Betsy's Return (12 page)

As Betsy stared out her kitchen window at the driving rain, her thoughts took her back to the supper she and Pastor William had shared at the Coopers' house two weeks ago. Despite her apprehension, the meal had turned out quite well. After they'd enjoyed some of Kelly's delicious apple pie for dessert, the children were put to bed, while the two couples spent the rest of the evening sitting around the kitchen table, drinking hot chocolate, playing dominoes, and visiting. Betsy had felt so comfortable with Pastor William that it had almost seemed as if she'd known him all her life.

“I wonder if he felt the same way about me,” she murmured. “He seemed much more at ease than he has in the past.”

Bristle Face, who lay curled in a tight ball in front of the woodstove, lifted his head and whimpered, as if in response.

Ever since Papa's death, Betsy had found companionship and comfort in the dog. There were times when she wondered if Bristle Face actually felt her pain. Or maybe it was just that the dog missed Papa, too.

The window rattled from a rumble of thunder that shook the morning sky, and Betsy shuddered. She disliked storms, and this was one of the worst they'd had in quite some time. It had rained continuously for almost a week, and it didn't look as though it would let up anytime soon.

“Sure hope the canal walls hold together,” she said with a shake of her head. If the canal was shut down, even for a short time, it would affect the boatmen, as well as everyone who lived or worked near the canal. It had happened several times during the years Betsy and her father had lived in Walnutport, but the community had always banded together and overcome even the worst of storms.

Another clap of thunder sounded, and Betsy moved away from the window. She had several shirts to mend for some of the canalers and figured she'd better get busy, since she had promised to have them done by tomorrow. She opened her mending basket, took a seat in the rocking chair by the woodstove, and set to work on one of the most tattered shirts.

Bristle Face lifted his head again and grunted.

“It's okay, boy. Go back to sleep. I'm just going to sit here awhile and sew.”

The dog lowered his head and nestled his paws, but a sudden knock on the back door brought him quickly to his feet. He darted to the door, barking frantically, until Betsy shushed him.

She was surprised to discover Pastor William on the porch, wearing a heavy black jacket and a pair of dark trousers. It was the first time she'd seen him out of his suit, and his sopping wet clothes dripped water all over the porch.

“I just got the news that the canal has broken in several places,” he panted. “Water's rushing everywhere, the towpath is completely covered, and already several homes have been flooded.”

Betsy grimaced. “I'm sorry to hear that.”

He nodded. “I know you don't have a lot of room here, but I was wondering if you might be able to put a few people up, should it become necessary.”

“Of course,” Betsy answered without hesitation. “I'm sure others in town will help, too. In the past when we've had a storm such as this, Papa opened the church for meals and lodging to accommodate those who had no other place to go.”

“I've already discussed that idea with the board of deacons, and cots are being set up in the church basement as we speak.”

“Would you like to come inside for a cup of hot tea?” Betsy asked. “I've got a fire going in the woodstove, and it will give you a chance to get dried off a bit before you head out into this nasty weather again.”

Pastor William glanced over his shoulder. “I appreciate the offer, but I should probably get back to the church and help the men set up those cots.”

Betsy nodded and was about to tell him good-bye when Bristle Face darted out the door and pawed at Pastor William's knees with an excited whine. “Get down, Bristle Face,” she scolded. “You know better than to jump on anyone like that.”

Pastor William bent down and patted the dog's head. “I think he misses his regular visits to the parsonage.”

Betsy shook her head. “I believe it's you he misses. I've never seen Bristle Face take to anyone the way he has you.”

He smiled and swiped at the raindrops that had dripped from his hair onto his chin. “Maybe I will take you up on that cup of tea. It'll give me and Bristle Face a chance to visit a few minutes.”

“Right.” Betsy opened the door farther and bid him entrance as a sense of disappointment flooded her soul. Why couldn't it be
her
Pastor William wanted to visit? Was she so unappealing that he would prefer a dog to her company? Well, she wouldn't flirt in order to get his attention—that much she knew.

“It's nice and warm in here,” Pastor William said, stepping into the kitchen behind her. “I've never cared much for damp weather, and this drenching rain is enough to chill me clear to the bone.”

“I know what you mean.” Betsy motioned to the row of wall pegs near the door. “Why don't you hang up your jacket and take a seat at the table? I'll put a kettle of water on the stove and have a cup of tea ready in no time.”

William did as she suggested, and as soon as he'd taken a seat, Bristle Face hopped into his lap. Before Betsy could holler at the dog, William smiled. “It's okay. I like the little fellow.”

“That's fine, but he will have to get down once I put the tea and cookies on the table,” she said with a shake of her head.

William's eyebrows lifted, and he wiggled them up and down. “Cookies? What kind have you got?”

“Oatmeal. I made a batch yesterday morning.”

“I've never cared much for hot oatmeal as a breakfast food, but it's sure good in cookies.”

Betsy smiled and hurried over to the stove. As soon as she put the water on to boil, she placed a tray of cookies on the table and took two cups down from the cupboard.

A short time later she joined him at the table, and Bristle Face, who'd been put on the floor, lay under the table, snoring.

For the next half hour, Pastor William and Betsy discussed the storm, how they could offer aid to those who might be flooded out of their homes, and how good it was to know that many people from their church would be willing to help out.

Finally Pastor William pushed his chair away from the table and stood. “Thank you for the tea and cookies. I should get back to the church and see what I can do to help out. If things keep going as they are, probably several families will be in need of shelter by nightfall.”

Betsy followed him across the room, where he slipped into his jacket and headed for the door. “As soon as I finish mending the shirts I promised to have done by the end of the day, I'll come over to the church and see what I can do to help.”

He smiled and took a step toward her. “Thank you, Betsy. I appreciate that.”

Betsy's mouth went dry. The strange sensation that came over her whenever Pastor William looked at her was unnerving. Even more unsettling was the urge she had to hurl herself into his arms and declare the love she felt for him. The old Betsy might have considered such a bold move, but now she would never dream of being so audacious.

“Maybe I'll see you a little later then.” He turned and walked out the door.

For the next several days, rain continued to pelt the earth. William spent every waking moment ministering to someone in need either at the church, where many had come to take refuge, or at homes where some who were ill were able to remain. When the rain finally stopped, a group of men began working on the breaks that had occurred in several places along the canal. Despite Mrs. Bevens's insistence that William's place was in town, he'd offered his assistance wherever he was needed at the canal.

As William settled himself at the kitchen table for his devotions one morning, he was overcome with a sense of gratitude and amazement as he reflected on how well the community had rallied to help one another during this unforeseen disaster.

He thought about Betsy Nelson and how each day she had spent several hours at the church, helping cook and serve meals for those who'd taken shelter there. At home, Betsy washed and mended clothes free of charge. She'd also taken Sarah Turner and her children into her home, because the first floor of their lock tender's house had been badly flooded. Since the boats weren't running and many of the locks were broken, including the one in Walnutport, Sarah's husband, Sam, spent his days helping with repairs on the canal breaks. At night, he slept on the one of the canalers' boats so he would be close at hand when the work began each morning.

Leaning back in his chair, William laced his fingers behind his head and closed his eyes. A vision of Betsy came to mind. He'd spent most of the night thinking about Betsy, in spite of trying not to. She seemed to be everything he wanted in a wife—if he was looking for one. She was talented, helpful, selfless, and kind. And she made some of the best-tasting oatmeal cookies he'd ever eaten.

“What's that silly grin you're wearing all about?” Mrs. Bevens placed a cup of coffee in front of him and tipped her head. “I would think as tired as you must be from working so hard this past week you'd be grumpier than an old bear.”

His eyes snapped open, and he looked up at her sullen face. “On the contrary, I find helping others to be quite rewarding—even exhilarating.”

“Humph! You'll wear yourself out if you're not careful, and I doubt your hard work will be appreciated.”

He ran his fingers along the edge of his Bible. “Proverbs 19:22 says, ‘The desire of a man is his kindness.' It's my desire to be kind and helpful to others because I care about them, not so they will show their appreciation.”

Mrs. Bevens shrugged and moved over to the sink, and William went back to reading the Bible.

When a knock sounded on the back door, Mrs. Bevens hurried to answer it. She returned to the kitchen with Mike Cooper at her side. “I'm sorry to bother you, Pastor,” he said, “but there's been an accident at the canal, and you're needed right away.”

“An accident?” William jumped up, nearly knocking over his chair.

Mrs. Bevens pursed her lips. “Shouldn't the doctor be called for something like that?”

“Dr. McGrath has already been notified, and he's on his way.” Mike's eyes were huge, and his lips compressed. “I'm thinking poor Sam Turner may have more need of a preacher right now than he does a doctor.”

William was relieved to see that Mike had brought along two horses. They would get them to the canal quicker than by taking the time to hitch up a wagon or trudging on foot through the murky floodwaters. After slipping his Bible into the saddlebag while offering up a prayer for Sam, he mounted his horse and followed Mike to the other side of town.

A short time later, they arrived at the Walnutport lock, which was where Mike said the accident had occurred. Dr. McGrath's rig was parked outside the lock tender's house, and several boatmen stood near the front door, wearing anxious expressions.

“The doc's got Sam inside on a table. Guess it's about the only piece of furniture that ain't covered in water,” Bill Bellini said, shaking his head. “It don't look good for Sam. No, it don't look good a'tall.”

“Can you tell me exactly what happened?” William asked after he and Mike had dismounted and tied their horses to the hitching rail.

Bill nodded grimly. “A boat broke loose from where it was tied, and then it floated over to the lock and got jammed. Sam and several others were workin' hard at tryin' to get it free.”

“That's right,” another burly man spoke up. “Me, Slim, and Amos was tryin' to help Sam when things went sour.” He grimaced and pulled his fingers through the ends of his wiry beard. “Sam was standin' on top of the lock, and his foot must have slipped, 'cause from what I could tell, he tumbled straight into the water. Next thing we knew, the boat shifted, and Sam was smashed between it and the lock.” The boatman paused and gulped in a quick breath. “It took all three of us to get him out, but I ain't sure it did much good, 'cause that poor fellow's in real bad shape.”

William reached into his saddlebag and pulled out his Bible before following Mike into the house. “May God's will be done,” he whispered.

“Are you sure you wouldn't like another cup of tea?” Betsy asked Sarah as the two of them sat at her kitchen table, doing some mending while Sarah's three little ones took their naps.

Sarah looked up and smiled. “I've already had three cups, and if I have one more, I might float right out the door.”

Betsy chuckled. She enjoyed Sarah's company and, during the time Sarah and the children had been staying with her, the two of them had gotten better acquainted. Betsy had come to realize that she and Sarah could be good friends, and she hoped they could spend more time together even after Sarah and her children were able to return home.
Of course,
she reasoned,
Sarah keeps awful busy caring for her little ones and helping Sam bring the canal boats through the lock. She probably doesn't have a lot of free time on her hands.

A knock at the back door drove Betsy's musing aside, and she excused herself to answer it.

When she opened the door, she was surprised to see Pastor William standing there with a pained expression on his face. “Is ... is Sarah here? I need to speak with her right away.”

Betsy nodded. “Would you like to come in and join us for a cup of tea?”

He shook his head. “There's no time for tea.”

Betsy grimaced. She had a sinking feeling that something terrible had happened and it involved Sarah's husband. “Please come in. You'll find Sarah in the kitchen.”

Pastor William took a few steps forward and halted. He leaned close to Betsy's ear. “Sarah's going to need you at her side when she hears my news.”

Not since the day Papa died had Betsy seen their pastor looking so glum, and with a sense of dread, she led the way to the kitchen.

Sarah looked up from her mending as soon as they entered the room and smiled. “Pastor William, it's nice to see you.” Her smile quickly faded. “You look upset. Is something wrong?”

He moved quickly across the room and sat in the chair beside Sarah. Betsy took the seat on the other side of her. “There's been an accident at the lock.” The pastor placed one hand on Sarah's shoulder.

“Is ... is it Sam?” Sarah's lower lip quivered, and her eyes opened wide.

“Yes, Sarah.”

“Wh–what happened?”

“One of the boats that had been tied near your home broke loose and got stuck in the lock. Sam and a couple of other men tried to get the boat out, and...” He paused and glanced over at Betsy as though seeking her help.

Betsy reached for Sarah's hand to offer support. She dreaded Pastor William's next words.

“There's no easy way to tell you this, but Sam—he fell into the water, and his body was smashed between the boat and the lock.”

Sarah gasped and covered her mouth with her hand. “Is he ... dead?”

He nodded soberly. “He died soon after I arrived.”

The color drained from Sarah's face, and she slumped over. Betsy grabbed one arm, and Pastor William grabbed the other as they helped her over to the sofa in the living room.

Several minutes passed before Sarah was composed enough to speak again, and when she did, her first words came out in a squeak. “Was ... was there time for you to pray with Sam?”

“Yes. I read him the twenty-third Psalm.”

“Sam didn't always believe in God,” Sarah said tearfully. “But two years ago he started attending the services Pastor Nelson held along the canal. One day he prayed and asked God to forgive his sins.” Her voice broke on a sob. “He was a changed man after that and attended church nearly every Sunday.”

Betsy was at a loss for words. All she could do was cling to her friend's hand and murmur, “I'm sorry, Sarah. I'm so sorry.”

The next several weeks went by in a blur. Pastor William conducted the funeral for Sam Turner, helped finish up the canal repairs, and assisted Sarah and her family as they moved back to the lock tender's house. Betsy pleaded with Sarah not to go, insisting that she and the children could stay with her as long as they wanted. But Sarah was adamant about leaving. “I must support my children,” she'd said over a cup of coffee one morning. “I'm responsible for the Walnutport lock now, and I've got to do whatever it takes to provide for my children's needs.”

Betsy couldn't argue with that, but she did have some concerns about Sarah's ability to run the lock by herself. Sam's mother, Maria, who had been living in Easton with her older son since her husband's death two years ago, had agreed to move back to Walnutport to help care for Sarah's children. That relieved Betsy's mind some, and she was sure that many in the community would help the Turner family in any way they could.

Betsy had clothes to wash for some of the boatmen who were back to work hauling coal up and down the canal. Tomorrow morning she planned to go over to the church and practice some songs for Sunday morning's service. After that she hoped to visit Sarah and her children and take them a basket of food for their evening meal.

Reaching into the cupboard underneath the sink, Betsy retrieved a washtub and a bar of lye soap. Kelly had been trying to get her to buy some of the pure white floating soap they sold in their store, but Betsy preferred the homemade kind, believing it got the clothes cleaner. Besides, she had gone through a lot of soap since she'd started taking in washing, and the lye soap she made was cheaper than the store-bought kind.

She opened the back door and set the tub on the porch. Then she returned to the kitchen to get the kettle of water she had heated on the stove. Once that was dumped into the washtub and she'd added the bar of soap and stirred it around, she dropped three shirts in to let them soak. Then she went back inside to fetch her washboard.

When she returned a few minutes later, she was surprised to see Bart Jarmon, one of the canalers, standing on the porch. Bart was a tall, burly man with a thick crop of kinky black hair and a wooly beard that matched. As far as Betsy knew, Bart had never been married, and since he wasn't a churchgoer and had quite a foul mouth, it came as no surprise to her that he had no wife.

“I'm sorry, Bart,” she said politely, “but your shirts won't be done until later today. When you dropped them off on Monday, I thought I told you they wouldn't be ready until late afternoon on Thursday.”

He shuffled his boots across the wooden porch slats and grinned at her in a disconcerting way. “Figured I'd come by early, just in case.”

Betsy motioned to the washtub on the other end of the porch. “As you can see, I've just begun my washing for the day.”

Bart pulled his beefy fingers through the ends of his beard. “That's okay. I can wait.”

Wait? Bart had to be joking. It would take Betsy awhile to get the shirts washed and rinsed, and then it would be a few more hours until they were sufficiently dried. When she told him that, he merely shrugged and plopped down on the top porch step with a grunt.

“Aren't you boating today?” Betsy asked, hoping the reminder of work might persuade the man to leave.

He shook his head. “Gotta hole in my boat that needs fixin', so I'm takin' a couple days off.”

“Well then, shouldn't you be down at the canal, working on the boat?”

“Nope. Got Abe Wilson, my helper, doin' that.”

“I see.” Betsy shifted restlessly. Should she go about her washing and ignore Bart, or should she insist that he leave? Maybe it would be best to get on with the clothes washing. She moved to the other side of the porch, knelt in front of the washtub, and reached in to pick up the first shirt.

She'd only been scrubbing a few minutes when she felt a strong hand touch her shoulder. Turning, she was shocked to see Bart staring at her in a most peculiar way. “What's wrong? Why are you looking at me like that?”

His lips curved into a wide smile, revealing a set of badly stained teeth. “I was just wonderin' how come a purty lady like you ain't married.”

Before Betsy could think of a sensible reply, Bart dropped to his knees beside her. “If you was my wife, you wouldn't have to wash for anyone but me, and I'd be the only one earnin' a living.”

“I assure you, I'm getting along fine by myself.” She wrung out the first shirt, set it aside, and picked up the second one.

With no warning, Bart leaned closer, grabbed Betsy's cheeks between his calloused hands, and kissed her squarely on the mouth.

She jerked back, reeling from the shock of his kiss and feeling as though it was her mouth that needed a good washing instead of Bart's shirts. “How dare you take such liberties!” She plucked the rest of his shirts from the water, grabbed the one she'd set aside, and threw them at him.

As Betsy stood on shaky legs, she shook her finger in his face. “Don't come back here anymore, Bart Jarmon, because even if I were starving to death, I would never do business with you again!”