move here as the town’s blacksmith, paying for his and Sarah’s passages when there wasn’t enough money to make the trek across country.
When Sarah died, Zeb had begun the search for a new town doctor. Not that Pete blamed Doc Dempsey for the tragedy, but it had been clear that the old man needed help. Zeb’s year-long search hadn’t proved successful— yet —but Pete knew Sarah’s death, Doc Dempsey’s advanced age and all the increased need for medical help since the tornado, kept his friend diligent in the ongoing pursuit.
For that alone, Pete valued Zeb’s friendship.
“Think we’ll get the building done in time for the festival?” Zeb asked.
“We have to,” Pete answered with conviction. “The town needs a day of celebration.”
Zeb nodded. “Yeah. It’s about time we focused on High Plain’s founding principles of faith, love and fortitude, rather than all the tragedies and loss we’ve had to endure.”
Pete’s gut clenched, but he refused to think about Sarah or his son. He forced his mind on the town hall, and nothing else, especially his own loss.
“It’s a mighty task we have ahead of us,” Zeb added.
“We can do it.”
“Yes, we can.”
Of course, neither of them stated the obvious. If they wanted the town hall complete in time for the summer festival they would have to focus all their efforts on this one building. Even then, they would be cutting it close. The festival was scheduled for the end of August, a mere seven weeks away. There was at least nine weeks of work still to be done.
Pete recognized the curling in his gut as apprehension. Unfortunately, the emotion wasn’t due solely to the rebuilding task that lay ahead. Zeb wasn’t finished with him yet.
Feet braced, Pete swallowed back a sudden urge to return to his smithy, the one place where he could use work to free his mind and avoid well-meaning friends.
“I heard about your conversation with Matilda Johnson this morning,” Zeb said in a deceptively neutral tone.
Pete kept his gaze cemented to the window casing just to the left of the front door. “I suspect everyone in town has heard about it by now.”
“Does Rebecca know she’s marrying you yet?”
A pall of defeat enveloped him. “I informed her, yes.”
“You informed her?”
“Yeah.” Pete’s throat tightened. “She refused me.”
“Pete, Pete, no wonder she turned you down, you can’t—”
“Don’t, Zeb.” He lifted a restraining hand in the air. “There’s nothing you can say that I haven’t said to myself.”
That earned him a dry chuckle.
In the midst of his burning frustration, Pete experienced something he hadn’t felt in a long time. Peace. The kind of soul-deep serenity that came when he followed the Lord’s will for his life. He didn’t know why a sense of calm settled over him so completely. Nor did he know how he’d come to this point of acceptance. All he knew for certain was that marrying Rebecca Gundersen was the right thing to do.
“She will marry me,” he said with renewed confidence.
“Is that so?”
Before he could explain further, Pete felt a prickling at the back of his neck. He shot a glance over his shoulder.
“The Tully brothers.” He nearly spat the words.
A muscle twitched in Zeb’s jaw. “Those boys have just about worn out their welcome in this town.”
Pete made a sound of agreement in his throat, although “boys” was not an accurate term. Sal, the oldest and meanest, was in his late twenties. The other two were only a few years behind him. But no matter their age, with their filthy clothes, matted hair and raucous natures, the Tully brothers were walking, talking trouble.
They’d arrived a month ago with the wagon train that had been devastated by the tornado, and had chosen to stay in town when the rest of the train had moved on. Fromday one, the “boys” had accepted food and lodging while providing little in return.
“We’ve seen their type come through before,” Pete
When Sarah died, Zeb had begun the search for a new town doctor. Not that Pete blamed Doc Dempsey for the tragedy, but it had been clear that the old man needed help. Zeb’s year-long search hadn’t proved successful— yet —but Pete knew Sarah’s death, Doc Dempsey’s advanced age and all the increased need for medical help since the tornado, kept his friend diligent in the ongoing pursuit.
For that alone, Pete valued Zeb’s friendship.
“Think we’ll get the building done in time for the festival?” Zeb asked.
“We have to,” Pete answered with conviction. “The town needs a day of celebration.”
Zeb nodded. “Yeah. It’s about time we focused on High Plain’s founding principles of faith, love and fortitude, rather than all the tragedies and loss we’ve had to endure.”
Pete’s gut clenched, but he refused to think about Sarah or his son. He forced his mind on the town hall, and nothing else, especially his own loss.
“It’s a mighty task we have ahead of us,” Zeb added.
“We can do it.”
“Yes, we can.”
Of course, neither of them stated the obvious. If they wanted the town hall complete in time for the summer festival they would have to focus all their efforts on this one building. Even then, they would be cutting it close. The festival was scheduled for the end of August, a mere seven weeks away. There was at least nine weeks of work still to be done.
Pete recognized the curling in his gut as apprehension. Unfortunately, the emotion wasn’t due solely to the rebuilding task that lay ahead. Zeb wasn’t finished with him yet.
Feet braced, Pete swallowed back a sudden urge to return to his smithy, the one place where he could use work to free his mind and avoid well-meaning friends.
“I heard about your conversation with Matilda Johnson this morning,” Zeb said in a deceptively neutral tone.
Pete kept his gaze cemented to the window casing just to the left of the front door. “I suspect everyone in town has heard about it by now.”
“Does Rebecca know she’s marrying you yet?”
A pall of defeat enveloped him. “I informed her, yes.”
“You informed her?”
“Yeah.” Pete’s throat tightened. “She refused me.”
“Pete, Pete, no wonder she turned you down, you can’t—”
“Don’t, Zeb.” He lifted a restraining hand in the air. “There’s nothing you can say that I haven’t said to myself.”
That earned him a dry chuckle.
In the midst of his burning frustration, Pete experienced something he hadn’t felt in a long time. Peace. The kind of soul-deep serenity that came when he followed the Lord’s will for his life. He didn’t know why a sense of calm settled over him so completely. Nor did he know how he’d come to this point of acceptance. All he knew for certain was that marrying Rebecca Gundersen was the right thing to do.
“She will marry me,” he said with renewed confidence.
“Is that so?”
Before he could explain further, Pete felt a prickling at the back of his neck. He shot a glance over his shoulder.
“The Tully brothers.” He nearly spat the words.
A muscle twitched in Zeb’s jaw. “Those boys have just about worn out their welcome in this town.”
Pete made a sound of agreement in his throat, although “boys” was not an accurate term. Sal, the oldest and meanest, was in his late twenties. The other two were only a few years behind him. But no matter their age, with their filthy clothes, matted hair and raucous natures, the Tully brothers were walking, talking trouble.
They’d arrived a month ago with the wagon train that had been devastated by the tornado, and had chosen to stay in town when the rest of the train had moved on. Fromday one, the “boys” had accepted food and lodging while providing little in return.
“We’ve seen their type come through before,” Pete
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