Journey to Bliss (Saskatchewan Saga Book #3) (34 page)

Spring had fully come when the preacher had been called to the homestead again, mollified that at last things would be done decently and in order. His wife and Tierney were witnesses to the simple but meaningful ceremony that united Will and Anne in marriage.

Anne was more beautiful than Tierney had ever seen her, with a new pale yellow waist and brown skirt that the girls had stitched as the winter went out on a whimper and a sigh and spring settled in with fresh breezes, birdsong, and prairie flowers. Anne had carried no bouquet, but her dark hair had been spangled with buttercups and one yellow dandelion, the offering of a capering and excited Buster. Will was the tower of strength Anne needed, and his supreme confidence in the rightness of what they were doing spread a peace and calmness over the day and the occasion.

Tierney had no qualms at all about leaving Anne in a household with two males—a son and a husband.

She was done with reminiscing when the bush began to appear; it was all she dreamed and more. Parkland, it was called. Seen at the springtime it was glorious—birds were returning by the thousands, with flashes of color and bursts of song; a million and more rivulets ran down every incline to form another slough, and they glittered in the sun and frisked in the gentle
breezes; the fresh fragrances, the running sap, and a trillion and more buds breaking out everywhere—it was all too much for the senses to absorb at once. Tierney was heady with sight and sound and smell.

Looking out over the little farms coming awake with energy and new life, Tierney took her Bible—never far from her these days—from her bag, and turned to Psalm 65, a portion of Scripture that seemed to be written for this present place and this present time:

Thou visitest the earth, and waterest it: thou greatly enrichest it with the river of God, which is full of water: thou preparest them corn, when thou hast so provided for it. Thou waterest the ridges thereof abundantly: thou settlest the furrows thereof: thou makest it soft with showers: thou blessest the springing thereof. Thou crownest the year with thy goodness; and thy paths drop fatness. They drop upon the pastures of the wilderness: and the little hills rejoice on every side. The pastures are clothed with flocks; the valleys also are covered over with corn; they shout for joy, they also sing.

Pondering on the pastoral picture the Scripture conjured up, Tierney was reminded, at last, of Pearly and her number one verse—Isaiah 40:11—
He shall feed his flock like a shepherd: he shall gather the lambs with his arm, and carry them in his bosom
. . . .

“Dear Pearly,” she whispered to herself, “you were right. I know it now. Thank God! And thank you, Pearly Gates Chapel, for your faithful ‘testimony’!”

For, noting the new-turned furrows, the springing growth everywhere, the words indeed seemed fitting, so right, that Tierney herself could have shouted for joy and sung, but, for the sake of her traveling companions, settled for a small hum instead.

That the bush seemed to wrap her in its very embrace was no problem for Tierney; she felt as though she were coming home,
that every branch was a welcoming arm and that all roads, until now, had led directly to the Saskatchewan parkland.

And to Bliss in particular.

Mr. Bloom was at the station in Prince Albert to meet her. He was much as Tierney had pictured him—a man past middle age, of middle height, with nothing particularly outstanding to draw the attention of anyone, but with the kindest eyes one could imagine, and a gentle, thoughtful way of speaking. Lavinia had chosen a husband much like her father. Herbert Bloom, like Will, would undoubtedly be the salt of the earth, of this Tierney felt quite sure. And then he spoke, and it was confirmed.

“Welcome to the bush, Miss Caulder! Mother, that is, Lydia, and I are so happy you’ve come. May we call you Tierney, even though the Society doesn’t recommend it? We’d like it, you see, if you’d just consider yourself one of the family.” Not only had the bush reached out to her but flesh and blood and bone!

Tierney felt a warm gush of tears behind her eyelids. It was all too much! God’s loving kindness and constant presence, the loveliness of the bush, the Bloom welcome.

“I’d like it very much,” she said unsteadily.

“I’m only sorry you couldn’t bring our little Buster. But of course his place is with his father and his new mama. We’re depending on you to tell us all about Anne and all about the wedding. We wish our dear ones much happiness and are glad their happiness resulted in your release to come be with us.”

“They send their love, Mr. Bloom. And of course I’ll tell you and Mrs. Bloom all about everything. You would love dear Annie. Will has made her one happy and contented woman.”

The trip from Prince Albert to Bliss was heaven on earth to the beauty-starved girl. Mr. Bloom introduced her to the flora and fauna, pointed out features of the farms they passed, the acres and acres of virgin bush still unclaimed, the land still unworked, the new little homesteads taking shape, and the time flew by happily.

“Now this,” he said eventually, “is the hamlet of Bliss. Named for the first settler, they say. And we’ve tried to live up to it,” he grinned, “ever since. We’ll stop for the mail and go on through. I’ve done what buying I needed to do in P.A. Choices are limited here. Will you get down and come in?”

“I’ll wait in the buggy, I think,” Tierney said, not yet ready to exchange the freshness and freedom for the lesser attractions of manmade structures.

Mr. Bloom climbed back into the buggy, and they were off again, passing through a leafy tunnel onto Bliss Road. “It’s called that because the Bliss place is out this way,” he explained.

But before they left Bliss he pointed out the small white building that was church and school. “It has great meaning for all of us,” he said. “It’s our spiritual home. You’ll enjoy our pastor and our people, and soon they’ll all feel like family to you.” Blessing upon blessing!

The horse knew it was approaching home and stepped out. Tierney leaned back on the tufted seat, closed her eyes, breathed deeply of a fragrance that she was to come to know as the essence of the bush, and offered up a prayer—another one—of thanks for God’s good provision and care.

“Now here,” Herbert Bloom said, “is a comparatively new homestead just coming under cultivation. It’s a good example of how we all begin. The owner got here last fall in time to put up his cabin for the winter, get up his wood, and lay in supplies. I believe he also got a cow and a horse or two. All winter, when weather allowed, we would see him out cutting bush, grub-hoeing, getting started on the clearing he has to do to prove up his land. That’s him over there, getting ready, it looks like, to put the plow in the ground for the first time, turning over new soil, probably for a small garden. Yes, it’s satisfying work, all right. Hardworking guy—he’ll make it, I think.”

It was a homey, nestling sort of place, set among poplars and bushes Tierney didn’t recognize, some of them white with blossoms, with a small wisp of smoke coming from the stovepipe lifting above the rough, hand-made shingles on the cabin
roof. It was new, and it was raw, but it looked as if it belonged and as if it would endure.

“I have some mail for him,” Mr. Bloom said, sorting through the items he had picked up to be distributed along his route—the way of the bush. And with a flurry the buggy turned into the small clearing and pulled up and stopped beside the rough-hewn, woodsy cabin.

“I’ll just run these letters over to him,” Mr. Bloom said, preparing to hand the reins to Tierney, and get out of the buggy.

Tierney was studying the garden plot slowly appearing behind the moving plow, and, suddenly, longed for the feel of the earth between her toes. But that was foolish!

“Let me take it to him,” she said impulsively. If not a barefoot run over the fresh-turned sod, then one with her shoes on—no matter, it would be an experience, a first-time experience, a strictly Bliss experience.

“Well, sure, if you want to. The exercise will seem good, I bet, after that long train ride and now this buggy ride—”

Tierney jumped from the rig, light as air, her serge skirt doing its best to swirl in the invigorating breeze. Holding one edge of it up to enable her to move freely, she stepped lightly and quickly toward the garden spot.

“Hey!” she hollered, waving the letter above her head.

The plow continued on its way, the man walking behind, the reins around his waist, his two hands firm on the plow handles. He was whistling, and the merry sound vied with the birdsong that never ceased from the surrounding bush.

The plow was heading away from her. Tierney stopped in frustration; it was either give chase or wait patiently until he made a turn this way. Tierney glanced back; Herbert Bloom waved her on, albeit with a grin.

Gathering up her skirt even more, Tierney ran after the plow. She had wanted the feel of the earth—well, it was getting into her slippers, ready enough! No problem! Bounding joyously, enjoying the freedom of movement and feeling younger and more alive than she had for a long time—particularly throughout
the long, shut-in winter—Tierney quickly overtook the plodding horse and plowman.

“Hey!” she called again.

The man turned. The man turned, pushed his broad-brimmed hat to the back of his head. Turned, gaped, gave one shout, dropped the reins, and began to run toward her. Ran and leaped, even as Tierney had last seen him running and leaping, away from her, down the side of her hill in Binkiebrae. Running toward her, her name on his lips.

Her heart bursting with recognition and indescribable joy, her legs carrying her, like a thistle on the wind, to meet him.

Robbie Dunbar.

Ruth Glover
was born and raised in the Saskatchewan bush country of Canada. As a writer, she has contributed to dozens of publications such as
Decision
and
Home Life
. Ruth and her husband, Hal, a pastor, now live in Oregon.

Also by Ruth Glover

     
A Place Called Bliss

     
With Love from Bliss