Too Long a Stranger (Women of the West) Read online

  * * *

  CONTENTS

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26

  Too Long a Stranger

  by

  Janette Oke

  * * *

  To all mothers and daughters—

  May God bless your relationships,

  Heal any wounds,

  Enhance understanding,

  And multiply love in your hearts.

  * * *

  JANETTE OKE was born in Champion, Alberta, during the depression years, to a Canadian prairie farmer and his wife. She is a graduate of Mountain View Bible College in Didsbury, Alberta, where she met her husband, Edward. They were married in May of 1957, and went on to pastor churches in Indiana as well as Calgary and Edmonton, Canada.

  The Okes have three sons and one daughter and are enjoying the addition of grandchildren to the family. Edward and Janette have both been active in their local church, serving in various capacities as Sunday school teachers and board members. They make their home near Calgary, Alberta.

  * * *

  Chapter One

  Contents / Next

  Sarah

  "I've got to think. I've got to—to plan."

  Sarah lifted a trembling hand to press the palm against her brow. Her delicate face looked pinched and pale. Her lip quivered in spite of persistent efforts to keep it under control by holding it firmly between evenly spaced teeth. She brought the hand at her forehead down and clasped it with her other in hopes of stilling the tremors.

  Her world—her whole secure world—had come tumbling in upon her. She needed to think, to make some sense of it all, but her mind failed to work. What will I do? Where will I go? whirled around in her thoughts. She had to make plans—but her brain refused to cooperate.

  A soft cry came from the room next to her own. Rebecca. Rebecca needs me. That much she could still understand.

  She left her bedroom and went quickly to the little room that was Rebecca's nursery. They had been so proud of the room. So excited about fixing it up to welcome their newborn. They had teased each other about choosing the color. Michael had insisted that the new baby would be a boy, and Sarah had been just as strong in her resolve that it was a girl. Both of them knew it did not matter. Any child would be more than welcome in this little room, in their lives and hearts.

  But as Sarah entered the room and crossed swiftly to the cradle, she did not think of the decor. She thought only of the small child, little more than a year old, and now without a father.

  It had been so unexpected, Michael's death. He had been so strong. So independent. Sarah still couldn't believe it was really so—that she and her baby Rebecca were now alone in the world.

  "Mama's here," she whispered to her little one, a catch in her voice as she lifted the infant from the cradle and held her tightly against her shoulder.

  But your papa will never be here again, her heart cried. To Sarah's memory came the image of the tall, strong young man who had been Rebecca's father, bending over this same small bed to lift his tiny daughter up against his own shoulder. Even with her eyes squeezed shut, she could see him. The imprint of his face was as detailed and real as if he were standing before her. His firm, square chin. His slightly crooked nose. He had broken it as a twelve-year-old determined to ride one of the bulls on his father's ranch. Over the years the incident, and the nose, had become the butt of many little jokes on the part of his friends. Michael had not seemed to mind, laughing along with them.

  But Sarah had scarcely noticed the nose when she first met the tall young man. She had been much too fascinated by his eyes. Brown eyes, framed with long, dark sweeping lashes.

  "His eyes look like melted chocolate," she had gushed to her closest girl friend, and Jane had giggled at her remark and later embarrassed her by telling some others. Even now Sarah blushed at the remembrance.

  She lifted her chin slightly in stubborn defiance. "He did have beautiful eyes," she murmured softly as though defending herself. Then her own eyes filled with tears and she pressed little Rebecca closer to her. Those brown eyes so filled with love would never look on her or on their baby girl again.

  "I must get hold of myself," Sarah chided quietly. "I must. I have to plan. For the sake of Rebecca."

  The baby squirmed in her arms, and Sarah realized she had been holding her too tightly. She blinked away her tears as best she could, swallowed the difficult lump in her throat, and forced a smile to her lips before she turned the child to where she could look into her face.

  "Are you hungry?" she managed, her voice sounding remarkably controlled. "Mama has your dinner waiting for you in the kitchen. You've had a nice long nap."

  In answer, Rebecca squirmed again and grinned at her mama. Then she reached for a handful of her mother's shiny dark hair and gave a tug. To Sarah's dismay the pins pulled loose and soft curls were soon spilling over her left ear.

  "Now see what you've done," she scolded gently, but Rebecca squealed and reached for the mass, tangling her tiny fingers in the softness.

  "It was my fault," Sarah conceded as she carried the child toward the small kitchen at the rear of the house. "I pinned it carelessly." She sighed and her slim shoulders seemed to sag with a sudden weight.

  "Don't eat it," she told her young daughter, who was trying to stuff a fistful of the tresses into her mouth.

  "You think everything is to eat—don't you?" she continued, smiling wanly as she tried to ease the hair from the tightened fist. It was a difficult task, for Rebecca had the strands all entangled in tiny fingers.

  Sarah finally deposited her daughter in her high chair and, bending over her, tried to finish the task of freeing her hair from the little one's grasp.

  "There," she said at last, able to straighten up again and reach to pin the hair haphazardly in place. Then she went to the cupboard for Rebecca's meal and moved to the wood-burning stove to reheat the mashed vegetables and gravy.

  Rebecca squealed. She was never patient, which was especially true where her dinner was concerned.

  "Mama's coming," Sarah assured her. "You don't want your dinner cold, do you?"

  But Rebecca was in no mood to wait. She thumped on the tray of the chair and squealed loudly again. Sarah knew if she didn't hurry, the child would soon be crying—and then screaming. What was it Michael had said? That she was an angel—until it came to food. Then she suddenly turned into a little terror. In spite of her aching heart, Sarah smiled. The child's papa had known her well.

  Rebecca began the second stage of her protest, and Sarah hurried toward the high chair. The food would have to be served as it was. She felt she could not endure a childish tantrum now. In her present state her nerves were raw, her heart near breaking, and she feared she might find herself screaming and crying right along with her offspring.

  "You shall have it," she informed her small daughter. "If it isn't quite warm enough—then you've yourself to thank."

  But Rebecca did not complain as Sarah spooned the food into her small mouth.

  At first Sarah was absorbed in her task, but gradually troubling thoughts came back to fill her mind and heart again.

  What will I do? I must make some plans.

  Her whole person staggered under the weight of decisions to be made, but she seemed no nearer to any answers.

  ***

  "What do you plan to do?"

  It was Mrs. Galvan who asked the question. Sarah had regarded Mrs. Galvan as a pleasant neighbor— nothing more, since she was at least thirty-five years Sarah's senior. According to the neighborhood report, the woman had borne six children. She had lost twins, one after the other, soon after their birth, and her only daug
hter to whooping cough at the age of two. One of her sons had been killed in a lightning storm and her two remaining sons were now young men. The younger of the two had recently married and was on his own; the other still lived at home and helped his father run the local hardware store. Sarah had thought of the Gal-vans as fellow worshipers at the little church they attended. She met them on the streets of the little town and was always greeted warmly, but they had never been included in Sarah's small circle of close friends.

  Now the older woman sat across from her at her kitchen table, a cup of tea growing cold in front of her as she cuddled small Rebecca in her arms.

  "I—I don't really—know." Sarah tried hard to control her voice. She had to think. But it was so—so soon. Her head still refused to work. It was as though she was in a daze.

  "If there's any way I can help—" There was such kindness in the voice that Sarah found it hard to fight the tears that surged behind her eyes. She nodded mutely.

  "There may be someone who would like to buy the dray business," Mrs. Galvan went on. "That would—"

  Sarah shook her head slowly. She already knew that wasn't the answer. "I—I talked to the banker," she said slowly. "He said—" She gulped and tried to go on, her voice little more than a whisper. "He said—it isn't likely. That—that anyone who wants to haul freight wouldn't need to buy but—but could just go ahead and start their own. He said—" But Sarah could not continue. It seemed that Michael's carefully built and maintained business of hauling freight from the train station in West Morin into their own small town of Kenville was really of no monetary value to her.

  "Then what—?"

  "I don't know. I just don't know."

  Sarah shook her head, her hair threatening to spill about her ears again. She chided herself. She really had to start taking better care of her appearance. She would come to be known as the town frump. Quite a change from her reputation as a most proper young wife. She reached up to push the pins in more securely.

  "I would be most happy to help in any way I can," declared Mrs. Galvan, and Sarah knew from the tone of her voice and the look in the sympathetic eyes that the woman meant every word.

  "Thank you," she whispered, her head lowering. "I—I appreciate that more than . . ." But Sarah could not go on. Her chin trembled and she pressed her lips together and willed self-control.

  "Why don't you try to get some rest," the older woman said, rising to her feet. "I know it's hard with a baby to care for but—" Then she checked herself. "Why don't I just take little Rebecca on home with me for the night?" she went on. "That way you can get some undisturbed sleep."

  "Oh, but—"

  "Now, I've cared for babies before," the woman quickly cut in.

  "But she—she doesn't seem to manage sleeping through the night. She did before, but—I think she must sense . . ."

  Again Sarah could not finish her thought.

  "Well, perhaps you could sleep the night through— given a chance," assured the woman. "And if you are ever to get things sorted out, you need to be able to think. And to think, one must have rest."

  Sarah knew this was so, but she did hate to give Rebecca up—even for a night. How could she bear to lose her one connection with reality? She was still shaking her head. She was sure she would sleep even less with her baby gone from the house.

  But Mrs. Galvan, with Rebecca in her arms, was moving toward the nursery bedroom. "I'll just pick up a few little things and—"

  "Where will she sleep?" Sarah asked hastily.

  "I still have the crib from my own babies," Mrs. Galvan answered over her shoulder.

  "But—" began Sarah again.

  "Now don't you worry none. She'll be pampered aplenty. My husband and boy both love babies. Truth is, she'd likely be spoiled beyond bearin' if she stayed with us for long."

  The woman laughed softly as she spoke the words. Sarah's thoughts still spun around. She was beyond rational thinking. Almost beyond caring. Maybe it would be okay—for just one night. Maybe she could sleep. She wasn't sure. She didn't know. She didn't seem to know much of anything at the moment. Numbly she followed the woman into Rebecca's bedroom and absentmindedly packed a small bag with the things necessary for the child's overnight stay. Almost before she could take in what was happening, the woman left the house with Rebecca in her arms. "I'll bring her back tomorrow afternoon," she called over her shoulder. "You get some sleep."

  Sarah nodded, her eyes filling with long-resisted tears. Rebecca was grinning back at her, one chubby hand waving a cheerful goodbye just as she had waved to her papa as he left the home on his last morning run with the freight wagon.

  Sarah felt the sobs working their way into her throat, nearly choking her. She pressed her fingers over her mouth and turned from the door, closing it firmly behind her. She leaned against it, trying hard to get control of her overwhelming emotions.

  "Why? Why?" she cried into the emptiness of the little house. "Why, Michael? Why?"

  She leaned more heavily against the door and let the sobs shake her body. She had not let herself grieve so freely before. She'd had to be strong for Rebecca. Now Rebecca was in the care of another, and Sarah found that she could no longer be strong. She allowed herself to slowly slide down the door's surface until she crumbled on the floor. Her sobs shook her whole being. "Why?" she cried again and this time there was anger in her voice. "Why? Why take Michael? You know we need him. You know. How can I go on? Why should I go on? What is there to live for? Answer me. Answer me!"

  The last words were flung toward the ceiling. Sarah lifted a face filled with agony and streaked with tears.

  "Answer me," she cried again. "What is there to live for with Michael gone?"

  Through tear-blurred eyes Sarah saw the open doorway that led to the nursery. Rebecca's cradle, the one Michael had brought home on his freight wagon, stood near the window, the blanket she had stitched tossed carelessly over the side. The little toy top Michael had purchased on one of his many trips to the neighboring town lay lopsidedly on the floor beside the rag doll Granny Whitcomb had sent. Sarah could not see the simple chest that held the tiny garments'—but she was conscious of its presence. She knew every drawer and exactly what each one held. She knew the picture on the wall. The pair of tiny shoes that sat on the window ledge. The rocker in the corner with the multi-color cushion on the hard-polished oak. Sarah's breath caught in her throat. She pushed back her tumbled hair and turned her face toward the ceiling. He had answered. She knew He had. It was Rebecca. Rebecca was her reason for living. Rebecca was the reason she must somehow put her life back together and go on. Rebecca—a very real and very living part of Michael.

  Sarah lowered her face into her hands and sobbed, but her crying was now controlled. She had a right to grieve. She had lost much. She had to grieve. Her loss had to be expressed. She would suffer. There would be many days when the hurt would be there—real and painful and so big she would wonder if she would be able to bear it. But she had to go on. For Rebecca.

  * * *

  Chapter Two

  Contents - Prev / Next

  Sorting It Through

  Somehow Sarah managed to get herself to her bed, fall upon it, and allowed herself to cry until she was completely drained of all tears—all emotion. Exhausted, she at last fell asleep, her last thought being a little prayer, "Oh, God. Help me. I—I need you like I never have before."

  She was shocked when she awakened to find the sun already high in the sky. Her bedside clock indicated that it was twenty minutes past ten. She could not believe it. She scrambled up with a pounding heart. Why hadn't Rebecca cried? Had she cried and not been heard? Sarah was about to dash for the door when she remembered that Rebecca was safely cared for at the Galvan home. With a sigh she laid her head back on the pillow and rubbed a hand over her eyes. She wondered if they were red and swollen from her night before.

  "I must make some plans," she said aloud as she lifted herself from her bed.

  To her surprise she felt
prepared to think. Was it the long sleep—or was it the fact that she had finally accepted Michael's death? She did not know. She only knew that she had Rebecca to care for and she did not intend to let her down.

  She left the comfort of her bed, washed her puffy face in cold, clear water, forced herself to eat some breakfast, then carefully pinned her hair as she had done each morning in what now seemed the distant past. Then drawing her only black dress from the closet, she slipped it over her head, blinking back the tears that wished to come.

  She pinned her hat securely in place, took up her gloves and handbag, and proceeded out to face her difficult day of decisions.

  ***

  "Have you made any plans?"

  There was genuine kindness in the eyes and voice of the man as he leaned slightly toward Sarah over the counter between them. He spoke softly, seeming to will her some of his own strength for her ordeal.

  Sarah managed a wobbly smile and shook her head slowly. "I am going to see the banker again this morning. Mrs. Galvan has little Rebecca. I—I need to use this time to—to work things through."

  The man nodded solemnly. "If there is anything I can—" He seemed to choke up. His gaze dropped and he did not go on. Sarah noticed that the hands that clasped on to the counter top were trembling. She was deeply touched by his obvious concern.

  Mr. Murray, whom the whole town, except for Sarah, called Alex, was also 'a member of the local church congregation. He was a cheerful young fellow, always polite and eager to serve. Michael had wondered why the man was still a bachelor. "Surely some woman should realize his worth," Sarah recalled Michael saying. "It may be true that he's not striking in appearance," her husband had admitted, "but he is not unpleasant to look at."

  Sarah had never troubled herself with the affairs of others, so she had given little thought to the matter. "Perhaps he does not wish to marry," she had responded casually and pushed the matter aside.