Bride Blunder (20 page)

“Let her go, you ... you...” Daisy rushed after them, searching for the right word. “Bully!” She reached over and tried to wrench his arm from Marge's but couldn't budge it.

“I'm no bully.” He kept a firm grip on Marge's hand. “Tell her, Marge.”

“You can't order someone to say you aren't a bully! Only bullies do that!” Daisy knew she was shrieking but didn't care. If her voice happened to be the only weapon at her disposal, she'd wield it until Gavin Miller let go of her cousin and clamped his hands over both ears to block her out.

“Marge?” He ignored her entirely, focusing on his captive.

“Do you know, Gavin, she makes a good point. You've issued a lot of orders lately.” Marge attempted to tug her hand free but had no more success than Daisy had on her behalf. “That's a very poor record for someone who promised to meet his bride halfway. Particularly when he can't seem to decide which bride he wants.”

“Not me!” Daisy vented her ire by whacking him on the head with her reticule, which startled him enough to allow Marge to pull free. “He doesn't want me, that much is certain.”

“Agreed!” The brute reached for Marge again. “Now that we've settled that much, you can leave us in private while your cousin and I come to an understanding about what the future holds.”

A private moment?
“Never!” Daisy refused to remember the private moments Trouston insisted they share. “An unmarried woman should never be left unattended.”

“I'm her fiancé!” Far from cowing her into obedience, his roar strengthened her resolve not to leave Marge alone.

“No, you aren't.” Marge stepped beside her—away from him.

“You aren't anyone's fiancé, Mr. Miller.” Daisy linked arms with Marge to point out the way they stood together—against him.
Me and Marge against overbearing men...

“I will be, if you'd stop poking your nose where it isn't wanted.” His scowl left no doubt in Daisy's mind that her cousin had managed a very narrow escape from a lifetime under the thumb of an overbearing ogre. “Marge and I have things to discuss.”

“Marge needs a bath, some of the tea the doctor prescribed, and lots of rest.” Daisy started toward the house, tugging her cousin along when she hesitated. “A certain miller lured her out into the middle of nowhere, toyed with her affections, and almost got her killed battling a dangerous fire today.”

“She snuck back in!” His protest made no sense.

“I wouldn't have had to if you hadn't locked me out.” Some of Marge's old spirit flickered to life again. “You can't control everything, Gavin Miller.”

“Come back here, Marge.”

“No.” Now it was Marge sweeping Daisy back toward the house. “Because most of all, you don't control me!”

Burning.
Heat claimed his face, his chest, his hands—a blazing pain sinking deep past the surface to set his very nerves aflame. Amos shifted, trying to escape, only to send a fresh wave of knifelike heat surging through his skin.

He held still, waiting for it to subside before opening his eyes.
Darkness.
He blinked, trying to dispel whatever blocked his vision, only to find no relief. Without conscious thought, he raised his hands to his eyes, sucking in his breath at the searing sensation caused by the movement.

“Don't move.” Midge's voice came to him, cool and soothing. Close. “It'll make your burns hurt, though I'm sure you've discovered that.”

“Burns ... the mill.” The memory of a blinding flash and intense heat knocking him against a stone wall came rushing back. He sat up and immediately wished he hadn't when discomfort churned to nausea. “Is Gavin all right?”

“Yes—lay down.” He felt the pressure of her hand against his shoulder. Somehow, it seemed she'd found the one place that didn't hurt. Or maybe it didn't hurt because she touched him. Amos couldn't say for certain which was true, but he sank back slowly, trying not to trigger any more bursts of fiery punishment. “You've probably discovered that you can't see. Saul bandaged your face and eyes.”

“Bandages.” Relief coursed through him. “Thank God.”

“God didn't put them there—Saul did. Dr. Reed, if you prefer.” Her words sounded more clipped, controlled. “But if you're thanking the Almighty that it's bandages blocking your vision,” she continued, her tone gentler, “you need to know that's not entirely the truth, Amos.”

“Explain.” He swallowed, unable to brace himself any other way as he felt her weight sink onto the corner of the bed beside him. “The bright flash of light—how bad is it?”

“We expect you to remain unable to see for a while, even without the bandages, but Saul says blindness caused by flash burns almost always corrects itself in a matter of weeks.”

“Blindness.” Amos blinked several times, as though to push away the darkness. Foolish, he knew—it gave him reason to be glad the bandages hid the desperate act from Midge.

“
Temporary
blindness.” Her emphasis somehow made it more palatable. “You're young and healthy and may recover in as little as two weeks.” The smooth rim of a glass pressed against his lips. “Drink this.”

He swallowed. It took an effort to answer “yes” instead of nod when she asked if he was comfortable. It would serve no purpose but to set off the system of painful alerts warning against any movement. Not that he would be comfortable for a long while, but he knew that she meant it in a relative sort of way. “And the burns?”

“Not nearly as severe as they feel. Your hands took the worst of it and will be slowest to heal.” She lightly touched his wrist as she spoke, the featherlight brush of her fingers affording a unique comfort. “You will heal, Amos.”

A catch in her voice caught his attention. “There was doubt?”
And you care. Deeply.
He kept the observation to himself, but some of his restlessness eased away.

“You didn't answer when I called for you—lay so still when we carried you out of the fire...” Memories tinged her words with fear relived. “At first I didn't know if you'd survived.” A ragged breath was drawn in quickly so he wouldn't notice—but it was too late. He'd heard it.

“Don't worry, little Midglet.” He wanted to see her, reach out, hold her—but could offer nothing but the truth. “God watches over His own, and He kept me safe.”

“Safe?” Her weight suddenly lifted from the bed as she jumped up. “
This
is how God watches over His own, Amos?
This
is the way He answers prayers for protection?
This
is what you offer me as proof of His love and grace?”

“No ... what happened today makes one example out of many.” He listened to the staccato clicks of her boots as she paced along the hardwood floor and surmised he must be at the Reed house.

“You're burned, blind, and could have died!”

“Exactly.” He smiled and found the expression barely stung. “I'm here, not even badly burned, and only temporarily blinded according to all reasonable expectation. Things could be so much worse—how can I not be grateful?”

“Things could be worse.” Exasperation underscored each word. “This is the basis for your faith? Things could be worse? Amos, what about the reverse side? Things could be so much better. Things
should
be so much better, if God really cared and protected His children as you claim.”

Lord, guide my words to best reach this woman You've brought into my life. We've finally come to it—the real reason why she turns from You. Help me show her....

“Why?” He waited one beat, then two, eventually counting out seven long breaths without any response from her. Even more telling, her skirts hadn't so much as rustled, telling Amos Midge hadn't moved a muscle since he asked the question.

“Why what?”

“Why should things be better, Midge?”
This would be so much simpler if I could see her face, Lord. If I could gauge her reactions and adjust my approach—temper my words to best reach her. Remember the tree? She thinks she harbors a heart of ugliness and corruption, not
knowing the beauty within is only missing the fulfillment of accepting Your promise.

“What sort of question is that?” Midge still didn't move. “It's what we always work toward—to make things better.”

“Exactly.” A rhythmic tapping let him know she'd begun to fidget. “We work to make things better. We earn the good things we attain—and that's as it should be.”

“God could make everything so much easier. If He wanted to—if He loved as deeply and fully as He's supposed to.”

Anger veiled the true motive behind her words, and if he'd been able to watch instead of rely solely on listening, Amos might have missed the deeper vein running beneath. The hollow note of betrayal burrowed beneath Midge's rage, eating away at the foundation of faith.

“We don't appreciate things that are given to us easily, Midge. It's the process of improving ourselves and the things around us for the people we love that makes us more worthy.” He listened, realizing she'd gone still again.

“God judges the heart—sees deep inside who and what a person is, and what he or she can become based on that.” She started pacing again. “He doesn't need proof of whether or not we can be worthy—He knows it already. He knows what we think and what we need and when and how we hurt ... and He lets it happen.”

“We learn through our mistakes, Midge.”

“What mistake did you make today, Amos?” Her steps moved farther away, until he heard the sound of a door opening. “What were you supposed to learn?”

“I don't know.” His admission stopped her cold.

“Well, at least you know you don't have all the answers.” She shut the door and walked back to his bedside. Looking down at him lying there, propped up against pillows, his face swathed in bandages, Midge felt rage rise up once more. “You didn't need to learn anything, Amos.”

“There's a change I didn't expect.” If she didn't know better, Midge would swear he smiled under those bandages. “A day or so ago you would've told me I have a lot to learn.”

A grudging grin tugged at her until she realized he couldn't see it if she let it out. So she did—and it felt good. “That's not what I meant.”

“You can't have it both ways, Midglet.” His voice went deeper, his speech starting to slur from the medicine she'd given him to help him sleep and ease the pain.

“Neither can God.” She sank into the chair at his bedside, suddenly weary beyond memory. “He can't have a reputation for being loving, forgiving, and all-knowing but turn around and let the entire world stumble and struggle and suffer. That's the worst sort of hypocrisy I can imagine, Amos.”

Worse, even, than the men who abused my sister then demeaned her for it.

“But that's not God—that's Satan.” It looked as though he fought to remain awake. “Midglet, don't ever forget we live in a war....” With that, sleep claimed him.

War?
Midge left him to sleep. To heal as best he could.
What does God have to do with a war?

She'd won a battle against her own heart that afternoon, but Marge knew the victory to be hollow. Even now, she lay in bed beside Daisy, hearing her cousin's mutter in her sleep, as she always had; and her thoughts wandered to Gavin.

Lord, help me, please. I walked away this afternoon. Please help me give him up. Give me the strength to follow the path You put before me and be content with whatever I find it to be. Let me stop wondering what he would have said to me had Daisy not followed. Take away my worries about whether or not he's positioned his pillows just right so he breathes easiest after all that coughing.

“Not until we're married.” Daisy threw out a full sentence before lapsing into incoherence once more. It sounded as though she were remembering fending off Trouston's overeager advances.

Marge wondered whether she should awaken Daisy or if it was best to let her sleep. She still hadn't decided when Daisy spoke loudly enough again to be understood.

“You promised....” Even in sleep, this sounded forlorn. Small. It made Marge frown and listen more closely.

If this counted as eavesdropping, she'd disregard it. Daisy hadn't explained the complete reason behind the abrupt end to her engagement, and obviously something deeply troubled her typically happy-go-lucky cousin.

More mutterings sank into silence. Then, “Can't leave me now!” The wail burst out so suddenly, Marge almost rolled out of the bed. “How could you?” This came so quietly, she could almost believe she'd imagined it. “Ruined...”

Ruined?
Marge gasped.
Surely she can't mean what I think she means!
Yet no matter how intently she listened, Daisy would only repeat that one word every so often, as though unable to move past it.

“Ruined...”

If Marge had fallen asleep first, as she had the night before, she wouldn't know.
I shouldn't know now. Daisy didn't tell me.
Sadness shafted through her.
I didn't ask; I was too wrapped up in my own troubles to truly take note of how much she hurt.
She kneaded her pillow, trying to vent her guilt.

It didn't work. She lay there, turning the problem over in her mind, again and again, examining it from all sides. The facts didn't change. If her suspicions proved correct—and she held out little hope they wouldn't—Trouston had coerced or forced her cousin into giving him what should only be given to a husband.

“Ruined...”

Which means she'll have a difficult time finding a husband who accepts her past.
Daisy wasn't the sort of woman to find her own way or push through on determination or grit. The simple truth of the matter came down to a bald fact: Daisy needed someone to watch over and provide for her. In short, Daisy needed a husband.

And Gavin needs a wife.
Resolve flooded her, sweeping away most of the regret she should feel at the new plan working its way through her mind.
Lord, can it be You orchestrating this so my cousin wouldn't be left to fend for herself after her parents' deaths? If You mean Gavin for Daisy, I can accept that.

She didn't like it. She didn't want it. But when faced with her cousin's need and God's will, Marge knew she could bear it. Even if the small box in her heart gaped wide open, the hope seeping away in small puffs of necessity, seeming to echo the one word on Daisy's mind...

“Ruined...”

The next day's sermon passed with agonizing slowness. With Amos laid up downstairs, Midge thought she'd found the perfect reason to avoid attending church ... only to be outmaneuvered.

“I won't be the reason you don't go to church.” Amos spoke up the moment she entered his room, somehow knowing it was her despite his inability to see. “Dr. Reed and I agree on that much, Midglet. I'll be fine for a few hours.”

Maybe he's fine,
she pondered, scowling as Parson Carter showed no signs of slowing down,
but what about me?
The longer she sat in that pew, the more Midge stewed.
Last night, Amos mentioned being in the middle of a war. He's about to learn how right he is ... and that he picked the wrong opponent!

Then something Parson Carter said caught her attention—something about fire. “Mr. Geer's accident brought to mind a verse that used to be one of my father's favorites. And while we keep Amos in prayer today, I'd like to read from Isaiah 48.”

Midge sat up straighter, listening carefully so she could pass along Parson Carter's message when she got home to Amos. But when the parson finished reading the verse, she felt so astonished she could scarcely credit it.

After entering her house following the service, she found herself stopping to pick up the Reeds' Bible and take it with her to Amos's room so she could read it and verify the message.

Amos still slept when she entered, but he must have sensed her presence, because no sooner did she begin turning pages than he stirred. “What are you reading, Midglet?”

“Searching for a verse Parson Carter read today.” She could tell by his silence Amos wasn't sure how to respond. “In your honor. I think I must've heard it wrong, and I want to get it right before we talk about it.”

“What's the verse?”

Midge consulted the scrap of paper where she'd scribbled the attribution. “Isaiah 48:10.” She kept turning the thin, fragile leafs of the Bible as Amos lay there, waiting. When she finally found the right page, she traced one finger down the column to settle on the exact verse and read aloud.

“‘Behold, I have refined thee, but not with silver; I have chosen thee in the furnace of affliction.'”

To her surprise, she made it about halfway through before Amos began reciting the verse as she read it. “You know this verse? By memory?”

“Until you began reading it, I wasn't sure I had the right one in mind.” He lay unmoving, a live corpse before her save the movement of his mouth. “But yes, I know it. And others that refer to the same idea.”

“This is what you talked about yesterday—having to earn things and prove ourselves worthy. And today Parson Carter chose it because your ordeal reminded him of being put into the furnace of affliction.” Midge stared at the verse until it became a jumble of letters. “As though it makes sense you needed to be tested like a precious metal to be found pure.”

“No, Midge, put through trials to become refined into something more than the base metal I began with.” His bandaged face turned toward her, and she clenched her hands to keep from ripping the coverings from his eyes. “The challenges we overcome shape us and prepare us to deal with those that await.”

“I understand that.” She shut the Bible and laid it on the bedside table. “I even respect it, Amos. But I don't see why God puts us through all of that if He's supposed to be perfect in His mercy.”

“Free will, Midglet. God gives us the choice and asks us to choose Him rather than succumb to the lures of Satan and live in selfishness. Many choose wrongly, and the world becomes a constant battleground.”

“The war you spoke of?” She thought of it ... examined what Amos was telling her, poked at it in an attempt to find a weak point—but it made sense.

“We fight for those we love, we fight to do what's right in the name of the Lord, and we fight against the parts of ourselves that want to stop fighting and indulge in all the things that look so easy or enjoyable.” He lifted his hands then lowered them again as though anxious to enjoin battle once more. “That is our war—and one we wage so long as we value God's gift in letting us choose how we live out our days.”

“No.” She didn't bother to explain why that didn't work—hadn't figured out how to put it into words just yet—but knew enough to go ahead and refute what he said.

“No to what part? All of it? Some of it?” He raised his hands and spread them wide in a questioning gesture.

“The last part, mostly.” If she thought about it, Midge could get behind the stuff about fighting for loved ones and battling against taking the easy way and doing wrong. “All that about the Lord giving us the gift of freedom. He's all rules and impossible standards and demanding you give yourself up.”

I've worked too hard to keep myself together to do that.

“We need things to aspire to—you've already agreed to that. And God doesn't ask you to give yourself up. You're looking at it the wrong way.”

Tears pricked her nose and eyes, clogged her throat, and made her breathing harsh. “What's the right way, Amos? He loves me in spite of the fact I lived in a back alleyway and Saul only just barely saved me from life as a prostitute? He loves me even though He let my parents and sister die?” She took in a great gulp of air and waited.

Now he knows the truth about my past. Now he won't want to talk to me or think I'm worth saving anymore.

Amos stayed quiet for a long time. “Jesus didn't condemn the fallen, and God sacrificed His only Son for our sakes.” His words surprised her enough to dry up the tears. “You are precious in His sight, Midglet.”

Midglet. He still calls me Midglet.
But no more tears came. Instead, an odd calm descended upon her. “If He loves me so much and plans for me to keep my freedom, what does God want?”

“The same thing any of us want. Stands to reason, since we were made in His image.” Amos shifted in the bed, turning his face just slightly so that it seemed as though the bandages stared straight through her. “He wants you to accept Him.”

“As I am, He wants me?”

“To choose to accept Him. Yes.” Every line of Amos's body seemed tense—with a hope Midge could understand.

“But it's my choice? I stay myself and gain an ally in fighting for what's good?” She waited for Amos's nod. “You're sure He already accepts me?”

“He already loves you, Midglet.” She could see Amos swallow.

“In that case...” Midge got up and perched on the bed beside Amos, resting her head against the shoulder that hadn't been burned. “It's not hard at all for me to accept Him.”

“And me?”

“Don't be silly, Amos.” She smoothed his hair back. “I chose
you
ages ago.”

“Good, because there's only one thing I want to see when my sight returns, Midge Collins.”

“Oh?” Her hand stilled. “What's that?”

“You should've guessed.” His smile made a mockery of the bandages swathing his face. “Freckles.”