A Different Kind of Heaven Read online

  Different Kind of Heaven

  Tammy Shuttlesworth

  Copyright

  © 1999 by Barbour Publishing, Inc. All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the permission of the publisher, Truly Yours, PO Box 719, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683.

  All of the characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events is purely coincidental.

  one

  Callie Troyer watched the woman lying on the handmade wooden bed. Even from across the room she recognized the hopelessness of the situation. If she didn’t do something soon, there would be two more graves in “God’s Acres,” and the Solomon name would again mark them both.

  “Child. . .comes. . .too soon!” the young woman screamed, pain twisting her delicate features into a tortured mask.

  Callie hurried to Suzannah’s bedside, her nerves ready to snap. What could she do? She had already administered every concoction the Delaware tribe’s medicine woman—Helping Hands—had taught her how to make before the woman had returned to Pennsylvania. Suzannah was Callie’s dearest friend in all the world. But Callie had not known enough to help her the last time Suzannah was with child—she miscarried—and Callie knew no more now than she had then.

  Another contraction lanced through Suzannah’s body, and she grasped Callie’s hand, her white-knuckled fingers digging into flesh. “Make it stop!”

  The image of two tiny graves, barely nine months old, passed through Callie’s mind.

  “I am trying, Suzannah,” she said, squeezing her eyes shut and praying silently that they both be able to accept whatever happened as God’s will.

  The door to the log cabin swung open and Callie turned toward the sound, expecting to see Suzannah’s husband or mother. What she saw instead left her speechless. A rugged man, cast in handsome silhouette by the evening sun, strode into the room as though he had every right to be there. Finding her voice, Callie moved between the man and Suzannah. “Who are you and why are you here?”

  “I have come to help,” he replied matter-of-factly. He glanced around the sparsely furnished cabin as if assessing the situation. His gaze settled on Callie.

  Lake-blue eyes held her doe-brown ones for a moment. His scrutiny made her uncomfortable, and she quickly looked away. Her gown was worn, threadbare in places, and was wrinkled from her long vigil. To make matters worse, her bonnet hung on a peg near the door. Nervously, she reached up to touch the blond curls that lay across her shoulders, thinking how improper it was for him to see her bare-headed.

  But impropriety couldn’t be a concern right now. Forgetting the bonnet, Callie swallowed her discomfort and lifted her gaze to his once again. She fixed her hands defiantly on her slender hips. “I do not need your help.”

  “I–I do,” Suzannah gasped behind her.

  His face was serious as he crossed the room, his dusty black boots kicking up straw as he walked. He tossed a slouch hat through the air, settling it frighteningly close to a burning taper on the table. Shrugging off a buckskin jacket, he proceeded to dig a gnarled twig out of a large buckskin pouch he carried.

  “Take this,” he ordered Callie. Against her will, Callie took the twig. “Mash the end,” he continued, paying no heed to what Callie thought of the matter. “Mix it in hot water.” Authority echoed in the room, and he turned back to hold the other woman’s slim wrist in his hand.

  Suzannah did not resist him—Callie absorbed that much before she moved to do as he had commanded. But Suzannah is not herself, Callie thought. She is delirious with pain and remembered grief of what happened before. Callie paused and glanced back at the stranger. Perhaps she should insist he leave. But how? And what if he had the ability to make Suzannah’s contractions stop?

  Fighting churning emotions, Callie poured hot water from a kettle into a bowl. Her hands shook, but she carefully followed the man’s instructions. Grabbing the end of an antler she had used earlier to mix her own remedy, she crushed the twig’s bark. A bitter odor wafted up with the steam and she waved a hand at the offensive smell.

  “Three minutes,” he commanded.

  Callie turned to look at him, thinking once again to tell him to leave. He met her gaze squarely, and when she noticed that his somber eyes flickered with warmth and compassion, she held her tongue. That did not diminish her questioning thoughts, though. How had he found them? Schoenbrunn Mission was at least a four-day ride on horseback from Fort Pitt. Strangers simply did not just happen upon the settlers here, and if they did, they were usually traders. He didn’t appear to be a trader. So who was he?

  She looked at the candle’s flame dancing in the pale yellow liquid in the bowl and remembered what she was supposed to be doing. He had said three minutes. She must keep track. “One hundred and one, one hundred and two, one hundred and three,” she began.

  “Quietly. I am praying,” he requested softly.

  This not only surprised Callie, it unnerved her. But she counted on silently as he transformed from a man of power to a man of prayer. His hair, blacker than his boots and wavy, was creased where his hat had rested. His face was rugged and tanned. All in all, she thought he looked rather arrogant, but a certain charm seemed to be present in his eyes as they appraised her.

  Callie felt the warmth of a blush tint her cheeks. What was he looking at? The braid she had not kept up properly on the back of her head? She shook herself. The church had rules about unmarried men and women associating with each other. And she could imagine what Levi would say if he found out she was interested in this stranger. Better to concentrate on the rules than to think about the blueness of his eyes. She mashed and stirred, all the while biting her lower lip.

  When the time was up, she came forward hesitantly. “Here.” She handed him the bowl, wrinkling her nose at the odor; she was curious to see what he would do with it.

  He took the bowl, his large, nimble fingers spanning it easily, and passed it under his nose. He dipped his hand into the liquid. When he raised it, golden drops trickled from his fingers before he smeared them on Suzannah’s upper lip.

  “What is it?” Callie whispered, forgetting her concerns about him for the moment.

  “Just watch.”

  Mystified, she circled around the end of the bed and sat on the far edge.

  “Are you still here, Callie?” Suzannah’s words were slurred now, and she looked as if she could not hold her eyes open.

  “I am here,” she assured, reaching out to pat Suzannah’s hand. He glanced at her as if he disapproved. Callie quickly pulled her hand back to her lap.

  Silence grew heavy. She had to say something. Why not demand again that he tell her who he was? Bravely she raised her chin to do just that. She had missed her chance. Was he praying? Or sleeping? She couldn’t tell, but her curiosity to know him better was overwhelming her good sense.

  “The only thing wrong with curiosity is that sometimes the cat does not come home,” Ruth Lyons, Suzannah’s mother, always said. Surely there was no harm in watching him, though. For a moment.

  Dark locks of hair clung to his forehead. There were lines around his eyes and mouth, but they simply added character. He is probably a Magicworker, she thought. But Magicworker usually meant “black medicine.” Somehow, Callie did not think this man had anything to do with witchcraft.

  She glanced at the woman who had taken her in five years ago and helped her adjust to the Christian life she now led. Sleep had eased the tension on Suzannah’s face, and the worry was gone from her lips. Suzannah’s life, and tha
t of her unborn child, did not appear to be in danger.

  The stranger had helped Suzannah—something Callie had not been able to do. Callie felt inadequate—and irritated. But the fact that Suzannah was resting, the dark smudges under her eyes already beginning to pale, was more important just now, Callie reminded herself.

  Her gaze traveled back to the stranger. His eyes shifted to an icy blue, and she shivered as a tiny dimple at the corner of his mouth caught her attention. She was suddenly undecided about the way he looked.

  “Callie?” Suzannah’s hands cradled her abdomen tenderly, as if rocking a baby bird to sleep.

  Callie scooted toward the head of the bed, aware the gap between her and the mysterious man had closed to inches.

  She reached out to hold Suzannah’s hand. “I am here.”

  “So. . .good,” Suzannah murmured before her head rolled to one side and she fell asleep.

  Callie turned a questioning look his way. She could only hope her expression did not betray the awe she felt for him. He said nothing if it did. He only smiled, a smile that said he was a traveler, a drifter, a man no one would tie down.

  “She will be all right.” His words filled Callie with the tiniest ray of hope.

  It seemed unreasonable, this urge she felt to trust him. She didn’t know him. How many times must she remind herself of that? If he were a Magicworker, he would be gone tomorrow, taking with him his knowledge and all the other wonders he had in his bag. Which would leave her here, in the eastern part of what some called “O-he-yo,” with no help for Suzannah if this happened again. If I can get my hands on some of his remedies, it will not matter if he does go, Callie thought. I must learn what I can before he disappears.

  “What did you give her?” she asked.

  Faint laughter danced in his eyes. “Family secret,” he drawled.

  “You are not going to tell me?” She was not afraid, only curious, and she wondered why she felt so at ease with a man she didn’t know.

  He shook his head and a renegade swatch of hair fell across his forehead. He raked it back with his hand.

  Callie crossed her arms in front of her. “Why not?”

  “Man should never give away his secrets too easily.”

  “You have others?” She couldn’t believe she had asked the question, but there it was, out in the open between them.

  A shadow swept across his face. “Every man has things he does not reveal to just anyone.” He glanced around the room and wrinkled his nose at the assortment of pouches she had left lying on the table.

  “Oh,” she said, her eyes tracking his gaze and seeing the piles identifying her attempts to help Suzannah. He just studied the scene, absorbing it, as if it told him everything he needed to know.

  “I am not really trained in this sort of thing, you see. . .” she started. He faced her, his jaw tightening as he peered from under dark brows. “But I am the only one we have here who. . .oh, never mind. You do not want to know that.”

  “Go on. I will listen,” he said patiently.

  Callie gritted her teeth then went on. “Helping Hands was our local medicine woman. She decided to go back to Pennsylvania, and before she did, I made her tell me whatever she could. It was not enough,” she finished in a rush as tears sprang to her eyes. She couldn’t help but remember how she had failed nine months ago.

  “I see.” He turned back to Suzannah.

  Callie had other questions she wanted to ask, but her mouth refused to utter them. Why were his boots so dusty? Why were his eyes so blue? How had he happened to find the settlement they had established?

  “Life is full of questions, is it not?” He unfolded his legs in front of him and leaned back in the chair.

  Callie glanced at Suzannah and was about to deny she had been thinking of asking anything, when he cocked his head toward her friend.

  “She will give birth early. Twins.”

  Air spilled from Callie’s lungs and she choked back a gasp. She recovered her composure quickly. “Yes, she did,” she said coolly. “Nine months ago. Little girls. We lost them.”

  He frowned and shook his head, then pointed to the bulge of Suzannah’s abdomen. “She is carrying twins now.”

  Callie had suspected the same thing, but had not told anyone. How did he know? She pressed her lips into a thin line.

  “You knew, did you not?” he probed.

  She could only nod and hope he didn’t press her for more information.

  “One of them. . .” He pressed his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose, and when he did, his tattered shirt sleeve fell back, revealing a blood-red scar running down his right forearm.

  Callie wondered about the injury; it made him seem even more mysterious. But she squared her shoulders and forced the question aside. “What?” Her jaw quivered. “What about one of them?”

  “Not now,” he mouthed.

  He hadn’t shut the door all the way, and cool mid-April air penetrated the room. Callie pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders. She thought about shutting the door but didn’t move.

  “Shall we pray?” His hand covered hers without permission. It was a rider’s hand—strong, callused, but gentle. His words echoed not only in her head but in her heart.

  “Dear Lord, we commend this woman and her unborn children into your care. We ask that you watch over them, protect them, hold them in your hands.”

  Relief flashed through Callie. He was not a Magicworker, then; they didn’t believe in God. At least she didn’t think they did. His strong tenor floated around her. She could feel herself relaxing.

  If they hadn’t been praying, she would have jumped up and jerked away from him. After all, she was responsible for Suzannah’s health, not him! Besides not knowing what he had given Suzannah, Callie had no idea who he was! She stiffened.

  Seemingly in response, he brought the prayer to a close and released her hand. Then he crossed his legs and placed his hands, fingers entwined, on top of his right knee. Callie watched, torn between wanting to ask him to leave and wanting to know about what he had done to help Suzannah.

  “Amen,” he whispered, drawing her back to reality.

  Callie repeated the word. She moistened her lips. Silence fell between them. In the background, Suzannah’s even breathing rose and fell. A gentle breeze slipped in through the still-open door. It swirled around Callie’s feet, lifting the hem of her long gray skirt.

  “Survival belongs to the fit,” he said seriously, his brows narrowing, becoming two slashes of brown.

  What did he mean by that? She was worn out from sitting, and pacing, and hoping, and from praying that Suzannah’s pains would stop.

  She motioned toward her friend. “How did you know what to do?”

  He leaned forward slightly. “Family—”

  “Secret,” she interrupted, feeling a tiny thrill of excitement that she could joke with him so easily.

  He winked, long-lashed lids momentarily concealing the blue depths from her.

  She let out a long breath.

  “Someday. . .” His voice faded.

  “Someday what?” she challenged. Why did she feel she must banter with him?

  “You will see.”

  She hoped she appeared unruffled. “What if I do not want to see?”

  An easy smile played at the corners of his mouth. The dimple she had seen earlier grew deeper. “You will,” he promised.

  Callie had no doubt she would. But what exactly was it she would see?

  two

  Joshua watched as Callie busied herself cleaning up the table. The dreary gray dress she wore seemed to drain the color from her face. A bit of tea-colored lace around the neckline and sleeves added just a touch of lightness to her attire, and her boyish frame was accented by an apron tied tightly around her waist. But what held his attention were her eyes, newborn fawn in hue, and no less mesmerizing now than he had found them before. They revealed every emotion Callie felt, whether she wanted them to or not.

&nbs
p; As if she sensed him scrutinizing her, Callie wiped her hands on her apron and moved to stand at the foot of Suzannah’s bed. She gazed at him for a moment before bluntly asking where he was from.

  “Pennsylvania,” he replied, giving up only as much as he judged safe for the moment. It hurt, not being able to reveal everything, but intuitively he sensed that doing so would ruin any chance he had with her.

  Her eyebrows arched in surprise, and if the knock had not come at the door at that moment, Joshua knew she would have said she was from there also. Instead, she raced to fling the plank door open wide. A wiry, rumpled man gave Joshua a cursory glance, then raced to the bedside and knelt by the woman. Out of the corner of his eye, Joshua caught Callie grabbing a bonnet from the peg and tying the strings beneath her chin before she leaned against the wall.

  The emotional—the physical and mental stress of traveling across Indian territory and not knowing what he would find—had drained Joshua. He asked himself for the thousandth time if he had done the right thing—coming here, slipping through a break in the mission fence, and listening as Callie stood outside the cabin conversing with this man who now knelt by the pregnant woman. Watching. Waiting. Until he heard the woman inside cry out and knew instinctively he could help.

  Mentally, Joshua berated himself. This was no time for questioning his decision. Coming here was the only thing he could do. He had planned this for five years, praying fervently all that time that Callie would take one look at him and remember who he was.

  ❧

  Callie could remember how many times she had looked at him—the “stranger,” as she had begun to think of him. The muscles of his jaw formed lines tears would follow, if he ever allowed them to fall; but somehow he didn’t give the appearance of being soft and sensitive. Yet his powerful body moved gracefully, every movement calculated and smooth. There was a smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose, apparently caused by being too long in the sun.

  Now, he disappeared into the darkness toward David Zeisberger’s cabin, where she had insisted he go to properly introduce himself to the elder. Watching him leave, she was possessed by a strange urge to call him back and demand explanations. No, she wouldn’t do it. She was not going to give him the satisfaction of knowing she was curious. So she had no answers.