When Tomorrow Comes
W
HEN
T
OMORROW
C
OMES
Books by Janette Oke
Return to Harmony
*
A
CTS
OF
F
AITH
*
The Centurion’s Wife The Hidden Flame
C
ANADIAN
W
EST
When Calls the Heart
When Breaks the Dawn
When Comes the Spring
When Hope Springs New
Beyond the Gathering Storm
When Tomorrow Comes
L
OVE
C
OMES
S
OFTLY
Love Comes Softly
Love’s Unending Legacy
Love’s Enduring Promise
Love’s Unfolding Dream
Love’s Long Journey
Love Takes Wing
Love’s Abiding Joy
Love Finds a Home
A P
RAIRIE
L
EGACY
The Tender Years
A Quiet Strength
A Searching Heart
Like Gold Refined
S
EASONS
OF THE
H
EART
Once Upon a Summer
Winter Is Not Forever
The Winds of Autumn
Spring’s Gentle Promise
S
ONG
OF
A
CADIA
*
The Meeting Place
The Birthright
The Sacred Shore
The Distant Beacon
The Beloved Land
W
OMEN
OF THE
W
EST
The Calling of Emily Evans
A Bride for Donnigan
Julia’s Last Hope
Heart of the Wilderness
Roses for Mama
Too Long a Stranger
A Woman Named Damaris
The Bluebird and the Sparrow
They Called Her Mrs. Doc
A Gown of Spanish Lace
The Measure of a Heart
Drums of Change
*
with T. Davis Bunn
W
HEN
T
OMORROW
C
OMES
J
NETTE
O
KE
When Tomorrow Comes
Copyright © 2001
Janette Oke
Cover by Jennifer Parker
Cover city image: Photography Collection, Miriam and Ira D. Wallach Division of Art, Prints and Photographs, The New York Public Library, Astor, Lenox and Tilden Foundations
Cover artwork based upon photograph in the book
Vintage Fashions for Women: 1920s–
1930s
by Kristina Harris
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations to printed reviews.
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan.
Printed in the United States of America
ISBN 978-0-7642-0064-9
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Oke, Janette, 1935–
When tomorrow comes / by Janette Oke
p. cm. — (Canadian West ; bk. 6)
Summary: “Christine is recovering from a broken heart. Is she willing to give up her dreams of living in the North and let God help her choose a lifelong love?”— Provided by publisher.
ISBN 0-7642-0064-X (pbk.)
1. Canada—Fiction. I. Title. II. Series: Oke, Janette, 1935– . Canadian West ; bk. 6.
PR9199.3.O38W52 2005
813'.54—dc22
2005005858
With deep appreciation
to God
for His unfailing
help, guidance, and answers to prayer
in every area of my life.
He is great—
and He is good.
CONTENTS
JANETTE OKE was born in Champion, Alberta, to a Canadian prairie farmer and his wife, and she grew up in a large family full of laughter and love. She is a graduate of Mountain View Bible College in Alberta, where she met her husband, Edward, and they were married in May of 1957. After pastor-ing churches in Indiana and Canada, the Okes spent some years in Calgary, where Edward served in several positions on college faculties while Janette continued her writing. She has written over four dozen novels for adults and children, and her book sales total nearly thirty million copies.
The Okes have three sons and one daughter, all married, and are enjoying their dozen grandchildren. Edward and Janette are active in their local church and make their home near Didsbury, Alberta.
The wind awakened Christine, slashing branches against the heavily iced window and flinging snow crystals with unbridled strength at the log sides of the small cabin. Down the mud-brick chimney it sounded a mournful tune, like some mythical being. Without opening her eyes, Christine knew the day would not be a pleasant one. But she smiled in strange contentment and snuggled deeper under the warm blankets of her bed.
The muffled cry of the northern wind took her back in years—more a sensation than an actual memory. It was not fear she had felt as a child as she’d listened to the howl of the wind on a winter’s morning. Nor frustration that she would now be snowbound. No, it was a sense of coziness. Of contentment. She had spread out her favorite picture books before the popping pinewood fire, her toes tickled by the soft fur of the bearskin rug on which she lay. She could almost smell those morning breakfasts of hot porridge and feel her tummy rumble.
Thinking back those many years, Christine felt almost like a child again. Safe and protected and warm and loved. It was a delicious feeling, to be wrapped tightly about one like her heavy woolen Hudson’s Bay blanket.
Putting aside her reverie, she stirred reluctantly. She couldn’t help wondering what would be more pleasant, pulling the covers up to her chin and listening to the relentless but futile cries of the furious intruder who seemed intent on inflict- ing its will on the occupants of the small home, or climbing from her bed to watch it spend its fury from the safety of her bedroom.
The raw power of the storm reminded Christine that her parents, longtime inhabitants of the North, had once again outsmarted nature’s worst. No matter how it struck and fought and fumed, they were warm and safe. The cabin walls that her father had constructed for his family were still stout and strong. The small lean-to on its east side was stacked high with pine and birch logs. The morning lamps were trimmed and flickering brightly. She knew the kitchen would already be warm and fragrant with the smell of brewing coffee and cinnamon toast.
At length Christine could not resist. She swung her legs over the edge of her bed, intending to ignore the chill of the room as she fumbled in the semidarkness for the robe she had flung over a nearby chair the night before.
Tying the robe around her as she left her room, she could see the light from the open fire in the main room and a sliver of pale yellow from the kitchen doorway. She headed directly there, knowing exactly what she’d find.
Her father would be seated at the table, a cup of steaming coffee already in his hand. Her mother would be at the big iron stove, stirring a pot of the inevitable hot porridge. A small stack of toast would be tucked in the warming oven while the porridge was being served. The dog, head on paws, would be stretched out on the rug by the door—just in case someone should decide it was safe to risk a venture outside.
Christine’s mother turned at the light footstep. “You’re up early,” Elizabeth noted with a smile. “Thought you might sleep in. This day’s going to be one for staying close to the fire.”
Christine nodded and crossed to the room’s lone window. With the tips of her fingers she scratched at the layer of frost. “I heard the wind. It was cozy under the covers, but I couldn’t resist getting a look at the storm.”
Wynn stirred. “You never could,” he commented with a small shake of his head. The words were spoken as a statement, but there also seemed to be the hint of a question lingering there. What was it about storms that seemed to draw Christine?
“We never had a real good one all the time I was in Edmonton,” Christine said. Her voice sounded almost wistful, even to her. “Oh, it snowed. Lots. And the wind blew. But it never was able to make much headway among all those tall buildings. I never did hear it howl and cry like it does here.” She couldn’t help but add a little chuckle at the irony of those words and the longing she still felt for that kind of storm.
Elizabeth half turned. “You like that sound?” She visibly shivered.
Christine peeked through the opening she had managed to scrape through the rime on the pane. “I guess I do.” She chuckled again.
“Well, at least I don’t have to be worried now about your father. I used to lay awake praying half the night, worried sick.”
Christine turned from the window and the swirling whiteness, the lashing tree limbs. Yes. She too remembered. She had worried many a night as well. As much as Elizabeth had tried to keep her fears to herself when Wynn was out in a storm, Henry and Christine had both known when their mother was uneasy and anxious. Christine recalled Henry’s valiant attempts to put Elizabeth’s mind at ease.
“Dad’s used to storms. He knows
what to do.”
Their mother would smile and nod and suggest popping corn or playing tic-tac-toe, but the haunted look never really left her eyes.
Christine tied the belt of her robe more securely and crossed the room to the corner basin to wash for breakfast. She also was relieved, more than her mother knew, that her father was not out on the trail today with the temperature continually falling and the bitter wind frosting a thick white rim on the fur of his parka. Christine’s eyes sought Wynn’s.
“Do you have to go anyplace today?”
He nodded. “Yes, but not for another two hours.”
Again Christine’s eyes went to the window, which still showed little signs of morning light. “So . . . why didn’t
you
sleep in?” she asked, her voice teasing.
“Habit.”
“And you?” She turned to her mother.