Safe Pasture

By Donna Chapman Gilbert

Susanna Parker, a newly-unemployed single mom, visits her Aunt Ora in Wyoming and discovers that Ora's God is full of surprises. Susanna begins her own journey of faith amid a swirl of new experiences. From a handsome businessman to a sprawling cattle ranch, she encounters joys and dangers she never expects.

Zeke McCall is haunted by a past that neither his young daughter nor his beloved ranch can overcome. Then Susanna signs on as ranch cook. Does he dare love again? And must Susanna be forced to make the most difficult choice of her life?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Donna Chapman Gilbert
• Release date: Mar 31, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458106421

Donna Chapman Gilbert

Donna Chapman Gilbert lives in Carrollton, Texas, and has worked for much too long to admit at a downtown Dallas law firm. Faced with a boring two-hour commute to the office every day, she began to write while riding the bus. (Thanks for the opportunity, Dallas Area Rapid Transit!) Donna spends way too much time on Facebook and devising ways to get out of housework. Fortunately, her handsome husband’s super power is doing laundry, or her family would never have clean clothes. Donna and her husband Laundry Man have two grown sons, one a professional performer and the other a sweet, intelligent, non-verbal soul who has taught her much about God’s grace. She co-founded the North Texas Chapter of Families for Effective Autism Treatment. Donna sings in her church choir and loves to quilt, garden, and of course, read.

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WHAT OTHERS ARE SAYING ABOUT SAFE PASTURE:

Delightful! Her characters are warm and real, the story's conflicts entirely believable, and the protagonists' faith journeys gripping.

-- Peggy Stoks, Author of Olivia's Touch

A page turner along the same caliber as a book by Tracie Peterson or James Scott Bell.

-- Michelle Connell, On-Line Book Reviewer

Ms. Gilbert has a great command of dialogue and dialect—the conversations are easy to hear.

-- Robin Hardy, Author of Streiker's Bride

The characters keep you riveted and the dialogue is strong. Trust in Safe Pasture to be an entertaining read.

-- Tracy Farnsworth, Roundtable Reviews

This is a well-crafted story. I just couldn't put this book down.

-- Jeffrey A. Davis, Author of Invasion of the Togakura

SAFE PASTURE

by

Donna Chapman Gilbert

Copyright 2003 Donna Chapman Gilbert

Smashwords Edition

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All Rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publishers, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine or journal.

Scripture taken from the HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION. Copyright 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan Publishing House. All rights reserved.

The NIV and New International Version trademarks are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office by International Bible Society. Use of either trademark requires the permission of International Bible Society.

Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright 1996 by Tyndale Charitable Trust. All rights reserved.

Satisfied, by Clara T. Williams and Ralph E. Hudson. Public Domain.

Carmen: An Opera in Four Acts. Rightsholder is Random House (UK) Ltd. Permission granted.

For Tim

confidant, lover, friend

You never promised blue skies,

but most of them have been.

Trust in the LORD and do good; dwell in the land and enjoy safe pasture.

Delight yourself in the LORD and he will give you the desires of your heart.

Psalm 37:4,5 (NIV)

Prologue

Charlie lifted his felt hat and wiped the sweat from his brow, glad to be free of the stifling house. Here on the front porch was a bit of a breeze, at least. He gazed to the east across the rolling prairie, now parched and brown. Miz McCall’s petunias had long since withered to stems despite her efforts to keep them watered. August was just too much for them, especially this August. It had been the worst summer he could remember, and he had lived through many a scorcher back home. Wyoming’s cool green mountains had lured him here from Arkansas in the first place. Well, the mountains were here, all right, just to the west, but they weren’t cool today.

Dadgum fool weather, muttered Charlie, replacing his hat.

Mister Bill was worried, he could tell. Snows on the peaks had melted long before June, and the creek was down to a trickle. This would be hard on the herd. Mister Bill and the men were driving the bulk of it down from the upper pastures today to be near the well. Their range would be limited and they were sure to lose weight, no doubt about it. Of course, Mister Bill could get a loan to buy feed. Either way, he’d lose money.

Charlie snorted. No use mopin’. That never paid no bills.

He clomped down the front steps, his spurs ringing. Miz McCall had requested he stay behind and mend the back screen door, and he’d been happy to oblige. He liked Miz McCall; she reminded him of his mama—a real smiley, hymn-singing woman. It was a pure pleasure to be around her.

The door was fixed now, and she had sent him to fetch Sarah, the family’s youngest. His eyes did a quick scan of the place, from the smoke house to the farthest corral. Not a sign.

He grinned, thinking of the little blonde-haired girl who had stolen all their hearts. She was five going on twenty—sweet as honeysuckle one minute and tart as vinegar the next. That one surely did have a mind of her own. They’d all tried to tame her, but Zeke was the only person who could control her much. She adored her big brother. And though he made out like he didn’t, Zeke felt the same way about her.

Like as not, if he found Zeke he’d find Sarah. Now where would that young’un be? Daydreaming, most likely. Bill Jr. and Sam were old enough to help with the cattle, but Zeke was a bit too young to be much help to the ranch hands. Besides, he could hardly get his nose out of a book long enough to cinch a saddle.

Considering where the coolest place on the ranch was likely to be, Charlie headed for the windmill on the hill past the house. Sure enough, there was young Zeke, head bowed over a book and hand gripping a glass of lemonade. He had positioned himself so that the drips from a leaky pipe landed on his neck. Pretty good thinking, thought Charlie with a smile. He would never admit it out loud, but of all the McCall children, Zeke was his favorite.

He was absorbed in his book and didn’t even notice Charlie walk up.

Whatcha readin’ there, son?

Zeke’s eyes twitched in surprise, but never left the page. The encyclopedia.

Charlie looked over his shoulder: Rembrandt...Remington.

Plot’s mighty thin, I reckon. You seen Sarah lately?

Naw, said Zeke, his eyebrows creasing together, I sent her back to the house. She was pesterin’ me.

Now I cain’t believe that of our Sarie. You sent her back just now?

Nope, right after dinner. Hour or so ago, I guess.

Well, she ain’t there now. To himself he added, Now where do you reckon she went?

Zeke’s frown deepened. Wanted me to go ridin’ with her. And it’s the hottest part of the day. I told her she was crazy.

Don’t imagine that set too well with her. Sarah usually got her way, even with Zeke.

Nope, he shrugged and returned to his reading.

Yore mama wants her. I’d best be lookin’.

He sauntered down the hill, picking up speed toward the bottom. She was most likely in the barn out of the sun. Sarah had a fond spot for horses, particularly Marigold, the two-year-old filly. He’d found her one day feeding that danged horse her mama’s oatmeal raisin cookies. Being Sarah’s favorite, Mister Bill had kept Marigold out of the ranch’s working remuda; consequently, she hadn’t been ridden much. She was more or less Sarah’s pet. He was sure he’d find her brushing that filly and giving her an earful about her no-account brother.

The barn door was unlatched and open. Neither Sarah nor Marigold was inside. They weren’t in the rear corral with the spare horses either.

Charlie felt a twinge in his gut. If that young’un was out riding that horse, Mister Bill would whip her, sure enough. One thing Mister Bill would not tolerate was his baby girl out alone on the prairie.

He saddled his best horse and set out west in search of her. Sarah would likely head out toward the creek, and that worried him. It meant she’d be in the foothills, and that was no place for an inexperienced rider. Suddenly he changed his course, thinking she might have gone north toward the old home place to see her Grandpa Ezekiel.

As the old house came into view, Charlie felt a bit foolish for having spurred his mount all the way. Sarah would be all right. After all, she’d been around horses all her life.

There was no sign of Marigold about the place, but Martha McCall had heard him ride up and was at the door.

‘Zekiel! she called into the house. Somebody here to see us.

Charlie tipped his hat. Afternoon, Miz McCall. Hot one, ain’t it?

Yes, indeedy. Get on down from there and sit a spell. I’ve got iced tea. ‘Zekiel! she hollered, turning just in time to bump into her husband on his way out the door.

There you are. This young feller has come to call. I’ll fetch the tea. You like sugar in yours? she said, peering up at Charlie.

Thank you, ma’am. I’d like to, but I cain’t. I—

Ezekiel said, And why not? Get down here and rest those weary bones.

The old man’s voice boomed, from all those years in the pulpit, Charlie supposed. It was a sure thing he didn’t need any of those new-fangled microphones some churches were installing these days.

He shifted in the saddle. He didn’t want to worry the old couple, but it had to be asked. Has Sarah been up this away the last hour or so?

No. No. Has she, Martha? he added, turning to his wife.

Law, she isn’t missing, is she? worried Martha.

Well, ma’am, not exactly. It’s just that right now we don’t know where she’s at.

She replied, Land sakes, I’m worn out just wondering what trouble that girl will get herself into next.

Now, Martha, comforted Ezekiel, she’ll turn up. She always does. But you’ll keep lookin’ for her, won’t you, Charlie?

You betcha. She’s probably already home by now. See y’all again soon.

Thoughtfully they watched him ride away. Five minutes later Charlie crested the rise just north of the ranch house and looked for any sign of Sarah. Sure enough, there was Marigold placidly drinking from the trough.

His relief was short-lived. Just then Zeke came running from the house, closely followed by his mother. From the looks on their faces, something was very wrong.

Charlie! yelled Zeke. Charlie met him on the run. Breathlessly Zeke said, Marigold came back without Sarah!

That twinge in his gut just got stronger.

Chapter 1

Away From It All

If I hadn’t been so preoccupied, I probably would not have hit him. As it was, I didn’t notice the Cadillac swerving into the car length space in front of me until too late. By the time I braked, my bumper was crashing into his. I braced myself for the car in back to hit me. But luckily it managed to stop in time.

We were in the center of five lanes of rush hour traffic. To pull off onto the shoulder would be more trouble than it was worth, so the driver of the Cadillac put the car in park and threw open his door.

Why don’t you watch where you’re going? he scowled.

It was pointless to argue that he had not signaled and should never have whipped into that tiny space anyhow. Both of us surveyed the damage. His steel behemoth did not have a scratch on it anywhere. My Toyota’s little bumper was badly mangled, though.

After giving his car the once over, he looked relieved. Oh, well, no harm done. Let’s just forget it.

Easy for him to say. I was the one stuck with a repair bill.

It had not been a good morning. A typical Monday. Rusty had been cranky and reluctant to return to school. He hadn’t eaten his breakfast, and then complained in the car that he was hungry. The rain soaked his new shoes by the time he reached the door of the day care center, and then I remembered that we had forgotten to put his homework in his backpack. By the time I reached the highway, my head was pounding.

Lyndon B. Johnson Freeway in rush hour is not a pretty sight, even less so in pounding rain. Ordinarily I enjoyed the drive to work. When the traffic crawled, I had a chance to put my mind in neutral and enjoy what little scenery was available in Dallas. It was May 1985, and the broad highway median was a crazy quilt of pink evening primroses stitched together here and there with strands of bluebonnets. I often thought that there was no prettier sight than those fragile primroses opening their faces to the rising sun. But this morning they wrapped their petals around themselves like raincoats. They looked as miserable as I felt.

For some time I had been fighting a growing discontent. I had tried to convince myself that it was simply a passing phase, but could not seem to rationalize it away. This morning I had plenty of time to think, parked as I was on the Interstate, but for the hundredth time I put it off, under the theory that if you ignore something long enough it will go away.

I flipped on the radio. This is Johnny Travers, wishin’ you a KPLX country good morning. Rusty had been fiddling with the buttons again. I switched to a classical station and slumped down in the seat, wishing I weren’t starting the day in damp clothes. The mad dash from the condo to the car had gotten us both wet, and I hoped Rusty wouldn’t get sick again. He had suffered a series of colds lately, though the doctor suspected they were allergic reactions to the city’s smog.

A movement in the car beside me caught my eye. I watched fascinated as the driver applied mascara while her car inched forward. I wasn’t that desperate yet. But I did steal a glance at myself in the rear view mirror. My hair was already frizzing from the rain. And once again I regretted that my teeth had never been fitted with braces. Oh, well, I wouldn’t win any pageants, but I didn’t look too bad for a 33 year old widow who only got four hours sleep last night.

When at last my exit came into view, I gunned the car onto the frontage road. I hated to be late, and wouldn’t be if I could possibly help it. Furtively running the last light before the parking garage entrance, I turned in and whirled up the garage ramp, the tires squealing in protest, only to find my parking place taken by someone else, the second time in as many weeks.

I found an unreserved space and parked, yanking my purse and umbrella out of the car. The rain had slacked off, but was still a nuisance on the way to the building. Gray and dripping, Security Bank Tower stood imposingly on the edge of North Dallas’s financial district, a glass and steel island of stability in an uncertain commercial sea. As I entered the building, my heels clicking on the marble floor, I hoped Mr. Renfro hadn’t beat me in.

My boss was chairman and chief executive officer of the bank. Through him I had met some of the most influential men in the Southwest, the movers and shakers of society. Politicians, oil barons and entrepreneurs had shaken my hand. These were impressive people, and I had done my best to improve myself so as not to be an embarrassment to the bank. In an effort to sound cosmopolitan, I had more or less eliminated my East Texas twang, having discovered that anyone north of Tulsa held a deep down suspicion that a person with an accent like mine could not possibly be very smart. Still, most of the time I felt out of place, rather like a clam on the beach—close enough to the water to survive but not really home.

I greeted Mildred, the lobby receptionist, and took the elevator to the 27th floor. The phone was ringing when I reached my desk. Dumping my purse in a drawer, I answered, Mr. Renfro’s office. Susanna Parker speaking.

The voice on the other end was conspiratorial. Well, it’s all gonna hit the fan today.

It was Mildred. I cringed, fervently wishing I didn’t have to deal with the office gossip this early in the morning, and steeled myself for anything from news of a broken fingernail to the start of World War III.

What do you mean?

The feds are everywhere. There must be twenty of them on the way to Renfro’s office.

What? Just then the other phone line lit up. Mildred, I’ve got to take another call, I said, and switched lines.

This voice was breathless as well. Susanna, what’s going on? Some FDIC people just went into Garrett’s office, said an assistant to one of the bank’s branch managers.

This did not sound good at all. My mind groped for a comforting explanation. Oh, it’s probably just an audit. They’ve been cracking down on all the savings and loans since ‘81. As I spoke, four men in dark suits entered the executive suite. I ended the phone conversation and hid my fears behind a smile.

The group’s spokesman said, Good morning. I’m Brad Woltman of the FDIC. We’d like to see Royce Renfro.

Certainly. Have a seat, gentlemen. At that moment two policemen entered the room. I knocked on Renfro’s door and I went into his office, shutting the door behind me. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days.

Some men from the FDIC are here.

Apparently the news was no surprise. He heaved a sigh. Show them in.

With a sinking heart, I said, Is this what I think it is?

He answered with a grim nod. I opened his door and said, Mr. Renfro will see you now.

As the massive mahogany door shut behind them, I stood there feeling like a kite before a hurricane. Why hadn’t I anticipated this? Although top level executives weren’t in the habit of confiding financial information to their administrative assistants, surely I should have seen this coming. There had been indications, of course, that something was amiss in Royce Renfro’s financial kingdom. For one thing, Renfro, always the flamboyant entrepreneur, had in the past few years become famous for throwing parties that had set even seasoned socialites buzzing. It was a common occurrence for him to fly the bank’s major customers in his private jet to Tokyo or Paris for an evening’s entertainment. The fact that most of those customers were high powered realtors or land developers was strictly coincidental, I thought. After all, most of our clients were in the real estate business. The cost of these little jaunts must have been staggering, but I never knew the exact amounts. Those particular expense reports were funneled directly to the chief operating officer.

Lately the parties had stopped and the gregarious bank president had taken to closeting himself with the general counsel or chief financial officer, both of whom had ebbed in and out of his office like the tide. Surely Mr. Renfro, who had catapulted from obscurity in Watonga, Oklahoma, to one of the most prestigious banks in Texas, would not risk involving Security Bank in the savings and loan scandal that had rocked Texas the past few years. Consequently, I had reasoned that his haggard countenance was the result of his recent separation from his wife. Mrs. Renfro had filed for divorce scarcely a month ago. Now I knew why.

My next thought was of myself. If Renfro was arrested, I was out of a job. What would Rusty and I do? Secretarial jobs were out there, of course, but not many at the salary to which I was accustomed. I reached for the classified section of the Dallas Times Herald as the telephone rang.

The voice on the other end rasped, This is the IRS. Tell Renfro he’s in big trouble.

For an instant I froze, and sputtered a moment before I recognized the voice of Hal Hoover, an old fraternity buddy of Renfro’s who headed a large accounting firm downtown. Hal was happily married, I was told, but was quite a cut-up, and he delighted in flirting with me at every opportunity. He had pulled this kind of prank before.

Oh, Hal—it’s you.

When are you going to let me fly you to Mexico, darlin’? he said.

I might just take you up on it. You wouldn’t believe what’s going on around here today.

Try me.

The FDIC just showed up. They’re in with Mr. Renfro right now.

Hal whistled softly. In that case, what I have to tell him can wait. Tell Royce I’m here all day if he needs me.

Okay. In a pathetic attempt at humor, I said, Say, you wouldn’t happen to need a good secretary, would you?

Well, maybe. Tell you what, why don’t you wear that green sweater to my office and we’ll talk about it.

I chuckled. I guess I asked for that, didn’t I?

Seriously, hon, I’ll let you know if I hear of anything. Hang in there.

Nervously I straightened the piles on my desk until the men emerged from Renfro’s office, grim and determined. One remained in the executive suite, while the others moved toward the elevator. Mr. Renfro walked to my desk, his expression a mixture of dismay and relief.

They’re locking the doors. I’m sorry, Susanna, but you’re out of a job. I guess it’s no surprise.

Had it really been that obvious? Had I actually buried my head in the sand that deeply? I gripped a pen so tightly my knuckles hurt.

If you can, Mr. Renfro added, I’d like you to stay awhile to help me get some calls made.

The rest of the morning was a daze of phone calls and personal good-byes to the people I had spent the last three years with. Government examiners swarmed the office like locusts. Now that the ax had fallen, Mr. Renfro seemed almost relaxed, even joking with the other executives about prison food, which of course did nothing to ease the lump in my throat. I was scared, disappointed, humiliated that such a thing could happen to my company. The final insult came as an examiner pored through my box of personal belongings before I was allowed to leave the building.

By one o’clock my Toyota was on the road again. The weather had cleared, the Southwest sun shone once more, and this morning’s fender bender seemed like a year ago. Well, what now? What do the unemployed do with themselves all day, anyway? Despite the fact that I had often complained about my lack of time to relax, now that I had the time, relaxation was the furthest thing from my mind. I must start job hunting right away, of course. By scrimping, Rusty and I could float for a few months, but I didn’t want to deplete my savings. I glanced at the passenger seat to make sure I had remembered to bring home the want ads, checked the traffic, and switched lanes to head home. Then on second thought, home would be lonely right now, and instinct told me I could use some company. At the last minute I swerved right and onto the Webbs Chapel Road exit ramp.

Jennifer’s home sat among stately elms and sycamores in a lovely old section of Farmers Branch. There was a park nearby, and I had to brake while several errant ducks waddled across the street. I worried that she might be at aerobics class and I would be forced to go to my empty condo, but thankfully her van was parked in the drive.

My finger was poised above the doorbell when the front door flew open and Jennifer appeared, keys in hand and a workout bag slung over her shoulder. She gasped when she saw me, and her free hand flew to her chest.

Susanna! My word, you scared the daylights out of me. What are you doing here? Why aren’t you at work?

I gave her a rueful smile. There’s no more work to go to.

Jennifer stared at me open mouthed for a full five seconds, then sighed and pursed her lips. Come on in, she said, pulling me by the arm into the entry.

But you were going out. My protest sounded feeble, even to me.

These thighs have been this size since Heather was born. One more day won’t matter.

We walked through Jennifer’s spacious two story home toward the den. My brother in law had done well by her, and it showed in the professionally decorated rooms. Sinking gratefully into a recliner, I glanced at the artwork above the couch.

New print, Jen?

She followed my gaze as she tossed her gym bag in a corner. Oh, yeah. Dick picked it up in Madrid last week.

Ever thought you’d have anything like that when we were growing up in Longview?

She rolled her eyes. All I ever thought about back then was getting out of Longview. Now, tell me what happened.

I hesitated a second, irrationally hopeful that refusing to say the words aloud would somehow render them untrue.

The bank went under.

Jen blew out a breath and plopped onto the sofa. Oh no. How did that happen? Like that savings and loan in Vernon?

I shrugged. "Probably. I haven’t had a chance to really talk with Mr. Renfro, but he didn’t seem surprised. Looks like he’ll be indicted, Jen.

Will you have to testify?

Leaning back and elevating the footrest, I rested my head against the chair. The deposition is already set for next week, although I have nothing to tell. My knowledge of the business consisted of what the members of the board preferred for lunch during monthly directors’ meetings.

Jen relaxed as well, kicking off her Reeboks and tucking her feet beneath her. Come on, Sis, you were Renfro’s right arm. You had to have suspected something.

I certainly had no concrete knowledge of any wrongdoing. But, looking back, I can see the signs. I guess what little I did see, I didn’t want to believe. I glanced at the end table and spied a copy of Jane Eyre, undoubtedly Heather’s homework assignment. I had never read it. Now perhaps I’d have the time.

With a wave of her hand, Jen said, Well, que será será. You’ve been complaining lately about how unhappy you are. Here’s your chance to go out and do something different.

Jennifer’s characteristic flippancy irritated me at times. Like now. I righted the recliner and stood up. Got anything to drink? I asked, heading for the kitchen.

There’s Diet Coke in the fridge.

I chose one, popped open the top, and sipped. Let Jennifer sit in there by herself for awhile; I needed to calm down before I got really angry. As much as I adored my big sister, she could make me angrier than anyone I knew. Staring through the window at her back yard of prize azaleas, I analyzed my reaction to what she had said. Everything had always come so easily to Jen. She had been voted Senior Class Favorite and Homecoming Queen the same year. She had learned to dance elegantly while the rest of us tried to coax our gangly limbs into cooperating. She had never had to study to get straight As, never had acne, never lost her husband.

Out of habit I suppressed the tears that threatened, and squared my shoulders as Jennifer entered the kitchen. She grabbed a Coke and eased herself onto a stool by the counter.

So, what are you going to do? she asked.

I fixed my gaze on a pair of morning doves perched on the crepe myrtle tree, and shrugged. Get out the want ads, I guess.

Another bank?

My shoulders sagged. I certainly hope not—although it doesn’t really matter.

What’s with you, Sue? You’ve acted so strange lately. I haven’t seen you this down in the dumps since— She left the sentence hanging.

Since Greg died?

Yes. Is it haunting you again?

I turned to face her. Not really. I still miss him, Jen, especially on days like today. Sure, our marriage wasn’t perfect, and he could ignore me for days on end. But at times like this, I could have gone straight to his office, and he would have held me and told me how everything was going to be all right without minimizing what I’m going through.

She nodded. And I minimize it?

I folded my arms in defense. It’s a big deal, Jen. Losing my job is a big deal. I don’t have a grand house that’s paid for, like you, and a husband that brings me gifts from Europe. My child is not a well adjusted genius like Heather or nearly grown like David—he’s six years old and desperately needs his father. I can’t be both father and mother to him because by the end of the day all I have energy for is take out Chinese and an evening in front of the TV. He doesn’t have a beautiful fenced in yard to play in, and I’m afraid he’ll turn into a Nintendo addict by the time he’s seven. And now I’ll get behind on the mortgage and probably end up with a second part time job and never get to see Rusty at all.

Jennifer listened to this tirade dispassionately, eyebrows lifted.

A bit dramatic, aren’t you? You know with your experience you’ll have no trouble landing another job, and a good one too, even if your last boss does end up behind bars.

Content to wallow in misery a while longer, I turned to stare out the window.

Jennifer sighed. I’m sorry, Sue. I know losing your job is a major shock, and I’m not discounting your feelings. She stood up and faced me, leaning against the oven. It’s just that you’re so capable, you’ll have another job before you know it.

I suppose.

There’s more to this bad mood of yours than what happened today. It’s been coming on a long time. Her voice softened. Really—is it Greg?

I turned to face her. I don’t think so, Jen. Of course I miss him, but— My voice trailed off as I groped for words to describe what even I didn’t understand. I’m so unhappy lately. I’d like to be something other than a secretary, but I can’t imagine what—except a studio singer, and I don’t have the right connections to get into that business. And I’d like to know that my being on this planet mattered, that I had a purpose.

She frowned. Heavy. You always were a little too philosophical for me.

There you go again. I bare my soul and you throw water on it. But I grinned anyhow.

You have a purpose. You’re Rusty’s mom.

Yes, I smiled, there’s Rusty. The joy of my life.

Jennifer picked up a damp dishrag and wiped a spot of jelly from a cupboard door as I continued musing. I guess I’m just tired of the struggle, Jen. First it was struggling through UNT, working the graveyard shift so I’d have evenings free to rehearse. Then supporting Greg through med school and residency while caring for an infant. We were just about to the place where we could slow down when Greg died.

Gently Jennifer’s arm encircled my shoulders and she gave them a squeeze.

I protested. Don’t do that. It’ll make me cry. I’m just tired. I just wish—

I just wish you had a man in your life, she said.

Oh, yeah. And I suppose you know the perfect guy.

I wouldn’t even try. You’re awfully hard to please. Remember the commercial door salesman? He was loaded, and you didn’t give him the time of day.

I snickered. You mean the guy whose favorite song was ‘Yummy, Yummy, Yummy, I’ve Got Love in My Tummy?’ I don’t think so.

She downed another swig of Diet Coke and tried again.

Okay, what about that singer you met in Deep Ellum?

I shook my head. I didn’t meet him in Deep Ellum. I knew him in college. He played Freddy Einsford Hill to my Eliza, remember? Besides, I had my doubts about his sexual orientation.

You don’t mean it. Okay— She was warming to the game. Okay, what about that Swiss financier who took you to dinner?

Jen, he couldn’t even speak English!

She waved away my protest and poured her Coke down the drain. Details. Was he a good kisser?

His moustache tickled, I giggled.

Glad to see you laugh again, she said. I knew I could cheer you up.

Yeah, Jen, what a problem solver you are. Tell you what, when I run out of money to pay the light bill, I’ll give you a call and you can solve that problem.

Call Dick on that one. She tossed the Coke can toward the trash, missed, and bent over to retrieve it. Straightening, she said, Speaking of old boyfriends, guess who called me this morning? Dora Lynn Shaefer.

The airhead with the white rimmed cat glasses? What does she have to do with old boyfriends?

Jennifer’s eyes got wide. You can’t have forgotten how she stole Phil Martin from me just before the senior prom.

I gave her an indulgent nod. Forgive me, Jen, for not mentally cataloging all your many admirers. Who was Phil Martin?

Shaking her head, she said, It doesn’t matter. She did me a favor, actually. Anyway, Dora Lynn just got her fourth divorce. Can you imagine? She’s moving to Dallas to make a clean start.

Sounds like she needs one. If you talk to her again, tell her hi for me.

I plan to. We might even have her over some night, catch up on old times. As an afterthought, she added, Say, did you already have dinner planned? You and Rusty could come eat with us tonight.

Thanks, but I think we’ll spend a quiet evening alone contemplating the universe. Or doing the laundry.

Okay, she said with a shrug, but it’ll be your loss.

Jennifer had won awards for her cooking—another thing she was really good at—and I reconsidered. What are you having?

Take-out Chinese. And then we’ll probably sit around watching television.

Very funny, I said, making a face. Suddenly it occurred to me that it must be almost time for school to let out, and I peered at my wrist watch.

Gotta go. I walked to the den to grab my purse, then turned to my sister. I love you, Jen, I said, giving her a hug. Thanks for listening. I’ll be fine after I get over my little pity party.

I know you will, Sis. You’re tough.

***

The dismissal bell rang just as I pulled up to Sam Rayburn Elementary. I parked the car and walked toward the building. It wasn’t often that I had the opportunity to pick up Rusty from school, and for a moment I let myself simply enjoy the spectacle of hundreds of wiggly kids spilling out the brown double doors, chasing each other, dropping books, and yelling at penetrating decibels. They were little puppies, tumbling over one another in their eagerness to live the moment to its fullest. I envied them. How nice

Reviews for Safe Pasture

[christianmom2 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This was a great book. Started alittle slow. The characters were so enjoyable, especially Charlie. Great Christian romance read.