Tomorrow's Garden (12 page)

“This deep blue calico is beautiful.” Harriet touched the bolt of fabric that Isabelle had set aside for her. “Thank you for ordering it.”

“It’s my pleasure.” Isabelle gave Harriet a wry smile. “The town’s buzzing with the news that you spend a lot of time on the Friedrichs’ farm. Everyone figures it’s because you’re planning to marry Karl when your contract expires.”

While Isabelle spoke, blood drained from Harriet’s face. How foolish she had been, not realizing that a town as fond of gossip as Ladreville would misconstrue her afternoons with Frau Friedrich. It was true that Karl always spoke to her while she was there and that he had been the one who had invited the family to the festival, but that wasn’t courting. Harriet had been courted by Thomas, and she knew the difference. Karl was simply being friendly.

“The whole idea is preposterous,” she said, her voice harsher than normal. “I’m not planning to marry anyone. It’s true I go to the farm, but it’s to visit Karl’s mother. She’s teaching me German cooking.” Harriet gritted her teeth, trying to dismiss the unsettling images that Isabelle’s words had provoked. “The grapevine is wrong. Completely wrong.” But she had agreed to attend the fall festival with the Friedrichs. What would the town make of that? And what would Lawrence think?

9

“I’ll race you to the tree.”

Lawrence tried not to let his surprise show. He hadn’t been surprised when Sterling had suggested they spend the afternoon together. Being cooped up in the parsonage with an invalid had to be difficult. That was one of the reasons Lawrence had recommended they do something more strenuous than simply talking. Unfortunately, the times he and Sterling had walked along the streets of Ladreville, they’d been met with blatant shunning by the people who should have been Sterling’s parishioners. Being on horseback meant they could escape the town and its disapproval. But it was one thing to ride slowly on the roads as they’d done before, quite another to race across the field. An Easterner didn’t realize how rough the fields could be and how one misstep could result in a horse breaking its leg. Still, there was no denying the enthusiasm in Sterling’s eyes.

“You’re on.” When they’d left the livery, they’d headed south on Hochstrasse and were now standing at the intersection of Potomac Street. The American-named street marked not only the end of Hochstrasse but also the end of the town. From here for the next half mile there was nothing but open fields and the massive oak tree that Sterling had chosen as their destination. It was an ideal spot for a race.

Lawrence leaned forward, urging Snip to a gallop. An instant later they were flying across the field. Though he had thought he would keep his horse reined in to give Sterling half a chance, Lawrence was startled when the minister’s mount passed him. Somewhere, this man had learned to ride. Not only ride, but ride well.

“C’mon, Snip. Let’s show them what you can do.” The horse needed no encouragement. Always competitive, Lawrence’s palomino hated nothing more than losing. Though he won, the victory was a matter of inches. “It looks like you studied more than preaching at that seminary,” Lawrence said when he and Sterling were once more riding abreast.

A grin split the minister’s face. “Surprised you, didn’t I? Folks seem to think a parson can’t do anything other than preach. The truth is, I learned to ride as a youngster. I wish I could do it more often, because it’s a great way to clear my head.”

Lawrence had never ridden for pure pleasure. For him, a horse was part of his job. Always had been, and probably always would. But he understood the need to sort out one’s thoughts and relax. Though few might admit it, everyone had the same basic need. Even Harriet, as self-reliant and confident a person as he’d ever met, took long, brisk walks that Lawrence was willing to bet were designed to clear her head.

He’d seen her striding as if pursued by an angry javelina and wondered what troubled her so deeply. Perhaps it was her family. Jake was undeniably a handful. It could also be her pupils, although Lawrence doubted that. If there were any problems at the school, he’d have heard of them. He hoped Karl Friedrich wasn’t the cause. Though he couldn’t picture them as a couple, for a few days the town had buzzed with speculation of a June wedding. But gossip was fickle, and it was a long time until June, and so the matrimonial rumors had been eclipsed by discussion of what many considered to be preposterous: Lawrence’s proposition that they construct a bridge across the Medina.

He turned to his companion. “Is your head clear, or do you want to try that again?”

“And risk being beaten twice? No, thanks. I’ll let you savor your victory for a while before we have a rematch.”

“Can you get away tomorrow?” Lawrence asked as his eyes scanned the horizon, looking for intruders. Though there was no reason to expect rustlers or hostile Indians, old habits were slow to die. Nothing appeared amiss. A hawk soared overhead, searching for its next meal. On the opposite bank, Clay’s cattle grazed peacefully. It was a typical autumn day in Ladreville. Only a Ranger would have imagined anything else.

Lawrence turned back to Sterling and continued his invitation. “It would be a slower ride, but I’d appreciate your company. I’m going to the other side of the river to look for evidence of rustling.”

His friend’s eyes lit with pleasure. “Even though I ought to be writing my sermon, I’d rather do that.” He looked around. “I guess you haven’t found any clues.”

“Whoever they are, these rustlers are wily. They cover their tracks well. And, surprisingly, they’re not greedy. They could have taken more cattle last time, but they didn’t.”

“Yet you think they’ll be back.”

Lawrence nodded at the man who rode slowly by his side. For an Easterner, Sterling understood a lot about the West. Or perhaps it was that he understood people. “The Bar C and the Lazy B have the best cattle in the Hill Country. It’s almost irresistible.”

The smile Sterling gave Lawrence was wry. “I wish my sermons were irresistible. It’s mighty discouraging seeing only a handful of people in the church.”

Each week fewer people attended, but Sterling didn’t need him to voice those words. “You know you can count on me and the Kirks.” Lawrence had been surprised to see Harriet at services each Sunday, for she had previously alternated with the French church.

Sterling nodded. “I appreciate your support and that of the Kirks. Did you know that Harriet brings something soft for Pastor Sempert to eat three times a week? She’s as regular as clockwork, coming every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday on her way to school. This week she let her little sister carry the pudding. The child was beside herself with pleasure when Pastor Sempert managed to smile at her.”

Lawrence could picture the scene, for he recalled how excited Lizbeth had been when he’d let her carry a basket of eggs one day. He hadn’t told his sister that the eggs were hard-cooked and that she couldn’t break them. There was no point, Ma had said, in spoiling Lizbeth’s fun. Even as a youngster, Harriet probably hadn’t needed the admonition to be careful with Mary’s feelings. For her, it would have been instinctive, for if ever there was a woman born to be a mother, it was Harriet.

“I’m worried about the other parishioners—the ones who came from the Old Country,” Sterling continued. “It seems they won’t accept me as God’s messenger. It makes me wonder why he sent me here.”

They had turned around and were making their way back to Ladreville, neither one in any apparent hurry. Lawrence reined in Snip and looked at his friend. “Did you come willingly? I didn’t. I kept fighting the idea of living in Ladreville, but I couldn’t shake the conviction that God wanted me here. I wish I knew why.”

Though Sterling’s eyes were serious, Lawrence saw no condemnation in them. “I believe God has a reason for your being in Ladreville, and I don’t believe it’s simply to protect Ladreville’s citizens or to serve horrible coffee.” Sterling’s expression sobered. “I don’t think God is finished with you. I believe he had other reasons for leading you here.”

Memories of the Bible passages he’d read flashed through Lawrence’s mind. Today the book had opened to the story of Jacob’s love for Rachel and what he’d had to do to gain her father’s approval. Almost every day it seemed as if Lawrence was drawn to verses about marriage. Why? Was God mocking him, or was there another reason? He wouldn’t ask Sterling and risk a second discussion of Lawrence’s need for a wife. Instead, he raised an eyebrow. “Why do you think God sent you to Ladreville and not some other place?”

To Lawrence’s surprise, Sterling hesitated. “I’m not certain any longer. Back in Pennsylvania when I received the call, I thought God’s plan was for me to help make Ladreville more American. I believed that was the reason the people at church headquarters chose me instead of someone from the Old Country. Now I don’t know. How can I bring about change if no one listens to me?”

Lawrence had no answers, but half an hour later as he removed Snip’s saddle and began to curry him, he nodded slowly. Perhaps Sterling was right. Perhaps God had brought him to Ladreville for more than one reason. Perhaps his next mission was to help his friend.

Nothing! Thomas kicked the door so hard that the flimsy wood splintered. He had kept a smile on his face when the postmaster shook his head and informed him there was no mail, but now that he was back in his uncle’s miserable excuse for a stable, there was no need for pretense. Thomas was angry, and he didn’t care if the horses knew it.

Why hadn’t she written? More importantly, why hadn’t she come? What was wrong with her? Thomas kicked the door again. It made no sense. Women would do anything for him. Even Uncle Abe, who claimed that Thomas was headed for fire and brimstone, admitted that his nephew had been given more than his share of charm. So why hadn’t Harriet responded? What was wrong with the woman? Didn’t she understand that Thomas needed her? Now he’d have to invent another excuse and hope that Herb Allen’s business kept him in Houston for another month.

Sweat trickled down Thomas’s neck. He had to find the money. He had to! His stomach churned at the prospect of being the object of Herb Allen’s anger. This was all Harriet’s fault.

Her hands were clammy and shook more than an oak leaf in a windstorm. Her legs were even worse. They threatened to buckle at the mere thought of taking a step. Ruth sank onto the bed, thankful no one was home to witness her cowardice. “It’s time you took credit for all those delicious puddings,” Harriet had said this morning at breakfast. “You can deliver it today.” And then she’d waltzed off to school as if she hadn’t just asked Ruth to do something as impossible as swimming to Africa.

Ruth took a deep breath, trying to calm her nerves. It did no good, for when she exhaled, her breath came out in tiny spurts, not the long, steady stream of air that she had heard was so beneficial. What was wrong with her? She couldn’t even breathe properly.

She clenched her hands, trying to steady them. Just the thought of meeting others, of having to talk to them, filled her with fear. Harriet didn’t understand. She had no problem being with strangers. Ruth did. The only places she felt comfortable were home and church. There were no strangers at home, and once the worship service began, she was not required to talk to anyone. All she had to do was listen . . . and watch.

Her breathing started to slow as she thought of him. He was the strongest person she had ever met, stronger even than Harriet. Week after week he climbed into the pulpit and faced a congregation that seemed to barely tolerate him. She heard the nasty comments, the people who said they would never accept him as their minister. Though whispered, the accusations were so loud that she knew he must be aware of them, and yet he gave no sign. Instead, he acted as if he had been welcomed by his parishioners, as if they were not open in their conviction that he could never replace Pastor Sempert.

Forcing herself to her feet, Ruth took another deep breath, and this time she managed a slow exhalation as she thought of Sterling Russell. Though her hands trembled, she pinned on her everyday hat and slid her hands into her gloves. At least they hid the clamminess that still had not vanished.

Minutes later, she was outside, willing her feet to take yet another step. As a light breeze rustled the trees, a bird trilled its contentment. Ruth was not content. She was scared. If only there were a back entrance, she wouldn’t have to venture onto Hochstrasse with its curious passersby. But there was no back entrance, and so she braved the stares of women heading to the mercantile, keeping her head down, pretending to be concentrating on the sight of her neatly buttoned shoes. Left, right. Left, right. It felt like hours before she arrived at the parsonage, but at last she raised the knocker.

“Good morning, Miss Kirk.” Though he did his best to hide it, Pastor Russell’s voice could not disguise his surprise at finding her outside his front door. Why would he expect her, when she had done nothing more than nod greetings each Sunday? He had never even heard her voice. His was as friendly as ever as he said, “Come inside and tell me how I can help you.”

No! She wouldn’t go inside. Instead she held out the basket. “Pudding. I brought pudding for Pastor Sempert. And for you, if you want it.” As the words tumbled out of her mouth, Ruth kept her eyes fixed on the front step. She didn’t want to see his pity. She didn’t want to know that he regarded her the way the townspeople did, as an object of ridicule. Quiet Ruth. Mousy Ruth. The silent sister. She had heard it all, first in Fortune, now here in Ladreville.