Through the Deep Waters (49 page)

He tossed a blanket over Ike’s back, then filled the hay trough. With the dogs trotting alongside him, he lifted down a bucket from its hook to bring in water. He held the rope handle firmly in one hand and gave the barn door a push with the other. He gasped as a mighty gust of wind yanked the bucket from his grasp and forced him to stumble backward. The door slammed into its frame, sending the brooding hens into wild squawking. Amos stood, dumbfounded. Kansas was a windy state—he knew that full well—but that was the most forceful blast he’d ever experienced.

One small window looked out on the east side of Amos’s property. He crossed to it and stood for a moment, watching the trees bow low among clouds of dust stirred to life by the wind. The thought of venturing out lost its appeal regardless of the animals’ need for fresh water and his desire to warm himself before a toasty fire. As quickly as the storm was blowing in, wouldn’t it blow itself out just as fast? Maybe he should just hunker down in here and wait rather than try to go to the house.

He blew out a breath of irritation. Why hadn’t he followed the advice given by longtime residents when he moved onto the farm? All of the local farmers strung ropes from the house to outbuildings in case a winter storm caught them by surprise. Then they could follow the ropes from one place to another without fear of getting lost. But Amos had put it off, too busy with the other tasks required to get his chicken farm up and operating. If he tried to get to his house without hanging on to something, the wind might send him head over heels into Indian territory.

“I reckon I’ll be staying here with you for a while,” he told the dogs. They looked up at him with bright, trusting eyes. For some reason the confidence in their warm gazes made him want to cringe. He limped across the barn to Ike,
ignoring Sam’s and Gid’s furry company. The blanket he’d tossed over Ike was mouse chewed and smelled like mold, but it would offer him warmth. “Sorry, Ike, but I need this worse than you do.” He tugged the battered square of brown wool free, then moved to the corner of the stall.

He sank down in the hay and spread the blanket across his lap. At once, the dogs plopped beside him. Gid rested his chin on Amos’s knee. Sam pressed himself against Amos’s thigh and busied himself licking his paws. Idly Amos stroked Gid’s silky, black-splotched ears and listened to the wind howl. A mournful sound. The door bounced in its frame and the windows rattled. Amos shuddered. He hoped the wind didn’t damage any of his buildings before it moved on across the plains.

The afternoon hours crept by slowly, painfully. Despite the blanket, his body convulsed from cold. The wind beat the building, raising thuds and creaks and rattles. The dogs slept, their snores competing with the wind’s howl, but Amos sat stiffly upright, occasionally checking his watch and willing the storm to pass.

By four o’clock full darkness had descended, and the storm still raged. Impatient and tired of sitting, he gritted his teeth against the stiffness in his hip and pushed himself upright. Sam and Gid whined and rose with him, their curious gazes aimed at his face. He gave the dogs an absent pat on their heads and shuffled to the window. His breath steamed the pane, so he cleared it with his hand and squinted through the shadows. Strange clumps of white, some of which were shedding smaller bits of fluff, rolled across the yard, tossed by the gusting wind. He leaned closer to the window, trying to make sense of the sight, and realization broke through like a grain sack bursting its seams.

“Stay, Sam and Gid!” Breaking into a clumsy hop-skip, he trotted across the dirt floor and threw open the barn door. Wind blasted him, but he fought his way against it to the chicken yard. The chicken-house door flapped on broken hinges. More than a dozen chickens, probably frightened, had vacated the safety of the house and found themselves treated callously by nature’s fury. Weak clucks reached Amos’s ears, piercing him with their helplessness.

One by one, Amos gathered them. Three were already dead, their glazed
eyes staring sightlessly, but those still breathing he cradled against his jacket and placed gently in a nesting box inside the chicken house. It took fourteen trips to collect them all, but when he’d laid the last one on the straw, he wedged the door closed against the wind, then went down the row of boxes, giving each a thorough examination.

Of those he’d brought in, four seemed in shock and near death, but he believed the others would survive if kept warm and safe. He ached. His muscles felt stiff and his hip throbbed. A headache pounded at the base of his skull. But mostly his heart hurt for the poor chickens that had been at the mercy of the wind.

Releasing a growl of frustration, Amos shook his fist toward the low ceiling. “We’re all at the mercy of wind, aren’t we?” His heart thumped against his rib cage. He dropped to his knees, his hand falling into one of the nesting boxes where a weak hen lay panting in the straw. He stroked the hen’s straggly feathers as he continued to speak to God—not in prayer, but in protest.

“We’re helpless. We can’t prevent hardships. As much as we make our plans and strive for success, everything can be wiped out in the blink of an eye. So why do we bother? Why did You open us to falling in love when our hearts can be so easily broken? Why do You allow us to build our houses and farms when winds can come roaring into our lives and steal it all away? Do You find pleasure in seeing us struggle like those poor chickens being thrown across the ground by the driving wind?”

A dry sob wrenched from his throat, anger and frustration and powerlessness pressing at him as relentlessly as the wind slapping against the wooden structure. “We’re helpless against driving winds and wagon wheels and unscrupulous men who take whatever pleases them!” He came to a stop as his own words penetrated his ears. Had he just equated Dinah’s state to the haplessness of the chickens and his own encounter with the hay wagon?

An image of Dinah filled his mind—her calm, steady stance as Mr. Irwin berated the man at the hotel for taking advantage of her. He’d never seen her so sure, so strong, so poised. Something had changed her. Even though she was still working as a chambermaid instead of going to train to be a server, even
though he’d broken his promise to her, even though a man who’d apparently harmed her in the most vile of ways stood only a few feet away from her, she’d exhibited a stalwart strength. A strength he now lacked. And in that moment, he envied her.

The wind’s howl nearly covered his voice as he lowered his tone to a whisper as weak as his trembling limbs. “How is it possible she remains standing after losing so much?” The answer whisked from the depths of his soul, from that secret place where his mother had taught him to hide away words of wisdom. Words penned by the apostle Paul while imprisoned and with chains hanging from his hands and feet—
“I know both how to be abased, and I know how to abound: every where and in all things I am instructed both to be full and to be hungry, both to abound and to suffer need. I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me.”

Kneeling on the floor of the chicken house with a storm raging outside and hens softly clucking in nervousness around him, Amos realized how far he’d slipped from the faith he’d received as his own when only a boy of nine. He allowed the perceived betrayal by Dinah to steal his peace and his source of strength. How could he have given her such power? He relied too much on her—had put too much attention on developing an earthly relationship instead of keeping Christ where He needed to be.

He hung his head and spoke to God again, but this time in reverence and humility. “How foolish I’ve been, chasing Dinah and eggs and my own plans. When I bought this farm, I asked Your blessing on it, and I worked hard as if I were working for You. But somewhere—when I met Dinah—it became for me. I forgot that You made it possible for me to buy this farm. I forgot that You put Dinah in my pathway and brought her to my heart again and again. You gave me good gifts, and I squandered them, thinking only of myself and what I could achieve.”

Gulping back knots of sorrow, he continued laying bare the thoughts and feelings God already knew but which he needed to divulge for his own purging. “I’ll make things right with Dinah. I’ll be happy with a small operation instead of trying to build a bigger one, if that’s what You want for me. Please
forgive my stubborn selfishness and let me walk with You again. I’m so … lonely without You.”

The God of his childhood held out His hand, and Amos took hold. The helplessness over which he’d railed only minutes ago remained, yet joy, peace, and contentment descended. The storm raged outside, but within Amos, all was still.

Amos

On the tail of the storm came snow—dry, crystal-like flakes that arrived sideways on the wind and blew between the cracks of the barn and chicken house walls, falling like confetti on the shivering creatures housed beneath the roofs. Amos, reluctant to leave the chicken house with its damaged door, stayed with his flock until the storm blew itself out early Friday morning. By then two of the most traumatized hens had died, so—with a heavy heart—he butchered and stewed them. But even though he hadn’t eaten since breakfast the day before, he couldn’t bring himself to fill his plate.

Over his hours trapped by the storm, he’d had time to think. And pray. And put his heart in alignment with his Maker. Somewhere in the darkest part of the night, he’d reached a conclusion, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to eat or sleep or gather eggs until he’d gone to Dinah and asked her forgiveness for his cold treatment of her.

He took the time to see to the needs of his animals, providing them with fresh food and water. Although the wind had died, the still air was bitterly cold. His bare hands trembled, hindering him as he secured the chicken house door with a length of scrap lumber. He’d repair the broken hinge when he returned from town. As he pulled himself onto Ike’s back, Sam and Gid pranced near Ike’s feet and whined.

Amos gazed down at the hopeful pair and sighed. “You two are tired of being cooped up, aren’t you?” They yipped in reply, as if they’d understood, and Amos released a light chuckle. “All right, then. You can come to town, too.” He climbed down, located a long piece of twine, and fashioned loose
collars at both ends, which he slipped around the dogs’ necks. On Ike’s back again with the middle of the twine draped across his lap, he said, “Let’s go.”

Sam and Gid trotted along on either side of Ike, ears flopping and tongues lolling, their breath forming little clouds they chased with their pointed noses. Their antics tempted Amos to watch them instead of the road, but Ike sometimes took a notion to form his own trail, so reluctantly he aimed his gaze ahead.

He reached the end of the lane, and just as he turned Ike onto the road, the twine lying over his thighs suddenly zipped to the left—Gideon pulling. Amos drew Ike to a stop before Gid managed to lift Sam onto the mule’s back. He looked at Gid, who’d lowered his nose to the ground. No doubt he’d picked up the scent of some wild creature, but Amos didn’t have time for the dog to hunt prey. “Gideon, come!”

With a soft whine Gideon lifted his head, but he held something clamped in his jaw. Amos scowled. Had the dog found a dead sparrow or a field mouse? Either way, he couldn’t have his pet marching through town with a small corpse in his mouth.

“Drop it, Gid.”

Gid whined again, his stubby tail offering a few hopeful wags.

Amos injected sternness in his tone. “Drop it.”

His tail drooping, Gid released his prize. A rock hit the hard ground, bounced, then rolled against Ike’s hoof. Amos stared in amazement. Sunlight sparkled on an amber band circling a brown stone. A familiar brown stone. The very one he’d kept for months on his mantel and then thrown from the porch.

A chill broke across his frame that had nothing to do with the temperature. Finding the rock again after his night of reckoning was like receiving a glimmer of hope. Although his hip protested, he slid down and reached for the rock. Gid tried to steal it first, but Amos gave the dog’s snout a light nudge and curled his fist around the stone that brought to mind images of Dinah.

He closed his eyes briefly, the cold stone warming within his palm. “Thank You, Lord, for giving this to me again. I accept it as a sign of Your forgiveness for my act of condemnation.” After slipping the rock into his pocket, he gave
Gid’s neck a quick scratch of thank-you, then climbed onto Ike’s back. With a smile on his face, he set out again toward town.