Creighton's Hideaway (18 page)

“How could I hate you, or anyone?” And then with a brilliant smile, she added, “After all, God created you just like He made me.”

“That's the second time you've mentioned God. You believe that?”

“Oh, yeah. How could I not believe there's a God with such beauty surrounding us out here?”

He swooped her up in a bear hug and twirled her around. When her feet touched the window glass, he set her down.

“Wow, what a great day. I will see you tomorrow.” He let himself out.

The bloom of her full smile warmed him most of the way home. He stopped to rub his eyes. The weight that worked on him had lifted some after baring his soul to Shana.

He knew what he had to do.

But could he?

 

 

 

 

14

 

Rejuvenated, Shana consulted her thesis outline and orderly notes. It was flowing the way writing should. After a few hours she bundled up and went onto the deck. The sordid tales she'd documented left a sour taste in her mouth. Then her own predicament, the one she'd avoided facing earlier, hit her full force. She needed God's wide open spaces.

An invisible stranger had intruded and upset her life. First-hand, she identified with other innocent citizens who were affected by another's crime. Knowing facts intellectually was different from experiencing them for real. She cornered personal thoughts and returned to her laptop, where she again set to work.

At bedtime, it took a while for her mind and body to quiet. She decided to concentrate on Creighton and how he made her feel.

With morning came cold, which felt like frost in the room. Shana grabbed socks and shoes, then a sweatshirt. She remembered the heater Creighton had mentioned, and found it just where he said it would be, stored in the pantry. She rolled it into the kitchen. The oil within the old-fashioned radiator-looking thing soon bubbled and popped.

Instead of coffee, she heated cranberry juice in the microwave and added a spoonful of honey. She sat at the table close to the heater and enjoyed the view, sipping her drink. A cottontail rabbit hopped into a bunch of tall brush across the creek.

Over a bowl of oatmeal, Shana turned the fragile pages of Vera Rice's Bible. She'd have to ask Valerie or Creigh how to go about this reading of scripture. Should she continue with the first chapters in Genesis and go all the way through? She knew from her father's theology classes at university, that there was a lot of meaty historical information in the first few books. But, was it practical for today's world?

“Well, here goes.” She closed the Bible, and then opened it at random. The book of Romans. But it was tough to follow. Next source, the Internet. A few clicks and she had a reading program for new believers. It was a long time before she noticed the remnants of oatmeal had dried in the bowl, and a ring of red congealed in her cup.

“Hello, the cabin.”

She jumped at Creighton's greeting. She'd been sitting so long that her leg felt like lead. As feeling returned, Shana hopped to the door in a rhythm that matched Creighton's footfalls on the deck. She slid the bar and opened the door.

“Did I get you up?”

“Uh, no, I just haven't—” She stepped back. “I lost all track of time. Come in.” Shana closed the door and continued. “I got so caught up trying to make sense of reading the Bible as a newbie…” she glanced at the clock. “Wow! Ten o'clock.”

“You don't have to explain a thing. If I can help make a suggestion,” he nodded towards the open book on her table. “The Gospels make an easy place to start reading.”

“The Gospels? Oh, right. I have a guide here from the Internet.”

“It probably points out Matthew, Mark, Luke, and especially John. The beginning of the New Testament is called the Gospels.”

“Thanks for the suggestion.” She smoothed the hem of her sweatshirt, now too warm in the cabin.

“Since it's so gloomy and chilly outside, I came down to see if you're up to our next Scrabble game.”

“You're on.” She lifted and rotated her shoulders to release the kinks. “What time?”

“Turn around.” Creighton began to massage her neck and shoulders, his thumbs gravitated right to the knots. “How about after two? I've got a chicken boiling and we can have chicken and dumplings.”

Shana sighed with anticipation at the thought of comfort food, prepared by Creighton. Her tight muscles gave way under his ministrations, and became as loose as noodles. “You make dumplings?” she finally managed.

“I cook ‘em, but they come from the grocery freezer.” His thumbs on her neck above the sweatshirt thrilled down her spine.

“Think I'll change that old adage to say ‘the way to a woman's heart is through her stomach.'”

“I don't know about the heart. But at least you think about food now. A week ago you didn't.”

“A lot has changed since a week ago.” She reached for Creighton's hand. “I don't think I'm the same person.”

“You aren't.” He held both her hands in his, and squeezed. “God has done that. And this is just the beginning.”

 

 

 

 

15

 

Their second Scrabble game proceeded at a slow pace. Creighton chalked it up to the gray day, or maybe the aroma of cooked chicken that drifted through the house, numbed their minds. The broth cooled in the refrigerator and the chicken waited on the counter for de-boning.

“How close are the points?”

Shana's question brought him back to the game instead of his taste buds.

“I'm two ahead.” He'd been more tuned in to the country singer's voice as it floated from the stereo speakers, than the score pad.

“Not any more, big boy.” She picked up all of her letter tiles to spell the word C-A-R-R-I-A-G-E, making use of the E at the end of his last play. Shana did a little dance. She pointed her fingers above her head to accent her jig. “Fifty points. Give me fifty extra points.”

Creighton frowned. He scowled at the tiles on his rack.

She sank back into the sofa cushions and leaned against a giant brown pillow. “What's wrong, Creigh?” Shana asked softly.

“Maybe we can finish this later.” He turned the strip of wood so she could see his letters as he set the rack on the coffee table. The letters M-I-S were grouped together on the rack, separate from the other four letter tiles.

She looked at him, puzzled.

“I was listening to that song about work being done on Earth, and it reminded me of a friend's funeral. Then I thought of Rita possibly losing the baby.” He rubbed his scalp with the fingers of one hand. “Then you spelled your word carriage, and I added the prefix ‘mis'.”

Shana slid across the center cushion, careful not to jar the game pieces out of their places on the board, and sat next to him.

He gathered her close, rested his chin against her soft curls, and stared into the flickering golden flames of the fireplace. “That near disaster with Rita's baby made me realize how precious life is. Now that you've recognized how God is part of our lives, let's live like He wants us to, and get to know one another.”

“Sounds good to me,” she agreed and snuggled closer against his side.

Time didn't exist for a long while. Eventually, Creighton cocked his head towards the sound of the wind as it played a musical tune around the corners of the house.

“Sounds like a night for chicken and dumplings.” He slid his arm from around her shoulder and reached down to clasp her hand. “Wanna help?”

“Didn't you say the dumplings came from the grocery freezer?”

Creighton nodded.

“Then, I guess I can open the bag and pour them into the pot.”

“You disappoint me, woman.” He squeezed her fingers while swinging their clasped hands. “I figured you'd like to get all greasy and pull the meat from the chicken bones.”

Shana screwed up her nose.

“OK, you win. I'll de-bone and the salad is your job.” He washed his hands thoroughly and handed the towel to Shana after she rinsed the soap from her own. Then he grabbed a narrow-edged crockery bowl and attacked a rich brown leg. The meat cleared the bone in one swipe.

They worked without words, his movements smooth and methodical as he separated and tore, hers jerky and noisy as she rinsed, chopped, and sliced pieces of every fresh veggie available.

“Hand me a paper towel, please, and then run the water hot so I can get this stuff off.”

“Yuck,” Shana reacted to his messy fingers before she ripped off a piece of toweling.

“Don't knock it. I won't have to use hand lotion before bed.”

It was Shana's turn to laugh. “What's next?”

“Hand me the salad.” He slipped the covered bowl into the fridge and lifted out the pot of broth. Setting it on the stove, he opened the lid. “I'll just skim off this little bit of fat, and then wait for it to boil. Last, I'll add the dumplings.”

She leaned against the counter while he worked.

Creighton straightened from setting the table. “Should be done in just a few minutes.”

“I can hardly wait,” Shana answered.

“I heard that rumbling belly of yours.”

They shared a look.

He soon dished up the savory comfort food, and at the table, took both her hands. “Would you mind saying the prayer? I'm feeling a little shaky, thinking about Rita's baby.”

 

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Could she do this? She tightened her fingers against his callused palms. He made her feel safe and secure.

“I'm not sure how or where to begin.” She almost prayed for courage. On a shaky breath, she began. “Lord God, Jesus, I have a lifetime of things to thank You for. Right now, I thank You for the opportunity to be here on this ranch. Thank You for the landscape that I have learned to love. I thank You for this food, and especially for Creighton. Amen.”

Shana sighed over the first mouthful of doughy dumpling. Then she moaned in appreciation at the burst of flavor from a piece of tender chicken. “You'd make someone a good wife,” she teased.

“Nah. A good wife is described in Proverbs thirty-one. Besides, I lack clothes of scarlet, linen, and purple.”

“Really? Something like that's described in the Bible?”

“Oh, yeah. The whole book of Proverbs has lots of guidelines for living that continue through the ages.”

Shana rested her soup spoon against the side of her bowl. “I have so much to learn, Creighton.”

He smiled in agreement. “Takes a lifetime. For all of us.”

A play of emotions struck his face. Was it guilt that remained from his past, or some imagined shortcoming? The frown line dissipated, but the shadow remained, blending the outer rim of blue into the darker hazel of his eyes. He seemed to have forgotten her presence.

Creighton jumped and caught the phone on its third ring. “Yeah.” A pause. “Guess I didn't give it a thought, I was just so relieved that they're both fine.” He scrubbed a hand over his hair until tufts stood up. His gaze rose to the ceiling. “Come, on. You know I would have called if anything happened!” His eyes squinted, and he clenched his jaw. “Sure. You bet.” He hung up and glanced her way. “Thomas, my brother.” At the table, he just looked at the dumplings in his bowl.

Shana crossed to his side and smoothed the hair that he had tousled. He leaned his head back against her mid-section, and then took her left hand.

“He talked to Rita, and when she went over the threat of losing the baby, he blamed me for not letting him know.” He shot to his feet. “I'm lousy company, let me walk you back.” He growled.

“I can help clean up,” Shana protested.

“Thanks, but I can only handle one problem at a time.”

“Hold it, buster. So you're saying I'm a problem, now?”

“More like a distraction.” A grin slid across his face.

She could handle that. A distraction was better than a problem any day.

Their brief banter receded and reality struck on their walk to her cabin. She thumped her fist against her thigh, in accompaniment to the soft night sounds. Shana mentally counted the short days until she returned to Lincoln and planned how she would spend each one. She'd work and she'd play. And she'd savor life. But reality intruded on her idyllic dreams. Shana's jaw tightened. “It's so peaceful here, Creigh, like another world. Not my real world. I've always been able to fix things, to look at a situation from all angles and come to a workable solution. But how do I replace years of work if the bank doesn't return my money? I wanted my own home. I was planning colors and wallpaper!” She fought the threat of tears.

Creighton's mood seemed to darken as well, but his fingers tightened where their hands were now laced together.

Thankful for the flashlight, that she knew Creighton didn't need, she gasped when the glow caught the glint of eyes.

“Cat,” Creighton's low voice reassured.

At her front door, they stood on the deck and hugged for a long time.

Shana was reluctant to let him go.

Eventually, he relaxed, and slid his hands down her back.

She stayed on the deck until his shadowed form blended into the trees and out of sight. Shana smiled, again thankful for Creighton. Sobered, she longed to help him the same way he reached out to ease the pain of others.

The offensive smell hit her as soon as she turned from unbarring the cabin door. It was the same overpowering “perfume,” like sour sweat, that she had detected in her Lincoln duplex.
Has to be my imagination. Or is someone here?

Who was after her? And better yet, why?

New to this prayer business, Shana tried to pray.
But how can you think when your heart threatens to jump out of your chest?

 

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