Karen Kirst - His Mountain Miss

Her red scarf askew, she reluctantly nodded and, moving away from his touch, settled on the settee. Her hands folded in her lap, her gaze followed his movements as he quickly replaced all the chairs. The lamplights cast a cozy glow about the room, which, with its navy-blue-and-green accents and dark walnut woodwork, gave it a masculine feel that was echoed throughout the house. He wondered if it had ever had feminine touches, or if Charles had removed all reminders of his late wife and his absent daughter.

When he’d finished, she asked, “How do you think it went tonight?”

Standing in the middle of the rug, arms crossed, he gave her his frank opinion. “I think the kids are fortunate to have someone who’s willing to give of their time and energy on their behalf.”

Her chin went up. “I enjoy it.” There was force behind the words.

On this point, he didn’t doubt her. He’d seen her nurturing touches, the easy care of the children as if they were her own. Affection like that couldn’t be faked.

“I know you do.”

Surprised relief flickered in her eyes before her lashes swished down, cutting off his view. She began to pluck at the ruffles on her skirt, her trim, shiny nails winking in the light. “I noticed many of the parents made a point to introduce themselves to you. Was everyone...welcoming?”

The hitch in her voice lured him closer. She must be thinking of the Tremains and their guileless comments. He eased down beside her on the cushion, a respectable twelve inches away, and rested his palms on his thighs. “They were indeed.”

Welcoming and genuinely glad to meet him. Effusive in their praise of Charles. He’d had trouble reconciling the man they’d described as good as gold with the cold, unfeeling grandfather he’d envisioned all these years. The discrepancy troubled him. If Charles was the man they made him out to be, why had he ignored his own family? If he regretted the rift he’d created with his pigheaded stubbornness, why hadn’t he come to New Orleans and attempted to make amends? It wasn’t as if he couldn’t afford to travel. And his health problems hadn’t presented themselves until recent years.

He looked up to find her studying him, trying to decipher his thoughts.

“I received several supper invitations,” he continued, “as well as a request to come to church on Sunday.”

Interest bloomed in her expression. She angled towards him. “Will you come?”

“I haven’t been to church in more than a year,” he admitted. “My mother and I used to attend services together. Then she became ill, and I...” He shook his head, reluctant to think of his beloved mère and her swift decline, the bloom of health stolen from her without warning and without mercy. His wealth had garnered her access to the best medical care available, yet in the end, it hadn’t mattered. No amount of money could’ve prevented her death.

His utter helplessness had nearly destroyed him.

“I understand how it would’ve been difficult for you to go, especially since it was something the two of you did together.”

Megan’s compassion threw him off-kilter. He’d gotten precious little of it back in New Orleans. In the face of his grief, his friends and acquaintances hadn’t known what to say, so they’d avoided the subject altogether. And his father, well, he’d been relieved at his wife’s passing. Gerard was finally free of the unsophisticated mountain girl he’d made the mistake of marrying all those years ago. To him, her love and adoration had been a burden. An embarrassment.

His hands curled into fists. Shoving down the familiar anger and bitterness that thoughts of his father aroused, Lucian nodded. “I couldn’t bring myself to go alone. Besides, all those years I’d gone in order to make her happy. After her passing, there didn’t seem to be any more reason to go.”

Megan’s brow furrowed in consternation. “What about deepening your relationship with God? Learning more about His Word?”

“Relationship? With God?”

“Haven’t you ever shared with Him what’s on your heart? Your hopes, dreams, failures? He already knows, of course, but He wants us to express it through prayer.”

He’d prayed before, on occasion, but it had been brief requests for help. Nothing like what Megan was talking about. “You speak as if God cares about the details of your life. I don’t see Him that way. While I believe He exists and that He created this world for our use and pleasure, I find it difficult to imagine He’d bother Himself with our problems.”

“David wrote in Psalms, ‘O Lord, you have searched me and you know me. You know when I sit and when I rise; you perceive my thoughts from afar. You are familiar with all my ways. Before a word is on my tongue you know it completely, O Lord.’ Does that sound like a God who can’t be bothered with us?”

The gentle curve of her smile, the utter lack of judgment in her eyes, compelled him to be truthful. “It sounds like you’re much better acquainted with the Scriptures than I am. In fact, I can’t recall the last time I opened a Bible.” He thought of his mother’s black Bible tucked safely in his trunk, a tentative link that eased somewhat the ache of her absence.

“It’s not too late to start,” she said encouragingly.

His gaze fell on a small portrait on the side table, one he hadn’t noticed before. Standing, he stepped around her and picked it up, fingers tight on the gilt frame. His grandparents, Charles and Beatrice, in the prime of their lives. And his mother, who looked to be about eight years old, dressed in a simple dress and her dark hair in pigtails. She wasn’t smiling. No one really did for portraits. But her eyes were clear of the familiar shadows, and curiosity marked her rounded face. How might her life have been different—better, freer, happier—if Charles had handled the whole situation differently?

“Tell me something,” he said quietly, still staring at the images. “Did my grandfather believe as you do?”

“Charles loved the Lord,” she answered, matching her tone to his, perhaps sensing the turn of his mood. “He tried to model his life after His teachings, a life pleasing to Him.”

Replacing the frame with a bit more force than necessary, he pivoted to glower down at her, unable to mask the cold fury surging through his veins. “Then surely God wasn’t pleased with his coldhearted treatment of his own daughter. And what of his only grandchild? He didn’t even acknowledge my existence! Isn’t there something in there about loving your neighbor as yourself?”

Surging to her feet, Megan adopted a fighting stance—shoulders back, chin up, hands fisted. A not-so-friendly pirate. “And what of your mother’s behavior? She refused Charles’s numerous pleas to return. He desperately wanted to meet you, Lucian. How could she deny him that? How could you?”

He snorted. Sliced the air with his hand. “What are you talking about? What pleas? The night before she married my father, Charles warned her that if she went through with it, not to bother coming back. Ever.”

“Charles apologized more than once for his past behavior. He sent letters begging her to come and visit. To bring you so that he could spend time with you. Show you around town, introduce you to all the townspeople, take you fishing. She flat-out refused. Charles didn’t tell me why.”

Lucian turned away, shoved a frustrated hand through his hair. No. No, this couldn’t possibly be true. His mother wouldn’t have hidden such a thing from him.

“I don’t know anything about any letters,” he ground out.

He startled when her fingers curled around his biceps, a slight pressure. “Lucian—”

The chime of the doorbell derailed her train of thought. “Would you like me to get that for you?”