by Renee Ryan
So soon? A jolt of worry threatened to overwhelm her. What if she proved to be a poor student? What if she let Pete down with her efforts?
No, Rebecca would not allow such thoughts into her head. She would not allow fear to overtake this special moment. There was one force more powerful than fear. Faith!
“That sounds perfect.” Rebecca tossed a nonchalant pitch over her words. “But, first, I’d better retrieve our supper.”
“I’ll be in the smithy. Come get me when you’re ready to eat.” His gentle, faintly amused tone was unbearable in its own way. And she’d thought his smiles held all the danger.
Faith, she reminded herself. She just needed a little faith. And trust, of course. The Lord would do the rest. It was with that encouraging thought that she managed to turn around and walk back to the boardinghouse.
Later that night, Pete sat at the ridiculously small table in the kitchen, Bible spread open. Rebecca perched on the edge of the chair next to him, twisting her hands over each other.
He could actually feel her nervous tension, so he gave her a soft smile. “Where would you like to start?”
“I don’t know.” She looked at the open Bible as though it was a snake ready to strike. “There are so many words, aren’t there?”
With that one statement, he realized how hard this must be for her. Yet, here she was, attempting to learn to read in a foreign language. Her courage awed him. “Do you have a favorite passage, maybe a favorite verse where you’d like to start?”
With a shaky hand, she reached out to touch the Bible, then snapped it back into her lap without making contact. “I like the Psalms.”
“Me, too.” He flipped to the center of the Bible, stopping at random. “Why don’t we start here?” he asked, without looking at the page directly.
She leaned forward, eyes scrunched in concentration. “Where is here?”
Her hair fell off her shoulder, creating a golden curtain between them. He caught the scent of her, a unique fragrance of apples mixed with soap. Shoving back a sudden wave of tenderness, he removed his gaze from her glorious hair and angled his head to look at the page.
His heart missed a beat. He blinked. Struggled for air. Lord, why that one?
“Pete?”
Staring hard at the page, he managed to say, “We’re at Psalm 23.”
The psalm read at Sarah’s funeral.
“Oh, Pete, no.” Rebecca gasped, fully understanding his sudden shift in mood, even though he hadn’t explained himself. “Not that one. We have to start somewhere else.”
But it was too late. Sarah was in the room with them now. Memories of the night she’d passed, her funeral three days later, the endless, dark days afterward—they were all in his head now, slamming through him with ruthless precision.
His composure threatened to crumble.
He jumped out of his chair, even as the opening words of the Psalm sped through his mind. The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want…
A hand slid around his arm, gripping him gently. Tenderly. “Pete,” Rebecca whispered. “Pete. Please. Talk to me. It might help to talk about it.”
He looked down at Rebecca, who stared at him with obvious concern. She cared about him, he knew that. But it was too much to take in, too much to accept. He didn’t want her caring, not if it meant another failure and another round of pain like he’d suffered after Sarah’s death.
He finally accepted what was holding him back. Fear. For himself. And for Rebecca. Mostly for Rebecca.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, knowing he was becoming redundant by saying the same words again and again.
She stood motionless under his gaze, and then something in her eyes shifted and she looked at him with pity. No, not pity. Understanding. Soul-deep understanding, as though she’d just come to a revelation in that moment. “Pete, you’re not perfect. You’re human. Of course you’re going to hurt me.”
“No. Not if I don’t—”
She pressed her fingers to his lips and spoke over him. “And I’m bound to hurt you. That’s the price we pay when we choose to care.”
Then, he wouldn’t choose. He would keep their marriage based on friendship, nothing more, nothing that involved the kind of closeness that would result in harming Rebecca like he’d harmed Sarah.
He would keep his distance. It was the only way. After all, there could be no caring if there was no contact.
Even as the thought materialized, he knew it was too late. He already cared for Rebecca, deeply enough to want to protect her from himself. “We’ll do this another time, tomorrow or the night after that.”
He turned toward the back door. The blood rushing through his veins pounded loudly in his ears. The sound was so distracting he could barely hear Rebecca’s parting words as he walked into the dark, moonless night.
“I’m not giving up on you, Pete Benjamin,” she’d said to his back. “Or on us.”
He forced his feet to move faster, away from the utter panic he felt at the determination he’d heard in her words.
Chapter Sixteen
The next morning, Pete went to work in the smithy before dawn broke over the prairie. Thankfully, he’d left early enough to avoid Rebecca. He knew he’d have to face her eventually, but not yet.
The heat of the forge was a comfort, the work a way to clear his mind.
Thoughts of Rebecca haunted him, anyway.
He wanted desperately to be the strong, courageous person he saw in her eyes. He wanted to believe in the dream, the possibilities. But he’d made too many tragic mistakes with Sarah and was afraid he would repeat them with Rebecca. A wave of despair threatened to overtake him.
Why art thee downcast? Hope in God…
Pete wasn’t sure he could put his hope in God anymore. He revered the Lord, obeyed His commands. But handing over control, especially when it came to Rebecca? Pete couldn’t do it. Blind trust was not his way.
Placing his mind back on the task before him, Pete yanked an iron rod out of the fire and situated it on the forging table. With each pound of hammer to iron, his resolve to clear his mind increased.
“You’re going to beat that piece of iron to death.”
Without breaking his rhythm, Pete shot a quick glance at Zeb standing in the doorway of the smithy.
“I haven’t seen you in days.” Pete blinked past the blinding light surrounding his friend. “You must be working harder than usual.”
Zeb swiped the back of his hand across his brow. “That’s the truth of it.”
Pete heard the underlying exhaustion in his friend’s words. Since the tornado, Zeb ran the mill five to six hours longer each day than he had before the storm. But it had to be that way. Families needed houses before winter. The town hall needed to be complete in time for the summer festival.
And they all needed a little more hope.
But hope seemed far away. Especially after the discovery of Mikey’s shoe near the riverbed, which Emmeline and Will had thankfully kept to themselves.
Lord, how many more hardships must this town endure?
After shutting the door behind him, Zeb strode deeper into the smithy and wiped at his brow again. “Do you have to keep it so hot and gloomy in here?”
Lifting a shoulder, Pete ignored the sweat trickling down his back. “The heat is a by-product. You get used to it.”
“And the gloom?”
“Can’t do anything about that. If I can’t see the color of the iron, I can’t determine its temperature. And if I can’t determine the temperature, I can’t forge it properly.”
“Ah.”
Pete raised his arm and whacked the iron again. “We both know you didn’t come here for a forging lesson. What brings you to town at this hour? Delivering more lumber?”
Zeb picked up a pair of tongs and turned them over in his hand. “Unfortunately, no. I busted teeth off one of the mill’s blades.”
“Another one?”
He gave Pete an apologetic grimace. “’Fra
id so. When can you fix it?”
“Bring it by this afternoon.”
“Right. Speaking of which, I had better get back to it.” Despite his words, Zeb didn’t leave the smithy right away. He turned the tongs over in his hand.
“Is there another reason for your visit?” Pete asked, hammering as he spoke.
“Yeah, there is.”
Pete increased the pace of his pounding, but the iron was cooling too fast. He’d never mold it into a latch at this rate.
Best to start over.
He set his hammer down and dipped the metal into the quench tub. A loud hiss accompanied the rising steam.
Placing the rod aside, Pete crossed his arms in front of his chest. “All right, you have my attention.”
Zeb carefully set the tongs back on the forging table. “Of all the people in High Plains, Pete, I figure you have the most interest in me finding us a new doctor.”
“How do you figure that?”
Not quite meeting his eyes, Zeb fiddled with the tongs. “I started the search right after Sarah died. You must know why.”
Pete thought about his recent conversation with Doc Dempsey in the cemetery. “I don’t blame Doc for Sarah’s death. You shouldn’t, either. He did everything he could to save her.”
“Perhaps.” Zeb shrugged. “Perhaps not. I still believe a younger man might have been able to do more.”
Pete didn’t agree. Taking Sarah home might have made a difference, but he wasn’t sure a change in doctors would have.
“Anyway.” Zeb released the tongs. “I thought you’d want to know I received acceptance from another candidate.”
Surprised by the vacillation in Zeb’s tone, Pete eyed his friend thoughtfully. “You don’t seem pleased.”
“How can I be? After the previous candidates, I’m reserving judgment until I see Dr. Mitchell with my own eyes.”
Pete nodded in understanding. This was not the first physician to reply. This was the…fourth? No, fifth.
The first candidate had reeked of whiskey. The second had been more interested in selling his Red River Tonic than helping people. The third candidate had been missing all his teeth. His breath stank, too. If he couldn’t take care of himself, how could he take care of others?
The fourth man had been the worst of all. The legendary Dr. Gruesome. Not only had the man mentioned exhuming graves for his research, he’d shown them a jar of leeches and the saws he used for amputations. The man had liked the gory side of his job a little too much.
Pete winced at the memory. “Nothing could be worse than the last guy.”
“I don’t know.” Zeb ran his hand along the edge of the forging table, clearly checking the line of construction and finding it wanting. “There’s always worse.”
“When did you get so cynical?”
“I’m not cynical.” Zeb snorted. “I’m cautious.”
“Right. You keep thinking that.”
“What I do know is how much a new doctor means to you, Pete. You’re married to Rebecca now. Someday you’ll have a chance to be a father again. Don’t you want your wife and future child to be in good hands?”
Unwanted memories of Sarah’s last hours clawed for release. She’d deserved a better ending to her life with him. For that matter, so did Rebecca. He couldn’t stomach the idea of her suffering a similar nightmare as Sarah.
He swallowed back a sudden jolt of fear and focused on Zeb again. “Did you bring the letter with you?”
“Yeah.”
“Let me see it.”
Zeb dug in his back pocket, then handed the crumpled piece of paper to Pete.
“No matter what you say to the contrary,” Zeb began in a careful voice. “I still think it’s time to get a new doctor.”
Since Doc Dempsey agreed with him, Pete didn’t bother commenting on Zeb’s statement.
Apparently misreading his silence, Zeb continued, “I remember those early days after Sarah’s death. You were too stricken with grief to eat or sleep. We played checkers to pass the lonely hours at night, but you said little. Sometimes you didn’t speak at all.”
No, he hadn’t, because there’d been nothing to say.
Talk had never been his way. He’d found consolation in work and strict obedience to God’s commandments, the only things he could control in life. Pete doubted Zeb would understand, so he didn’t try explaining himself.
Holding to his silence, he unfolded the paper and read the acceptance letter. There was nothing out of the ordinary in the plain, bold script. It was signed, Dr. N. Mitchell. “Looks legitimate to me.”
Zeb looked over Pete’s shoulder. “I don’t know. Something feels wrong about this one.” He stepped back. “But enough about my problems.” Zeb’s eyes held a glint of provocation.
Pete braced for an onslaught of loaded questions.
“How is it being married to the lovely Rebecca?”
Needing air all of a sudden, Pete shoved the letter back into Zeb’s hand and started for the door. “I have to check on the horses.”
Zeb followed hard on his heels. “You gonna answer my question?”
Pete increased his pace. “Married life is fine.”
“Fine?” Zeb trotted after him. “Will seems to enjoy marriage, if you ask me.”
“I’m not asking you,” Pete said, but then he remembered the unbridled affection between Will and Emmeline on Sunday afternoon. “All right, yes. Will does enjoy married life.”
“He says marrying Emmeline was the best thing he ever did.”
“Marriage can be a blessing,” Pete agreed. If a man marries the right woman, a woman filled with joy, kindness and caring. A woman like Rebecca.
His steps faltered. Was he being fair to Rebecca, choosing to keep his distance in their marriage? Was he being fair to himself?
Without missing a beat, Zeb stopped next to him. “I have no doubt marriage can be good.” He elbowed Pete in the ribs. “Especially when a man’s wife can cook as well as yours does.”
Pete smiled at that particular truth. “Especially then.”
In silent agreement, they started walking again.
Matching each other step for step, they crossed over the shortcut through the dirt and rocks behind the smithy.
“Now that I have a new doctor on the way and buildings are slowly being raised—” Zeb’s gaze turned thoughtful “—maybe I should find myself a wife, too.”
Pete chuckled at that. His friend was clearly joking. When it came to women, Zeb Garrison was the most gunshy man Pete knew. Ever since Frannie had left him for Paris to study art, he’d grown cynical when it came to love and romance. It would take a special woman to get past all that distrust. “Got anyone in mind?”
“Not yet.”
They rounded the corner in time to see Mrs. Johnson standing at the back door of the mercantile. She blinked at them with large, owllike eyes.
Her wide-eyed gaze shifted past Pete with lightning speed, then connected with Zeb. For the first time in days, Pete did not warrant a moment’s consideration from the woman.
As she eyed Zeb, a calculating smile slid across her lips.
Zeb returned the look with his own measuring glint. Hunter versus Hunter.
“Why, good afternoon, Mr. Garrison.”
Zeb nodded. “Afternoon.”
A long, tense moment passed, all the while Mrs. Johnson’s gaze staying locked with Zeb’s. Pete had to give the man credit, he didn’t flinch. In fact, he looked ready to engage in battle.
Another moment passed, then the woman’s eyes acquired that beady-eyed gleam Pete knew all too well.
Much to his surprise, Zeb took a step forward.
Didn’t the poor sucker know he was caught in Mrs. Johnson’s crosshairs? The man didn’t have a prayer of escape, which meant he had his own plan in mind.
“Lovely weather we’re having,” the odious woman purred. “Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Garrison?”
“Quite lovely. Prettiest day we’ve had in weeks.”
<
br /> What was Zeb doing? He was stepping into trouble. Big trouble.
“I think it’s getting a little hot myself,” Pete muttered.
Zeb glared at him.
Pete smiled back. At last, someone else stood on the receiving end of Matilda Johnson’s plotting. And wonder of wonders, Zeb didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he appeared thrilled.
“Well, I better be off.” She gave Zeb a merry wave. “My daughter—you know Abigail—will be wondering where I am.”
Zeb didn’t blink. He didn’t flinch.
Mrs. Johnson had met her match.
“You do know my daughter, don’t you, Mr. Garrison?”
Zeb spread his lips into a wolfish grin. “I know her.”
“Good, good. She was just commenting on the lovely weather. I think a nice ride with a…friend might be in order sometime very soon.”
“Not a bad idea,” Zeb agreed.
“Well, Abigail’s waiting for me inside. Feel free to stop in and say hello to her anytime. Anytime at all.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
With a satisfied gleam in her eyes, Matilda Johnson scurried back into her store. But not before she tossed one final, devious glance at Zeb.
“You think she heard any of our conversation?” Pete asked once they were alone again.
“Yep.”
“Think she heard the part about you wanting a wife?”
“Oh, yeah.”
Pete’s mouth dropped open. Zeb looked entirely too satisfied with himself.
“It doesn’t bother you that the biggest gossip in town just heard you say you’re in the market for a wife? In case you might have forgotten,” Pete reminded him, “her lovely daughter—you know, Abigail—is of marriageable age.”
“I know.” Zeb nodded sagely. “Maybe it’s time I became better acquainted with the girl.”
“Have you gone mad? Make one step in Abigail’s direction and every matchmaking man, woman and child will think you’re serious about finding a wife.”
Happier than he’d looked in weeks, Zeb slapped Pete on the back. “Let the hunt begin, my friend. Let. The. Hunt. Begin.”
The next morning, as the predawn light slid across the freshly washed floor, Pete’s steps halted just inside the kitchen. By the caged look on his face, it was clear he hadn’t expected to find Rebecca making breakfast before the sun had even risen.
