The Runaway Pastor's Wife by Diane Moody, Hannah Schmitt

thing. Nobody else would
understand at all. Like how we’d always bicker over the last biscuit at
breakfast. I’d offer it to her, she’d refuse it. She’d say ‘Gotta watch my
weight, George,’ just as serious as all get out. Then we’d fuss back and forth
three or four more times—use those same identical words every single morning of
our married life together. Then, of course, I’d say ‘Well, Ina, if it’ll help
you stay as beautiful as you are today, I’ll eat it. But only because you
insist.’ Then she’d flip a dish towel and pop me on the shoulder with it and
say ‘George Wilkins, you just beat all!’ We’d go through that little ritual
every morning just like clockwork. Pretty silly, I suppose.” Doc sipped his
coffee. “But it just goes to show we all have our quirky little ways of saying
I love you. Doesn’t make a lick of sense to anyone else, but then I guess it
doesn’t have to.” He smiled, gazing into the fire.
     

     
    Annie
stomped her snow-covered boots on the welcome mat then opened the door to the
quaint country store. The slow squeak of the door announced her arrival.
    “Afternoon, we’re back here,” a voice called out
from the rear of the store. A jovial woman stepped behind the long counter. She
smiled warmly. “C’mon in here, honey, and warm yourself by the fire. You look
like one big shiver with an exclamation point thrown in for good measure!”
    “It’s freezing out there,” Annie answered,
pushing back the hood of her coat.
    “Freezing? Heavens, this is practically a balmy
day for Weber Creek. But stick around a few days if you want to see freezing,”
the woman continued. “Big storm rolling in that’ll curl your toes. Can I get
you some coffee? I just made a fresh pot.”
    “Oh, that sounds wonderful. Thank you, I’d love
some.” Annie moved toward the oversized hearth, pulling off her brightly
colored mittens to warm her hands by the fire. She nodded at an older gentleman
with a thick head of white hair who was gently rocking his chair.
    “How do.”
    “Hello.” She returned his smile. “This is just
what I needed. It’s lovely.”
    “Well here, young lady,” he said, standing. “Let
me give these old logs a nudge and see if we can’t give you a real fire.” He
grabbed the poker and stoked the giant logs. “Name’s George Wilkins, but most
folks ’round here just call me Doc.”
    She took his outstretched hand firmly, relishing
its warmth. “Nice to meet you. I’m Annie.”
    Mary Jean handed her the steaming mug of coffee.
“Hi, Annie. I’m Mary Jean Williamson. What brings you to our little neck of the
woods?”
    Annie warmed both her hands around the large mug
and sat down. “I’m on my way up to a cabin just a little further up the road.
It belongs to an old friend of mine, Christine Benson—I mean Christine
Benson-Hamilton. I haven’t seen her since college, and I’m still not used to
her married name. Although she’s not married anymore so I’m not sure what name
she goes by?”
    Annie yawned. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I’ve been on
the road for several hours and I’m afraid it’s just about worn me out.”
    Mary Jean sat down on one of the remaining
rockers as Doc continued to stand with his back to the fire. “Don’t often see a
young lady traveling alone around here, what with the roads so tough this time
of year.”
    Annie looked into her mug for a moment, then carefully
sipped the brew. Her eyes misted over. Clearing her throat, she filled the
uneasy silence. “Actually, I’m on a long overdue vacation. Christine has begged
me for years to come up here and stay at her cabin.” She paused a moment then
added, “I finally decided to take her up on it.”
    She got up to avoid their stares, moving closer
to the crackling fire.
    “You’ll love it up there at Eagle’s Nest,” Doc
said. “Christine inherited that cabin. It’s been in the family for years. Of
course, it looks completely different than when her parents