Seasons of Bliss (Saskatchewan Saga Book #4) (26 page)

“I had supposed,” he began, “when I left here, that things were getting more settled in my mind, that I was close to a decision. Now . . . I don’t know . . .”

Still she waited. Her own peace of mind, so recently sought and won, should not be disturbed, nor her conclusions changed. Challenged, perhaps, but not changed. Molly felt she knew the Lord’s will—for her.

“She—Vivian, that is—didn’t have a personal need or problem that she wanted to talk about,” Parker said finally, opening the subject that was on both their minds.

“No?”

“What she had was . . . this.” Parker pulled an envelope from his pocket, held it in his hand uncertainly.

Molly made no move to take it. Rather, she looked at Parker steadily, waiting for him to make what explanations he would.

“It’s a letter from Mount Moriah. Have you heard of Mount Moriah, Molly?”

“In the Bible—”

“Not that Mount Moriah. This one is located on Prince Edward Island, near the city of Summerside. It’s not a mount, of course, but a . . . place named for the biblical Mount Moriah. Actually,” Parker cleared his throat, “actually, it’s a Bible school. That’s why I thought you may have heard of it.”

“No, I never have.”

“No reason why you should have. There are a few Bible schools dotted over the country now; this one is the most easterly. It offers two-year courses to young people wanting to prepare for Christian work. Anyway,” Parker turned the full gaze of his dark eyes on Molly, “this letter is an offer to join the faculty.”

“I don’t understand,” Molly said slowly. “Why would they offer you a place? How did they hear about you? What’s the . . . the connection?” Asking, Molly thought she knew, and she returned his gaze steadily.

“It’s Vivian, of course. She has an uncle who is on the board of regents there, or some such place of responsibility. She recommended me—”

Vivian had been two months or so in Bliss, and she recommended him?

So thought Molly. What she said was, “And what is your reaction?”

“Molly, it may be the answer to my cry! Think of it—just when I’m so full of uncertainties, here comes this—”

“This ‘out’?” Molly wanted to say but didn’t. Being so sure, so very sure of her own place in God’s plan, she could afford to be quiet. Parker Jones would have to find his answer for himself.

“Just think of it, Molly—a teacher! A teacher of the Bible! Helping young people get ready to serve the Lord. And, Molly—”

“What else?”

“A salary. Not large but regular. Large enough to get married on! What do you think of that, Molly?” Parker’s voice bordered on exultant; certainly it was urgent, hopeful. His eyes, turned on Molly, were bright and questioning.

“It sounds . . .” Not knowing how to answer, Molly’s feeble response faded away to nothing.

“It could be our answer, Molly!”

“
Our
answer, Parker? Do you mean . . . what I mean is . . .”

Parker had spoken words of devotion before this. He had broached the subject of marriage, he had walked all around it—the pros and cons, the inadequacy of the small house, the uncertain salary—but this was the first time he had put it into anything definite.

“I mean, Parker . . . is this a proposal?”

“It is! Molly—will you marry me? I love you, Molly girl! Will you go with me to Mount Moriah? What do you say, darlin’ Molly?”

I
t’s Rob Dunbar,” Lydia said, laying aside her book and pulling back the lace curtain at her side.

Incapacitated much of the time with her aching joints, Lydia would have much preferred to be crocheting, or knitting, or engaged in tasks she felt were constructive and helpful. Reading! It was for idle hours—and who, in their right mind, could expect any of those?

Still, she was reduced to sitting, rocking, flexing her twisted fingers gently, hoping and praying for better health, trying to do a little mending, and reading. In the meantime, she thanked God daily for Tierney Caulder. Not only was she a willing worker but a cheerful, pleasant person, made more so, no doubt, by the One who indwelt her.

But how long, Lydia thought with a sigh, could they keep her with them? Lydia sometimes watched the faces of Tierney
and Quinn Archer, looking for signs of a secret attraction, for some clue that there was some magic at work between them. Quinn was a gem of a man, capable and reliable. Quinn would make a wonderful husband and father. He was mature, seasoned, thoughtful, a man of humor and wisdom. And fine looking!

At times Lydia was sure she intercepted a glance that was more than casual between her two hired people. Being an inveterate romantic at the core of her staid English being, Lydia found opportunities,
made
opportunities, for Quinn and Tierney to be together—sending Tierney to the barn or field with messages, arranging for Tierney and Quinn to make trips to Bliss together, occasionally seeing them off to church alone when her health forbade her going and she persuaded Herbert to stay with her.

Now, having announced the rider who was approaching the house at a gallop, Lydia turned to study Tierney: slender, taller than many women of the day, with curves in all the right places (Lydia knew where they should be, though she couldn’t boast of them herself), a mass of auburn hair that continually strayed from its pins to riot in abandon around a face that was piquant, Tierney was filled with the love of life and smiled often. Yes, Quinn Archer would be blind and dumb not to see what was set deliciously before his very eyes every day.

Just now, her hands in a dishpan of hot, soapy water, washing up the noon dishes, Tierney’s lips were moving, as though she were praying, perhaps. And that was best of all—Tierney Caulder, not too long ago, had given her life to the Lord Jesus Christ and knew Him on a personal basis. Her witness was bright and clear, her mind and heart fervent in their devotion.

With a start Tierney lifted her head. “Who . . . who is it?”

“Robbie Dunbar. I wonder what he’s doing here this time of day. And in a hurry, too,” Lydia said.

Even as she spoke, Robbie was springing from the horse’s back, striding across the porch, knocking at the door.

In a wink Tierney had it opened.

“Robbie . . .”

“It’s Barney,” Robbie said, stepping quickly into the house. “I’ve come for help. Barney is lost—”

“The little boy?” Lydia inserted rather blankly, being caught so completely by surprise.

“Aye, Alice’s son, Barney. He’s jist five years old, and he’s lost.”

“Lost?—”

“Somewhere in the bush, we suppose.”

“O Lord . . .” Lydia breathed, and it was a prayer. How often she had worried and prayed over her own small grandson on the prairie, that God would keep him from wandering away in that unending sea of grass. It happened. Many were the stories of people—adults and children—lost on the prairie, lost in blizzards, lost, yes, lost in the bush. That it should happen here!

“There isna time to tell you all aboot it,” Robbie said desperately. “We looked the best we could, and when it seemed he wasna in the farmyard, we knew we needed help. I stopped at Allan’s, and he’s headed over to help look. Can someone from here—Quinn maybe—give us a hand?”

Robbie’s usually bronzed face was white and taut with anxiety.

“Of course! Tierney, run and get Quinn. Tell him to hitch up the buggy, and you better go with him.”

For once Lydia had no secret motive in sending Quinn and Tierney off together; her concern for the lost child was uppermost in her mind.

Robbie was already turning toward his horse, mounting, heading out. “I’ll stop by Herkimer’s, too. Thank you—” And he was gone in a cloud of dust, pounding down the road.

Tierney and Quinn pulled into the Hoy yard to find Alice, half collapsed, leaning against the post on the porch, Billy beside her, sucking a thumb, looking solemn.

“Any luck?” Quinn asked after alighting from the buggy. Tierney hurried after him to Alice’s side. Putting her arm
around the trembling woman, Tierney persuaded her to sit on the step.

“No, there’s no sign of him. Allan is out in the woods somewhere. I’ve looked everywhere . . . everywhere except—” Alice’s eyes turned fearfully toward the well.

What a thought! In spite of reluctance to consider such a possibility, all three adults turned apprehensive eyes on the well. Quinn cleared his throat.

“I’ll check it,” he said.

“Come inside,” Tierney urged, feeling Alice could withstand no more. Alice complied, moving, under the pressure of Tierney’s guiding hands, into the house, sagging into an overstuffed chair.

When Quinn reported that the well was clear, thrusting his head in the door to do so, Alice whispered, “Thank God. Well, then, it’s got to be the bush. We’ve looked everywhere else.”

Almost immediately Robbie and Herkimer were galloping into the yard, to be met by the news that there was no news.

“Which way did Allan go?” Robbie asked, but Alice seemed not to know. “He tied up his horse and just headed out . . . somewhere.”

“We three will start—one this way, one that way, one over there,” Robbie said, “but I think maybe you better stay wi’ Alice, Tierney. A’ reet?”

Tierney nodded and headed for the stove to build the fire, boil the kettle, and apply the calming properties of a soothing cup of tea.

The three men started out blindly, doing the only thing they knew to do. Clattering off the porch, they scattered out toward the bush that pressed the farmyard on three sides, the road making the fourth.

“Hey, fellas! Alice! Tierney!” It was a shout from Herkimer Pinkard.

Robbie and Quinn, about to slip into the circling bush, paused and turned. Alice heard and opened her eyes and made an effort to struggle to her feet; Tierney left the teapot and hurried to the door.

In the fading light of the sun, standing in the open barn door—a small figure.

Barney stood, alone and forlorn, while the searchers gathered round him. Robbie and Quinn strode toward the barn from the edge of the
bush; Tierney and Alice—suddenly invigorated and flying toward her son on light feet—came from the house. Herkimer, the first to reach the child, stood looking down on him.

About to snatch the small boy up into her arms, the others standing in a semicircle, watching, Alice paused.

With a curious dignity, she spoke. “Barney, where have you been?”

Barney’s head drooped. “In . . . there,” he said, indicating the barn.

“We looked in there. Where, in there?”

“Up there . . . in the hay,” Barney admitted in a low voice. It didn’t take a close inspection to see the telltale signs of his hiding place—hay stuck to his clothing, hay clung to his hair. Burrowed into the hay, he had been invisible.

“I looked there,” Alice said. “I called, again and again. Didn’t you hear Mother?”

Slowly, slowly, Barney nodded.

“Were you hiding?”

Barney looked at his feet. Barney squirmed. Barney—finally, reluctantly—nodded.

The semicircle stirred. Tierney, Quinn, Herkimer, Robbie—looked at each other and blinked their shock and surprise.

Alice, it seemed, was moving ahead with purpose and with surprising calm.

“I see. I think, son, that we need to talk. All right?”

Now a tear appeared in Barney’s eye, to trickle down his cheek. Alice reached into her apron pocket, pulled out a handkerchief, and handed it to him.

Stepping to his side, she put her hand on his shoulder and drew him to her momentarily.

“Go on into the house, Barney,” she said firmly then, “and I’ll come in a moment.”

Barney shuffled, sniffling, past the ring of searchers, his small brother in his wake. The little group watched in silence; the slam of the screen door brought them from their silent study, to look at Alice.

“You see how it is,” Alice said, turning to them.

“Not really—” someone said doubtfully.

“It’s my fault,” Alice said, her face white but her eyes set with purpose. “It’s my fault. I haven’t been . . . myself since Barnabas died. I’ve been excusing myself. Selfish is what I’ve been, lost in my own grief. Barney is smart enough to see it. What he needs—now that he doesn’t have a father—is a mother.”

No one argued with her.

“I’ll go on in to him now,” Alice continued. “But I want you to know how much I appreciate you. Thank you . . . thank you for coming. I believe I can do what needs to be done—”

Quinn stepped toward her. Alice looked up, met his gaze, gave him a small smile. Robbie cleared his throat; Alice turned to him, nodded. She squeezed Tierney’s outstretched hand and touched Herkimer on the sleeve.

Slowly the group dispersed.

Alice stood on the porch until Quinn and Tierney had pulled out in their buggy, until Allan and Herkimer and Robbie had mounted their horses. Watching them go, she lifted her hand in a small salute and turned toward the house.

Barney stood uncertainly beside the oak table in the middle of the room, his eyes, large and round, fixed on his mother. Billy was curled up on the sofa, thumb in mouth and clutching a scrap of a blanket, a serious onlooker.

Crossing the linoleum to her son’s side, Alice’s eyes fell on the envelope, addressed to the catalog, ready to mail. With no hesitation at all she swept it up, walked to the stove, removed a lid, and thrust the envelope inside. Watching it catch fire and curl into ash, a curious expression touched her face. One would almost say it relaxed; perhaps it was the ruddy reflection of the fire, but Alice’s face seemed brighter, free, at rest.