Love Finds You in Bridal Veil, Oregon

by Miralee Ferrell

  “Humph.” Mrs. Hearn peered around behind Andrew at Joel and appeared to take the boy’s measure with a long, silent stare. “Looks to be a big boy. How old is he?”

  Samantha drew away from Margaret and broke her silence. “He’s fourteen, and he’s a good boy.”

  Andrew stared at Samantha, then over at Mrs. Hearn. Maybe he’d best step in. It appeared Margaret’s young visitor had some prickles popping up. “I don’t think…”

  Mrs. Hearn took another large bite, swallowed, and nodded. “Didn’t say he wasn’t, young lady, I simply asked his age.” Her mellow voice went up a notch and effectively covered Andrew’s comment.

  He swung back toward Samantha, wondering how she’d take this light rebuke.

  Samantha settled back and dropped her head. “Sorry.”

  “Now don’t get your feelin’s hurt, darlin’, I didn’t mean anythin’. I’m sure your brother’s a fine lad, and we’re happy to have both of you in our town. How long did you say you were stayin’?”

  Joel poked a spoonful of vanilla ice cream into his mouth. “How’d they make this ice cream?” His words pulled everyone’s attention from Mrs. Hearn’s question.

  Andrew set his half-full bowl on the table and released the breath he’d been holding. “They use an ice-cream freezer with a crank, thick fresh cream, ice, and rock salt. It’s kind of hard to explain, but it sure tastes good, doesn’t it?”

  Samantha’s spoon scraped the bottom of her bowl. “It’s awful good. But where do they get ice in the summertime?”

  Margaret leaned across the wooden table. “I can answer that, as I’ve seen where it comes from. In fact, when I was small, my father used to take me to Sand Island to watch men cut the ice out in the summer.”

  Mrs. Hearn dropped her spoon into her empty bowl with a clatter and pushed back her chair. “I’m sorry to interrupt, young lady, but I’d best be gettin’ on home to my Arny, ’fore he falls asleep on the porch.” She nodded to Margaret and Andrew. “Have yourselves a lovely evening.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” both Margaret and Andrew echoed at the same time.

  Andrew stood and tipped his head. “Tell Arny hello for me, as well.”

  She nodded. “I’ll do that. Good night.”

  They watched her plod across the room and place her bowl and spoon on a table, then head toward the door.

  Andrew met Margaret’s eyes across the table and whispered, “Saved by good old Arny.”

  Margaret stifled a giggle and glanced to her right at Samantha, who sat with head lowered, staring into her bowl.

  Joel licked his spoon. “What’s Sand Island, and why does it have ice?”

  Margaret jumped in her seat, then smiled. “Oh, Joel, I’d almost forgotten what we’d been talking about. Sand Island lies just down the river from Bridal Veil, a few yards offshore. It’s a fine place to play in the summertime, but in the winter, when the snow is deep, we often get a lot of cold wind that blows across the river and turns the snow to ice. The wind does something else—it covers the ice with sand and keeps the ice from melting.”

  Joel cocked his head to the side and twisted his mouth. “I walked on sand in the summer one time and it burned my feet.” He shook his head. “I don’t think sand can keep ice cold.”

  Andrew grinned. “Do you have a winter coat?”

  “Yes, but the sleeves are too short and the shoulder is torn.”

  “Well, maybe before next winter we can find you a better one.” He leaned forward and grabbed a napkin and folded it several times. “See this napkin? Pretend it’s the snow and the sand. A winter coat is kind of like the sand, only the coat keeps you warm and the sand helps keep the ice cold. Over the winter several layers of sand and ice build on top of each other, and the ice doesn’t have a chance to melt.”

  Samantha’s eyes widened. “So you mean if we went out there right now, we could dig through the sand and find ice?”

  “Yep, if you dug in the right spots and went deep enough, you might.”

  “I’ve never had ice cream before. When we lived with Mrs. Stedman, she never let us…” Her face turned pale, and she jumped to her feet. “Come on, Joel, we need to go.”

  “But I ain’t finished my ice cream yet, Sammie.” He waved his spoon in the air and whimpered. “I don’t want to go nowhere.”

  Margaret got up from her place at the table and came around to stand beside the girl, pulling her back down to her seat. “You can trust us, Sammie. You can take Joel and keep running, if that’s what you think is best, or you can stay here with me. Andrew and I will help if you decide to stay, but it’s up to you.”

  “I haven’t trusted anyone in a long time. Not since Mama died.” Samantha swiped at her eyes. “It’s so hard.”

  Margaret gently slipped her arm around the trembling shoulders. “I know, honey, but I care about you, and we can ask God for His help as well.”

  Samantha’s head came up. “You believe God hears you when you talk to Him?”

  Margaret nodded. “I do.”

  “As do I,” Andrew agreed.

  Samantha raised wet eyes to meet Margaret’s. “Do you believe He talks to you?”

  “God speaks to us through His Word, the Bible.”

  Samantha shook her head. “No. I mean, talks to you, but it comes from in here somewhere.” She tapped a finger against her chest. “And it’s not make-believe, either,” she ended on a defiant note. “I’ve heard Him, and He saved me when we first got here.”

  Andrew raised his brows and leaned his forearms on the table. “Saved you from what, Sammie?”

  She glanced at Joel, who didn’t seem aware of their conversation, and lowered her voice. “From some bad men who followed me into the woods when I went looking for food. Joel was asleep at the barn, and some hobos riding the train saw me.” A shiver coursed through her body and she trembled. “I was so scared, and I didn’t know what to do. God spoke to me. He told me where to go and showed me a place to hide.”

  Margaret looked at Andrew, and he shrugged.

  Sammie’s voice raised a notch, and she crossed her arms over her chest. “I ain’t lying. I heard Him. Those men were out to get me. Don’t know what would a’happened to Joel if they’d taken me with them.”

  Andrew sat up straight and met her eyes. “What do you mean, took you with them?”

  “I heard them talking. One of ’em said the law was after ’em, and they’d have to hightail it out of town when the train left. The other said he wanted to catch me and take me with them. He said I was a pretty little thing, and they might not find another girl for a while.”

  Andrew banged his fist in his open palm, and Sammie jumped. “I’m sorry.” Andrew laid his hands on the table. “You said they were riding the train, and they said the law was after them? Did you hear anything else?”

  Sammie thought for a moment and started to shake her head, then paused. “Something about crossing over into Washington to be safe, but I’m not sure. They were going to get back on the train.”

  “Do you remember what day that happened?” Andrew had a feeling he knew what might be coming, but he hoped Sammie might confirm his belief.

  “I’m not sure.” She reached into a deep pocket on her dress and took out a small book. “Just a minute.” She turned a couple of pages, frowned at the book, and closed it. “I think it was on a Saturday, a week ago today, maybe? I kept track of the food—” her voice faltered, then she raised worried eyes—“that we took from people’s kitchens. I tried to write down something about their house and what day I thought it was, and what we took. Close as I can figure, it was Friday or Saturday.”

  Andrew turned to Margaret. “Let’s see if there’s any more ice cream, shall we?” He took her hand, helped her up, and guided her away from the table. He dropped his voice. “You know what that means, don’t you?”

  Her eyes widened. “Martin Jenkins.”

  Andrew started to reply, then noted the intent look on Samantha’s face. “Samantha, would you
mind taking Joel over to the washbasin by the back door and help him clean up? It looks like he’s spilled a little ice cream on his shirt.”

  She looked at her brother, sticky residue on his cheeks and chin. “All right. Come on, Joel.” They pushed back their chairs and walked hand-in-hand away from the table.

  Andrew felt a surge of relief. That little girl was too sharp to miss much. He turned back to Margaret. “I’m going to tell Cooper about this, since he’ll be talking to the sheriff soon.” He took a step, but she reached out and grasped his arm.

  “Are you sure you should, Andrew? I mean, we don’t have any proof and—” Margaret bit her lip. “It might require that Sammie talk to the sheriff.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  She shrugged. “Sammie is just beginning to trust us. If you bring over a stranger who starts digging, she might take Joel and run again.”

  Andrew groaned and rolled his eyes. “Yeah.” He sighed and shook his head. “We can’t just ignore it, though. Those two men might have killed Jenkins, not to mention scaring a young girl.”

  “I know, but she said they got back on the train and headed across the state line. They’re probably long gone by now. What’s it going to accomplish when they’ve been gone for a week?”

  “I don’t know, but it doesn’t seem right not to say anything. They could be dangerous, and if the law’s after them, the sheriff needs to know what direction they took.”

  Her eyes searched his face. “But we don’t even know their names or where they came from. There are probably dozens of men the law is looking for, and many of them could be riding the rails. How will they spot those two?”

  His resolve weakened as her eyes continued to plead. Why did she have to be so beautiful, sweet, and persuasive? Not to mention having a tender heart that wanted nothing more than to protect the two innocent children under her care. “All right, we won’t say anything tonight.” He quickly held up a hand. “But I’m going to think on it, and we should make a decision tomorrow. I’m not convinced we should keep this a secret—but I suppose one more night won’t make much difference, seeing how long it’s already been.”

  She squeezed his hand, and this time a real smile broke the solemnity of her features. “Thank you, Andrew. You’re a good friend, you know that?”

  He groaned inwardly. A good friend. Was that all? He wanted so much more. He sighed and squeezed her hand in return. “I’m glad you think so.”

  Maybe he should be thankful for that much. At least she didn’t seem to have eyes for anyone else. He’d keep trying and pray that someday her heart would return the deep devotion he felt for her.

  Saturday morning Margaret woke to soft beams of sunlight tickling her eyelids and whiffling snores from Joel drifting through her closed door. At least, she assumed it was Joel—surely a little scrap of a girl like Samantha couldn’t produce sounds like that. She grabbed the edge of her quilt to toss it back and paused. The children were still sleeping, and she needed time to think. Confusing dreams had troubled her in the wee hours and still trounced through her thoughts.

  Nathaniel’s appearance at the social yesterday evening must have stirred the unease in her spirit and caused the disturbing images. She snuggled back into her down pillow and sighed. Another minute or two of peace before attending to the children’s needs sounded good. It had been too many days since she’d taken quiet time with her Lord at the start of her day. Samantha’s question about hearing God’s voice rang in her memory. Had she ever really heard God speak the way Samantha described it? She wrinkled her forehead and struggled to remember. Yes, she’d thought she had, but nothing had come of the answer she’d received.

  Why did life have to become so complex all of a sudden? First Papa’s passing, then Nathaniel coming back to work at the upper Palmer mill, finding Papa’s letter, and these two children landing on her doorstep. She’d certainly like to hear God speak to her with some type of explanation about the last few weeks, audible voice or not.

  A bird landed on a branch close to her window, and his full-throated song reverberated off the inner walls of her cabin. If only she felt like singing. An image of Nathaniel’s face when he first saw her last night floated before her eyes. Surprise, irritation, and something else she couldn’t quite define. Longing? Desire? Shivers ran up her arms and down her legs to tickle her toes. Did she want Nathaniel to desire her again or long for her love? What about Andrew?

  He’d championed her last night in her desire to protect and care for the children—and his integrity, love for the Lord, and strong work ethic drew her even more. She smiled to herself. His roguish good looks when those dimples appeared and his gorgeous brown eyes didn’t hurt her feelings, either. Of course, he’d worried over her working too hard on behalf of some of the women in town, but she understood now that was concern for her well-being, rather than a need to be bossy. Papa had been that way—oftentimes scolding her for overdoing, while genuine worry shone in his eyes. It irked her, feeling Papa had still viewed her as a child, but she had to admit it also felt good to have someone care.

  Her heart twisted at the memory of her father’s letter. What if Andrew didn’t care at all but was concerned out of a sense of obligation? She groaned and buried her face in her pillow. How she longed to be able to place all of this in God’s hands and know that He’d take care of her life. But she’d been so sure God had told her Nathaniel was the man for her—or, at least, that the Lord would work it out for her best, and that marrying Nathaniel must be God’s will. That hadn’t happened, and Nathaniel had nearly broken her heart.

  Even if God chose to speak to her again she’d probably miss it altogether. Perhaps she’d wanted a life with Nathaniel so badly that she’d imagined hearing God. It was hard to trust her own hearing, not knowing if her desires were coloring what she heard. She’d ask God for direction, but from now on, she’d trust her common sense to do much of the guiding. The last thing she wanted was for her heart to be broken again.

  It was so much easier to do kind things for others and not try to figure out issues like God’s love, acceptance, or willingness to hear her prayers. At least helping others with their problems gave her a sense of accomplishment and being valued, something she’d lacked for such a long time now. God put her on this earth to minister to others, of that she was sure. And so many people had needs much greater than her own, it wasn’t fair to expect God to single her out and answer all her prayers.

  She sat up, pushed back the quilt, and swung her feet to the floor. Enough. Nothing would happen with Nathaniel, and she didn’t have a formal relationship with Andrew. For all she knew, he wasn’t interested at all, and she could end up an old maid. She almost chuckled at the thought. All this worry over something that hadn’t happened yet. She needed to push that aside and get to her tasks for the day.

  Then she stopped, and shame rolled over her. All her well-meaning thoughts these past weeks about having quiet time with the Lord had only been that. Thoughts, with no action to back them. She slipped to her knees. Whether God answered her in a way she could hear or not, it was time to lay her troubles at His feet.

  Samantha had been so sure of God’s voice when she’d been at a point of incredible need. Margaret buried her head in her arms. How she longed for that sense of assurance and knowing she’d been led by the Spirit. It had been so long since she’d felt the Holy Spirit’s gentle presence—so long since she’d sensed God’s love. When had it started to slip away? And, more importantly, why?

  Chapter Seventeen

  Nathaniel grabbed the shovel from the dirt-floored shed in the backyard of his home and headed for the small bed of roses. He’d spent a restless night after leaving the ice-cream social and woke this morning feeling the need for physical activity. He couldn’t leave the house and take off up the mountain on a hike, since the sheriff had indicated he might stop by after church this afternoon. It had been over a week since Jenkins’ had died, and he’d be thankful to have the responsibility
off his shoulders.

  The yard that had been Mr. Garvey’s joy had deteriorated since the man’s untimely death. While Nathaniel didn’t pretend to be any great shakes at gardening, the idea of burning off his frustration appealed right now. He’d noticed a dead rosebush stationed in front of the picket fence in the corner, and it needed to go. He stalked over to the pathetic plant and stared at the dead branches, so similar to the barrenness of his own life. Part of him wanted to hack at it and get it out of his sight, while another part wanted to try to bring it back to life. He shook his head, disgusted. He was a man, for goodness’ sake, not a baby or an emotional woman. Dig up the stupid thing and throw it out.

  He stuck his spade into the firm earth and planted his foot on the top edge of the blade, thrusting it far down into the ground. He pried upward, bringing up a clump of sod laden with dense grass, and set it aside. Working his way around the rose, he plucked out the reluctant sod until the roots of the bush were exposed. One final plunge of the blade and he’d be done with this chore. The midsummer heat caused beads of sweat to rise on his forehead, and he wiped them with the back of his sleeve. Maybe this return to Bridal Veil hadn’t been such a great idea. Living in Margaret’s old house with her haunting ghost flitting around didn’t help, either.

  He shoved in his spade again and paused, propping his hands on the end of the wooden handle. Fishing on the bank of the Columbia River sounded mighty fine right now. It was stupid to start this project on such a warm day, especially with the memories of Margaret strolling outside to cut roses dancing before his vision. He tipped the shovel back and pried, then scraped something at the far edge. It didn’t sound like a rock—maybe a root? But no large trees grew nearby. He rammed the blade a little deeper and popped up the rose, then tossed it on the grass and looked into the hole. A rounded wooden surface lay exposed in a pocket to the side.

  Nathaniel squatted and reached into the hole, working his fingers around the top of the object until he found the corner and tunneled his hand underneath. Only a few inches deep, and not very big. He tugged and the rectangle budged a bit, then slid out of the hole. He sat back on the ground, crossed his legs, and peeled the rotted piece of burlap off the small, ornate box with the curved top. Curious. Why would someone bury a box under a rose?