Tomorrow's Sun (Lost Sanctuary) - By Becky Melby Page 0,23
myself that you left alone because you love me. It does not feel like love, but as I sit by the window each night hoping against hope, I sense God’s hand in even this. If you were here Papa and I would not embark on what we are about to do.
God alone knows what the future holds. Even if you read this years from now, know that I will never stop loving you.
November 21, 1852
Tomorrow we leave. We must before it snows. I harbor a secret hope that I have not shared with Papa. Is it possible God is leading me to you instead of away from you? Has God embarked us both on the same mission? My skin prickles with anticipation at the thought. So, my love, I will open the door one last time to search for word from you and to leave this final message. Once we arrive, I will write weekly to the one person I can trust. May God hold you in His everlasting arms until the day you are safe in mine.
Emily walked over to the church pew and stared up at the cross, filled with a strange certainty she, too, was embarking on a new mission.
September 3, 1852
“He’ll be fine. Just fine.”
Hannah worried the waist of her fan-front dress as she scanned the room that would soon be hers. On the wall to her right, freshly painted shelves displayed her few prized possessions—a child’s cup and saucer Papa bought her in New York when he’d crossed the ocean to scout out land in America, and the little toy stove with two miniature pans her grandmother sent from England for her first Christmas in their little one-room cabin in Wisconsin Territory. Ten years had passed, yet still she could remember the softness of the striped fabric wrapped around the tiny stove. She and Mama had cried and talked of Grandmother Yardley as they tore the cloth into strips to decorate the evergreen bough draping the mantel.
She walked to the window and flattened her hand against one of the panes. Mama had been so proud of her windows that opened and closed—Adams Glass, shipped from Pennsylvania.
Thoughts of Mama distracted her from worries of Liam only for a moment.
“There shall no evil befall thee…he shall give his angels charge over thee, to keep thee in all thy ways.”
“They’ll all be fine.” It helped to say it aloud, even if the only one listening was a doll with a papier-mâché face.
It was only half past eight, still light out. Flies buzzed in and out of the window. A mosquito landed on her hand and she slapped it, leaving a trail of someone else’s blood. The river gurgled in a lazy summer way. A perfect night for a walk along the riverbank, her hand tucked in the crook of Liam’s arm, whispering of wedding plans.
An exasperated sigh ruffled the coppery tendrils tickling her face. Make-believe brought only emptiness. God knew what He was doing. There were more important things than dreaming of white lace and daisy bouquets.
Papa had told her to rest for a few hours, said he’d call up the stairs when it was time, and there was nothing more she could do for their guests. They were all asleep.
How could they?
“Musn’t think.” She stretched out on the folded quilt she’d laid on the floor. Truth be told, she’d come up here to be farther away from the sadness in the cellar. She knew she’d hear nothing down in the back parlor where she slept for now. They’d harbored seven people since spring and never had she heard a sound, even from the little ones. A child too afraid to cry was an unbearable thought.
She forced her top lids to meet her bottom. Her fingers still worried the gray muslin of her dress. If only she could catch the thoughts that flitted through her mind and seal them tight like fireflies in a canning jar. Her arm grazed Tildy. She picked up the doll by one wooden arm. Tildy had been Mama’s doll when she was little. Hannah always fancied Tildy looked like Mama with her black hair, round face, and rosy cheeks. Her body was soft leather and her wood shaving stuffings made her huggable. She still wore the dark green calico dress Mama had stitched for Hannah’s tenth birthday.
A tear slid to her tatting-edged pillowcase. She sat up. Eighteen was far too old for hugging dolls.