by DiAnn Mills
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
DiAnn Mills Bio
Copyright
Dedication
To Larry and Martha Dyke. Good friends are a gift from God.
1898, Kahlerville, Texas
Chapter 1
In the predawn hours when earth stood ready to relinquish its cloak of darkness, Bonnie Kahler reached to touch the opposite side of the bed. Empty. Just as it had been for the past two years, nine months, and nineteen days. Every morning she woke with the hope that Ben hadn’t been taken from her and his body didn’t lie in a cold grave while she struggled to keep a feeble hold onto sanity.
Some days Bonnie believed she could cast aside her sorrow and raise her children alone. She could be strong and decisive and not let her widowhood affect her every step. On those days, she believed God still cared about her and He would show her how to fight the blackness engulfing her soul.
This was not one of those days.
Bonnie drew back her hand and took a deep breath. Her head pounded. Zack and Michael Paul needed breakfast and a smiling mother before they left for school. Lydia Anne needed a mother who played dolls and dressed her sun-kissed hair with ribbons and bows. All three of her children deserved a mother who understood she carried the roles of both parents. The boys loved to fish, but she hated the thought of handling dirty worms and slimy fish. Far too long she’d expected her brothers and stepfather to fill Ben’s shoes.
Help me, Lord. I want to climb out of this selfish hole and live for You. I want only truth in everything I do.
Refusing to wallow in self-pity one minute longer, Bonnie swung her legs over the side of the bed and walked to the open window. She pushed aside the curtains and listened to the rooster give his call to morning and the cattle low in response. This had been Ben’s favorite time of the day.
“Bonnie, come watch the sunrise. It’s prettier than most,” he’d say. And she’d crawl out of bed to join him. Not because she shared his enthusiasm for the day’s beginnings, but because she loved him.
Today the sun barely lit the horizon in colors matching the fall leaves carpeting the ground outside her home. Odd how they glittered like jewels in the pale moonlight when only a half-moon illuminated them before the sun pushed it from sight. Autumn ushered in painful memories of Ben’s last days—the persistent cough that decimated his body and took his spirit to a place where she could not go.
She slowly turned to the nightstand where Ben’s Bible rested. Most days she shrank back from looking at it and exploring the words that promised to sustain her. But she always thought about reading the familiar passages. Beside the Bible sat an empty wine bottle. She startled. Had she drunk that much last night? A friend had suggested she drink a small glass of wine when she couldn’t sleep. Last night, the wine had tasted as sweet as her life had been with Ben, but today guilt consumed more than an empty flask. Her family would be appalled. Seeking their guidance crossed her mind, but she was too ashamed of her inability to cope after all these months.
“I will not give in to this,” she whispered. “Dear Jesus, help me.”
The day’s activities scrolled across her mind. She needed to meet with Thomas in the next few minutes. He was a good foreman who knew her failings. Yet he always took the time to review the past week’s work and show her where every penny was being spent or earned for the Morning Star Ranch. Soon, maybe today, she’d take more interest in the ranch.
Michael Paul wanted to take piano lessons, and today she’d make the arrangements with her sister-in-law to teach him. Lydia Anne needed more attention from her mother, the kind of attention that didn’t result in frustration and tears from both of them.
A twinge of fear took root in her heart. She’d been summoned by Zack’s teacher. His behavior at school had been deteriorating steadily since his father died.
“Don’t make excuses for him,” her mother had said. “Force him to face up to the consequences of his mistakes. If you don’t, he’ll continue to torment Michael Paul and Lydia Anne. The older he gets, the more his tendency will be to bully you. Now is the time for Zack to understand rules and authority.”
How could Bonnie instill those values in her son when she couldn’t bring herself to discipline him? He grieved for his father. All of them did. How could she help her precious children when she shared their misery?
Bonnie lifted her shoulders and swept her fingertips across the Bible, a milestone, for she hadn’t been able to complete that small gesture of respect since before Ben died. Her other hand grasped the wine bottle, and she set it by the chamber pot.
I’ll drink tea to help me sleep. I’ll listen in church this week, and I’ll try very hard to take Mama’s advice. She nodded to punctuate her thoughts. The reverend planned to retire soon. Perhaps she’d garner the strength to ask for advice before he did so.
With more determination than she’d felt in months, Bonnie dressed and descended the stairs to begin her duties for the day. She heard Juanita humming a Spanish tune in the kitchen and smelled the nutty aroma of coffee.
“Buenos dias, Miss Bonnie.” Juanita clasped her small hands together and smiled broadly. “Another beautiful day, I think. Sí?” She poured Bonnie coffee and added a brilliant smile.
“Thank you.” Bonnie wrapped her fingers around the cup. She envied Juanita’s iridescence—always happy, beautiful, passionate about her faith. “I think the day is as beautiful as you and I choose.”
“Then we choose the best.”
Forcing a smile, Bonnie told herself that soon she’d not force joy. It would return. Life was about to change. It had to. A rap on the door indicated Thomas had arrived to discuss ranch business, and today Bonnie planned to listen.
*****
Travis Whitworth didn’t believe in luck or coincidence, but he did believe in a nudging of the Spirit. And right this very minute, he felt a wagonload of apprehension. Standing at the Kahlerville train station with bag in hand, he glanced around for someone to direct him to the parsonage. There he’d meet the retiring Reverend John Rainer and begin to learn his duties as the new preacher. Excitement should have taken over his senses, but instead, he questioned his calling. Had he misunderstood God’s direction? Or did the quivering in his bones come from what had happened at his last church?
Nonsense. No one here knew his past, and he doubted if anyone would. Even his own mother wouldn’t recognize him. Maybe the wild hair, baggy clothes, and spectacles weren’t necessary. But looking pleasing to women had disrupted his ministry before, and he intended for it never to happen again. The train slowly chugged away while smoke cu
rled up and disappeared, reminding him of how God had forgiven him. The matter had been settled. Here he’d make a difference in God’s kingdom.
Travis made his way down the street, noting the warm weather that felt more like summer back home in Tennessee. He’d miss the hills and the change of seasons. Right now the leaves painted the hills in scarlet, gold, and orange. Geese migrated south, and a touch of cool air paved the way for winter. More than home, he’d miss his family, but they were glad he’d left. Sadness settled on him, and he shook his head. God had given him a second chance.
An older couple made their way toward him. “Excuse me. Can you direct me to the parsonage?”
The man nodded while the woman patted his arm.
“Turn around and head down the street. Go past the train station and around the bend. It’ll be on your left beside the church. The schoolhouse is across the road.”
“Are you the new preacher?” The woman bent over slightly, but her voice sounded strong.
“Yes, ma’am. My name is Travis Whitworth.”
The matchstick thin man reached out to shake his hand. “Eli and Nellie Parker.”
“It’s a pleasure. You have a pretty town.”
“Hmm.” The woman studied him, then frowned. “No man alive can take Reverend Rainer’s place.”
Travis expected this, especially since the man had been at Piney Woods Church for forty years. “I don’t intend to take his place, ma’am. I only want to shepherd the church with God’s help. I pray you’ll have patience with me until I learn more about the congregation.”
“Where’s your wife?” the woman said, the wrinkles in her face intensifying.
“I don’t have one.”
“Who’ll lead the women and make sure the poor and needy folks are taken care of? I don’t understand how you can do your job without a wife to help you.”
Travis hadn’t anticipated the firing of questions so soon. “I believe this gives the women an opportunity to serve the church and community. But I promise I’ll do my best.” He tipped his hat to the couple. “Good day, Mr. and Mrs. Parker. Thank you for the directions.”
He turned toward the road and saw where it curved and disappeared in a canopy of pine trees. Sort of like his life. A horse and rider trotted by, nearly running him over. What a reception.
Once Travis rounded the bend, he breathed in the picturesque countryside. Birds serenaded him, and for a moment he relaxed. Up ahead and to the right of him he heard voices. He stopped in the road, and the distinct sound of boys arguing seized his attention. He focused on the trees and made his way closer to them.
“Your pa died ’cause he couldn’t stand being around you.”
“Liar. He was sick.”
“Yeah. He had you for a son.”
The sharp smack of a punch broke the otherwise peaceful afternoon. One of the boys cursed, and the struggle continued. Travis left his bag at the side of the road and headed for them. He stepped into the middle of flying fists and grabbed each boy by the shoulder.
“Whoa, boys. Shouldn’t you be in school?”
One of the boys, a dark-haired youth of about twelve, wiped a trickle of blood from his mouth. He scowled at Travis. “That’s none of your business.”
Travis shook his head and glanced at a red-haired boy whose shirt had been ripped nearly in two. A purplish bruise encircled his eye, providing no doubt as who was winning this fistfight. “So do you think it’s none of my business?”
“We don’t need you, mister,” the red-haired boy said, nearly out of breath.
The dark-haired one laughed and jerked from Travis’s hold. “I’ll teach you a lesson, Clay—one you’ll never forget.” He lunged forward, but Travis grabbed him.
“We’re heading to the school.” Travis shoved both of the boys ahead of him. “Fighting doesn’t solve a thing.”
The boys tried to shrug his hold, but years of hard work in the Tennessee hills had made Travis strong. The dark-haired boy cursed again. His pa needed to take a switch to his backside—or was this the boy whose pa had died?
The schoolhouse loomed ahead, but the children were obviously inside tending to their lessons. By forcing the boys into the building, he’d humiliate them. For a moment, he wished he had a rope to tie them up before he fetched the teacher. He paused before mounting the schoolhouse steps and debated the best way to handle the mess he’d gotten himself into. The door opened, and a woman stood before him.
Shock etched her face. “Zack, what is going on?”
The dark-haired boy shook off Travis’s hold. “Clay started it, Mama. I didn’t want to get beat up, so I hit back.”
Travis had sincere doubts about the truth in Zack’s words.
“That’s a lie,” Clay said. “He started it by saying my ma was bigger than a cow and ugly.”
Zack swallowed hard. “That’s not true, Mama. Please believe me. He said Papa died ’cause I was a bad son.”
The woman’s face softened, and she reached out for him to take her hand. “I believe you.” She tilted her head and eyed Travis.
For the first time, Travis studied the woman, a little lady with sky blue eyes. He saw the resemblance between her and Zack, except she had hair the color of wheat. Apparently she was the schoolteacher, too.
“And who are you?” she said.
“Travis Whitworth, ma’am. I was walking past the woods and heard the boys scuffling.”
“He threatened to beat me,” Zack said. “I begged him to bring us to school.”
Travis wished he’d never interrupted the boys. Zack obviously had more than a little experience in manipulating his mother. He stole a look at Clay from the corner of his eye. Fear had captured the boy. No doubt Zack had practice in bullying others.
The woman stiffened. “How dare you speak to these boys this way?”
“Ma’am, I said nothing of the sort. I simply broke up the fight and brought the boys here. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be on my way.”
She shook her fist at him. “I have a good mind to report you to the sheriff. A grown man has no right threatening young boys.”
Shock settled on Travis. Had he come to the wrong town? “I assure you I had the best intentions in breaking up the fight, but if you feel you must contact the sheriff, I’d be happy to talk with him. I can be contacted through Reverend Rainer.”
Frustrated and angry, Travis took long strides to the road to retrieve his bag. No wonder the reverend of this town was retiring. The citizens of Kahlerville offered as much welcome as an aggravated rattler.
Chapter 2
Travis reached to pick up his bag and too late discovered a wasp flitting above the handle. The nuisance sank its stinger deep into his palm. Travis yelped and dropped the bag. A second wasp attacked the top of the same hand. What had he done to deserve this? Immediately his hand swelled and burned. If he believed in bad omens, he’d purchase a ticket for the next train out of here. Made him wonder if Satan himself had taken up residence in this seemingly quiet town.
Once free of the wasps, he examined his hand to pull out the stingers. Both were embedded, and unless he was ready to dig out flesh with his pocket knife, he’d have to wait until he met up with Reverend Rainer’s wife. He shook his hand vigorously to shake off the throb from his wrist to his fingertips. Snatching up his bag, Travis walked toward the parsonage. He’d seen the house and church while escorting the boys to school, but he hadn’t had the opportunity to study the buildings. Now he took in every board, every shrub, every neatly planted flower surrounding the church. He shielded his eyes from the afternoon sun and peered up at the steeple. My church to watch over for God as long as He sees fit. When the wasp stings caused him to drop his bag and rub the area around his palm and on top of his hand, Travis recalled the moments in his life that had seemed perfect just before a stab of evil
spoiled the beauty. With cautious wisdom, he grabbed the wooden handle and ventured farther.
He walked around the well-maintained whitewashed building, the sparkling clean windows, and . . . there in the middle was a stained-glass window. A picture of Jesus portrayed as the Good Shepherd glistened in vivid colors of green, red, and blue, reminding Travis of the enormity of his calling and the need for the Good Shepherd to carry him. Travis smiled, one of the few times so far that day.
Rose bushes climbed the side of the church as if by next spring they would strive to cover all of the building in a mixture of blossoms and thorns. Ah, another reminder of life’s goodness and adversities. He made his way behind the church, where a tree-lined, narrow wagon path led to a fenced cemetery. Life and death, all a part of this earthly journey.
He moved on to the opposite side of the church, where another stained-glass window depicted Jesus in the garden of Gethsemane. Pausing for a moment, Travis smelled the faint sweetness of wildflowers then made his way back to the front of the building. Flowers bloomed at his feet. Someone cared about these neatly kept grounds. He paused and glanced at the double doors, then mounted the steps. His home-for-wayward-wasps bag landed with a plop on the wooden landing. With his heart thumping like a scared rabbit, he removed his tattered hat and opened the door.
A slight mustiness met his nostrils—a blend of old hymnals and wood. For a moment, he savored every delicious scent and envisioned every pew filled with worshippers. Light oak enriched the room, from the benches, to the window casings, to the pulpit, and on to a life-sized cross mounted in the back. The two stained-glass windows were more striking from the inside. Momentarily, he forgot about the mishaps since arriving in town. Thank You, Lord, for allowing me to serve You in this beautiful church. May I never disappoint You.
With purposeful steps, Travis focused his body and heart on the pulpit. His boots thundered against the wooden floor much like the echo of the words from a powerful sermon. Scaring folks to death with a threat of hell had never been his way of preaching. Nevertheless, after his encounter with the wasps, he could sense a good sermon coming on. A Bible lay open on the pulpit, and when he curiously glanced to see the passage, his gaze fixed on Isaiah 6:8: “I heard the voice of the Lord, saying, Whom shall I send, and who will go for us? Then said I, Here am I; send me.”
