[Canadian West 01] - When Calls the Heart (25 page)

"Is Withers the young Mountie?"

Wynn nodded.

"Mistake-how?" Mary asked, puzzled.

"You are a pest," Wynn teased. He stood up and moved
closer to the fire. "Okay-I've said it before; here it is for you
again. Withers is posted at Peace River-his young bride
comes from Montreal. She is used to plays and concerts and
dinner parties. She's trading that for blizzards and sickness,
wild animals and loneliness. Do you think that she'll be able
to appreciate the exchange? Come on, Mary-even lone can't
stand a test like that."

"Some women have done it, you know. Wynn, you might
be short-selling love."

He turned back to the fire. "Yes," he said slowly, "some
have. But I'd never want to ask it of the woman I loved."

I could tell that he truly meant those words, and something
deep down inside of me began to weep. But Mary didn't let Wynn have the last word.

"Then you would also be short-selling the woman you
loved," she said softly, "if she really loved you."

Wynn shook his head slightly, but his eyes did not turn
from the fire.

Christmas Day dawned bright and glistening. During the
night there had been a fresh fall of snow, and the cleaned-upworld shimmered in the rays of the winter sun.

The day began early with the glad shrieks of the children
as they discovered the gifts that were in their stockings and
under the tree. We enjoyed a leisurely morning of games, nut
roasting and chatter. Dinner was to be served at one o'clock.
Wynn joined us for dinner and he presented each of the children with a package. Jon, Mary and I were each given fur
mittens made by Wynn's northern Indian friends; I looked forward to using mine.

In the afternoon the children begged for a chance to try
their new Christmas sleds. So, following Mary's suggestion,
Wynn and I accompanied Jon when he took them to the hill.
We all bundled up-I was glad for this opportunity to wear my
new mittens-until we could barely waddle and headed out,
laughing and jostling, for the hillside.

At the hill we all rode on the sleds. I was soon exhausted
after the breathless rides and long return climbs. I decided to
sit down on a fallen log partway up the hill and rest while the
others enjoyed another ride.

I could hear the shrieks and laughter as they sped downward, Jon and Sarah on one sleigh, Wynn and Kathleen on another, and William on his own.

A few birds fluttered in a nearby tree and two squirrels fought over winter provisions. I leaned hack against a tree
and enjoyed the sparkling freshness of the winter air.

I could hear the children's chatter at the foot of the hill
when Wynn suddenly swung into sight.

"Jon said that I should take you up to the top of the ridge
and give you a look at the mountains."

"Oh," I cried. springing up eagerly, "can you see them
from here?"

"From right up there," he answered, pointing above and
beyond us.

"Then lead the way---I'd love to see them."

The loose snow made climbing difficult. Wynn stopped often to let me catch my breath, and a couple of times he held
out his hand to me to help me over a fallen tree or up a particularly steep place.

At the top I discovered that the climb had been worth
every step. Stretched out before us, their snow-capped peaks
glistening in the winter sun, were the magnificent Rockies. I
caught my breath in awe.

"Someday," I said softly, "I'm going to visit those mountains-and have a picnic lunch right up there at the timberline."

Wynn laughed.

"That's quite a hike up to the timberline, Elizabeth," he
cautioned.

"Well, I don't care. It'll be worth it."

"How about settling for a picnic lunch beside a mountain
stream instead--or at the base of Bow Falls or maybe among
the rocks of Johnson Canyon?"

"You've been there--to all of those places?"

"Several times."

"Is it as beautiful as I imagine?"

"Unless you have a very exceptional imagination, it's even
more beautiful."

"Oh, I'd love to see it!"

"Then you must. I wish that I could promise to take you
hut..."

Reluctantly I turned from the scene of the mountains to make my way back down the slope to Jon and the children.
My thoughts were more on Wynn's unfinished sentence than
on where I was placing my feet. He was so determined, so definite. He left no room at all for feelings, for caring. Somehow I
felt that there should be something I could say or do to make
him at least re-think his position, but I couldn't think of what
it might be-at least not while I was scrambling down a steep
hillside behind a man used to walking in such terrain.

Suddenly my foot slipped on a snow-covered log and my
ankle twisted beneath me. I sat down to catch my breath and
test the extent of the injury. To my relief, nothing much
seemed wrong. I knew that nothing was broken, and I was sure
that there was not even a serious sprain-just a bit of a twist. I
was rising to my feet to hurry after Wynn when he looked back
to check on my progress.

"What's the matter?" he called, his voice concerned.

I tried to respond lightly, "I'm fine-just twisted my ankle
a bit."

I took a step but he stopped me.

"Stay where you are, Elizabeth, until I check out that ankle."

"But it's fine-"

"Let's be sure."

He was hurrying back up the hill toward me when a
strange idea entered my head. Maybe this was a way to delay
him for a few moments until I had fully considered what I
could say. I sat back down on the tree stump and stared at my
foot.

Wynn had been only a few steps ahead of me, breaking
trail, so he was soon down on a knee before me. "Which one?"
he asked, and I pointed to the left ankle.

He lifted it with gentle firmness and removed my boot.
Carefully he began to feel the injured ankle, his fingers sensitive and gentle.

"Nothing broken." He squeezed. "Does this hurt?"

It did-slightly, though not enough to make me wince as
hard as I did. I said nothing-just nodded my head in the affirmative. After all, he hadn't asked how much it hurt.

Wynn surveyed the trail ahead.

"It's only a few more steps until we are on the level. Can
you make it?"

I knew that I could, but I didn't say so. Instead, I murmured, "If you could help me just a bit ...

He replaced my boot, leaving the laces loose.

"Too much pressure?" he asked.

"No-no-that's fine."

"Good. We wouldn't want to take a chance on frostbite as
well. Are you ready?"

I had visions of limping down the trail with Wynn's arm
supporting me. Surely, I thought, under such conditions it
should be easy to think of the right thing to say to this man.
But instead of offering his assistance, Wynn swept me up into
his arms in one quick, gentle movement. The suddenness of it
startled me, and I threw my arms around his neck.

"It's all right," he reassured me. "It's only a few steps
down this bit of a bank, and we'll be on the level."

"But I-"

"I could throw you over my shoulder and carry you deadman style," he teased.

"I think I would prefer-" I was going to say, "to walk,"
but that wasn't true, so I lamely stopped.

"So would I, Elizabeth," he said with his slow smile and
looked deeply into my eyes.

That was when I should have made my little speech, but
my brain was hazy and my lips dumb. I could think only of
this moment-nothing more-and I rested my cheek against
his coat and allowed myself this bliss that would in the future
be a beautiful memory.

All too soon we were at the slope where Jon and the children were still sledding. Wynn put me down, cautious that I
would not put my weight on my left foot. For one confused moment I could not remember which foot was supposed to be
injured and had to look at my boot to see which one had the
untied laces.

We had not spoken to one another for several minutes. As
he lowered me to a seat on a log, his cheek brushed lightly against mine, and I feared that he would surely hear the
throbbing of my heart.

"How is it?" he asked. "I hope I didn't jar it."

"Oh, no. You were most careful. I don't see how you were
able to come down there so-" I couldn't finish.

"We'll get you home as quickly as possible," he promised,
and he waved to William who came trudging up the slope with
his sled.

Wynn insisted that I ride home on the sleigh, and I could
hardly refuse. To insist upon walking would have given my
ruse away, so I rode the sled, feeling foolish and deceptive.

When we arrived at the house, Wynn carried me in and deposited me on the couch. He suggested that ice packs might
make my ankle more comfortable. Soon to be on duty, he
couldn't stay for the evening. After promising to stop by to
check on me at his first opportunity, he left.

I feigned a limp whenever I moved around for the rest of
the day. It was hard to keep Jon and Mary from calling a doctor. I would have been mortified if one had been summoned on
Christmas Day to look at my "injury." When bedtime finally
arrived, I was relieved to take my perfectly fine ankle, and my
guilty conscience, to the privacy of my own room.

I went to bed troubled. I could feel again the roughness of
Wynn's wool coat against my cheek, and the strength of his
arms supporting me as he carried me. I realized that I unwillingly had fallen in love with the man; and I might have missed
my only opportunity to plead my case. Still, if a man was determined not to care for a woman, what could she possibly say
to change his mind? I had no idea, having never been in such a
position till now. For a moment I wished that I had learned a
few of the feminine ploys that Julie used to such advantage,
then checked myself. I had already used more trickery than I
could feel comfortable with. What in the world had ever possessed me to make me promote such a falsehood? Shame
flushed my cheeks. Never would I resort to such devious tactics again.

The next morning I lightly brushed aside the inquiries concerning my ankle and assured everyone that it was just fine. I
was embarrassed over the whole affair and was not anxious to
discuss it. Mary insisted that I stay off my feet; so to appease
her and to escape from everyone's sympathy, I retreated to
Jon's library where I buried myself in a good hook.

About noon, Jon entered with William reluctantly in tow.
One look at their faces, and I could see that it was to be a serious discussion. I rose to excuse myself but Jon stopped me.

"Sit still, Beth. We'll only be a few moments. No need for
you to bother that ankle of yours."

There it was again-my poor ankle. I flushed and was glad
that the book hid my face. My guilt must certainly have
shown.

Jon sat down and pulled William to him.

"Now, Son, what explanation do you have? Do you realize
that what you've done is wrong?"

"Yes."

"Do you realize that what you've done is sin?"

"It's not that wrong."

"Oh, yes, it is. God has said, `Thou shalt not,' but you did.
Now, doesn't that make it sin?"

"Well, it wasn't a very big sin," William argued.

"There are no `big' or `little' sins. Son. God hasn't divided
them up that way. Sin is-sin. Do you know how God feels
about sin?"

William nodded his head in the affirmative, but the stubborn look lingered in his eyes.

"He don't like it."

"Right-He doesn't like it. Do you know why He hates it so
much?"

" 'Cause He's God?" William asked.

"Yes, He's God, and He's righteous and pure and good.
There is nothing false or wrong or hurtful in the character of
God. But I think there is an even bigger reason why God hates
sin so much."

William's eyes were wide as they studied his father's face.

"It's because sin cost Him the life of His Son, Jesus. God
decreed that those who sin must die. Man sinned-but God
still loved him. God didn't want man to die for his sin, so God
provided a substitute. If man accepted the fact that another
had died in his place, and was truly sorry for his sin, then he
wouldn't have to die."

"I know that," William said, his lip trembling. Jon's arm
went around his son's waist.

"Many times," Jon continued, "folks get the idea that it
was only the big sins, 'like murder and idol worship, that made
it necessary for Jesus to die. But it wasn't, Son. It was, and is,
any and all sin. If there had been any other way, if our holy
God could have ignored sin, or blinked at it, or turned His
head, or pretended that it just hadn't happened or didn't matter, then He would never, never have sent Jesus to die. God
loved His Son-yet the death of His Son was the only way for
God to spare us from the penalty of death that we deserve. He
loves us. So that's why God hates sin-all sin, because it
meant death for His Son. And if we still hang on to our sin, it
means that we don't value what Jesus did for us."

"But I do," William protested. "I didn't mean to hurt
Jesus-honest." A tear coursed down each cheek. Jon pulled
the boy close.

"I know you didn't, Son. We often hurt God without meaning to. Now I want you to tell God that you didn't mean it. and
that you are sorry, and that with His help you will not do it
again. After that, we will go and have a talk with Stacy."

"Do I have to?" William pleaded. "Do I have to go to
Stacy? I'll talk to God, Pa-but can't you tell Stacy?"

"No, Son. Part of being forgiven is making things right.
God asks that of us-always. It's called `restitution.' If Jesus
was willing to pay the death penalty for us, to make things
right between us and God, then it's not too much for God to
ask that we make things right between ourselves and whomever we have wronged."

They knelt together by Jon's big chair, and a tearful William asked God's forgiveness. Then hand-in-hand, they left
the room to go speak with Stacy, the kitchen helper.