by Camille Eide
“Oh.” Again with the pout. “So that’s it? Back to being good old pen pals?”
Emily hunted through a file drawer until she found the folder containing Aunt Grace’s passport and checked the date. Grace must have renewed at some point as it was still valid.
“All right, listen, Em. I don’t know what’s up with you and this crazy ban on relationships, but I do know if you let this guy get away, I am never speaking to you again.”
Emily cocked a brow at her friend. Jaye not speaking would be something to see.
“I mean it. Listen, I gotta run, but keep me posted.” Jaye breezed out of the kitchen, but halfway through the front room, she spun around. “Whoa, I almost forgot—I need Hector’s Fine Arts entry. I have to send them off tomorrow.”
“I’ve got it here. Just a sec.” Emily hunted through the stack of papers by the phone and pulled out a large manila envelope with HEC2 printed neatly in pencil on the flap.
“Let’s see it.” Jaye pulled the pencil drawing from the envelope and laid it on the counter. “Wow.” She drank in every detail. “This is amazing. That kid is definitely gifted.”
“Yeah. I’m really proud of him.” Emily took the picture and studied it.
Hector had captured a grapevine and branches laden with dew-drenched grape clusters in stunning detail. Fortunately, the school employed a skilled art teacher who not only inspired the students to develop their God-given talents, but also encouraged them to find special ways to use them. Hector clearly had a gift for conveying a simple truth with a beautiful illustration.
Emily stopped smiling and stared. Something about the picture tugged at her memory—something Ian had said—and suddenly, she saw him walking beside her on the beach, throwing rocks at the sea. That image merged with another one and the room began to sway. She dropped the sketch and dashed to the front room, heart pounding. She skimmed through the storybooks on the shelf until her fingers rested on Daniel’s Friends Face the Fire. She pulled it out, holding her breath.
Title at the top, in large print. Author at the bottom, smaller print. Fingers shaking, she opened the book to the title page.
Title, Author—
Emily gasped.
Illustrated by I. MacLean.
By the time he nudged the rattling truck from the old drover road onto Craig’s Hill Road, the sun stood high overhead. To Ian, it felt like 5:00 a.m. He’d traveled more than four thousand miles but the last two couldn’t pass quickly enough.
First, he would take a long, swift hike through the wooded braes. That should clear his head. Then, as soon as it was a decent hour in Oregon, he would phone Emily as promised and let her know he’d arrived home.
If he could bring himself to talk to her.
But if Claire was still here, and if Maggie insisted on hearing about his visit with Grace, slipping out to do either wouldn’t be easy. Especially with Claire’s radar ability to ferret out things he fully intended to keep to himself.
Ian’s long trip home had given him loads of time to shake the anger and get his head on straight. But twenty-five-plus hours of travel was far too long to be left alone with his thoughts. A looping mental slideshow of the last few days plagued him.
Her quick, warm smile, the melody of her voice, how sweet she smelled.
How incredibly good it felt to hold her.
And that stricken look on her face when he told her it had been a mistake.
Every time the image arose, chagrin rose with it, in waves. How could he have been so careless? Why had he risked leading her on that way? What was he thinking?
He groaned as the truck bumped along the narrow road. These questions had nagged at the back of his mind all the way home, but the answers remained the same.
Didn’t matter and half a world separated them.
Which he should’ve thought of before he threw his arms round her like a drowning man who’s suddenly realized he’s desperate to live.
Aren’t you the poet now? He turned the truck onto the sloped drive and climbed past the cottage, scanning the grounds as he approached the farmhouse. No sign of Claire’s car. He pulled up next to the house, killed the motor, exhaled, and stepped out of the truck.
A bleating ewe bolted past him, trailed by Kallie, who packed a worn-out looking kitten under her arm and a determined look on her face.
He groaned. Claire was still here. He could have the decency to feel a pang of guilt for wishing his sister gone after all she’d done for him. “Whoa, Kallie. Where’re you going?”
“That lamb’s going to pull the cart. We’re practicing for the parade.” She didn’t stop, but chased the runaway toward the front yard.
“Is your mum here?”
“She went to get more jars for the ones that broke,” she called over her shoulder as she and her troupe scurried round the corner of the house and disappeared.
Ian hoisted his bags from the truck and headed for the house. But inside the entry hall, he stopped.
Pies—berry, judging by the globs oozing from them—teetered on furnishings in the sitting room on his right. To his left, a mountain of jam-filled jars obscured the kitchen table.
He ventured into the kitchen.
A pot of berry goo congealed on top of the cook stove, and partially burnt chicken feathers and bits of broken glass littered the floor round the stove. Mingled odors he couldn’t identify hung on the air, none of them good.
And no sign of Maggie.
She wasn’t upstairs when he dropped off his bags in his bedroom, either. The sound of Claire’s car brought him back downstairs.
His sister met him in the front hall with Hannah in tow.
“Uncle Ian!” The lass beamed a huge smile.
Ian scooped her up.
She wrapped her arms round his neck. “Where did you go?”
“I flew over the sea and halfway across the world.”
“Good to have you back.” As Claire headed for the front door, she threw a look over her shoulder. “Even if you are sadly in need of a shave.”
With a shy grin, Hannah poked a finger at his jaw.
Ian followed Claire outside, tickling his niece with his stubbly chin until she squealed.
At her car, Claire said, “You owe me, little brother. Loads. You can start by giving me a hand.” She stopped and looked round, frowning. “Where’s Maggie?”
Setting Hannah down, Ian said, “I don’t know. I just got here.”
Claire opened the rear door of the wagon.
Ian reached for a box.
His sister nudged his arm. “Hey.”
“Hmm?”
“What’s up with you? You look different.”
He hauled out two cases and hoisted them up on his shoulder. “You try twenty-five hours of driving, flying, and sleeping in airport chairs and let’s see if you don’t come out looking a wee bit shabby.”
“Och! Did I say you looked bad?” She frowned. “Hannah, we should go home and come back after the crabby old bear’s had his nap.”
Ian carried the jars into the house and set them on the kitchen floor, Hannah trailing his every move.
Claire followed with another box.
He glanced round the room. “So everything went well then?” He held his breath.
“Well?” Claire hooted. “Ooh, aye. Perfectly. We sipped tea and had a lovely, wee visit. See for yourself.” She waved a hand over the kitchen and fixed narrowed eyes on him. “She insisted on warming the jars on top of the stove, and when they popped, she wouldn’t let me pick up the mess. She actually tried to chase me off with a—”
Maggie loomed in the doorway with a shovel in hand.
They all froze.
The old woman stamped mud from her boots. “Is that Ian? Are ye home then, laddie? Did ye see my sister?”
His brow shot up. “Did I have a choice?” He winked at Hannah. “Grace is well. She sends her love.”
As he spoke, Maggie tossed the shovel off into a corner, plodded straight to the sink, and fil
led a kettle with water. “We’ll have tea and ye can tell me everything.”
“What about the jam, Maggie?” Claire asked. “We’ve more jars to fill.”
“Wheesht, lassie! I don’t care a wee pickle about jam now.”
Ian glanced at his watch—nearly 6:00 a.m. in Oregon. He cleared his throat. “I’ve got business to see to. After that, I’ll sit down and tell you everything.”
Almost.
He ruffled Hannah’s hair and headed out the door.
“Och, he just got here. Where does the daftie think he’s going?” The crackle in Maggie’s voice trailed after him.
He longed to take that hike—he needed to think. But he promised Emily he’d ring as soon as he arrived. He strode down to the cottage, checking over his shoulder more than once to make sure no one was following. In the cottage, Ian checked the phone for a dial tone, pulled out the number, took a deep breath, and dialed.
Emily answered on the first ring. “Ian?”
“Did I wake you?”
A relieved sigh. “Hardly. Did your flights go okay?”
“Fine. Just loads of waiting.” He closed his eyes. Her face appeared in his mind.
“That’s good. Thanks for calling and letting me know.” A long pause, then, “Ian, if you don’t mind, there’s something I’d like to ask you.”
His heart did a crazy drum solo. Brilliant. Here it comes. Ian had questions of his own. Purely pointless questions that had only useless answers.
“Why did you stop illustrating?”
What? His mind raced to remember how she knew. “What brings that up?”
“There’s a children’s storybook in my library. You might have seen it when you were here. Daniel’s Friends Face the Fire.”
He expelled a long breath.
“I’ve always marveled at the artwork in that book, Ian. It’s so beautiful.”
Something twisted deep in his gut, wrenching all the way up to his throat. “Thank you.”
“In fact, it’s one of my favorites. I had no idea you illustrated it, not until yesterday. Are there others?”
“No.”
Silence.
“You’d rather not talk about it?”
Smart cookie. “There’s not much to tell.” Hopefully, that would be the end of it.
“You started to say something about it when we were on the beach.”
His fingers plowed through his hair. What had he said?
“You’re such a talented artist, Ian. What an amazing gift—not only for creating such beautiful pictures, but also for bringing a Bible story to life. You should see the kids’ faces when I read it to them, the way their eyes light up at the pictures in that book.”
Her words hit his gut like a well-aimed boxer’s punch.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t pry. I just couldn’t help wondering. I hope I didn’t offend you.”
He glanced around the dark cottage, as though the empty house might magically produce a way out. “It’s a long story.”
“Of course. If you aren’t comfortable telling me, I understand.”
“I ...” He studied the ceiling, marveling at what he was about to say. “It might be best if I wrote it.”
“Really? Like an email?”
“A letter. We don’t have internet service at the farm yet. I have to get my email when I’m in the village. Kirkhaven is only a few decades behind the rest of the world.”
Emily chuckled. “I know the feeling. It took forever to get service in Juniper Valley too. We’re so remote we had to wait for satellite.”
“Same problem here. But we’re getting it soon—”
A squealing Kallie burst into the cottage with a kitten under each arm, followed closely by Hannah, also squealing.
“Whoa, lassies.” He pulled the receiver away from his mouth. “What’s all this?”
Hannah went first, bottom lip quivering. “My kittlin ran away and she has two and she won’t give me one.”
Kallie glowered at her sister. “It didn’t run away, you let it go. And I told you, you can catch the fat one.”
“I don’t want the fat one. I want mine or one of yours. You have two!”
“I’m sorry, Emily, just a minute.” He turned to his nieces. “Kallie, would you show your sissie how to catch her kitten? Since you’re so good at it?”
With a huff, she glared at Hannah. “Come on, then. Don’t make so much noise this time.” Kallie schooled her sister as they scurried out the door and up the drive.
A soft chuckle danced across the line.
Ian groaned. “You’re laughing at me again.”
“No, I’m not. That was very diplomatic. And sweet.”
Sweet? He grunted. Not high on the list of skills a Scotsman wants to be known for.
“You have a soft spot for those girls. I can’t wait to meet them.”
“They’ll love you.” Rats. His throat seized up, but too late. The words were out.
A hushed silence fell. “You think so?”
He swallowed hard. “Aye.”
Footsteps made Ian turn to settle another round with his nieces, but instead of two creature-laden lassies, one scowling, old woman stood in the doorway, arms akimbo on her sturdy, wee frame.
“Love who? Who’s that?”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Nothing could keep him from taking that walk now—he didn’t care if Maggie came at him swinging a claymore. The braes behind the farmhouse beckoned. He climbed the sloped pasture toward the wooded hills with long, brisk strides. Even if Claire had stayed round and tried to follow, her short legs would have had a hard time keeping up—Ian would have made certain of that.
But by some act of divine mercy, the girls had had a recital and Claire needed to leave. Which probably called for ceremonial thanks of some sort.
In the weeks since Ian last walked this path, summer had made a majestic entrance, robed in vibrant shades of green: deep emerald Scots pine, fair green willow, and slender birch coated in silver bark and drooping with new, bright green leaves. Heather, also green but promising to burst into a rich purple soon, blanketed the hills surrounding the carse.
The crest of the brae offered his first glimpse of the valley and the crumbling remains of the old Kirkhaven church, the surrounding churchyard, and cemetery. A bit further, the path dropped and leveled out before rising again. He followed the trail and climbed the next knoll. As woodland air filled his lungs, his thoughts drifted back to his conversation with Emily.
She had no idea how hard he’d worked to put that time of his life behind him.
At the top of the second brae, the group of trees to his right caught his eye. He’d walked this path in every season and knew these hills well. During the barren days of winter, the ring of trees stood thin, allowing a partial glimpse of a small glen in its midst. Now, summer foliage and thick undergrowth hid the clearing.
He pressed on, following the path down to the valley floor. Countless times he’d walked this way. But something about the glen drew him, the way it was completely hidden and yet so close. Perhaps on the way back he would make a detour and investigate.
A few more minutes of hiking across the meadow brought him to the old church. Nestled in the lowlands like a natural part of the landscape, the church and yard appeared vacant. But as he approached, a choir of goldfinches chirped a merry old hymn from the balcony of trees surrounding the sanctuary.
Ian stepped over the low fence encircling the cemetery.
Promising Emily a letter was easy. Writing it was an entirely different matter.
He worked his way round to the newer gravestones. To Katy’s.
Kathryn Carmichael MacLean.
The dates carved in the stone served as a cold reminder. She was only twenty-three. Sixteen when they met, twenty-two when they were finally allowed to marry.
What a joke. He’d actually believed he could impress Katy’s father by asking him for her hand.
Ian could still feel his numbing disbelief when E
dward told him what he thought of him and his dreams, his plans for the future. He’d struggled to hide how much Edward’s words hurt. Once Ian swallowed his injured pride, he decided the extra time would simply be a delay to their plans, an exercise in patience. They would both look back and the extra years of waiting would seem like nothing.
But those few years turned out to be everything. A silent countdown had already begun.
Ian closed his eyes and saw himself back at university, unaware of the precious time slipping through his fingers. And to what gain? A slight but all-important nod of approval from the high and mighty Edward Carmichael.
In the end, what bit of good had it done him?
He kicked a tuft of dried weeds beside the stone, seeing Edward’s face in the deadness. What would he tell Emily?
The truth was he hadn’t given another thought to illustrating. He’d lost the heart for it.
Crouching near the gravestone, he grabbed a fistful of long grass and pulled it up. If he told her the story, she would glimpse the hate that had long infected his heart and mind.
He knelt in the grass and lifted his face skyward. You could take it from me. Like You did before. Holding his breath, he waited, listened.
The wind stilled. Even the birds’ song paused in expectant interlude. The valley listened.
But no answer.
Looking to the crumbling church, Ian spoke. “So I guess there’s no point asking You to help me get Emily out of my mind.”
The cool stone absorbed his words.
With a grunt, he stood and brushed grass and dirt from his knees. “Right, then.”
As Ian climbed the trail toward home, he planned the letter to Emily. Once the letter was posted, that would be the end of it.
Except for the pending visit from Grace and Emily.
After their visit, then. There would be an end to the Grace-and-Emily chapter, time to move on. But move on to what, exactly? Without a solution to his Maggie problem, he had nowhere to go.
For now, he could submit the articles that didn’t require travel. But the Sudanese missionary family, the refugee doctor in Rwanda, the retired university professor teaching bushmen of the Kalahari to read, the people living amongst and serving indigenous people whom The Master’s Call wanted to highlight—those stories could only be told firsthand.
