“So many things ran through my mind when it happened, but mostly, I asked why. Why hadn’t Godprotected them? Weren’t we supposed to trust Him to take care of us?”
He squeezed her shoulders tighter. Oh, for the freedom to hold her.
“The preacher and his wife took me home.” She glanced at Mrs. Stone to indicate they were the same people. “I was silent for days. Then I cried endlessly for days. Poor Mother. She didn’t know what to do.” A smile drove away the shadows of her memories. “She did the right thing. She hugged me when I let her. She prayed over me, and I know she prayed lots when I wasn’t with her. When I stopped crying and started asking questions, hard, accusing questions, both she and Father listened, and when they thought I would hear what they had to say, they read Scripture to me and helped me see that bitterness and unforgiveness were a poison to the one who harbored them and did nothing to the other person.”
He nodded. “Did anything specific make you accept that? Perhaps a time and a place when you chose God’s way over yours?”
“Like you did?”
“Yes.”
“I did not have a hillside experience. But—” She grew thoughtful as if recalling something. “One Sunday, I sat in church as Father preached. The sun filtered through the frosted windows. Someone had brought a bouquet of lilacs, and the scent filled the room. A little girl I’d helped take care of when her mother lay ill sat across the aisle. She turned and waved. The whole family sat together, their illness in the past. I remember thinking how pleasant life was. And a Bible verse came to mind. ‘This is the day which the Lord hath made; we will rejoice and be glad in it.’ That’s when I decided to enjoy every day God gave me. Yes, sometimes the days are loaded with trouble andsorrow, but even then, I can rejoice because God is my strength and my salvation.” She laughed a little. “I think I said more than I needed to.”
“Not at all. I can see you live that lesson.”
“Really?” Her eyes widened.
Sensing she wanted to hear more, he continued. “You take care of your mother. You are patient with others. I’ve never seen any crossness in you.”
“Thank you for saying that.” She planted her hands over his, where they still gripped her shoulders.
They stood that way as she drank from his eyes.
The door opened and closed as Mr. Bertrand grumbled his way to the outhouse.
Addie and Nash dropped their hands to their sides and stepped back, leaving Nash with a yearning he’d never before experienced.
He allowed himself to think this would become the beginning of something special between them, unmarred by his past. His insides quaked as if the past shook itself in warning.
If only he could be someone other than who he was.
Eight
Addie picked up the nearest object—a mug—and dried it, although it had been washed and dried already. She’d never told anyone about the riot of emotions she’d experienced after the death of her parents. Nor had she before realized that she’d, indeed, faced a crossroads of faith as he called it. Father would be pleased to know it had been in church as he preached that she put aside the past and chose to trust God with the future.
She owed so much to Preacher and Mother Stone. What would have become of her without them—a young girl with no home? She’d have been sent to an orphanage or, given her age, become a mother’s helper in a home overrun with children. Not that she didn’t like children. She did. But she’d once watched a girl about the age she’d been back then struggling under the weight of a toddler on her hip. The toddler’s runny nose dripped on the girl’s shoulder. Two slightly older children tugged at her, whining and crying. It did not look like a happy way to live.
The cup was as dry as wood. She forced her restless hands to stop polishing it and put it in the cupboard, all while Nash watched her every move.
She resisted an urge to press her hands to her shoulders where he’d held her, providing comfort and stability. Something about his touch and even his presence made her fears go from a rolling boil to a gentle simmer. She folded the drying towel into thirds and, with equal care, draped it over the bar close to the stove to let it dry.
And still, Nash waited. His presence reassuring and unsettling. He must wonder at the way she fussed about the position of the towel. Drawing in a deep breath, she forced herself to face him. The heat stinging her cheeks could be explained away as caused by being close to the stove.
She couldn’t meet his eyes and settled her gaze mid-chest. “The dishes are done.” A needless comment. What else could she say?
“Are you all right?” The depth of his voice jerked her attention to his eyes.
“Yes! Of course. Why would you think otherwise?”
He shrugged, but the warm concern in his gaze did not falter. “If I had to guess, I’d say telling me about that time in your life triggered memories that were both good and bad.”
Exactly. He’d pinpointed her confusion, and it had nothing to do with his hands on her shoulder and her wish that they were still there. “The bad is in the past. The good is my here and now.”
His smile filled his eyes with silvery sparks reminiscent of stars on a clear warm night.
“Thank you for telling me. It makes me see even better your sweet, gentlespirit.”
She gulped so loud everyone must have heard. Then she sputtered with laughter. “I’m no saint.”
