Hidden Places by Lynn Austin Page B

chubby.’’ She helped Becky climb down again and fed her a forkful of pancakes. ‘‘I’ll bet you can’t finish your breakfast before your mother finishes hers.’’
    ‘‘Yes, I can!’’
    I watched in astonishment as Becky ate every scrap of food on her plate in record time. It occurred to me that I must still be dreaming.
    I tasted the pancakes and understood right away why the kids wolfed them down. And the coffee was the best I’d tasted since the stock market crashed. It must have come from Aunt Batty’s house, since my coffee was mixed with chicory and tasted nowhere near this good.
    All the while I ate I kept glancing at the spare room door, wondering what I’d find on the other side. Mr. Harper had seemed fine when I went to bed, but fevers could be tricky. He might be all better or he might be dead. I ate slowly, steeling myself for the worst.
    When I finally got up the nerve to peek inside his room I was relieved to hear him snoring. I tiptoed to his bedside and laid my hand on his forehead. It still felt cool. Mr. Harper stirred at my touch, then opened his eyes and looked at me. I felt embarrassed, remembering how freely I’d talked to him last night, holding him in my arms and everything. I hoped he didn’t remember.
    ‘‘Hi,’’ I said shyly. ‘‘How you feeling?’’
    ‘‘Better than I have in a long time.’’ When he smiled he was an altogether different man from the sick one I’d been tending. His gaze unnerved me.
    ‘‘Think you could eat something?’’ I asked when I found my voice.
    ‘‘That coffee smells awfully good.’’
    ‘‘I’ll get you some.’’
    ‘‘Mrs. Wyatt, wait—’’ I paused near the door. ‘‘Listen,’’ he said, ‘‘I was wondering...Iknow I was out of my head last night. Was I saying things?’’
    ‘‘Don’t worry. Nothing made any sense.’’ I breathed a sigh of relief knowing he probably wouldn’t remember the things I’d said, either. But when I saw that he still had a worried look on his face, I tried to reassure him. ‘‘The only words I understood were when you called for your father. You scared me half to death because I figured you were about to die and you were calling on the heavenly Father, asking Him to forgive you.’’ I waited for him to smile again, but he closed his eyes and turned his head away.
    ‘‘I’ll take that coffee now, ma’am...If it’s not too much trouble.’’
    I shut his door and returned to the kitchen. Aunt Batty was singing for all she was worth as she washed the breakfast dishes. ‘‘How’s that angel doing this morning?’’ she said when she’d finished the chorus.
    ‘‘He’s not an angel.’’ I started to explain, then gave up. ‘‘He’s much better. He’d like some coffee if there’s any left.’’
    ‘‘Is he hungry?’’ she asked. ‘‘I can fix him some pancakes, too.’’
    For reasons I couldn’t explain, I suddenly felt shy about tending to Mr. Harper now that he was awake and aware of things. I handed the cup and saucer to Aunt Batty. ‘‘Why don’t you bring this to him and ask him yourself?’’
    ‘‘All right.’’ She dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘‘The children told me all about him yesterday. We’ve been praying for him.’’
    A jolt of alarm rocked me. ‘‘I wish you hadn’t done that.’’
    ‘‘Why not? The Good Book says—’’
    I grabbed Aunt Batty’s arm and hustled her into the pantry so the kids couldn’t hear us talking. ‘‘Listen,’’ I said in an angry whisper, ‘‘our experience with prayer hasn’t been ver y good. We prayed and prayed for their daddy to get better, and he died!’’
    ‘‘Oh, we didn’t pray that the angel would get better—only that God’s will would be done, and that we could accept it.’’
    ‘‘What’s the difference?’’ I said bitterly.
    ‘‘Oh, there’s a big diff—’’
    I pushed past her into kitchen, not wanting to hear her reasoning. ‘‘Becky Jean, come dry