Even while things deteriorated with Jack, she’d maintained her relationship with the Lord, seeking His help and guidance. Trapped in an intolerable situation, she’d prayed for His intervention. Begged for release, for a way out. But months had passed with no response.
At first, Christine had told herself there must be a reason God had allowed her to become trapped in a nightmare. That conviction had sustained her, as she’d examined—and discarded—every possible explanation. At that point, she’d tried to convince herself that despite the unfairness of the situation, the indignities she’d suffered had been worth it. That her misery had ensured the best possible care for her mother. Had been the only way to ensure that care.
She knew that for a fact. She’d tried the only other option she could think of. After that had failed, she’d reminded herself that she could never do enough to repay her mother for all her sacrifices, for all the years she’d cleaned office buildings and taken in ironing to give her daughter security and an education. Told herself that she was strong enough to hold on as long as her mother needed her.
The concept of repaying that debt had helped Christine endure the humiliation and terror and abuse. But eventually, to her shame, she’d begun to resent her mother. Toward the end, as she’d sat in the room at the extended-care facility, no longer recognized by the woman who’d borne her, she’d even begun to wish for her mother’s death. All the things that had made Helen Turner a unique individual—her intellect, her spirit, her capacity to love—had been stripped away, leaving nothing but a physical body. A body Christine could only sustain by living a nightmare.
In the end, Jack’s sudden death had liberated her. But it had been too late to salvage her withered faith, to dispel the bitterness she felt toward the God who had abandoned her.
She knew her situation wasn’t unique. The Bible was filled with stories about holy men and women who had endured worse than she had. But she hadn’t dwelt on the injustice of it until it had happened to her. After it had, she’d been unable to comprehend how God could allow His faithful followers to suffer. She hadn’t understood why He would let her be tortured to sustain an empty shell that would never again be filled.
But Christine had understood one thing.
There was no room in her life for an uncaring God.
By late that afternoon, Christine was ready for a work break. She straightened up and flexed her back, thinking that a cold drink was in order. It might be mid-September, but the Missouri heat was relentless. The consistent mideighties temperatures, plus the high humidity, could sap energy as effectively as a puncture could flatten a tire. Christine had come close to dehydration on a couple of occasions, and she’d learned to drink more water. Now she kept a large Thermos close by, refilling it throughout the day.
As she pulled off her gloves and headed to the end of the row where she’d propped her Thermos, she noticed a car slowing at her driveway for the third time in two days. Not an official vehicle, thank goodness, but one that was familiar—and that caused her pulse to accelerate.
It was the same car that had skidded through her roadside garden yesterday.
Her stance tense and wary, she watched the car slow by her pumpkin patch as it traversed the drive. It stopped near her front door, and two people emerged—a man with sun-streaked light brown hair who looked to be in his early forties, and the blond-haired teen she’d caught sight of yesterday as the car had careened across her property.
As the older man started toward her porch he said something over his shoulder that Christine couldn’t hear, and the teen followed with obvious reluctance.
It had to be Les Mueller and his son, Stephen. But why were they here? She’d filed no complaint, caused them no trouble. Nor did she plan to. In fact, she wanted nothing to do with them.
Since they hadn’t yet noticed her, she considered retreating to the back of the house, where she could take refuge in one of the outbuildings until they left. On the other hand, why hide? It was broad daylight. She was within view of the road and passing cars. It was her property. There was no reason to be afraid.
Straightening her shoulders, she wiped her hands on her jeans and headed in their direction.
As she approached, the older man noticed her. He put his hand on the teen’s shoulder, inclined his head her way and strode toward her, waiting to speak until he was a few feet away. The young man followed in his wake.
“Ms. Turner?”
“Yes.”
He extended his hand. “Les Mueller.”
Realizing that nervousness had dampened her palm, Christine once more wiped it on her jeans before taking his hand. The man’s callused grip was firm, and he had blue eyes, like the sheriff, she noted. Except this man’s were the color of a pale summer sky, while Dale Lewis’s were as deep blue as a pure mountain lake. The dairy owner’s weathered face suggested he’d spent too many hours in the sun, and his firm, no-nonsense chin belonged to a man who didn’t tolerate foolishness. Dressed in jeans, boots and a cotton shirt rolled to the elbows, he needed only a brimmed hat to look every bit a cowboy.
Without waiting for Christine to acknowledge his self-introduction, he spoke again. “I understand my son was responsible for some damage to your property yesterday.”
Anger bubbled up inside her. It seemed the sheriff had ignored her wishes and had taken matters into his own hands, going behind her back after she’d refused to press charges. Now, thanks to him, she’d provoked the ire of the town’s leading citizen. She could see his displeasure in the tense lines of his face. Her heart skipped a beat, and she edged back a step.
“I didn’t file a formal complaint.”
“That’s what Dale said. He told me what happened, off the record. I’m glad he did. The way I understand it, not only did my son damage one of your gardens, he came close enough to hit you. That kind of behavior shouldn’t go unpunished. But the first order of business is an apology. Stephen?”
The man stepped aside, planted his hands on his hips and looked at his son. The boy turned beet-red, and he jammed his hands in his pockets, staring at the ground as he spoke. “I’m sorry about the damage.”
Tilting her head, Christine studied him, a slight frown marring her brow as she played the incident back in her mind. She seemed to recall that a black-haired kid had been at the wheel. “You weren’t driving the car, were you?”
The boy’s ruddy color deepened and he risked a quick peek at his father as he mumbled a response. “No, ma’am.”
“You let someone else drive?” Les’s eyes narrowed, and fury nipped at the edges of his voice.
From his outraged tone, Christine deduced that this was another, unreported transgression.
“Yes, sir.”
“Who?”
“Eric.”
Expelling an exasperated breath, Les jammed his fingers through his short-cropped hair. “You know the rules, Stephen. No one drives the car but you.”
“Yes, sir. I know.” The boy shuffled one toe in the dirt and hung his head. “But it was his birthday, and he said he’d always wanted to drive a Lexus. I didn’t think it would hurt to let him drive for a mile or two. I didn’t know he was going to take off like a bat out of…” He stopped short when his father cleared his throat. “Anyway, I told him to go slower. But he didn’t pay any attention. I’m sorry.”
“It seems you have a lot to be sorry for.” Les’s curt response didn’t cut his son any slack. Angling back toward Christine, the man added his own apology. “I’m