They all drifted off to their beds, and Lark decided not to set any watches. They’d all get a full night’s sleep.
The next day was one of rest for themselves and the animals, and the Nielsen sisters looked forward to the worship service that evening. It was nothing like the service at their church at home. Dusk sneaked in while they were singing, which led into Mr. Herron reading Scripture, followed by observations rather than a sermon. He asked for comments, and some of the attendees added their thoughts. Then they prayed for the needs and praises people brought up. Someone started singing and the others joined in, followed by a time of silence—to let the Spirit speak, Herron said. Awe and reverence floated around like the fragrance of sweet peas in spring.
“Let’s sing the doxology and say our benediction together.”
Never had that song sunk into Lark’s heart like this. Praise God from whom all blessings flow indeed. It was so sweet to worship with other believers with no officious hypocrite twisting God’s words.
“I wish you could stay longer,” Mrs. Herron said, hugging each of them. “I’ll have breakfast ready for you in the morning so you can be on your way.”
“I sure enjoyed your music again. To think—two nights in a row.” Isaac gave them a nod. “The Lord bless and keep thee.”
“And you also. If you ever get to Nebraska, I hope you can find us, Mister . . . ?” Del quirked a brow.
“McTavish. And, Miss Nielsen, I will make every effort. You’re heading down to Independence, right? I pray God’s protection on you all the way.” Isaac McTavish touched his hat with the gentle courtesy that sat as easily on his shoulders as the tattered jacket.
“And we you.”
Saying good-bye in the morning, with extra eggs, a cooked chicken, and a loaf of bread added to their load, made leaving even harder. Lark raised her hand in a final salute and left the temptation to remain behind. They couldn’t, not with the danger that could be following. This was such a welcome reprieve, but there were sure to be hard times ahead.
Lord, please find us a wagon train to join up with, and let us not be too late in the season. One with folks like these would really be appreciated.
10
How I hated to leave there,” Forsythia said.
“I know. Me too.” Del heaved a sigh.
Forsythia situated the folded blanket behind her back as she leaned against the cooking box, then dug her journal and pencil out of her bag. Fumbling in the bottom of the bag, she dug out the pocketknife she kept there and sharpened the pencil so she could begin to write, catching up on the last few days.
Lord, the only gift we could give the Herrons in return was our music. And to rejoice in being bathed in their unending flow of love. How could they share what they had so freely? Only by the grace of God. That’s what Mrs. Herron said. I felt at home there from the first moment we stopped the wagon. How can love permeate even the grass and the trees? I can understand through flowers, but there . . . a pasture for our animals, grass to cushion our beds, good food and laughter. And then to think that Isaac McTavish appeared too. He said that night at our camp that he hoped to see us again, but we didn’t even know his name. And now, O Lord, we pray for a wagon to join us. Thank you for all the blessings you poured out upon us. Amen.
She dashed away a tear ready to splash down on her journal pages. At least the pencil did not smudge from tears like ink did. She tucked the pencil and journal in the bag and stared out the back of the wagon at the road ribboning behind them as they headed onward.
That afternoon she rode Starbright on ahead, looking for a place to stop for the night. Streams were fewer now, but she spotted a ribbon of blue dotted by trees along its shoreline. A river—an honest-to-goodness river. She touched her heels to the mare’s sides to reach the shoreline, where indeed there were places other folks had camped. Cattails and water grasses lined the shore here, but around the bend there looked to be an open spot.
Staring out from the shade of her sunbonnet, she nudged Starbright into the water. “You can’t have much, but we’ll be back soon, and then you can drink your fill.”
When she tugged on the reins, the horse raised her head and turned to go back to the wagon. Perhaps we can all swim there tonight and catch fish for supper. She set Starbright into a rocking-chair lope so she could tell the others.
That night, with fish sizzling in the pan thanks to Lilac, the stars a canopy of twinkles thanks to the Lord God, and the smoke driving away the mosquitos, Forsythia brought out the guitar, picking rather than strumming. With each note separate, they seemed to rise with the smoke and float above the treetops. The monster oak whose branches provided shelter for them rustled in the breeze that danced around.
They finished their supper, drinking the last of the milk the Herrons had sent with them before it soured, leaving only enough for pancakes in the morning. After scrubbing their tin plates and the frying pan with sand in the river, Lilac took the first watch.
Forsythia roused from a deep sleep when Lilac shook her shoulder.
“I think I hear something,” her sister whispered. “Am I going crazy? Can you hear that?”
“What?” Forsythia sat up. “Someone crying?” She strained her ears. “Nah, can’t
