Tara's Gold (11 page)

Aaron shook his head, wondering how a beautiful and intelligent woman could think such a thing about herself. “But you told me about your charity work and—”

“What good is giving a child a blanket or a pair of shoes, when you can’t assure him that he will one day have a home where he is loved?” An underlying passion resonated through her voice as she gripped the edge of the table. “What assurance is it to give a cup of soup to someone one day when the next day she’ll still be hungry? Everything I’ve done is small. Insignificant. I want to do something. . .something big with my life.”

Aaron was surprised at her display of honesty, but he also understood exactly where she was coming from. Hadn’t he spent his whole life searching for the same things? Yearning to find a way to measure up to someone else’s standard. There was one thing, though, that wasn’t clear in his mind.

He longed to understand completely what was in her heart. “You say you want to make a difference to people, but how does finding the gold accomplish that?”

“I don’t know.” She fidgeted in her chair. “I read my aunt’s journals after hearing her stories while she was still living. Finding the gold seemed like something tangible I could do to help my country. A silly idea, wasn’t it—”

“No.” He reached out and squeezed her hand, then pulled back at the intimate gesture. He had no right to bridge that gap between them. And he mustn’t forget that their relationship was strictly business. “I’m sorry, but no. I don’t think your actions were foolish. Not at all.”

Miss Young’s gaze rested on the hand that he had touched. “They were foolish, and you know it.”

He folded his arms across his chest. “I think you’re wrong.”

“How can you understand how I feel?” She shook her head, and he didn’t miss the tears that pooled in the corners of her eyes. “You’ve spent your life making this country a better place by bringing criminals to justice and stopping evil men from following through with their plans. You’ve made a difference.”

Aaron winced. Her words might seem true to someone looking at his life from the outside, but to him, his actions had never been enough. At least not enough in the eyes of some.

“Have you ever thought about what God sees as success and failure?”

He stopped to consider her question, though it wasn’t something he hadn’t thought of before. He’d wondered the very same thing a dozen times. Did his hard work make up for his failures in God’s eyes? It was a question to which he’d never found the answer.

“I’m not sure, but I doubt He sees things the way we do.”

“Do you have an example?”

He wasn’t following her train of thought. “An example?”

“From the Bible. I just thought of the widow who gave her last two coins to the offering. Man saw that as foolish, but Jesus held her up as an example because He saw how her motives were pure compared to the rich and their large offerings.” She leaned forward, intent. “Jesus saw the motivations of the woman’s heart, not how much she gave.”

“You’re right.”

He’d spent his whole life worrying about the external results and far too little time examining his heart and what really mattered. The significance of what she said was sobering. An image of Jesus on the cross flashed before him. Christ was the one Man who’d never concerned Himself with what the world said or thought about Him. Instead, He’d spent His time on earth teaching the truth. And none of it had been what the people expected.

“What about the life of Jesus?” he offered. “To the world, don’t you think His life was a failure? Not only did all His followers leave Him, the mob had Him crucified. But God saw success in Christ’s sufferings on the cross even when everyone else heralded the event as a complete failure.”

She nodded. “God knew the final outcome. And the fact that Jesus would conquer death. And that’s why He looks at our hearts. It doesn’t matter if we’re parting the Red Sea or cleaning out a horse stall.”

“What?”

She laughed for the first time all afternoon. “Or shall I say that whether we’re chasing a pot of gold or a band of outlaws for a living, it isn’t as important as whether or not we are following Him with our whole heart.”

He matched her broad grin. “I’d say you’re exactly right.”

“I have the journal. I suppose you’d like to look at it.”

“You wouldn’t mind?”

She shook her head. “And besides, our conversation has given me an idea.”

Thirteen

Tara read through the last few verses of Romans chapter eight, then laid her Bible on the small table beside the rocking chair. She took a deep breath. From the front porch of the Carpenters’ home, the air was fragrant with the sweet-smelling honeysuckle that grew along the side of the house. It had rained all night, bringing a renewed freshness to the morning temperature. For the first time in months, she felt surrounded by a warm blanket of contentment.

She ran her fingers across the leather-bound Bible her parents had given her on her sixteenth birthday. Verse thirty-seven in particular had stood out during her devotional. Paul had written that in all things we are more than conquerors through Him that loved us. The straightforward words were significant, especially in the light of her conversation with Mr. Jefferson yesterday.

Aaron Jefferson.

Just the thought of his name made her smile. The man continued to amaze her. Rarely had she met someone willing to discuss spiritual matters in such a forthright and honest way. And while he seemed to be grappling with his own uncertainties, his sincerity in discovering God’s will for his life was evident. And his example of Christ’s death as the ultimate victory out of perceived failure was key.

It was a situation that didn’t make sense to the world. Life through death. Success through sacrifice. Storing up treasures in heaven and not on this world. But God’s Word was clear. Only through Christ would she be able to find her worth. The reminder was freeing. And one she regretted not grasping sooner. When she’d made the decision to give her life to Christ, she had confessed He was Lord and had been baptized into His death in order to live a new life. It was time she started fully living that position as the daughter of the King. Time she stopped worrying about how the world saw her.

She knew now that she didn’t have to find the gold to be worth something in God’s eyes. Christ wanted her to daily live for Him, no matter what she was doing. He’d accepted the widow’s small gift as if it were all of Solomon’s wealth. And He would accept all her offerings, gifts, and talents as she used them for His glory. He just wanted her undivided heart.

A horse and rider galloping down the dusty lane toward the Carpenters’ home caught her attention. Tara stood and put her hand above her eyes to shield the morning sun. The older couple hadn’t mentioned that they were expecting company, though an occasional visit from the pastor or one of the other members of the church wasn’t uncommon.

Or maybe Mr. Jefferson had decided to call on her this morning instead of waiting to meet again at the hotel restaurant with her aunt’s journal as he’d suggested. The thought of seeing him now made her heart flutter, and she strained for a view of his ever-present Stetson.

The rider slowed as he approached the house, but this man wasn’t wearing a black hat. She wrapped her hand around the porch’s solid post. Faded denim jeans paired with a worn plaid shirt. . .

It wasn’t Mr. Jefferson. It was Mr. Martin.

The man stopped in front of the house and slid off his chestnut mount. He tipped his hat, but his expression was far from friendly. “Good day, Miss Young.”

“Mr. Martin.” Tara clasped her hands together. “I wasn’t expecting to see you today.”

“I’m sure you weren’t.” The man’s gaze scanned the front of the house while his hand rested on his sidearm. Either he had news regarding their quest for papers Mr. Schlosser had left behind, or the man was here on other business. From his somber expression, something made her fear the latter.

She attempted to keep a smile in her voice. “Is there something I can do for you today?”

He stopped at the bottom of the staircase. “Where are the Carpenters?”

“Inside, finishing their morning coffee.” Tara felt her lip twitch. “Why—”

“Is anyone else around?”

Sampson had gone into town for supplies. Even the nearest tenant farmer was likely to be out of earshot.

“I can’t say for sure.”

He pulled a gun out of his holster and marched up the stairs. “I want you to take me to the Carpenters. Now.”

Tara couldn’t move. She stared at the gun and tried to breathe slowly so she wouldn’t faint. What had the scripture said this morning?

Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? Shall tribulation, or distress—

“I believe I gave you an order, Miss Young.”

Tara moved to open the front door, praying each step of the way. The verse continued to flow through her mind.
Or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or peril, or sword—
or gun
. . .Nay, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him that loved us.

Through Christ.

“Where are they?” Mr. Martin’s voice reverberated through the quiet house.

Repeating the verse in her mind, she led him through the kitchen and into the dining area with the large window overlooking the back pasture.

“Tara?” Mr. Carpenter’s smile vanished as he moved to stand, but Mr. Martin shoved him back in the chair.

Tara sat across from the Carpenters as ordered. “I’m sorry. He has a gun.”

The cozy dining room, where they had shared dozens of meals over the past few weeks, seemed suddenly cold. Even the warming summer sun couldn’t take away the chill she felt. Mrs. Carpenter grabbed onto her husband’s arm, her eyes widening in fear.

He set his coffee mug on the table and clasped his wife’s hand. “What do you want?”

“Where’s Mr. Jefferson?”

Tara tried to speak, but fear seeped through every pore of her body. Mr. Jefferson had been right. She seemed to have a knack for attracting trouble. Except this time, she had no idea what she’d just gotten herself into.

“I asked you a question, Miss Young.” Mr. Martin smacked his hand against the table.

Tara jumped. “He’s. . .I don’t know. In town somewhere, I suppose. I haven’t seen him today.”

She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment.
We are more than conquerors. We are more than conquerors.
She repeated the words over and over and tried to get a grip on the panic enveloping her.

Mr. Martin pointed the gun out the window as he paced the room and scanned the horizon.

Neither death, nor life. . .nor height, nor death. . .shall be able to separate us from the love of God.

Scenes flashed through Tara’s mind of times she’d longed to do something bold and heroic. This time, she knew she didn’t have to prove anything. Inside her being, as a child of God, was a far greater source of strength than anything she could ever have on her own. Silently, she began to pray, until the fear faded into a dim image of what it had been before.

“Mr. Martin?”

He turned to face her. “What?”

She sat up straight and looked him in the eye. “I’m sorry our visit the other day upset you. I’m assuming that’s what this about?”

He took a step toward her and shook his head. “How can you act as if you have no idea? You came into my house with the pretense of finding a stack of letters that belonged to your aunt, when what you really wanted to do was to set a trap for me. I’m not stupid.”

“Of course you’re not.” Tara worked to keep her voice calm. “This is about your wife, isn’t it?”

“Matilda.” For an instant his face softened. “Matilda Grace Martin. I loved her so much.”

“I’m sure you did.” Tara measured each word she spoke. “I saw her picture. She was beautiful.”

The man let out a forced laugh. “She never thought so. She was thin and never had the energy to do very much. No one understood except for me. I told her that I didn’t care if she couldn’t work the farm like the other women. I would just work twice as hard.”

Tara nodded slowly. “She was sick?”

He turned to her, obviously surprised by her comment. But Tara knew her words were not her own. And the peace she was experiencing at the moment could come only from God and not her own wisdom.

“I never should have brought her here.” He rubbed his chin and walked back to the window. “I thought a change might help. A place of our own where she could breathe fresh air like the doctors back east told us. Nothing I did helped her. She just kept getting weaker and weaker until one day she couldn’t even get out of bed.”

Tara watched the slight changes in Mr. Martin as the sadness of losing his wife began to replace his focused anger. “I’m so sorry.”

Mrs. Carpenter leaned forward. “But you said she went back east to stay with her mother.”

Mr. Martin’s jaw tensed. “You were just like the others. You never cared—”

“That’s not true.”

Tara held up her hand. “Where is your wife, Mr. Martin?”

He shook his head and began pacing along the window. “I won’t go to jail. My land is the only thing I have left of her, and I can’t leave.”

“No one is asking you to leave, Mr. Martin.”

“Don’t lie to me.” He waved the gun in the air, and the hard lines returned to his face. “That’s why you came. I know it. You and Mr. Jefferson. Snooping around, asking questions. You came to take me to jail.”

“No, we came looking for Mr. Schlosser. That’s the truth. I’m terribly sorry about your wife. I know it must hurt so much to be away from her.”

Mr. Martin’s hand began to shake. “I killed her.”

Tara felt a wave of shock rush through here. “You killed your wife?”

“I didn’t mean to, but I killed her.”

“She was sick, Mr. Martin, and she died. Isn’t that right?”

“She was so sick. But I couldn’t save her. I tried. I wanted to make her better, but one day she didn’t wake up.” He pressed the side of the gun against his forehead and groaned. “I buried her on my land so I could be close to her. But I couldn’t tell anyone. They would think that I was a bad man. That I belonged in jail like my father.”

“No one thinks you killed your wife. It’s going to be all right.” Tara stood up slowly. “Give me the gun, Mr. Martin. We don’t want anyone to accidentally get hurt. I know you don’t want that. You’re not that kind of man.”

His lowered his hand, but he didn’t let go of the gun. His gaze shifted toward the front door. “No. I can’t. It’s a trap.”

His expression hardened as he turned to her, held up the gun, and pointed it at her heart.