Where the Heart Leads

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  Thomas had mentioned Daphne before—the younger sister of his college friend. Belinda was familiar with the name, but not until this letter had she realized the extent of Thomas’s interest in the young woman. Or maybe, she acknowledged with a pang of self-recrimination, she had overlooked the truth in order to hold on to hope that Thomas would one day see her as more than a casual friend.

  Foolish, Malinda had said. Yes, Belinda had been foolish indeed thinking her letter-writing would bind Thomas to her. How could she have let herself believe for even one minute he would feel as connected to her through her letters as she did with him? Despite his moments of kindness during his brief time in Hillsboro, she was still Belinda Schmidt, the girl who had tormented him throughout his growing-up years. Their past—and her behavior—would always be a stumbling block between them.

  Belinda raised her face to the planked ceiling overhead. She glared at the weathered gray boards. “Is it too much to ask for a little happiness? Neither Mama nor Malinda appreciates all I do for them. I thought—I thought Thomas appreciated my letters, but now . . .” She swallowed, her chest heaving with the effort of holding back sobs. “Now I see he’s just used me, too, to meet his own need for information. He never c-cared for m-me . . .”

  Pain stabbed so fiercely, Belinda couldn’t contain it. Doubling over, she wrapped her arms across her stomach, rocked herself, and allowed the tears to flow. Between bouts of wracking sobs, she poured out her hurt in a mingled torrent of complaints, regrets, and requests. Then, finally spent, she drooped against the rough shed wall and peered upward once more. A small crack between two overhead boards allowed in a slender beam of early evening sunlight. Shimmering dust motes danced through the shaft of white.

  She squinted, focusing on the glittering bits of grit, fascinated by the play of light on each miniscule particle. How could dirt— just plain old ugly dirt—take on the appearance of diamonds when drifting through a beam of light? For reasons beyond her understanding, a small candle of hope lit within her breast. Could all of the heartache of these days—Malinda’s surliness, Papa’s death, Mama’s despondence, the thankless hours of toil—be somehow transformed into something pleasant? Something of beauty?

  A portion of a verse from the book of Isaiah suddenly filtered through Belinda’s mind. She whispered the words aloud. “ ‘Give unto them beauty for ashes.’ ”

  Eager to confirm the thought, she pushed to her feet and raced to the house. She closed herself in her bedroom, opened her Bible, and searched until she located the text in Isaiah’s sixty-first chapter, the third verse. She read the entire scripture aloud, pronouncing each word carefully.

  “ ‘To appoint unto them that mourn in Zion, to give unto them beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness; that they might be called trees of righteousness, the planting of the Lord, that he might be glorified.’ ”

  She closed her eyes for a moment, soaking up the meaning of the passage. God could replace unhappiness with joy—the verse clearly confirmed it. Opening her eyes, she focused on the words that had called to her in the shed. “Beauty for ashes . . .” Certainly all she had now was ashes—gray, useless wisps of burnt dreams and desires. But what was faith if not a belief that God would do what He promised? She scanned the words again: “Beauty for ashes . . . Joy for mourning . . . Praise for the spirit of heaviness . . .” She underlined the final words with a trembling finger: “That he might be glorified.”

  Closing the Bible, she pressed her hands to the worn leather cover. Could all of the difficulties of the past year be a way of testing, of growing her, so that she might bring glory to her Lord? Gulping, she remembered her outpouring in the shed—the bitter complaints she had hurled at her heavenly Father. Had she failed Him by giving in to despair?

  Slipping to her knees, she begged forgiveness, then admitted in a ragged tone, “It just hurts so much, God, to feel . . . cast aside . . . by everyone. I need to be loved and appreciated. Please, can’t you send someone who will meet my needs even as you give me strength to meet the needs of my mother and sister?” Clenching her fingers so tightly they ached, she begged, “Give me beauty for ashes, Father. A little beauty, please . . .”

  A frantic pounding at her door brought her to her feet. She rushed to the door and flung it open. Malinda stood in the hallway, her chest heaving with rapid breaths and her eyes wild. Belinda grasped her sister’s arms. “What is it?”

  “Belinda.” Malinda’s harsh whisper sent a shaft of fear through Belinda’s breast. “It’s Mama. Something’s wrong.”

  The telephone jangled, interrupting dinner. Nadine looked toward the door leading to the kitchen and scowled. Thomas covered his rueful smile with his napkin. At least she was scowling at something besides him. The past two weeks had been difficult, facing his foster grandmother’s constant disapproval of his choice to move into the cottage. She didn’t seem to realize her scolding only made him more determined to leave.

  Mildred appeared in the doorway, her round face showing concern. “Mr. Thomas? The call is for you.” She wrung her hands in her apron. “From Hillsboro.”

  Thomas sent a startled look at Nadine. He’d never received a telephone call from Kansas. His parents communicated through letters or an occasional telegram. They didn’t use the telephone. His heart set up a thud of trepidation. Wiping his mouth, he followed Mildred to the kitchen and picked up the earpiece. Leaning close to the mouth horn, he hollered, “Hello, this is Thomas.”

  “Son.” A crackle of static underscored Pa’s grave voice.

  Thomas pressed his palm to the wall next to the telephone. His legs quivered. “What’s wrong?”

  Pa’s voice was low. “Of course you would think right away something is wrong. And you would be right. There has been a death.”

  Summer? One of the girls? Thomas’s knees buckled, and he nearly went down.

  “Frau Schmidt died in her bed this afternoon.”

  The relief was so great, Thomas sank against the wall, his shoulders slumping low as he dropped his chin. Then guilt brought him upright. He should feel grief for Belinda, not deliverance for himself. “What happened?”

  A long pause made Thomas wonder if the connection had broken. Then Pa’s voice came again, subdued. “She refused to eat for many weeks. The doctor says . . . she willed herself to die.”

  A chill went down Thomas’s spine. How awful for her daughters, to know their mother had chosen to leave them. “How—” He swallowed the knot in his throat. “How is Belinda?”

  “She is holding up for Malinda’s sake, but I see much pain in her eyes. Pray for her, son.”

  Thomas swallowed again. “I will, Pa. You tell her she’s in my prayers.”

  Pa informed Thomas when the burial would be, and then they disconnected the call. Thomas walked on wooden legs back to the dining room and sat. Nadine raised her brows in silent query, and Thomas shared the news.

  “Ah. So sad.” Nadine shook her head, clicking her tongue against her teeth. “Death is a difficult thing to bear, especially for one at such a young age. Your friend Belinda will be much in need of support.” She raised one brow. “This is the Belinda who writes to you regularly, is it not?”

  Thomas nodded. He pushed his plate aside, his hunger gone.

  “If you’ll excuse me, Nadine, I believe I’d like to take the carriage and go for a ride.”

  For once Nadine didn’t question him but merely waved her hand in dismissal. He headed to the small carriage house at the rear of Nadine’s property and secured the horse in its rigging. In a few minutes, he sat in the driver’s seat, guiding the horse through the streets of Boston. The typical evening traffic greeted him, and he decided he’d rather avoid others. He aimed the carriage for the edge of town.

  After a few minutes, he realized he’d chosen the road that led to the Severt estate. By accident or design? He supposed it didn’t matter whether the selection was intentional or not. Suddenly he needed to share the h
urt he carried for Belinda’s loss, and who better to unburden him than his sweetheart, Daphne?

  He turned the carriage into the lane and drew the horse to a stop in front of the house. Even before he could hop down, the front doors opened and Daphne stepped outside. Her face glowed with open delight.

  “Thomas!” She rushed forward, catching his hands. “What an unexpected pleasure! What brings—” Her eyes widened. “Oh, my. I can tell by your expression. Something is wrong.” She gave his hands a tug, leading him to the wicker settee surrounded by potted flowers. “Come. Sit down.”

  Thomas sank gratefully onto the padded cushion. Daphne seated herself gracefully beside him, her full skirts falling across his knee. “Please tell me what has you troubled. Has Mrs. Steadman been chiding you again about the cottage?”

  Truthfully, Nadine didn’t let a day go by without voicing her opinion about the foolishness of him spending his money on rent when he could live free of charge beneath her roof. But he’d learned to nod and ignore her. Besides, that complaint seemed petty in light of Belinda’s loss. He shook his head.

  “Then is it the campaign?”

  Thomas snorted. Although he’d spent every evening at campaign headquarters and continued to give Watson his full support despite Nadine’s disapproval, the election seemed of no greater consequence than Nadine’s fussing about the cottage. “I received some unpleasant news from home.”

  “Tell me.”

  His stomach churned when he thought about Belinda facing her mother’s service and burial without the support of family or friends. Malinda would be useless, and few people in the community had reached out to her. Although he had encouraged her to make friends, he knew from her letters she was too busy with her responsibilities to take time to socialize. How alone she must feel.

  “A friend of mine . . .” His head hung low as sympathy weighed him down. “Her mother died.”

  “Her?”

  The sharp note brought Thomas’s head up. “Yes. Her name is Belinda Schmidt. We went to school together, and—”

  Daphne’s expression became a scowl of displeasure. “I wasn’t aware you had a friend named Belinda.”

  At the bite in her tone, Thomas withdrew by sliding sideways several inches. Her skirt slipped from his trouser leg, and she smoothed it even closer to her own knees. He explained, “We grew up in the same community, but we didn’t become friends until this past summer.”

  Daphne’s eyes snapped, but she pressed her lips together and sat in silence.

  “She’s written to me since I came back to Boston, kept me up-to-date on what was happening in Hillsboro. She lives right across the alley from my parents.”

  A chill seemed to creep across the balmy air. Thomas recognized the signs of jealousy, but surely Daphne understood there was no reason to be envious of Belinda? He clasped her hand and held it even though she tugged slightly to free herself. “Daphne, listen to me. Belinda lost her mother. Her father is already gone. All she has is an older sister who has never been stable and now struggles with her health, so she is no help at all. I’m concerned for Belinda.”

  Daphne managed to wriggle her hand loose. She clutched her fingers together and pressed them to her lap, fixing Thomas with a haughty glare. “Well, I’m sure Belinda appreciates your great concern. Perhaps you should go back to Mrs. Steadman’s and pen her a lengthy letter, telling her how much you care.”

  Thomas’s chest felt tight, his face hot. “I don’t care for Belinda. Not the way you’re intimating. As I said, she’s a friend. I realize you don’t know her, but can’t you feel any compassion for her at all?” And couldn’t she feel any compassion for the way Frau Schmidt’s death had impacted him?

  Daphne rose, lifting her chin. “I fail to see why you should expect me to feel compassion for a woman with whom I have no relationship. And I fail to see why you are so affected by her loss unless”—her cool tone carried recrimination—“you harbor a deeper caring than you are willing to admit.”

  Thomas stood and warned, “Daphne, I don’t appreciate your insinuation.”

  Daphne stamped her foot, glowering upward. “And I do not appreciate your overt concern for another woman! You are courting me. No other woman should hold any part of your attention.”

  Thomas’s anger welled, building a band of constriction around his chest. Rather than blast her with his frustration, he turned toward the buggy.

  Two small hands caught his elbow and clung, the fingers digging into his flesh. He paused, taking in a deep breath before turning his head to look into her face. She held to his elbow as she peered at him with wide, sad eyes glistening with tears.

  “Thomas, you think me cold and uncaring, don’t you? Truth be known, I’ve suffered that accusation before. But it isn’t the case. Not really. I care so dearly for you. I only ask that you care as much for me. That you put me before all others.” The velvety color of her eyes deepened as tears swam. “I couldn’t bear it if something—or someone else—came between us. You do understand, don’t you, Thomas?”

  Yes, he understood. This was possessiveness—wanting Thomas all to herself. Hadn’t he experienced the same feeling when other men had admired Daphne? Selfish jealousy had struck him when he feared Daphne’s attention belonged to someone other than him.

  Then, without warning, his father’s voice rang through Thomas’s head, advice from long ago: “Son, if you put God first, your family second, and yourself third, you will be blessed.” Should selfish jealousy exist in Thomas’s heart? Should he accept it from Daphne?

  “I understand, Daphne. But . . .” He swallowed hard.

  She pressed her hands to her bodice and met his gaze with an imploring look that cut to his heart. “But . . . what?”

  He didn’t know how to explain what he was thinking. “Nothing. I . . . I need to go.” He turned toward the carriage.

  Daphne’s hand caught his sleeve. “Thomas, this Belinda—”

  He sighed. “You have no reason to be jealous of Belinda,” he said quietly. “She and I are just friends.”

  Daphne’s expression relaxed. Her fingers curled around his forearm. “I’m sorry I misjudged your intentions. I just love you so . . .”

  The fervency of her gaze moved Thomas. He captured her in an embrace. Holding her to his beating heart, with her arms wrapped around his middle, he found the comfort he’d sought. He would forgive her hasty reaction. She was young and impetuous, and her emotions carried her away. Her love for him drove the passion of jealousy. He could forgive her foolishness.

  Pressing his lips to the top of her head, he whispered, “You are very important to me, Daphne. You know that, don’t you?”

  Still nestled in his arms, she sighed. “I know. I’ll never be so silly again.” She lifted her face to him, her eyes shining with something akin to victory. “No one will ever come before me. Right, Thomas?”

  Pa’s advice once more winged through his memory. But Thomas closed his eyes and held tighter to the woman in his arms.

  17

  AGUST OF WIND PEPPERED Belinda with particles of dust.

  The tiny bits stung the bare skin on the back of her neck.

  Beside her, Malinda sagged with grief and exhaustion. Belinda slipped her arm around her sister’s waist.

  “Malinda, let’s go home now,” she whispered, the whistle of the wind adding harmony to her soothing tone. “It’s time for us to say good-bye to Mama.”

  Malinda jerked free of Belinda’s touch and dropped to her knees beside the fresh grave. Her hands pressed into the mound of moist, dark dirt covering the pine box that held their mother’s body, and her face contorted in agony. “Noooooo!” Her moan carried above the ceaseless wind.

  Belinda knelt, too, catching her sister’s hand. “Malinda, please . . .” She could hardly bear to see Malinda’s heartbreak, yet even as she tried to offer comfort, she longed for someone to comfort her.

  Malinda slapped Belinda’s hand, her face twisting into a fierce scowl. “Leave me b
e! I’ll not leave Mama!” She threw herself across the grave, her face buried in the bend of her elbow.

  Belinda rose, her wind-tossed skirts and burden of pain making her clumsy. How would she convince Malinda to come home? The burial service had ended over an hour ago. All of the mourners had already gone. One by one, they had climbed into their wagons and headed back to their own homes. Even the minister had gone at Belinda’s insistence. She had been certain, once all had departed, Malinda would see the sense of saying her final good-bye and returning to Hillsboro.

  She glanced over her shoulder and spotted Herr Ollenburger and his wife waiting in the slice of shade cast by their wagon. Belinda knew they were ready to leave. They had graciously transported Belinda, Malinda, and the coffin carrying Mama’s body to the gravesite near the Gaeddert Kleine Gemeinde. Though she had not told her so, Belinda was certain Mama would want to be buried next to Papa in the church’s tiny cemetery. Kind Herr Ollenburger had said they could stay as long as they needed to find peace, but Belinda feared peace would never come. Not for Malinda. And without Malinda’s acceptance, Belinda had no peace, either.

  Closing her eyes against the sting of tears, she whispered, “Please, heavenly Father, help me.”

  A warm hand closed around her elbow. She opened her eyes and found Herr Ollenburger at her side. His tender gaze brought a new rush of tears. She clung to his arm, drawing strength from his presence. “Oh, Herr Ollenburger, I don’t know what to do. Malinda refuses to leave.”

  Without a word, the big man nodded. Stepping forward, he wrapped his hands over Malinda’s shoulders. “Come now, Mal-inda.” He spoke in Low German, his rumbling voice calm and soothing. “Time it is for us to go.”