Read The Carpenter's Daughter Online
Authors: Jennifer Rodewald
The Carpenter's Daughter
Copyright © 2016 Jennifer Rodewald
All rights reserved.
ISBN:
978-0692654545
The Carpenter’s Daughter
Copyright © 2016 Jennifer Rodewald
All rights reserved.
ISBN:
978-0692654545
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews and articles, without the prior written consent of the author.
Printed in the United States of America
First Printing, 2016
Edited by Dori Harrell of Breakout Editing
Cover design by Jennifer Rodewald and Roseanna White Designs,
www.RoseannaWhiteDesigns.com
Cover photo by Lorie Jerome
Cover model: Joanna Jerome
Author photo by Larisa O’Brien Photography
Published by Rooted Publishing
McCook, NE 69001
Song references from:
Chris Tomlin/Reuben Morgan/Ben Glover, “Jesus Loves Me,”
Love Ran Red,
2014. Used by permission.
Kari Jobe/Marty Sampson/Mia Fieldes/Ben Davis/Grant Pittman/Dustin Sauder/Austin Davis, “I Am Not Alone,”
Majestic
, 2014. Used by permission.
Scripture quotations taken from the New American Standard Bible
®
, Copyright © 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, 1995 by The Lockman Foundation. Used by permission.
For all of the sweet girls at MEFC I’ve been honored to watch become beautiful young women.
Jesus loves you.
Don’t ever forget it.
Sarah
“I think it’s a woman.”
My world stalled as those words swirled behind me, sent into the air by a woman I’d never met.
I had stepped through the Subway door two minutes before, my only thought centered on satisfying my howling stomach. Cold air had kissed my sunburned cheeks, and I shivered as the sweat on my back cooled. A crowd had gathered in the restaurant for the Saturday dinner rush. Weekend warriors and little-league fans lined the length of the counter. I’d taken a place at the end of the line and was reading the options posted above the sandwich counter, right up to the moment that gashing remark registered in my brain.
Me. They were talking about me.
“It’s a woman,” the not-so-quiet woman hissed. “She’s wearing a bra.”
“She’s certainly trying to disguise it,” another female responded, her whisper not much lower than the first. “Why are so many young women going butch these days?”
“Well. She
isn’t
very pretty.”
“Nobody would look pretty in that getup. Men’s clothes, clunky boots, and hacked-up hair barely hanging below that filthy hat? Come on. She’s trying
not
to
look pretty. Butch, I’m telling you. She’s just butch.”
Heat raced across my face, which had nothing to do with the fact that I hadn’t worn my “filthy” hat on the roof most of the morning. Never in my life had I felt spat on by a conversation.
Minden, Nebraska, wasn’t a big town, and I was known there. Dad was a respected general contractor, and I’d been his foreman for three years, since I turned eighteen. Nobody ever thought anything about my appearance. In fact, few seemed to notice me at all.
But we weren’t in Minden that week. A job had us on the road, working in a town a hundred miles west.
I tugged on my hat bill, trying to hide. Staring at my reflection in the Plexiglas separating people from food, I took in my grimy face. Yuck. My examination dropped to my man-hands. Ugh. My gaze fell further, until it settled on my steel-toed work boots.
Butch.
My throat constricted with strangling force.
“Can I help you?”
I swallowed. “Um—” I scanned my brain, feeling more stupid with every awkward moment. I couldn’t remember what I’d decided to order. “Uh, three footlongs, please.”
The teenager in uniform rolled his eyes. “What kind?”
“Oh yeah, sorry.” This horrible scene kept getting worse. I licked my lips and swallowed again. “Cold cut, I guess.”
“Bread?”
I blinked. Of course I wanted bread. What was the kid talking about?
He huffed. “What kind of bread?”
“Wheat.” I cleared my throat and commanded my attention back to the errand.
Butch.
My pulse throbbed.
A torturous amount of time passed before I had the bags of food in one hand and three Cokes precariously positioned in the crook of my other arm. I wanted to run out the door.
Don’t look at them.
Pushing the exit open with my backside, I involuntarily rebelled against logic.
Two women stared back from the middle booth. One had dyed blond hair cut short and trendy, and the other’s longer black hair had been styled and sprayed to perfection. Early to midfifties. Flawless skin on both faces, which contrasted dreadfully with their contemptuous eyes. The darker of the two actually shook her head.
My stomach hurt, like a rope had been looped around it and yanked tight. I spun out the door. A pair of large, rough hands caught me as I smashed into the solid barrier of a man’s chest.
“Whoa there.” His voice grabbed my attention and pulled it upward. Of all the horrible moments to bump into—literally—a good-looking guy.
“I’m sorry.” He smiled.
I trembled inside.
“Let me help you.” He reached for my bag of sandwiches.
I juggled the cups against my middle. The icy soda seeped through my T-shirt.
Add slob to butch.
Covering a groan, I looked into the man’s vivid green eyes, which were framed by chocolate-brown brows. His easy grin seemed genuine. Something inside my chest fluttered—an odd and ridiculous sensation. Especially for a butch girl
.
Fire crept up my neck. I hung my head, hoping the bill of my hat hid my flaming face. “That’s all right. I’ve got it. Sorry I ran into you.”
I lurched away and double-timed it to the truck, agonizing over both humiliations. Maybe Subway was the only fast-food joint in town, but there was no way I was going back. Dad and Uncle Dan would have to deal with Wonder Bread and peanut butter.
Jesse
She skittered away as if I’d burned her, her head down so far that I wondered if she could see where she was going.
I stood frozen, still holding the door. Were those eyes really that blue? Impossible. She must wear tinted contacts. Nobody had sapphire gems like that.
I should have helped her to her truck. She carried a bag stuffed full of footlongs, and had somehow managed to arrange three full cups in her arm. A gentleman would have helped. Usually I was—I tried to be. That was how my mama raised me. But a dumbfounded moment kept me glued to the sidewalk like a brainless mannequin.
One glance and her face etched into my head. Skin the color of creamed coffee, tanned from the early summer sun. Straight, narrow nose that ended with a small, upward curve. Short nearly black hair hidden under a well-worn baseball hat. And those eyes…
Sapphira.
Nut ball. You shouldn’t assign names to people whom you’ve never met.
I could’ve met her. I could have jogged over, caught her before she fired up that beat-up old truck, and said, “Hey, I’m sorry. I really should have helped you. I’m Jesse. You are…”
Sapphira.
That would be funny.
I shook my head as I moved into the restaurant, chuckling. Total nut. Except…well, it’d be nice to meet a woman like that. Sturdy build. Definitely
not
prissy. She looked like she knew how to work and didn’t mind doing so. A woman like the kind Mom had been.
Opportunities lost. Life went on. I reached the counter and ordered a meatball sub, toasted.
“Jesse Chapman.” A woman’s voice beckoned from behind. “I’d know that ragtag hat anywhere.”
Turning, I fixed a grin. I ran into people I’d met over the years and miles all the time. Came with the work, and suited me pretty well. I sought a familiar face and recognized the middle-aged woman with longish black hair.
Don’t groan.
“Mrs. Kellogg.” I made a silent note not to let my grin falter. “How are you?”
“Surprised to see you here.” The woman wiggled herself straight and smiled. “I didn’t know Homes For Hope was building in this little town.”
I shoved my hands into my jeans pockets. “We’re not. Not this year, anyway. I’m on my way through. Heading north.”
“Not west?” She pushed out her bottom lip. “Such a shame. Shelia will be home from college this week. I know she’d love to see you.”
Oh boy. Here we go again.
For three years running, I’d come across Marta Kellogg when Homes For Hope worked in the area, and the woman was always scheming. Poor Shelia. The girl seemed as appalled as I was uncomfortable with the constant and not-so-subtle setups her mother arranged.
It was a compliment, really. I ought to thank her for it and then set the record clear—for both Shelia and me. Shelia was a good seven years younger, just started college, and exceptionally shy. All that would be fine, except…well, I wasn’t interested.
I was a construction guy. Shelia was the fragile type. She liked frills and manicured nails and expensive seafood. I wore the same pair of jeans until they could almost walk themselves to the Laundromat, scrubbed my blackened fingernails to no avail, and honestly preferred a double-bacon cheeseburger to just about anything else that could come out of a kitchen.
Add to all that, Shelia wasn’t interested either. She tried to be, for her mother’s sake, but the girl had ideas of her own, even though she kept them locked behind a compliant smile.
“I’m sure Shelia has plans for her first week of summer break.” I forced a smooth tone, tucking irritation into a box labeled
Really Doesn’t Matter
.
“Oh…” Mrs. Kellogg shook her head. “I know she’d set everything else aside. Why don’t you come on through? We’re an easy forty miles down the road. You could stay with us tonight. Save yourself one night’s sleep in a cheap hotel. In fact, stay the weekend. You could come to church with us. Shelia would love that.”
Heavens. I kept the sigh bundled in my chest. “Thanks, but I’ve got a job waiting.”
Thank goodness.
As I turned back to the counter, my mind flitted to the woman I’d bumped into on my way in. Why couldn’t I meet that kind of girl?
