Uncharted Hope (The Uncharted Series Book 5) Page 10

  Even without living under the same roof, the patriarch’s routine ordered Sophia’s weeks.

  John walked toward the east side of his fine brick home and set a saucer on the pebbled ground at the back of the house. Sophia stepped to the window to see what he was doing. Soon a tabby cat bound across the grass. John stooped to pet it, and the sun’s rays lit the white flecks in his hair. John’s hair had probably been a soft brown similar to Levi and Lydia’s color when he was their age.

  The little cat put back its ears and closed its eyes as it lapped up the milk. John gave its fur a slow stroke, his hand wide enough to cover half of the cat at once. Sophia tried to return her attention to her work, but her eyes refused to look away.

  She’d once had a tabby cat too. It wasn’t really hers but slept in her father’s barn. She would sneak around the back of the barn and make sure the cat’s entryway between rotted boards was clear. When it had kittens, Sophia’s mother put them in a gunnysack with a ten-pound stone. Sophia cried as her mother tied the sack and threw it into the stream. “Go in after it, and I’ll cut off your thumbs,” her mother had hissed when Sophia ran toward the stream.

  Any familial attachment Sophia possessed was drowned with the kittens that day.

  John walked back to the kitchen door. As he passed the medical cottage, they made eye contact. He jovially waved, rescuing Sophia from the traumatic childhood memory.

  Not wanting to spend another moment alone, she placed her notebook on the worktable and left the office. The cat was still at its milk saucer and the kitchen door was still wide open. The aroma of bread baking wrapped Sophia in warmth as she stepped into the kitchen. “Good morning, Mr. Colburn.”

  “Morning, Sophia.” John pointed at a covered basket on the long wooden table. “Did you eat breakfast?”

  “No, I…” She paused to yawn. Having stayed up most of the night to read medical texts, she’d accidentally slept late. “I didn’t eat yet.”

  John smiled as he lifted a tea towel from the breadbasket. “Would you like a muffin? Lydia made them with blueberries she gathered.”

  As she took a muffin, John pulled a chair away from the table. “Have a seat,” he said then crossed the kitchen. Though in his mid-fifties, he still moved like a young man. He cracked the oven door and peeked inside. “The first batch of bread is almost done.”

  “It smells wonderful.” She stopped herself, realizing she still had a mouth full of delicious blueberry muffin.

  He poured a cup of milk and set it on the table. “Unless you prefer coffee.”

  “No, I mean, thank you. This is perfect.”

  Seven other chairs surrounded the table and Andrew’s empty highchair stood guard in the corner by the stone hearth. Being in the Colburn kitchen, even when it was mostly empty, gave her an unexplainable sense of calm. It wasn’t the house itself but the people who made it a safe place. “Where is everyone today?”

  “Connor left at sunrise for Woodland. Lydia took Andrew with her to the market.” He slipped an oven mitt on and folded his tall frame to draw a loaf pan from the oven. Waves of heat blurred the air around the iron stove. “And Revel is working at the Fosters’ while Nicholas is away.”

  She plucked a blueberry from the muffin but paused before popping it into her mouth. “Nicholas is away?”

  “Mm hm,” John hummed in the affirmative as he slid two more pans of bread dough into the oven. “He went with Connor.”

  She almost choked on the blueberry. “To Woodland?” A cough followed her question.

  John sent a concerned glance over his shoulder. “He needed to get some of his belongings that were still at his parents’ home—furniture and such for his new house here.”

  Her appetite disappeared. She picked at the muffin without taking another bite. “That’s not why they went to Woodland.”

  John laid the oven mitt on the counter and sat across from her at the table. “It was part of the reason. Connor had to pick up an order from a craftsman there. They took my wagon.” His kind eyes studied her for one long moment, making her feel transparent. He angled his head. “It is tradition for a man to speak with a woman’s parents before courting. Nicholas is a good man. He cares about honor.”

  “I told him not to go to my parents.”

  “A man has the right to behave honorably.”

  “And what is my right?”

  John leaned an elbow onto the table, his demeanor a mixture of authority and compassion. “If Nicholas Vestal wants to court you, and you do not feel the same, tell him no. That is your right.”

  “I don’t want that.”

  “He will be hurt, but he will heal.”

  “No, I don’t want him to involve my parents.” She looked away from John’s knowing gaze and stared up at the crossbeams in the ceiling of the tranquil kitchen. “My father hates… people. He will only be rude to Nicholas, possibly cruel. He doesn’t care about tradition or honor… or me.”

  “What about your mother?”

  “She won’t be there. She left my father again when I moved to Good Springs. She has left many times. Alice says Mother has a lover up north. I told Nicholas as much. I can’t believe he’d want anything to do with me or my miserable family.” Tears blurred her vision. “I thought by taking the job with Lydia and living away from my family, I could be done with them. Free. I want my own life. That’s why I refused Nicholas… so he wouldn’t go to my parents.”

  John mindlessly tapped a finger on the table in dull thumps. “Do you have feelings for Nicholas?”

  There was no lying to John Colburn, or to herself. She looked John in the eye. “I think I might.”

  “Would you let him court you?”

  She recalled what it felt like sitting beside Nicholas on the wagon bench after he’d saved her and her desk from Alice. He saw her humbled and still pursued her, not with masculine posturing or control but with kindness, tenderness, full attention, and a listening ear. The yearning to explore her feelings for him warmed her heart. “Yes, I would.”

  “Then set aside your pride lest you ruin this for him.”

  “Ruin what?”

  “The pursuit. The innate drive in a man to win the heart of the woman he loves.” John leaned back in his chair. “Sure, many couples never know it, but they are missing out on a great force of magnetism. As a woman, don’t you want to spend your life with a man who had to pursue you?”

  Her breath caught on a quick inhale. “Yes, I do.”

  As the truth slipped from her lips in a whisper, she cast her gaze about the comfortable kitchen. The always-open door welcomed guests, the overflowing pantry attested to their worth in the community, and the full breadbasket awaited their reliable hospitality. The Colburn home—nay, their very existence—effused contentment and stability.

  But it hadn’t always been that way. She’d heard the stories. They had lived through tragedy and yet still had peace—with God and with each other. John Colburn’s advice could be trusted.

  Sophia had felt her heart awakening to Nicholas, and she wanted to be pursued by a man like him. She could let him, allowing them both a chance at the magnetism John spoke of.

  But that was only half of the problem.

  No matter how she longed for her own life, she would never have peace so long as the voices of her family haunted her thoughts. Since John was comfortable giving advice, she looked to him. “May I ask you one more question?”

  “Anything.”

  “How do I break free?”

  “From what?”

  “From my parents? From all they did, especially with my sister living in Good Springs? She’s exactly like them. Nicholas says I should let it go so I don’t end up bitter too, but every day some memory, some sound, some feeling from my childhood returns to steal my peace. And if it doesn’t pop up on its own, Alice is close by to remind me.”

  John shifted in his chair. “You cannot erase your past. None of us can. And we all have problems in relationships. The pain of your past
is too heavy to carry with you into each new day, even more so when you continually encounter the offender. I find forgiveness changes the way we remember, which makes it easier to deal with a difficult person.”

  He made it sound so simple, just as Nicholas had, but there was nothing simple about forgetting the things her family had done to her, the way they had made her feel. No matter how much she wanted to let go, the scars dangled from her soul like a grotesque appendage. “This is bigger than simply letting go.”

  “Ah,” he nodded as if knowing something she did not. “So you have not forgiven them yet?”

  “Sure I have,” she answered quickly. Too quickly.

  He raised a scholarly brow.

  “At least, I think I have.” She traced her finger along the grain of the tabletop. When she was in tenth grade, a godly schoolteacher took her through the Scriptures and taught her about true forgiveness. “Love covers a multitude of sins,” she said on a breath, remembering one of those verses. Then she met John’s gaze. “I love my family, Mr. Colburn, and I try to forgive them, but I need to break away from them.”

  “I agree.”

  She drew her head back. “You do?”

  “While you heal from your past, it would be wise to limit your time with your sister, especially while she shows no sign of repentance. You must strive to forgive her and your parents for the sake of your peace, your future, and your health.” John’s tone held the same gentle authority it did when he preached on Sundays, but his voice was more casual. “Truly forgiving means releasing the offender from the demands of justice. It means no longer inwardly waiting for an apology or restitution for the wrongs committed against you.” He lifted a finger. “But it does not mean surrendering oneself to an abuser.”

  Is that what she had been doing by hoping to one day have a friendly relationship with her sister despite Alice’s cruelty? By reliving her childhood over and over in her mind and imagining doing things differently so her parents would like her? By fantasizing that her family was lovingly awaiting a family get-together and then sinking into despair when she realized that would never happen?

  No wonder she hadn’t been able to move on, to connect the dots between chaining herself to the past and being unwilling to move forward with Nicholas. She blew out a breath and instantly felt a little lighter. “I’ve tried so hard to make them love me… and each other. It’s not going to happen, is it?”

  “You cannot control someone else’s choices, Sophia.”

  “I know.” She thought about it for a moment. “At least, I should know by now.”

  “All you can do is decide each day whether you will allow the past or the pain or those people to control who you are right now. It takes practice.” He tilted his head and gave her hand a fatherly pat. “Since you are forgiven in Christ, you have the power to move forward in life. It is your choice.”

  * * *

  “The bolt goes here,” Connor said while he demonstrated a newly designed crossbow. “It has two levels of crosshairs to help the shooter compensate for gravity, here and here. Quiver here. And it’s easy to cock.” He passed the crossbow to Nicholas. “Made from mostly gray leaf wood. It’s a silent killer.”

  Nicholas accepted the crossbow and examined its features. The lightweight weapon made him hungry for venison. “Silent? As opposed to what?”

  “Firearms.” Connor reached across the craftsman’s worktable and opened a case containing another crossbow. He checked it, closed the box to inspect another, and looked at the craftsman. “Have all six been tested?”

  The craftsman nodded. “Many times.”

  “When will the second order of bolts be ready?”

  “Maybe a month. I’ll have to check with the silversmith about the tips.”

  “Does anyone else know about this project, other than the silversmith?”

  “Only my eldest son.” The craftsman glanced at Nicholas as if finding comfort in including a local man in the conversation. “He’s training to learn my craft.”

  Nicholas nodded once to show interest but was too fascinated by Connor’s authority to comment.

  Connor pointed at the crossbow Nicholas held then at the empty case, wanting Nicholas to pack it. Nicholas complied and nestled the custom weapon into its case as Connor stepped around the table toward the craftsman. “John Colburn has communicated with all the overseers in the Land, including here in Woodland, and they support this operation. Eventually, I will train and equip a security team in each village, but it’s important to move slowly and deliberately so we don’t alarm the people.” He looked down at the craftsman. “Secrecy is imperative.”

  “Of course, Mr. Bradshaw.” The man drew a handkerchief from his back pocket and dabbed his forehead. “Of course. Neither my son nor I shall utter a peep to anyone.”

  “Excellent.” Connor lifted his chin at a stack of three crossbow cases for Nicholas to carry, and he picked up the other three. “Your payment will be delivered by week’s end.”

  The craftsman’s eyes lit. “The pair of milk cows?”

  “Yep, both of them three years old.” A faint grin gave away Connor’s amusement in their bartering system. “Coming from Mark Cotter’s farm in Good Springs.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Bradshaw.”

  Nicholas carried the encased weapons to the back of the Colburns’ covered wagon, which was already full with the furniture and tools his parents had given him. He slid the three cases inside, then the three cases Connor had carried. Six weapons but he only knew of four men on the security team: himself, Connor, Levi, and Everett. “Have you recruited any more men yet?”

  “Yeah.” Connor scanned the craftsman’s empty yard. “Mark Cotter agreed to join us, and Revel is interested—not committed but interested.” He pointed into the back of the wagon. “Slide the cases between your dresser and the toolbox, then cover them with burlap.”

  Nicholas climbed into the wagon bed and followed Connor’s command. It was easy to take orders from a man who knew what he was doing. Maybe Nicholas would absorb some of that confidence. He could use it when it came to wooing Sophia.

  Their last stop in Woodland was at the Ashtons’ farm. As they approached the property, Nicholas decided farm was too grand a word. Remnants of peeling paint speckled a single-story house with frayed screens on the windows and sprouts waving from the gutters. A barn leaned across the overgrown yard behind the house. Though late summer, the vegetable patch yielded more weeds than produce.

  Connor set the brake. “Want backup?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Do you need me to go with you?”

  Nicholas studied the dilapidated house incredulous that sweet and beautiful Sophia had grown up in such conditions. Indeed, she deserved better. No matter what came of this meeting, he would give her better.

  Determination filled his bones. He glanced back at Connor. “No, thanks,” he said, straightening his spine. “I can handle this.”

  Weeds whipped his knees as he marched toward the house. The bottom porch step was missing a rung. He stepped over it and watched his footing. The porch’s partially decayed wood bent beneath his weight. After finding a semi-smooth place on the door, he knocked sternly then stepped back.

  He folded his hands to look respectful, then remembered his hat and removed it. Her parents would see his thoughtfulness, his sincerity, and his resolve. Yes, when they saw what manner of man loved their daughter, they would gladly give him their blessing, wanting the best for their beloved Sophia.

  His knock was met with silence. He tried again.

  Again, no answer.

  One of the horses hitched to the Colburns’ wagon snorted. Nicholas looked back at the road. Connor motioned knocking, so Nicholas knocked a third time.

  Boards creaked inside the house as someone approached the door. A raspy male voice came through the doorframe. “What do you want?”

  “I’ve come to speak to Mr. Ernest Ashton.”

  “What about?”

  “I’m N
icholas Vestal. I came from Good Springs to speak to Mr. Ashton about his daughter… his youngest daughter, Sophia.”

  The door cracked open and a sliver of light fell on the man’s ruddy face. “Is she dead?”

  Nicholas flinched from both disgust and surprise. “No, sir.”

  Mr. Ashton beaded his bloodshot eyes. “Then why are you disturbing my peace?”

  Repulsion bubbled in Nicholas’s throat. He forced his tone to stay polite. “I came to ask your permission to court your daughter, sir.”

  The door closed.

  Nicholas waited, wondering if Mr. Ashton was unbolting a chain or putting on pants or had closed the door for some other good reason. It remained closed, but he didn’t hear the floorboards creaking. He leaned closer to the door. “Mr. Ashton, I traveled a long way to speak with you, and I don’t intend to return until I have my answer.”

  “Have her,” the man yelled from within his home. “She’s all yours.”

  Nicholas’s patience ended. He knocked again, this time with enough force to rattle the locks. “Mr. Ashton?”

  The door swung wide. “What? What could be so important you dare to shake my house?”

  “Your daughter, sir. She is important to me. In fact, she is a treasure, yet you behave as if she were worthless.”

  Mr. Ashton stayed in the shadows, his thin frame and hunched shoulders betraying his poor health. Potato whiskey fumed from his breath. “I said you could have the girl.” He raised a curled finger and poked Nicholas’s chest. “But don’t you bring her back here with child. I don’t want any more mouths to feed. My days of putting up with women are over.”

  As the door began to shut, Nicholas stopped it with his boot. “One more thing, sir, if I may. Is Sophia… is she indeed your daughter, sir?”

  The older man nodded once. “She’s my stock, but she’s not my problem. If you’d ever seen her grandfather, you’d know she’s an Ashton—whatever that’s worth.” He slunk away from the door and mumbled. “The older girl isn’t mine. Alice is her mother’s child. Two rotten witches, Alice and her mother are.” His gaze darted back to Nicholas. “They ruined me.”