door and smiled at the sight of Betsy sending the shuttle back and forth with a sweeping rhythm. She’d made several yards of linen from the flax in the past few days. She sang a nonsense song with Greta as she worked, and the small cabin still held the sweet aroma of honeyed corn bread and fried ham steaks she’d made at midday. Her Pa dropped by Ty’s new cabin earlier in the day, and all of them ate together before he left to cut more lumber.
As she waved good-bye, Ty noticed how Betsy held little Greta a shade closer than usual. She’s scared. “He’ll be fine, Betsy. If you’re worried, I can hurry and join him.”
“Don’t you dare go off! I couldn’t bear having you and Pa both gone at the same time.”
Pleased at the depth and speed of her reaction, he still knew better than to play it up. Instead, he pasted on a roguish grin and needled, “Is that your way of saying having me underfoot isn’t too big a burden?”
She hitched Greta higher on her hip and got the sassy gleam in her eye he loved so much. “Go back to your forge, Tyson Walker. I have work to do, even if you don’t.”
He’d tickled Greta’s neck, then sauntered off to the forge. Now, he listened to Betsy repeat the tune as she wove. “Sunshine?”
She looked up, startled. A fetching blush stole across her cheeks. “Oh! How long have you been standing there?”
“Long enough to wonder why the pig in your song likes to wear a hat.” He chuckled. “I’ve always thought pigs looked better in shirts.”
“No, Misser Ty. The horse wears the shirt,” Greta informed him somberly.
He leaned forward and rested his hands on his knees so he’d be closer to eye level with her. “Well, imagine that! What does the turkey wear?”
“Dunno. Sis? What does—”
“A feather duster,” Betsy ventured with a playful shrug. “Did you need something?”
“Actually, I do.” Ty straightened up and tilted his head toward the smithy. “Reverend Tidewell came to me with a toothache. The molar is rotten and needs to be pulled. I’ve gotten my tools ready, but I was wondering if you might have a bit of laudanum and cloves.”
“Yes. I try to keep a good supply of things on hand. I’ll be right back.” She took Greta’s tiny cape off the hook.
“Greta can stay with me,” Ty offered. “She’s my littlest sweetheart.”
Betsy set the cloak back and started to wrap the one he’d given her for Christmas around her shoulders when Greta tugged on his pant leg. “Who’s your biggest sweetheart?”
He carefully lifted the hood and smiled at Betsy. Silly woman still couldn’t understand he loved her. “The lady of my heart hasn’t figured out the answer to that puzzle. I’ll have to wait and let her work on it a bit.”
Betsy wouldn’t meet his eyes, so he let her go. She brushed past him and murmured, “I’ll be back in a jiffy.”
Ty didn’t like pulling teeth. Somehow, somewhere, someone had determined it was part of a blacksmith’s job. He kept a few small pliers and a tiny bullet mold he’d altered a bit to use to accomplish the dreaded task. Betsy set Greta on a workbench out of the way, gave Pastor Tidewell a dose of laudanum, and put three cloves in a little scrap of cheesecloth muslin.
Reverend Tidewell removed his coat. “I expect I’ll not feel much like preaching this Sunday. I’ve asked Brady to fill in for me. You can pass the word we’ll still worship.”
“Your nephew handled the church hayride just fine,” Betsy said softly. “God did a mighty work in Brady’s life, and it’s a blessing to see him serving his Master.”
The pastor nodded, sat on a bench, and Betsy held his head. Greta started to sing about the hat-wearing pig—a strange accompaniment for the event, no doubt. As soon as the task was over, Betsy slipped the cloves in place to help stop the pain and bleeding. By the time Ty got back from walking the pastor home, she’d already washed off his instruments and put them away.
“Betsy, you are like the Proverbs 31 woman—a priceless ruby.”
She let out a self-conscious laugh. “Not at all. I’m just a sow with a hat and a feather duster. I’d best better get back to my weaving. Since you’ve helped Pa with so many of my farm chores, it freed some of my time. I got overambitious and am weaving almost twice my usual amount of linen. I want to have it done by tomorrow.” Ty watched her go back to the cabin. Through the open door, he saw her pick up the shuttle. She weaves cloth…. Oh, yes, Betsy was a woman who fulfilled all the Scriptures said. One of these days—hopefully soon—the woman he loved would finally realize she was meant to be his wife and pledge her heart in return. She was already his helpmeet in the truest sense of the word.
The next morning, Ty walked out into new drifts of snow and went to the stable. He watered and fed his horse, mucked the stall, and headed for the smithy. To his dismay, the glass pane he’d sent for was broken when it arrived. He’d thought on it all evening and just about the time he’d decided to accept it as a loss, he’d had his devotions and read about how the Stone that was rejected became the Cornerstone. It spurred his thinking. Maybe something beautiful could come from this brokenness.
All morning long, Ty worked on his plan. He kept the door to the smithy almost shut—an unusual thing because of the forge’s heat, but he wanted what he was doing to be a surprise for Betsy. By midmorning, he realized he’d lost track of time because he’d gotten so involved with this new project. His stomach growled, making him even more aware of the fact it was almost noon. It seemed odd the children hadn’t dropped by on their way to school. Betsy had said she was going to come finish her weaving today, too. Concern furrowed his brow. Ty took off his apron, quickly plunged his hands into the wash barrel, then headed outside. As soon as he looked to the north, his heart leapt to his throat.
Tied to the Larkins’ porch post, fluttering in the wind, was a red scarf.