He heard the clink of dishes and Abby’s soft voice in the next room, but he couldn’t make out what she was saying. Isaiah responded, but their conversation was indistinct.
He reached for the walker with his left hand and dragged it closer. The pine wood was smooth and well sanded, not that Larson could feel any imperfections with his scarred palms. It was obvious Isaiah had painstakingly crafted this for him. That realization did little to quell his anger at the moment.
Larson positioned the walker over his legs. He could move his legs—that wasn’t the problem. Sustaining his weight was another story. He gripped the sturdy pine and pushed up, but he barely got out of the chair before his arms burned from the effort and gave way. He fell back with such force that the chair almost toppled over, taking him with it. Catching himself just in time, rage pulsed through his body. He clenched his jaw until it hurt.
Larson positioned himself in the chair again, winded from the exertion. “God, why on earth am I here?” he growled through clenched teeth. Blowing out a breath, he rubbed his hands over his face, noticing the occasional spot of facial hair that was growing back in, patchy and thin. Abby had said she would give him a shave tonight.
He listened for noises coming from the other room. Nothing.
He could well imagine Isaiah sitting at the table, large hands clasped, waiting for him, watching the door and ready to smile in triumph. Larson huffed in disgust and caught a whiff of Abby’s stew. His mouth watered at the savory scent of meat.
Adjusting the walker, he managed a firm grip and tried again. His arms trembled from the exertion, but he held on. Once up, he locked his arms and took a second to catch his breath. He gradually transferred a portion of his weight to his legs, certain that at any moment his bones would snap.
A trickle of sweat ran down his left temple.
Thankfully, he was facing the doorway so he didn’t have to negotiate a turn. He took one step and paused, then took another. His heart pounded so heavily he thought he might pass out. But at least he hadn’t fallen. Not yet.
He shut his eyes and willed his right leg to move again. His muscles signaled back to his brain and he let out a gasp. Weary from the exertion, Larson leaned forward until his forearms rested on the walker.
“Your lack of strength doesn’t lie in your body.”
With renewed resolve, Larson refocused all his energy on his right leg—and finally, it moved! He half dragged it forward, but still it moved. By the time he made it to the door, his chest heaved with exertion, his arms felt like wax. He slumped against the doorframe for support, able to make out the edge of the table but nothing else.
He took another step and another, each staggered shuffle a begrudging testament to the determination he thought he’d lost.
He spotted Abby first, seated at the table. Their eyes met and the light of hope filled her gaze. When she smiled, he managed one back. But Isaiah was nowhere in sight. No matter. Determined not to be bested, Larson struggled forward. He lifted his left leg and was midstride when his right knee buckled beneath him. His grip went slack. He braced himself for the impact, but it never came.
Strong black arms like bands of tempered steel came from nowhere, taking hold of him. After a moment, Larson dared to look into Isaiah’s face.
“You did it,” Isaiah whispered, beaming.
“Oh, Larson,” Abby spoke from across the room, tears glistening. She chuckled.
Isaiah squeezed his shoulder tight, and Larson drew from his strength. “I knew you could do it. You and the Almighty.”
Surprising himself, Larson laughed in relief and wondered again at how the man holding him could trust so steadfastly in a God who had allowed him to experience such heartache in his life. Abby too. Isaiah had told him the other night that Jesus held him and Abby safe in the palm of His hand, and Larson found himself wanting to believe that.
But how could you trust in someone who promised to shelter you safe in the palm of His hand, when sometimes He still let you fall?
The next morning the three of them shared breakfast at the table. Larson caught the furtive glances Isaiah and Abby shared, along with their secretive smiles. When he finally questioned them about it, Isaiah took something from beneath his seat and laid it by Larson’s plate.
Larson glanced at the book, then returned his attention to his food, keenly aware that they were watching him, waiting for his reaction. His first thought was of Kathryn and how she cherished the words that lay beneath a similar well-worn cover. His second thought, mixed with an odd pang of emotion, was that he’d never seen the benefit in reading the Bible. Still didn’t.
But neither was he anxious to insult his host and hostess. They read together each morning. He’d heard them. How could he not in a cabin this small? Still, he wasn’t one to pretend something he didn’t feel.
“Abby and I thought you might like to read with us this morning.”
Larson shrugged, trying to think of a way to kindly decline.
“You’re not afraid of a book written hundreds of years ago, are you?” Isaiah nudged the book closer to him, hunching his broad shoulders in a blatant attempt at sincerity, but his teasing voice gave him away. “It’s only words dried on paper,” he whispered, repeating something Larson had said to him. A smile tipped Isaiah’s mouth, and Abby laughed softly beside him.
Larson looked from one to the other, knowing he was being baited. But he owed these two people his life. “Where should I start?”
Isaiah’s eyes took on new warmth. “At the beginning would be good.” He turned past the first few pages, then stopped.
Larson stared at the words on the page, wondering at the increased rate of his pulse. He started reading aloud, but he hadn’t read four words when Isaiah stopped him.
“Read that part again, please.”
Larson sighed, feeling another one of Isaiah’s lessons coming on. He played along anyway. “ ‘In the beginning God . . .’ ” He paused, looking up.
“I love that part.” Isaiah smiled as though having just tasted Abby’s apple pie.
Not understanding the look the couple exchanged, Larson cocked a brow. “And what part is that? I barely got started.”
“Don’t you see it? In the beginning . . . God,” Isaiah answered.
Larson searched Isaiah’s face, all too aware of a place deep inside him that was beginning to respond.
Isaiah slowly shook his head. “It’s not about you. It’s not about me. This life that we live, the reason we’re here. It’s only when we see our lives through eternal eyes that we find true peace or wealth that will last. Real security can only be found in that which can never be taken from you . . . in a relationship with God.”
Intensity deepened Isaiah’s gaze, and there was no question that he believed what he said. What must it be like to believe in something so intently? To be so sure. It sparked a yearning within Larson, intriguing him to know more. And for the first time in this second chance at life, he hoped that Isaiah’s faith—and Isaiah’s God—would stand the test.
CHAPTER NINE
IF YOU KEEP IMPROVING at this rate, you’ll be strong enough to travel soon.”
Larson returned Isaiah’s grin across the table and felt a rush of gratitude for this couple sitting opposite him. “Thanks for sticking with me, Isaiah. You too, Abby.”
Abby’s blue eyes crinkled in answer, and Isaiah merely laid a hand over his heart and nodded.
In the past weeks, Larson’s body had responded to Abby’s cooking and Isaiah’s exercise and medicinal regimen better than he’d imagined possible. This morning, following the normal ritual of exercise, or torture, as he’d taken to calling it, Abby had slathered her thick mixture of herbed poultices over his furrowed flesh, commenting on how his chest and arms were filling out. Even Larson was noticing a difference.
He spooned in another mouthful of venison and boiled potatoes, eager to push Isaiah’s contraption in the woodshed to its full limit this afternoon.
“How’
s your leg feeling after this morning?” Abby asked, slicing him a generous portion of apple pie.
He nodded his thanks and washed his food down with water. “Better. That concoction you rubbed into it helped. It drew a few flies, but it helped.” He shot her a look he knew would earn a grin.
Abby patted his arm and chuckled.
The wound where the bullet had entered his right leg had healed considerably but still pained him when he overexerted himself— something Isaiah constantly warned him against. Larson hoped to walk without a limp someday, but right now even his limp couldn’t dampen his spirits.
After lunch, he followed Isaiah to the shed behind the cabin. Using the staff Isaiah had carved for him, Larson only managed one stride for Isaiah’s every three, but at least he was walking on his own now. As with the walker, Isaiah had crafted the walking stick from sturdy pine, and it supported Larson’s burden well. Amazing what a difference the independence made in his attitude.
He breathed in the chill of the late April day and smelled the promise of spring. White-laced boughs of towering blue spruce, no longer bent low to earth under the weight of heavy snow, seemed to be declaring their independence from winter’s frosty grip. Stands of stalwart birch stretched their icy arms heavenward. All around him were signs of the land’s awakening from a frozen slumber, much like the recent stirrings he sensed inside himself.
In the distance, the sun reflected off the snowy mountain peaks with a blinding brilliance that stung his eyes. How could he have lived here all his life and not been more appreciative of this land’s beauty? And of God’s hand in it all?
The last thought caught him by surprise, slowing his pace. God’s hand . . . He’d always believed in God. What he hadn’t realized, something that Isaiah and Abby were showing him, was . . . that God believed in him.
Larson’s grip tightened on the staff in his right hand. He looked from the brilliance of the snowcapped mountains to the modest— and that was being generous—cabin where he’d spent nearly four months. Isaiah’s words pierced his heart all over again. Strange how words, even those dried on a page—he smiled ruefully—could rob him of his sense of completeness while fostering a hunger inside him at the same time.
It was a hunger Larson had never known, and he wasn’t completely sure what to do with it even now.
“Come on, we don’t have all day,” Isaiah goaded good-naturedly, holding open the door of the shed.
Isaiah’s contraption of rudimentary weights, consisting of rocks of various sizes tied in bundles and hoisted over beams, pushed Larson’s strength to exhaustion—far more than the bricks ever had. Without a word they began their rigorous routine, and later that night, after dinner, Larson undressed and fell into bed.
He rose the next morning well before dawn and carefully maneuvered his way through the dark cabin, mindful not to waken Isaiah or Abby. Once outside, his staff in one hand and their Bible tucked beneath his arm, he wound his way down a wooded path that he and Isaiah had traveled once before. He shuddered in the predawn chill, his muscles stiff, but determination urged him forward.
Within a half hour, he reached his destination, his body tired, but in a good way. Lacking the smooth agility he had once possessed, Larson managed to awkwardly climb up onto a boulder that overlooked a serene mountain lake. His breath came heavy as he stretched out, welcoming the cool of the stone against his back. He cradled his arms behind his head and watched the last vestiges of night reluctantly surrender to dawn.
Despite his peaceful surroundings, a restlessness stirred inside him.
Up until a few months ago, the whole of his life had been centered on seeing his ranch succeed, in making a name for himself— something his illegitimate birth had denied him all his life. And he’d done it all so that Kathryn would be proud of him, so that he could earn her love.
He grimaced, knowing that wasn’t the entire truth. No, he’d done it to ensure her faithfulness—though at the time he hadn’t been sure if such a thing could even exist between a man and woman.
In watching Isaiah and Abby together over the past weeks, he’d observed their stolen glances and kisses, their quiet exchanges over things he’d once deemed unimportant. And studying how they were with each other had challenged his reasoning. While strengthening his view of marriage in one sense, it also laid bare the shortcomings of his own.
Besides Isaiah’s and Abby’s obvious differences, which he scarcely noticed anymore, Larson couldn’t help but compare their marriage to his. Isaiah had attained nothing in terms of worldly wealth, and yet Abby adored him. Isaiah had no name to bestow on her, yet Abby bore the title of his wife as though it lent her kinship to royalty.
Dawn’s first light trilled a finger across the lake, and Larson marveled at the shimmers of sunlight playing off the tranquil surface. He breathed in the air scented of pine.
He used to think that if he provided well enough for her, Kathryn would remain loyal to him. Or if he watched her closely enough, he could keep her from straying, from seeking a better man’s arms. But how did a husband entrust his heart to his wife?
Larson scrubbed a hand over his face and sat up. The scant beard still felt foreign to him but helped hide the scarring on his face. His whiskers had grown back in patches, like his hair. He eased off the boulder and went to stand at the lake’s edge, remembering his first afternoon here with Isaiah. Not until that afternoon, when he first saw his reflection in the water, had it occurred to him that there were no mirrors in the cabin.
He reached for the Bible resting on a nearby rock and turned to the place Abby had marked for him. He drank in the verses, hearing Abby’s voice again as he read.
“Who hath believed our report? and to whom is the arm of the Lord revealed? For he shall grow up before him as a tender plant, and as a root out of a dry ground: he hath no form nor comeliness; and when we shall see him, there is no beauty that we should desire him.”
Larson stopped and read that part again.
“This scripture is about Jesus,” Abby had explained. “Isaiah is prophesying about the Lord’s coming and how Jesus will be treated.”
No form nor comeliness. No beauty that we should desire him. The Scripture about Jesus could have easily applied to him. Larson read on.
He is despised and rejected of men; a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief: and we hid as it were our faces from him; he was despised, and we esteemed him not.
Larson closed his eyes and imagined walking the path home to their cabin, past the grove of quaking aspen and past snowy mountain-fed Fountain Creek. Though the threat of Kohlman having called his loans due haunted him, Larson still clung to the sliver of hope that Kathryn had been able to keep things going. Maybe he’d find her working in the garden or walking back from the creek, her hair still damp from bathing. He pictured her lovely form, the curves of her body he knew so intimately. A fire stirred inside him. He tensed his jaw. Though he still desired to be with Kathryn in that way—how could he not?—he yearned just to be in the same room with her. When he thought of seeing her again, when he pictured her tender brown eyes lifting to meet his . . .
And that’s where the image suddenly faded.
How would Kathryn react to seeing him now? Would she despise him? Would she hide her face from him?
Larson laid the Bible aside and bent toward the lake’s placid mirror. The man staring back was a stranger to him. He removed the cap Abby had knit for him using yarn from an old sweater, and he ran a hand over his head. His scalp was ridged in places and waxy smooth in others where the fire had melted the layers of skin. Prickly patches of hair grew at random, and at his request, Abby kept them shaved clean. He examined his marred reflection. Could Kathryn ever learn to see past his scars to the man beneath? Would she abide him long enough to see the changes in his heart?
Conviction stung him, and his searching knifed inward. Before all this had happened to him, if their fates had been reversed, would he have extended the same compassion to Kathryn that he
would soon ask of her? Without hesitation, he knew his answer—now. But before all of this, before the reality of seeing his own reflection repulsed him, would he have possessed the heart to see past it all if it had been her?
A whisper of wind swept across the lake, rippling the water. Larson stood and tugged the cap back on his head, then rubbed his hands together. The scars did little to keep out the cold. It went straight to the bone. He sighed, fighting the familiar sense of failure that dogged his heels. The date the loan payment was due to the bank had long since passed, but he knew Isaiah was right. Not everything in life could be measured in dollars and cents. And the things that were could be stolen in the time it took to draw a single breath. He’d learned that in the crucible.
He picked up the Bible and his staff. He wanted to rebuild his life on something that would last this time. And he wanted to build it with Kathryn, if she would still have him.
Before heading back, he looked up at the sky and cleared his throat. But no words came.
He wished he could talk to God like Isaiah and Abby did. No doubt their prayers reached heaven’s throne. His felt anchored to earth, tethered there by the kind of man and husband he had been. Lord, help me to be the man Kat wants me to be. As he walked back to the cabin, he thought better and amended his feeble request. Help me to be the man you want me to be, Jesus.
Soon his body would command the strength to make the journey home. However, the question remained—would his heart?
She couldn’t sleep for anticipation of the day before her.
While it was still dark, Kathryn rose and dressed, buttoning up her skirt as far as she could. She would need to make new clothes soon to accommodate the slight swell in her belly. Straightening the bedcovers, she allowed her memory to drift back to the last intimate moments she and Larson had known here as husband and wife. Little did either of them know that night what blessing was being planted deep within.
Rekindled Page 9
