Bending Toward the Sun by Mona Hodgson Page B

that was nearly a month ago, and Emilie hadn’t heard from him again. Another man discouraged by her father?
    Hattie set her hat on the table beside her. “In fact, Charles went to a meeting first thing this morning.”
    Caroline squared her shoulders. “Your brother, who fought for the Union?”
    “He did.”
    Caroline drew in a shuddering breath. “Your father died for the cause, and your brother fought for it, and yet he still thinks Mr. Cowlishaw is the best man to lead the caravan? He could well be a bushwhacker, for all we know.”
    Clearing her throat, Mrs. Brantenberg lifted her coffee mug from the table. “Even in our sorrow, especially in our sorrow, we must remember that God is Lord over all—the North, the South, and every mile surrounding them. God does not sow discordance.”
    Her lips pressed together, Caroline returned her attention to the quilt top on her lap.
    “Your brother is taking a wagon west, Hattie?” Maren reached for her cup. “Are you planning to go with him?”
    “Mother and I are talking about it. However, we’re not sure Gram could make the trip.”
    Emilie’s chest tightened. Could PaPa? Not that she wanted to leave Saint Charles, but, like so many others, he’d talked about it. Now he seemed unable to make it through a day without a rest.
    “Charles had brought home newspapers from San Francisco and Virginia City with articles written by our very own Sam Clemens from Hannibal.” Hattie’s voice rose with the thrill of adventure. “It seems there’s no end to the opportunities there.”
    “Phillip talked about going west. Before the war.” Caroline’s last words squeaked out.
    Mrs. Brantenberg returned her mug to the table. “Who will pray for our dear Caroline?”
    “I will.” Maren offered a heartfelt prayer, asking for God’s comfort and peace for Caroline and for the Lord’s divine stitching together of the scraps and remnants in her life.
    “Thank you.” Caroline blotted her tears with a handkerchief. “I am thankful for this circle, and for your prayers.”
    Emilie wiped tears from her eyes, then followed Mrs. Brantenberg into the kitchen, met by the sweet aroma of baking bread.
    Mrs. Brantenberg stood at the stove, stirring a pot of onion soup while Emilie pulled a tureen from the shelf.
    “What’s on your heart, dear?” She’d spoken in German.
    Emilie met the woman’s tender gaze. “It seems quite selfish, given Caroline’s situation.”
    “God sees you, too, dear.”
    Emilie nodded. “On harvest day, Quaid McFarland came with the freight wagon.”
    Mrs. Brantenberg pulled a loaf of bread from the oven. “I remember. The two of you seemed to enjoy each other’s company.”
    “No. Yes.” Emilie moistened her lips. “We hadn’t seen each other since he’d gone to war. Yes, I enjoyed his company, and he seemed to enjoy mine.” Or he wouldn’t have bothered to catch up to her at Lindenwood.
    Mrs. Brantenberg’s sigh waved the wisp of graying hair on her forehead. “Your father doesn’t like it.” A kindhearted look crossed her face.
    Emilie shook her head. “No.” She wanted to say more, but didn’t wish to show disrespect.
    “You care for Quaid.”
    “Yes ma’am, I do.” Emilie set the butter crock on the table. “At first, I thought we were only old friends. Now I have feelings for Quaid that may run deeper.”
    Mrs. Brantenberg’s thin eyebrows arched. “Sounds as if you may have stepped into a brier patch. Barefoot.”
    “That describes it perfectly.” And it hurt, no matter which way she stepped.
    “Without a doubt, a prickly place to be.” Mrs. Brantenberg enfolded her in a warm embrace. “I’ll remember you in my prayers, dear. Your father and Quaid McFarland, too.”
    “Thank you.”
    Mrs. Brantenberg set the wooden spoon on the counter. “In the meantime, the soup is ready.”
    Emilie laid a patchwork mat on the table.
    The back door swung open with a knock. Garrett Cowlishaw stepped into the kitchen, his hat in