“You’ll be coming to church again tomorrow?” she asked Elsie when she stepped into the kitchen.
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world. It’s so good of Toby to have orchestrated it all for us. Last Sunday was such a treat.” She drizzled water down the back of Jacob’s hair, and Lonnie handed her the soap. She set the towel near the stove to warm. Crouching beside the galvanized tub, Lonnie ran a comb through Jacob’s thin hair and snipped it around his head. Elsie watched quietly.
Lonnie let the tiny, autumn-hued curls fall into her cupped hand. “I’m glad you’ll be coming. It’s always so nice for us all to go together. All the ladies were talking about that buttermilk pie you brought for the church dinner last week.”
Elsie smiled. “The recipe is quite a secret. There’s only one woman in the world I’ll be passing it along to.”
At her heartfelt words, Lonnie smiled. “They say there’s going to be a wedding next month. I thought it might be nice to go. It’s been so long since we’ve been to one. Could you imagine …” She squeezed Elsie’s hand. “The music. The dancing.”
“You must wear something very fine.”
Lonnie nodded quickly, but only to chase away the emotions that crept in at the memory of the wedding she and Gideon attended last year, Gideon so solemn at her side. She’d loved him then more deeply than she had thought possible. More deeply than he’d even known.
“That blue chambray of yours is awful pretty. You could trim it with that bit of lace we found.”
As Jacob played in the water beside Elsie, Lonnie sat in a chair and picked up Toby’s shirt. A tug on the needle, and her thread snagged, puckering the fabric. “Yes. I need to look my best because this shirt is going to be mighty fine.” The thread tangled worse. Chuckling, she snipped it to begin again.
“You two will make a fetching pair. Folk might wonder if it were the two of you gettin’ hitched …” Elsie’s voice trailed off, and she glanced at Lonnie, apologetically. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to blurt that out like that.”
“No need to be sorry.”
“All in good time,” Elsie said softly. “All in good time—if it’s the Lord’s will, of course.”
“If it’s the Lord’s will.” But Lonnie felt certain it was. Toby was a wonderful man. She counted herself truly blessed indeed to have him in her life. To hopefully one day be his wife.
As if their thoughts had wandered the same path, Elsie rose. “I just want … I just want to see you happy again.” She reached for the towel.
“I’m happy, Elsie.” Lonnie squeezed the older woman’s hand. “A little more so each day.” Lonnie lifted Jacob from the tub and set him in the toweled cradle of Elsie’s arms. A little more each day. Peace and melancholy seemed to battle within. But only one could take the upper hand. One must overcome the other if she wanted a joyous life for her and Jacob. She didn’t mind being happy. It was a heavenly feeling. It was allowing herself to be happy that she struggled with. Allowing herself to be happy despite all she had lost.
Despite the fact that Gideon had let her go.
Opened his hands. And let her go.
Overwrought, Lonnie stared at the sewing in her lap. A little happier each day, Lord willing. God promised He would see her through any tempest. Any storm. He wasn’t giving up on her now.
Gloved hands resting on the top of the pitchfork handle, Gideon stared at the graying sky. His mother had used black walnuts to dye her yarn gray. The same hue tinted the rising tempest above. He wondered what the night might hold, and not wanting to dawdle, Gideon gripped the pitchfork and thrust it into the mound of compost to turn the dark, moist earth.
Tal and Owen worked nearby in the woodshed, their voices floating out as they picked over the apples that needed to be tossed. Each time they walked over with a bucketful, Gideon mixed it all together. Though muddy snow covered most of the yard, the bare patches making it possible to work the compost pile, he sensed another storm was on the way.
Mrs. Jemson walked by with a basket of laundry on her hip. She stopped in front of the woodshed and exchanged a few words with Tal. He planted a kiss on her cheek, and smiling, she strode toward the house. Passing Gideon, she slowed.
“How are you enjoying that book?”
“Fine, ma’am. Thank you.” Gideon stopped working and took the opportunity to grab his jacket from where he’d tossed it aside. The temperature was dropping. Fast. “I gotta admit, though, I’m not really sure what’s going on yet.” He shrugged into his coat.
Setting down her basket, Mrs. Jemson rolled down the sleeves on her striped blouse. “Sometimes it takes a while to get into a story.”
“I’m enjoying it, though.”
Her eyes crinkled kindly. “I’m glad. It’s one of my favorite books. Hang in there. I think you might like it in the end.” Picking up her basket, she walked toward the house, her dry laundry safe from what loomed on the horizon.
“Better not let my wife lend you any more books. She’ll make a reader of you yet.” Work gloves under his arm, Tal slid on his hat. The dim light caught the silver stubble along his jaw. “She’s all but ruined Owen and me. Got us quotin’ poetry and all that nonsense.”
Owen carried over a pair of shovels and handed one to his pa. The young man got busy working beside Gideon, turning the compost so the air and sun could break it down in time for spring planting.
“It’s not as bad as I once thought. Once you get used to it.” Gideon jammed the pitchfork into the compost pile and, with a grunt, lifted the heavy load to the other side. “I’m slower than molasses, mind you. I can’t read more than a page or two a night.” At Owen’s taunting expression, Gideon pointed a finger. “You watch it.”
Owen held up his hands and got back to work.
Shaking his head, Gideon turned another forkful of compost. “But what I really don’t understand is the Bible. I flipped it open the other night and read about that man named Zacchaeus—”
“It’s not Zatch-eus,” Owen blurted. “It’s Zack-eus.”
Halting, Gideon straightened. “That’s not how you say it.”
The young man lifted a palm in a truce. “I’m serious. That’s how you pronounce it.”
Gideon glanced at Tal, who nodded his vote toward his son.
“Really?”
“Really.”
Gideon said the name softly to himself, then shook his head. Now he was even more confused. “But the point is … Jesus says that He’s going to that guy’s house.” Gideon felt his brows tug together. “Why would He do that? I don’t understand. Even the other people in the story didn’t understand. They said that man was a sinner.” He yanked the pitchfork loose, then stabbed it back in. Using his boot, he jammed it in farther. “It seems Jesus would have other things to do. Better things to do.”
Gideon watched as a pair of white flakes floated down in front of him; a glance at the sky confirmed that the clouds had thickened. The air was so still and cold, he shivered.
“I think you’re missing the point of the story.” Tal settled his shovel into the snowy mud and rested his boot on top of the spade. His eyes drifted to the trees at the edge of the farm. “The point of the story is that the man was a sinner, but Jesus wanted to go anyway.” He glanced at Gideon, then at his son, then back again. “Those are the people He came to save. All of us. Each and every one.”
Softly, Gideon shook his head, but his mind whirled as he stabbed his pitchfork back into the compost pile.
“Read it again,” Tal said. “Read it again, and this time … look for it.”
With a half shrug, Gideon nodded. “All right. I will.” He turned another forkful of compost, still feeling Tal’s gaze. Gideon glanced over as the snow picked up, a cold, lacy curtain across the land. “I promise.”
Thirteen
“That seems like too many.” Standing in the apple shed, Gideon leaned back on his heels and studied the pile of trees Tal was assembling.
“I assure you, it’s not.” The man glanc
ed up. “We agreed on half cash, half trees, right?”
Gideon crouched down. “Right. But this just seems like too many. I don’t want to take more than my share.”
“Hush up about your share and trust me, will ya? It’s called wholesale. Besides, they’re in my way.”
Only half believing him, Gideon counted the spindly trees. “Thirty-two.”
“All good strong stock. Husky roots.” Tal touched the dry roots. “Set them to soak in water before planting, and if you do it just as I told you, they’ll take like a dream.” He added one more to the pile. “The cold weather’ll keep them dormant. Just get them in the ground by the end of March, all right?”
“I can do that.” Gideon stood back as Tal began wrapping the bundle with twine. “And you’re sure they’ll transport fine? I mean … I won’t kill the lot trying to get them home?”
“They should be just fine. Be gentle with them. But they’re hardy. They’ll get home.”
Standing, Gideon interlocked his fingers and gripped the back of his neck. He couldn’t believe he was leaving in the morning. He couldn’t help but smile at where he was headed.
“Come back in thirty days.” Judge Monroe’s words echoed in his mind. “We’ll see if we can get you back to your wife and son.”
“Smells like supper’s ready.”
Gideon followed Tal to the house, and when everyone gathered around the table, he sat on the bench between the boys. With the lantern flooding the table in warm, golden light, Tal bowed his head, and the Jemsons followed suit. Gideon closed his eyes.
Sure and strong as a mighty river, Tal’s voice filled the room. “Lord, we thank You for this food and for the hands that have prepared it. And we thank You for the time we’ve had with this young man here …” Reaching around his youngest son, he gripped Gideon’s shoulder, and Gideon closed his eyes tighter, struck with an unexpected emotion. “Still his fears, Lord. Still his fears. Guide him.” His voice fell soft, no more than a throaty whisper. His grip tightened.
Gideon pulled his hands into fists on his knees.
“Be the strength he needs as he takes these next steps. Be his wisdom. Be his comfort. Prepare his family for his return. Prepare their hearts.”
Gideon hung his head lower. Prepare their hearts. May it be so.
“We thank You for Your grace and Your mercy. Gifts we could never deserve—yet freely You give. Lord, we are thankful. Amen.”
Lifting his head, Gideon whispered an amen. He glanced at Tal. “Thank you.”
“And may the Lord be with you wherever you go.”
Wherever he went.
Might it be so? He swallowed hard at the thought. They ate supper slowly, as if no one was in a hurry to turn in for the night. Thankful for Mrs. Jemson’s hearty stew, Gideon stood and bid his farewell to the family. Tal followed him out onto the porch.
Gideon held out his hand, and Tal gripped it firmly. Gideon closed his other hand around his friend’s. “I can’t thank you enough. You’ve saved me twice now.”
Tal shook his head but tightened his grip.
Gideon would be forever grateful for all the man had done. The first time he’d met Tal, after wandering onto his farm, Gideon’s face had been bruised, his body battered. A poor choice had tangled him with the wrong crowd, breaking Lonnie’s trust in him. Gideon knew that few men would have welcomed him into their lives that day. Few men would have invited him into their homes. Allowed him to break bread with their families.
Yet Tal had done it. Twice now.
At the realization, Gideon ran a hand through his hair. Although he wasn’t the beaten man he’d been then, his spirit was bruised. His mind and heart weary. And once again, refuge had been offered. Gideon’s throat suddenly felt tight. He wished with all his might that he could understand why. And how. How a man could show that kind of compassion to a stranger. A vagabond.
“Thank you.” Gideon backed away and, with a clear night sky overhead, started for the bunkhouse. He glanced around the quiet, snowy farm, wondering what tomorrow would hold. A thrill of excitement shot through him, but reality quickly knocked, and Gideon blew out his cheeks. Before he could give in to his fears of what could transpire, he tried to remember what Tal had said.
Words of promise. Words of peace. That the Lord had a plan.
Still feeling the warmth of the prayer in his spirit, Gideon lay on top of his blankets and closed his eyes. But his sleep was restless. The bunkhouse empty. As were his hands. His life.
He yearned for home. With his future hanging in the balance, Gideon tossed and turned until he could take it no longer.
Rising long before the sun, he dressed and set his pack on the bunk. After he stuffed his things into it, he slid the books Mrs. Jemson had given him on top and cinched the pack tight. Stepping out of the bunkhouse, he saw his breath fog in front of his face. Gideon knelt beside the stack of bare-root trees and, using the length of twine Tal had given him, fastened the spindly bundle to the oilcloth. Gideon tested the pack to see how it would hold. It was heavier, but secure. A light snow had begun falling, scarcely dusting the land in the white powder.
At his feet sat a small loaf of brown bread wrapped tight. A wedge of cheese and a pair of hardy apples were tucked into an old flour sack. With a silent thanks to the Jemsons, Gideon added the food to his pack. Shivering, he glanced toward the tree line, where the first gray light was beginning to appear. The sun would be up before he knew it, and he hoped to be halfway to Stuart by then. Hoped to be on the courthouse steps when the judge arrived. Tal had offered to drive him, but the thought of waiting around one more minute nearly drove Gideon mad.
His heart leaped with unbridled anticipation. A few days and he would see Lonnie. He would see how Jacob had grown. Gideon yanked the bunkhouse door closed and, with nothing separating him from what lay ahead, took his first steps down the path. Toward Stuart. And then home.
Fourteen
Holding out his hand, Gideon squinted one eye closed and used the width of his four fingers to measure how high the sun had risen. Adding up the hours, he knew he was making good time—proved further when he came around a bend of trees and saw smoke rising in the distance from too many places to count. Stuart.
Knowing he couldn’t very well march into the courthouse with his pack and bundle of trees, nor could he leave his things unattended, Gideon glanced around for a place to stash it all. He found a stand of shrubs that would keep everything concealed, though he doubted there would be many folks passing by.
He scaled the bare slope toward town, delighting in the sensation of the sun on his shoulders. He all but jogged up the courthouse steps, but a tug on the door proved it was locked. Gideon settled down on the steps and clasped his hands. He glanced down Main Street, taking in the sights and sounds of a sleepy town rising. A few folk milled about, some opening business doors, others hurrying in one direction or the other. It seemed few people wanted to be out early on a cold morning, and though Gideon longed for a fire and a hot cup of coffee, he stayed on the frosty steps and watched the road.
He spotted the receptionist first, coming up the wooden sidewalk. Her dark green coat scarcely brushed the tops of her shiny shoes. She climbed the steps, a set of keys in her hand. Gideon stood so as not to startle her. He’d left his hat on his pack, so he gave her a cordial nod. She glanced at him a moment, uncertainty lining the wrinkles around her mouth. Then recognition registered in her face. Was that a smile? She turned and slid the key into the lock.
“If you’re waiting to speak with the judge, you might as well come in out of the cold.”
With a tug on his coat and then his plaid shirt, Gideon followed her in. He wished he had something finer to put on, and he ran his fingers through his hair, doing what he could to set it in the right direction. He tried to not even think about a razor.
“You look fine, Mr. O’Riley,” the woman said without glancing up from the ledger she was scribbling in. “We’ve seen much worse.”
Gide
on sat on the bench. Eyes on the clock, he shifted his boots.
The door opened in a burst, and the judge barreled past, his black coat flapping open in his wake. Stunned, Gideon straightened. A jam of the key in the lock, and the judge pushed his way into his office, closing the door with a solid thud. Gideon and the receptionist exchanged a glance.
“It’s normal. Working Saturdays often puts him in a bit of a mood.”
Gideon half stood. “May I?”
“Off you go.”
He walked down the corridor as quietly as he could, then using the back of his hand, gently rapped his knuckles on the door.
“Come in.” The man all but barked.
A quick swallow, and Gideon turned the knob. “Excuse me, sir.”
The judge tugged off his spectacles with a snap and glanced up. He stared at Gideon blankly a moment, just as the receptionist had. Then the same clarity must have unfolded, for his frosty demeanor thawed. “Come in.” His shoulder sank and his expression softened. He waved him to the chair.
Gideon sat.
Judge Monroe sifted through several files on his desk, finally pulled one out, and opened it across the messy surface. Leaning back in his chair, he propped his elbows on the armrests and pressed his hands together. “Have I told you yet how unorthodox this is?”
Gideon’s heart hammered against the chair. No words would come. He glanced at the nameplate that rested on one corner of the desk that read Judge of the County Court, and beneath that, Commonwealth Attorney.
The man studied him, his expression sober. Finally, his face softened. “I’ve done some reading, and there are several options for settling this.” He glanced at the clock. “I have a hearing first thing this morning, so I’ll be quick. What do you know of the law?”
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