Holding On: Love Blooms at Bethel, #1

By Deborah Heal

Holding On is book one in the Love Blooms at Bethel series. A modern retelling of the Old Testament story of Ruth—a sweet romance about courage, loyalty, and second chances.

When Julia passes through the small town of Coldwater, driving her screeching pickup with her mother-in-law and everything she owns in the RV they're towing, all she wants is to get Helen settled on what's left of the family farm and hurry back to civilization.

 

Julia's still mourning her husband, and so romance is the last thing on her mind. But whenever Neil Ashe shows up, the attraction between them flares—even though his divorce has left him leery of city women, and she's not interested in muscle-bound farmers, no matter how handsome they may be.

 

Julia soon realizes she's going to have to stick around to help Helen hold on to her forty-acres because someone is after them. Besides, how could she leave her mother-in-law to the tender mercies of the legalistic bullies who have taken over Bethel Church? They pick at Helen like Job's "friends," telling her God has cursed her. Why else would her husband and both sons die in tragic accidents?

 

Julia is determined to deal with everything on her own, just as she's been doing ever since Lucas died. But Neil thinks it's his job to make all their problems go away. Will Julia stubbornly go it alone, holding on to both her pride and the memory of her husband, or will she ask Neil to come to the rescue—and into her heart?

 

READERS ARE SAYING…

"A fun read with characters that will pull at your heart, challenge your prejudices and renew your love for the land." LeAnne Hardy, author of the Glastonbury Grail series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Write Brain Books
• Release date: Jun 27, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386861966

Book preview

Chapter 1

The pickup shrieked like a banshee again. The noise had plagued them periodically ever since they left Des Moines. Most likely the racket signaled the impending death of one of the many mysterious mechanical parts under the hood, but every time it came Julia’s first thought was that the RV had somehow detached. A quick glance in the mirror showed that it still followed them like a faithful family dog.

When the bridge came into view, the clock on the dash read 7:04. If her calculations were correct, they’d reach the farm in ten minutes, well before dark. She looked at Helen still sleeping in the passenger seat, her head resting on a small travel pillow against the window. Dark shadows under her eyes were a barometer of the fatigue accumulated after two days on the road. Her gnarled arthritic hands rested in her lap and even in sleep remained tensed and claw-like.

Helen. Julia gently nudged her arm. You’re going to want to see this.

Her mother-in-law’s eyes fluttered open and after a brief look of confusion she sat up straight and smiled. The mighty Mississippi. Oh, honey, we’re almost home.

Halfway across the river a sign welcomed them to Illinois and reminded them that seat belts were the law and to click it or ticket. Just past the bridge a crane rose up from the lowlands beyond the river’s bank and was silhouetted, pterodactyl-like, against the violet sky.

Following her navigator’s instruction, Julia exited onto Bluff Road which aptly enough ran along sunlit limestone bluffs that Helen explained marked the ancient eastern boundary of the Mississippi River. Trees and undergrowth partially hid the bluffs, but they could make out water trickling down the face of them, and in some places there were even small caves.

It’s beautiful, Julia said.

We’re two weeks late for the show the dogwood and redbuds put on in April. There are also patches of Virginia bluebells along here.

On the west side of the road, flat farmland stretched to the levees that confined the river to its banks.

Helen shaded her eyes from the sun’s glare. Looks like broccoli and cabbage. Early crops. But they’ll also grow acres of tomatoes, squash, and sweetcorn—sometimes eggplant. The Mississippi’s like the Nile—both a curse and a blessing to farmers. This bottomland has some of the richest soil in the country. Thousands of years’ worth of silt from upriver was deposited here. It’s a land of milk and honey—in the years they don’t get flooded out.

After a pause, Helen lowered her hand and turned her eyes back to the road. But our farm is on top of the bluffs. The land there is more suited to corn, soybeans, and wheat.

I just hope we can hold this truck together long enough to get you home.

Don’t worry. I know a good garage to take it to soon as we get settled.

Helen was the one who didn’t need the added worry. Her doctor had explained that stress made rheumatoid arthritis flare up and that Helen needed to calm down. Calm down? It was good advice, but a little difficult to follow when her house was foreclosed on a mere three months after burying her husband—and only two and a half years since she’d buried her two sons. After all Helen had endured it was a wonder she could move at all.

But nothing fazed her. Helen’s faith had burned strong through it all. She had comforted Julia and Cheryl during the dark night of their suffering and anyone else who sorrowed over Lucas and Tyler’s deaths. Helen had quoted Job on more than one occasion. Though He slay me, yet will I trust in Him...He also shall be my salvation.

Her unwavering faith had strengthened Julia’s own newborn faith through the pain and loss. By God’s grace Julia had survived her husband’s funeral and burial. The words were as clearly etched on her brain as on his granite gravestone: Lucas McDaniel, beloved husband and son, aged 25.

It was Julia’s habit to go to the cemetery after church each Sunday afternoon. The peace and quiet allowed her the opportunity to give an account of the past week’s happenings and discuss her plans for the next week. It wasn’t that she believed Lucas could actually hear her. But saying it all out loud allowed her to pretend that her careful planning would prevent any future disasters from being visited upon her. She told herself that talking to her dead husband was just a little coping device. But judging by the twinge of unease she felt knowing she wouldn’t get to visit his grave this Sunday—and depending on how soon she could get Helen settled at the farm, probably not next Sunday either—maybe she should be concerned about her mental health.

There’s our turn, Helen said.

Julia turned left onto Foster Road, and it immediately began to ascend a cut through the bluffs. Her pickup groaned in protest.

Funny, I don’t remember such a steep grade, Helen said. Of course, the last time we came up this hill pulling the camper, George was driving his big truck. You might want to downshift, Julia.

Second gear gave her only a little more power, and the engine continued to strain. But she kept her eyes on the narrow road as it snaked first left and then right under trees that blocked out most of the remaining daylight.

What am I supposed to do if we meet someone?

Helen gave her a smile that Julia didn’t find the least bit reassuring. Don’t worry. They’ll get over.

Julia went back to staring through the windshield, on the lookout for oncoming traffic.

A horn sounded, and she realized that she should have also been keeping an eye out for cars behind them, too. Sparing a glance at the rearview mirror, Julia saw that a black pickup truck was only inches away from the RV. The idiot driver honked again. Then he lowered his window, stuck out his head, and shouted something to her—or rather, at her.

In an instant, Julia went from nervous to steaming mad. What a jerk! Can’t you see I’m doing the best I can to get up this hill?

And then the fool rammed his stupid truck into her RV.

Chapter 2

The foolish woman trying to tow the camper stopped suddenly in the road.

What on earth is she doing? Neil asked.

Ernesto shook his head in mystification. Women drivers. They’re all loco, every last one of them.

More likely her crappy truck gave out.

But then the woman lowered her window, stuck out a dainty fist, and shook it at him—actually shook it at him.

This must be what they call highway rage, Ernesto said.

"You mean road rage. Neil snugged his Ford a little closer to the woman’s camper to help her make it up the grade. But I have no idea what’s got her all mad."

Maybe she thinks we’re banditos. Although I doubt she can see our disreputably dirty faces from there.

The woman’s pickup door opened, and so Neil got out and hurried toward her little truck. Lady! Keep going.

She marched to the back of her camper and bent to study its bumper.

I didn’t hurt it.

You almost did. She stood in the middle of the blacktop, hands on her hips, glaring up at him in tight green jeans and a cream-colored T-shirt printed with improbably red strawberries. It was just the sort of getup Michelle used to wear. It was terrific for driving him crazy with lust, but wasn’t very practical for farm chores—not that Michelle ever put an ounce of effort into being a farm wife.

The woman took what she probably thought was a menacing step closer to him. I was going just fine until you came along, mister. Are you intending to carjack us, or what?

Neil snorted. Are you kidding? Who’d want that piece of junk? As if to underscore his point, her truck let out an ear-piercing squeal. Probably needs a new idler pulley belt. You should get that looked at.

She spluttered and her face turned fiery red, sure signs a woman was getting ready to rip into a guy.

Listen, lady, you don’t have time to get mad. Get back in—

"I am quite certain I do have the time. Who do you think you are?"

Lady, you need to get back in your truck and let me push it up this hill.

I have no desire to be pushed—pushed up a hill or pushed around in general. She opened her door and hoisted herself back into the driver’s seat. It took some doing, since she was at most only five foot two.

Suit yourself, he said. But don’t come crying to me when you and your camper go sliding all the way back down this hill. Your fuel tank’s probably going to explode, and you and your friend there will die a fiery death in that field of cabbage down there. But what do I know?

She paled at his words, and he felt like a big bully. Still, the woman needed to understand the precariousness of her situation.

This is a perfectly good truck, I’ll have you know.

Maybe for tooling around town. Not for real work. Even in mint condition that thing wouldn’t be able to tow a camper up this grade. Shoot, what am I saying? It couldn’t tow a kiddy wagon over an ant hill.

On reflection, insulting her little pickup probably wasn’t the best way to gain her cooperation. But she surprised him by saying, I apologize. You were just helping.

Trying to. So put your truck in second gear and don’t stop again until you get to the top of the hill.

All right. She swallowed. Thank you.

Don’t mention it.

Neil got back in his truck and put it in second gear. Her little truck jerked and then began to creep forward again. He depressed his gas pedal just enough to give her a gentle boost.

Holy moly, Ernesto said. Did you get a look at her? All that blond hair. And those flashing green eyes!

I didn’t notice, Neil lied.

"You need to get your eyes examined, my friend. Or maybe it is your head that needs looked at."

Don’t start, Ernesto.

What? Can I not point out a fine-looking woman when I see one? And I did not see a wedding ring on her hand either. She is your type, too.

Neil huffed. For crying out loud, Ernesto, I’ve got at least ten years on her.

Yeah, you’re right old codger, aren’t you?

Well, thirty-eight is getting mighty close to codgerdom.

Thanks a lot, Neil. That makes me ancient.

"Sorry. Anyway, she’s a city woman. You saw how that worked out last time. And this one’s a northern city woman, to boot. Didn’t you hear the snootiness in her voice? Probably one of those rabid women’s libber types that gets mad when a guy opens a door for her."

I’ve never known you to be prejudiced, mi amigo. Just because she looks a little like Michelle—and only a little, mind you—does not mean she has your wife’s nasty temperament.

Ex-wife. And she’s enough like her that I started feeling like a ham-handed, oversized oaf again the minute I saw her.

When are you planning on getting over Michelle, Neil?

Don’t worry. I am so over her. All I’m saying is that woman set my teeth on edge.

Are you sure that it is your teeth that are affected, amigo? And not some other part of your oafishly huge self?

Shut up.

"Sí, señor," Ernesto said with pretended servility and then slunk down into his seat with a dramatic sigh.

Neil laughed. Cut it out, will you?

Chapter 3

When Julia made it to the top of the bluffs they were out of the trees, and the late afternoon sun lit up lush fields of bright green grass growing on either side of the road in a most pleasant and calming way.

She stopped the truck, and the nice-looking but annoying Good Samaritan in his supposedly superior truck went around them and sped off down Foster Road. Until then, Julia hadn’t noticed that he had a passenger. The man tipped his cap at her, and Julia waved back.

Then she lowered her window and took in a deep breath of the spring air.

I told you folks around here are polite, Helen said.

If you say so.

What?

Never mind. There was no sense relaying the insults the man had hurled at her truck. Sure, it wasn’t a top-of-the-line model, and Lucas had bought it used. But she had done her best to learn how to care for it. She’d even had the garage check it over before they left Des Moines.

Nor would she tell Helen the man’s warning about dying a fiery death in the cabbage field at the bottom of the hill. Even a redneck wouldn’t have joked about it if he’d known how her husband and his brother died. His words had caused painful images of Lucas and Tyler to form in her brain and for her chest to constrict until it felt too small for her lungs.

For a minute there, I wasn’t sure we were going to make it to the top, Helen said. What a relief that’s over.

That’s for sure. They were out of danger—both from the steep climb and from the man. Julia had known the minute she had seen his liquid brown eyes that spending too much time looking into them would be dangerous. And his muscles had bulged alarmingly from the sleeves of his blue pocket T-shirt. The shirt, his Levis, and even his truck had all been spattered with mud, indicating he was a man who earned his living by the sweat of his handsome brow. Surprisingly, even the two-day beard stubble was dangerously attractive. It was a look she normally disliked. Or at least she had always thought she did. It looked scary on hoodlums, which he obviously was not, and silly on soft city men, which he most definitely was not.

Such a lovely shade of green, Helen said.

No, I’m pretty sure they were brown. After a moment Julia’s cheeks flamed. Oh, you meant the grass.

It’s actually wheat, Helen said with a little smile. What were you referring to? A certain pair of eyes? Or did you mean his hair?

So it’s wheat, Julia said, ignoring Helen’s teasing. I was wondering why there were no cows or horses grazing.

I’m glad you’re looking, Julia. It’s way past time you did.

Actually, what she needed to do was concentrate on holding on to her memories of Lucas, not get distracted by handsome country bumpkins. But to appease her mother-in-law, she just smiled and said, No offense, but I think I’ll wait to look until I get back to Des Moines.

Back to civilization, you mean.

I didn’t say that. Julia put the truck in gear and they resumed their journey.

But back to civilization was exactly what she had meant. If and when she decided to look at a man again it would be one who knew how to carry on a civilized conversation about the arts and world affairs. If he also happened to have a good pair of biceps that would be a nice bonus. But like everything else, muscles should be used in moderation. To her way of thinking, a man with an excess was just wasting them.

And if she ever got around to marrying again, she sure wouldn’t tie herself to a domineering bully like her father had been. Julia had loved her dad, but she hadn’t been blind to his faults and the unhappiness he caused her mother. When he passed away her mom had had the good sense to marry Keith, a kind and sensible man, for which Julia was truly grateful.

Have I thanked you for raising Lucas to be such a good man?

Helen smiled. Only once or twice a week.

After the green wheat fields, they did come to a real pasture where horses grazed behind a board fence.

A person couldn’t grow up in Des Moines, Iowa and not see an occasional tractor or other farm-related equipment. And the family’s George McDaniel & Sons agribusiness had engendered countless discussions about the problems and challenges of farming. But until now Julia had never been so close to actual crops growing in fields. Until now she had not known how beautiful a brown horse, a white fence, and a green pasture could be.

The color contrast reminds me of that wheelbarrow poem by William Carlos Williams, she said. Do you know the one?

No, dear, but I’m sure it’s nice. After a moment, down-to-earth Helen added, I have to admit that I can’t imagine how anyone could think up a poem about a wheelbarrow.

Julia laughed. It’s surprisingly nice.

Helen sat up straighter. Coldwater is just up ahead. We can get groceries before we go on to the farm.

From her fond descriptions, Julia had imagined Coldwater to be much larger than it actually turned out to be. Helen, however, was impressed by how large the town had grown since she’d been there ten years before. A Kentucky Fried Chicken and a Taco Bell had sprouted up next to Drucker’s Drugstore, and a Gas ’n Grab was on the corner where the old Standard Oil service station had been.

And there’s the new Super Shop-Mart, Helen said. There were rumors about one coming around the time we left.

You don’t mean for us to shop there, do you?

No. I’m sure I much prefer getting our groceries at Grasshopper’s. It’s over on Market Street. Or at least I hope it’s still there.

They passed Lincoln Elementary and Coldwater High School where Lucas and Tyler had attended, as their father and grandfather had before them. Then Helen directed her to turn onto a tree-lined residential street where she pointed out the house where Lucas’ grandparents had lived after they left the farm and moved to town.

They died within six months of each other. I wasn’t well enough to come back for their funerals, but George and the boys went. I don’t think Frank ever forgave George for taking his grandsons so far away. But if he hadn’t been such a stubborn old coot...well we probably would never have left the farm. I’d still have my sons. And then George wouldn’t have...

It wouldn’t do Helen the least bit of good to go down that path, and so Julia ruthlessly interrupted. Where to next, navigator?

Turn right at the intersection onto Main.

They soon came to the oldest part of town where vintage storefronts dating from the 1880s lined the streets. The town square looked like a Norman Rockwell painting. The stately three-story Monrovia County Courthouse sat placidly on a spacious lawn shaded by tall oak trees, just as Lucas had described it. At one corner was a bandstand where the municipal band performed Tuesday evenings all summer. The family had also enjoyed Coldwater’s many festivals and parades, when Main Street would be closed to all but foot traffic and set up with amusement rides and vendor stands—for food, of course, but also for various crafts, such as handmade jewelry, quilts, wooden toys, and other items to catch the eyes of shoppers.

Ah, some things never change, Helen said. Look. There’s the farmers’ market.

Where Helen pointed there was a group of people milling around booths set up in the street to the west of the courthouse.

We can get our produce there once we’re settled in. But for now let’s go pick up a few things at Grasshopper’s.

Grasshopper’s Grocery appeared to be thriving in spite of its chain-store competitor. The small parking lot was crowded. There was a handicap space open near the door, but with the RV Julia wouldn’t be able to park there even if Helen did have the appropriate tag.

I’ll let you off and go park in back.

No, that’s all right.

It’s too far.

You go on, honey. I don’t think I’m up to shopping after all.

Surprised, Julia turned and saw that Helen was rubbing her right knee with one gnarled hand. Sometimes right in the middle of a good day her RA decided to deliver a sucker punch. Apparently, Helen had just taken one to the gut. Her eyes had narrowed and there was a band of paleness around her mouth that meant she was in pain—not that Helen ever complained.

Are you all right? Of course you’re not. I’ll take you to the farm and come back.

Don’t be silly. That would be a complete waste of gas. I’ll wait in the truck.

With the gas tank nearly empty and her credit card nearly full, it made sense to save a trip to town. But nothing was more important than getting Helen someplace where she could get her feet up and some pain medicine into her system.

Nope, Julia said. I’ll come back.

It didn’t take long to pass through town, and then they were on Coldwater Springs Road heading east.

When they had driven three or four miles, Helen pointed excitedly. That’s the Bakers’ place. Their two boys and our two were forever over at each other’s houses. What those little guys could come up with!

Julia smiled, imagining Lucas as a little boy with merry blue eyes growing up in all the pastoral beauty around them. She had only known him as a city man after he and his family had left the farm. Helen pointed again.

There. That’s the McDaniel land. Used to be, anyway. Ron Schavey owns it all now.

Julia pulled to the shoulder and stopped the truck.

Helen stared through the windshield. It looks good, doesn’t it? He’s all set for a good yield.

Julia had no standard for knowing. It was another good opportunity to keep her mouth shut about how ignorant she was about farming.

George thought there was nothing prettier than a field of green wheat blowing in the wind.

Julia could think of several of things off the top of her head, but she kept her thoughts to herself.

We farmed all this land back in the day. Five hundred acres of beans, corn, and wheat. George’s father sold the land right out from under the family—all but forty acres and what the house and barns sit on—without saying a word to anyone. I’ve never understood how Frank could do a thing like that. And then the vindictive old man willed most of his estate to his two daughters with only a measly sum for George.

Julia knew the story. Lucas had complained bitterly about it, even though by then he was happy living and working in the city and had no desire to go back to the farm.

"Frank shouldn’t have sold it. Land is one's flesh and blood. It is the end of a family when they begin to sell the land."

Helen was back to quoting The Good Earth. She had been doing it a lot since George died. She jolted as if coming out of a dream. I’m sorry. That’s no way to talk. After all, if the McDaniel family hadn’t gone to Iowa, Lucas wouldn’t have found you. And I wouldn’t have you here now.

Julia reached over to pat Helen’s hand. And I wouldn’t have the best mother-in-law in the world.

Helen snorted delicately. Let’s go on. We’re almost home.

Around the next bend they came to Helen’s land. The field was completely blanketed in yellow and purple flowers.

Pull over, Helen said abruptly. Just look at it! What a mess! Apparently Mr. Douglas has been slacking off for quite some time.

Julia hadn’t expected fallow, unproductive ground to be so beautiful. Apparently, Helen didn’t agree. Mr. Douglas, the farmer who had been leasing the forty acres of prime agricultural land for the past ten years, had sent word last fall that due to failing health he would no longer be able to continue. With all the chaos surrounding George’s death, Helen hadn’t yet had the chance to find anyone else.

It’s certainly colorful, Julia said.

I’m going to have to teach you your weeds, honey. Helen clawed at her door handle, and Julia reached over and opened it for her.

She turned off the truck and got out. Helen stood a short way into the field staring into the distance with a hand shading her eyes. The yellow stuff is wild mustard. The purple is creeping Charlie. I can see why you might think it’s pretty, but they’re a bear to control once they get a choke hold on your field. She pointed a sneakered foot at a different plant with sword-shaped leaves. Especially that stuff. Pay attention, Julia. It’s called sour dock, and it’s a horrible weed.

I’m sorry.

Helen sighed. Just goes to show what happens when there’s no one around to hold back Adam’s curse. But never mind. We’ll get things in order. It’s rich soil and will bring in a good bit of money to supplement my social security.

Julia had figured Helen would leave the actual farming up to the new lessee. Now she wasn’t so sure. Clearly Helen had a good working knowledge of farming herself.

Helen stood and took a deep breath. Well, daylight’s wasting. I still have forty acres, and I intend to hang on to them.

Personally, Julia couldn’t understand such a commitment to a patch of dirt. But if Helen was set on reclaiming her little farm, Julia would do her best to help her. And then, when she went back to her life in Des Moines—such as it was—she would rest easy that she had done her duty by Lucas’ mother.

Turning into the long driveway to the farmhouse—equally choked with weeds, although less colorful ones—Julia saw that Lucas had not exaggerated about the farmstead’s strikingly beautiful setting. Coldwater Creek came out of the trees on their left, meandered across the driveway under a small stone bridge, and then disappeared into more trees on their right.

Lucas had said that the farm was