Читать книгу Where Love Abides - Irene Hannon, Irene Hannon - Страница 11

Chapter Four

“And they lived happily ever after. The End.” Dale closed the book and smiled at Jenna. Snuggled beneath the covers, her golden hair splayed on the pillow, his daughter exuded an innocence and unbridled enthusiasm that was a balm to his soul.

“I like that story, Daddy. Can I be a princess when I grow up?”

“You’re my princess right now, sweetie.” He reached over and tickled her, enjoying her giggles as she squirmed away from him.

“I mean a princess with a crown and a pretty long dress and a happy ending, like the reluc…lucant princess in the book.”

“You can be anything you want to be, honey.” Soon enough, the world would teach her that happy endings were often confined to storybooks. He wasn’t going to be the one to disillusion her.

“Tell me again how you met the lady who sent me this book today.”

For some reason, Jenna was fascinated by the tale of Christine and Dale’s encounter.

“It was rainy outside, and the road was slippery. Her car slid off the edge of the blacktop and she hit her head, so I took her to see Dr. Martin. She sent the book to say thank you.”

“Then you rescued her, just like the prince in the book rescued the relucant princess?”

“Well, there weren’t any dragons around. But I did help her. That’s what policemen do. They help people who are in trouble.”

“What does she look like?”

An image of Christine popped into his mind, the way she’d looked in the pumpkin patch this afternoon, with a streak of dirt across her forehead. “She has brown eyes—kind of soft and velvety, like the cattails we saw at the lake, remember?—and her hair is brownish-red and wavy, and it touches her shoulders.”

“Is she pretty?”

Dale pictured the gentle curve of her cheek, her thick fringe of lashes, the delicate jaw and soft, full lips. Not to mention the well-shaped legs outlined beneath her snug jeans, or the way she was softly rounded in all the right places. Oh, yeah, she was pretty. No living, breathing male could fail to notice that.

“Yes, honey, she’s pretty.”

“I wish I could meet her.”

His daughter’s wistful tone tugged at Dale’s heart. “She has a farm and she’s very busy. But we might see her in town sometime.”

“Is she a mommy?”

“I don’t think so, honey. She’s kind of a mystery lady.”

A frown creased Jenna’s brow. “What does that mean?”

“It means no one knows very much about her. But I think she lives by herself.” He’d seen no ring on her finger to suggest she had an equally reclusive husband.

“I bet she gets lonesome.”

Did she? Dale wondered. If so, she wasn’t doing anything to rectify the situation. The question was, why not? She was a young woman. Surely she yearned on occasion for companionship. For love. As he did.

A faint pang of melancholy stirred in Dale’s heart, like the indistinct outer ripples after a stone is dropped in the water. Over the years, the sharp pain of loss had dissipated. But the dull ache never went away. Despite the problems in his marriage, he missed sharing his life with one special person.

Oh, he had Jenna and his mother. And plenty of friends. But it wasn’t the same as being in a loving, committed relationship. Friends and family didn’t ease the loneliness of the dark nights when he lay awake yearning for the comfort of a warm embrace, a whispered endearment, the sense of peace that had filled him when his wife had lowered her defenses long enough to sleepily snuggle against him as he gathered her in his arms.

Those moments had been rare, but he’d cherished them. And he missed them.

“Daddy.” Jenna tugged on his sleeve, calling him back to the present. “Do you think the mystery lady gets lonesome?”

“I don’t know, honey. Maybe.”

“We could visit her.”

Not a good idea. Christine had made it clear she didn’t welcome contact with the sheriff’s department. “We’ll see, honey.”

“That means no.” Disappointment flooded Jenna’s face. Like most five-year-olds, she knew how to interpret that response. “Don’t you like her?”

Frankly, Dale didn’t know how he felt about Oak Hill’s newest resident. She intrigued him. He found her attractive. He was curious about her past. But as for liking her…

“I don’t know her very well, Jenna. You can’t decide if you like someone until you get to know them.”

“I can tell right away if I like somebody,” his daughter declared.

That might be true, Dale conceded. Children approached strangers with an open mind, while adults’ pasts colored new relationships.

“That’s because you’re such a smart little girl.” Dale leaned over and kissed Jenna’s forehead. Standing, he set the book on her nightstand. “Sleep tight, sweetie.”

“You, too, Daddy. I think I’ll dream about the relucant princess. And the mystery lady.”

“That sounds good. You can tell me all about it at breakfast tomorrow.”

Shutting the door halfway, Dale headed for the kitchen. The two-bedroom bungalow was quiet as he opened the fridge and retrieved a soda, the only sound the hiss of carbonation as he flipped the tab. An odd restlessness plagued him, and he wandered over to the window and stared out into the darkness as he took a long swallow of his drink.

Jenna’s interest in Christine, a woman she’d never met, seemed excessive. But in the past few months, his daughter had been asking more questions about her mother. And on several occasions she’d told him she wished she had a mommy like the other kids at the preschool she attended three mornings a week.

In truth, Dale wished she did, too. A one-parent household wasn’t ideal. His mom did a great job filling in, and Jenna loved her fiercely, but it wasn’t the same as having a mother in the house.

Perhaps Jenna thought Christine might be a candidate for the job. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d broached the subject, Dale mused, a wry smile tugging at his lips. To his embarrassment, she’d begun pointing out potential candidates at church—none of whom were suitable for a variety of reasons.

He’d put Christine in that category as well. She might be single and available, but there was an angst in her eyes, a deep-seated hurt and wariness, that reminded him too much of Linda. He wasn’t about to go there again.

If Jenna wanted to dream about her, that was fine.

But he intended to walk a wide berth around her, both in his dreams and in his life.

The crunch of gravel announced the approach of a visitor, and Christine shaded her eyes and looked down her drive toward the road. An unfamiliar car was closing the distance between them, but at least it was unmarked, she noted in relief. For a second she’d been afraid the sheriff was repeating his visit of the previous day.

Stripping off her gloves, she rose from her kneeling position and removed her hat. As the car came to a stop she headed toward it, passing row after row of healthy herbs. She’d have a good supply for the next farmers’ market, she thought in satisfaction.

As she approached the drive, three women alighted. She recognized Marge at once, in her hot-pink tunic top. Cara Martin’s distinctive red hair glinted in the sun. The third woman was unfamiliar.

“Christine!” The iridescent beading on Marge’s top shimmered as she gave an enthusiastic wave. “I hope you don’t mind some visitors.”

“And I hope you don’t mind a little dirt.” Christine brushed at the knees of her jeans and pushed her hair back from her face, leaving a streak of grime on her cheek.

“The sign of a working farmer,” Marge declared. “Christine, you’ve met Cara. This is Abby Warner-Campbell. Abby used to be the editor of our Gazette. Now she’s the editorial director for Campbell Publishing in Chicago, which acquired the Gazette about a year ago. But she and her husband get back to Oak Hill on a regular basis. She stopped by the inn to visit, and when she heard about our excursion she invited herself along.”

Abby moved forward and extended her hand. “Just a nose for news, I guess. I thought your farm might make a nice feature for the Gazette and I wanted to check it out before passing the idea on to the editor.”

“Some publicity would be great for business. Thanks for your interest.” Christine returned the woman’s firm handshake.

“I brought some homemade oatmeal cookies.” Marge held up a tin. “I was hoping to bribe you for a tour.”

“No bribe necessary. I’ll be glad to show you around.”

“Wonderful! Let me set these cookies on the porch.” Marge trotted across the stone walk toward Christine’s two-story frame farmhouse and deposited the tin on a table.

Once Marge rejoined them, Christine led the way to the gardens. “There’s not a lot to see yet, but I’ll show you what I have and tell you my plans.”

As they strolled between the neat rows, Christine pointed out the sections devoted to oregano, sage, rosemary, basil, thyme, chives and various other herbs.

“I also grow organic flowers,” she explained as they looked over row after row of colorful zinnias, wispy cosmos, sturdy snapdragons, spiky salvia and a dozen other varieties. “The bouquets have been big sellers at the farmers’ markets. I’m developing a perennial garden, too—poppies, peonies, coneflowers, coreopsis, daisies.” Christine gestured toward a section that was beginning to fill out. “And over there—” she pointed to a third parcel “—I’ve planted blackberries, strawberries and raspberries. Next year I’ll begin harvesting them.”

“Wow.” Cara scanned the gardens as they completed the tour. “This is impressive, Christine. How much land do you have?”

“About eight acres. But I only cultivate a small portion. I hope to increase the size of the garden each year.”

“It’s pretty large now, if you ask me. How do you manage to tend it all yourself?”

“I spend every minute of daylight out here. But I love it.”

“Is this your first venture into organic gardening?” Abby asked.

“Yes. On this scale, anyway. But I’ve always loved gardening. That and books are my passion.”

“Are you a big reader?” Marge queried, not one to be left out of a conversation for too long.

“Yes. In fact, I was a librarian for many years.”

“Is that right?” Marge’s expression grew thoughtful. “I’ll have to mention that to Eleanor Durham. She’s looking for someone to help out at the library two days a week, now that Sally Boshans and her husband are retiring to Florida.”

“I don’t know, Marge.” Cara looked over the garden again, her expression dubious. “This is more than a full-time job.”

“Well, cooler weather will be here soon. Christine can’t garden then. Maybe she could fill in here and there until Eleanor lines up someone else.” Marge leaned over and patted Chris-tine’s hand. “Think about it, dear. I’ll have Eleanor call you.”

“I, for one, came out here to buy some herbs,” Cara declared. “And I want some flowers for the tables at the restaurant, too. Are you open for business?”

Christine smiled. “I never pass up a sale.”

While the two of them returned to the garden, Marge retreated to the shade of the porch, fanning herself and pilfering a few cookies as she chatted with Abby. After Cara finished shopping, Abby peppered Christine with more questions. Although Christine didn’t reveal anything that wasn’t public knowledge, the three visitors found out more in forty-five minutes than anyone else had learned in almost three months.

“So do you have any family left in Nebraska?” Marge asked as the women stowed Cara’s purchases in the car.

“No. My dad died when I was six, and I didn’t have any siblings. My mom died of Alzheimer’s six months ago.”

“A terrible disease,” Marge sympathized. “And losing your husband a year ago, at such a young age… I had no idea. But you picked a good place to start over. The folks in Oak Hill are the salt of the earth. I came here from Boston a few years back after inheriting the inn, and they welcomed me with open arms. They’ll do the same for you, too, if you give them a chance.”

She tilted her head and regarded Christine. “You know, one good way to meet people is to attend Sunday services. We always have a coffee hour afterward and everyone stays to chat. You’d be welcome to join us. It’s the church with the big white steeple in the middle of town.”

No thank you, Christine thought, suppressing a shudder. It had been almost two years since she’d gone to church by choice. She’d attended her mother’s and Jack’s funerals, of course. And she’d accompanied her husband to services when he’d insisted her presence at his side was necessary for his image. The recollection of standing beside him in the house of God while he pretended to be a Christian still sickened her. Going back would only call up those memories, in all their vivid repugnance.

Besides, God hadn’t been there for her when she’d needed Him most. Why should she visit Him now?

But she didn’t give voice to any of those thoughts. Her relationship with the Lord was her own business. She simply thanked Marge for the invitation, said her goodbyes and went back to work as the car crunched down the driveway toward the main road.

For some reason, though, the older woman’s invitation kept echoing in her mind. Despite the wall she’d built between herself and the Lord, deep inside a part of her missed attending a worship service every week and reading her neglected Bible. For most of her life, she’d found comfort and courage and solace in her faith.

Even while things deteriorated with Jack, she’d maintained her relationship with the Lord, seeking His help and guidance. Trapped in an intolerable situation, she’d prayed for His intervention. Begged for release, for a way out. But months had passed with no response.

At first, Christine had told herself there must be a reason God had allowed her to become trapped in a nightmare. That conviction had sustained her, as she’d examined—and discarded—every possible explanation. At that point, she’d tried to convince herself that despite the unfairness of the situation, the indignities she’d suffered had been worth it. That her misery had ensured the best possible care for her mother. Had been the only way to ensure that care.

She knew that for a fact. She’d tried the only other option she could think of. After that had failed, she’d reminded herself that she could never do enough to repay her mother for all her sacrifices, for all the years she’d cleaned office buildings and taken in ironing to give her daughter security and an education. Told herself that she was strong enough to hold on as long as her mother needed her.

The concept of repaying that debt had helped Christine endure the humiliation and terror and abuse. But eventually, to her shame, she’d begun to resent her mother. Toward the end, as she’d sat in the room at the extended-care facility, no longer recognized by the woman who’d borne her, she’d even begun to wish for her mother’s death. All the things that had made Helen Turner a unique individual—her intellect, her spirit, her capacity to love—had been stripped away, leaving nothing but a physical body. A body Christine could only sustain by living a nightmare.

In the end, Jack’s sudden death had liberated her. But it had been too late to salvage her withered faith, to dispel the bitterness she felt toward the God who had abandoned her.

She knew her situation wasn’t unique. The Bible was filled with stories about holy men and women who had endured worse than she had. But she hadn’t dwelt on the injustice of it until it had happened to her. After it had, she’d been unable to comprehend how God could allow His faithful followers to suffer. She hadn’t understood why He would let her be tortured to sustain an empty shell that would never again be filled.

But Christine had understood one thing.

There was no room in her life for an uncaring God.

By late that afternoon, Christine was ready for a work break. She straightened up and flexed her back, thinking that a cold drink was in order. It might be mid-September, but the Missouri heat was relentless. The consistent mideighties temperatures, plus the high humidity, could sap energy as effectively as a puncture could flatten a tire. Christine had come close to dehydration on a couple of occasions, and she’d learned to drink more water. Now she kept a large Thermos close by, refilling it throughout the day.

As she pulled off her gloves and headed to the end of the row where she’d propped her Thermos, she noticed a car slowing at her driveway for the third time in two days. Not an official vehicle, thank goodness, but one that was familiar—and that caused her pulse to accelerate.

It was the same car that had skidded through her roadside garden yesterday.

Her stance tense and wary, she watched the car slow by her pumpkin patch as it traversed the drive. It stopped near her front door, and two people emerged—a man with sun-streaked light brown hair who looked to be in his early forties, and the blond-haired teen she’d caught sight of yesterday as the car had careened across her property.

As the older man started toward her porch he said something over his shoulder that Christine couldn’t hear, and the teen followed with obvious reluctance.

It had to be Les Mueller and his son, Stephen. But why were they here? She’d filed no complaint, caused them no trouble. Nor did she plan to. In fact, she wanted nothing to do with them.

Since they hadn’t yet noticed her, she considered retreating to the back of the house, where she could take refuge in one of the outbuildings until they left. On the other hand, why hide? It was broad daylight. She was within view of the road and passing cars. It was her property. There was no reason to be afraid.

Straightening her shoulders, she wiped her hands on her jeans and headed in their direction.

As she approached, the older man noticed her. He put his hand on the teen’s shoulder, inclined his head her way and strode toward her, waiting to speak until he was a few feet away. The young man followed in his wake.

“Ms. Turner?”

“Yes.”

He extended his hand. “Les Mueller.”

Realizing that nervousness had dampened her palm, Christine once more wiped it on her jeans before taking his hand. The man’s callused grip was firm, and he had blue eyes, like the sheriff, she noted. Except this man’s were the color of a pale summer sky, while Dale Lewis’s were as deep blue as a pure mountain lake. The dairy owner’s weathered face suggested he’d spent too many hours in the sun, and his firm, no-nonsense chin belonged to a man who didn’t tolerate foolishness. Dressed in jeans, boots and a cotton shirt rolled to the elbows, he needed only a brimmed hat to look every bit a cowboy.

Without waiting for Christine to acknowledge his self-introduction, he spoke again. “I understand my son was responsible for some damage to your property yesterday.”

Anger bubbled up inside her. It seemed the sheriff had ignored her wishes and had taken matters into his own hands, going behind her back after she’d refused to press charges. Now, thanks to him, she’d provoked the ire of the town’s leading citizen. She could see his displeasure in the tense lines of his face. Her heart skipped a beat, and she edged back a step.

“I didn’t file a formal complaint.”

“That’s what Dale said. He told me what happened, off the record. I’m glad he did. The way I understand it, not only did my son damage one of your gardens, he came close enough to hit you. That kind of behavior shouldn’t go unpunished. But the first order of business is an apology. Stephen?”

The man stepped aside, planted his hands on his hips and looked at his son. The boy turned beet-red, and he jammed his hands in his pockets, staring at the ground as he spoke. “I’m sorry about the damage.”

Tilting her head, Christine studied him, a slight frown marring her brow as she played the incident back in her mind. She seemed to recall that a black-haired kid had been at the wheel. “You weren’t driving the car, were you?”

The boy’s ruddy color deepened and he risked a quick peek at his father as he mumbled a response. “No, ma’am.”

“You let someone else drive?” Les’s eyes narrowed, and fury nipped at the edges of his voice.

From his outraged tone, Christine deduced that this was another, unreported transgression.

“Yes, sir.”

“Who?”

“Eric.”

Expelling an exasperated breath, Les jammed his fingers through his short-cropped hair. “You know the rules, Stephen. No one drives the car but you.”

“Yes, sir. I know.” The boy shuffled one toe in the dirt and hung his head. “But it was his birthday, and he said he’d always wanted to drive a Lexus. I didn’t think it would hurt to let him drive for a mile or two. I didn’t know he was going to take off like a bat out of…” He stopped short when his father cleared his throat. “Anyway, I told him to go slower. But he didn’t pay any attention. I’m sorry.”

“It seems you have a lot to be sorry for.” Les’s curt response didn’t cut his son any slack. Angling back toward Christine, the man added his own apology. “I’m embarrassed by the behavior of my son. He’s young, but that’s no excuse for irresponsibility. I hope you’ll find it in your heart to forgive him. And we’d both like to make amends.”

With a start, Christine realized that the anger she’d detected in the man was directed at his son, not her. She sensed nothing in his manner but sincerity as he apologized. Relief coursed through her, and her rigid stance relaxed a fraction.

“The apology is accepted, and there’s no need to make amends.”

“Yes, there is. I want you to know that my son’s driving privileges have been revoked. Originally for a month, but now for two, given his mistake with Eric.” He spared his son a quick look, and the boy’s color once again surged. “I’d also like to compensate you for damages. It appears to me you’ve lost about half your pumpkin crop. Come October, that will translate to a significant amount of money.”

He mentioned a figure, and Christine’s eyes widened. She shook her head in protest. “That’s far too much.”

“Not after you factor in the sweat equity that went into creating the garden. Not to mention the salvage operation.”

Put that way, it was hard to argue with the man’s rationale, Christine admitted.

“And I’d like to send Stephen over here to put in a little sweat equity of his own.”

Turning her attention to the teen, Christine surveyed the lanky youth. In all honesty, she wouldn’t mind some assistance with the physical work. The labor-intensive nature of organic farming was proving to be a bit more taxing than she’d expected. She’d always known that if she wanted to expand, she’d have to bring in some part-time help. But she hadn’t planned to take that step this year. Besides, the last thing she wanted on her hands was a teenager with an attitude.

“I appreciate the offer, Mr. Mueller, but that’s not necessary.”

“It’s Les. We country folk aren’t much into formality.” He gave her a brief, engaging grin, and she was struck by his down-to-earth manner. How different he was from Jack, Christine thought. As the leading citizen of Dunlap, Nebraska, her husband had always made it a point to find subtle ways to remind people of the power he wielded—including an insistence on being addressed as “mister.”

Nor had he had any qualms about abusing his position. Had he found himself in a position like Les Mueller, he would never have humbled himself as the dairy owner had done, nor would he have behaved with such integrity in trying to right a wrong. It was nice to know there were a few honorable people in positions of importance in small towns.

“My wife and I would appreciate it if you’d take Stephen on, Ms. Turner.”

“Christine.”

He acknowledged her correction with a smile and a slight nod. “The only way to learn from mistakes is to pay the consequences. Stephen’s a good worker, and he’s available after school and on weekends. I figure forty hours of labor ought to cover it. And keep him out of trouble for the foreseeable future.”

Once again, Christine was taken aback. Forty hours translated to a huge commitment for a teenager who was also juggling school, homework and extracurricular activities.

“I’m not sure we could work that off before I close down the farm for the winter,” she pointed out.

“I realize that. Anything left over can be carried into the spring.”

It was clear that Les had thought this through. And she couldn’t fault his intentions. In theory, people should pay the consequences for their actions. She just hadn’t seen that principle enforced very often over the past couple of years. Yet she didn’t want to have to deal with some sullen teen who was intent on making her life miserable.

Uncertain, she directed her next comment to Stephen. “Do you know anything about organic farming?”

“No, ma’am. But I’m willing to learn. And I’m pretty good with a shovel.”

“How do you feel about working here?”

For the first time, he looked her straight in the eye. “It’s not the way I planned to spend my fall. But I figure it’s fair. What I did was wrong. And like the sheriff said, it could have been a whole lot worse if…if the car had hit you.” He swallowed hard. “I figure I was lucky. That maybe this was God’s way of telling me to shape up before I really mess things up. Digging in the dirt will give me a chance to get my act together.”

Surprised by his mature response, Christine was forced to revise her opinion of the teen. She’d expected him to be belligerent and resentful. Instead, he’d accepted responsibility for his actions and was receptive to his father’s plan. How could she turn him down?

“Okay. We’ll give it a try,” Christine capitulated, folding her arms across her chest. “Can you come by after school tomorrow?”

“He’ll be here,” Les answered for his son. Holding out his hand, he took Christine’s in a parting grip. “Thank you for your understanding. I’ll put that check in the mail to you tonight.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Ms. Turner.” Stephen reached out to her as well. Like his father, he had a firm grip. But unlike the older man, his hand was free of calluses, the skin soft and unused to physical labor. That wouldn’t last long once he began working at the farm, though. Even with gloves, it was hard to avoid blisters. Christine’s own work-roughened hands attested to that. This kind of labor toughened you up, made you appreciate the effort required to reap a high-quality, bountiful harvest.

And she had a feeling that was exactly what Stephen’s father hoped would happen with his son.

As Christine watched the car disappear in a cloud of dust down the gravel driveway, she took a drink of water from her Thermos, letting the cool liquid soothe her parched throat. It seemed the sheriff had been correct when he’d told her that Les Mueller would want to make things right. And she appreciated the dairy owner’s integrity.

What she didn’t appreciate was Dale Lewis’s interference. Yes, everything had turned out fine. But it could have had a far worse ending if Les had a different personality. One like Jack’s, for example. One that would have compelled him to punish her in retaliation for causing problems. And she didn’t want to go there. Not ever again.

That’s why she steered clear of the folks in Oak Hill. If she didn’t mingle, there wasn’t any risk. She wanted nothing to do with the small-town politics and power plays. She was perfectly content to tend her farm and keep to herself.

But since the night of her accident, things had changed. She’d had a series of visitors, and she’d met more people in the past dozen or so days than she had in the entire first two months of her stay in Missouri. Most had seemed nice. But she’d learned the hard way that a friendly demeanor could mask a hidden agenda.

And that brought her back to Dale Lewis. On the surface, he, too, seemed nice enough. But why had he ignored her wishes and reported the incident to Les? Was it because he hated to let injustice go unpunished, as he’d implied? Or was there some other motive? Had he done it to spite her, to incite her anger? Was it a vindictive response to her refusal to take his advice to press charges?