Be Still My Soul: The Cadence of Grace, Book 1 (35 page)

“Oh, my love.” Lonnie smoothed the back of her hand down his
velvet cheek. “Don’t cry.” Tears burned her eyes as a helpless hand waved against her chest, his tiny mouth searching.

But Lonnie had no strength.

Sitting in the cradle built by the man they both desperately needed, mother and child clung to each other and cried.

How far did he have to go? How far to take him from his misery? Gideon knew the only place for that was with Lonnie. He dropped his head in his hands and leaned against a broad pine. He wasn’t much for crying, but this day, after seeing his son, his Lonnie, and his Sarah for the final time, he could not control himself.
What have I done? How have I messed up so many times?

Lonnie did not want him anymore.

He had taken her when she was not his to take. She had loved him when he did not deserve her love. But she could only take so much disappointment. She could only be let down so many times. Gideon lifted his face to the patches of blue sky overhead. Lonnie needed no more heartache. It was best that he leave.
For her sake
. And before he could hurt Jacob too.

He pressed onward and trudged down the well-worn path. He had no idea where he was going, but he didn’t care. Wherever he ended up would be good enough for him. Just as long as it was far enough away that he could not hurt Lonnie again.

Gideon pressed his hand to his eyes. He had gotten only a glimpse of his precious son. Would it be enough to last him a lifetime? And Sarah. He had never even seen her little face. A tear dripped down his wrist. Jebediah, Elsie, Lonnie … they would all insist Sarah was with
the Lord. Gideon ran his hand down his face.
And you? Do you believe that?
His heart throbbed at anything less. He tipped his head to the sky, knowing he’d disregarded God for far too long. Gideon blinked into the brightness and wondered if God saw him.

He’ll be a better Father than I ever could
.

G
ideon pulled the scrap of paper from his back pocket and read the scribbled words again:
T. Jemson, apple orchard
.

When he had stopped in Stuart in search of work, the storekeeper had handed him this name and pointed him in the right direction. Gideon had walked all day and now stood in front of a whitewashed sign with
Jemson
written in peeling green paint.

He turned off the main road, following the path that led through a row of apple trees. Their bare limbs, though blanketed in frost, seemed to whisper a call for warmer days. As Gideon walked on, he spotted a pair of buildings in the distance. A large rustic shed stood nearer than the two-story house, which was painted the same crisp white as the sign. Made of rough-hewn boards, the shed’s slanted roof sloped down to the back. Several missing boards left gaping holes, and as Gideon drew closer to the large open door, he saw tools and worn barrels stacked and piled high.

He thrust his hands in his pockets and studied the main house.
You have to do this
. Just as he bolstered his resolve, a man neared, then slowed.

“Afternoon.” Gideon tipped his hat and shifted his pack.

The man eyed him as he lifted a weathered hand in welcome. “Afternoon, young man. Can I help you?”

“Yessir.” Gideon cleared his throat. “I’m lookin’ for work and was wondering if there was need for another hired hand.”

The man clicked his teeth. “I’m sorry, son, but my crew is off this time of year. They’ll be back come July. I hire most of my men for the three and a half months come the start of harvest. Come back then, and we’ll see what we can do.” He pulled a small pouch from his pocket and tucked a pinch of chewing tobacco inside his cheek.

Gideon knew of nowhere else to go. “Sir,” he began.

“Call me Jemson. Tal Jemson.”

“Yes, Mr. Jemson. You see …” He glanced at the shed. “I need work real bad. Isn’t there anything I can do for you now?” Rotting boards begged to be replaced, and Gideon’s hand itched for a hammer and nails. “I’m good at just about anything. If you give me a job, you won’t be sorry.”

Tal Jemson shook his head. “Like I said, son, apple pickin’ don’t start for several more months. There’s nothing to be done.”

“Nothing.” Gideon bit his lip. “Well, what do you do in the meantime?”

The man chuckled and sent a shot of dark liquid into the snow. “What’s your name, son?” He licked his bottom lip clean.

“Gideon O’Riley.”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-two, sir.”

“Well, Gideon who’s twenty-two, I got me enough to keep busy.” He motioned with his thumb toward the orchard. “There’s pruning and irrigating, and I keep the wild animals away from my fields best I can. But like I said, it’s not enough work to keep anyone on this time of
year. There’s just me and my oldest son, and we stay busy enough. We’re a small outfit, and honestly, I just can’t afford the help right now.” He squinted when the sun broke through a patch of clouds, hitting the stubble along his jaw. “Come back in the summer.”

“Sir,” Gideon blurted. He pulled off his hat and turned it around in his hands. “I’ll work for half—”

Tal’s eyebrows shot up.

“—half of what you pay your men.”

“You kiddin’ me?”

Gideon hiked his pack higher on his back. “No sir.”

Tal stared at him, and it was then that he seemed to notice the bruise on Gideon’s cheekbone for the first time. Instinctively, Gideon ducked his head, then forced himself to meet the man in the eyes. A silent moment passed, and Gideon waited for the questions, but Tal let out a soft chuckle. His face turned serious.

“I pay my foreman four dollars a week. Pickers get two and a half dollars a week, and whoever is up to the task of driving the loads to town gets ’em another dollar.” He folded his arms across his chest. “Half of that ain’t much, son. Are you sure?” His eyes narrowed. “Where you from, anyway?”

“Different places.” Gideon straightened his stance. “I’m a hard worker, though. If you just give me a chance, I’ll prove it to you.” He glanced over his shoulder. “I could start by fixing that roof over there. And if it’s prunin’ time like you said, I could help you. I don’t know much about apples, but I’m willing to learn.”

Tal stared at the small pouch that was still in his hand before cramming it into his coat pocket. He took his time to tuck the laces out of sight. “My missus is about to put supper on. If you’re to stay on and help, you might as well join us at table. Hope you like fried chicken.”

Gideon let out the breath he’d been holding. “That’d be fine, sir.”

“I’ll show you where the workers’ quarters are, and you can wash up.” He waved him around the back of the house, where a small shack hid between stands of apple trees. The angled roof sloped sharply, finally ending where a tiny stovepipe jutted out.

Tal pointed. “No need to fight for which bunk you want. Make yourself at home. There’s a washbasin and ladle in there somewhere—you’ll find it. Water’s just over there.”

Gideon followed the length of Tal’s arm.

“Supper’s on in ten. The missus expects clean hands and faces at her table. I’ll tell her you’re here, and she’ll set an extra place for you.” He gave Gideon a slight nod—a dismissal.

Inside, the workers’ shack was dark, dusty, and cold. Gideon dropped his heavy pack to the plank floor and stepped toward the only window. He swung the wood shutter up and propped a small stick underneath to keep it aloft. The little light that passed through revealed six beds, two bunks against the longest wall and another set butted up against the other. Gideon sat down on the nearest bed. He twisted his neck from side to side and gave his stiff muscles a firm squeeze.

A spider crept along a small table with uneven legs, and beside that was a chair with an upside-down washbasin on the seat. Gideon flipped the basin over and blew away the cobwebs that had settled around its metal rim. A bucket hung just inside the door, and he pulled out the metal ladle, tossing it on the table before toting the bucket to the well. He thought of Lonnie in Elsie’s cheery kitchen and let his eyes fall closed for the briefest of moments.

After washing his face and neck, Gideon knew he was as presentable for supper as he would ever be. He stepped out into the early evening light, and he paused and examined the house. He finally decided
to knock on the back door instead of the front. A petite and slender woman came to the door when he tapped on it.

“Gideon?”

“Yes ma’am.” He removed his hat.

“I’m Mrs. Jemson. Come on in. Tal said we’d be expecting you.” Her smile touched her eyes, and she held the door open for Gideon. “You sure were a surprise to us, but we’re glad to have you.” She smoothed her red hair and patted a neat bun at the nape of her neck.

Gideon’s cheeks warmed. “Thank you, ma’am.” He stepped into a kitchen thick with the aroma of batter and grease. He moistened his lips.

“You sit here.” Mrs. Jemson pointed to a bench stretching the length of the table.

When he sat, two young boys barreled into the kitchen. They pushed and shoved their way onto the bench, and it was not until all four shiny shoes hid beneath the tablecloth that they seemed to notice Gideon.

A red-haired boy creased his forehead. “Who are you?”

“I’m Gideon.” He propped his fists on the table.

The little boy mimicked the action. “I’m Jimmy, and I’m eight.” He elbowed his little brother, who sat to his left. “This is Carl. He’s only six.”

The youngest boy narrowed his eyes and opened his mouth, revealing two missing front teeth. “Thix and a half!”

Mrs. Jemson placed a hot pad in the center of the table. “You’ll soon find that these two are a handful.”

Footfalls echoed, and Gideon glanced up when a younger version of Tal filled the doorway.

“Who’s a handful?”

Mrs. Jemson looked up at the young man looming behind her. “Owen. This is Gideon. He has come to work for your father.”

Owen stepped into the kitchen. “Why?”

Mrs. Jemson’s voice sharpened. “I believe he’s discussed the details with your father.”

Gideon extended a hand, and Owen hesitated before shaking it briefly. The young man plunked into a chair opposite him. His eyes stayed on Gideon.

The back door slammed, and Tal entered the kitchen. He wiped his hands on the front of his overalls, then kissed his wife on the cheek.

“Supper’s about on. Have a seat.” She heaved a heavy pan of golden fried chicken over to the table, and Tal followed behind her with a bowl of steaming mashed potatoes.

He cleared his throat when he sat. “We’ll say grace now.”

Gideon bowed his head and folded his hands along with the others. When the meal was blessed, he helped himself to a chicken thigh at Mrs. Jemson’s urging.

“So”—Tal dropped a ladleful of creamy potatoes in the center of his plate—“you got any family around here?” He lifted the bowl toward Gideon.

Gideon fingered the handle of the ladle. The truth would sound strange, but he did not want to hide anything—not anymore. “Yessir.” He helped himself to mashed potatoes. “I’ve got a wife. And, as of a few days ago, a new baby boy.”

Every head lifted.

Mrs. Jemson raised her eyebrows, and Tal’s jaw paused midchew.

Gideon felt the heat rise in his neck. “I know it sounds strange, but it’s true.” He pushed food around his plate. “I figured I could send my earnings to them. My wife needs the money more than me.”

Tal dabbed at his mouth with a brown-and-white-checked napkin. “Well, I’ll be. If you don’t mind my askin’, what brings you here?”
He glanced at his wife. “I mean, don’t you want to be with your family?”

Gideon took a sip of sweet tea. “Yessir, but right now that just ain’t gonna happen. But I promise you”—his eyes met Tal’s—“it won’t change how hard I’m gonna work.” He dropped his gaze to the table, his voice soft. “And if it’s all the same, without bein’ rude or nothing, I’d like to not talk about it.” He tugged at a lock of his hair. “Still a sore subject.”

“By all means,” Mrs. Jemson declared. “Ain’t none of our business. Have another biscuit, Gideon. And please, help yourself to some jam.” She lifted a napkin from a steaming basket, and the yeasty smell warmed him through.

“Thank you, ma’am.”

Tal smiled at his wife and chuckled. “Well, Gideon—can I call you Gid?”

“Most folks do.”

“All right. Tomorrow we start bright and early.” He motioned with his head toward the window. “You can count yourself pretty lucky. I usually have the men cookin’ their own meals outside the bunkhouse, but seein’ as there’s only you, you can join us. Sound all right?”

“Sounds good, sir. I sure appreciate it.”

When supper was over, Gideon excused himself. He wanted to impose on the Jemson family as little as possible. He carelessly chose a bed, and before the sun had even sunk behind the trees, he climbed into the cold bunk, wrapped his arms over his chest, and thought of his family.

An icy breeze seeped through the cracks in the wall, and the trees outside swished in a rising wind, humming a lullaby that neither comforted nor soothed.

G
ideon stood outside the apple shed as Owen walked toward him, the young man’s head tucked low into the folds of his coat collar. Gideon shivered. A thick fog covered the farm, and the gray mist grazed cool and moist against whatever skin wasn’t covered.