Too Long a Stranger (Women of the West) (23 page)

"Oh, God," she prayed now in deep contrition, "I've not been caring for the needs of our souls while I've been scrambling to meet the needs of our bodies. Needs that you promised you would care for. I've been so—so totally—blind in assuming that I had the whole responsibility on my own shoulders. I should have learned to lean on you." Sarah stopped a moment as a sob shook her body.

"Thank you, Lord, for getting my attention, for showing me the truth before—before Rebecca comes home," she prayed. "I have so much to learn. So much. Help me to—to really be concerned about the right things. The important things. Help me to be the mother I need to be for Rebecca. Not just the—the provider of funds. Might we grow together, Lord—as you would have us grow."

And Sarah let the tears flow freely as she sought comfort and reassurance from her God.

***

Rebecca stirred uneasily. The morning sun traced around the heavy curtain with an etching of gold. Morning had come. It was a new day. The celebration of the preceding day was in the past. She was a graduate. She had made her debut into society. She should be feeling triumphant—but she was not. Why?

Stanley. Stanley had been awfully—morose. It troubled her. She had been so in hopes that Stanley would show some—some interest in her as a young lady. She cared for Stanley. She didn't know just how much she cared, but she was eager for his attentions so she might—might discover her own feelings.

She hadn't understood his mood. Hadn't liked it.  She hated to face him again. Yet she longed to see him. It didn't make any sense.

Suddenly Rebecca threw back the cover and sprang from the bed. Stanley was leaving today. Going back to finish his exams at the Academy. She might never see him again. What if she had already missed his departure?

Anxiously she looked toward the clock. It was ten past ten. Stanley was to leave at eleven-thirty. She must hurry. There would hardly be time for goodbyes. By the time Stanley returned home again, she would be gone—back to Kenville.

Hurriedly she dressed and prepared herself for joining the family. She must see Stanley before he left.

She was flushed when she entered the breakfast room. Robert was there, leisurely picking plump grapes from the cluster he held in his hand.

"You're up early—for a girl," he teased.

Rebecca paid no attention. "Has—have the others breakfasted already?" she inquired cautiously.

"If you mean Annabelle—no. I don't expect her until noon—or after."

Then he cocked his head and said pointedly, "If you mean Stanley—yes. I take it he's out at the stables saying goodbye to his horse."

He smiled rather cynically. "How do you like that? He's more intent on bidding his horse farewell than his family."

Rebecca said nothing, just brushed past Robert and his grapes and headed for the stables.

Homecoming

"Oh, good morning," Rebecca said as though caught by surprise. She hoped fervently that Stanley would think she had just wandered down to the stables to see the horses and accidentally found him there ahead of her.

"Well—look who's here," he replied.

She was relieved to see that his mood of the night before seemed to have left him. He even gave her one of his charming smiles.

"Did you sleep well?" he asked politely.

Rebecca hardly knew how to answer. In truth she'd had great difficulty in getting to sleep. But she had slept late—if that indicated a good sleep. She decided to let the question go unanswered.

"So you are telling Ramande goodbye," she said instead.

He nodded and rubbed the nose of the horse.

"It seems that life is full of goodbyes," he observed.

Rebecca nodded.

"Some of them are not easy," he continued.

Rebecca held her breath. Was he still speaking about the horse? What might he say next?

As usual he was unpredictable. With a broad smile he spoke lightly, "Sorry about last night," he said easily. "I was just out of sorts. I hate this bouncing back and forth between home and the Academy."

He took a deep breath.

"But that will all be behind me soon. This is the last trip I'll need to make."

Rebecca nodded and reached out a hand to stroke the horse, who was begging for attention.

"Spoiled, isn't he?" observed Stanley. "Loves attention."

Rebecca said nothing.

"Maybe we're all like that. Like attention. Well—a person doesn't get much of it at the Academy—unless of course, you excel. Excel or fail. That's the only way to get any attention. If one is—somewhere in the middle—you are ignored."

He was sounding like doomsday again.

"Well—I don't excel," he admitted, "and so far I've managed to fight the urge to fail. So here I am." He shrugged his shoulders carelessly and laughed an empty laugh.

Rebecca did not know how to respond, so she said nothing.

"I was—rather hoping that you'd stay around, Rebecca," he said suddenly.

When she looked at him sharply, he laughed again and went on.

"I thought that maybe you could provide some of that attention I was longing for."

Rebecca's eyes must have shown her shock.

He laughed again, this time almost derisively. He noted the look in her eyes and his laugh became more genuine.

"I didn't mean to frighten you," he hurried on. "I just meant that I thought—well—since you have grown up and—and become"—he stopped and let his eyes travel over her, causing her cheeks to flush—"quite attractive. I just thought that," he went on, "that we might—well—get to know each other better. Or—differently. I've always thought of you as a— a sister—or a sister's friend—or something—when I thought of you at all—and now that I see all of those other fellows hanging around with—with yearning eyes—"

He stopped and turned to watch her face. Truly she was uncomfortable with his statements.

"I really don't think—" began Rebecca, but he cut in.

"Do my words disturb you? Well—I suppose they do—you being reared such a proper girl and all." He laughed again.

"I don't understand what you are trying to say," said Rebecca. "I—"

He changed then. His eyes softened. He even reached out a hand to rest on her sleeve. "I'm sorry, Rebecca," he apologized. "I really am. I'm just so—so mixed up. So—so angry at—everything." He ran his hand over his face in agitation.

"It's just I'm here—I'm gone. You're here—you're gone. Nothing in life is—is settled. Is constant. You just start to feel for something and"—he waved a hand—"it's gone. What is life all about, anyway? Is this the best it can offer?"

Rebecca shook her head. "I—I don't know," she said in a whisper. "I—really don't know."

***

Sarah gradually gained back her strength. The rest helped not only to restore her body but to refresh her soul as well. In the days that she relaxed at the Galvan home, she spent many hours in prayer and in searching through the Scriptures. She was amazed at the change in her thinking, her attitudes. At times she shook her head in disbelief.

"I thought I believed in God," she often whispered to herself, "but I was living as if He didn't even exist— or else didn't care—or was totally powerless to do anything for me."

It was such a comfort to Sarah to learn that God, in a marvelous and powerful way, was interested in her well-being.

When at last she took up the reins of the team again after Seth had hitched them to the newly constructed wagon, she felt like a new person—almost.

She knew she still had a long way to go in her inner growth, in learning to really trust her life to God—but at least now she was on the right road.

***

Rebecca shook her skirts to free them of the penetrating road dust. It was everywhere. It seeped into the train and layered on her lap, her bonnet, her traveling bag. It would help if the passengers would close the windows, but even Rebecca knew better than to make such a request. The days were stifling. She could not have borne it were the windows to have been shut.

"And to think Peony called this romantic," she said to herself in irritation.

The Tall Elms School for Girls and the Foster household were now far behind her. She was on her way home. Home. Why did the word connected with Kenville hold so little meaning? She had scarcely any remembrance of the home she had left—the people who were supposed to mean something to her. She should be feeling—what? Happy? Excited? At least she might manage to feel—thankful?

Well—she felt nothing. Nothing but empty. Empty and a bit scared. And she felt lonely. Already she missed Annabelle. She missed the comforts of the Foster home with its servants to care for her needs and the predictability of how things would run. She even missed the girls' school. At least there she knew exactly what was expected of her. Now—now she knew nothing. Nothing about her hometown. Nothing about this—this woman who was her mother. The life that she would be expected to live in the future.

Again she withdrew the last letter she had received. She could have recited it by memory, but she let her eyes fall to the page.

You will soon be home again. I can scarcely believe that it is finally happening. I have waited for so long for the day to arrive, and now that it is almost here I cannot believe it. I will not believe it until I actually hold my little girl in my arms again. We have so much catching up to do. So much time to make up for.

The letter was signed, "Lovingly, Your mother."

Rebecca let the hand holding the letter drop to her lap as she stared absentmindedly out of the window. Only dry prairie grass waved gently in the ever-present prairie wind. Occasionally a dust devil would pick up a handful of the soil and lift it in a whirling mass as though offering it to some unseen deity of the prairies.

Rebecca shuddered.

If only she could remember. If only she could put the pieces of memory together to form some kind of complete picture. If only she knew what lay ahead. What she was to expect.

"Think," she scolded herself. "Think. You must remember something. You must."

And then to Rebecca's memory came a face. Bending over her. Gentle hands wiping blood from a wounded knee. She had fallen. Had bloodied her knee on the boards of the sidewalk. The sidewalk that led to her house. Her house. She couldn't remember what the house looked like. But she did have a warm feeling when she thought of it. That meant she must have been happy there.

And the woman—the one who knelt before her, cleansing the wound, offering words of comfort and sympathy? That was her mother. Rebecca could almost see her face. Dark hair. Blue eyes. Love. Her mother. That was her mother. She remembered then. There had been a warm hug after the knee had been cared for. A warm hug and soon the tears had turned to laughter. Why? What was it her mother had said? Oh, yes, she said, "Careful you don't walk like ol' Billy."

01' Billy? Who was ol' Billy? And then Rebecca remembered. OF Billy was a dog down the street. He had been hurt—once—a long time ago, and his owner insisted that Billy now limped out of habit or to get sympathy. The leg had long since completely healed. The dog should have walked without limping. 01' Billy. And she had laughed as a child at her mother's little joke, and for several days after the little accident she had purposely limped, exaggerating the injury every time she saw her mother looking her way, and they would both laugh again.

Rebecca could not hide the smile at the thought. And then her thoughts carried her further. So that was her mother. This gentle, pretty woman with the soft voice and the warm arms, who dried Rebecca's tears and told her little jokes to make her laugh.

Rebecca found a measure of reassurance.

***

"I want to be here by the time the stage pulls in," Sarah told Seth.

"Why don't I just take both runs today?" he asked her again. "I'm sure you have lots of things to be doin'."

"Well—I—I really have everything already done. And it's too much to ask you to do them both. You know that Thursday's freight is always the heaviest."

That was true. But they both knew that Seth would have been able to handle it.

"Besides," said Sarah, "I don't think I could stand just sitting around waiting for the stagecoach. I'd go crazy."

Now Seth smiled. Now they were getting honest.

He nodded. He thought he could understand.

"I'll be home in time to meet the stage," went on Sarah. "Then—then I'll have my little girl home again. I—I just might not ever want to go to work again. We'll have so—so much lost time to make up for."

Again Seth nodded.

Sarah's eyes darkened. "Not that we'll be able to afford to do much else than talk—thanks to my falling asleep on the job—but—"

Sarah still had a pang of regret whenever she thought of the money she had put aside and then had to pay out for the new freight wagon.

"You needed the rest," Seth reminded her. "Remember?"

Sarah nodded. She had learned much during her recuperation time. Perhaps things were better now— without the money—than they would have been had she saved it.