Tender Journeys

  Copyright

  ISBN 978-1-55748-436-9

  Copyright © 1993 by Tracie Peterson. 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 Truly Yours, an imprint of Barbour Publishing, Inc., PO Box 721, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683.

  All scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

  Published by Barbour Books, an imprint of Barbour Publishing, Inc., P.O. Box 719, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683, www.barbourbooks.com

  Printed in the United States of America.

  Chapter 1

  1884

  Jenny Oberling made her way through the rain, struggling to keep her shawl from falling into the mud as she fought against the wind and the large wicker basket she balanced on her head.

  Dampness had permeated every part of her body until she could no longer control the chattering of her teeth. How good it would feel if she could make her way home into her mother’s waiting arms. But Jenny’s mother had been dead a little over six years, thanks to the Apaches.

  There was no one, Jenny thought as she battled the storm. Because of the Indians, her family was dead and there would never again be warmth or love for Jenny Oberling.

  u

  Across town, David Monroe kicked the mud off his boots and deposited his rain-drenched coat on a peg inside the door. He was soaked from the deluge of water, which even now continued to fall.

  He worked quickly to get a fire going in the small wood stove, grateful for shelter away from the damp, September air. Settling down to warm his hands, he smiled to himself. Despite the rain and mud, he was happy.

  At twenty-two, the soon-to-be-pastor was eagerly anticipating his new work. He was learning to minister to the Indians of the Southwest, a mission he felt strongly God called him to.

  “I see you made it without floating away,” observed an older man as he entered through a door opposite the one David had used.

  “Didn’t think I would,” David replied with a grin. “When you said it was going to rain a bit, I didn’t think I had anything to worry about. You should have told me it would be in proportion to Noah and the flood.”

  The older man laughed heartily and set a plate of hot food in front of his apprentice. “This is what they call a gully washer. Those little gullies that crisscross the trails can quickly become raging rivers in a rain like this.”

  “I can believe it,” David said as he dug in and ate.

  “So, what do you think of our little town?”

  “Well, I tell you, Ed. When I came here after weeks on the trail, I thought Santa Fe was the prettiest place I’d ever laid eyes on,” David said, pausing to let his bread soak in the thick beef stew.

  “And now?”

  “Now,” David said as he wrinkled his brow, “I’m certain of it. Of course the company I’ve kept has helped me fit in. But in this rain, I’m surprised the adobe doesn’t melt and wash away.”

  Ed Clements laughingly agreed. After twelve years of being a widower, the aging pastor was enjoying David’s companionship.

  “Santa Fe is like a graceful, aging woman,” Ed mused. “Of course, everything looks a little drab in the rain, but once the storm passes, you’ll see.”

  “Oh, I don’t need to wait,” David said, thinking back on the hours he’d spent walking through the city. “The old Spanish missions are incredible, so regal and stately. Even the cemeteries are beautiful.”

  “It’s hard to imagine them being here for centuries. The Spanish were very dedicated to the quest of winning the Indians to their faith. The missions were built to stay, and stay they have,” Pastor Ed said as he reflected on the city.

  “It seems to me the entire city was dedicated to mission work,” David remarked. “The churches are everywhere, and those that aren’t still standing have left plenty of relics behind to remind folks of their passing.”

  “You must understand,” Ed added, “that even the city name, La Villa Real de Santa Fe de San Francisco de Asis, means the Royal City of the Holy Faith of St. Francis of Assisi. Lucky for us, they call it Santa Fe.”

  “I’m amazed at the people, and the devotion to their beliefs,” David said as he finished his lunch. “Although I’ve noticed some people have more dedication to ceremony and icons than toward anything else.”

  “Oh, there are always some who want to be part of something simply to belong. Most people take their religion quite seriously, however. The Indians have many spirits they honor. They’re often like the Greeks and Romans of Paul’s day.”

  “How so?” David questioned.

  “Well, some tribes don’t have a problem in accepting yet another spirit to honor. The white man’s God is powerful. They’ve seen many examples of white man’s success and can only conclude his God must be capable of great things. Others, however, won’t listen to a word you say. You present the Bible to them and it means nothing because it’s a white man’s book. It makes mission work here quite challenging.”

  “I never thought of it that way,” David said as he considered the older man’s words.

  “When you preach before your own people, they readily accept the Bible as the Word of God. Even the hardest heart doesn’t mock the Word, at least not very often. But when you sit down to speak with the Indians, it isn’t just the language barrier that frustrates your efforts; it’s the cultural barriers as well. You hold up the Bible and tell them it’s the one truth they must accept, and they look at you like you’re loco.”

  David nodded, “I guess that’s only fair. We think them strange to worship creation rather than the Creator.”

  “That’s right,” Ed agreed. “What seems strange to us, we must turn around and see in relationship to what we preach. The Bible is simply a book of words they can’t read or understand. The stories aren’t part of their past, and the need for a Savior is not part of their ancestral beliefs.”

  “Then how do you get them to accept the need for Christ?” David asked.

  “Ah ha,” Ed said with a smile, “that’s where we must lean on God. You must never forget, David, that you work with a partner. Never, never try to rush God. He works in His time and in His way. You must live the life and learn what the Indian ways mean to them. You must understand the Indian as well as you understand yourself, in fact, even better. If you know their needs, fears, and hopes, then you can better minister to their hearts.”

  “Makes a heap of sense to me.”

  “How about some pie? Mama Rosita brought me two big apple pies,” Ed announced and left the room without waiting for David’s reply.

  Pushing his dinner plate away, David readily accepted the offer of dessert as Ed brought two huge pieces of pie to the table.

  “I’ll be making some calls this afternoon,” Ed said between bites. “I was wondering if you would do me a favor.”

  “Name it,” David answered quickly. He was eager to repay the old family friend who’d opened his church and home to David’s studies.

  “Well,” Ed began, “if you don’t have too much studying to do, I’d appreciate a hand in getting some polish on the pews. I’ve let things go without attention for much too long. Sometimes one of the congregation offers a hand, but with roundups and harvest, people are inclined to do their own work.”

  “I’d be happy to help. I’ve nearly finished my reading. One thing about college—whether it was back home or here—professors are fond of giving you plenty to read.”
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  Pastor Ed smiled at his young friend. “It should come as no surprise that you’ll spend a good percentage of your pastoring time reading and studying. While God inspires, we can’t retire! That’s my motto. People think a pastor sits around waiting for a heavenly messenger to hand over a weekly sermon. It just doesn’t happen that way. Oh, there are times,” Ed admitted as he pushed away from the table, “it seems as if an idea comes in a flash, but in truth I have found everything in my life is God’s inspiration for His service.”

  David listened intently. This was one of the best things about sharing a home with Ed Clements. “They don’t teach you that from a text book,” David laughed.

  “No indeed,” Ed agreed. “I’ll show you where the rags and polish are and then I’d best be on my way. I told old Mrs. Putterman I’d come and visit her today, and I surely don’t want to disappoint that dear saint.”

  u

  David had worked on the pews for over an hour when he heard the vestibule doors open. Thinking it too early for Ed to be returning, David called out, “Hello! I’m in here.”

  Clasping a basket in front of her, a young woman peered through the doorway into the sanctuary. Her dark brown hair was plastered to her face and back, acknowledgment that the rain had not yet let up.

  “Can I help you?” David asked as he came forward. “You must be soaked. I have a fire going in the back room. Why don’t you leave your basket by the door and come warm up?”

  “I. . .don’t. . .want. . .” The young woman’s teeth chattered so she could scarcely speak. “To be a bother,” she finally managed to say.

  “No bother at all,” David said as he motioned her to follow. Leading the way to the back room, David pulled out a chair and set it directly in front of the wood stove.

  “This ought to get you warmed up,” he said with a smile and added, “I’m David Monroe, and you are?”

  “Jenny,” she replied. “Jenny Oberling.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, Jenny. I’m new here and don’t know too many people. Pastor Ed and I are good friends though. We go way back, and he’s agreed to take me in and help me ease into the ministry.”

  “You’re a pastor?” Jenny questioned doubtfully. The man before her looked too young, too handsome, and not at all like the other pastors she’d known.

  As if reading her mind, David laughed. “Everybody’s got to start somewhere.”

  Jenny smiled only for a moment. “I didn’t mean anything by it,” she whispered.

  “I know.” David wished he could put her at ease. “What brings you to the church today? Anything I might be able to help with?”

  “I don’t know,” Jenny answered honestly. “I was on my way home, and I felt compelled to come inside. Guess it was the rain and the cold.”

  “You sure about that?” David questioned. Swinging a chair around backwards, he straddled it and sat down to look Jenny in the eyes. And oh, what eyes! David said nothing for a moment as he lost himself in their rich brown depths.

  Jenny grew uncomfortable and lowered her face. “I’m not sure about anything. I guess that’s the trouble.”

  “Is that why you came here?”

  “I guess,” Jenny said with a shrug. “I know a lot of people who put store in prayer and such. I guess I thought it might not do any harm to check it out.”

  “Would you like to wait for Pastor Ed, or are you comfortable enough to sit here and talk with me?”

  Jenny stared openly at David for what seemed an eternity. He had beautiful blue eyes and golden blond hair that liked to fall across his face at an angle. He seemed friendly enough, kind enough, but could she explain her heart to him?

  David felt nervous as he waited for her answer. It reminded him of the first time he’d asked a girl to a barn dance. She’d made him wait for an answer, too.

  Jenny noticed his discomfort and took pity on him. “I guess we can talk. Only I really don’t know what about. I don’t know why I’m here, and I don’t know what to say.”

  David smiled and leaned forward against the back of the chair. “We can sit here and say nothing if you prefer it that way.”

  Jenny removed her wet shawl and smoothed her hair away from her face. “Are you sure I’m not taking you away from something else?”

  “Just polishing pews, and that can certainly wait. Why don’t I get us some coffee?” David offered as he got up and took the shawl from Jenny. He draped it across another chair and took some cups from the cupboard.

  “I’d like that,” Jenny said, starting to relax a bit. In the back of her mind was the knowledge she should be going home, but in her heart, an interest had been sparked she’d not expected.

  David left to get the coffee, and Jenny took the opportunity to study the room for a minute. The whitewashed walls were unadorned and the furniture simple, yet the room was warm and inviting.

  “Here we go,” David announced. He poured coffee into each of the mugs and handed one to Jenny.

  Jenny took a drink, grateful for the warmth that spread through her body. “Umm, it’s good,” she said, warming her hands around the cup.

  “Now why don’t you tell me what you were doing out in this rain?” David prompted as he took his seat and unknowingly lost his heart.

  Chapter 2

  Jenny looked down at the cup, rather than face David’s intense blue eyes. “I was delivering laundry. I take in washing to help pay my way.” “Pay your way?” David questioned with a frown.

  “I was orphaned about six years ago. My parents were killed by the Indians in 1878.”

  “What happened?” David asked as though they both had all the time in the world.

  Jenny’s brow furrowed momentarily. “We were part of a wagon train traveling on the Santa Fe Trail. It was about this time of year—I remember because after the heat of Kansas in August, we were grateful for the cool September nights. Pa was anxious to get to Santa Fe. He’d heard stories about cheap land and glorious views. Every day he would tell us about the kind of ranch we’d have and what kind of house we’d live in. In reality, he didn’t have any idea what life down here would be like.”

  “Sounds like a man with big dreams,” David said with a grin.

  “He sure was,” Jenny admitted and shared David’s smile. Her young heart skipped a beat at the nearness of David’s broad-shouldered frame. Jenny wondered if he, too, were a man with big dreams.

  “Where did the attack come?” David asked, breaking the silence.

  “We were three, maybe four, days out from Santa Fe. Everyone was excited about the trip coming to an end. I remember my mother talking about what it would feel like to take a bath in a real tub again.” David smiled and Jenny continued.

  “I had two older brothers, and they started talking about helping Pa with the land and how they were going to find wild horses and break them to ride. Me, I just wanted the journey to be over. Day after day it was the same thing,” Jenny remembered. “I was tired of sleeping under the wagon. Do you know how tedious it is to smell dirt and sage night after night?”

  “Yup,” David laughed, remembering his long journey to Santa Fe. “I haven’t been here long enough yet to forget that.”

  Jenny returned the laugh. “I’ve been here a lot longer than you, and I still can’t forget.” Her voice drifted off as if she were transported back to that distant time. “I remember listening to my parents talk long into the night. It made me feel safe, knowing they were just above me. I could hear my mother’s sweet voice as she’d question my pa about Santa Fe. Night after night, he’d tell her everything he’d read or heard about the territory. He loved her so much, he never tired of telling her.”

  “They must have loved you a great deal too,” David said as he placed his coffee cup on the table. “More coffee?”

  Jenny shook her head, “No thanks. I
still have some left. I’m much warmer now, and I’m sure the rain has let up some. I’m sorry I’ve taken up so much of your time.”

  “You haven’t done a thing I didn’t invite you to do. I’d really like it if you’d tell me the rest of the story. That is, if you feel like it.”

  “The Apaches struck our camp at dawn,” Jenny said matter-of-factly. “I remember coming fully awake out of a deep sleep and knowing something was wrong. My mother was crying, and my pa was talking in whispers to my brothers. I was made to stay with some of the other children while our parents fought for our lives.”

  Jenny’s voice revealed the pain that held her heart hostage. “I never saw my parents alive again. The Indians burned the wagons, stole our horses, and killed most everyone. A handful of children and old women were all that remained when the cavalry finally arrived.”

  “How awful for you,” David sympathized, not knowing what else to say. He’d never known anyone who’d endured something as heinous as what Jenny had described. When he was taught to deal with grief, his teachers forgot to mention that pain and suffering touched the innocent lives of children, leaving wounds that seemingly never healed.

  Jenny looked beyond David’s face and stared blankly at the whitewashed wall behind him. She could still see the death and destruction the Apaches left in place of living, breathing souls.

  David felt desperate to get Jenny’s mind off the attack. “So where do you live now?” he asked.

  Jenny forced herself to concentrate on David’s voice. Taking a deep breath as if to cleanse the memory, she answered, “I live just down the street with Natty Morgan. She was one of the women who lived through the attack. She took me in and told me as long as I earned my keep, I could stay on.”

  “Earn your keep? You were a child. You’re still hardly more than a child,” David said and immediately regretted the words, knowing they sounded pompous.

  “I’ll be seventeen on New Year’s Day,” Jenny exclaimed angrily, “and I haven’t been a child since the day of the raid.”