Cheryl St.John - The Preacher's Wife

“I want to do the very best I can for my family. I want to make up to them for what I’ve put them through. You’re so good with my daughters.”

A new start somewhere else? Her mind shot back to those words. “What are you saying?”

“I would be honored if you would marry me and come to Colorado with us,” he said.

The night sounds faded into the silent cocoon of her whirling mind and his words took over her thinking. Astonishment stole her breath. Marry him? He’d asked her to marry him?

He was handsome and smart. She’d witnessed his tenderness toward his children, listened to his strong words of love as he preached straight from the Word of God. This imposing and fascinating man sitting on her porch had proposed to her!

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A peacemaker, a romantic, an idealist and a discouraged perfectionist are the terms that Cheryl uses to describe herself. The award-winning author of both historical and contemporary novels says she’s been told that she is painfully honest.

Cheryl admits to being an avid collector, displaying everything from dolls to depression glass, as well as white ironstone, teapots, cups and saucers, old photographs and—most especially—books. When not doing a home-improvement project, she and her husband love to browse antique shops. In her spare time, she’s an amateur photographer and a pretty good baker.

She says that knowing her stories bring hope and pleasure to readers is one of the best parts of being a writer. The other wonderful part is being able to set her own schedule and have time to work around her growing family.

Cheryl loves to hear from readers! E-mail her at: SaintJohn@aol.com.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

So shall my word be that goeth forth out of my mouth; it shall not return unto me void, but it shall accomplish that which I please, and it shall prosper in the thing whereto I sent it. For ye shall go out with joy, and be led forth with peace: the mountains and the hills shall break forth before you into singing, and all the trees of the field will clap their hands.

—Isaiah 55:11–12

With love and appreciation I dedicate this book to my

mentor, teacher, pastor, prayer partner, painting buddy

and friend, Betty Jo Marples. Special lady, you give

one hundred percent of yourself to all you do and to

everyone who knows you. Whether I need a listening

ear, an advocate or someone to tell me the straight

truth, I can depend on you. Your example encourages

me to look at others through the eyes of Jesus. You

always see the best in me, believe the best for me, and

expect the best from me. Thank you, friend.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Questions for Discussion

Durham, Nebraska, June 1869

Only her husband’s physical body lay beneath the lush grass in the fenced-in cemetery behind the tiny white church. His spirit had gone on to be with the Lord, but her mother-in-law insisted that Sunday afternoons were for paying respects to the dead. Josephine Randolph knelt and pulled a fledgling weed from beside the flat piece of granite engraved with her husband’s name.

Margaretta slipped a lace-edged hankie from the hidden pocket of her emerald-green dress and dabbed her eyes. “He was too young,” she said for the thousandth time. “Too young to lose his life.”

Josie nodded. It had been three years, and while she had mourned her husband’s death and missed his company, there were no tears left. She had loved him. She had been a good wife. But in his affections she had always taken second place to her mother-in-law. She hastened to remind herself that losing a son or daughter was devastating. Margaretta had lost her only child. Of course the woman was still suffering.

“It would be easier if I could take comfort in the fact that he’d left behind a living legacy.”

Knowing and dreading what was coming next, Josie got up and brushed her palms together.

Margaretta sniffed into her hankie. “Your inability to give me a grandchild is almost more than I can bear.”

Josie turned her gaze to the countryside, spotted an orange and black butterfly and watched it flutter on the breeze as she steeled herself.

“A child would have been a part of him I could hold on to. If only right now I could be caring for a little boy or girl with Bram’s features. I would have so loved to watch him grow. His child would have been such a comfort to me.”

Josie wanted to cry, too. She wanted to rail at the woman who made her feel every inch as insignificant as her son had. Didn’t Margaretta think a child would have been a comfort to her, as well? Didn’t she know that Josie’s loneliness was eating her up on the inside? Didn’t she think Josie wanted more out of life than…than…this?

Momentarily, she closed her eyes against the painfully blue summer sky. She’d never wanted anything more than a family of her own. She’d spent her entire childhood waiting for her circuit-judge father to return home. The times he had, he’d spared her only meager attention before leaving again.

Because Bram Randolph had been a local newspaperman, she’d known he wouldn’t be a traveler. She’d married him with the hope of a secure future. Time had proven Bram more concerned with the whims of Margaretta than the needs of his young wife, however. And that was the simple fact.

“You are coming to the house for dinner, aren’t you?”

And be exposed to yet another opportunity for Margaretta to pursue her weekly harangue about Josie’s barrenness? Josie opened her eyes. “I’m fixing a stew for Reverend Martin,” she replied matter-of-factly. “I’ll stay and keep him company.”

“He seems to be recovering well.” Margaretta smoothed the fingers of her beaded gloves. “Whatever you’re doing must be working.”

Josie managed a smile. “God’s doing His part, too.”

Margaretta gathered the hem of her voluminous skirt and walked across the thick spring grass toward the street.

Josie glanced down and read the headstone again. “Beloved son and husband.” Not father. Sometimes she felt so incomplete, so alone. She hadn’t given her husband children, and for that glaring inadequacy, Margaretta would never forgive her.

“Have a good afternoon!” she called after the woman.

Margaretta delivered a tepid wave and continued marching toward her home a few blocks away. Josie experienced the same relief she always did when her obligatory mourning session and weekly dressing-down was over. At least she’d had a good reason to forgo lengthening the torment by joining the woman for a meal. Margaretta’s house had a cold, depressing atmosphere that matched the woman’s attitude.