Reclaimed (5 page)

Funny how those names stuck in her mind. She’d never remember the names of all the nice people she’d met. But Shelby, Kimberly, and Trish—those she couldn’t forget.

All three belonged to the men who’d come out wanting her place. Friendly offers were one thing, although a sincere hello would have been nice. But these men had been aggressive. Their pressure tactics intimidated Suzanna.

Apparently they had schooled their wives in the art of persuasion. Each woman had raked her over with silent contempt, their scorn making her blood hot and her core tremble. Their scorching glances devoured every other kind word. Were it not for Andrea and the desire for a friend, she would have climbed in the Jeep and driven west to the state line.

“You’ve just earned yourself a devoted friend for life.” Tom grinned first at Suzanna and then at his wife. “Dre is big on service. To her, it’s a mark of a humble, generous soul.”

Andrea smiled, nodding. “You bet, but you were already my friend, Suz.”

Suz
. She liked how Andrea kept calling her that. There was something familiar, cherished in a nickname. Only her father—and Jason—ever called her anything but Suzanna. Her mother, her sister, even the few friends she’d gathered as an adult all called her by her full given name.

Except for Mr. Rustin. Irritation tangled with some sort of secret pleasure as she recalled his slip into familiarity. She pushed it aside.

“Speaking of friends, and service—” Andrea nudged Suzanna with her elbow. “I’d love for my new friend to come with me to worship service tomorrow.”

Suzanna dropped her eyes and sliced through the thick green rind. She wasn’t going to get out of it. Truthfully, she wasn’t sure she wanted to. Sundays always felt vacant. Maybe going back to church would plug the hole.

“What time?”

“Sunday school begins at nine and worship at ten thirty.” Andrea stopped working and focused her attention on Suzanna. “We have sweet rolls in between if you wanted to do both, but if you’re only comfortable with worship service, that’s perfectly fine.”

Worship service. Sounded like so much more than church. Church was a building, a habit. In some circles, a requirement. Worship sounded personal.

Suzanna examined her frayed emotions. She was tired of brokenness. Tired of pain pulsing through her soul. She’d tried emptying herself of it, but it stuck to her like the gummy sap of an elm tree.

Worship. Before a God who had disappointed her?

Suzanna took in Andrea’s warm sincerity. She would go to the service, but not before she had her heart securely locked away. Worship was not something she could muster.

CHAPTER FIVE

Paul sat on the right side of the sanctuary near the back. The stained-glass window and the ten-foot cross behind the pulpit looked different from that side, that distance.

His Bible lay open to the third chapter of 1 Peter while his finger rested in Ephesians 4.

To sum up, all of you be harmonious, sympathetic, brotherly, kindhearted and humble in spirit; not returning insult for insult, but giving a blessing instead
.

Brotherly. Kindhearted. Paul’s attention floated to his regular seat. To where Tom, Dre and the kids sat with the Pickle Lady on the far end. His gut clenched, and he dropped his gaze back to the Bible. Pastor Ron had moved on to Ephesians, his cross-reference passage, as he continued with his sermon about unity in the body of Christ.

Paul stayed in 1 Peter. He read the first seven verses in chapter three, the verses preceding Pastor Ron’s chosen text.

Was it ironic that particular passage addressed husbands and wives? Paul shifted and cleared his throat. What about it should make him uncomfortable? Unmarried all of his thirty-seven years, he had no reason to feel convicted. He’d only ever pored over Biblical marriage instructions once. Turned out, it wasn’t necessary.

Maybe that was what made his insides twist. Maybe not. Hailey was long gone, and he was well past it.

Paul rubbed his neck and read verse seven again.

Show her honor as a fellow heir of the grace of life, so that your prayers will not be hindered.

His head jolted up, and his eyes fell on the Pickle. Suzanna Wilton?

How did that woman keep turning up in his thoughts? Her ignorance annoyed him. Her anger provoked him. Probably more than it should. His life would be smoother without her.

Why, then, did he keep thinking about her? Paul rubbed his upper lip and focused on the sermon.

“The way we treat each other is a testimony to what we believe about God. Is He quick to anger? Neither should we be. Does He hold on to resentment? We shouldn’t either. Does He defend those who cannot stand on their own? We also should take up the righteous crusade. If we believe God is love, we should behave lovingly. If we believe He is kind, then kindness should pour from our lives. A disciple of Christ becomes more and more like Him.”

Of all weeks, Pastor Ron chose kindness for his message. Avoidance was the easier path.

Paul squared his shoulders and swallowed. Yesterday’s conversation with Chuck replayed in his mind, and Paul was still frustrated that he’d landed himself somewhere in the middle of a brewing mess.

Maybe he hadn’t landed himself anywhere. God was pretty good at logistics.

Harmonious. Sympathetic. Brotherly. Kindhearted.

He slouched in the pew, leaning his elbows on his knees. Okay, fine. Be nice to the Pickle. Got it.

Suzanna slid out of the Jeep while her hand kept the skirt of her dress from flying. She glanced at the paisley print and jerked her eyes away in the next instant. The only way she’d made it out of the farmhouse that morning was by avoiding the mirror and ignoring her attire.

“Here we are.” Andrea strode across the rocked drive, reaching for Suzanna’s arm. “I’m so excited you’re joining us. My parents will be here in a bit, and my brother said he was right behind us.”

Suzanna’s mouth curved halfheartedly. Sunday dinner. Childhood memories of pot roast and honeyed carrots flitted across her vision. Replaced in the next moment by visions of lonely Sunday afternoons with a bowl of cold cereal and a side of resentment. Her mother would be off riding, her sister, pursuing a coveted PhD, and her father—the preacher—tucked away in his study … ignoring the obvious.

Andrea rescued Suzanna from her gloomy past.

“Fair warning, Suz. We’re a noisy bunch. Daddy won’t say much—the strokes have changed him. But the rest of us—we love to laugh.”

Her subtle southern country accent provided Suzanna a distraction. “Did you grow up in Rock Creek?”

Andrea laughed. “Sure did. But I went to Baylor, and after four years in Waco, I brought a little bit of Texas home with me. Even shared some with my brother. He used to tease me about it—said I couldn’t decide where I was in life. Then one day he spat out one of my Texan phrases, and that put an end to it.”

“Ah. That explains it.” Suzanna walked alongside Andrea to the house, her smile blooming.

Picturesque. Tom and Andrea’s home had been plucked from a
Better Homes and Gardens
magazine. White clad siding shimmered as a beacon on a sea of billowing grass. A large bay window  and a wide covered front porch dressed up the traditional two-story frame. The yard was tastefully landscaped with a narrow strip of manicured lawn stretching to a picket-fenced garden. Native flowers, tamed and orchestrated in an impressive symphony of deep purples, vibrant pinks and sunny yellows, bobbed against an island hedge of glossy-leaved lilacs.

Suzanna imagined the Kent home in springtime. The fragrant blooms of those lilacs would perfume the air while daffodils and tulips heralded the new life of spring. Maybe Andrea had fruit trees tucked around back, and the pinks and whites of apple and peach blossoms would sing of hope and bounty.

Suzanna’s breath caught as her heart felt light and free. It’d been so long.

God takes broken things...

A familiar blue truck turned into the rock drive, and Suzanna’s heart dropped. What was he doing here?

Andrea squeezed her arm. “Oh good. Paul’s here.”

Good?

She led Suzanna toward the door and they met Paul on the porch.

“You made it.” Andrea grinned. “Suz, you’ve met my brother, Paul, right?”

Her brother? Suzanna’s tongue seemed rusted in place. She nodded as her eyes set on his.

“We’ve met,” Paul said. “I was surprised to see you in church, Miss Wilton.”

Surprised? Of all the things the man could have thought to say—
it was nice to see you
, or
glad you could make it
—Paul Rustin chose
surprised
. Well, that about summed him up. Rude. Self-absorbed and smug. Suzanna’s chin tilted up, and she forced something like a smile.

“I grew up in church, Mr. Rustin.” She held eye contact, refusing to bow to his criticism. “It was nice to be in one again.”

His gaze chilled although his smile stayed plastered in place. He tipped a curt nod as he pulled the screen door open.

Andrea looked at Paul with an odd expression before she led Suzanna inside. Paul followed them to the entry but then cut off for the front room where the stairs split the house. Following Andrea to the kitchen, Suzanna stifled a sigh. A Sunday afternoon with the arrogant Mr. Paul Rustin.

She would have preferred cold cereal on her own.

“What did you do to that girl, Paul?” Andrea glared from beside the counter, her hands perched on her hips like she was lecturing her children.

Paul went rigid. The day had already been long. He didn’t need his kid sister scolding him as though he were ten. “What do you mean, what did I do? I didn’t do anything to the Pickle.”

“I told you to stop calling her that.” Her glare gained heat. “No wonder she’s afraid of you.”

Afraid of him? Ha! Andrea didn’t know one thing about it. The woman was as spiny as a cactus and as bold-faced as anyone he’d ever met. Except when she was looking down spooky basement stairs. Or meeting strangers.

Was she afraid of him?

Brotherly, kindhearted. That lasted, didn’t it? Paul swallowed a groan. What was it about her that made him so agitated?

“I haven’t done anything, Dre.” Pursuing an argument to alleviate guilt. Yeah. That made sense.

“You must have. She went completely stiff the moment she saw you.”

“Maybe she’s just a stiff.”

“That’s not the woman I met.”

He knew they hadn’t met the same person. “I don’t know why you think this is my fault. I told you I haven’t done anything.”

“I hate to argue with you, Paul.” Tom appeared in the doorway, leaning against the frame. “But it did get pretty icy as soon as you came on the scene.”

Um, yeah. She could have frosted a July afternoon with her cold blue eyes. How was that his fault?

“You’re in on it, aren’t you?” Dre stepped toward him, dismay tinting her voice.

“In on what?” This just kept getting better.

His little sister’s scowl deepened.

Tom stepped into the kitchen, moving between the siblings. “Dre, you know better than that.”

Paul propped his hands on his hips. “What’s going on?”

“Trish Calloway,” Tom said as though that should explain everything.

Granted, the woman talked more than a rooster crowed at dawn, and trouble clung to her like Gorilla Glue, but just hearing her name cleared up absolutely nothing. Paul shifted, waiting for Tom to give him a little more to work with.

“She was talking with Shelby just behind us before Sunday school.” Tom pulled a stool from the breakfast bar and slid onto it. “Something about a plan to see that the sale happens and making sure that water rights were redistributed. By any means. Those were her words.”

Andrea’s brow hiked. “It doesn’t take a stellar IQ to figure whose land they’re after. I saw you talking with Chuck yesterday, Paul. Are you in on whatever they’re scheming?”

Paul’s ears rang as if she’d smacked him. “How could you even ask, Dre? Is that what you really think of me?”

“No.” Anger sizzled in her glare. “That’s not at all who I know you to be, but I also haven’t known you to be cold. Hard. Something’s gotten into you where Suzanna is concerned. You intimidate her, and you seem to like it that way.”

Intimidate her? Good grief. Dre couldn’t have misread the situation more if it had been written in a foreign language.

“Look. I told you everything. I’ve met her twice. Once, the first day when I got back. I think she would have taken a bat to my head if she knew how to swing one, and—”

“Why?” Dre pounced.

“Why what?”

“Why was she mad at you that first day?”

Paul rolled his head back and growled. “That’s what I’m telling you. I. Don’t. Know. She’s a pickle.”

Andrea pursed her lips and speared him with disapproval. “That could be part of your problem, Paul. Stop saying that.”