Love's Story (28 page)

After the wedding celebration, Thatcher took Meredith for a stroll along the river.

“I really like Charles,” Thatcher said.

“I'm so glad. I hope when he breaks the news that father takes it well.”

“From what Charles says, he's trying to change. Are you anxious to see him?”

“Yes.”

“We'll visit him on our honeymoon.”

“I'm not expecting miracles, though.”

“You should; we're living one.”

“I know.”

They stopped at a high bank that looked down over the water. The sun was just starting to set. Beautiful colors made a promising display, and hope for the future filled both their hearts.

“We'll camp our way to San Francisco and have our own private celebration there,” Thatcher said.

“That could be expensive.”

He pulled her close. “I can afford it.”

She smiled up at him.

“Then we'll go to the land office and let you pick out the camps you want to visit.”

“Any that I want?” she asked, even though they had already agreed upon all this earlier.

“Any. We'll find us a little cabin. I'll work and you'll write, undercover.”

“And we'll stay as long as it takes to finish my story.”

“Probably as long as you can stay cooped up in a small cabin is more like it.” He bent and tasted her lips. They were sweet and gave promise of a wonderful life ahead for them. He drew back. “Let's go to the hotel, shall we?”

Meredith nodded shyly.

Thatcher took her hand, then began to chuckle.

“What's so funny?” she asked.

“I was just thinking of my father. When we move to Chicago, I'm going to love the moment he meets his new daughter-in-law. You're going to be such a sweet torment to him.”

“I thought you wanted to make amends.”

“Oh, I do. It's just when I think how you blew into my life, I can't wait to see what happens when you storm into his.”

“I've been meaning to talk to you about that. Maybe we shouldn't use my middle name at first. I'd hate to give him the wrong impression.”

Thatcher laughed again.

“Stop it,” she said.

Dianne Christner
lives in New River, Arizona, where life sizzles in the summer when temperatures soar above 100 degrees as she writes from her air-conditioned home office. She enjoys the desert life, where her home is nestled in the mountains and she can watch quail and the occasional deer, bobcat, or roadrunner.

Dianne was raised Mennonite and works hard to bring authenticity to Mennonite fiction. She now worships at a community church. She's written over a dozen novels, most of which are historical fiction. She gets caught up in research having to set her alarm to remember to switch the laundry or start dinner. But her husband of forty-plus years is a good sport. They have two married children, Mike and Rachel, and five grandchildren, Makaila, Elijah, Vanson, Ethan, and Chloe.

She welcomes you to visit her website at
http://www.diannechristner.net
.

Strong as the Redwood

by Kristin Billerbeck

San Francisco, California

August 1863

R
achel Phillips' mother gazed at her daughter lovingly. The older woman had tears welling up in her hazel eyes, and her soft voice was shaky. “I know this is frightening, but your stepfather wants what's best for you. From what I hear, Searsville is a beautiful place, and it's not that far from San Francisco. We'll be able to visit at Christmastime.”

Her voice held no conviction, and Rachel was forced to question whether this move was beneficial to anyone other than her stepfather of one year, Marshall Winsome. Rachel was saddened by the thought, but also comforted knowing her mother would be well cared for by Marshall. She glanced angrily his way as the large man paced nervously along the wharf, obviously anxious to leave.

“Oh Mother.” Rachel embraced Peg Winsome tightly. “I shall miss you so. I will forever be grateful for all that you've done for me. I am thankful that you are finally living the life Pa dreamed for you. He would have wanted it this way.” Rachel knew the words weren't true. Her father would never have allowed Rachel to be shipped off, alone, at eighteen, to live among lawless loggers. But she also knew her mother was terribly burdened by this action of her stepfather, and Rachel had to be strong.

She watched her mother's pained expression. Rachel felt it, too, the pangs of separation. The young woman's mind filled with memories, memories of all she and her mother had endured together, of their unusual partnership that had been created out of necessity. It had been over two years now since their life had changed course, shattering their plans and forcing them to become equals in order to withstand the hardships. The young woman's mind drifted back.

The 1849 wagon train rolled slowly to a stop. Rachel was only four at the time, but she could still recall her muscular father, Rodrick Phillips, jumping from their wagon to help her and her mother down, before exclaiming, “There it is, the mighty Sierra Nevada! We made it!”

Before the seemingly endless line of wagons lay the magnificent, rugged mountain range they had heard tales about for months. The magnificent, snow-capped peaks beckoned, for the weary emigrants had only to cross them to reach their final destination: California.

“Have you ever seen anything so beautiful? They sure don't have mountains like these in Missouri! This here, my darling,” Rodrick scooped his little girl into his arms, “is the very handiwork of God!” Rodrick smiled broadly and reached for his wife as the young family realized their long and arduous journey was almost over.

The family's dream had been to homestead amidst the rolling hills of the new territory, building a better life for themselves. The trip to the wilderness of the West had been much more treacherous than they had expected, but they knew it had all been worthwhile at first sight of their very own property: ten acres in a golden valley.

They had purchased land in Weberville, a small town nestled in the Sierra foothills. The original plan had been to work the land and raise livestock, but Rodrick soon discovered that he, too, had gold fever. Exchanging his plow for the tools of the mining trade, he soon began working as a miner in the great California Gold Rush of 1850.

As a miner, Rodrick earned a meager income. But he was a doting husband and father who took special pride in his daughter. Rachel always felt like a princess around her Pa.

“It's a right good thing they have no kings here; I'd lose my daughter's hand in the blink of an eye,” he'd say, tickling Rachel while she giggled uncontrollably. Later, as she grew older, Rodrick's tone would become more serious toward his daughter. His voice would become gentle as he fondly brushed the hair from her face. “You're the very image of my mother, Rachel. An exquisite beauty, you are. Such ivory skin and sparkling green eyes, the likes of which California has never seen. And I do declare, that shade of auburn is known only to the Phillips women.”

The day her father didn't return from the mines was still clear in Rachel's memory, as if it had happened only the day before. She had just turned sixteen. She was setting the table for supper, when a family friend knocked on the door of their small cabin. When Mrs. Phillips opened the door the hardened miner had tears in his eyes. His words were few, but their meaning left the household silent with shock.

The tragedy of Rodrick's death was compounded by the fact that all his hard work had done little more than take care of the family's daily needs. Peg Phillips and her daughter were left to fend for themselves in Weberville, which had few options for poor and unattached young women. No suitable opportunities presenting themselves, Rachel and her mother acted on the advice and invitation of a traveling preacher and joined his evangelizing caravan to San Francisco.

“You'll find more civility there,” The minister's wife had said. Once in San Francisco, however, it was difficult to see the civility they had heard about. The streets were violent, and vigilante justice, often more vengeful than the original crime, ruled.

They found many men willing to help them out of their lonely predicament. Marriageable women were a precious commodity in the city, and attractive women were even more valuable than gold.

Peg Phillips was no ordinary widow. Only thirty-three at the time of her husband's death, she was a comely woman, despite her many years of hard work and misfortune. Peg was blessed with an exotic dark complexion, hazel-green eyes, and an abundance of silky black hair.

Mrs. Phillips, well aware of their precarious situation in San Francisco, would drop to her knees daily in prayer, asking God for His steady guidance. Their first stop in San Francisco was at the home of Marshall Winsome, a prominent banker and owner of three hotels in the city. Rachel couldn't help but wonder what life might have been like if her mother had knocked on a different door.

Marshall's name had been given Mrs. Phillips by the traveling preacher, so that she could inquire about work. When the businessman saw the young widow, his gruff demeanor softened instantly, and two positions immediately became available.

Although Marshall was overbearing and rough in personality, he had not taken advantage of the Phillips's vulnerability. He had provided respectable housekeeping and cooking positions, as well as a decent room in one of his hotels. Additionally, he kept a close eye on the women, ensuring their safety.

Peg and Marshall's courtship had been brief, but it had also been extremely proper. Marshall made sure Peg understood that their personal relationship was completely separate from her work, and seeing him on a friendly basis was her choice.

When Rachel's mother decided to marry Marshall, Rachel had to ask if it was for love or their best interests. She certainly did not want her mother sacrificing her life to make Rachel's a little easier.

Peg's answer was slow and carefully contemplated. “I've had my once-in-a-lifetime love, dear. No one will ever take your father's place. You are the beautiful result of what we shared, but Marshall is a fine Christian man. He has been so good to me—to us. The Lord has used him to answer so many of my prayers and alleviate my fears. I am convinced it is God's will that I marry Marshall. The Lord has given me the gift of knowing a new kind of love with him, one that has grown from mutual respect and friendship.”

In August of 1862, when Rachel was seventeen, Marshall Winsome became her stepfather, a role he hadn't taken lightly. Following the nuptials, the women moved immediately into Marshall's elegant and expansive home. It was a stately mansion with three floors and countless windows, which provided sweeping views of San Francisco Bay when the fog cleared.

The home boasted silver-plated doorknobs, imported French-cut glass doors, a ballroom, and parquet floors of maple, walnut, and mahogany. Rachel was most impressed with the great mahogany staircase that wound its way to the second floor from the foyer, and the servants that attended to every need.