Authors: Kelly Eileen Hake
Through His Grace
Print ISBN 978-1-59789-238-4
eBook Editions:
Adobe Digital Edition (.epub) 978-1-60742-934-0
Kindle and MobiPocket Edition (.prc) 978-1-60742-935-7
THROUGH HIS GRACE
Copyright © 2006 by Kelly Eileen Hake. All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the permission of Truly Yours, an imprint of Barbour Publishing, Inc., PO Box 721, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683.
Scripture taken from the H
OLY
B
IBLE
, N
EW
I
NTERNATIONAL
V
ERSION
®. N
IV
®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved.
All of the characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events is purely coincidental.
Our mission is to publish and distribute inspirational products offering exceptional value and biblical encouragement to the masses
.
PRINTED IN THE U.S.A.
prologue
“This is all
your
fault!” She stopped packing for an instant, fury distorting her pretty face
.
“I only wanted to do what was right.” He fisted his hands against the pain tearing through his chest
.
“Too little, too late.” She grabbed a heap of clothes and shoved them into the open suitcase
.
“Baby
—”
He broke off as the word dropped like a stone, deepening the chasm between them
.
“Don’t look at me like that!” She screamed at him, tears filling her eyes. In that moment she looked so small and defeated; he moved closer. She put out her hand to stop him, and a glint of steel lit her gaze once more. “I did what had to be done.”
Eric Nichols drummed his fingers on the steering wheel as the memory ebbed. He let his breath out in a big whoosh before studying the sign across the street.
“LET’S MEET AT
M
Y HOUSE BEFORE THE GAME”—GOD
.
He idly wondered how long it had been since he’d watched a Sunday football game. But he had to admit it had been a lot longer since he’d set foot in a church.
Grandpa isn’t expecting me to show up on his doorstep. I have no reason to pass up a sign that’s inviting me in. Why not? What else do I possibly have to lose?
With this logic he steered his car into the church lot. He parked in the back and ambled toward the double oak doors. He slid in the back row as the choir finished a warbly hymn—just in time for the man next to him to pass along the collection plate.
Digging around in his pocket, Eric found two lonely nickels—the change from the last five dollars he’d spent on breakfast. He considered the practically worthless offering before plunking it into the plate.
It’s fitting. I don’t have much to offer anybody just now. Why pretend otherwise?
“God cares for each and every one of us. We don’t deserve it—we’ve all messed up. But He offers us grace and love.” The pastor preached on about hope and faith, and during a reading of the Gospels Eric thought it over and felt better than he had since…everything.
Everything I’ve tried has failed. I kept thinking if I worked hard enough, if I was successful enough, life would be good. The things I’ve put my faith in—my job, money, even human love
—
have let me down. Now I don’t have any of those things. What better time than now to try a new approach?
He made the decision to keep coming to church—to learn more about God’s grace. For the first time in a long time he was sure he was traveling in the right direction. The pain and anger were still there, pressing on him from the inside until he thought he’d explode from it all, but the prospect of change— hope for the future—made it seem less difficult to bear.
At the end of the service he stood and made his way toward his car. He had barely made it past the door when the man who’d sat next to him touched him on his arm.
“Got a minute?” The stranger smiled.
“A lifetime full of ‘em,” Eric answered.
But maybe they won’t be as bad as I thought
.
“How’d you like to put some of that time to use?” The man stuck out his hand. “Miller Quintain, owner of the Curly Q Ranch just up the road a ways. I’ve been praying for a strong new ranch hand, and it looks like God might’ve dropped the answer next to me in church.”
“I can ride, but I don’t know much else.” Eric studied the stranger’s lined, honest face and found himself hoping his inexperience didn’t matter. A few weeks of good, hard work would help drive the memories from his dreams, and Grandpa’s place was two cities over—away from the pastor whose words refreshed him like a glass of cool water on a hot summer’s day and made him want to come back for more.
“Not a problem. We’ll start you on a trial basis.” Quintain slapped him on the back. “Now what’s your name, son?”
“Eric Nichols, sir.” He watched as a big grin spread across the older man’s face.
“Now if that don’t beat all—after I saw you slip two nickels into the offering plate. Reminded me of the widow with two mites.” Quintain studied him for a minute before nodding. “Every ranch hand needs a nickname. I’ll call you Nickels.”
Five Years Later
“Nickels, would you mind taking the baby chicks over to the group home this morning?” Sondra Ward put her hands on the small of her back.
“Not at all.” He finished rubbing oil into his saddle and hung it back up.
“While you’re on your way, I’ll tell Miss Chesterton to expect you. Thanks.”
“Anytime.” He nodded toward her. “Little one starting to make its presence known?”
“My back’s a bit sore today,” his boss’s wife admitted. “But it could be from carrying Matt around. He’s getting big.”
“Sure is. Dylan’s proud of that little tyke.” Nickels didn’t need to mention it. Dylan wasn’t just Sondra’s second husband—he was the boy’s second father. Sondra’s first husband had died soon after Matthew’s conception. When Miller Quintain, Sondra’s close friend, died just months after her husband, she’d inherited a controlling share of the Curly Q Ranch—and a disgruntled Dylan Ward. In one year she’d pitched in around the place, taken over the house, and moved into Dylan’s heart. “Never saw a man so over the moon about his boy.”
“He has every right to be.” Sondra rubbed her hand lovingly over her still-flat stomach, a motherly gesture that made him turn around.
“I’d better load ‘em up and get ‘em out there.” He tromped over to where they kept the chicks and started scooting them into the carrying boxes. The little bits of soft yellow fluff cheeped and jostled gently as he closed the tops. He settled them in his pickup so as to make sure the air holes weren’t blocked then headed out.
Not long after, he pulled up in front of the Lawton Group Home. A matronly woman bustled out the front door, followed by several children.
“You must be Eric Nichols. I’m Miss Chesterton.” She dried her hands on her apron. “Sit down, children. This is Mr. Nichols, who’s brought the chicks.”
“Where’s Miss Sondra?” Over twenty children were settling on the sparse grass in a wide circle. Each one was staring expectantly at him.
“She’s—” Nickels had been about to say she was home taking care of her son but realized that would be cruel to these children without families. He looked to Miss Chesterton for help.
“She’s not going to be coming around for a while,” the woman said. “Mr. Nichols will be coming instead.”
“Why?” The chorus resounded.
“She’s having a baby.”
“Again?”
“Why?”
Amid the hubbub Nickels spotted a small boy, about six, whisper something to the girl next to him. He leaned over to listen as the older girl whispered back.
“I know you would’ve been part of Miss Sondra’s family if she’d wanted more. I would, too.” The girl pushed thick glasses farther up on her nose before hugging the boy. “But people want their own babies.”
They’re supposed to
, Nickels thought angrily.
Not all of these children are orphans—their parents just didn’t want them
.
He started pulling boxes out of the truck, making sure he was good and ready to face these lost little ones before turning back around.
“What’s your name?” He squatted next to the chestnuthaired boy he’d overheard.
“Jake.” He looked eagerly at the box Nickels held.
“Here you go, Jake.” Nickels scooped a fluffy chick out of the box and nudged it into the little boy’s cupped hands.
“Thanks, Mr. Nichols!” Jake cuddled the baby bird close to his chest, carefully stroking its soft fuzz.
Nickels gave the next one to the girl who had comforted the boy. He found out they were brother and sister and her name was Lizzie. He worked his way around the circle, getting each child’s name and handing out smiles along with the chicks. The way the children lavished love and attention on those little critters clearly told him they didn’t get enough of it themselves.
When it was time for lunch, a lot of the kids were reluctant to part with their downy friends. Jake lingered behind, nuzzling his cheek against his chick one last time before solemnly handing it back to Nickels.
“Will you bring them back, Mr. Nichols?”
“I wouldn’t miss it,” Nickels promised. “I’ll see you next Saturday, all right, Jake?”
“Thanks, Mr. Nichols.” Jake cast one last wistful look at the chicks as his sister herded him to the picnic tables.
Nickels promised himself right then and there, that come rain or shine, hail or highwater, he would make sure Jake had a chick in his hands next Saturday.
Grace Willard hoisted her rucksack over her shoulder, grateful she’d packed light as she bypassed baggage claim. Soon she’d retrieved her green four-door compact car and was rolling home for the first time in almost three months. It felt strange to be driving again after ten weeks in Guatemala, where one walked everywhere and rarely left the area.
The air conditioning seemed dry after the muggy heat of the jungles, so after she’d left Lawton and headed down the two-lane highway to Lasso she rolled down the windows. It wouldn’t be long before she pulled into her own driveway.
“Ooohklahoma,” Grace burst forth into song, her voice rising in joyful tribute to her home state. “OK!”
When she saw her cream-colored two-story townhouse with hunter-green trimming, she grinned even wider. Nestled within lay the ultimate luxury after months with no electricity or running water: a hot shower. It beckoned so strongly that only years of conditioning kept her from abandoning her bag in the car, taking the stairs two at a time, and luxuriating in the glory of hot water. At least she’d been smart enough to tell everyone she’d be coming home tomorrow. She needed a little time to readjust before facing her friends and family, and knowing them she’d have come home to a barbecue pitched in her honor, with Jim manning the grill while Lisa prodded him to flip the meat. This way she could settle in first.
Grace took the duffel with her for a brief stop at the trash can before she went in. She grabbed her laundry and plunked it in the garbage, squashing a wave of guilt. Four outfits seemed a luxury to the Guatemalan orphans, but almost three months of hard use had decorated everything with tears, loose threads, and stains. Even the tread on her sneakers had worn through in certain places. Grace shrugged, took off the shoes, spotted her big toe through the hole in her left sock and added her footwear to the bin.