Trusting Grace

by Maggie Brendan

  “Anything you say.” Tom shuffled off to the nearest rock, propping his elbows on his knees, resting his chin in his hands.

  “I’ll wash my face and hands and be back in a moment. Becky, you can help by emptying some grease into the Dutch oven and putting it over the fire to melt. But not too much. Sarah, find the cornmeal and soon we’ll have us a feast.”

  Over supper, Owen asked his daughter, “So what did you think of our Mr. Frasier?”

  Grace eyed her pop. “The most I can say is that he’s a hard worker and a man short on words.”

  Owen chuckled. “Grace, you know most men aren’t talkers, especially when they’re working.” He spooned a pile of green beans on his plate. “By the way, I’m so glad you’ve been able to attend to the garden with everything else you’ve had to do. Wish I could be of more help.”

  “Pop, you’ll get stronger every day, so don’t worry.”

  “I’m not so sure of that. My energy is suffering for sure, but at least I can walk a little. That doggone left leg of mine drags a bit, but I’m grateful to the Lord that I’m not worse. As long as the new hired help works out to help take the load off you, then I’ll be happy.”

  Grace reached over and took his hand. “Pop, please stop worrying about me. If things work out, I promise to join the ladies sewing circle or something.”

  “I’d like to see you get to know Frank’s new partner.” He grinned at her, giving her hand a squeeze.

  She shook her head. “I don’t know. He seems so . . . so sophisticated. What would he see in a farm girl?”

  Owen jerked back in his chair. “Whatever do you mean? You’re intelligent, hardworking, sweet, and not a kinder person lives in these parts—”

  “And plain, not stylish, widowed with little means.” She sighed.

  “Widowed is true, but you’re a nice-looking, Christian woman that any man would be proud to have as his wife. I don’t know much about style, but you can learn anything you need to, I’ll wager.”

  Grace had to laugh. “Oh, Pop, you’re so biased.”

  “I only want what’s best for my darling daughter before I’m six feet under.” He winked at her.

  “No more talk about that. How about another slice of bread?”

  Grace stood combing her hair, wondering how much of what her pop said at dinner was true. She knew her looks were passable, and she did have nice hair and straight, even teeth. Even if she could afford it, the truth was she had no sense of style like her friend Ginny. She peered closer to the mirror, gazing at new lines forming around her eyes. Most of the time she wore a hat if she was outside for very long, but she had to admit—she was aging, and thirty was just around the bend, heaven forbid! Where had the years gone?

  With a heavy heart, Grace settled in bed after saying her prayers, her mind wandering to everything that needed doing on the farm until sleep overtook her, giving her some peace.

  She was awake before her dad and slipped quietly out with a basket to the chicken coop for fresh eggs to make breakfast. As she gathered the eggs she thanked God for the bounty of eggs and vegetables she and her pop enjoyed. The simple things in life always delighted her—the smoothness of warm brown eggs, the color of fresh green beans and bell peppers, or juicy red strawberries from the garden. Not to mention the fat red laying hens. “Yes, my ladies,” she said gently to them, taking their prized eggs, “we are blessed beyond measure by your feeding us.”

  “Are you in the habit of talking to the chickens now as well as the duck?”

  Grace swung around, startled, and saw Robert standing at the door of the chicken coop. She supposed he was trying to sound chipper, but there was no trace of a smile.

  “Heavens! You startled me.” She looked up at him with a smile, trying to pretend she wasn’t standing in her robe. “Mmm, I suppose you’re correct. I confess that when one spends so much time alone on a farm, talking to the animals comes naturally.” She laughed. His lips almost curled into a smile, but instead he reached into her basket, picking up an egg.

  “Ever cook a soufflé?” he asked.

  “I hardly have time to do any fancy cooking, so the answer is no. Have you?”

  His warm eyes held hers. “A time or two.”

  Grace waited. “And is there more to your story?”

  “My mama used to instruct me in cooking, and I tried my hand at a soufflé—with her help of course. She was quite the cook.”

  “How’d it turn out?”

  He gave her a lopsided smile for the first time. “Not half bad. It takes patience and practice.” He put the egg back into her basket.

  “Then perhaps one day you can make us one.” Happy that he nearly smiled, she fiddled with the buttons at her throat. She should’ve dressed properly before going outside, but frankly she hadn’t thought about the new hired help arriving early.

  “I hung up my apron ages ago. Anyway, I couldn’t sleep, so I came on over early.”

  “Then you can have breakfast with us.” Grace started for the door to latch it.

  “Thanks, but I’m going to have a look around at the outbuildings and see what needs repair before the milking, if that’s okay with you.”

  “That’s fine.” She nodded. He tipped his hat and walked toward the smokehouse with a slight limp. He was a peculiar man to be sure. One who could cook a soufflé? Very odd indeed.

  Robert looked for, and found, chinks in the logs of the smokehouse. It wouldn’t take long to fill them and nail any loose logs in place. He made a mental note to get the materials he would need to do repairs. He left the smokehouse and crossed the open yard to the corral. It was in decent shape but the gate could use a new latch.

  Strolling through the pasture in the tall grass with only the wind for companionship, he had a moment of peace. He already liked it here. He wouldn’t be honest if he didn’t admit to himself that he wished things could go back to before Ada’s passing, when he hadn’t felt so burdened. Would she have told him about her children eventually? He supposed so.

  Grace was so different from Ada. Grace was more down to earth. He thought back to earlier at the chicken coop—Grace standing there in her robe, basket in hand, her face fresh from sleep and looking more relaxed than yesterday, giving her a girlish appearance.

  He shook his head. Time to get to the milking. As he turned back, the delicious smells of frying bacon assaulted his nostrils and his mouth watered. At the end of the week when he got his pay, he planned on taking the children to town for a good meal. Wouldn’t that be a nice surprise?

  7

  As Grace headed out to hang the wash, carrying a basket of laundry on her hip, she spied Robert near the well with his pants leg rolled up. She watched while he pumped the cold water, letting it run across an unsightly bruise on his leg. She drew in a sharp breath. That’s where Cinnamon kicked him! She felt bad, knowing it must really hurt after seeing him limp this morning. Should she see if there was some way she could help? She felt funny approaching him about it.

  Her dad caught her eye and motioned to her from the open window where he sat reading the newspaper. Grace dropped the clothespins into her pocket and hurried over.

  “You need something, Pop?” she asked, leaning toward him. She thought she’d left him comfortable enough in the spot where he usually dozed off after dinnertime.

  “I don’t, but our hired man might. Why don’t you stroll over there and see if you can give him some of that bear salve I made for sore muscles?”

  “Well, I don’t know that it’s any business of mine to—”

  Her pop waved his hand in the air in exasperation. “For goodness’ sake! The man was kicked by our horse. It’s the least you can do. Who knows if he’s got a woman at home lookin’ after him.”

  Grace shook her head with a loud sigh. “All right. I’ll do it, but only because you asked me to. I’ll come get the salve.”

  “No need. I have it right here.” He handed her the jar. “I keep it handy for when I’m hurting.”

&nbs
p; “Is that so? I never knew that,” she said, an eyebrow raised. She turned and walked over to the well. Robert’s boot and sock lay on the ground, and he bent over to retrieve them without hearing her come up.

  “Uh, I don’t mean to intrude, Mr. Frasier—”

  “Miss Bidwell. I didn’t see you.” His face reddened as he held his boot and sock to his side, one bare leg exposed, and his pants rolled up to his knee.

  Grace’s eyes traveled down his leg to his foot, twice the size of hers, splayed out in the dirt. It’d been a long time since she’d seen a man’s bare foot and she realized she was staring.

  “Oh, sorry. I brought some salve for that bruise. I couldn’t help but see it. It looks awful. It must really hurt.”

  “Aw, it’s not too bad, but I’d be much obliged to give that salve a try.” His gunmetal-gray eyes glinted at her until she turned her attention to the jar of salve.

  “My pop made it from a bear he killed before he took ill. He swears by it. Now if you’ll prop up your leg, I’ll smear some on the bruise.” She opened the jar, then used two fingers to lift out a gob of the thick goo.

  Robert did as he was told, bracing himself on one leg while he hiked the other one on the rim of the well. He closed his eyes, murmuring as she spread the salve.

  She wasn’t expecting so much hair on his legs, which made it a little difficult for her to rub the salve in. She lightly touched her fingertips against the purple bruise on his calf that was swollen. “From your sighs I’d have to say I must not be hurting you?” she asked after a few moments.

  “No, ma’am, not one bit. Take as long as you want. Either the salve will heal me or your tender touch will.” He opened his eyes to give her a frank gaze.

  Grace jerked her hand back, surprised at his admission. “Well, I think that’s quite enough for this time, Mr. Frasier.”

  “Thank you,” he said, dropping his leg to the ground, and quickly rolling his pants leg down. He leaned against the well, quickly jerking on his sock and boot. “I’ll get back to work now.”

  He limped off and Grace wiped her fingers on her apron before going back to hang the wash. She felt a little unsettled somehow.

  Sarah wanted to explore, and Becky had told her she could, but not to wander off too far before supper. She headed in the direction of the path that Robert always took, taking note of the wildflowers—purple, pink, and white. She’d have to find out the names of them. Perhaps she should collect some to make Becky smile. She hardly ever smiled anymore. She gathered a bunch and skipped along the path, enjoying the sunlight that filtered through the trees for a good distance until she heard a rustle in the woods and paused. She hadn’t meant to walk this far into the deep woods alone. Robert had warned them that Indians or road agents were always a possibility, but she wasn’t sure what that meant. A sound in the underbrush from behind startled her, and she turned around. To her amazement, a blue-gray duck squawked at her and flapped its wings.

  Sarah took a step back, unsure if the duck was going to pounce on her, but it soon folded its wings again and strutted in her direction. Curious, she bent down and held out her hand to the duck. To her surprise, the duck nibbled at her fingers, making her laugh from its tickle.

  “What are you doing out in the woods all alone, my little friend?” she asked, as if expecting an answer. “I see. You don’t want to tell me. That’s perfectly fine, because you don’t have to have a reason to take a walk on a gorgeous spring day, do you? My name’s Sarah. What’s yours?” But there was only silence as the duck blinked its eyes at her.

  “See the pretty flowers I picked for my sister?” Sarah bent down, and to her surprise the duck allowed her to stroke its back until it closed its eyes. “I’d better be getting back to camp now. I hadn’t meant to come this far and Becky will be worried.” She began to skip back down the trail, but the duck followed.

  Sarah stopped and wagged a finger. “Now, see here, Mr. Duck. You’d better go back home, ’cause if you come to our campground, you might wind up in a pot for stew!” But the duck continued nipping her ankles and she giggled, staring down at the fluff of blue.

  “Oh, dear me. What to do?”

  Robert entered the clearing as all three of the children’s heads snapped up where they huddled, guilty looks written across their faces. They were up to something, but he was tired and didn’t feel like an argument over supper. “What’s going on here?”

  “Oh, nothing,” Tom said. “We were just sitting here planning a trip to town.”

  “Is that so? And when are you going to town?”

  “As soon as you get your first pay. Remember? You promised us a good meal and a real bed to sleep in.” Becky glared hard at him.

  “I wouldn’t get too excited. I won’t get paid until the end of the week and it won’t amount to much.” He sat down on a folding camp stool and propped his elbows on his knees when he heard their grumbles. “We’ll have to figure out and make do with what we can.”

  “Didn’t you get any money for selling your farm?” Tom asked.

  “I’m sorry to say that it went back to the bank. I thought I told you that before. Let’s not talk about the past, but start thinking about the future, which will include school.”

  Tom thrust his chin up, folding his arms. “What good is school? Didn’t seem to help you any.”

  “Now let’s be fair—you don’t have all the facts, Tom, so let it drop,” Robert reminded him. “I promised to do good by you all and I meant it.”

  Sarah came up to Robert, leaning over to wrap her small arms about his neck. “We know you did, Papa.”

  The smell of her warm face touching his cheek made him musky inside, and she’d called him Papa again. He smiled up at her, wondering how she could.

  After the children went to bed, he sat alone watching the dying embers of the campfire. His soul felt restless. It was hard to admit that he was depressed. He felt like a stranger in this land, without a place to lay his head or call his own. Would he ever be able to own a home or land again?

  His mother had once told him, after his favorite schoolteacher had suddenly been dismissed, that there were no surprises to God—only to us. Everything was part of His plan. If we trusted Him for our future when He said, “This is the way, walk in it,” everything would turn out right in the end.

  But that was so hard to do—trust. He’d trusted Ada and where did that get him? Strapped with an instant family he hadn’t wanted and without a wife! He was thirty and had a dusting of gray at his temples—and what woman in her right mind would want to marry a man with three children? Women wanted to have their own little ones to cherish.

  He stood and fiercely kicked the dirt to cover over the fire, deciding it was time for bed. Wonder if Grace is in bed? She impressed him with her quiet ways and how she tended for her father and put him first above her own needs. Perhaps that was why she hadn’t married. “But what difference does it make to me?” he grumbled aloud. She meant nothing to him except that she employed him—or was that her father? He really wasn’t sure. An owl hooted from the pine above him and he looked up to watch the big eyes of the owl blink. “What do you say, ol’ wise owl? Agreeing with me?” He chuckled, making his way to his bedroll under the wagon.

  8

  Grace had been so busy with chores that a couple of days passed before she realized that she hadn’t seen or heard a peep out of Bluebelle. Donning her hat, she set out to go look for her. How does one call out to a duck? she wondered. Stepping outside, she saw her father and Robert chatting, but they paused when they saw her coming.

  “You’ve got that troubled look on your face, daughter. Somethin’ wrong?” Owen asked.

  “I hope not,” she said, tying the strings of her bonnet. “Either of you seen Bluebelle lately?”

  “Can’t say I have. Have you, Robert?” Owen glanced over at him.

  “No, I haven’t. Want me to help you look for her? I was taking a short break, if that’s all right with you,” Robert answered.


  Grace waved a hand. “Oh no, no, you go right ahead. I’m sure Pop will enjoy some company. If Pop forgot to tell you, work is only half a day on Saturdays and you’re off on Sundays. It’s the Lord’s Day and we like to honor it,” she said, noting his broad grin and thanks with a smile. She gave a brief wave, then strolled down the lane and away from the house, calling out Bluebelle’s name.

  A balmy breeze kissed the cottonwood’s tender new leaves while the sun warmed the pathway beneath them. Now, where had that silly duck gone? Ginny had ordered the duck from Sweden, and Grace was sure that it hadn’t been cheap. But that was like her friend to do something nice to surprise her.

  Grace continued to walk farther, calling out Bluebelle’s name until she came to the creek, surprised to find three children wading in the water. She made her way down the slope to the creek bed below. The three children turned from the creek bed to watch as she made her way toward them, and to her surprise, there was Bluebelle floating around in the creek.

  “Bluebelle!” Grace cried. “You naughty girl, running away from home!”

  The duck waddled to the edge of the bank at the sound of her mistress’s voice while the children stood gazing at the duck and her. Grace paused, looking at the faces that seemed so familiar. Where had she seen them? “How did you get my duck?”

  The boy shrugged, but the smallest girl answered, “She followed me home one day. Does she belong to you?” Her sweet voice was music to Grace’s ears.

  “I know you—you’re that nice lady from the mercantile store,” an older girl said.

  Now Grace did remember them. “Yes, you’re right on both counts. What are you doing way out here? Do you live nearby?”

  “Well, sort of,” the older girl replied.

  “Sort of? What does that mean?” Grace wondered if they were runaways, trying to escape being forced into the working mills.

  “Our papa is at work and returns at suppertime. Are you gonna take the duck? She sure seems to know your voice,” the boy replied.