A Journey of the Heart Collection (4 page)

“Don't start, Amelia. Please.”

Amelia recoiled at her uncharacteristic harshness.

“I'm sorry.” Sarah hugged her friend. “It's just that I have to go through with it. Papa wants to see me settled before . . .” She bit her lip. “And besides”—she gave Amelia a wink—“I was thinking how nice it will be to get away from Wade and his constant disapproval.”

Amelia smiled and blinked away her tears. “He just needs the Lord in his life.”

Sarah was a little envious of her friend's faith. No matter what happened, Amelia seemed to trust God. She never had a bad word to say about anyone.

That's why her attitude toward Ben was so perplexing. But really, this was for the best if Amelia could just
see it. Sarah would make a fresh start with Ben, and as the years passed and she had children to occupy her time, maybe the pain in her heart would ease.

The next few days sped by as Sarah threw herself into wedding preparations. Papa had bought her a Singer treadle sewing machine. Her dress, even with its yards and yards of soft, creamy lace, quickly took shape under its whirring needle. She fell into bed each night too exhausted to think or even to dream.

Friday afternoon she sat back and massaged her aching neck thankfully. It was finally finished. She stared out the living room window at the weeping willows swaying along the riverbank. The soft breeze, laden with the rich scent of the Wabash River, blew through the sheer curtains and caressed her hot face.

A memory of walking hand in hand with Rand along the river's edge hit her, and she clutched her skirt, anguish burning in her belly. Why couldn't she stop thinking about him? She'd be Mrs. Ben Croftner in a few days. Then maybe all the ghosts would be laid to rest.

She jumped as the knocker on the front door clattered. When she opened the door, Pastor Aaron Stevens stood on the porch, turning his hat in his hands. “Pastor. We didn't expect you. I believe Wade and Rachel have gone out for a bit and Father is resting. But won't you come in?”

He followed her into the parlor. “I was out calling on the new family by the river, the Longs, and just thought I'd stop in and see how you're doing.”

She pointed to the heap of cream material on the sewing machine. “I just finished my dress.”

“Are you all right, Sarah? You look . . .” He hesitated as he sat on the sofa. “Well, troubled. Not quite the picture of a joyous bride-to-be I expected.”

Pastor always seemed able to sense her moods in a strange way. She sighed and nodded. “I guess I am troubled. More than I've admitted to anyone else. And I don't
want
to be! This is for the best—I'm sure of it.”

“I detect some trepidation in your manner. Are you trying to convince me or yourself?” Pastor Stevens pushed his heavy black hair away from his forehead. “Have you prayed about it?”

Sarah lifted her chin mutinously. “Not really. And
I know you're going to say I should. But God didn't seem to be listening all those months when I prayed for Rand's safety.” She looked down at her hands.

Pastor Stevens frowned as he leaned forward. “I had a feeling you blamed God for Rand's death. I'm glad you're finally admitting it.” He took her hand, his blue eyes warm with concern and compassion. “Sarah, please listen to me. It's hard, I know, but we can't always see God's plan in our lives. I remember when I was a little boy, lying on the floor at my grandmother's feet. She was doing some embroidery work, and I looked up at the underside of the hoop. The yarn was all tangled and gnarled. A real mess. But when I climbed up beside her and looked down at what she was working on, it was a beautiful garden. That's the way our lives are. We're looking at the picture from underneath, but God is working out a specific plan from above.”

“No plan could be right without Rand in it. I don't care whose it is!” She didn't care if the words shocked her pastor. It was how she really felt. If God really loved her, he wouldn't let her go through this heartache.

Pastor Stevens got up and knelt beside Sarah's
chair. “God loves you, Sarah. He didn't promise we'd never have trouble or heartache. In fact, the Bible tells us we will. But he's given us his Word to go with us every step of the way. Can't you just trust him like you used to? I remember the old Sarah and how she believed God for every little thing in her life. Wouldn't you like to be that same young woman again?”

“I just can't!” She stood and moved to the window, her back to the pastor. “Maybe someday when the wounds aren't still so fresh, I'll be able to trust him like I should. But nothing has turned out like I expected. Every time I see the knoll on the other side of the woods, I'm reminded of the spot where Rand and I meant to build our home. Everywhere I look are reminders of how my life is in shambles.”

She turned abruptly. “If you don't mind, Pastor, I have a lot of things to finish up.” She knew she sounded rude, but she just couldn't talk about it anymore. It hurt too much.

He stood with reluctance, frustration etched on his face. “If you need to talk, you know where to find me. Please pray about this before you go through with it, Sarah.”

She didn't answer him, and he left after gazing at
her for a moment. She breathed a sigh of relief when she heard the front door shut. She pushed away a stab of guilt as she went to the kitchen to start supper. She'd chosen her course, and she'd stick with it.

THREE

T
he train shrieked a warning of imminent arrival, and Rand Campbell jerked awake, his heart pounding. He licked dry lips—how he'd love a drink of his ma's iced tea. The thought of sun tea brewing in a glass jug on the back step at home caused a fresh wave of homesickness to wash over him. It wouldn't be long, though.

Then the fear he'd tried to keep at bay for the past three days flooded back. What would he find at home? He'd passed mile after mile of war-ravaged scenes.
Homes burned to the ground, fences torn down, hopeless looks on the faces of women and children. What if he arrived and found his home gone and his family missing? And Sarah. What if she was dead? What if she didn't wait for him? He pushed the thought away impatiently. His Sarah would wait no matter what. But then why didn't she write? Why hadn't his mother written? The unanswered questions made him feel sick.

The train whistle blew again, and he peered out the soot-streaked window. He was almost home. Eagerly, he scanned the rolling pastures. There was the Johnson place looking as neat and well-tended as usual. The Larsen farm looked unharmed. The train slowed as it began its descent into the valley. Through clearings in the lush canopy of glowing leaves, he could see the town just beyond.

The town of Wabash nestled between two steep hills, with the courthouse on the far hill overlooking the sprawling brick and wood buildings clustered neatly below it. He drank in the familiar buildings and the glimmer of water that ran in front of the town like a silver ribbon. During the heyday of the Wabash-Erie Canals, the river bustled with boats of all types and sizes, but since the railroad came, the
canal traffic slacked off, and the river once again resumed its placid course.

Hungrily he watched for a familiar face. But the streets and boardwalks were almost deserted. The few people hurrying along were strangers, mostly women. So many men lost their lives in the war.

But the town looked just the same. There was Beitman & Wolf's. And Martha's Millinery, her fly-speckled window crowded with bonnets. Several old-timers in bib overalls lounged outside Lengel's Gun Shop.

Did the younger members of town still patronize the Red Onion Saloon? He grinned at a memory of the last ruckus he'd gotten into at the saloon, much to his grandma's dismay. She was always quoting Proverbs to him after an escapade at the Red Onion.

Those Bible verses he'd memorized at her knee were one of the things that got him through the horror of prison camp. Between starvation, dysentery, and murderous gangs, he'd watched a third of the men in camp die. He didn't really understand some of the verses very well, but they were somehow comforting. Maybe when his life settled down a little, he could study the Scriptures for himself.

His smile faded. The war had changed him and not for the better. Was there a way to get past the horrors he'd seen? He pushed his grandmother's memory away and gazed out the window intently.

The train gave one final, wheezing bellow, then came to a shuddering stop under the overhang of the depot. Rand took a deep breath and stood, pulling his haversack out from under his seat. Wouldn't it be grand if Pa or Jacob were in town? No chance of that, though. For one thing, he was here a good week earlier than he'd written he'd be. Lot more likely to find them in the field on the way home, if Jacob was even here.
And if he survived the war.

His weak leg, injured by a bayonet, gave out as he stepped down, and he fell into an elderly, stooped man. “Why, I-I cain't believe it! Rand Campbell, is it really you?” Liam Murphy had worked at the train station for as long as Rand could remember. He grabbed Rand by the shoulders and peered into his face.

His hair was even more grizzled than Rand remembered, and his breath stank of garlic. Rand suppressed a grin. Liam's wife believed in garlic's medicinal qualities, so most folks steered clear of her specialties at the church picnics. “It's me all right, Liam.”

“Rand,” the old man gasped again before enfolding him in a bear hug. “We heard you was dead, boy.”

Rand hugged him back until his words penetrated, then drew back in shock. “What do you mean, dead? I wrote my folks and Sarah every few weeks. I've been in the hospital in Washington, D.C.”

Liam pulled a filthy handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face with a shaking hand. “Wait till Myra hears 'bout this!” He put the dirty cloth back in his pocket. “Don't know nothing about no letters. No one here got no letters, I'm sure. Your folks been grieving themselves to death over you. Had a memorial service at church for you last spring, and I ain't never seen so many people at one of them things.” He stared in Rand's puzzled face. “I'm telling you—we all thought you was dead!”

Rand felt like he'd been punched in the stomach. He couldn't catch his breath. How could something like this have happened? “I-I sent a letter with Ben Croftner to give to Sarah,” he stammered. “Didn't he make it back here?”

A look of surprise and something else Rand couldn't identify flickered across Liam's face. “Yeah, he got back—let's see. Must be pert near five months
ago.” He paused and glanced at Rand. “But he didn't say nothing about no letter.”

Something was odd in Liam's manner. “What aren't you telling me?” He fixed his eyes on the old porter's face.

The man flushed. “Well, now—I-I guess you have to hear it sooner or later,” he stammered. “Ben's supposed to marry Sarah tomorrow. Right after church. Whole town's been invited. Ben's been strutting around all important-like.”

The strength left Rand's knees, and he sat on the passenger bench outside the depot. The implications of what Liam said began to sink in, along with the bitter knowledge of Ben's betrayal. “I thought he was my friend. He let her go on thinking I was dead.” He stood and slung his haversack over one broad shoulder, then turned south and strode off without saying good-bye to Liam, his slight limp more pronounced because of his fatigue.

Rand clamped down on the rage that was building in him. How could Ben do such a thing? And Sarah. How could she be so fickle? Why, he must have been declared dead only a few months before she took up with Croftner! Was that all the time she mourned
someone she was supposed to love? His emotions felt raw, and he just couldn't seem to make any sense out of it.

By the time he made his way to the livery stable, paid for a horse, and swung up into the saddle, he was shaking with fury. He patted the mare's neck and set off toward home.