Page 4 of To Love a Beast

"I'm afraid it's broken."

The doctor's pronouncement settled in Callista Rosenfeld's heart like a boulder determined to squash all hope out of her. But instead of sagging at the news, she lifted her chin and straightened her spine.

Touching her father's slumped shoulder, she met the doctor's sympathetic gaze. "How long will his hand take to heal?"

"At least four to six weeks for the bones to mend. Maybe longer due to his advanced age."

Her father's head snapped up. "Advanced age? Bah! I'm not even sixty."

But he would be next spring.

"You're young at heart, Papa. That's what matters most." Callista leaned down and placed a kiss on his bald head. A ring of white hair circled the equator of his skull, fluffing out around his ears in a haphazard manner, as free-spirited as the man himself.

Perhaps a little too free-spirited. If he hadn't been tinkering with that hanging pot rack he'd pieced together from scraps of iron the blacksmith had given him, her cast iron skillet never would have snapped the rod and plummeted to crush Papa's hand against the table. She'd told him time and again that she didn't need a fancy rack in her kitchen, that their small cupboard worked just fine. Yet ever since he'd overheard her admiring the rack on display in the hardware store, he'd been determined to build her one. He meant well. He always meant well, but he was a bit of a disaster when it came to mechanical operations.

Dr. Haverty met Callista's gaze over Papa's head. "I'll set the bones and apply a plaster of Paris bandage. He's not to use the hand at all, miss. And after the cast is removed, there will likely be some atrophy of the muscles that will require exercises for regaining strength and dexterity."

"I understand."

Papa would not be able to work for several weeks. Perhaps months. Under normal circumstances, such a problem would be a minor hiccup, nothing more. Callista had been taking care of most of the book binding contracts for the last three years anyway. Papa's arthritis made the sewing and detail work difficult for him to manage, though he had a knack for stamp design that Callista would never match. Her father was the artist. She was simply the one who implemented his designs.

If all that was at stake was running their small shop, she'd not be concerned. But far more hung in the balance than repairing textbooks for the North Texas Normal College or handling the occasional request for a decorative rebinding from their wealthier Dallas clientele. They'd been preparing for months to take on the largest commission the shop had ever attempted, using what little savings they possessed to purchase materials and portable equipment for a private library project in a client's home. A client who would not hesitate to seek another artisan book binder if Papa failed to meet his precise expectations.

They'd wagered their entire future on this contract. If they failed to fulfill it, they'd be ruined.

Craving a moment alone to collect her thoughts, Callista left the doctor to his work and stepped into the small room that served as her bedroom. The brave face she'd donned for her father's sake fell away the moment she crossed the threshold of her room. Her hands trembled, and a mist of tears fogged her eyes as she sat on the edge of the bed.

Papa had the smooth tongue to draw in new customers and the artistic eye to create unique designs, but he relied on her to run the logistics of the business. She was the one who ordered supplies, organized their client files, and managed the company finances. Finding a way to salvage this situation would rest on her shoulders.

What were they going to do?

When Papa first received the letter from Mr. Lightfoot, he'd brimmed with excitement. They'd closed the shop early and dined at the café, a luxury they never indulged in since money was always tight. He'd proclaimed the job a gift from God. How else could one explain the arrival of so large a contract from a man they'd never met? A man who could have easily commissioned a more established book binder from Houston or San Antonio for his project. Yet he'd chosen Rosenfeld's Bindery instead. The Lord must have seen their poverty and directed his business to their small shop as an answer to prayer.

Only now, in a blink of an eye—or in this case, a smash of a hand—that amazing blessing had transformed into a curse. One that would destroy Rosenfeld's and break Papa's heart.

Hopelessness filled the room like a rushing tide flooding a small cavern. Callista managed to climb out of it when it first wet her feet, but it kept pouring in, now too deep to avoid. The already small room seemed to shrink. Cold seeped into her limbs. Her breathing grew shallow as pressure filled her chest, threatening to drag her into the depths of despair.

Squeezing her eyes closed, she did what she'd trained herself to do as a young girl when she felt overwhelmed. She pictured her mother. Surrounded by wildflowers. The river glimmering behind her. Birds singing. Papa laughing. Mama's hand holding hers.

Callista's breathing slowed. The spinning chaos of her mind slid into the background as she focused on the memory. Her place of peace.

A spring breeze toyed with her hair. Sunlight warmed her face. Waving prairie grass tickled her legs. Happiness danced in her heart. All was well.

All is well here, too.

Callista repeated the admonition in her mind, willing herself to believe it. Just as she had twelve years ago when, at the age of fourteen, she'd sat at her mother's bedside clasping her hand for the last time.

"Hold tight to hope, Callie," Mama had said, squeezing her fingers with what little strength the consumption hadn't drained from her. "The world might seem dark and frightful, but as long as you have hope, you have power. Power to persevere." A cough interrupted, but Mama would not be deterred. She fought through the attack then captured Callista's gaze with an intensity impossible to forget. "Hope sees possibilities where fear sees only barriers. Hope trusts that God will rescue and restore, and it enables us to endure the interim. Despite what people say, hope cannot be stolen or destroyed. It will only be lost if you surrender it of your own free will. So hold tight, Callie. Never let it go."

Callista's hands balled into fists as her eyes slowly opened. "I won't, Mama," she whispered to the empty room, the vow crystalizing in her heart.

If she and Papa could endure losing Mama, they could endure whatever hardship knocked on their door today.

After the doctor left, Callista brewed a pot of tea to share with her father and added a bit of laudanum and honey to his cup to soothe his pain. She drank hers without any sweetening, since the doctor's fee had taken the last of the discretionary funds she kept tucked away in a hollowed-out book in her room. Luxuries like sugar, honey, and jam would not have a place on her shopping list until those funds could be replaced. And with her papa's injury, the replacement of those funds would likely take months instead of weeks. Of course, if they lost the private library contract, affording luxuries would be the least of their worries.

Papa took a sip of his tea, holding the cup somewhat awkwardly with his left hand. He grimaced at the bitterness of the laudanum. Apparently, she'd not stirred in enough honey to mask the taste.

His shoulders hunched as he set down the cup and let out a sigh. "I've failed you, Callie."