What Once Was Lost

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  “M-Miss Willems? You will be all right?”

  At the sound of the gravelly, weak voice, Christina lifted her head from Wes’s shoulder. Herman stood a few feet away, his wrinkled face wreathed in worry. Harriet hovered near her husband, wringing her hands. Christina let out a gasp of relief and joy.

  “Soon as we smell smoke, I push the missus out the window. Then I fall out behind her.” He touched a bleeding scrape on his forehead, wincing. “I want to tell you the place, it is burning, but the stairs … All I could do just to walk ’round the house to the front.”

  Wes jolted upright, pushing Christina aside, and staggered across the grass. He threw his arms around Herman and buried his head in the curve of Herman’s shoulder, sobbing. Christina crossed to Harriet and folded the woman in an embrace. Thank You, Lord. Thank You … Relief at finding the couple safe nearly buckled her knees. But she couldn’t collapse. She had work to do.

  She grabbed Wes’s sleeve again and gave a mighty yank. “Come help with the buckets, Wes!”

  Harriet and Herman took charge of the children, and Christina and Wes raced behind the house. Cora, Louisa, Rose, and Alice had formed a line with Cora closest to the flames and Alice at the well. Wes took over dropping the empty buckets into the well’s depths and hauling them up, and Christina joined Cora at the front of the line. Christina’s arms ached, but she continued tossing bucketfuls of icy water onto the blazing walls until the roar died and only red-orange eyes of embers glowed from the charred shell of the kitchen.

  With a heaving sigh, she let the last bucket fall from her numb hands and then sank onto the cold ground. Immediately the poor farm residents surrounded her. Florie and Joe dropped into her lap and clung. Hands patted her shoulders, and fingers clutched her arms. A chorus of voices—some crying, others comforting—filled her ears. In a huddled mass they held on to one another as the wintry wind chilled their frames.

  Florie twisted around and cupped Christina’s face in her small hands. “Miss Willems,”—tears streaked the child’s round cheeks—“where’re we gonna live now?”

  Christina drew in a ragged breath. She searched her mind for an answer but found nothing that would offer even a smidgen of consolation to the bereft souls shivering in the February air. She hung her head, closing her eyes against the sting of tears. What should I do? Oh, Papa, how I wish God had answered my prayers to heal you from that respiratory illness. I need you now …

  “Miss Willems, I’m c-c-cold.” Joe hugged himself and burrowed against Christina’s side. “Can we go in?”

  Christina glanced at the shivering bunch. Their nightclothes offered no protection from the cold. They needed shelter or they might all fall ill. The house’s sturdy limestone walls had prevented the fire from consuming more than the wood-framed addition, but smoke would penetrate every room. They shouldn’t go inside. There was only one other place of refuge.

  She gently set the twins aside and struggled to her feet. “Let’s go to the barn.” She herded the group across the hard-packed, uneven yard to the large rock structure at the back corner of the property. When she and her father had moved into the house eighteen years ago, following Mama’s death, Papa had bemoaned the distance between the house and the barn, stating how much smarter the Russian Mennonites were to build a barn attached to the house for ease in caring for the animals. Christina had agreed with Papa then, but now she thanked God the original owners hadn’t followed the Russian Mennonite practice. If the barn had filled with smoke, too, they’d have nowhere to go.

  The barn’s interior, redolent of fragrant hay and musky animal scent, offered immediate comfort. Its walls of thick limestone blocks held the wind at bay, and Christina instantly felt warmer even though her breath hung in a little cloud before her face. She turned to Wes. “Can you light a lantern, please?”

  At the spark from the flint, little Florie began to cry again and buried her face against Christina’s middle. Christina understood—the tiny flicker on the lantern’s wick now seemed sinister after witnessing the ravenous flames devouring the kitchen. But they’d need light to get settled, so she gave Florie a few consoling pats and told Wes, “Put the lantern on its hook there. Thank you. Now everyone gather near.”

  The others shuffled close. Their expectant faces looked at Christina, awaiting her directions. Tiredness—and responsibility—weighted her shoulders. They depended on her. She had to do something to assure them they’d all be fine. But where could she find assurance when only hopelessness crowded her troubled mind? Papa’s voice crept through her memory. “When in doubt, Christina, go to the Father. He alone has the answers to life’s ponderings.”

  She pulled in a shuddering breath—how her chest ached—and held her hands out to the two standing closest. Florie took one, Louisa the other. Without a word of instruction, they formed a circle and bowed their heads in readiness for Christina’s petitions to the Lord.

  “Heavenly Father …,” her voice rasped, the words scraping painfully against her dry throat. “Thank You for Your hand of protection and for allowing us to escape.” A murmur swept through the small throng—thank-yous and soft sobs. “You brought us safely from the fire, and now we trust You to continue to shelter us, just as You have in the past.” She injected confidence in her tone even as her insides trembled. They couldn’t live in the barn! “Please guide us”—Oh, Lord, please, please!—“and meet our needs. I place Herman and Harriet, Alice, Laura and Francis, Louisa and Rose, Cora, Florie and Joe, Wes, and Tommy in Your capable, caring hands. In Your Son’s precious name, I pray. Amen.”

  A chorus of amens echoed. Then Florie tugged on Christina’s hand. “Miss Willems, you didn’t say your name.”

  Puzzled, Christina frowned at the child.

  The little girl pursed her lips. “You put all of us in God’s hands, but you didn’t put you in His hands.”

  The child’s innocent statement raised a warmth in the center of Christina’s chest. Peace flooded her, bringing a rush of grateful tears. She gave Florie a hug. “Honey, I’m always in God’s hands.” She swept a glance across the sad faces. “We all are.” She straightened, drawing on the strength her father had taught her was always available. “Alice, I know you carried out some clothing. Can you dole out articles to everyone? We need to wear something warmer than nightclothes if we’re to spend the night out here.”

  The thin-faced woman’s eyes lit, seemingly relieved to have something to do. “Surely, Miss Willems.” Alice bustled to the pile of garments lying on the barn floor. Her children and the Alexander twins scampered after her, their bare feet scuffing up bits of hay.

  Louisa McLain leaned close to Christina and whispered, “Rose and I carted out clothes, too, and we can share with Harriet, of course, if need be.

  But I got a look at the things Alice brought, and they’re mostly for youngsters. None of us thought to grab shoes, and we don’t have anything at all for the menfolk, I’m afraid.”

  Christina nibbled her lip. Wes had pulled on britches and a shirt over his long johns before leaving his room, but his bare toes had a bluish hue. Herman and Harriet huddled together in striped nightshirts, thick stockings covering their feet. The men would need britches and shirts, and everyone needed shoes quickly. They couldn’t enter the house and scavenge for belongings—it wasn’t safe—so the only place to find what she needed was in town.

  Although she hated to leave the security of the barn and take the others out into the cold, she had little choice. Needs had to be met, and she couldn’t see to them here on the farm.

  Christina touched Louisa’s arm. “As soon as we’ve dressed as warmly as possible, I’ll have Wes hitch the team. We’ll go into town. I’m sure people will offer us refuge until the house can be rebuilt.”

  Louisa’s brow pinched. “I’ve heard some of the folks in Brambleville weren’t too pleased about this fine house being made into a home for the destitute. They might turn us away, just as the innkeeper did to Mary and Joseph in Bethlehem.”

>   Indignation raised Christina’s chin. Let the townspeople try to leave her charges out in the cold! “I assure you, Louisa, we’ll be taken in.” She flung her arm around the older woman’s shoulders and offered an assuring squeeze. “The good Lord provides a nest for the sparrow, and He won’t leave His children in need of shelter.”

  Worry tried to eat a hole through Christina’s stomach as she aimed the wagon north out of town. The clop, clop of horses’ hoofs on frozen ground echoed across the lonely countryside. Only one poor farm inhabitant huddled in the back in the mound of hay—Tommy. Scarred, blind Tommy. Frustration rolled through her chest. He was just a little boy in need of care. Why did people find it so easy to turn him away?

  She flicked the reins, urging the horses to pick up their pace. Dawn would break soon. Already the sky’s velvety black was changing to a steel gray in the east. She’d promised the boardinghouse owner that she and Cora would prepare meals for her boarders—starting with today’s breakfast—in exchange for a tiny sleeping room. So finding a place for Tommy soon was imperative. Lifting her face to the bright moon hovering just above the treetops, she whispered a fervent prayer. “Lord, the mill owner is our last hope. Please soften his heart.”

  “Ma’am?” Tommy’s quavering voice carried on the icy wind.

  Without turning around, Christina answered. “What do you need, Tommy?”

  “I’m scared.”

  So was she. But she couldn’t let Tommy know. Clutching the reins with one hand, she reached behind her with the other and found Tommy’s head. She gave his tousled hair a gentle stroke. “It’ll be all right. You wait and see.” Lord, let me be telling this boy the truth. He’s already suffered so much loss.

  The lane leading to Jonnson Millworks curved to the right, illuminated by the moon shimmering blue on the wisps of remaining snow. With a firm tug on the reins, she guided the horses to take the turn. Minutes later she brought the team to a halt outside a long, nearly flat-pitched house with a railed porch running its full length. Wide, whitewashed boards ran up and down with narrow strips of wood nailed over each seam. Glass windows reflected the muted predawn light. Although far from pretentious, the house looked sturdy and welcoming.

  Christina set the brake and held her borrowed skirt above her ankles as she climbed down. She then tapped Tommy’s shoulder. “Come on out.”

  The boy cringed. “You sure I oughta? Might be better if they don’t know who’s wantin’ to stay with ’em.”

  Pain seared Christina’s heart. She resented the way people recoiled from Tommy. The boy couldn’t see their reaction, but his acute hearing couldn’t miss the startled gasps or dismissive snorts. If Mr. Jonnson also turned him away, what would she do? Tommy had already suffered the loss of his sight, been cast aside by his own family, and been rejected by half the town. How much must a mere boy be forced to bear? Although Mr. Jonnson might very well refuse to harbor the boy when faced with Tommy’s limitations, she couldn’t try to hide them. It wouldn’t be honest.

  Very kindly she said, “Come on now.”

  She led Tommy across a pathway formed of flat gray rocks to the porch. “Step up.” The boards, cold and damp from the recent snow, creaked beneath their feet. Even before she raised her fist to knock on the wood door, a voice boomed from inside the house.

  “Who’s out there?”

  At the deep timbre and stern tone, Tommy shrank against Christina. She coiled an arm around the boy’s shoulders before answering. “Miss Christina Willems from the Brambleville Asylum for the Poor, Mr. Jonnson. Would you please open the door?”

  “What for?”

  Christina clenched her teeth. She was cold, tired, heartsore, and swiftly running out of patience. Sending up one more silent prayer for strength—at least the fifteenth since Tommy had awakened her a few hours ago—she gathered her remaining shreds of courage and said, “So I might speak to you without the need to holler.”

  Silence reigned.

  Tommy shivered uncontrollably.

  Christina’s patience was whisked away on an icy blast of wind. She gave the door a solid thump with her fist. “Sir, will you kindly open this door and allow us entrance? It is cold out here!”

  Chapter 3

  Levi Jonnson set the lamp on the table near the door, tugged his suspenders into place, and finally gave the doorknob a twist. The handle of his pistol stuck out of the waistband of his trousers so he could easily grab it should the people on the porch prove untrustworthy. But when he opened the door and squinted against the early morning shadows, all he found was a disheveled-looking woman and a scrawny, barefoot boy dressed in britches and a plaid shirt at least two sizes too small.

  Cold wind whisked through the door, making the flame on the kerosene lamp flicker. His fingers twitching on the pistol handle, he tipped sideways and peered beyond the pair. “Are you two alone?”

  “Yes.” The woman took hold of the boy’s shoulders and urged him over the threshold, forcing Levi to step back or be run down. She caught the door and clicked it into place behind her. A shudder shook her frame, making the wild strands of hair escaping her shabby braid quiver. She drew in a ragged breath, swallowed, then turned a tired gaze on Levi.

  “Thank you for allowing us entrance.”

  He’d hardly allowed it. She’d taken liberties. Before he could correct her, she went on.

  “Mr. Jonnson, earlier this evening the poor farm residence caught fire, displacing thirteen souls. I’ve arranged temporary shelter in town for all but Tommy Kilgore.” She put her arm around the boy’s shoulders. A softness crept across her features as she gazed for a moment at the boy, who stood with his head hanging low. “I would be most appreciative if you could open your home to Tommy until I can make arrangements for our house to be rebuilt.” Her pale blue eyes bored into his as she awaited a response.

  He searched her face. Dark smudges marred her cheeks. The scent of smoke clung to both the woman and the boy. Her claim about a fire seemed true, and he didn’t glory in their loss. But keep some strange boy in his house for who knows how long? Levi slipped his fingertips into his trouser pockets. “I can’t house him, ma’am.”

  Her gaze narrowed. “Mr. Jonnson, I assure you I wouldn’t be here were it not of grave importance. I was told in town you live alone.” She gestured to his sizable sitting room, one eyebrow rising delicately. “You can’t claim you lack the space to accommodate one small boy.”

  The boy in question seemed to shrink into himself as the woman talked. Levi experienced a pang of remorse. He didn’t hold anything against the boy personally, but he lived alone for a reason. He didn’t need the intrusion in his life. The sooner he could get the two of them out of here, the better.

  He shifted his weight onto one hip. “Listen, lady—”

  “My name is Miss Willems.”

  Levi scowled. “Listen, Miss Willems, I’m sorry about the fire. But I can’t take in some boy—”

  “His name is Tommy.”

  Levi sucked a slow breath and blew it out. Mercy, she was one irritating female. “I can’t take in Tommy.”

  Miss Willems fixed him with a penetrating stare. “Are you rejecting him because of his blindness?”

  Levi jolted. Blind? He looked at the boy, who slowly raised his chin. The boy’s thick-lashed, deep blue eyes stared ahead, unblinking. Unseeing. Levi’s heart rolled over.

  “It would be particularly heartless to cast him aside because of something over which he has no control.”

  The woman’s strident tone chased away the remnants of sympathy. “It has nothing to do with him being blind and everything to do with me single-handedly running a business. I don’t have time to look after a boy. And I especially don’t have time to make sure a boy who can’t see doesn’t get hurt out here.”

  “Tommy has a very keen sense of hearing. And he’s extremely intelligent.” Miss Willems’s voice lost its sharp edge. Levi detected a hint of pleading in her tone and expression although she held her chin at a proud ang
le. “If you’ll allow him to stay, he won’t—”

  “He can’t stay.” Levi reached for the doorknob, and his arm brushed the boy’s shoulder. With a squawk of alarm, Tommy jerked toward Miss Willems, his hands pawing the air. She caught them and drew them down, murmuring softly to him. Levi stared at a patch of rippled skin on the boy’s jaw. The pink, puckered flesh flowed down his neck and disappeared beneath the collar of his shirt. Levi’s chest went tight. “What happened to this child?”

  Sympathy played across her features. “He was injured in a boiler explosion.” Still holding the boy’s hands, Miss Willems peered at Levi over the boy’s head. A steely resolve brightened her eyes. “Mr. Jonnson, I must find a place for Tommy. Every other family in town has turned him away. He’s a boy—only a boy—in need of shelter. Won’t you please offer a small corner of your home to Tommy?”

  “Won’t you please find a place here for my husband?” Ma’s plea from long ago crept out of the recesses of Levi’s mind. He recognized in Miss Willems’s entreaty the same weary defeat wrapped in a thread of hope that had colored Ma’s words. Levi shook his head. He said, “All right.”

  The woman’s face lit.

  He pointed at her. “But only until you can find someplace else for him to go. I’ve got a business to run, and I can’t play nursemaid.”

  “You won’t need to nursemaid Tommy.” Miss Willems took hold of the boy’s shoulders, guided him farther into the room, and eased him onto Levi’s sofa. “Isn’t that right, Tommy?” The boy stared straight ahead, his fingers clutching the edge of the sofa cushion and his mouth set in a sullen line. Miss Willems gave his shoulder a pat, then scurried back to the door. “We escaped with only a handful of clothing, none of which belonged to Tommy. As soon as the shops open this morning, I’ll make purchases and bring out adequate items for him. You needn’t worry about providing anything more than shelter.”

  “And food,” Levi said.

  She nodded, seemingly unaware of the sarcasm in his tone. “But as I said earlier, only until I can find the means of rebuilding.”