He rubbed his head and looked down at her. She stood nearby — not quite close enough to reach out and touch — huddled in her down parka, its fur-rimmed hood pulled up over her curls and casting her face into shadow.
“Chelsea?” Not because he didn’t recognize her voice, but because she so rarely sought him out or even acknowledged his existence.
“Yeah. It’s me.”
Questions tumbled through his mind. So many things he wanted to ask her, just so he could hear her voice. About her family, her brother — who seemed like a nice enough young man — about how it was going with his mother, about what she was thankful for. He latched onto her words. “If what were true?”
She slid her hands into the opposite sleeves’ cuffs. “That the skies make God known.”
Keanan lifted his hand toward the sparkling sky. “How can this all be an accident of nature? Randomness? It speaks of a creator.”
Did he imagine the soft sigh? Then he’d missed the point of her question.
She tipped her head back. If only he could see the stars reflected in her eyes, but he didn’t dare take a step closer. She was like a fawn in the forest. What had lured her near he had no idea, but any quick movement and she’d bolt.
“I believe in God. The Creator. But how can a person really know Him? Not from studying the moon and stars is my guess.”
Words, please, Lord. “Acknowledging His existence is a good first step, and we do learn something of His nature from seeing the works of His hands.” She didn’t move, so he plunged on. “The first chapter of Romans tells us that creation itself makes His undying power and divine identity clear.”
“That’s not the same thing as knowing Him.”
“No, you’re right. It points us to His existence and power. To His love.”
She turned his direction, but he still couldn’t see her face.
“But to really know Him requires a relationship. Spending time together. Conversing with Him.”
“Conversing.” Her hood moved from side to side. “It’s so one-sided. I talk to Him, but I don’t hear Him answer. He’s a million miles away. Like the moon or stars.”
Keanan bit his tongue before providing more accurate distances. Her point held, and this wasn’t the time. “Sometimes we have to simply trust Him. Read His word, pray, ask Him to reveal Himself.”
“And when the Bible seems like a dry ancient book?”
“You carry on, believing your faith is relevant and that God will speak through it to you.”
“Fake it ’til you make it.”
He barely heard those quiet words. “It’s more like stepping out in faith than faking it. Remember trust doesn’t have to be large to be real. Jesus talked about faith the size of a mustard seed.”
“I don’t know what faith is, Keanan. Oh, I get the definition, the theory. But Christian faith just seems like the comfy thing to accept, you know? It’s what I was raised with. And yeah, I believe it. It makes more sense to me than anything else does. But deep inside? Not so sure.”
Comfy? If only she could see the terrors many Christians around the world lived in. Being a believer was only comfortable for a tiny percentage of the world’s population.
And yet, she was speaking to him. Opening her heart in a way that must be distinctly uncomfortable. Searching. Reaching out.
“Chelsea?”
She turned toward him fully.
He took a step closer and tipped the hood away from her curls. Her glasses and her eyes behind them came into sight. If only he could remove her spiritual hood as easily. “Chelsea, I’m praying for you every day. Many times a day.”
“Why?”
Keanan’s hands cradled her face. “Because I care about you.”
“At the risk of sounding like a toddler, but why?”
He grinned at the allusion to Madelynn’s incessant questions. “Why do I care about you?”
Chelsea nodded. Her silky curls brushed his fingers, tantalizing him.
“I’m not sure. At the beginning, I didn’t want to care. I focused on outward things that annoyed me. You always being dressed up like a city girl for farm chores.”
“That’s because I was a city girl. You annoyed me, too.”
“Because I was a hippie?”
She reached up and touched his hair. “Is that why you cut it?”
Keanan tried not to lean into her fingers as he nodded. “Brent asked if I’d looked in a mirror lately.”
“You talked to Brent about me?” She dropped her hand, and his head felt chilled.
His breath caught. “A little.” He ran his thumbs across her cheeks. “It just kind of came out. I’m sorry.” Or at least he would be if she minded. If it made a difference to her.
“Seems weird.”
“Does it?” He tucked a thumb under her chin and tipped her face up. “I want to tell everyone what I think of you.”
Chelsea’s eyes caught on his. “What’s that?”
“I think you’re very special. I see you pitching in with whatever is needed, whether you’ve ever done it before or not. Whether it’s messy or not. You watch people and see what they need, then you help them if you can.”
Her shoulders lifted and dropped as she broke eye contact. “Anyone would—”
“No, Chelsea. Not everyone would. You saw that Jo needed help the other evening and stepped up. No one else had noticed.”
“They would have.”
“You’re also...” Dare he say the words? “You’re also very pretty. I can’t take my eyes off you when you’re nearby. I can’t stop thinking about you when you’re not.” His fingers tangled in her soft curls. They felt just the way he’d imagined.
Chelsea looked down where her boot scuffed the frozen ground.
His hands felt a tremor cascade down her body. He cupped her shoulders with his hands and tugged her closer. For an instant she resisted then she leaned against him, one cheek resting against his chest. Surely she could feel his erratic heartbeat even through his winter coat.
Dear Lord, thank You for this woman.
Slowly, gently, he slid his arms around her. If she pushed against him, he’d release her, but there was no push. After a few seconds he rested his cheek on the top of her head then closed his eyes to savor the moment. He’d dreamed of this. Could spend all night standing right here cradling her in his arms, even with the wind chill factor plummeting the temperature.
“How can I have faith like yours, Keanan? Why does God feel so far away?” Her voice was muffled against his coat.
Forgive me, Lord. All I want to do is kiss her, but this moment is here to draw her closer to You, not to me.
“Read the word. Memorize it. Meditate on it. Ask Him to reveal Himself to you through it.”
She shuddered. “It sounds so easy.”
“It’s not easy. It’s simple, but not easy.”
“I don’t get it.”
He rubbed his hands up and down her back. “Do you... do you want to get together and spend time with God?” Too forward, Welsh. Way too forward. But she’d be the judge of that. He held his breath.
Chelsea pulled back enough to look at him. “Really? You’d do that for me?”
As though it might be an imposition. He massaged her shoulders. “It would be an honor. We have a few weeks before...” Oh, man. He didn’t want to think about leaving. Not now. But changing his plans wasn’t an option. Too many were depending on him. He’d given his word.
“If you think it might help...” Her words trailed away.
“I’d be honored.”
Chapter 22
Chelsea slipped in her front door. With any luck, Keanan’s mother would have retreated to her room already. But no.
“There you are.” Fern looked up from her tablet and raised her glasses to rest on her hair. “If I’d have known there was still so much cleanup to do, I’d have stayed longer.”
Chelsea pushed out a smile. “No worries. We finished it up a bit ago.” If Fern hadn’t lo
oked out the window and seen her and Keanan standing under the full moon, Chelsea certainly wasn’t going to mention it. Why couldn’t she savor the moment in private? Yet this was the woman who’d given birth to Keanan and raised him, at least in his pre-teen years.
“Would you like a cup of tea?” Chelsea crossed to the kitchenette.
“That would be lovely. Something herbal if you have it.”
Chelsea opened the cupboard and peered in. “Chamomile? Mint?”
“Let me guess. Both were grown here at Green Acres.”
“Yes, they were. I particularly like the chamomile with a dab of our honey.”
“That sounds wonderful.”
Chelsea felt the older woman’s gaze on her as she heated water and got down two teacups.
“So what’s your position here at the farm? I haven’t figured out yet what everyone does.”
“We all do whatever is needed, I guess.” She glanced over at Keanan’s mother. “I spent five years building an event coordination business in Portland. I thought I’d be able to use those skills here, but instead I’ve pitted a lot of plums, canned a lot of tomatoes, and trimmed out a lot of beef for grinding.”
“Ah, Portland. I live not far out of the city myself. I’m a jewelry designer.” She held up her hands, where half a dozen rings gleamed from various fingers.
Chelsea crossed the space for a closer look. Fern’s work was exquisite. Bold. “These are gorgeous.”
Fern reached for Chelsea’s hands and held them, examining her rings. Did Keanan’s mother notice that none of hers lived on the third finger of her left hand?
The kettle whistled, breaking the intense concentration. Chelsea whirled and finished making the tea. After passing a cup to Fern, she settled into the other easy chair.
“An event organizer. That’s not unlike an artist,” Fern mused.
Chelsea raised her eyebrows over her teacup.
“You have an eye for beauty. For design. For how things fit together.”
Well, since she put it that way. “True. I’ve done a large fundraiser for my home church for several years. I’ve been doing the organizing from here this year, but I’ll be going home to finish pulling it together right after Allison and Brent’s wedding next weekend.”
“What church is that, and what kind of a fundraiser?”
Chelsea named the congregation. “People buy tickets to attend. So there’s a program, a dinner, a silent auction — a variety of ways to raise the money. It’s been quite successful.”
“So is this for a charity?”
“Yes. I’m not sure what the committee has chosen this year. There have been a variety of projects they’ve underwritten.”
Fern leaned forward. “I love being part of endeavors like that. Depending on the recipient, of course. Let me know. I might be able to offer a set of jewelry for the auction.”
“Really? That would be spectacular. I’m sure your work would bring in good bids.” She’d probably bid herself if it didn’t go too high. A new enthusiasm for the fundraiser simmered in her.
“I’ll leave you my card, and you can let me know what’s decided. When and where and any details I should know.”
“I’ll do that.” Chelsea took a sip of tea. “I’ve recommended to the committee they support Keanan’s trip. Send solar cookers to Africa for the mission to distribute.”
Fern grinned. “Now that’s a cause I can get behind.” She eyed Chelsea speculatively.
Uh oh. “They make the final decision on that.”
“Of course. My son tells me you picked out the tile for his bathroom.”
Chelsea tried for a bright tone. “Do you like it? I think it turned out rather nice. He and Brent did a great job on the installation.”
“It surprised me. The rows of glass mosaic reminded me of jewelry setting off what would have been a simple but classic outfit. They add just the right amount of bling. I was quite certain Keanan hadn’t come up with that by himself.”
“You’re right.” What a sweet way to describe the mosaics. “He went straight for the first tiles we saw in Wynnton and figured they’d be good enough.”
Fern’s eyebrows rose over her teacup. “Oh, you went shopping with him?”
How not to admit too much. Chelsea feigned nonchalance. “Yes. He asked for input. Turns out that was a good idea on his part.”
“Well.” Fern tucked her feet under her on the cozy chair. “I must admit to some surprise. It’s not like him to care how things look, and it’s really not like him to ask a woman for an opinion.”
Alarm bells rang in Chelsea’s mind. Dangerous territory. “I guess anyone can change.” Only she knew why Keanan had changed. Did his mother get it? How well did she know her son?
“I pay attention to details that others might overlook.”
Oh, no.
“Is your finger better where you cut it earlier?”
“Um, yes. It will heal just fine. The adhesive came unglued in the dishwater. I left it off since the bleeding had stopped.” Chelsea chuckled. Even to her it sounded brittle. “Can’t believe I cut myself chopping potatoes. That was sure clumsy of me.”
“I wondered why, too. Did I startle you with my question about Keanan?”
Silence hung in the air for a long moment, Chelsea’s gaze riveted to Fern’s.
“I’ve been praying for my son for many years. That he would find the woman God has chosen for him. That this woman would know she was cherished by God as well as by Keanan. My son lives an abundant life. He has a lot to share.”
Chelsea drank more of her tea. What could she say to this woman?
“I see I’ve made you uncomfortable, Chelsea. That was not my intent. I wonder if you might be that woman. If you or my son realizes it.”
A few hours ago it would have been much easier to laugh and deny it. Now, after their talk outside and the way he had held her in his arms? The way she’d allowed it and even leaned against him? She wasn’t so sure.
Chelsea stood. “I guess there’s a lot to wonder about.” She walked to the kitchenette with measured steps and set the teacup in the sink. “If there isn’t anything more you need this evening, I’m off to bed. It’s been a long day.” The yawn behind her hand may have started as a pretense but quickly turned real.
Fern nodded. The older woman’s eyes held something that was not quite a twinkle and yet wasn’t amusement, either.
Chelsea wasn’t about to analyze it too deeply. Her sleepless hours were more likely to be filled reliving the moments in Keanan’s arms.
* * *
Keanan pressed his forehead against the warm flank of the Guernsey cow as he squeezed her milk into the stainless steel bucket. Strange how he was going to miss this early morning ritual when he went to Africa. Not that he did it every day, but swapped out with Gabe and Noel. Even Sierra and Claire stepped in at times.
Not Chelsea though. Not yet. Maybe he could teach her, his arms around her and his hands guiding hers. He took a deep breath, remembering last night.
Down the way, the barn doors creaked open. Keanan shifted enough to see Gabe and his father-in-law entering. Chelsea’s dad. He’d made sure to meet the man and chat a little then make good his escape. It hadn’t been that difficult to melt into the large group gathered for Thanksgiving dinner.
“Morning, Keanan,” Gabe said.
“Good morning, Gabe. Tim.”
The cow fidgeted, and he crooned to her as he kept his hands moving, listening to the milk shooting rhythmically into the bucket.
“I haven’t seen a cow hand-milked since I was a boy.” Tim stepped a bit closer but kept a respectful distance. “My grandparents had a farm out in Waco County.”
“I’d never milked before moving to Green Acres,” Keanan responded. “But it’s a vital part in keeping our food sources close to home.”
Gabe chuckled. “Your daughter has become quite an avid cheese-maker, Tim. She’s got a few small wheels of cheddar aging which we haven’t had a chance to t
ry yet.”
The zing zing of milk hitting the bucket lightened as Keanan squeezed the last few ounces of milk from the teats. After a final massage, he moved the bucket and three-legged stool off to one side before releasing the cow from her confinement. He patted her flank as she ambled past him.
“Need a hand with the chickens?” he asked Gabe.
“No, I think Tim and I can manage.”
“Every time Sandra and I visit the farm we see a whole new aspect of what you kids are doing here.” Tim grinned. “I use the word kids lightly, you understand.”
“Zach’s parents are looking to sell the home place.” Keanan eyed the older man. “Maybe you folks should think of buying them out. Moving up here.” Oh, man, what was he saying? All he needed was another pair of interested eyes watching his fragile relationship with Chelsea.
Tim shook his head. “Sandra has a thriving optometric practice, and it’s where my job is, too. I don’t think we’re leaving Portland until we retire, and that’s a few years off yet. Maybe not even then.”
Gabe turned to his father-in-law. “So long as you remember you’re always welcome to visit as often as you like.”
“I appreciate that, son.” Tim clapped his hand on Gabe’s shoulder.
When was the last time Keanan’s own father had treated him that well? He hadn’t thought about marriage — well, at all, really — but especially not as the possibility of gaining a set of parents who could speak truth and love into his life.
The urge to escape the barn nearly overwhelmed him. Keanan lifted the milk bucket.
“I haven’t had a lot of chance to speak with Chelsea one-on-one since we got here,” Tim went on, and Keanan froze in place. “Seems she’s been a bit pre-occupied, but we’re headed out for a family day together in a few hours.”
Keanan dared a glance at the man. Behind him, Gabe smirked. Not that there was anything funny. “I hope you have an excellent day together. I’ll be spending it with my mother. I don’t see her as often as I’d like, either.” Why had he added that? Likely so Tim wouldn’t get any ideas to invite him along, yet there was no reason to suspect he might have done so.
Plum Upside Down (A Farm Fresh Romance Book 5) Page 16
