Rekindled
Page 35
He smiled, remembering the wedding that morning. Hannah had played the piano and sung, and Annabelle and Sadie had served as Kathryn’s attendants. What an unlikely scene. Gabe had even shown up to give the bride away. It couldn’t have been more perfect. But Larson’s smile dimmed as he recalled getting into the wagon to make the trip back up the mountain to the cabin. Matthew Taylor had been standing just beyond the churchyard, at the edge of the cemetery. Larson had started to go to him, but the man had turned and walked away. Larson had wronged Matthew by his silence after returning. Larson took full responsibility for that and prayed for the day he could reconcile their friendship.
“Larson,” Kathryn called softly from the bedroom.
He stood, laid his Bible on the stone-hewn hearth, and stooped to bank the fire. Warmth radiated around him as he looked at the glowing white-hot embers. He felt only a slight shiver. Each day, his fear was lessening. Father God, help me to love my wife with a selfless love—the way you love me. To live a life that will see us partnered together, in every way.
Larson pushed open the door to find Kathryn waiting for him. She was lying on her side, with the covers turned down. Wordless at the sight of her, he stared into her eyes and was amazed, again, that she’d actually chosen him, a second time. He heard their son coo and went to stand by the cradle on her side of their bed. He gazed down at little William.
His son. How could he have ever doubted Kathryn’s faithfulness? He’d married a woman who loved God more than she loved him, and for that Larson would be forever grateful.
Kathryn took his hand and pulled him closer to the side of the bed. She began unbuttoning his shirt. Larson touched her face, her hair. He wanted to go further but something stopped him.
How could he want to be with her so strongly and still feel this hesitance? She had yet to see the full extent of his scars, but that wasn’t the basis for the anxiety filling him now. This went far deeper.
“Love Kathryn with the same love Christ Jesus showed the church,” had been Patrick’s counsel as they’d waited for the women to arrive that morning. “He gave His life to be her Savior, and you ought to love Kathryn as you love your own body.”
Kathryn sat up and rose to her knees to meet his lips. Larson tenderly cradled the back of her neck as he returned her kiss, and she melted against him. A soft noise rose from her throat. She slowly drew back to look at him, then took his hands in hers, a wife’s intimate smile curving her mouth.
Bringing her hands to his mouth, he kissed the smooth of her palms. “I love you, Kathryn, and I want to be with you again—you don’t know how much.”
Before he could say anything else, she kissed him again. “I know,” she whispered.
He drew back, shaking his head. “It’s not the scars, Kathryn, as difficult as that is. It’s that I want to love you like you’ve always wanted to be loved, the way you deserve.”
“Don’t you see?” She tilted her head. “You’re already loving me that way.” She lay back down and lifted his side of the bedcovers.
Larson finished unbuttoning his shirt and laid it aside, then moved to sit on his side of the bed. He reached over to turn down the lamp.
“Leave it on.” Her voice was soft behind him. Her hands moved over his bare back. “Oh, Larson . . .”
Her fragile tone told him that the scars on his back must be hideous. He swallowed hard. “I’ve . . . I’ve never looked at my back since the fire. The scars must be horrible. I’m sorry, Kat.”
Keenly aware of her pressing close against him from behind, Larson closed his eyes against the mixture of rekindled desire and regret.
Her arms encircled him tighter. “No, beloved. It’s not the scars from the fire that I’m looking at.” He turned to face her. “It’s your scars from before.” Her brow lifted with a soft smile. “They’re gone.”
The next morning, after they’d exchanged gifts around the warmth of the hearth, Kathryn set about making breakfast while Larson rocked little William by the fire. Larson noticed his Bible where he’d left it the night before and the music box sitting on top of it. Who would have ever thought that such a simple gift could represent so costly a treasure?
He took down the music box and lifted the lid. Reading the inscription inside, he rewrote it in his heart. May you be our heart’s desire, Lord.
His thoughts drifted back to the explosion in the shack. The life he’d known had ended that night, and a new one—a better one— had begun. He had no way of knowing whether his life would’ve taken such a turn without the fire, and even now it was hard to say that he would go back and relive it all again.
But he did know that what he had now—with his wife and son, and with his Lord—he would never trade, for anything.
Harold Kohlman and Donlyn MacGregor had been charged with land fraud and would stand trial in two months. Miss Maudie’s face came to Larson’s mind, and a wave of compassion swept through him. God, give that precious woman comfort and peace. The punishment of Conahan—the ranch hand who’d been hired to kill him—had been swifter than Larson would have preferred, but he left that in God’s hands.
With little money and their loan in default, he and Kathryn had filed a late bid for their land but had lost. However, the buyer, desiring to remain nameless, sold Larson a portion of the land back, including the homestead with water rights to Fountain Creek. It was a modest beginning, again, but it was enough.
With little William asleep in his arms, Larson rose and went to stand at the window. A light snow had begun falling during the night, and a shimmer of diamonds sprinkled tree limbs and covered the ground. Kathryn came up behind him and kissed William, then him.
He slipped an arm around her and pulled her close. “Merry Christmas, Kat.”
He looked out the window to the spot near the towering blue spruce where he could barely see the tip of the stone marker Kathryn had ordered for his grave months ago. When it finally arrived in late October, Larson had insisted on keeping it and brought it with him when he returned to their homestead, to serve as a constant reminder of his wife’s undeserved love, and of life’s brevity.
He knew the words carved on the snow-mounded marble stone by heart and vowed, with God’s strength and mercy, to live each day of the rest of his life keeping them true.
Just below the dates 1828–1868 was the inscription:
LARSON ROBERT JENNINGS
BELOVED HUSBANDAND FATHER
And desire of my heart
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
No book is ever written alone, and Rekindled is no exception. To the One who rescued me and gives me new life—Jesus, I adore you. To my husband, Joe, for his continual support and encouragement, and for daring me to take a leap of faith that I wouldn’t have taken on my own, I love you. To Kelsey and Kurt, our children, for teaching me invaluable lessons about life and love, and for giving me room (and time) to explore “what I want to be when I grow up.” I delight in being your mom.
God has blessed me with people who act as encouragers, motivators, and accountability partners. For their support during the writing of Rekindled, my heartfelt thanks goes to: Robin Lee Hatcher, for praying God’s will for my life and then for encouraging me to follow Him, wherever that may lead. Deborah Raney, for sharing your gift with words while sharpening mine in the process. Deidre Knight, my agent, for sitting on the bench with me at Mount Hermon and showing me that dreams really can come true. Karen Schurrer, for fulfilling this author’s idea of the perfect editor. So glad we’re partnered together, and here’s wishing you endless Biaggi’s Potato Croquettes. The wonderful folks at Bethany House—so much goes into seeing a manuscript to final publication, and every step is crucial to its success. Thank you for working so hard on Rekindled. Paul Higdon, thanks for the gorgeous final cover! Mr. W. D. Farr, Sr., the pre-eminent expert on Colorado water rights, for the delightful lunch we shared at Potato Brumbaugh’s while discussing historical water rights in the Colorado Territory. Special thanks for your offhanded comment, “
Some of those gate riders suddenly forgot how to swim.” Melinda Shaw, for reading the first 138 pages of the rough draft and then knocking on my door for more! Suzi Buggeln, for showing me what a real hero looks like. Susanne Bjork, for your encouragement, and for bugging me to finish the second book in the series! Kris Hungenberg, for teaching me point of view all those years ago. My fellow writers who read Rekindled in varying stages: Kathy Fuller, Beth Goddard, Lisa Harris, Jeanne Leach, Maureen Schmidgall, Jill Smith, and Debbie Vogt. Keep speaking “the truth in love” to me, gals. You make me write deeper and better than I ever could on my own. And to Todd Agnew, for your song entitled Still Here Waiting. I listened to it countless times as I wrote, and rewrote, Rekindled. Truly, God’s love never fails.
TAMERA ALEXANDER is a bestselling novelist whose deeply drawn characters, thought-provoking plots, and poignant prose resonate with readers. Having lived in Colorado for seventeen years, she and her husband now make their home in Tennessee, where they enjoy life with their two college-age children and a Silky named Jack.
Tamera invites you visit her Web site at www.tameraalexander.com or write her at the following postal address:
Tamera Alexander
P.O. Box 362
Thompson’s Station, TN 37179
Table of Contents
COVER PAGE
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT PAGE
TABLE OF CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
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 THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
EPILOUGE
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS