Whispers from Yesterday (6 page)

“Chicago?” She turned around to stare at him in disbelief.
“You’re
from Chicago?” Her gaze traveled the length of him, from the brim of his dusty Stetson to the tips of his well-worn boots.

“Yeah. Guess there isn’t much of a city kid about me any longer.”

“Not much.”

He grinned, apparently amused by her surprise.

She didn’t think it was funny. “That’s why you run this place for those boys, isn’t it? Because you were in trouble once yourself?”

His expression sobered. “Partly, yes. I want to help if I can.”

There was something about his eyes, something about the way he looked at her—was that compassion? It made her feel exposed and vulnerable again. She didn’t like it. And she certainly didn’t want to like him.

She returned to her horse. “It’s time to go back,” she said as she slipped her foot into the stirrup and stepped up, swinging her right leg over the saddle. Without looking to see if he followed, she started down the trail.

Running away. These days, it seemed, she was always running away from something.

Sunday, September 27, 1936

Dear Diary,

I love Indian summer. The days are warm and golden, and the nights are crisp. The leaves crunch beneath my feet when I go for walks, and flocks of ducks and geese fly overhead in enormous V formations, honking and quacking.

Papa invited Mikkel to join us for a picnic after church today, and he accepted. We went to the Snake River where we spread blankets in the shade of some huge old trees. Sophia looked stunning in the rose pink dress Mama made for her. I am certain Mikkel will pay her a call soon. I am doing my best not to be disappointed and to accept it as God’s will.

I have learned much on that subject since Mikkel came to
pastor our church, but not nearly enough to fully understand what God expects of me.

I suppose I should write his name as Pastor Christiansen in these pages. I have no right to be so familiar, even in this most secret and private place. Especially since it appears we shall never be more than friends.

And I do feel he has become a dear friend. He was very relaxed today, and I think we were privileged to get a glimpse of the real Mikkel Christiansen. Not at all reserved and stuffy as some ministers can be nor so heavenly minded as to be no earthly good, as I have heard Papa say about others.

Mikkel visited with Mama and Papa, answering lots of questions about himself. His parents were born in Denmark and came to America as newlyweds. They settled in Wisconsin, which is where Mikkel was born and raised. His paternal grandfather is a Lutheran minister in Copenhagen. Mikkel has three younger sisters, and they all speak Danish and can write it a little too. He says the family prays in Danish in the evening and in English in the morning.

Mikkel asked Sophia and me if we spoke a foreign language. Neither of us do. He offered to teach us a little Danish if we were interested. We both said yes, we would like to learn. But I am afraid I will be a great disappointment to him. I do not have a good head for that sort of thing.

Esther

Tuesday, October 6, 1936

Dear Diary,

I am so pleased. Mikkel Pastor Christiansen asked me if I would teach the children’s Sunday school class because Mrs. Filbert has taken ill. I said I did not know if I could do it. I
am not a teacher. But he said he would help me prepare the classwork and would answer any questions I had. He believes I can do it, which makes me happy.

Esther

FIVE

Mornings were Sophia’s favorite time of day. That hadn’t always been so. In her younger years, when resentment had twisted her heart, she had preferred to sleep late. But no more. Now she was eager to welcome each day the Lord gave her.

In the summer she often went to her garden where she could sit on the wrought-iron park bench beneath a tall globe willow Bradley had planted their first summer in this house. There, under those wide-spreading branches, she would watch the sun rise.

Early on this Saturday morning in June, lacy clouds in the east were tinged with lavender, while the morning star winked in a sky trapped between pewter and blue.

As was so often the case, praise welled up in her chest, and she had to let it burst forth in song. It mattered not that her voice in this, her eighty-second year, was only a frail reminder of what it once had been. She merely assumed that was why God had seen fit to have the psalmist write about making a joyful noise. The good Lord didn’t want anyone to keep silent because of the quality of his or her voice.

Her song finished, she leaned against the support at her back and closed her eyes. “It’s a beautiful day, Lord. Thank You for it.

All good things are from above, and You pour them out upon us, the just and the unjust.”

She hugged her large-print Bible to her chest.

“I lift Dusty before You, Lord. He’s still hanging on to those rags of guilt, isn’t he? He’s not letting go. I don’t know how to help him, except to love him and to pray. So that’s what I’m doing. Be his guide and let him know Your peace, Father.”

Leaves rustled over her head, and the gentle morning breeze kissed Sophia’s cheek.

“Bless our boys, Hal and Noah and Ted and Billy.” She pictured each one of them as she spoke their names. She knew God saw them too. Saw
them
—saw their needs—and knew the answers for their lives. “Only Billy has come to know You, Jesus, as Savior. Speak to the hearts of the other boys. And help us to plant the seeds of truth. Let them see You in me and in Dusty and in Grant.”

The song of a meadowlark could be heard in the distance.

“And Karen … O God, I know You’ve brought her here because of Your great love for her. Reveal that love, Lord. And let her know my love too. Help me to undo the wrongs I’ve committed toward her because of the wrongs I did her mother.”

She released a deep sigh.

“Poor Maggie. My poor, poor Maggie.”

Regrets.

She had so many regrets.

Sophia stood beside the bed, staring down at the little girl. The pale lamplight revealed tear tracks on the child’s cheeks, and even in sleep she clutched the rag doll to her chest as though her life depended upon it.

Margaret Rose Christiansen. Esther’s daughter.

Mikkel’s daughter.

Esther called her Rose, the letter from Hannah Abrams had said.

“I’ll call you Maggie,” Sophia whispered.

Maggie looked like her father. She had his pale gold hair, baby fine and curly. She had his eyes, too. Maggie’s father had been able to silence a crowd with a mere glance from his piercing blue eyes. Eyes like Maggie’s.

If Mikkel had married Sophia instead of Esther, it would have been Sophia’s child who looked like Mikkel. It would have been her child who had glorious blond hair and beautiful blue eyes.

“Sophie?” Bradley said softly from the doorway. “Is she all right?”

Guiltily, she glanced over her shoulder at her husband. “She’s asleep.”

“Poor little tyke.” He came to stand beside Sophia. “She must wonder what’s become of her world.”

“We’re Maggie’s family now. We’ll make a better world for her.”

“Maggie? But I thought—”

“It’s what I want to call her. It fits her better than Rose. It’s short for Margaret. That’s her first name. That’s what she should be called. And as you said, it’s a new family and a new world.”

Bradley was silent a moment. Then his arm went around her shoulders, and he kissed her cheek. “If that’s what you want.”

“It’s what Mikkel would have called her, I think, if it had been up to him instead of Esther. Esther was never very practical.”

Her husband didn’t respond.

She turned toward him. Bradley had lost his right eye while serving in the Pacific, and that side of his face was scarred. But she thought it a wonderful face all the same.

Bradley loved her, and she loved him. Truly, she did. Theirs was a good marriage. He was going to make a wonderful father. Someday, she would give him a son. She hoped it would be soon.

In the meantime, there was Mikkel’s little girl for her to tend to.

Mikkel’s …

And Esther’s.

Karen leaned her shoulder against the window frame.

She’d heard her grandmother singing. That’s what had brought her fully awake, then had drawn her from her bed to the window. Once there, she’d heard the elderly woman talking softly to herself, too softly for Karen to make out what she said. Now Sophia appeared to be asleep in the chair, her eyes closed, her head resting against the tree trunk at her back, her arms clutching a book to her chest.

Sophia Taylor was a bit peculiar, in Karen’s opinion. For one thing, she didn’t seem to mind her bleak existence. She didn’t seem to miss having lots of people around, places to go, things to do. And there was the way she talked to herself … and to
God!
Now that was the strangest of all.

Outside of a formal church setting, Karen had never before seen nor heard anyone do such a thing. As if the Almighty were really listening to an old woman in this desolate place. But then, maybe this place was
why
Sophia was a little odd.

“It would drive anyone mad,” she whispered. Then she gave a humorless laugh. “It’s already happened. Listen to me.
I’m
talking to myself.”

She turned from the window. She should go back to bed. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d awakened from a full night’s
sleep to see the sun rise. Maybe because it had never happened before.

Yes, she could crawl back into bed, but she knew she wouldn’t sleep. She was wide awake now.

With a sigh of resignation, she grabbed some clean clothes and headed for the bathroom. She took a quick shower, then used the blow dryer on her shoulder-length hair, scrunching the natural curl to give it body. She applied her usual makeup, paying particular attention to her eyes—her best feature, she’d been told by her mother.

“If you know how to use those eyes,” Margaret Butler had said, “you’ll have any man you want at your beck and call.”

The memory caused Karen to pause.

Any man I want,
she thought as she stared at her reflection.
Except Alan Ivie.

Suddenly chilled, she stepped back from the sink, turning from the mirror. She didn’t want to remember Alan’s rejection … or the reasons for it.

She left the bathroom in a hurry. It wasn’t until she was out the front door and standing on the porch that she realized she had nowhere to run. She couldn’t escape this ranch, her circumstances, or her thoughts. She had no committee work to take her mind off her problems. She had no friends to run away with, off to the Caribbean or to Hawaii or to the French Riviera. She didn’t even have enough money to put gas in that old car and drive to the nearest town.

At that precise moment, Dusty strode out of the barn, headed toward the house. He’d covered about half the distance between them before he looked up and noticed her. His stride shortened, slowing his approach. His gaze never wavered from hers.

“Morning,” he said.

“Good morning.”

She wondered if her grandfather had been anything like Dusty. Bradley Taylor had been a cowboy too. From what little she knew, he’d built this ranch from nothing.

Dusty reached the porch steps and stopped. “You look mighty pretty at this hour of the day, Miss Butler.” He smiled, revealing a small dimple in his left cheek.

He was only being friendly, offering an olive branch of sorts. Not flirting. But Karen’s mother wouldn’t have seen it that way. She would never have stood for him saying such a thing to her daughter. He was, after all, only a common workman. Blue collar. A cowboy. Not the proper company for a Butler.

Perhaps that was why Karen returned his smile, to defy her mother’s memory, to defy the woman she’d spent a lifetime trying to please, without ever succeeding.

“Is Sophia up yet?” he asked.

“I think she’s in the garden.”