Suddenly a Bride Read online

  “Glad I could help,” she said, and Sam was unexpectedly warmed by the sincerity in her emerald green eyes.

  James guided the mules down the road to where he could turn the buckboard around. When they passed the freight wagon again, Sam and Duncan had finished loading the contents of the broken crate and were locking the gate. Sam looked up and waved as the buckboard passed. He let his gaze linger on the slim, straight back of the minister’s daughter until he was rewarded when a sudden gust of wind dislodged her bonnet. Strands of auburn hair fluttered around her neck and glinted red-gold in the sun.

  "Auburn,” he said aloud. “I knew it!"

  Duncan pinned him with a sharp glare as both men climbed aboard the wagon. "Seems like you have an eye on the reverend's daughter, son.”

  "She's not hard to look at, Duncan, I'll say that."

  The drummer shrugged. "I guess she's got curves enough to attract a man all right, but I've heard she can be an ornery woman at times. I never saw it personally, but that's how I've heard folks describe her."

  "Ornery, you say?" Sam pretended to be shocked at Duncan's appraisal of the minister's daughter. "I've heard you talk about your own wife in those very same terms, Duncan."

  Walthrop scowled for a moment before his good-hearted laugh split the still spring air. "Yeah, but that's different. My wife's got something to be ornery about. She's married to me!"

  "Poor, sainted woman!"

  Sam leaned back and rested his feet on the prop in front of him. It felt good to be away from teaching in a classroom and out in the open. He liked traveling with Duncan, and he liked working with his hands again. And life now offered him an added bonus. He hadn't been this free of responsibility in, well, ever. The few decisions he made now were simple and immediate. His days were uncomplicated, and he no longer allowed the resentment he felt toward the man who'd fathered him and the melancholy of his past to interfere with the natural flow of a moment-to-moment existence. And until something happened to change his mind, that's the way he wanted things.

  He still grieved for his mother, and it concerned him that he'd made a promise to her that he hadn't carried out. To ease her pain and make her last hours peaceful ones, he'd told her that he would claim his inheritance. Sometimes he thought about Harland Carstairs, and the day he showed up at Chilton-Howe with legal documents related to the old man’s death. And the surprising conditions of Tobias Rosemont's will did pique Sam’s curiosity on occasion.

  But the truth was, he didn't know when, or even if, he'd ever be ready to face his father's legitimate family. Right now, with the sun warm on his face, the image of a pretty face and long auburn hair fresh in his mind, and the jostling of the wagon lulling him into serenity, he didn't give a tinker's dam about being a rich man.

  James pulled around to the back of the neat frame farmhouse and let the children and Abby off at the kitchen door. The children ran inside, but Abby hung back. She rested the cumbersome picnic basket on her hip and looked up at her father. "I was just wondering about something, Papa. You don't think you discouraged Mr. Walthrop about coming here, do you? I mean, do you think he'll still stop by to see us?"

  "No, Abby, I don't think I discouraged him at all. I told him I'd see if we need anything. To Duncan Walthrop, that's as good as if I'd taken out my money pouch. He's a salesman, Abby, and salesmen live by the eleventh commandment, 'Thou shalt not miss a sale.'"

  She laughed, but her eyes had a faraway dreamy look that James had never seen before. He drove the rig to the barn. As he unhitched the mules, James thought about his daughter's

  puzzling question. Looking to the clouds he said, "Daisy, you don't suppose our Abby has actually taken a fancy to that young fellow?"

  The possibility astounded him and he chuckled to himself. Duncan's helper seemed to take an interest in Abby too, but could he finally be the man who wouldn't turn and run from her as if the devil himself were chasing him?

  Chapter Two

  The following week continued unseasonably warm, the days lengthening slowly and steadily as the temperatures rose. In the village, merchants opened the doors and windows of their shops, and by afternoon found the interiors so oppressive that they retreated to their porches to wait for customers. The farmers of Seneca Township worked long hours planting their crops while the soil provided a warm, dry bed for the seeds. On Saturday, when five acres of Chadwick Farm lay patterned with neat corn furrows, James released the dam on the tributary of the Little White Tail River to allow nourishing water to trickle through his arid field.

  On Sunday Reverend Chadwick again asked his congregation for donations for his children, but once more the measure of sympathy from their neighbors was disappointing. Abby kept her criticisms to herself this time, but inside, her cynicism for the citizens of Seneca Township grew. It seemed there would be no end to the financial woes she and her father faced.

  And on top of that, Duncan Walthrop had not stopped by the farm in the eight days since his wagon had been disabled on the road. Though Abigail hadn't mentioned the drummer's helper to her family, she certainly hadn't been able to dismiss him from her thoughts. For a whole week her mind had conjured up visions of the lean, tanned Mr. Kelly with his dark hair and callused fingers. All day Monday she found herself watching for the freight wagon to cross the rise which led down to the farm. But the only wagon that came to Chadwick's that day was the buckboard driven by her father.

  When James returned from Seneca Village early Monday evening, he entered the kitchen he had built onto the two-story farm house and set his supplies on the scrub table. He was walking with a confident swagger that made Abby tease, “That must have been some trip to the village.”

  “It was passable.” He spoke to Angel, who, as usual, was following him. "Why don't you scoop the flour into the bin for Miss Abby, darlin’ girl, and then start the dinner biscuits."

  "Okay, Papa James."

  He walked over to the butcher block where Abby was slicing bacon from a side of pork. She looked up at him and smiled. "You look like the cat who's found the milk pail, so why don't you tell me what's happened?"

  He took a thin catalogue out of his back pocket and held it out to her. "Look what was delivered to Purcell's Mercantile today."

  She wiped the grease off her hands and took the catalogue. "What is it?"

  "It's put out by these two fellows in Chicago." He read the names on the front cover. "Richard Sears and Alvah Roebuck. It's chock full of useful things at prices almost anybody can afford. You just send these fellows the money, and they send you the goods."

  Abby was skeptical, but the book looked interesting. She began thumbing through the pages. "What do you mean, 'prices almost anybody can afford'?"

  "Go to page twelve," James said. "Look at the prices of those shoes. You can get work boots for Will for one dollar and ten cents, and high buttons for Angel and Susanna for only fifty cents each. And as for the twins, well, I've never known six-year-old boys to wear shoes in the summertime anyway, so they can wait."

  "I've never heard of anything like this," Abby said, allowing her father’s enthusiasm to infect her as well. The catalogue truly held a great many marvelous things.

  James read over her shoulder. "You see, Abigail, I told you to have faith that everything will work out. Most folks spend their lives looking for grand and glorious miracles to believe in, but most often what we're searching for just sort of sidesteps into our lives, slowly, and without a lot of fanfare, like this little book did today. It's the small miracles that happen every day that keep us going. You just have to look for them and believe."

  Normally practical about most everything in her life, Abby had to agree that the catalogue was a little miracle. "Come over here, Angel," she said. "You can even pick from three different styles. In a few weeks the ladies of Chadwick Farm will be sporting new shoes."

  Angel and Abby continued poring over the assortment of useful things in the wondrous little book, while James, chuckling at their comments, took o
ver the job of kneading the dough for biscuits.

  "Papa James! Miss Abby!"

  Will's cry carried on a sudden gust of wind that blew the eyelet curtains straight out from the kitchen window. Abby and James ran to the window and saw Will running toward the house in the midst of a whirling cloud of dust, his finger pointed to the sky. "Cyclone's comin'!"

  "My God, Papa, look!" Abby’s gaze froze on the twisting black cloud heading for the newly planted corn field. The apple trees in the orchard at the edge of the field were already bending toward the approaching spiral as tender limbs and branches were hurled out of the twister and into the sky.

  "Get the children into the cellar," James shouted above the rising crescendo of wind. He ran to close the windows which were not in the direct path of the cyclone.

  Abby raced outside to call the children, but they had already gathered at the front porch. Grabbing arms and hands, she rushed them all across the yard to the root cellar.

  Crouching in the mounting wind, she fumbled with the latch of the little-used cellar door. Swirling dust smarted her eyes, and her hair whipped around her face, stinging her cheeks as she

  struggled with the rusty metal until her fingers bled from the effort.

  "Get out of the way, Miss Abby!" Will ordered, pushing her aside. He battered the hasp with a log until the stubborn latch slid back. When he flung open the door, the twister was bearing down on them, cutting an errant path toward the homestead. Splinters of wood and wire from the chicken coop were sucked into the outer bands of the cyclone as the squawking of terrified hens mingled with the thunderous roar of the wind.

  The children scurried down the ladder which led below ground until only Will and Abby were left on the surface. "Get down there, Will!" Abby shouted.

  "After you, Miss Abby."

  "There’s no time. Don't argue with me. Go now!"

  He hesitated a moment more and then reluctantly disappeared down the cellar ladder. The tornado swirled around Abby's home, threatening to draw everything she loved into its demonic core. A widening spiral appeared above the roof of the farmhouse. Then the first cracks of rent tar paper and torn shingles joined the cacophony of destruction. Bit by bit, Abby's home was sucked into the maelstrom.

  "Papa!" she called futilely. Her voice was carried up and away in a roaring wind that gave no warning nor regard for its victims. "Papa, where are you?"

  She shielded her eyes against the savage attack of debris and watched the back wall of her kitchen explode. Shards of wood and glass spun in a crazy spiral to the dark cloud above. The door of the root cellar quivered in her hands, and was nearly torn from her grasp.

  The children hollered from the cellar. For their sakes Abby couldn't wait any longer. "Papa will be all right," she said, trying to convince herself it was true. "He'll find shelter." She climbed down the ladder and pulled the door over her head, sliding the interior bolt across.

  When she landed on the packed dirt floor, she felt an ominous rumbling beneath the soles of her shoes. The cellar door billowed in and out, its bolt rattling a struggle against the awesome power of the wind.

  The little group in the dark root cellar crouched together, some with hands over their ears to block out the howling wind. The twins buried themselves in Abby's skirt and cried. Susanna whimpered, and Angel mumbled an incoherent prayer. Will stalked about, clenching his fists and muttering his frustration at not being able to defend their home. Abby stroked the twins' heads and prayed for her father's safety. He had to be all right. Anything else was unthinkable.

  Moments later, the wind had died, and the sun speared through the cracks in the cellar door.

  When Abby emerged, she scanned the littered farmyard for James, oblivious to the tattered remains of her life. A deep, devastating loss permeated the air around her even more destructive than the damage done to Chadwick Farm. She knew instinctively the storm had changed forever the life her family had built together in the lazy swells of Ohio's rich Appalachian plateau.

  She called her father's name, only dimly aware that the youngest children wandered around the yard picking up bits and pieces of furniture and clothing and turning them over in their hands. When she felt a fluttering at her ankle, Abby looked down and covered her mouth to stifle a sound which was part sob and part hysterical laughter. She picked up the single page from the Sears and Roebuck Catalogue that was pressed against her leg and let the breeze carry it out of her hands to the sky. Had it only been minutes since James had brought the book to her and she and Angel admired the pictures? Now she didn't even know where her father was, and the catalogue and mementos of her life were ripped to shreds. Her throat constricted in a sharp pain, and she didn't think she could take another breath. She had to find James. None of the rest of it mattered.

  "Are you all right, Miss Abby?" Will asked, coming up behind her.

  She grasped his shoulders and shook him. "We've got to find Papa. He could be hurt."

  "We'll find him, Miss Abby."

  They went to the house and stepped through the gaping hole that had once been the southern wall. Sunlight filtered through the fast moving clouds and onto the maple floor. There was no longer a roof to block the rays. There was no sign of James.

  Will searched the other rooms and returned to the kitchen.

  "Did you find him?" Abby asked. He shook his head as Susanna came around the back of the house, her normally delicate face twisted in a cry of fear. "Miss Abby, Will! There's nothing left of the barn. It's all blown apart, and the mules are just walking around like they're lost!"

  Abby's heart hammered with dread. "Papa!" The terror she saw in Will's eyes told her he was having the same thought.

  They ran outside, heedless of the meandering animals that had lost their shelter. The barn that James had built ten years before had been reduced to rubble. Pitchforks and hoes and other farm tools were scattered in an area a hundred yards around the barn's perimeter, their metal parts bent and handles broken in half. Hay bales had been rent apart, and their dusty contents littered the yard and blew into Abby's mouth and hair. She picked among the splintered lumber and called her father. When she lifted one ragged section of wood and saw a wrist and hand, she screamed for Will.

  Together they clawed at the beams and twisted lumber while a frantic prayer to spare her father's life raced through Abby's mind. When they uncovered James' face, she stared in horror at the blood dripping down his neck. His lifeless, vacant eyes told her he was gone.

  She knelt in the devastation and scratched through the broken lumber, flinging the pieces away from her father's body. "Don't leave us, Papa," she cried until Will took her arms and lifted her to her feet.

  He held her while she strained against his grip, needing to shelter James, wanting to pour her own life back into his still form. "Let me go, Will," she cried. "Papa needs me."

  "You stay back now, Miss Abby," the boy said. "I've got to close his eyes and dig him out the rest of the way. You go on back to the house and let me do this." He slowly released her and began clearing the rubble.

  Abby's shoulders sagged and her body shook with violent tremors. She didn’t recognize her own voice when words of heartbreak and betrayal spewed from her mouth. "Is this what your faith brought you, Papa? Where are your small miracles now?" She raised a fist to her mouth, but could not stop the flow of bitter words. "Is this an act of your merciful God?"

  Will knelt in the dirt and dust and stared up at her, halting his grisly chore. She looked down into wounded brown eyes clouded with pain almost as great as hers. He was coping with his own grief and trying to make sense of what was senseless, and her words hurt and confused him.

  She closed her eyes, freeing the stinging tears which coursed down her cheeks. "I'm sorry, Will," she whispered, reaching out a trembling hand to him. "Forgive me." She turned away and walked back toward the house where the little ones and Angel huddled together in the gathering dusk watching her, yet unaware that something even more terrible than the storm had happen
ed.

  Abby swiped at her tears, mingling their salt with the grit and grime of destruction that scratched like sandpaper against her skin. She drew a deep, shuddering breath and set her back in a rigid posture. There was much that needed to be done. And she had no idea how her makeshift family would do any of it.

  Chapter Three

  "I'm not going back to school, Miss Abby," Will announced two days later as he put on James's old suit jacket which fit snugly over the boy’s broad shoulders. Abby studied his stern expression as she threaded a string tie under his collar. "I've only got two months to go anyway, and then I'll be done for good, so what's the difference?"

  Abby took the large hand that extended a full two inches beyond the jacket sleeve. "Will, I know why you're doing this, but I don't want you to miss out on any schooling. You're so young...you shouldn't take on a man's responsibility yet."

  Will smoothed a shock of sandy blond hair off his forehead and spoke in his most serious, no-nonsense way. "You and I both know that I was never much of a student. And as for responsibility, you and the kids need me here much more than I need to be ciphering numbers in the village schoolhouse."

  She couldn't argue with him. Getting Will to do his lessons had always been a struggle. And she did need him at the farm. She could use every spare hand she could call into service. Thankfully, some of their neighbors had shown up the day after the storm to hammer wood planks over the eaves as a temporary roof, but that was only the beginning of what needed to be done to rebuild Chadwick Farm. And this was not even considering the crop that had to be put in during the spring months. Abby placed her hand under Will's chin and nodded her agreement. "What would I do without you?"

  "You won't have to find out, Miss Abby," he said. "I'll always take care of you."

  "And I will, too," Angel said. She turned around for Abby to fasten the top button of her Sunday dress. Even in their primitive conditions, the family had managed to dress respectfully for James Chadwick's funeral. "Remember we have to have faith,” Angel said. “Any minute now, Papa James is going to come in that door and remind us of that. I hate to say it, Miss Abby, but you have been lacking in faith lately, and you're going to disappoint Papa."