He’d been a heel when Claire’s sisters showed up, and that day they toured the park. He’d snapped at Frannie and bit Bridget’s head off when she offered to pay for lunch. Even now, his neck got hot with humiliation. Then, when he drove Bridget to Mammoth and she’d told him Claire needed more than he was providing for her, he’d believed every word. When Bucky told him about the job in Libby, he knew he was running away again—and for more reasons than money. Claire had begged him to stay, but he’d refused to hear her.
Bridget was quiet behind him, and he hoped she was done questioning him. No such luck. “Why did you come back?”
The answer to that question was easier. Being without Claire and Jenny was like trying to breathe underwater. The longer he was away, the more he realized he’d been wrong to leave them. He’d hit rock bottom and being without them had hurt more than admitting he’d failed. Then he got the letter. “Because you were right,” he finally said.
He heard Flick let out a bray and turned in his saddle to see Bridget’s open-mouthed surprise. “Don’t pull on Flick’s mouth like that,” he told her.
Bridget loosened her grip on the reins. “I was... what?”
Had it just been this morning when he’d knelt beside the bed in Libby in the cold dawn and asked God to guide him?Lord, let me do the right thing. Show me how to take care of them.
He didn’t get an answer.
When he was in jail, he’d asked Father Donahue how he was supposed to know what God wanted him to do—about Dell, about Claire Reilly who had left him heartbroken. “I ask him to tell me, but he doesn’t answer.” It was all fine and good for the priest to tell him to pray, but what was he supposed todo?
“Son,” Father Donahue said, “that’s not how it works. The important thing is to trust him.” The priest pinned Red with his sharp gaze. “Then do your best. He’ll work with what you give him.”
The advice seemed backwards to Red, but now he thought maybe he understood a little better. Here, on a trail in the dark, on his way to a canyon that might be flooded, his wife and daughter missing. He’d do what he thought best, and trust that God would make it the right thing. And when he found Claire, he knew what he had to do for her—for their family.
He pulled Marigold to a halt and turned her sideways on the trail so he could look at Bridget. “You were right,” he said again. “She needs more than I can give her. She needs her family, and so does Jenny. When I find Claire and Jenny, I’m taking them back to Willmar, like you said.”
Bridget opened her mouth, then closed it. Red hadn’t figured he could render Bridget speechless, but he’d take silence if he could get it. He touched his heel to Marigold and turned her down the trail, suddenly desperate to find his family. If something had happened to them... if he was too late... He wouldn’t let his mind go there. He’d find them both. He wouldn’t give up hope.
I’m not good at hope, Red... you had enough hope for us both.Claire’s words beat into his brain to the rhythm of Marigold’s hooves on the trail.
Lord, wherever Claire is, whatever she might be facing, give her my hope. Give her the hope she needs to hold on.
chapter 51:FRANNIE
Frannie knelt next to Paul.
The water was at his chin.
She couldn’t breathe and there was a sharp pain in her chest, like she’d just run ten laps around the school track. She pushed desperately at the tree trunk on top of his legs. Her hands scrabbled against the rough bark, her breathing coming in ragged gasps. They couldn’t just sit here and let Paul drown in front of their eyes.
Mel and Roberts stood beside her, doing nothing. Had they given up? They couldn’t give up.
“Frannie.” Paul’s voice reached through her frantic efforts. “Frannie, it’s okay. The Lord must want to take me home.”
“No. He. Doesn’t.” She pushed on the tree with every word. Paul was only nineteen. He had his whole life ahead of him. He was smart and funny and kind and no way would God take him this early. But a small voice—a voice she hated—whispered that people died young all the time. God didn’t save them.
Paul grabbed her hand and squeezed. “Would you do something for me, Frannie?”
“Anything.” An ache in her throat made it hard to get the words out.
“Would you pray with me?” His voice was soft and he wouldn’t meet her eyes, as if he’d asked too much.
The ache turned into agony. She didn’t want to. God didn’t like her. And he didn’t help her. She’d prayed for her mother to come back. She’d asked God to help her be good, like Dad wanted. She’d even said a prayer at the top of the water tower—that she wouldn’t get caught—but the police were waiting for her as soon as her foot touched the ground. God hadn’t answered her, not ever. Paul should ask somebody else to pray with him. And anyway, she didn’t know how to pray. What was she supposed to say?
Paul was looking at her, the flecks of gold in his hazel eyes shining in the light of the flashlight. “Please, Frannie?” He was trying to be brave, and she figured she better try to be, too.
Maybe this time—like the desperate prayer she’d offered when she was drowning—maybe this time, God would hear her. “Okay.”
But what was she supposed to say?
Out of nowhere, she remembered the twenty-third Psalm. Something from the Bible had to be good. “The Lord is my shepherd,” she said. “I shall not want.” It seemed completely wrong. They wanted so much—for the tremors to stop, for Paul to live. For help to come for the Wilsons and everyone around them in the dark.
Paul said it with her. “He maketh me to lie down in green pastures.”
