Page 9 of The Gift of Seeds
“My wife has stocked your cellar with some food, so you’ll have no need to shop or cook right away.”
Micah gave a little bounce. “Mamanpractically bought out the mercantile.”
Feeling overwhelmed, Hester couldn’t help shrinking back. “Oh, dear. I don’t want to be beholden.”
“Nonsense, Miss Smith.” Reverend Joshua frowned at his son. “Micah exaggerates.”
The boy took obvious umbrage at his father’s reproof. “Grandperesaid so.”
“Of course, he did,” Reverend Joshua chuckled “I suppose you didn’t notice that mischievous glint in his eyes—” he glanced at Hester. “My father-in-law’s giveaway when he’s teasing his daughter.”
The undeniable bond between father and son reminded Hester she was now all alone in the world. One tear threatened to spill over and drip down her cheeks.Don’t cry. Don’t cry.
Mortified, she whispered, “Oh, dear me, I’m so sorry,” and blinked several times to hold back the wetness, even as her nose clogged. She fumbled to take out the handkerchief tucked in her sleeve.
Reverend Joshua briefly touched her shoulder, and then handed her a square of snowy linen, embroidered with hisinitials in one corner. “No need to apologize, Miss Smith,” the minister soothed. “Such emotion is natural, given your fatigue from traveling and your state of mourning.”
Hester turned her head to delicately blow her nose, and then wondered what to do next. She could hardly thrust the used handkerchief back at him. She quickly folded the fine linen fabric into a small square.
Reverend Joshua gestured toward her hand. “Keep it, Miss Smith. I have plenty and give them out bountifully when there’s need. You’ll find mine all over Sweetwater Springs,” he said in a playful tone.
Micah patted her arm. “Grandperesays nothing can matchhisarrival in Sweetwater Springs.” The boy obviously tried to lift her spirits. “He had a heart attack on the train and almost died!”
Hester gasped, shock momentarily pulling her from sorrow.
Apparently emboldened by her change of expression, Micah blithely continued the story. “Grandperesays it was the best thing that ever happened to him. Well, besides discoveringMaman, of course.”
Hester stared, feeling her eyes widen, and wanted to hear more. But indulging in vulgar curiosity would be ill-mannered. She took a step away, looked around for her luggage, and swayed, still feeling weak.
“After all that shaking on the train, it’s a wonder passengers can walk at all when they disembark.” Reverend Joshua reached for her hand and tucked her fingers around his arm. “The stationmaster will see to your luggage, and I’ll escort you to the carriage. Micah and I will tell you the tale of the Bellaires’ dramatic arrival in Sweetwater Springs.”
Hester had never experienced the comfort of leaning on a man’s arm and couldn’t find words to express her gratitude for his support. Before she knew it, they’d descended the stairs and, after a nod to the smiling Negro driver and a quick, “This isSam,” Reverend Joshua helped her into a shiny coach, all the while telling the most astonishing story.
Sometimes Micah added interjections—of Mr. Bellaire traveling West from New Orleans with his newfound daughter, Delia; while on the same train, widowed Reverend Joshua and Micah were returning from missionary work in Africa, intending to join the elder Nortons at their church in Sweetwater Springs; how a heart attack landed the Bellaires in Sweetwater Springs; of Micah befriending the invalid while he recovered at the banker’s house; of Reverend Joshua and Delia falling in love; of building a house and putting down roots in the community.
Caught up in the dramatic story, Hester barely noticed the town she traveled through.
Reverend Joshua only paused the narrative a few times to point out the mercantile or the church.
They turned from the main road, venturing down several blocks, to turn right on another street. Along one side lay mostly weed-filled plots of land with an occasional four-square house, log cabin, or some cobbled-together structures. The land on the opposite side of the street was mostly natural—a forest of conifers, ash, maple, birch, and other trees showing splendid autumn colors.
The coach passed a foursquare, clapboard house surrounded by a lush front garden, enclosed by a white picket fence. She knew from the blue paint this home must belong to her neighbor Dale Marsden. Sam pulled the horses to a stop in front of a snug log cabin.
“Here we are,” Reverend Joshua said, his tone gentle.
Hester leaned closer to the window to see a wider view, taking in the narrow porch, with a lone chair on one side. The door and the trim of the two windows were painted forest green. She sat back and managing a smile for father and son. “Just as I envisioned.”
“I believe your brother recently painted.”
“We had several letters back and forth discussing the color. He was eager to finish before the logging season started.”
Sam opened the door and reached out a strong, brown hand to help her down.
Hester set her hand in his and stepped to the ground. She looked up to thank the coachman, and the compassion in his dark eyes made a lump rise into her throat. To her shame, she couldn’t force out the words and hoped her nod conveyed her appreciation.
To catch her equilibrium, Hester allowed herself to cling to Sam’s hand for a few extra seconds, glancing away to admire the vivid yellows and reds of the marigolds in the front beds of the house next door. James hadn’t written much about his right-hand neighbor, Dale Marsden— just his description, that he kept to himself, and their few encounters. The man had a large, beautiful garden, which she’d looked forward to seeing with her own eyes.But not under these circumstances.Familiar grief squeezed her chest.
“Will you be all right to walk, Miss Smith?” Sam asked, his deep voice holding a hint of the South.
