“Mrs. McCallister?” He hadn’t seen the woman in years. “What are you doing here?”
Her fingers tightened around her reticule. “It’s me, Christopher. May I come in?”
“Yes. Yes of course.” He stood aside to allow her entry into the small room he rented at the back of the livery stable. There wasn’t much to his room. Just a bed with a mattress, a small chest for his belonging, and a rough table with a few items scattered on top. The faint smell of sweet straw and manure filled the room.
She wrinkled her nose as she entered the room. As he closed the door, he could not prevent feeling uneasy about this visit. “Mrs. McAllister, what's going on? What's wrong?”
She’d brought a hard-sided traveling case with her, and she placed it on the floor, using it as a seat as she faced him. Christopher recalled she wasn’t the warmest of women, but she did love his mother and took care of her. Something was distressing Mrs. McAllister and all sorts of horrible thoughts ran through his mind.
Though her gray eyes were still hard, they held a sheen of sadness in them. She took a deep breath and wiped away a tear with a lace-covered hand. “I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Christopher. But your mother has passed away.”
The floor fell from under his feet. He leaned against the wall for strength. “Surely you jest.” There wouldn’t be any reason the old woman would travel across the country to lie bout his mother, but he couldn’t believe it. His mother couldn’t be dead. She couldn’t be.
“It is no joking matter, Christopher. And I'm afraid it doesn't get any better.” She pulled out an envelope and handed it to him. “Mr. Kernel asked me to deliver this to you.”
Christopher took the envelope from her and looked at the typeset in the corner. It was from his father’s attorney. What could Mr. Kernel want?
When Lauren opened the door two days later, she couldn’t prevent the wild smile that crossed her face. She was happy to see that it was Christopher standing before her.
Oh, how she had missed him.
Warmth flooded her cheeks as she admitted that to herself. Everything inside of her clenched in response to his nearness. She remembered her forwardness when she kissed him so brazenly. What could she say? He made her feel like her old self. The self that was a bit daring and outrageous but always within the boundaries of respectful behavior.
Were her eyes sparkling as she took him in?She didn't know.
She had come to rely upon his visits. Before any of the women in town stopped by to support her, he was already there. Fighting her demons and making sure she was safe. Before he even knew her name, he had snatched her back from making a massive mistake, one that she would not have been able to correct
The women of Last Chance were helpful, and she was grateful to them for their kindness and support.
Christopher, however, was the one whom God had used to give her a second chance.
Wait!
What about poor Jonah?
Was being happy wrong?
Jonah had been gone since September. In a few months, he would be gone for almost a year. Was that too short of time to mourn for a man she had wronged?
Swiftly she sent that through scurrying to the back of her mind. Jonah was dead. She wasn’t being unfaithful to his memory. Goodness knew she wasn’t going to marry the good doctor any time soon.
She clasped her hands together in front of her.
“Hello, Christopher. How are you? I haven’t seen you in a couple of days.”
Waiting for his response, she peered up into his face. Alarm grew within her, replacing the happy feeling that had come over her.
This did not look like the man who rescued her that fateful day from the riverbank. Nor did he look like the man who had drawn her into his arms and waded past her pride to unearth the pain she buried. He didn’t look anywhere near the man who had allowed her to kiss him that day in Millie’s pasture.
That man looked confident, brave, and capable.
The one before her now, though he had the same face, was working under powerful devastation.
His face was haggard as if he had been through or heard something terrible. Dark circles colored underneath his eyes. Tufts of blonde hair splayed out in different directions. It was an abhorrence to his usual polished and pressed neat self.
She pulled the door open and waved him inside. “Christopher, come inside.”
He moved about as if he were some lifeless bodies simply reanimated by lightning as recounted in that terrifying novel of Frankenstein’s monster.
