Lyn Cote - Her Patchwork Family

Ty knew he should go get Camie and carry her home. What would people say when they heard that he had left his only child at an orphan’s home?

He didn’t care. He recalled how happy Camie had been at dinner.

A hand came through the darkness and rested on his arm. “Thee has been carrying a heavy burden, friend. I will pray that the God who loves us will show us the way to help thy little one.”

Her kind, unreproachful words reached him and soothed him like no others. He rose, his exhausted body aching, but with hope and peace flickering like a candle flame inside him. “I will go home now. My mother will come tomorrow. Thank you for your understanding.”

Ty forced himself to walk away from her comforting presence. Miss Felicity Gabriel was different than any other woman he’d met. Her smile dazzled him. Love flowed from her. Why should it surprise him that Camie had been drawn to her? She had drawn him, too.

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Lyn Cote and her husband, her real-life hero, became in-laws recently when their son married his true love. Lyn already loves her daughter-in-law and enjoys this new adventure in family stretching. Lyn and her husband still live on the lake in the north woods, where they watch a bald eagle and its young soar and swoop overhead throughout the year. She wishes the best to all her readers. You may e-mail Lyn at l.cote@juno.com or write her at P.O. Box 864, Woodruff, WI 54548. And drop by her blog www.strongwomenbravestories.blogspot.com and read stories of strong women in real life and in true-to-life fiction. “Every woman has a story. Share yours.”

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Trust in the LORD and do good.

—Psalm 37:3

To my fellow Love Inspired authors—

you are a blessing to me!

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Epilogue

Questions for Discussion

Gettysburg, Pennsylvania

May 1867

Keeping to the line of fir trees rippling in the wind, Felicity Gabriel tiptoed to the rear of the dark clump of mourners at the memorial service. There she attempted to hide behind a bulky man. A strong gust tried to snatch away Felicity’s Quaker bonnet and lift her gray skirt. She held on to the ribbons tied at her throat and pushed her skirt down. Ahead, she glimpsed the pastor holding on to his hat while reading from the Bible.

Her emotions hopped like crickets within her, distracting her from the familiar scriptures of victory over death. Then the man shielding her moved. She caught sight of the brand-new limestone marker. All that was left to show that Augustus Josiah Mueller had lived. Seeing Gus’s cold stone marker with the dates 1846–1865 took her breath. She drew in damp air. Gus.

The war had lured Gus away and then cruelly abandoned him in an unmarked grave somewhere in Virginia. The cannons were all silent now, but when would the consequences of this war end—one generation? Two? More?

“Why are you here?” The voice Felicity had dreaded hearing snapped like the sharp tongue of a whip.

She looked at the mourners and murmured, “I’m here to show my respect to Gus, Agnes Mueller.” Felicity lowered her eyes, not wanting to linger on the woman’s red-rimmed, hate-filled eyes.

“I’m surprised that you had the gall to show your face here today.” Each word was delivered like a blow.

“Agnes, please,” Josiah Mueller pleaded, tugging at his wife’s elbow.

“Our Gus is gone forever and we are left without consolation. And here you stand!” the woman shrilled, her voice rising.

There was a rustling in the crowd. Felicity knew there was nothing she could say or do that would comfort this woman who’d lost her only child. Or end her groundless grudge against Felicity. So she kept her eyes lowered, staring at the soggy ground wetting her shoes.

The tirade continued until the woman became incoherent and was led away, sobbing. As the mourners followed, many nodded to Felicity or touched her arm. They all knew the truth.

When everyone else had gone, Felicity approached the stone marker. Tears collected in her eyes. She knew it was human foolishness to speak words to a soul at a grave site, but she still whispered, “I’m leaving Pennsylvania, Gus, but I won’t forget thee ever.” And then removing her glove, she spit on her palm and pressed it—flat and firm against the cold stone.

Altoona, Illinois

September 1867

Amid the bustling Mississippi wharf, Ty Hawkins eased down onto the venerable raised chair. The chair was now his daily refuge where he got his shoes shined. Afterwards, he would catch a bite to eat at a nearby café. He rarely felt hungry these days even though he was several pounds lighter than he’d ever been as an adult. He would have liked to go home for lunch, sit on his shaded back porch and cool off. But he couldn’t face home so soon again.

I’m home but I’m not home.

This dreadful fact brought a sharp pang around his rib; he rubbed it, trying to relieve the pain. What am I going to do about Camie?

Jack Toomey had shined shoes here as long as Ty had worn them. Ty smiled and returned Jack’s friendly good day. The shoeshine man’s dark face creased into a grin. “It’s going to be another scorcher.”

“’Fraid so, Jack.”

“When is it going to realize it’s fall?” As Jack blackened Ty’s shoe, he gave him a long, penetrating look. He lowered his eyes. “Coming home’s not easy. Takes time. Patience.”

Jack seemed to be one of the few who understood Ty’s suffering. The shoeshine man’s sympathetic insight wrapped itself around Ty’s vocal cords. Jack glanced up. Ty could only nod.

Jack’s gaze dropped to Ty’s shoes. “It’ll get better. It wasn’t easy going off to learn how to shoot people and it isn’t easy to put down the rifle and come back.”

Ty managed to grunt. No one said things like this to him. Everyone seemed to overlook how hard it was not to jump at any loud noise, or to walk out in the open without scanning his surroundings for people who wanted to kill him. Ty wondered for a moment what Jack would advise if Ty told him about Camie’s dilemma.

The thought of discussing this private trouble with someone other than family only showed how desperate he was becoming.

Two urchins had come up to a woman on the street begging. She turned from the wagon and stooped down so her face was level with the children’s. Through the moving stream of people on the street, Ty watched the unusual woman. The ragged, grimy children—a little girl who held a younger boy by the hand—nodded. “What’s she up to?” Ty muttered to Jack.

“She don’t look like the kind who would hurt a child,” Jack said, looking over his shoulder again as he continued polishing Ty’s shoe.