Robin (28 page)

              “I’ve prayed, but God either doesn’t hear or doesn’t care to answer my prayers.”

              “Oh, sweet girl. The Lord hears every prayer, even those not spoken. As for caring—why else would He let his only Son die for you? He cares all right. But I don’t mind doing the talking while you listen.”

              Only the ticking of a clock and Emma’s rhythmic breathing broke through the silence that pervaded the room
.
Is she praying? How am I supposed to listen when she’s not saying anything? Should I worry about her? She did groan when she knelt.

            
 
As though she could read her thoughts, Emma patted her hands. “Father God, meet us here in this silence because You tell us to be silent and know that You are God.”

              Robin counted the ticks; then she counted her own breaths
.
This is talking to the One who’s in charge?

              Emma went on. “You tell us that if we wait on You, our strength will be renewed and we will rise up with wings like eagles. So we’re waiting, Lord.”

              Another long moment passed and Robin wanted to scream
.
Why isn’t she praying? Why does she insist on reminding God of what He already said? Why isn’t she telling Him to make me unafraid? Why isn’t she asking Him to take away the dark pit, and to let Jacob stay, and to show me which man I should choose?

              “You tell us to trust in You with all our hearts and not to lean on our own understanding. We’re trusting, Lord.”

            
 
No, Emma. We aren’t trusting. We aren’t waiting. We aren’t praying
.
She tried to pull her hands away, but Emma squeezed harder.

              “We welcome You to this bedside because You tell us where two or three are gathered together, You will be there also.”

            
 
Is that true? Is God really here
?
A shiver ran across her shoulders
.
If so, where is He? Why don’t I feel Him?

              “We acknowledge Your presence in our lives even before we were formed in our mothers’ wombs.”

              But if God knew me then, like Emma says, couldn’t He have made me with two good legs?

              “We know You don’t make mistakes, Father.”

            
 
No mistakes? What about my leg? And why would He let a little boy lose his mama, or a grown lady fall from a wagon and get hurt her head so badly she’s forced to stay in a bed, helpless as a baby?

              “And because You are God, You know our thoughts even before we think them.”

              Another shiver escaped and trickled down her spine
.
He knows my thoughts? All the times I’ve kept quiet but words warred in my mind? The accusations, the doubts, the fears? Even now? This very minute?

              “And we ask You to forgive us for all that which we fooled ourselves into thinking we could hide.”

            
 
Oh, Emma. How could you know?

              “We confess our unbelief and doubts that You answer, when You tell us to call on You and You will show us great and mighty things that can’t even understand. We confess fear, even after You tell us to ‘fear not’ because You are with us. We confess reluctance to ask for direction, when You have promised You will guide us.”

            
 
How does she know what He said? Can she hear God speak? Why can’t I hear Him?

              “Now, Father, I claim the rest for Robin that You promised for all those with heavy burdens who would come to You. I claim the forgiveness You promised to give if we would confess our sins. I ask that You show Robin that You are able to do exceeding abundantly above all that she could ever ask or think. And I give You alone the praise for hearing and answering this prayer. In the name of Your Son, Jesus Christ. Amen.”

              Emma groaned again as she got to her feet, then bent and kissed her on the cheek. “There, now. That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

              “But . . . but Emma, you never even mentioned Jacob or Ty or William.”

              “Didn’t need to. He knows all about them. He knows your thoughts, and He has His own thoughts for you—thoughts of peace and not of evil, to give you an expected end.”

              Now Emma was just frustrating her. “What end? What does that even mean? How do you know this, Emma?”

              “He wrote me a letter, Robin. And He wrote it to you, too. It’s all there in the Bible for you to read over and over again.”

              “Can . . . can you show me?”

              “I’ll write down all the places we talked about tonight. You can read it for yourself. But for now, you just close those pretty eyes and rest. I’ll be right here beside you. And so will He.”

              The clock chimed twelve and Robin still lay awake. At some point Emma blew out the lamp, but enough light filtered through the open window to make out the older woman sitting beside her. “Emma? Why aren’t you in bed?”

              “Oh, I just had a few things to discuss with Jesus.”

              “I thought you already prayed.” She attempted to shift positions but her shoulders wouldn’t move.

              Emma bent closer. “Do you hurt? I can give you laudanum to help you sleep?”

              “I’m tired of lying in one position, but I can’t get myself moved. Would you mind helping me? My hips and shoulders burn.”

              Emma rolled her gently to her side then propped a pillow behind her back. “Is that better?”

              Robin tucked one hand under her cheek and reached for Emma with the other. “Thank you. You’ve done so much for me. I wish you would rest.”

              Emma’s smile radiated in the moonlight. “Real rest comes as much from the condition of the heart as the position of the body, dear girl. Don’t you worry about me. But the next time that clock dings I want your eyes to be closed.”

              Robin giggled. “And if my eyes are closed you’ll think I’m asleep? What happened to the condition and position theory?”

              Emma shook her finger. “You’re getting your sass back. That’s a good sign. I can rest sitting up, but you can’t sleep with your eyes open. Argument closed.”

              “Emma?”

              “Go to sleep, girl.”

              “One more question. Then I’ll sleep. Promise.”

              “You’re worse than Jacob. Okay. Ask away.”

              “Who’s running the mercantile? I hate that you’ve had to close down to be here with me.”

              “Don’t you fret your pretty little head. Henrietta Harvey has the key and everyone in town knows where to go if they need anything. There, now. Shut those eyes.”

Robin brought the wrinkled hand to her lips. “I love you, Emma Ledbetter.”

THIRTY-THREE

              “Kind of early in the mornin’ to be so long-faced, ain’t it?” John stroked his horse’s velvet nose. “Reckon I know how ya feel, Patch, ole’ friend. Most likely a good run would do us both good.”

              With one foot in the stirrup he hefted himself into the saddle and made his way out of the barn and across the yard. He nodded to one of Ty’s ranch hands. Did the kid have any idea how lucky he was having his day all ordered out ahead of him? Sure beat thunder out of feeling like a yo-yo toy, never knowing if you were going to be yanked to the top or left spinning down at the bottom. Only thing a body could hope for these days was for the string to get shorter so you bounced to the top sooner.

              Once away from the house, John nudged Patch with a spur and headed him for the Feather. Tomorrow the sisters should arrive
—
Lord, have merc
y
—and he wanted to tidy up the place a bit for Robin’s sake. It helped that William could describe them, but he didn’t look forward to having more females around.

              John relaxed his grip on the reins and settled into the saddle. The big gelding rode as smooth as a rockin’ chair on a lazy Sunday afternoon and would take him home without further prompting. With a good horse under him, the sun warm on his back, and the wind cool on his face, there wasn’t much more a man could ask for—unless it would be a fine God-fearing, pie-baking woman waiting for him when he got home. And if she smelled like wild roses, that would be nice, too. The thought left his fingers tingling and his face burning like he was standing over a branding fire
.
Now why would I be havin’ them kind of ideas goin’ through my skull when that sweet little niece is a layin’ at Ty’s house and the Obed fella might be gonna take Jacob away?

              They topped the hill overlooking the Feather, and John reined his horse to a stop. He never would’ve imagined thoughts of a woman would fill his mind so. It was his brother’s fault, that’s for sure, up and dying and making him promise to take care of his nieces. He snorted. It wasn’t Emma’s fault Lionel died. Maybe he should blame George for leaving Emma alone like he did.

              A rabbit darted through the grass and Patch gave a leap. John grabbed the saddle horn, and the horse lowered his head and humped his back. One more stiff-legged hop and John’s grip loosened. His teeth clamped onto his tongue as the ground rose to thump his nose. Blood mingled with the dirt under his face. He rolled to his side, squinted through one eye, reached for his handkerchief and groaned as he focused on the hem of a ladies skirt. Well, hadn’t he just been thinking how nice it would be to have a lady waiting
?
Maybe I’ve done died and went to heaven.

              “Oh my, my, my. John Wenghold. No wonder you didn’t answer your door. I was just a telling Albert, I says to him. ‘Albert, you just scurry on over to—’”

              “Henrietta Harvey . . .” John rolled back to his stomach and rested his forehead on his folded arms
.
Either I’m not dead or I’m not in heave
n
. “What are you a doin’ way out here this time of day? Never mind, I’m sure you’re gonna tell me.” He sat up and pinched the bridge of his nose.

              “No, no, no. Don’t lean forward. Here . . .”

A female voice he didn’t recognize clanged from one ear to the other like the clapper on a bell. Then someone grabbed a hank of hair, pulled his head backward, and shoved something sweet smelling up his nostril. John opened one eye. It just wasn’t right to have some stranger digging in his nose like that.

              “There. You may have to breathe through your mouth, but that will stop the bleeding.”

              John dropped his head.

              “No, keep it back. I know what I’m doing. Oswald is forever coming home after a fight with his face all scuffed. I keep a box of rags right by the kitchen door ready to jam up his nose.”

              “Well, jumpin’ bullfrogs, missy.” John opened both eyes. “Who are you and who is Oswald?” Two orbs, black as coffee, sitting on each side of a freckle-sprinkled snip of a nose stared back at him. He sucked a mouthful of air. “How long you gonna make me sit like this? I can’t hardly breathe, you know”

              “Oh, you’ll breathe. It just makes it hard to talk because I’m holding your head so far back. Mrs. Harvey, you count to one-hundred, very slowly, then we’ll check to see if the bleeding has stopped.” Her black eyes twinkled as she leaned closer. “I’m Wren. You know—Wren Wenghold, your niece—one of Lionel’s girls that you never took the time to meet. Oswald is one of the children I care for. I work as a nanny for the Wesley family in Chicago.”

              “Wren?” He tried to raise his head but was promptly yanked back again. “You weren’t supposed to get here until tomorrow.”

              “Well, it’s like I was telling Albert, I says to him—”

              “Don’t talk, Mrs. Harvey—count. How far are you?” Wren hid a grin with her fingers.

              “Thirty-four . . . thirty-five—”

              “Mr. Benson knows all the right people, I suppose. We had a private car on the train just for me and Lark. He’s very rich, you understand.”

              Henrietta gasped. “Oh my, then I do hope Albert will—”

              “Mrs. Harvey. Please.”

              “Thirty four . . . thirty five—”

              John put his hand around Wren’s wrist. Goodness, she was small as a bird. “If you don’t let me put my head up we’ll be a sittin’ here all day,” he whispered. “I’m not sure the woman will get them numbers said all the way past thirty-five.”

              Wren turned loose of his hair and he patted her hand.

              “Where’s Albert? Don’t tell me Henrietta done drove you behind that sorry horse of theirs all the way out here alone?”

              Wren straightened.

            
 
Land’s sake. Even all up and down she’s no taller than a fence post
.
Sitting on the ground he hardly had to raise his eyes to see the all of her.

              Wren smiled. “When you came flying off your horse our direction, Albert flew the other way on his. Mrs. Harvey sent him to find a Mr. Ty somebody.”

              “That would be Ty Morgan. But I don’t know how Albert would have gotten past me without me layin’ eyes on him.”

              “Well, your head was in the dirt, Uncle John. Now, where’s my sister? I thought she would be here to meet us.” Wren brushed at her skirts. “And William? I have a special message for William from his father.”

              John frowned. “Didn’t Mr. Benson tell you why we sent for ya?”

              “Only that Robin was anxious to see us and William wanted to surprise her. She will be surprised, won’t she?”

              John reached for her hand. “Here, see if you can pull hard enough to help me up.” She had a surprisingly strong grip. Once on his feet, he brushed his pants off and widened his stance to steady himself. “Now, there ain’t gonna be no easy way to say this, so I’ll just tell you right off—Robin was hurt bad in a fall from a wagon, and we thought it best if you sisters was here. Doc Mercer thinks she’ll get better—in time. But for now she can’t be moved.”

              Wren’s forehead ruffled. “So she doesn’t know we’re here? She must’ve been hurt very bad for William to send for us. But you haven’t answered my question. Where is she?”

              John put his arm around her. This little bird was dry-eyed and calm. Only her pale face and wide, dark eyes gave evidence she understood. “She’s at Ty Morgan’s ranch. We was all there for a celebration when she was hurt.”

              Henrietta’s counting threatened to drown out their conversation, but at least the woman was past forty now.

              “I see,” Wren said. “And I imagine Albert will give the news that we’ve arrived? I must tell Lark. She’ll be wondering what’s keeping us.” Her chin quivered. “I do so want to bury my face and cry, but I’ve been reading about Kansas ever since I knew we would be coming here one day, and I’ve learned that women must be strong to live on this prairie.”

              “Cryin’ don’t mean you’re weak, Wren.”

              “Are you sure?” She sniffed.

              “Dead certain.”

              “Well, then . . .” Tears dripped from her eyes, but didn’t get to her chin before she wiped her face with his sleeve and gave him a smile. “There now, enough of that. I believe you need to meet Lark, Uncle John, then perhaps you can instruct us how to get to this Mr. Ty’s ranch.” She gathered her skirts in both hands. “You can stop counting now, Mrs. Harvey,” she called over her shoulder as she marched past.

              John shook his head. He didn’t know how she did it, but Henrietta Harvey seemed almost speechless in her presence
.
Wait ’til Emma meets this one
.
He stomped both feet to make sure they were on the ground. The last time Emma came to mind he ended up eating dirt.

              The girl sitting ramrod straight in the wagon looked nothing like the other sisters. Her red hair was pulled so tight away from her face it made her look all squinty-eyed, and her mouth puckered like she’d just taken a bite of green persimmon.

              John nodded when Wren introduced them. “Lark. Glad to meet ya at last.” He extended his hand.

              She clutched her own hands away from him so tight her knuckles were white.

              “Yes.” Her head bobbed stiffly in his direction. “We could have become acquainted much sooner had you accepted Papa’s numerous invitations to visit Chicago.”

              John pulled his hand back. It seemed foolish to dangle it out there like a worm on the end of a fishing line when it was plain as day she wasn’t going to take the bait. William was right—this one would be hard to describe. Though Emma would likely win her over in short time. While Lark’s lips remained pursed in disapproval, the way she glanced from side to side told him she was more fearful than haughty.

              “Did ya have a good trip?” The furrow in the middle of her forehead should’ve answered his question.

              “Mr. Wenghold”––she rearranged her lips enough to spit out the words––“our trip was an unnecessary expenditure. I have neither the time, nor the means to repay Mr. Benson for such an extravagant excursion to a part of the county I have no desire to see, nor plan to ever make my home.” She shuddered as she glanced behind her.

              Wren frowned. “Lark, that was unkind. Mr. Benson failed to tell us Robin has been badly injured in a fall. William sent for us, not for our pleasure, but for Sister’s sake.”

              Lark’s shoulders drooped and her face softened. “Please accept my apologies, Uncle John. Had I known the genuine reason for our hurried trip, I would have attempted to be more . . . more . . . Oh, Robin would be so ashamed. It’s this . . . this sea of grass with nowhere to go should we need refuge. And the hot wind. I’ve never been away from Chicago. I had no idea such wildness could be found.”

              John reached to pat her hand, pleased she didn’t pull it away. “I felt the same first time I laid these country eyes on Chicago. Never could figure out how a body learned to find their way home when all them buildings looked alike. But don’t you fret none. Ain’t nobody here gonna bother ya, and before long you won’t feel so lost. Now, what say we get you girls to the Hawk so you can see that sister?” He gave her fingers a squeeze.

              “I would like that, but shouldn’t we wait for Mr. Harvey to return? You don’t suppose he ran into Indians, or his horse threw him, do you? He’s been gone such a long time.”

              “Oh my, my. How sweet, Miss Lark.” Henrietta nudged John away from the wagon. “You know, I said to Albert soon as I laid eyes on you, ‘Albert’, I says, ‘Albert, now there’s a young lady with good sense.’ I could tell, you know. Mothers know those kind of things. No fancy hairdo and your brown dress and all. Brown just happens to be Albert’s favorite color. Has a brown neck dressing that’s been his favorite since his papa passed.”

            
 
Well, jumpin bullfrogs. That little gal is blushin’ so you can’t hardly tell where her face leaves off and her hair starts up.

              Henrietta tipped on her toes and reached for Lark’s hand. “Oh, I just knew it. Look at those long slender fingers. You do play the piano, don’t you? Oh, you must play for us while you’re here. Do you by any chance sing, also?”

              “You have pianos out here?” Lark’s face lit with excitement. “I didn’t suppose I’d see a piano until I returned to Chicago.”

              John squeezed Lark’s fingers. “They’s a pianer sittin’ in the parlor at Ty’s ranch. His mama could make real purty music with it. Once Robin wakes up, I’ll be obliged to sit and listen to you tickle them keys all day if you got a notion to do so.”

              She returned the squeeze. “Thank you.”

He nodded.

“Uncle John?” Her eyes twinkled when she smiled.

“Yeah? Can I do somethin’ for ya?”