Sarah's Smile (The Daughters of Riverton Book 1) Page 18

  “Daddy?”

  Peter raised his head, and not missing Ole’s grin, focused on the little angel next to him. “Mary, you know we’re working.”

  Mary’s lips curved down like a tired crescent moon. “I want to play outside and water my flowers.”

  “Sounds like a wonderful idea.” He picked up his daughter and placed her on his lap. “It’s a beautiful day. You should be outdoors in the sunshine.”

  “Miss Rebecca won’t let me.”

  “This is where you are. Interrupting your father.” Rebecca bustled into the room, carrying a tray containing two empty glasses and a pitcher filled with water. “I’ve looked all over the house for you.” She set down the tray on a side table.

  “Thank you for the water.” Peter tickled Mary. “She wants to take care of her flowers.”

  “And she may. After she finishes writing her letters.” Rebecca folded her hands in front of her, looking poised and confident. “That’s the rule, and if she can’t follow a simple one in her own home, how will she ever get along in school, where there are far more?”

  “It’s important to know your letters, Mary, so you can learn how to read stories to your daddy.” Peter tickled Mary again, then focused on Rebecca. “Anything else?”

  “Tending to flowers is one thing.” The corner of Rebecca’s mouth twitched, and if Peter weren’t mistaken, her eyes sparkled. “But the other day she made mud pies, then insisted I pretend to eat one filled with squiggly worms.” Rebecca exaggerated shivers.

  “Worms?” Peter tilted Mary’s face toward him and raised his eyebrows.

  “They were part of the recipe.” A mischievous grin sprouted on her face.

  Peter swallowed laughter and glanced at Ole, whose eyes twinkled back. Peter slid his daughter off his lap and set her on the floor. “It’s important to respect Miss Rebecca and do what she tells you. So, please go back into the other room and finish writing your letters. After supper, you may play outside until bedtime.”

  Mary’s grin morphed into a pout, and she blinked several times. “Letters.” She dragged her feet through the room and out the door, shoulders sagging.

  Peter held Rebecca’s eyes with his, wanting her full attention. “I appreciate your concern for Mary, and your willingness to prepare her for school. But she’s only four years old. Summers were made for playing and having fun. Once winter arrives with below-freezing temperatures, she’ll be cooped up inside. There will be plenty of time for learning then.”

  Rebecca opened her mouth, then snapped it shut. “You’re absolutely right. I’m sorry if I offended you.”

  “No apology needed. We should have talked more about expectations—yours and mine. I grew up on a farm, and despite all the work that comes with that life, my parents made sure we had time to play. I had a wonderful childhood, and it’s important to me that my daughter also remembers hers with fondness.”

  “I understand.”

  “Thanks, Rebecca.” Peter searched the document in his hand, then handed it to Ole. “Line fifteen.”

  Ole accepted the document and sat back, studying the contents.

  Rebecca stood next to the desk and cleared her throat. “I’ll get to my other household tasks now, but I wanted you to know I finished the laundry.”

  “You what?” Heat crawled up Peter’s neck. Rebecca had handled his clothes—his dirty underwear?

  “You and Mary will have clean clothes through the weekend.”

  Ole shot a glance at Peter, then pushed himself up from his chair. “I best be getting back. Martha will be wondering what took so long, and cows are gonna need milking.” He slipped his hat on. “We’ll both do some praying. Next council meeting is in a few days. Bring your questions and suggestions, and we’ll tackle the situation with a clear head.”

  Peter rose and shook his hand. “I’ll see you then.”

  Ole patted Peter on the back, then shuffled out.

  “Rebecca, you’re very kind, but my sister is willing to help with the laundry. So, from now on, please leave it for us to handle. You do so much for us, and I don’t want to take advantage of your generosity.”

  She blushed. “Whatever suits you.”

  “Thank you.” He needed to put the image of Rebecca picking through his pile of clothes out of his mind.

  She drifted around the room, straightening curtains that didn’t need adjustment, until she made her way out the door.

  He returned to his desk and paperwork, determined to not let her busy interference bother him. First things first—the roof. A pool had formed near the altar the night it rained. At least the immediate concern had been patched.

  Peter rubbed his temples, leaned back in his chair, and eyed Sarah’s locket lying on his desk. He’d found it on the church floor after services on Sunday. The clasp had broken, and the necklace had slipped from her neck. He promised to fix it for her. There were responsibilities to fulfill, but much of him wanted to just immerse himself in remembering Sarah’s kiss.

  Three days had passed since they’d confessed their feelings for each other, but those moments kept replaying in Peter’s head, stirring up desire. Sarah’s bright eyes as blue as morning glories, and her sweet lips the shade of ripe raspberries...

  “Since you’ve been so busy today, I made supper. It’s almost ready.”

  “What?” Peter snapped back to reality. Rebecca had wandered back in. How long had he been lost in thought?

  She poured water from the pitcher into a glass. “My parents are dining with friends this evening, so I thought I’d stay and keep the two of you company. There might be a cool breeze this evening. We could sit on the porch and have our dessert while Mary tends her flower pots.” Rebecca moved to his side and set the glass of water in front of him, brushing up against his arm.

  Peter flinched. He couldn’t let Rebecca’s subtle flirtations continue. The arrangement he had with her needed to end, especially now that he and Sarah had made commitments to each other. He gestured to the seat in front of the desk. “Rebecca, please sit down.”

  She lifted her skirt, slid gracefully onto the high-backed chair, and offered a coy smile. “You sound so serious.”

  This wasn’t going to be easy. “You’ve been a wonderful friend—a great help to both Mary and me. But I’ve decided the best thing for Mary is to spend more time out at the farm with my sister’s family. The children have missed her, and she’s missed them. It won’t be long before school will resume. You’ll be needed there.”

  With hands clasped in her lap, she sat as rigid as an iron rod. “But I take care of Mary. I take care of you both.” Rebecca’s tone sounded strained.

  “That needs to change.”

  “Have I done something wrong?” Rebecca’s voice rose. “I’ve tried to make Mary feel like she has a family.”

  “That’s the problem.” No matter what he said, it would hurt and anger her. “I appreciate all you’ve done, but you, me, Mary...we’re not a family.”

  Rebecca leaned forward across the desk and grasped his hand. “But we could be. Don’t you see?” Her voice, just seconds ago heavy with anger, now seemed laden with enough honey to make a grizzly sick.

  Peter pulled his hand from hers. He’d try to be gentle, but still direct. “What you’re doing—what you’re saying—you’ve crossed boundaries several times. I’m your pastor, Rebecca. Not your suitor.”

  She stood and began pacing. In the heat of the moment, the sugar in her voice melted into desperation. “I’ve always cared for you, Peter, and I can be a good mother to Mary. Isn’t that what she wants? A mother?”

  Peter moved to the front of his desk. “I’m sorry, Rebecca.” He put his hand on her shoulder in kindness, then immediately regretted it.

  Her gaze fell to the desk, in the direction of Sarah’s locket. Rebecca recoiled beneath his touch, and her eyes narrowed. “Trust me.” She shrugged his hand away. “You haven’t even begun to feel sorry.” Rebecca whirled around and stalked toward the door. “You’ll reg
ret this, Reverend Caswell.”

  chapter TWENTY-EIGHT

  The stream glittered in the early morning sunlight like Fourth of July sparklers. Peter cast his fishing line into the water, reeled it in, and cast again. Years had passed since the last time he’d been trout fishing. The soothing sound of water skimming over rocks relaxed his mind and body. Peter lifted his face toward the sky and closed his eyes, enjoying God’s presence.

  “You gonna pray, Preacher? Or fish?”

  Peter opened his eyes. “Maybe I’m praying for good fishing, Frank.”

  “Guess that don’t hurt.” The blacksmith shifted the wicker basket slung over his shoulder. “You keep that net handy, ’cause I’m sure gonna need it when I catch a big one.”

  “Don’t worry.” Peter reeled in his line.

  “Found a beaver dam up there at the mouth of the feeder. Colder water flowing from there into the main stream. The brookies might like it better there now that this main branch has been warmed by the summer heat.”

  “You sure seem to know a lot about fishing.”

  “Fished for trout my whole life. My pa taught me.” Frank cast his line farther down the stream in the opposite direction of Peter’s. “Looks like a good spot.” He started to reel in his line. “Got one.” The fish flipped back and forth, splashing above the water as Frank pulled him in closer.

  Throwing his pole on the bank, Peter strode through the water and scooped the brook trout into a net.

  Frank reached in, grasped the fish under the gills, and held up his prize. “He’s a beauty.”

  “Sure is.” Peter slapped his friend on the back. “It seems you and Jesus have something in common.”

  “Whatta ya mean?” Frank slipped the trout into his basket and strapped the lid down.

  “Jesus was quite a fisherman too.” Peter swung the net back over his shoulder.

  “I know the stories, Preacher.” The blacksmith reached into a container tied to his belt and pulled out a large night crawler. “I’m not ignorant about the Bible. Ma took me to church every Sunday. And I had what you might call an experience at a tent revival as a young boy.”

  Peter chuckled under his breath. His friend had been holding out on him. “So, you were a believer. Did your son’s accident turn you away from God?” He’d prayed since the first time they’d met that Frank would open up about his lack of faith.

  “I’ve been angry at him for a long time, Preacher. Long before Lewis died.” He cast the line close to where the trout had taken his bait. “My life has never gone the way I wanted it to. I’ve had troubles since I can remember.” He shifted and stared Peter in the eyes. “But Clara and the kids...Without them, I’d probably be dead by now.”

  Peter believed him. Maybe someday, Frank would trust him enough to share his story—the whole story. “Then I’d say you’re a blessed man to have such a loving wife. Clara will stick by you no matter what.”

  “I know she will, and I don’t deserve it.” Frank pulled in his line.

  “Isn’t that what love is about?”

  “I suppose it is...”

  “God loves you unconditionally, too, Frank.”

  The blacksmith glared. “Look. I already told you. I don’t talk about the Bible and I don’t talk religion. I should never have opened my big mouth about what happened to my son, but that day you showed up at the house I was in a bad way.” He wiped his mouth with his sleeve, his gaze not wavering. “And I should have kept my trap shut just now. If you want to fish, we can fish. But if you’re going to start preaching, you can go on home.”

  “Okay, Frank.” Peter cast his line back into the water. Time to make a choice. He could be the man’s friend and build a bridge, or he could create a gap that would only widen with further attempts to share his faith.

  The two men fished in silence. Peter prayed. Frank caught another trout, and a bald eagle swooped down, but Frank tossed the fish into the basket before the majestic bird could steal it.

  “Hungry?” Frank pulled out a small bundle wrapped in brown paper. “Clara said lunch would be ready if I promised to have you back by noon. But she also packed us some cookies.”

  Peter’s stomach had rumbled a few times. The first sugar cookie melted in his mouth, and the second went down almost as fast. “I’ll definitely thank your wife. She was also kind to keep Mary for me this morning.”

  “She didn’t mind. Your girl fits in with the rest.” A mischievous grin spread across Frank’s face. “Your Sarah will be having lunch with us.”

  “I wouldn’t call her my Sarah. We’re...close friends. Have been since we were kids.”

  “Sure. And I’m ready to stand up in front of your congregation and lead hymns.” The blacksmith shook his head, but the grin remained. “I’m not educated like you, but I’m no fool. I’ve seen the way you look at her.” Frank shoved a whole cookie into his mouth and chewed. “You want me to talk.” He pounded on his chest. “But you won’t admit—” Cookie crumbs flew from his mouth.

  The day was sure heating up. Peter wiped his brow. “Like I said, we’ve been friends since we were kids.”

  Frank took a stance and raised a dark, bushy eyebrow.

  “All right. I love her.” Peter stared into the shimmering water surrounding his boots, then back at his friend. “When Sarah smiles, it’s like looking into a crystal-clear stream and seeing the sun’s reflection.”

  The blacksmith nodded and gave a knowing grin, then went back to fishing. He seemed satisfied.

  Peter waded to the stream’s edge and sat on a large boulder. Marriage and a family like Frank—one that would stand behind him no matter what happened—that would be a blessing. Sarah would be that for him. No doubt in his mind.

  But it wouldn’t be fair to ask her to marry him now. Not until she returned from the mission field. An engagement would make it even more difficult for her to leave, and he wouldn’t stand in the way of what she believed God wanted her to do with her life. He knew too well how destructive that could be to their relationship.

  ***

  “You’ve been humming and singing all morning.” Gram’s foul mood was as pleasant as being trapped in a small space with a nest of angry hornets. “What’s got you so happy? You usually groan and complain about the Saturday cleaning.” She grabbed on to the side of the settee and lowered her body. The woman looked plum tuckered out, and it wasn’t even noon yet.

  “I didn’t mean to bother you.” Sarah dusted the fireplace mantel. Four weeks had passed since the night at the farm. But she still hadn’t told Gram that she and Peter had confessed their feelings for each other. “It’s not the weekly cleanings I detest. It’s all the work you think I should repeat in-between.”

  “You never know when someone will visit. What would people think if they found a dirty house?”

  “They might think we had more interesting things to do than wash floors.” Sarah surveyed the parlor—job well done. “It’s such a beautiful day, why don’t you sit out on the porch? I’ll bring you a fresh cup of coffee and a piece of cinnamon coffee cake.”

  “That’s another thing. You’ve never been one to get up at dawn to start baking.” Gram scowled. “And why two cakes?”

  “I’m visiting Clara Boyle this morning. I thought it would be nice to take one for their family.”

  “The blacksmith’s wife? Why are you getting involved with that family? They don’t even go to church. What could you possibly talk about with that woman?”

  Gram could be so judgmental. Goodness, she didn’t even know Clara.

  “You’d think she’d have enough to do with taking care of all those children without sitting around drinking coffee.”

  Sarah took a deep breath. “She asked me to explain some things she’s read in the Bible, and I told her I’d answer what I could.”

  “Well, that’s good then. You’re doing your Christian duty.” Gram made a dismissive gesture. “You go on. I’m going to sit and rest for a minute. I can get my own coffee when I’m re
ady. I’m not so old that I have to be waited on hand and foot—yet.”

  That was all she needed. “Thanks, Gram. I may not be back until later this afternoon.”

  “What?” Gram’s voice followed Sarah into the kitchen. “I thought you were just having coffee.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be home in time to help with supper.” Sarah put the dust rag away and gathered her things. “Why don’t you start working on the trim for Mrs. Sherlock’s pillowcases?”

  “I suppose I could do that,” her grandmother grumbled. “That will keep me busy enough.”

  “Gram, I know you enjoy and take great pride in your tatting, and you should. Your lacework is beautiful. That’s why Mrs. Sherlock hires you instead of anyone else.” With her Bible and handbag in one arm, and a coffee cake in the other, Sarah left.

  August brought blue skies and sun-filled days. Sarah closed her eyes and inhaled the fresh air. Her stomach growled. The slight breeze picked up the cinnamon aroma from the coffee cake. She’d been so focused on getting her chores done, she’d forgotten to eat breakfast. Good thing Clara’s house sat only a few blocks away.

  However long it took, Sarah knew she and Peter would serve in ministry together. It would just happen naturally—like today. She and Clara had planned to study the Bible together before knowing that Peter and Clara’s husband were spending the morning fishing.

  If she chose to give up working in the African orphanage and stay, maybe she and Peter would be married within the year. He hadn’t asked her yet, but he could be waiting until they knew what the immediate future held.

  She strolled down the street, warmed by more than the sun. Everything was falling into place. Time spent getting reacquainted after tucking Mary into bed at night had brought Peter and Sarah closer. But careful to not let emotions get out of hand, they shared only a few, brief kisses.

  Ellie couldn’t have been more thrilled that her brother and best friend had finally come to their senses and admitted their feelings. She and Thomas were the only people Sarah and Peter had told. At first Ellie didn’t understand why they weren’t shouting it to the whole town. Most people couldn’t wait to profess their love to all who would listen.