[Canadian West 05] - Beyond the Gathering Storm

by Janette Oke

  Table of Contents

  Books by Janette Oke

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  CHAPTER One

  CHAPTER Two

  CHAPTER Three

  CHAPTER Four

  CHAPTER Five

  CHAPTER Six

  CHAPTER Seven

  CHAPTER Eight

  CHAPTER Nine

  CHAPTER Ten

  CHAPTER Eleven

  CHAPTER Twelve

  CHAPTER Thirtenn

  CHAPTER Fourteen

  CHAPTER Fifteen

  CHAPTER Sixteen

  CHAPTER Seventeen

  CHAPTER Eighteen

  CHAPTER Nineteen

  CHAPTER Twenty

  CHAPTER Twenty-One

  CHAPTER Twenty-Two

  CHAPTER Twenty-Three

  Children’s Books by Janette Oke

  Books by Janette Oke

  Another Homecoming1

  Tomorrow’s Dream1

  CANADIAN WEST

  When Calls the Heart

  When Comes the Spring

  When Breaks the Dawn

  When Hope Springs New

  Beyond the Gathering Storm

  When Tomorrow Comes

  LOVE COMES SOFTLY

  Love Comes Softly

  Love’s Enduring Promise

  Love’s Long Journey

  Love’s Abiding Joy

  Love’s Unending Legacy

  Love’s Unfolding Dream

  Love Takes Wing

  Love Finds a Home

  A PRAIRIE LEGACY

  The Tender Years

  A Searching Heart

  A Quiet Strength

  Like Gold Refined

  SEASONS OF THE HEART

  Once Upon a Summer

  The Winds of Autumn

  Winter Is Not Forever

  Spring’s Gentle Promise

  SONG OF ACADIA1

  The Meeting Place

  The Sacred Shore

  The Birthright

  The Distant Beacon

  The Beloved Land

  WOMEN OF THE WEST

  The Calling of Emily Evans

  Julia’s Last Hope

  Roses for Mama

  A Woman Named Damaris

  They Called Her Mrs. Doc

  The Measure of a Heart

  A Bride for Donnigan

  Heart of the Wilderness

  Too Long a Stranger

  The Bluebird and the Sparrow

  A Gown of Spanish Lace

  Drums of Change

  www.janetteoke.com

  Beyond the Gathering Storm

  Copyright © 2000

  Janette Oke

  Cover by Jennifer Parker

  Cover image of Canadian Mountie: © Winston Fraser/Alamy

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  Published by Bethany House Publishers

  11400 Hampshire Avenue South

  Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

  Bethany House Publishers is a division of

  Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan.

  Printed in the United States of America

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7642-0063-2 ISBN-10: 0-7642-0063-1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Oke, Janette, 1935-

  Beyond the gathering storm / by Janette Okc.

  p. cm.—(Canadian West ; bk. 5)

  Summary: “A novel of two entwined love stories set in the majestic Canadian West.

  A brother and sister, siblings by more than blood, risk broken hearts“—Provided by publisher.

  ISBN 0-7642-0063-1 (pbk.)

  1. Royal Canadian Mounted Police—Fiction. 2. Brothers and sisters—Fiction. 3. Edmonton (Aha.)—Fiction. 4. Police—Canada—Fiction. 5. Mounted police—Fiction. I. Title. II. Series: Oke, Janette, 1935- Canadian West ; bk 5

  PR9199.3.038B49 2005

  813’.54—dc22

  2005005856

  Dedicated

  to the

  many readers

  who have asked

  for another

  story about the

  Delaney family.

  JANETTE OKE was born in Champion, Alberta, to a Canadian prairie farmer and his wife, and she grew up in a large family full of laughter and love. She is a graduate of Mountain View Bible College in Alberta, where she met her husband, Edward, and they were married in May of 1957. After pastoring churches in Indiana and Canada, the Okes spent some years in Calgary, where Edward served in several positions on college faculties while Janette continued her writing. She has written over four dozen novels for adults and children, and her book sales total over twenty-two million copies.

  The Okes have three sons and one daughter, all married, and are enjoying their dozen grandchildren. Edward and Janette are active in their local church and make their home near Didsbury, Alberta.

  CHAPTER One

  The cold rain and wind did not make for the kind of morning she would have chosen for the day’s venture. Though she did her best to shield herself with the borrowed umbrella, it was impossible to keep either wind or rain from penetrating her clothing. It wasn’t the weather itself she found hard to endure. The fact that distressed her was her father’s having just spent three days with her as she carefully chose a new, though limited, wardrobe. Was it to be ruined on her first day and all that time wasted? Her father had not complained, but she was sure he thought the decision making could have been compressed just a bit.

  She had been nervous enough when leaving her small room in the boardinghouse, and the weather did not help. “I wish Dad could have stayed—or Mama could have come with me,” she whispered to herself.

  She remembered her mother’s parting reassurances, even though the tears streaming down that familiar face had seemed to belie them. “God will be with you. Never forget that. And we’ll be praying. Every day,” her mother had whispered.

  That thought had a steadying effect, and she clutched the umbrella more tightly and prepared to cross the street.

  She had lifted a foot to step out when she heard an approaching auto. Automatically her head turned and she paused, still amazed and amused by the noise and the speed with which these modern conveyances traveled. This one was dark blue with a fancy piece of statuette embellishing the hood. The man at the wheel was poking his head out the open window, obviously for better vision than through the rain-spattered windscreen. Dark goggles covered his eyes and a long scarf dangled from his neck, threatening to whip away in the wind.

  She could not help but stare, a bemused smile lifting the corners of her mouth. Momentarily she forgot the rain and her nervousness, so taken was she with the car speeding along the sloppy, rain-drenched street.

  She shifted her umbrella so it would not block her view and stepped to the edge of the sidewalk.

  Too late she recognized her mistake. A spray of dirty rainwater splashed over her skirts as the automobile shot by. She scrambled back in alarm, but the damage had already been done. She looked from her dripping garment to the departing auto. The driver thrust his head out the window again to cast a backward glance her way. Maybe he was going to pull over and rush back to apologize. He merely shrugged his shoulders in an exaggerated fashion, then had the nerve to grin and wave. She could not believe his rudeness. This would never happen back home. She was sure her new clothes we
re ruined, and this man seemed to think the whole thing was some harmless lark.

  “Oh dear,” she exclaimed as she looked in dismay at her wet skirt. She was to have a job interview—in the building just across the street. Her father had arranged it, had hoped to accompany her, but duty had called and he’d had to leave the city. Now here she was, her clothing a mess, her shoes soaked, and no time to go back to change.

  “What do I do now?” she asked aloud, her eyes wide with consternation. “I can’t—” She shook her head, then started to laugh. “Well—I’ll have to. There’s nothing else to be done. I guess I’ll just have to make the best of it.”

  She studied the street carefully to make sure there were no more approaching automobiles, then darted across, the umbrella trailing along over her shoulder. She was already such a mess that a little more rain was not going to make much difference.

  She pushed through the heavy lobby door and stood disconsolately gazing around. No one seemed to be in sight, and she wasn’t quite sure which of the doors leading off this wide entry was the one she should be taking. She closed the umbrella, placed it in the stand, and tried vainly to shake the water from her skirts. “Mama always said that life can bring some nasty surprises and one has to learn to just make do,” she whispered to herself as she smoothed her dark hair back under her hat. “Well, I’m not quite sure how to ‘make do’ this time.”

  She brushed at her coat the best she could, noting that it had taken the worst of the muddy splash, though her new gray skirt also had a dark streak across the front panel.

  She removed the coat. She could turn the worst where it would not be seen. With a fresh hankie she wiped the raindrops from her face and again patted self-consciously at her damp hair. She straightened her shoulders and took a deep breath, willing the assurance of her mother’s prayers. Then she cast another quick look around.

  She had taken only a few steps when she thought of the umbrella. It was borrowed. What if someone thought that the umbrellas in the stand were for public use? And maybe they were. She had no idea about city ways. She turned and retrieved it from the stand, though it was difficult to carry both the dripping umbrella and her damp coat.

  Dad said, “Up the stairs and to the right,” she reminded herself. The man’s name is Kingsley. Arthur Kingsley—but I need only remember Mr. Kingsley—sir. She forced another smile and squared her shoulders. It was indeed an adventure—just as her father had said. She cast a rueful look downward and determinedly climbed the last step and turned to her right.

  Dad said there is a receptionist. I am to speak with her. Introduce myself and tell her my business.

  She grimaced and moved the coat in an attempt to cover the front of her skirt. What would the lady think about her appearance?

  “I do hope she has a sense of humor,” she muttered.

  She found the room at the end of the hall and hesitated only a moment before entering at the sign’s invitation. Arthur Kingsley and Associates. Please come in.

  There were a number of people in the room. Desks lined one full wall, and at least a half dozen women were bent over typewriters as fingers beat out rhythms on the black-and-white keys. In a row of chairs near the door, other individuals waited, shifting impatient feet this way, then that, seemingly intent on catching the nearby receptionist presiding at the desk. The papers stacked about her nearly obscured the sign that read Miss Stout, Receptionist. The young girl breathed a relieved sigh, then could not hide another smile as she moved toward her. The middle-aged woman who bore the name of Miss Stout was as thin as a cattail reed.

  “Yes?” said the woman without even glancing up from her papers.

  The solitary word caused all heads in the room to lift and concentrate on the lone figure near the desk. The girl felt a moment of panic, then cleared her throat, managed a weak smile, and spoke with more confidence than she felt. “I am Christine Delaney. I have—” For a brief moment the word escaped her. Mentally she scrambled to save herself a great deal of further embarrassment. “I have an appointment with Mr.—ah—Mr.—” Another moment of panic while she tried to think of the name. “Mr. Kingsley. Mr. Arthur Kingsley” suddenly burst from her, and she drew in a relieved breath.

  The woman frowned.

  “But I do have a bit of a problem,” Christine hurried on, surprised at her boldness. “Just as I was crossing the street here”—she waved her hand in the general direction of the offending street—“this car swished by and splashed my skirt. Maybe Mr. Kingsley would prefer that I make another appointment—for later—when I look more presentable....”

  Christine faltered to a stop as the woman’s frown deepened.

  “Crazy drivers,” Miss Stout finally spat out. “They should have never been allowed on the streets. They don’t care how they drive.”

  “Oh I—”

  “I’ve had to jump out of their way two mornings in a row,” the woman continued, by now thoroughly worked up. “And it’s not just the puddles. You take your life in your hands. They never should have allowed them. Never. Autos and people just don’t belong on the same streets—that’s what.”

  All the time she was talking, the woman was stacking and shifting papers with such vengeance that her desk fairly shook. Christine heard a tittering from one of the desks to her left. The woman must have heard it, too, for she sent a dark scowl in that direction. Typewriter keyboards began to clack with renewed energy.

  “Come,” said the woman, nodding her head toward Christine as she rose from the desk.

  “But shouldn’t I—?” she began, glancing down once more at her skirt.

  “Mr. Kingsley is a very busy man. He doesn’t have time to set up another interview. He wants the matter settled—today. You’ll just have to make the best of it.”

  Make the best of it. Hadn’t she heard those words all of her life? Christine shrugged and turned to follow.

  “And leave your coat and that umbrella over there. We won’t have them dripping on the carpet,” said the woman curtly, her frown expressing her attitude toward both items as she pointed to the coat-tree across the room.

  Christine obediently hung her new coat beside four others, hoping it and her borrowed umbrella would be safe. She meekly followed the rather impatient woman through the massive oak door, glad to be out of sight of the curious eyes.

  The room was a large one, filled with shelves and tables and file cabinets, all overflowing with papers and bundles and stacks of ledgers. In the middle of the room a large man occupied a big desk and chair. His head was bent forward, and straying strands of salt-and-pepper hair made him look like some strange creature with a shaggy mane. Oversized hands were busy tracing a line on the pages spread out before him. Christine could hear mutterings that included unfamiliar words and expressions she was sure her mother would never have allowed in her house. Judging from the tone and the dark scowl that creased his face, it appeared that Mr. Kingsley was displeased about something.

  “Sir,” the receptionist began in a deferential manner.

  The only reply was a growl of acknowledgment.

  “Your last interview is here, sir.”

  He did not raise his head. “I hope she’s better than the others,” he groused. “Can’t type. Can’t spell. I don’t know what they teach them in schools these days. I’d be spending my whole time—”

  “Sir. I have her with me.”

  The head came up. Two deep brown eyes peered out at Christine from beneath bushy brows. An even deeper frown made rutted folds from one side of his forehead to the other. Two large hands reached up to push the abundance of wild hair back from his face.

  He did not speak. Nor did Miss Stout. Christine swallowed in discomfort—but she did not move. Who should break this awkward silence? Dared she?

  She did.

  “I am Christine Delaney,” she said in a surprisingly even voice. “I have an appointment—an interview—for a job. I must apologize. I ... I had a little mishap on the way here. This auto—”
<
br />   “Fool drivers,” sputtered the man in echo of the receptionist’s sentiments. His gaze fell to her skirt as her hand gestured helplessly. “Have no respect for anyone on the sidewalks. You would think the streets were invented just for them to run their fool machines. Drive like Jehu. The whole lot of ’em. Don’t know what’s worse—the dust or the mud.”

  He shifted his gaze back to Christine’s face. “So I suppose you need to rush home to change?” he queried, irritation in his voice.

  “No, sir,” she responded quickly, a hint of amusement touching her respectful tone. “That is—if you don’t mind, sir.”

  He looked surprised at her reply and leaned further to take another look at her. “Your shoes are wet,” he noted gruffly. “You’ll catch your death of cold.”

  Christine merely shrugged. “If wet shoes were likely to kill one,” she said lightly, “I would have been gone long ago.”

  This seemed to surprise him even more. He cleared his throat. Christine noticed the frown lines were not as deep. “Well, let’s get on with it then,” he said, his voice almost civil.

  Christine heard the door close softly. Miss Stout had withdrawn.

  He reached for a file the receptionist had left on the corner of his desk.

  “Any previous work experience?” he quizzed before his eyes even scanned the contents.

  “No, sir. At least not in typing,” responded Christine.

  He lifted the shaggy brows. “What in?”

  “Whatever my father or mother saw fit to assign,” she answered truthfully.

  He looked amused at that. “So you’re telling me you can follow orders?”

  “Yes, sir. I believe I can.”

  “And you’re not afraid of work?”

  She did not hesitate. “We were expected to do our share,” she replied. “Work was part of life. Survival depended upon it.”

  He nodded.

  “Well, that’s better than most these days,” he said grudgingly and gave his immediate attention to the file in his hands.