<< Go Back

Desire of My Heart - Discerning God's Best BOOK 1

By Heidi Gray McGill

Order Now!

Chapter 1
April 1858
Creeks Corner, Missouri

“Don’t look up. Just keep walking,” Rachel murmured to herself as she slipped from the orphanage steps and down the street. She deftly avoided the horse dung and other excrements from the vile men who came to town for supplies, drink, and women—not always in that order.

Rachel had spent thirteen of her seventeen and a half years perfecting the art of blending in at the orphanage, so she wasn’t on the receiving end of Mrs. Cuthburt’s wrath; becoming one with the pew at the required church services, so the pastor didn’t bore a hole into her soul; wearing her cloak of invisibility amongst the throngs on the streets, so she didn’t attract the cruel remarks of the women or the crude comments of the men.

Yes, becoming a part of my surroundings is something I have perfected. Rachel stepped into the mercantile.

“Here’s today’s supply list from Cook, Mr. Dodd.” Without making eye contact, Rachel slipped the stodgy man the scrap of paper. With an upturned nose, he took it without touching her hand or glancing her way.

“Margaret!”

Rachel flinched at his tone. It always sounded like he was calling a sow, not his plump, red-faced wife.

“Yes, dear?” Mrs. Dodd parted the curtain and peered through, her heavy breath making the mousy whisps of hair sticking to her damp skin move slightly.

“I can’t read that woman’s handwriting. See that this is ready in an hour,” he barked. “Take it. Take it.” The paper fluttered in his shaking hand.

Mrs. Dodd ducked her head and flinched at the motion. “Yes, dear.” Her eyes darted Rachel’s way but never connected.

Rachel wondered how it would feel to be treated so poorly and vowed never to marry a man with such an unpleasant temperament. She felt a twinge in her spirit and lowered her head in embarrassment that she had contributed to the woman’s discomfiture.

Mrs. Dodd had the same reaction each week, yet Rachel had never given her a hint of support. It was the same every time. Nothing ever changed. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. In a few short months her life would change forever.

Rachel crept to the back of the store near the table laden with both dull, sensible, and bright whimsical fabrics, neatly displayed notions, and readymade stockings for those who could afford the luxury. Trying her best to blend into these surroundings, she stood as still as a mannequin, motionless like the simple day dress on display, taking in the sights, smells, and sounds as she waited.

Out of the corner of her eye she could see the leather boots, belts, and tack to the right. She smelled the pickled eggs and pigs’ feet in jars on the counter up front and the barrel of dill pickles to her left. Her mouth watered at the scent. The clipped heels of a woman approaching caused Rachel to stiffen.

The woman used her dainty hankie to cover her nose as she pulled her shoulder in and walked past. Rachel wondered at her own scent. Baths were only allowed on Saturday nights at the orphanage.

Rachel listened to the familiar sound of Mr. Dodd pouring penny nails into a paper bag. The open door brought not only the faint movement of air but the sounds of horses, squeaky wheels, and impatient children. Two old men playing a game of checkers added to the cacophony, which Rachel tuned out as she replayed the scene from last night in her mind.

“Rachel,” Mrs. Cuthburt had said in her put-on, overly dignified voice. “Tomorrow, we will begin the process of selecting a husband for you now that you are nearing womanhood.”

Rachel had stood silently trying to blend into the wall, the chair, anything, so these words would not be directed toward her.

“I have spoken with Pastor Philpott, and he assures me several good Christian men are interested in bidding for you.”

Bidding for her? As she reflected on these words, she realized she had missed what the woman said next but caught, “and Charlie will not be going with you, so wipe that indignant expression off your face this instant.”

Charlie. She would be leaving Charlie behind.

“Dagnabit!” The loud curse and a hand coming down hard on top of the checker's table brought Rachel back to the present.

“Bill, I swear you cheat!”

“Nope,” said Bill, “just better’n you, ya’ old goat!”

“Gentlemen,” Mrs. Dodd exclaimed indignantly, reaching to pick up a wayward checker piece, “please do not argue, and no profanity in the store.” Both men chuckled.

Rachel noted the startled and embarrassed face of Mrs. Dodd along with the rising color in her cheeks, as the men began to set up the board for another game. It had all been a show to get a rise out of the prim Mrs. Dodd, making Rachel smile.

Her thoughts turned back to the conversation of the night before, and she felt the familiar uncontrollable shaking in her belly she had experienced since hearing Mrs. Cuthburt’s verdict. She forced in a big gulp of air, trying to calm her quivering muscles, and wiped her sweating brow.

“Dear, are you all right?” It was Mrs. Dodd, and she was moving toward her.

Rachel grappled for something to steady herself but missed. Mrs. Dodd reached out and touched her shoulder. Unfamiliarity coursed through her arm at the unexpected touch. Rachel took a furtive glance at the hand causing the discomfort and bolted for the door, nearly upsetting the game of checkers in her haste.

She ran with abandon, not considering what others might think nor realizing she was bringing attention to herself. Her feet carried her unbidden until she reached the copse of trees near the church cemetery toward the edge of town. Breath burst in and out of her spent lungs. She sought a hiding place to garner the strength to overcome the obstacle before her.

Elbows pressing into her sides, arms wrapped around her heaving midsection, she felt her own labored breathing. These were outward signs that she was alive, but on the inside, she felt dead, and at this moment, the cemetery seemed like the perfect retreat.

***

Broken. Everything in his shattered life was broken. His wagon wheel had a split, one horse had a loose shoe, and his heart. Oh, his heart. It felt fragmented into a million minuscule, unfixable pieces.

In his pocket, he fumbled with the precious ring that had been his wife’s. Mary had made him remove the simple gold band from her finger, and he remembered the feeling of finality it gave when it slipped into his hand.

“Think of the children, Melvin.” Mary’s words echoed in his mind. “Move on. Move forward. Marry.” She’d had little energy to speak, but her words had been clear. Only Melvin had refused to promise her anything.

Melvin Trexler sat atop the buckboard seat. His face, unusually haggard for his twenty-nine years, was accentuated by thin white lips and clenched jaw as if he were in physical pain. Tension caused his nostrils to flare as he arched his back. He had been restless for miles and willed himself to relax his grip on the well-worn reins, much like he’d done earlier when he had to rein in his words and not chastise his young son for incessant storytelling.

He glanced behind him and observed that young Thomas was still wedged between supplies, his eyes devotedly on the bundle to his right.

So like his mother.

Melvin needed this child, the apple of his eye, to know he was loved and not allow the child to take on the grief, anger, frustration, and lack of peace tormenting his weary soul. That was unfair to the boy, and Melvin already foresaw the amount of hurt and pain that would come.

Am I capable of doing such a thing to my children? Melvin pondered on the steps he knew he was about to take, his decision, and the agony he would endure. No one would ever replace Mary. He only had one choice.

The journey they’d begun countless weeks before had been long and arduous but also filled with hope and anticipation for a bright future. His beautiful and vivacious Mary had painted a picture with words as they’d traveled the hundreds of miles to this, this, well, what he could only now call “God-forsaken country.”

Where was the fertile land she described, the bubbling brooks she explained in such detail he could hear them gurgling as she spoke, the perfect row of trees edged along the pond teaming with life where he and Mary would build their house? His dream was as broken as his family. Both smashed and discarded, piece by precious piece.

Mary would not be there to see the plan that had blossomed into reality fulfilled if only in their minds. He had buried her along the road some miles back after she birthed the tiniest baby girl he’d ever seen. Mary had named her Cecelia Grace. He didn’t care for a fancy name, but he would not break that also. No, he would honor the choice of his precious Mary.

Melvin glanced behind him and saw five-year-old Thomas turn tentatively toward him with his thick dark hair that continually fell over startling blue eyes. Timidity was not a pleasant characteristic of this once vibrant boy.

“Dad?” The clop-clop of the horses’ hooves made it hard for Melvin to hear Thomas. “Sissy and I are hungry. Can we stop?”

Melvin’s shoulders relaxed slightly. The boy had taken to calling his new treasure ‘Sissy,’ since Cecelia seemed more than he could manage. He had also taken to speaking for the small bundle who rarely made a noise or squirmed. Her tiny body was void of the nourishment of her mother’s milk or even animals’ milk since they had not seen a farm to purchase any since yesterday. It was a good thing Thomas cared for the infant, or Melvin would have remained absorbed in his grief and likely forgotten about both of his children.

“Soon, Thomas. Soon,” was the only answer given.

As Melvin crested a small hill, he saw a modest-sized town below. A few people dressed in serviceable clothing sauntered down the main street dotted with clapboard buildings of various sizes. A rugged walkway ran the length of the town on both sides, occasionally covered by an overhang from the establishment providing its shade.

Even from this distance he recognized the familiar sounds of the poorly played and slightly out of tune saloon piano and raucous laughter of the inebriated patrons—some intoxicated from drink, others by women. He saw the swirling smoke of chimneys. A boarding house, restaurant, or blacksmith might require its use in this unbreathable April air.

He noticed a band of children walking in a straight line behind a tall, thin woman in black. Her ramrod straight back, folded hands, and erect head suggested authority. The orphanage matron. He felt his heart drop into his stomach and realized it wasn’t the April air but his shallow breathing causing him so much discomfort. He ran his finger around the neckline of what had once been a well-fitting shirt, now loose, the fabric tight around his throat.

The movement of people milling about the town and the questioning expressions he predicted he would receive from them gave him pause. There was always one busybody in every town, and he wasn’t ready to face the inevitable.

He noticed a freshly painted white church with a stately steeple to the right. It seemed unusual that such a structure would exist so far out in the middle of nowhere. A low fence enclosed the well-manicured graveyard beside the church. Near the edge was an enormous tree, standing strong and tall like a sentry over the church and cemetery. He noticed several smaller shade-bearing trees with bright green leaves, some still unfurling from their birth, providing cooling comfort to those no longer needing their services.

The weary horses followed the guidance toward the haven. Melvin willed his stiff limbs to climb down and gingerly lifted first Thomas, then Cecelia from the confines of their prison. He handed the infant to Thomas without a word and searched for the last of the biscuits.

The kind woman who’d cared for Cecelia her first few days of life had been a godsend. This allowed Melvin to consider his options before continuing on the journey for which Mary had been so excited.

He found the jar of apple butter Mary had learned to make before they had embarked on their adventure. He stood motionless as he remembered her eyes, so like Thomas’s. Even now, in his memory, he felt the gentle touch of the hands he had tenderly kissed so many times, heard her lilting laugh as she felt him tremble at her touch.

He shakily poured a tiny bit of tepid water into a mug, added a bit of apple butter, dipped the not-so-clean end of a rag into the mixture, and swirled it around to moisten. This he put in the baby’s mouth to suck on until he could prepare sugar water for the child.

***

Sitting cross-legged on the quilt, Melvin realized he hadn’t eaten a bite when his continued thoughts of Mary were interrupted.

“Dad, Sissy and I want to go play.”

He pulled his mind from the pleasantly painful musings. “Yes, son, I’m sure you do, but your little sister needs a rest and a change.”

“Oh.” Thomas slowly drew out the one-word response. “Can I pick flowers for Ma?” A barely perceptible nod from the distracted parent was all Thomas needed.

Flowers for his Ma. Thomas had watched when Melvin placed dried-up weeds, a perfect likeness of Melvin’s heart, on Mary’s grave just a few short days, or was it weeks ago? Melvin couldn’t recollect. Thomas had continued to ask to pick unusual flowers as they journeyed. Not fully understanding, Thomas would set the already wilting stalks gingerly aside as they continued traveling, leaving the beloved wife and mother further and further behind with each passing mile.

Go ahead, he thought as he watched Thomas bound off. This will be the last time I get to see you demonstrate your love for the ma you will likely soon forget, as you will most certainly forget me.

He was a coward.

Broken. That single word summed up his heart, his marriage, his life, and now he was getting ready to make it worse. He was going to break up his family and leave his children with strangers.

Order Now!

<< Go Back