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Brad pulled his truck to a stop in front of the King house. It was early twilight, a few days before Christmas. Snow covered the whole landscape, and the house looked like something from a holiday card. In the early dusk, the old homestead was a pale lavender, and warm golden light beamed from the windows.
There was a buggy parked in the front yard. Brad stared at it, frowning, and climbed out of the truck.
He knocked softly at the door and waited. He could hear the sound of many voices, and the scent of cinnamon escaped from inside.
The door opened, and Rachel King stood in the opening. Her eyes widened at the sight of him and her expression was one of surprise.
“I hope I haven’t come at a bad time,” Brad told her quickly, “but I’d really like to talk to Jemima.”
Rachel hesitated for an instant, and then nodded. “Please come in.”
Rachel opened the door and led him to where the chatter and laughter were coming from – a small room off the living room. Brad stepped in and drew a sharp breath.
The scene before him was straight out of his nightmare. Jemima was sitting in a big red chair, and there beside her was the dark-haired guy from his dream. Jealousy stabbed him. His rival sure hadn’t wasted any time!
They both looked up as he entered. Jemima gasped and cried “Brad!” The smile faded off the other guy’s face.
“Jemima, you have a visitor,” her mother said quietly, and left.
The dark-haired guy stood up and turned to Jemima. “I’ll go and see if Deborah has that book you were talking about,” he said, and slowly walked out of the room.
They eyed one another uncomfortably as he walked past, and then he was gone.
Brad turned back to Jemima. Those huge eyes were on his face and glowing like emeralds in the firelight.
“Come and sit down,” she murmured.
He walked over and sat down in the chair beside her. The situation felt strained and awkward, but he plunged in.
“Jemima, I came here because I wanted to talk to you. I hope I haven’t”—he tried not to grind his teeth—“interrupted anything?”
Jemima shook her head, and said nothing more. Her eyes were on his, as if she were trying to read them.
“I, um – I got your letter,” he mumbled. “And I understand what you were trying to do. It was, it was very unselfish of you, Duchess. It was a beautiful gesture.”
Jemima bowed her head, and looked down into her lap.
“But I came here to tell you that I don’t want to be free. I want us to be married. More than anything in the world.”
He reached over and took her fingers in his. They were trembling, and still she didn’t meet his eyes.
“That is, if you still want to marry me.”
She looked down at his hand. “But how, Brad?” she asked, in a small voice. “You don’t want to live like me, and I can’t live like you. How can we be married, if we can’t live together?”
He ran his thumb gently over her fingers. “Um...something happened this week, Jemima. Something happened to me that – well, I still don’t how to describe it, but it – it made me see things differently. It made me think that maybe I can see things more like you. It made me – it made me—”
It was harder to say than he’d imagined. He closed his eyes and made himself do it.
“It made me believe that there is a God, after all. It helped me to trust Him. I, um, I-I met Jesus. As odd as that sounds.”
Jemima’s mouth had dropped open slightly, and she shook her head. “It doesn’t sound odd at all,” she cried, and tears spangled her eyes. “Oh, Brad, I’ve been praying for that for months!”
She threw her arms around him, and buried her head in his shoulder. To his amazement, she was crying. He put his arms around her.
“I just wanted to tell you that maybe we aren’t that far apart anymore, in what we believe. At least that.
“And I’ve thought a lot about the other stuff. About my life, and my home, and my job. And, um”—he looked up at the ceiling in embarrassment, because there were tears in his eyes—“none of those things are as important to me as you are, Jemima. If I have to give them up for us to be married, I will.
“I’m not making any promises,” he added quickly, in response to her glad cry, “I can’t promise that I’ll be able to do it, Jemima. Just that I’m willing to try. I’m willing to start. If you’ll help me.”
“Oh, Brad,” Jemima sobbed into his shirt, “Help you? Anything, anything, anything!”
Then she turned and gave him such a kiss, that he suddenly felt that he’d be able to live in a house on the moon – much less in a house off the grid.
Jemima laughed and took his hand. “Now come and talk to my family, and meet Mark. The two of you are going to be great friends.”
He allowed her to lead him along, and they walked into the kitchen together, where their news was received by the family with joy, and a good bit of surprise. The sly-looking kid raised her eyebrows, as if she was out a bet; the mother burst out crying, and hugged Jemima; and the old man gave him a narrow look, grunted, stood – and stuck out his hand.
He had taken it, and tried not to wince when his hand was almost crushed.
He even took the dark-haired guy’s hand, when he stuck it out.
“I’m Mark Christener,” the guy had said.
He tried to think of something polite to say. “Nice right,” he replied, and rubbed his jaw.
