Whispers from Yesterday

by Robin Lee Hatcher

  If they’d been in Los Angeles, instead of stuck in the middle of nowhere, she wouldn’t have noticed him at all, let alone felt any attraction for him. He wasn’t her type. The plain truth was, in a county of nearly five million acres and less than ten thousand people, he was the only available man she’d seen above the age of twenty. That was the single reason for her attraction to him.

  Well, that and his rugged good looks. Those didn’t hurt either.

  She stopped in the middle of the path, the hot July sun beating down on her head and back.

  No, that wasn’t the truth. There was much more about Dusty that appealed to her. There was his depth of character, a strength of purpose, that set him apart from any of the men of her previous acquaintance.

  But that’s merely admiration. Nothing more.

  If that were true, how did she explain the things she’d felt that day at Bonnet Creek? If that were true, how did she explain accompanying Dusty and the others the day they’d worked on the Echeverria barn?

  I wanted to help. That’s all.

  Who was she kidding?

  I wanted to be with him. I wanted to be with Dusty.

  As she continued along the path, she recalled the feel of Dusty’s hand holding hers. She recalled the heated look in his dark eyes. She wasn’t mistaken. He’d wanted to kiss her. And she would have let him if he’d tried.

  “No wonder Mother thought me a lost cause,” she muttered. “Even when I know something isn’t good for me, I want it.”

  She arrived at the bench beneath the willow and sat down with a sigh.

  “O God,” she whispered. She hadn’t meant it as a prayer, and yet somehow it became one. She looked upward.

  “What am I to do?”

  Wait.

  Her breath caught, and a fluttering sensation swept through her. The word was there and then it was gone, but it had been oh so real.

  “Wait for what?” she asked softly.

  She heard no reply, only the rustle of leaves as they danced to the tune of the never-ceasing wind blowing across the Owyhee desert.

  Tuesday, February 1, 1938

  Dear Diary,

  I love being married!

  It struck me this morning how very blessed I am. It was God who brought Mikkel into my life. Without Him, what were the chances of Mikkel leaving Wisconsin and coming to our small town in Oregon just so that he and I could meet?

  None, indeed, without the divine hand of God guiding him there.

  Mikkel and I begin every day with Bible reading and prayer. I learn so much in those quiet times together, just the two of us with our Lord, praying in agreement, talking about God’s holy word. But there is more I yearn to know and understand.

  Mikkel tells me I must be patient. That life is a continuous lesson to be learned one step at a time.

  Oh, but I am an impatient woman. I hope our baby is like Mikkel and not me.

  Father in heaven, may this child I carry in my womb be a child of God from an early age. May he be trained up in the way he should go so that when he is old, he will not depart from it. Amen.

  Esther

  SIXTEEN

  August arrived at the Golden T Ranch, a month of hot winds, blowing sands, relentless sun, and scant chance of rain.

  Hal had been gone more than five weeks, but there was still no word of his whereabouts. Daily Sophia and Dusty prayed, asking God to protect him. Beyond that, all they could do was trust and hope.

  As for the other boys, Dusty was pleased with the progress they’d made. Each had come to the Golden T with unique needs and ways of acting out those needs. And each had responded positively to the love and discipline that were the hallmarks of this youth camp. Noah had made a commitment to Christ in late July. Billy, who had experienced the changing power of God’s grace earlier in the year, had become the older boy’s mentor. And Ted, who had been the most resistant to church and the message of the gospel, seemed more open now, giving Dusty hope that he, too, would find peace with God.

  But tonight he wasn’t thinking about the well-being of his boys. He was thinking about Karen, a particularly easy thing to do, sitting as they were across a campfire from each other. They weren’t alone, of course. Ted, Noah, and Billy were with them, as was Sophia. The youth group from church had joined them too, along with Grant, Wendy, the youth pastor, and his wife.

  The barbecue was an annual event at the Golden T, and everyone looked forward to it. Plenty of food. Plenty of good company, games, and laughter. And after nightfall, a marsh-mallow roast and songfest around a large campfire.

  Karen and Billy sat side by side in lawn chairs, each of them holding straightened wire hangers toward the fire. Karen smiled brightly, something she hadn’t done much lately. At least not when Dusty was around. He didn’t have to be an Einstein to understand she was doing her best to keep him at arm’s length. She was probably right, too, but it didn’t change the way he felt about her.

  He’d never seen Karen look lovelier than she did tonight. Flickering firelight turned her pale hair from the color of wheat to a coppery orange. He wished he could run his fingers through it, feel its silkiness.

  Could she be the one for me, Lord? Or am I getting my eyes off of You?

  “You lost another one?” Billy cried as Karen’s marshmallow dropped into the fire, his tone clearly indicating what he thought of her roasting skills. “You’d better let me do it for you.”

  “Maybe I’d better.” She shook her head, still smiling. “I told you I’ve never done this before.”

  “How’d you get to be so old without learning how to roast marshmallows?”

  Again she laughed. “So old?” She looked up, and her gaze met Dusty’s. For a change, her smile didn’t fade away.

  Encouraged, he asked, “Yes, how did you get to be so old, Miss Butler, without knowing something that important?”

  “I honestly don’t know, sir.”

  “All of what? Twenty-eight?”

  “Twenty-seven, thank you very much. And you’re old enough to know you should never ask a lady her age.”

  His grin broadened. “Oops. Sorry.”

  “How come?” Billy interjected with his usual curiosity.

  “Basic rules of life, my young friend,” Dusty answered. “Just basic rules of life.”

  “Sounds dumb. People ask me how old I am, and I don’t mind.”

  Karen laughed again. “You have a point.”

  “Get your guitar, Dusty,” Grant interrupted from somewhere beyond the ring of firelight. “We’re ready to sing.”

  Karen looked away, and the moment of easy camaraderie was broken.

  As Dusty strummed his guitar, Karen stood and stepped into the shadow of night. At the same time, others moved closer until she was the only one not included in the group.

  By her own choice.

  I’m in love with him.

  She couldn’t think of anything worse that could happen to her than to fall in love with Dusty Stoddard. It was all wrong. For both of them. It would only lead to heartache. She wasn’t about to stay in Idaho any longer than she had to, and she couldn’t imagine Dusty living in Los Angeles.

  Voices joined the music of the guitar. “Amazing grace …”

  Dusty played with his eyes closed, his face tilted upward. His expression was … How could she describe it? More than peaceful. More than joyful. Simply more.

  His thoughts had been centered on her earlier, when their gazes met across the campfire, before the singing had begun. She’d seen it in his eyes. But he wasn’t thinking about her now. He was totally focused on the God he sang about.

  Just once I’d like to come first in somebody’s life.

  She could almost hear Dusty saying, “God loved you first, Karen.”

  But that’s not what I mean.

  A new melody arose, the voices harmonizing as perfectly as any trained choir. “Great is Thy faithfulness …”

  I can’t believe in God the way they do. I just can’t. It isn’t in m
e. I’m not like that.

  Later that night, after the young people from church had left with the other adults and Dusty and the boys had retired to the bunkhouse, Sophia rapped on Karen’s bedroom door.

  “Yes?”

  Sophia turned the knob and pushed the door open.

  Wearing a silky yellow nightgown, Karen sat on the stool in front of the dressing table, her back toward the door. Her hair fell loose about her shoulders, and she held a brush in her right hand. When she saw Sophia’s reflection in the mirror, she twisted on the stool.

  “Are you too tired to talk?” Sophia asked.

  “No.” Karen shook her head. “Come in.”

  “I have a favor to ask.” She stepped into the bedroom.

  “Sure. What is it?”

  “I’d like you to drive me to Boise tomorrow. I need to attend to a few errands, and I hate to bother Dusty with them. Do you mind?”

  “Of course not. I’d be glad to.”

  Sophia sat on the edge of the bed. “Did you have a good time tonight?”

  “Yes,” Karen answered as she turned toward the mirror and resumed brushing her hair.

  Sophia recognized the action for what it was. In her younger days she, too, had distanced herself from those who loved her. Self-protection had become self-destruction.

  What can I say to help Karen find her way?

  As that thought lifted toward heaven, her gaze alighted on an old rag doll atop the bureau. “Oh, my,” she whispered. She pushed herself up from the bed and crossed the room. A tight band seemed to wrap itself around her chest as she reached out to finger the threadbare dress on the doll. “Esther’s doll.”

  “No,” Karen said. “It was my mother’s.”

  “Maggie kept it.” She could barely speak around the lump in her throat. Tears stung her eyes.

  “I found it in a trunk after Mother died.”

  Sophia turned toward Karen. “Are you still reading Esther’s journals?”

  “Now and then. Why?”

  “I taught Esther how to make dolls like this one when we were girls.” She smiled sadly at the memory. “We were very close, my sister and I. We had wonderful times together when we were growing up.” She brushed a tear from her cheek. “She writes about our doll making in one of her journals. She made this particular doll when she was living in Denmark during the war.

  “She did?” Karen rose from the bench. “What was she doing there?”

  “Mikkel, her husband, was a minister in Copenhagen. They went there to help Mikkel’s grandfather who was also a minister. That was in the thirties, before the war. Esther never returned to America.” She blinked back more tears. “That doll belonged to her daughter.”

  “Her daughter? We have family in Europe?” “No,” Sophia answered softly. “Not any longer.”

  Karen frowned, then lifted the doll from the bureau. “I never figured out why Mother kept it. She liked fancy, expensive things. She had a collection of antique porcelain dolls that was worth a small fortune. But Mother wasn’t the sentimental type. That’s why this doll seemed such a strange thing for her to keep, even in a trunk.” Her voice drifted into silence as she turned the doll over and over in her hands.

  Should I tell her? Is now the time?

  No, her heart replied. The answer for Karen lay in Esther’s journals. Sophia would have to be patient and trust the Lord’s timing.

  She patted her granddaughter’s shoulder, then leaned forward and kissed her cheek. “Maybe your mother was more sentimental than either of us realized.” She walked toward the door. “We should leave about 8:30 in the morning, if that’s all right with you.”

  “Sure. I’m up early these days. I’ll be ready to go when you are.”

  Karen continued to stare at the object in her hands long after the door closed behind her grandmother. She’d felt an odd affection for the rag doll from the first moment she’d found it in her mother’s trunk alongside the beaded handbags, sequined evening gowns, and fur coats that were no longer in vogue. The doll had seemed out of place with those costly things. Lonely, like Karen herself. She’d kept the doll with her ever since.

  “Why was Grandmother near tears because of you?” she whispered as she set the rag doll on the bureau again.

  Still puzzling, she turned off the overhead light and climbed into bed. She lay in the darkness for a short while, trying to sleep, then gave up, switched on the bedside lamp, picked up another of Esther’s journals, and began to read.

  Sunday, February 13, 1938

  Dear Diary,

  Today is Sophia’s twentieth birthday, and tomorrow I shall turn nineteen.

  I wrote to her again today, with hopes that this time she will read the letter. I am convinced if she was reading them she would have answered. Still, I tried. I told her, as I have said before in my letters, that if this baby is a girl, I shall name her Sophia.

  How very much I miss my sister!

  I love Mikkel and Grandfather Fritz, but they are men and often do not understand me. I am very fond of Hannah Abrams, and we are becoming good friends, despite the way we struggle to communicate. My Danish is wretched and her English is not much better. More than that, we are from such different backgrounds that we can never be as close as Sophia and I once were.

  Romans 8:28 says all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to his purpose. I know I was called, and I do want to walk according to his purpose. But sometimes I cannot help wondering why things must be the way they are.

  I suppose that is very unfaithlike of me and I should repent of it.

  Things will be better once the baby comes. Only another month.

  Esther

  Tuesday, April 12, 1938

  Our little Sophie died today. She was one month old.

  SEVENTEEN

  Sophia gazed out the van window as the vehicle sped along I-84 toward the capital city. The foothills along the Boise Front were brown in the waning weeks of summer. Only the mile-high peaks of the mountains were green, blanketed as they were by pine trees.

  “I remember when I first came to Boise,” she said softly. “My goodness. That was more than sixty years ago.”

  “I’ll bet it’s changed a lot since then,” Karen commented.

  “Yes. It certainly has.” She chuckled. “How fast are you driving, dear?”

  “Sixty-five. Why? Does it feel like I’m speeding? I can slow down if you like.”

  “No. You’re fine. I was simply remembering how we thought thirty miles an hour was going dangerously fast. Most of the roads were dirt and gravel, and there was certainly nothing resembling an Interstate.” She looked at her granddaughter. “Dutch Tallman, a childhood friend of ours, drove me to Boise in his Model T. It took us the better part of a day to get there from our farm in Oregon.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Nineteen.”

  “Why’d you leave Oregon?”

  Again, she gazed out the window toward the mountains. “Oh, there were many reasons. Mostly because I was running away.” She paused, then added, “From myself. I was an angry and bitter girl.”

  “You?”

  Sophie smiled sadly at the surprise in her granddaughter’s voice. “Yes. And I wasted far too many years wrapped up in those emotions. Too many years.” She closed her eyes. “But God was merciful. He loved and blessed me despite my many shortcomings. And Bradley loved me despite them too. We had a good marriage, he and I. A good life together.”

  “I wish I could have known my grandfather.”

  Sophia envisioned both Mikkel and Bradley. “Me too.”

  They continued in silence, Sophia’s thoughts drifting from one memory to another, moving through the years and events that formed the tapestry of her life until she returned to the present. Her gaze focused once again on the foothills against which the city of Boise was nestled. Before she knew it the weather would turn cold and the leaves would change and the snows would come.

 
“Our boys will be going home in another three weeks,” she said to herself. Then she sighed. “The place is much too quiet after they leave.”

  “What do you and Dusty do to fill your time during the winter? I mean, it isn’t as if the Golden T is a working ranch with lots of cattle and so forth. So what do you do with yourselves all winter long?”

  “Afraid you’ll be bored, my dear?” “Frankly, yes.”

  Sophia smiled. “Well, I do a great deal of reading. Thank the Lord my sight remains good. And Dusty … he’ll continue his studies at the university.”

  “He’ll what?”

  “He’s working toward his master’s degree. He’s only able to take one or two classes each semester because of the cost, but he’s very close now. You’re surprised, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “You shouldn’t be. Dusty’s intelligent. More than that, he’s dedicated. Years ago, he could have had a scholarship, but he believed he was supposed to keep working with Jock, helping with the boys. So he turned it down and settled for taking what courses he could each school year. After Jock died, Dusty felt called to continue the work.” She glanced at the road ahead of them. “I’m sure he could have had a thriving counseling practice long before now if that’s what he’d wanted. But Dusty is motivated by other things than worldly success. His whole heart wants him to be smack-dab in the middle of God’s will.”

  There was a lengthy silence before Karen asked, “How does a person know what God’s will is, Grandmother?”

  “You start by making Jesus your Savior,” she answered without hesitation. “Once you’ve done that, He’ll reveal His will in countless ways.”

  “And what would I have to give up?”

  Sophia pondered the question for several seconds before she quietly and honestly answered, “Everything, Karen.”

  Everything, Karen.

  Those two words haunted Karen throughout the day as she escorted her grandmother from one location to another.

  Everything, Karen.