Bending Toward the Sun (10 page)

Despite the chill in the air, Emilie decided on a more leisurely stroll home from Lindenwood. PaPa hired Maren to help at the store two months ago, yet Emilie had continued to push herself. Today she’d take time to enjoy the sunshine before autumn fully gave itself to winter. Along the creek and up the hill behind it, evergreen pines mingled with the linden and sycamore trees that stood bare waiting for their spring revival. Maren and Rutherford would wed soon, while she and Quaid were forbidden to see each other.

She sighed, longing for spring’s resuscitation.

Pinching the sides of her skirt, Emilie took careful steps on soggy leaves to the water’s edge. Settling on a log, she laid her book sack beside her and stretched her legs. With the sun warming her face and the creek burbling, she watched a squirrel scamper across a patch of daisies and drew in a faltering breath. Oh, how she wished Quaid were here, seated beside her.

She admired his integrity and respect for her father. If only she possessed his patience. But she knew her father and his dependence upon her. What if PaPa were to never come to his senses and accept her and Quaid’s … what?

She pressed her fingers to her lips, remembering.

Quaid had told God he loved her. Is that what she felt for him? If so, she didn’t want to love him. Not if PaPa wouldn’t change his heart. It would hurt too much.

Keep thy heart with all diligence; for out of it are the issues of life
.

At the breakfast table that morning, PaPa had read the verse from Proverbs.

Issues like frustration? impatience? rebellion? She was battling them all.

She needed to trust God with her whole heart.

Lord, I know You are trustworthy. I do want to trust You. Why does it have to be so hard?

She breathed in the scent of pine and studied the patches of daisies along the banks of the creek. Some stood in direct sunlight while others waited in the shade, all of them leaning toward the light, bending toward the sun.

Tears stung her eyes. She was a daisy in the shade, waiting and stretching toward the sun for light and warmth.

Guard my heart, Lord. It belongs to You, first and foremost
. She allowed herself to linger in her thoughts and prayers for a few moments.

Feeling refreshed, she picked up her book sack and resumed her walk home. She’d started down the hill toward Main Street when she heard her name.

“Miss Emilie.”

Emilie turned to see Anna Goben rushing toward her. “Miss Anna.” Emilie embraced her. “It’s good to see you.”

Anna held up a sack with both hands. “I was taking these candles to the store, so when I saw you—”

“I’m glad you caught up to me. We can walk together.”

“Yes. I’d like that.” Freckles bridged Anna’s nose. Anna’s father had been gone for more than ten years now, and she’d lost her brother to the war.

Emilie set a leisurely pace. “I don’t know if you’ve seen Mrs. Brantenberg lately, but we’ve missed having you at quilting circle.”

“I haven’t seen Mrs. Brantenberg, but on Sunday, Jewell Rafferty and her sister Caroline brought us a pot of stew and an apple pie. It was awful nice of them to come, especially so soon after the sad news of the death of Caroline’s husband.” Anna tucked a strand of straw-blond hair into her bonnet. “I do miss the quilting circle, but … between
Mutter
and
Großvater
, the grief hangs thick at my house. I seem to be the only one right now who can face the days.”

Anna was the only one working. Emilie knew that much. The young woman was making tatting lace for the dressmaker, feather arrangements for the milliner, and beeswax candles for the dry goods store.

“I’m sorry.”

“Thank you.”

Emilie held her head high while they walked. She had so much to be thankful for, and like the petunias in the flower box they passed, she would bend toward the sun.

At the dry goods store, Emilie held the door open for Anna.

“Emilie? Is that you?” PaPa rushed in from the storeroom but stopped in his tracks when he saw Anna. “Miss Goben. It’s a pleasure to see you.”

“And you, Mr. Heinrich.” Anna curtsied slightly. “
Großvater
sends his regards.”

PaPa nodded. “You tell him I said it was high time he come in and beat me at a game of checkers.”

“I’ll do that, sir.”

“Anna brought candles.” PaPa followed them to the counter, and Emilie set her book bag on the floor behind it. He wouldn’t normally involve himself in the purchase of candles, but he stood there as she and Anna lifted the sack onto the counter. She met his gaze. “Did you need me for something else? Is there a problem?”

“No. It can wait.” PaPa swatted the air. “You girls tend to your business.”

PaPa left to greet the banker’s wife as Emilie went to the desk for the ledger. When she returned, a display of dipped candles lined the counter, laid out like felled trees.

“There’s thirty of ’em.”

Emilie wrote a voucher for Anna and handed it to her.

Anna’s hands stilled, her eyes widening. “Did you hear that?”

Emilie shook her head. “I didn’t hear anything. Suppose I was too busy concentrating.”

Anna slid the voucher into her sack. “It sounded like a distant explosion.”

“We heard it too.” His steps quick, PaPa carried a keg to the counter with the banker’s wife at his heels.

Emilie set the bookwork down. “Where’d it come from? Could you tell?”

“From the river.” The banker’s wife pulled money from her woolen skirt pocket. “If you ask me, it was probably one of those dreadful steamboats. They’re dangerous things, you know.”

PaPa paled and rushed to the storeroom. Emilie and the others followed him out the back door. They looked downstream toward an umbrella cloud of smoke and steam. Shouts and screams filled the air, even at this distance.

A boy rushed up the hill shouting, “Renglers’ steamboat blew up!”

She looked at PaPa, her stomach knotting. He was shaking. Oliver and Owen were more than his checkers buddies; they were good friends. She squeezed her father’s hand. “Maybe they weren’t there.”

“That’s what I wanted to tell you.” Tears streamed his face. “Quaid McFarland was here. He finished making the railing for their boat.”

She shook her head, fighting the storm building inside her.

“He had it in the wagon.”

She stared at the billowing smoke. “No! Please, God, no!”

Thirteen

W
hat was happening? Where was he?

Quaid sputtered. Choked. Fought to gain his balance.

A fire on the boat. He had to help the others. But he was being pulled away from them.

Muddy water stung his eyes, weighted his lungs. His legs could no longer kick, or his arms flail. A brawny arm pushed against his chest.

God, is that You?

“I’ve got ya.” God sounded a lot like Captain Pete.

Safe, he gave in to the blackness.

“Took on a lot of water, he did.” Pete?

“Got to clear his lungs.” Doc Stumberg’s gravelly voice.

“Quaid Patrick McFarland! Stay with us … stay with me, Son.” Mother.

He was rolling. Draped over a barrel. Back and forth. Quaid gasped. His gut wrenching, he gagged. After he’d spit and sputtered, strong hands pulled him off the barrel and propped him against it. His eyelids felt leaden as he fought to open his eyes.

“His eyes. They’re opening.” Mother’s voice again.

He blinked until a craggy face came into view. Doc Stumberg. Where was Mother?

Were the myriad sounds actually distant, or was something wrong with his hearing? He dug at his ears with his pinkies, dislodging wet dirt.

“You were underwater,” the doc said.

Quaid tipped his head to drain the remaining goop from his ears.

“Thank You, God! Thank You, Jesus!” His folks’ voices mingled.

He turned toward the prayer, where Mother and Father knelt beside him in front of a cheering crowd.

“A fire in the engine room, then the whole thing went up.”

Quaid remembered. “Oliver? Owen?” Didn’t sound like his own voice, forced and puny.

“We’re here, buddy.” Oliver said. “Your shouts got us all out in time.”

“You’re a hero.”

“No lives lost.”

“Explosion tossed you overboard like a rag doll.”

“Captain Pete spotted you floating downstream. Dove in after ya.”

Voices came from all around. Some he recognized. Others he didn’t. None of them belonged to Emilie.

Johann Heinrich stepped forward. Was the man trembling? Kneeling, Mr. Heinrich looked Quaid in the eye. “Can you find it in your heart to forgive me? I was wrong.”

Thank You, God! Thank You, Jesus!

Fourteen

E
milie dashed out the door. PaPa pulled it shut behind them, and they started down the hill.

“You saw him? He really is all right?”

“
Ja
. They were taking him home.”

“You said the doctor was there?”

He nodded. “And going to the house with them.”

“Quaid was walking?”

“Standing. His brother had a wagon.”

“Quaid’s wagon? His woodwork?”

“Gone.”

Her heart raced. “I have to see him.”

“That’s why we’re going. To make sure he’s all right.”

“But you said—”

“I’m sure he’s fine. Dr. Stumberg wanted to be sure of his lungs. And I need to know you’ll be all right.”

She would be, if Quaid was.

Throngs of people were gathered at the river. The remains of the Renglers’ boat smoldered offshore. Shattered timbers and mechanical debris littered the shoreline near the boat. The injured were being bandaged where they lay. Emilie’s heart clenched. Quaid had to be all right.

The McFarlands’ log cabin sat on a knoll two or three hundred feet above the riverbank. PaPa caught her arm and stopped her at the path to the door.

“Em, I told Quaid I was wrong. Asked him to forgive me.”

Tears stinging her eyes, she pulled her father into a warm embrace. Now she just hoped it wasn’t too late to tell Quaid what she should’ve said in the freight house.

“Miss Emilie.” The twins jumped off the porch swing.

“Brother’s been askin’ for you.” Mattie took her hand and led her up the steps.

Quaid’s mother swung the door open.

“I hope you don’t mind me coming, ma’am.”

Mrs. McFarland shook her head, her eyes rimmed pink. “Not in the least. Me boy’s about to set me nuts, askin’ for ye.” A smile thinned her lips.

Their hands clasped, the wisp of a woman led her through a modest kitchen to a small room packed with people. Quaid’s brother and sister-in-law, his father, the Rengler brothers, and the doctor. The crowd around the bed parted. Quaid sat propped against the wall. The sight of his emerald green eyes and crooked smile weakened her knees.

“Emilie.”

The elder Mr. McFarland waved his arms. “All right, all you gawkers, time to clear out. You, too, Doc.” Quaid’s father glanced at her. “Me and Mother will be right outside the door.”

Silence, except for her thumping heart and Quaid’s low whistle. “My, but you’re lookin’ good.”

“I heard what you said to God.”

He quirked an eyebrow. Had he forgotten?

“Outside your father’s office door … when I was leaving.”

“Ah. That.” He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood. “I meant every word—I love you, Emilie Heinrich.”

She brushed a tear from her cheek. “I love you too. You really are all right?”

“I am now.” He cupped her face and bent to kiss her.

Yes, he was fine. And she was feeling so much better.

When their lips parted, she gazed into his eyes. “PaPa said he told you he was wrong.”

“Asked me to forgive him.”

“Did you?”

“Yes.” His smile quickened her pulse. “Our waiting is over.”

Emilie sighed, certain she saw forever in his emerald eyes.

Author’s Note

The Historic Main Street District of Saint Charles, Missouri, charmed me during my first visit in 1999. My return in 2012 deepened my fascination with its rich historical past and modern-day charm.

Thank you for joining me on my adventures with the quilting circle in Saint Charles, Missouri, a city brimming with a rich history and compelling characters.

I enjoy featuring actual cities and places, but in keeping with my commitment as a storyteller of historical fiction, I’m required to play with facts and actual locations to best meet the needs of my stories.

Please plan now to read the third novella,
Ripples Along the Shore
, and then step into
Prairie Song
, releasing in August, with me. I look forward to our time together in the pages. Until then, diligently guard your heart as you walk in the light of God’s love.

Your friend
,

Mona

Acknowledgments

On some levels, writing is a solitary undertaking. But it is also a process requiring a team of supporters. Many people rallied around me in the various stages of this story.

      • My hubby, Bob—my first reader, technical support, home manager