TWENTY-FOUR
All night Whitney prayed. No matter how much she begged God for sleep, it didn’t come. The thought of Peter out lost in the snow tore her heart in two. He had to be all right. He had to be.
What would she do without him?
They hadn’t had a courtship or romance. They’d had a friendship. A tumultuous one at that, because he didn’t mince words with her.
Something she appreciated more each moment as she rubbed her gritty eyes. God knew exactly what she needed in a ...friend. It was all too clear to her now that she cared deeply about him. Couldn’t bear the thought of losing him.
As soon as John told her the news, more bad news followed. Most of the workers had come down with fevers, leaving John to keep the farm running on his own. Though they’d taken precautions, the sickness found them anyway.
The storm was still blowing, which meant no relief could come either. From the villages or from town.
If her family wasn’t sick, she would be out there looking for Peter right now. Storm or no storm.
Soft footfalls sounded behind her.
“How are you holding up?” Dad’s voice sounded as full of grit as her eyes felt.
For the first time since she was a child, she needed—andwanted—comfort from her father. “I’m so worried. What if he didn’t make it to shelter?”
He sat down beside her and patted her knee. “The only thing we can do is pray and give this over to God. Our hands are tied, Whit. I wish I could do something to fix this, but I can’t. Neither can you. It’s in times like these that I have to remind myself over and over that God is in control. He doesn’t need my help. But we need His.”
He was right. They had to pray and encourage everyone to fight the sickness.
At least Bethany and Eli had shown more improvement last night. It had lifted her spirits when she thought for sure she would spiral down after the news of Peter.
Lord, we need Your help.
“Why don’t we pray together?”
Deep calm washed over her. She hadn’t prayed with just her dad since she was a little girl. “I’d love that.”
Coughing and moans filled the air in the Roadhouse. Thankfully, Mr. Norris had the foresight to open his establishment to the sick as soon as he’d heard the hospital was full and the other doctors were sick.
Peter walked through the makeshift aisles between pallets on the floor. How long had it been since he’d left Whitney at the farm?
His mind went over the past few days, and they blurred together.
“You look like you need some sleep.” Norris brought him a cup of coffee.
“I’ll sleep when it’s over.” Not only was the sickness raging, but so was the storm.
The owner of the Roadhouse shook his head. “Nope. That’s not gonna work for me.” He gripped Peter’s shoulders and steered him toward the back. “I set up a cot for you. Now give me a list of what to do and I’ll come get ya if I need ya.”
He would argue, but he was the one who’d preached to the man—just yesterday, was it?—about the importance of sleep so they could keep going and care for the patients. So Peter rattled off directions for the man and allowed himself to be led to a little room.
“It’s not much, but it will give you some time to yourself.” Norris patted the cot and tossed a pillow and blanket onto it. “At least it’s better than the floor, where I found you last time.”
Which was better than what the poor men crammed into the Roadhouse had. The hospital was equally overrun. He’d tried to get over and visit a couple times a day, but he and the nurses caring for the sick were relying on prayer––and waiting for the sickness to run its course.
God ... You are the Great Physician. Please heal our town, and please stop this storm. We need help.
Bolting upright, Peter blinked. What had woken him? How long had he been asleep?
The last thing he remembered, he’d been praying for God to tame the storm and to heal their town. A tiny window in the room gave Peter a glimpse outside. Still daylight. But which day was it?
He got up and went to the window.
