Woman of Grace (20 page)

“I wish I could believe that, Hannah.”

His voice rose from the darkness, deep, rich, but anguished. His sadness plucked at her heart, and that tightly guarded fortress crumbled a bit more.

“Oh, Devlin …” Hannah turned to face him. She lifted her hand and touched his cheek.

He jerked, then went very still. “Hannah …” Devlin’s voice dropped to a low, rough rasp. Then he took her hand and lowered it, imprisoning it between them. “I don’t know what got into me to tell you the things I did, but I shouldn’t have.” Suddenly, he seemed unable to meet her gaze. “I wasn’t looking for sympathy or comforting, and I sure didn’t mean for you to get the wrong idea.”

Each word stabbed at her heart. “I
didn’t
get the wrong idea,” she whispered, the warmth flooding her face. “I just felt … well, I just …
understood
. So much of what you said reminded me of my own journey.” She cocked her head, smiling sadly. “A lot of folk think if I’d been a better, stronger person, I’d never have let myself be forced into prostitution. After all, wouldn’t a decent woman kill herself, rather than let such a horrible thing happen to her?”

Devlin nodded in careful, cautious agreement. “Some folk might think that. I’ve certainly believed that about you. But I’m starting to see I was wrong. It’s easy to judge when you’re not actually faced with a life-and-death decision. Besides, what you did is over and done with. Folk need to judge you for who you are now, not then.”

“As must I, wouldn’t you say? Judge myself for how I am and act now, rather than for what I once was and did?”

Slowly, a smile tugged at the corner of Devlin’s mouth. “Okay, you’ve made your point. Easier said than done, though.”

She laughed. “Don’t I know!”

He paused then, as if listening for something. “Sounds like the storm’s passing. Haven’t heard any thunder for the past few minutes.”

“You’re right.” Hannah pulled her hand free of Devlin’s clasp. “Come on, let’s go see.”

“Don’t reckon you’ll be going anywhere fast, what with that twisted ankle of yours,” he observed dryly, “but you can at least scoot out to the edge of this overhang.”

At the reminder of her ankle, Hannah’s face fell. “Oh, I’d almost forgotten …”

Devlin turned and crawled out. “Let me check the buggy and weather, then I’ll come back for you. Okay?”

“All right,” Hannah said, gingerly following in his wake. From the vantage of the overhang, she watched Devlin climb to his feet and stride to the buggy. It was still tipped on its side, but Devlin was able to right it. The horse, however, was nowhere to be seen.

Hannah glanced up at the sky. Though gray clouds still roiled overhead, patches of blue and a few sunbeams peeked through several rents in the turbulent canopy. East of them, thunder rumbled weakly, punctuated only occasionally now by jagged flashes of lightning.

She smiled. Soon the sky would clear. Save for the raindrops sparkling on the foliage and the damp scent of the earth, one would never know they’d had a storm. But
she
would, Hannah thought, as she awkwardly struggled to her feet and grabbed the rocky outcropping for support. Her ankle, if nothing else, would remind her for a while to come.

Just then the sound of hoof beats from the direction of Culdee Creek caught her attention. Sure enough, she realized as she turned in the direction of the rhythmic pounding, it was Conor, Evan, and three hands. Most likely, their buggy horse had hightailed it straight back to the ranch.

Devlin walked over, smiling. “Looks like we’ve got ourselves a search party.”

“Yes,” Hannah agreed, reaching out to grasp his arm for support, and smiling back up at him, “looks like we have.”

12

What shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?

Mark 8:36

She walked in a grassy meadow, sunlight sparkling off the knee-high, windblown grass. Her long red hair was unbound, curling then unfurling about her face in the warm breeze. She wore a simple dress of green calico, and her feet were bare.

Terrified she’d disappear before he reached her, Devlin ran down the hill after Ella. She turned to him as he drew up beside her, an impish grin lifting her lips.

“I-I’ve missed you so.” He gazed down at her with tender affection.

Her grin softened into a loving smile. “Walk with me.”

There was nothing that Devlin would’ve rather done. He moved close, his arm encircling her shoulders, and shortened his stride to match hers. She felt good, solid, and surprisingly real against him.

“I love you,” he said, his voice husky with pent-up longing.

“I know.” Ella glanced at him. “I’ve always known.”

Though her answer did little to ease his pain, he was nonetheless happy to hear it.

“Don’t lose hope, my love.” Ella’s look of understanding was ample proof she knew what he had been thinking. “This time of mourning will pass, and you’ll find joy again.” She clasped his arm, halting him. “But first you must face your grief and anger, and look past it to God’s eternal plan. Only then will you become a whole man, a man of God.”

Devlin gazed down at her, his heart so full of yearning he thought it might rip in two. “I don’t care about God or His plan,” he rasped finally, pulling her into his arms. “Part of His plan was to take you from me. All I know is I want you back. Oh, Ella, I need you so badly!”

“You need far more than I could ever give, my love.” As she spoke her face blurred, began to fade. Devlin’s sense of flesh and bone in his hands seemed to melt away. “Look to the Lord,” she whispered in farewell. “Look to the Lord …”

With that, Devlin awoke with a start. It was morning, the first rays of sun kissing the windowsill and wooden floor, the lace curtains—curtains Ella had made—wafting gently in the warming breeze. From force of habit, he turned to the spot where his wife always laid. It was empty.

In a rush of mind-numbing emotion it all came back. The dream … his precious time with Ella … her words.

Look to the Lord.

Cursing savagely, Devlin swung out of bed. In the aftermath of his dream, freshened anguish filled him. The dream had seemed almost as real as actually having her present and alive. The all but tangible sensation of holding his wife and talking with her, even now, seemed unnervingly authentic.

Frustrated despair warred with Devlin’s growing anger. Blast it all! What a cruel trick his mind had played on him! He didn’t need God. He needed Ella!

By dint of a superhuman effort and several deep breaths, he regained an iron grip on his emotions. Devlin washed, dressed, and stalked from his bedroom. A couple of strong cups of coffee, he thought as he headed for the kitchen, should drown this crazy tumult in his head. And, after the coffee, Devlin resolved, grimly making plans, a morning of hard work should banish whatever was left of the empty ache in the middle of his chest.

Hannah wasn’t about yet, he noted as he entered the kitchen. After having sprained her ankle yesterday, she’d most likely need help even making it over from her bunkhouse. Just as soon as he got some coffee into him, he would fetch her.

Devlin quickly stoked the cookstove and set water on to heat. When his restless, unsettled feelings wouldn’t ease, he paced the room with clenched hands and stiff strides. Eventually, the water began to boil. Devlin made himself a pot of coffee, then carried the pot to the table where he poured himself his first cup.

The coffee was black and gullet searing—just how he liked it. He sipped deeply of the bitter brew, willing it to warm his belly and soothe his mind. It did neither, however, serving instead to irritate his empty stomach.

He leaned over his mug, gripping it tightly with both hands. Closing his eyes, Devlin fought to block out the memories, the heart-deep ache. Yet, time and again, the dream returned to haunt him.

“I-I can’t stand it,” he finally choked out, tears stinging his eyes. “Ah, Ella, Ella. Why must I dream of you? It gives me no peace, no comfort. All it does is lay open my heart to bleed anew.”

Another swig of coffee did little to assuage his torment. Devlin shoved the mug aside and stared down at the flowered tablecloth, watching as its colorful images blurred then swam before his tear-filled eyes. Why, he wondered, every time he thought he was beginning to come to terms with his wife’s death, did something always happen to blindside him and bring him back to his knees? He buried his face in his hands. Would the pain never end?

“Oh, Ella, Ella.” The tears brimmed over at last, coursing down his cheeks.

From a distance he heard himself endlessly repeat her name. It seemed so unreal, though, as if he were disembodied and hearing himself from some place far away. It couldn’t be him, yet it was.

Then there was a movement behind him, a halting shuffle. A small, uncertain voice called his name.

“Papa?”

With a groan, Devlin turned and gathered his son to him. They remained that way for a time, silent tears running down Devlin’s face. Though one part of him screamed out in shame at weeping, another part yielded, knowing his sorrow was right and good, and that his son needed to share this with him.

The moment Devlin ceased his interior battle, surrendered his pride, an incredible sense of peace engulfed him. Peace … In his mind, he pulled back to examine the strange sensation from a safer distance. When had he last felt such a wondrous, healing emotion? But then, when had he ever deserved it?

Words teased the edges of his memory. Words Hannah had spoken not long after he had begun to recover from his bout of influenza. Words about God’s grace, and that no one ever deserved it.

Was this sudden sense of peace a small token of God’s grace, of His love for him? Devlin wondered. If so, why now? Why not all the other times he had called out to the Lord, screamed and cursed and raged at Him?

It made no sense. He was crazy even to consider such a thing. God had better things to do than waste time on him.

But then nothing made much sense right now. Devlin sighed. His life, however unsettled it might have been, seemed on the verge of becoming even more so.

Devlin hadn’t known she was there. Only a half hour earlier, Evan had helped both Hannah and Jackson make the short trek up the hill to the ranch house, depositing them on the front porch before taking his reluctant leave. She had paused only a moment to gaze down at his retreating form before grasping the cane Evan had made for her, taking her son by the hand, and entering the house.

No one had been up but Devlin Jr., who was playing quietly in his room. After leaving Jackson in his temporary care, Hannah headed down to the cellar to retrieve some sausages stored there for their breakfast. As she climbed back up the stairs, however, she heard Devlin’s voice, low and hoarse with anguish.

Concern filled her. Hannah hurried up the last few steps. There, from the darkness of the cellar doorway across from the kitchen, she saw him, seated at the table, his face buried in his hands. She heard him whisper Ella’s name, and knew he was weeping.

Myriad emotions engulfed Hannah. She wanted to rush to Devlin’s side, take him in her arms, and comfort him. Yet fear made her hesitate. What if he rejected her overtures, or became angry at being discovered in this moment of weakness? Maybe it was better just to steal away, and give him the private time he needed.

Yet even as Hannah wavered, Devlin Jr. moved past her and entered the kitchen. At the sight of his father, the boy hesitated for an instant, then walked up to stand beside him. He spoke his father’s name. Devlin went still, then groaned and pulled his son to him.

Watching the pair, the large, dark head bent over the smaller red one, Hannah’s heart swelled. It touched her that the son loved his father enough to reach out to him. But it stirred her even more profoundly that the father loved his son enough to open himself to him, to expose his vulnerability, and share their common grief. Such an act took courage and trust and so very, very much love. Such an act revealed a depth—and compelling quality—to Devlin that she had never seen before.