Ever Constant, page 3
She looked up at the ceiling. “Why, God? Why would you do this to us? Do you hate us? Want to rip away everyone we love? Don’t you know how much we need him? Especially with Mama gone. How are we supposed to go on?”
Heat rose within her. Choking her. This was wrong! She jumped to her feet. “Or are you punishing me?” She spat out the words. “What? I haven’t had enough faith? Haven’t been good enough? I’m too strong-willed? I let my temper get the best of me too many times? Why?”
Her fury faded into silence. No answer. No sense of God. There was only . . .
Nothing.
The same silence, the same void that, for too long now, had met her attempts to pray or to sense God. It was almost as if He were dead too.
And if He was, so what? What good had He been to them?
He’d allowed their father to be a drunk. To leave them and pretend he was dead. Sure, it was at Granddad’s urging, since their father had already started another family. An idea her grandfather probably got from her that night when she thought Dad was dead.
But Dad had agreed. Had gone through with it. Left them.
Then God had allowed Mama to die.
And now Granddad.
He’d allowed Garrett Sinclair to attack her.
Where were you, God? Why didn’t you help?
Enough.
She wiped her face with the back of her hand again and straightened her shoulders. No time now for tears. Only the tasks ahead of her . . .
Tell her family. Send for the doctor. Send for their pastor. Plan another funeral.
In the dead of winter.
Her heart sped up. She couldn’t breathe. How was she going to do all this? How?
She pulled the bottle from her pocket and took a sip, closing her eyes as the burn hit the back of her throat. Her pain didn’t fade, but as the warmth eased through her, she seemed to float above the anxiety that had become her daily companion. Ever since that awful day.
The day Sinclair attack––
No. Don’t think about that.
Another small sip, another spreading burn, and her thoughts settled. Focus on one task at a time.
One, tell the family.
She tugged on the collar of her blouse and forced herself to look back to Granddad’s still form.
Her heart broke, and a cry almost escaped her. Oh, to sit with him and have one more conversation. To tell him what was going on with her. The truth, this time. He would understand.
But . . . she hadn’t made her peace with him. Oh, they’d acted as if nothing was different, but only because they were both too stubborn to confront the situation. Not after he’d shared the truth with them about her father. Not after he’d invited Dad’s other family here. To live with them, the daughters her father abandoned.
The night they arrived was the same night that Garrett had put his hands on her.
Oh, Granddad, how could you leave me?
She sank to the edge of his bed. “I wasn’t angry at what you did. Dad deserved it. And really, you saved us. But why? Why did you keep it a secret? From me? Didn’t you think I could handle it?”
With a shake of her head, she banished the thoughts. Granddad knew what she’d seen as a child. What she’d done. What she’d endured.
Her sisters? They would never understand. They’d been so young. And they had been much more willing to show forgiveness. What would they think of her if they knew the truth of what was in her heart?
She stiffened. They wouldn’t. She’d make sure of that. It was her job now to keep them together. Keep things running.
She owed that much to Granddad.
Her fingers traced the outline of the bottle in her hand. At least she could count on this to help. To give her relief. She lifted it, took one more swallow, then put on the cap and tucked it away. She stood and walked to the door. Havyn and Madysen would be devastated, but John and Daniel would console them. Help them get through.
Who would help her?
She closed her eyes again and faced the stark truth.
No one. She really was alone now.
Her hand went to the doorjamb, gripped it to steady herself.
Focus. Focus on what needs to be done . . .
Tell her family.
Call for the pastor and the doctor.
Tell the workers.
Adjust schedules.
Start making funeral arrangements.
The list grew in her mind as she walked toward Granddad’s study. The locked cabinet in the corner called to her. She was the only one who had a key to it now. Granddad’s key. No one had even asked about it because there was no reason to.
No one else ever needed the relief she did.
She shut the door behind her and leaned against it. Granddad didn’t need his whiskey anymore. It was there for her now. She almost smiled. Granddad was still taking care of her.
It wouldn’t hurt to refill her bottle one more time. She rarely drank it anyway. Only when anxiety or pain threatened to overtake her.
Striding toward the cabinet, she pulled in a deep breath.
As she unlocked the cabinet, Granddad’s words from long ago, when he tried to explain why Dad drank, rang in her ears. “A lot of adults need to forget the bad things that have happened to them, and the bad things they’ve done.”
She nodded. She understood now.
Not that she was like her dad. Of course not! She used the tonic for medicine. Dr. Cameron had told her it was all right. The original tonic he’d given her had been more whiskey than anything else. He’d admitted as much.
She wasn’t doing anything out of order.
She poured the amber liquid into the dark glass bottle and replaced the corks. There. That should help her through the next few months. Just enough to take the edge off of everything she had to face.
Is it enough?
She stopped. Stared at the bottle. Of course it was. She was being silly.
Before she could change her mind, she placed the whiskey bottle back into the cabinet, closed the door, and slid the key into the lock.
Her head twinged.
She couldn’t avoid it any longer. She had to tell her family about Granddad.
Go ahead. Lock the cabinet.
But her hand wouldn’t cooperate. It just held the key. And shook. Maybe she should take Granddad’s large whiskey bottle back to her room––
No. There was enough in her pocket.
Setting her jaw, she turned the key. With the click of the lock, she jumped. Blinked her eyes. Felt a little like she was waking up from a deep sleep.
Shaking off the feeling, she went to grab her coat and boots. Then stopped. Why was she so jittery?
Then again, why wouldn’t she be, considering what she was about to do?
Her trembling hand slipped into her pocket, drew out the bottle, and raised it for a sip. Just one, to steady up.
Her nerves calmed with the warmth of the liquid, and she patted the bottle. Her companion and help in facing what was to come. As she passed through the kitchen, she tore a leaf off the mint plant and shoved it into her mouth to chew on. A habit she’d picked up from her grandfather.
Oh, Granddad . . . how will we make it without you?
Dr. Peter Cameron pushed his horse as fast as he dared over the snow-covered road leading to the Bundrant farm.
How could one family endure so much loss and hardship? So much unexpected and unsettling change. The Bundrant family never seemed to get a break.
Especially Whitney.
Ever since he’d met the eldest Powell daughter, he’d been impressed. And just a little concerned. Unless he was misreading her, she was keeping something hidden behind those deep brown eyes of hers. As much as he’d tried, he hadn’t been able to break through the wall she kept around herself.
But she seemed to trust him. A rarity, he’d learned, for anyone but family. Because Miss Whitney Powell kept to herself.
Especially where Mr. Sinclair’s attack on her was concerned.
At least she spoke to him as her doctor. That was a good start.
He’d spent a lot of time at the Bundrant farm checking on Chuck and getting to know the family. Christmas had passed in quiet apprehension while the family seemed to hold their collective breath, awaiting the next tragedy.
Now it had arrived.
He let out a long breath and watched it float behind him in a frozen mist. If the news from the milker was correct, they’d just lost their beloved patriarch. Lord, how will they ever endure this tribulation?
As he rode up to the house, Whitney was outside the door. Without a coat, gloves, or scarf. She stood there, stiff.
Her mussed, dark-red hair hung in a mass of curls around her shoulders and down her back. Her cheeks were ruddy and tear stained. But it was the look in her eyes that threatened to undo him.
Never had he seen such anguish and anger in one person.
“He’s gone, Dr. Cameron.”
Her clipped words and clenched jaw struck him to the core. How he longed to comfort her, to reach out and hold her close, but he knew better. After all these months, all the trauma, all the struggle, she would withdraw again. Of that, he was certain.
Would she be able to get past this and heal?
“I’m so sorry, Miss Powell.”
She sniffed. “Thank you for coming. I’ll take you to him.”
As she led him through the familiar home and down the hallway to Chuck Bundrant’s room, he caught a glimpse of the rest of the family gathered in the room with the piano. Their voices were soft, as were their sobs and sniffs.
His steps echoed on the wood floor. The hall stretched out before him. And then he saw Chuck.
“I didn’t move him––”
How was Whitney keeping her words so calm and controlled?
“––because I thought you might be able to save him at first, and I didn’t want to hurt him if he broke any bones when he fell. Then . . . well I wouldn’t let anyone else touch him.” She choked on the last word, then the stoic expression was back in place.
This woman was a force to be reckoned with.
She cleared her throat. “Do you need my help to move him back to the bed?”
Peter set his black bag down and shook his head. “No. I can manage.” He’d been told that Chuck had been a robust and strong man before his bouts with apoplexy. The last year had taken a devastating toll. The man before him was thin, his skin sagging.
Peter leaned down and lifted the older man into his arms. A man who had lived a long life. Worked hard. Provided for his family. A man who had hoped to see many years to come. A man who told him just a few days ago that he was ready to put his efforts into walking again.
And yet, there was hope. Chuck had been taken from this life of suffering and gathered into the arms of his Savior.
No matter how many times Peter faced death, he never got used to it. This time, the loss lodged a lump in the back of his throat. How many had he not been able to save?
Why God?
Why did he keep failing?
“Failure is just the first step to surrender.” Chuck had told him that. He’d shared hours of wisdom with Peter. Hadn’t tried to hide his failings. Yearned to be a better man.
It had challenged Peter to do the same.
Why did You take this man, Lord?
He shook his head. It wasn’t his place to question. Not now.
He laid a blanket over Chuck. Rigor mortis had set in, so the man had been dead for some time.
Peter looked at Whitney. “When did you find him?”
“About an hour and a half ago.”
“He didn’t have breakfast with the family this morning?”
“No.” She lifted her chin. Did she think he was criticizing her? “Granddad was awake when I went out at five thirty, but he asked to have more time to rest because he didn’t sleep well last night.” She pointed to the box in the chair. “Apparently, he stayed up writing his thoughts. I found the stack of paper in the bed. So I went out to run my dogs and then the rest of us had breakfast. Everyone else went back out to work, but it was my morning to help Granddad with his exercises. Since he’d seemed so weary, I thought I would bring him over to the fireplace and play for him. . . . But when I came to wake him, I found him on the floor.”
She related it with such control. “Was he breathing at that point?”
She bit her lip. Controlled, yes. But there were deep emotions there. Lord, help her.
“No. His skin was already cold to the touch. I held my hand over his nose and mouth for more than a minute, hoping that he’d just fallen and I would feel him breathe. But he was already gone.”
He dipped his chin. “I’m sorry you had to discover him like this.”
She winced. “I’m glad I found him rather than my sisters. This is devastating to them.”
He met her eyes. “What about you? You were so close to your grandfather.”
Her shoulders lifted a bit. “I’m fine. Things have to be taken care of.”
It wasn’t healthy for her to keep everything bottled up––not even for an expert like her. Still now was not the time to probe deeper. But he would. Eventually. “Would you get John and Daniel for me? Your sisters too . . . there’s a lot we need to discuss.”
“All right.” She left the room, and Peter stared down at the man who’d built this farm from nothing. “I’m sorry I couldn’t give you your wish to walk again, Chuck. But I’m grateful for the time I’ve known you.” He lifted the blanket to cover Chuck’s face.
On second thought, maybe he should go speak with them instead of asking them to join him in here. With quick steps he made his way to the large family gathering room.
The family stood as he entered.
“Please take your seats. I realized it would be easier if I came to you.”
John reached out a hand. “Thank you for coming, Peter.”
“Yes, thank you.” Daniel offered his hand as well.
“I’m sorry for your loss. Chuck was a good man. He taught me a lot.” Peter waited as they all took their seats. With a deep breath, he dove in. “I will prepare the body for burial today, but as you know, it’s next to impossible to dig graves in the winter. You are probably aware that in town they store the coffins until the thaw. Since you have your own family cemetery here on the farm, Chuck won’t need to be taken into town, but we need to find a place to store him where wild animals won’t pick up the scent and try to get into the coffin. Is there a place here where it will stay cold, but also be protected from wolves and such?”
The ladies looked at each other with wide eyes. He hated having to discuss such delicate matters in front of them, but it was necessary. And they understood the harsh life in Alaska better than anyone else he knew.
Daniel lifted a hand and pointed to the fireplace. “You know, when I was in the Yukon, we often built huge fires to thaw out portions of land where we needed to dig for gold. It worked, but it took time. Maybe we could do that so we could give Chuck a proper burial sooner rather than later.”
John patted his brother-in-law’s shoulder. “I think we should do it.”
“What about a coffin?” Havyn wiped at her eyes. “Do we need to go into town and purchase one?”
Shuffling sounded near the door.
“That won’t be necessary.”
All eyes shifted to find Christopher Powell standing there, his hat in his hands. “It would be an honor for me to build Chuck’s coffin. I can start on it right away. If you will allow.”
Peter glanced back to the family and then to Whitney. Her furrowed brow and the sparks in her eyes gave away her anger that their father had come. How long would she hold him at arm’s length? While Peter understood the struggle and the painful history, the man was still her father. And she desperately needed him—even if she didn’t realize it.
Madysen sprang up from the couch and went over to greet her father. “Would you? I know Granddad would appreciate that. As we all would.” She glanced back at everyone, her eyes pleading.
“I could get it done by tomorrow.” Christopher looked down at his hat. “I owe the man my life.”
As the family stood and went to the man, the conversation stayed hushed as they expressed gratitude and sorrow.
Everyone except Whitney.
She hung back from the huddle of her family and watched. Then without a word . . .
She turned on her heel and raced out the door.
TWO
So good ol’ Chuck was dead. Very interesting. The question was, how could he use this to his advantage?
Judas paced his office. All these years, he’d worked to get himself into the family’s good graces. They trusted him. Relied on him. But it hadn’t gotten him any closer to acquiring Chuck’s land. Or finding out where the man’s gold came from. Gold that Chuck seemed to have in abundant supply. . . .
Out of everyone in this town, Chuck had been one of the few Judas couldn’t control. He had nothing on the man. During Chuck’s apoplexy recovery, when the family didn’t know about their plentiful resources, Judas thought he’d wriggled his way in . . . but no. They paid their debt off to him as soon as Chuck could communicate.
Well, things were bound to change now.
A knock at his door brought his attention up.
The door opened, and his secretary nodded. “Mr. Davis is here to see you, sir.”
“Show him in.” Lifting his chin, he straightened his waistcoat and tie. It was a good thing the lawyer came as quick as he did.
“Mr. Reynolds.” The mouse of a man entered and skittered into a chair. “I received your message.”
Judas walked back behind his desk and took a seat. “You’re the family lawyer for Mr. Bundrant?”
The man rolled his eyes. “You know I am. And I’m quite certain you’ve been informed of his death. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have sent for me.”
“That’s indeed why I asked you here.” He took his time and folded his hands on the desk in front of him. “Let me remind you of the debts that you owe, Mr. Davis. Debts in which you are delinquent because I hear you have a bit of a gambling problem. . . .” He let the words strike their mark.
Samuel Davis squirmed in his chair and looked everywhere but at Judas. “What do you want to know?” He stuck a finger in between his lips and began chewing on the nail.
