Where the Road Bends

Rachel Fordham

• Publisher: Revell
• Year: 2022
• eBook ISBN:
  9781493436309
• Print ISBN:
  9780800739744

As Norah King surveys her family land in Iowa in 1880, she is acutely aware that it is all she has left, and she will do everything in her power to save it--even if that means marrying a man she hardly knows. Days before her wedding, Norah discovers an injured man on her property. Her sense of duty compels her to take him in and nurse him back to health. Little does she realize just how much this act of kindness will complicate her life and threaten the future she's planned.

Norah's care does more than aid Quincy Barnes's recovery--it awakens his heart to possibilities. Penniless and homeless, he knows the most honorable thing he can do is head on down the road and leave Norah to marry her intended. But walking away from the first person to believe in him proves much harder than he imagined.

Rachel Fordham invites you to experience the strength and beauty of love forged in the crucible of hardship in this heartwarming story.

1

Blackwell, Iowa, 1880

The small band on her ring finger glistened in the sunlight as Norah King walked the family land she had nearly lost. This land, her father had said before he died, was their legacy. It was the backdrop of their story—their wrestle and toil—and their love.

She lifted her hand in front of her and sighed. She’d told Jake she didn’t need a ring, but he wouldn’t have it any other way, claiming that his bride would be up on all the latest fashions. In two weeks’ time, she would be married, and the thought made her heart beat unevenly. But there was no turning back, no other way. He’d come courting the very week the banker had threatened to call in her loan. Jake had come to rescue her, and she would be thankful.

“Norah Granger,” she said. It sounded strange to her ears, but with time, she assured herself, it would become who she was. Jake wasn’t the romantic suitor she’d pictured marrying, but now at twenty-two years old and short on money, she was willing to let her former idealistic notions go. Jake was an able-bodied man, and though older than she was, he was willing to rescue her in her time of need—that counted for something. That was enough, was it not?

Norah stopped walking when she reached the creek that ran through her land and couldn’t help but smile when she heard its familiar burbling. A bench her father had gifted her on her tenth birthday beckoned her to enjoy a moment’s respite.

The gentle rolling of the creek mesmerized her as it had always done, soothing the restlessness inside her. She removed her boots and stockings and gathered her skirts in her hands. Jake had agreed to live on this land when they married. Her family deed would soon be in his name, but this creek and this bench would always be hers.

Her spine stiffened. Jake wouldn’t care that she found the water delightful and sloshed around in it, would he? She laughed. What a ridiculous fear. Jake farmed. Surely he appreciated and enjoyed the land and water. He wouldn’t fault her for wanting to cool her feet in the summer heat. Besides, she would work long hours to make up for any time lost. Shirking was not in her nature—she’d show him that.

She waded deeper into the water, letting the delicious freshness lap against her calves, and for one blissful moment she had no worries. Gone were her money troubles, her marriage fears, and her loneliness—washed away with the current.

Two vultures circling not far off caught her eye. Around and around they went, swooping lower with each loop, readying, no doubt, to land by some poor creature that had lost its life to the elements. Their circling motions interrupted her calm. Her heart beat faster and worry crept in, causing her to drop her skirts and run toward the birds and what they had found.

She rushed from the creek as quick as a fox from a henhouse. Her hogs and cattle were profit animals. She couldn’t lose them. Her finances were already precarious. Her land was prime, that was true, but a loan came with it. Evidence of the year she’d struggled to farm on her own while wading through the unfamiliar waters of grief.

Her bare feet and wet hem tried to slow her advance on the circling birds, but she refused to be hindered. She pushed hard and fast, her feet crying out when they landed on a rock, but still she pressed on, unwilling to slow her pace. Her focus jumped from the yellow plants around her to the carnivores above. What did they see?

To her right, her small herd of cattle grazed, unaffected by the birds above them. Nothing seemed amiss, so she slowed her pace. Perhaps she had been too rash with her worry. Clinging to that thought, she nearly laughed. Her nerves had her frantic, but all was well.

Norah raised a hand to her brow, blocking the sun, and sighed as she admired her endless fields dancing to the rhythm of the wind. Ignoring the birds above, she turned back toward the creek and her abandoned shoes. Two steps were all she took before stopping again. A patch of crushed wheat and . . . a trail of red. Her fear returned. Something was hurt—or dead. She forced her breath to come slow and quiet as she followed the path of blood. Her hands shook, and she forced them into fists. This was her farm. Until Jake moved onto it, she had to take care of the animals and keep them safe from predators.

The amount of blood increased as she went on. She braced herself to see a mauled animal, a sight she was certain would turn her stomach. The trail veered left, so she veered with it and then froze.

A head. Full of matted hair. It was . . .

Her skin tingled. A man? She didn’t understand. She had feared a cow or a hog but had never once imagined the birds were circling above a man. Inhaling deeply and letting her breath out slowly, she forced herself to stay present despite wanting to run and hide and pretend the wretched image away. This man, whoever he was, needed her. There was no one else.

“Sir?”

He didn’t move. Norah clung to her meager courage and knelt beside him. Her hand trembled as she reached toward him, only to pull back and clutch it to her chest. Death was not new to her. The cows and hogs and, of course, chickens were all butchered, but suddenly an image of her parents overpowered her. Her mother’s sallow, sickly face before illness took her, and her father, bloodied and broken after he’d fallen from his favorite horse. She pressed her eyes closed and searched for the strength and fortitude she wanted to believe she possessed—that she needed to possess in this moment.

“Are you alive?” She forced her still-weak hand to the man’s chest and held her breath, focusing on him. A slight rise and fall.

“You’re alive!” She let the air out of her chest, instantly relieved and less afraid.

His dark, shaggy hair lay matted against his scalp, and his face was badly swollen from bruises that gave him an allover purple hue. His nose appeared badly broken. It did not take much imagination to believe that the rest of him was equally battered. It was difficult to know what this man would look like if he were in good health. He could be anyone. Perhaps he was even someone she’d seen before. Questions swirled in her mind, but she couldn’t dwell on them, not when his heart beat so weakly.

The vultures and hot afternoon sun were worrisome, as were his injuries. His survival, she feared, teetered on her ability to care for him. Norah stood on her bare feet and looked around, desperate for a solution. She feared leaving him, afraid the birds would grow daring enough to land and add their own injuries. If she could rouse him, maybe he could limp beside her back to the house. With uncharacteristic boldness, she lifted his arm, put it over her shoulder, and tried to pry him from the ground. He groaned, then fell limp again.

Certain she could not carry him all the way to the house, she grabbed a rock from the ground and threw it toward the birds.

“Go away!” she shouted. They mocked her and continued their circling.

She could do little about the birds, other than hurry, but she could be of some help in protecting the man against the sun. She tore the wet hem of her skirt and pressed the damp fabric to his forehead.

“I’ll come back,” she said before running toward her house in a reckless sprint.

It took her longer than she wanted to get home, hitch a horse and makeshift pallet, and get back to him. She kept her eye on the birds as she returned. Only one circled now. Was the other on the ground? Her stomach tightened and her hand went to the pistol in her bag. “Come on,” she urged the horse. “No lollygagging.”

He nickered his resistance but increased his pace.

“He’s just ahead,” she said to the horse. “Faster.”

Once she was close enough, the second bird came into view. Large and malicious, it stood near the injured stranger. She leapt from the horse, spread her arms wide, and growled at the large bird. It hopped a few feet back but didn’t fly away. Norah pointed her pistol at the bird, pulled the trigger back, and fired. She missed, but the sound of the shot sent the bird soaring high into the air. There was no time to gloat over her victory, so she shoved the gun back into the saddlebag and turned her attention to the desperate man.

“Let him live,” she whispered before once again placing her hand on the man’s chest. A steady thudding confirmed he was alive. His eyes popped open and his hand came up and grasped her own, making her recoil in fear.

“Water,” he said, before his hand fell and his swollen eyes closed.

He said no more, but his words had struck their mark. A fierce determination burned inside her. No matter their difference in size or the distance they had to cross, she would get this man water and aid him however possible.

Sweat ran down her forehead as she dragged his large, broken body to the pallet. Whenever she felt unequipped for the task, she shouted again at the worthless birds and told them they couldn’t have him.

“Go find another meal,” she yelled when her muscles threatened to give up on her. She was strong thanks to years of plowing, hauling water, and chopping wood, but even with years of farm muscle on her small but sturdy frame, the task of moving this giant of a man was difficult.

“I’m taking him home. You can’t have him!” she shouted to the sky. She stood near the man’s head, put her hands under his shoulders, and pulled with all her might. Her muscles screamed in agony and her back ached, but she did not stop.

Only when the man was secured on the pallet did she relax and acknowledge what a feat she’d accomplished. He was twice her size, if not more, and all muscle. She blushed and pushed the observation away. She certainly hadn’t saved his life yet, but she’d saved him from the birds and that alone brought a smile to her face.

“Getting you back to the house will be bumpy,” she said over her shoulder as she led the horse away from the field. “Once we’re there, I’ll clean you up and go for the doctor. You smell like a rotten carcass.” She wiped her brow with the back of her hand. “I shouldn’t say that. That’s terribly rude even if it is true.”

Being mindful of his situation, she chose instead to fill the air with lighthearted conversation. She occasionally glanced over her shoulder and tried to deduce what she could about the man.

“Where are you from?” she asked, not truly expecting a response. “I’ve lived on this farm my whole life. If you were feeling better, you’d see how beautiful it is. The crops blow in the wind like a wave on the sea. I’ve never seen the sea, but I can imagine it. Can you?”

He, of course, made no answer, but she pretended he did. His large stature led her to believe he had a deep voice, so she imagined he told her about the hue of the ocean and the sound it made when it crashed against the shore.

“It must be beautiful,” she said while leading the horse around a rut. “But I don’t believe it’s more beautiful than King land.”

He didn’t utter a sound, leaving her to wonder if he even heard her chatter.

“We’re eight miles from town. Are you from our town? Or maybe you traveled from somewhere else? Azure Springs or another place to the east? I suppose you’ll tell me when you’re able.”

She rambled on and on, never slowing her pace or her talking. “Sometimes I imagine I’m young again and this farm is run by my father, and my mother is inside the house. It was all so much easier when my father was alive.” She bit her lip, frustrated that she’d led the conversation back to the dead. “We have cattle and hogs. And we grow wheat and corn.”

She sighed. “That’s what we always had and we did so well, except when my father gambled. Don’t judge him too harshly. He still managed to keep this place going. With him gone, I’m the one who’s failed this place. But . . . but Jake’s going to fix everything.” He’d blown into her life like the dust on the wind—seemingly small but capable of overtaking everything. “He’s got to.”

She led the horse the rest of the way to the house in silence, mindful of her charge but also deep in thought. So much had happened in such a short amount of time, she could hardly keep up. She looked back at the man on the pallet, another unexpected happening. And now he was going to be in her home, under her care. She cringed, thinking how that would sound to the already less-than-cordial neighbors. Come what may, he was here and she would not leave him to the birds.

Getting him inside the house was far from graceful, and she couldn’t help but hope he didn’t remember a moment of it. She dragged him by his arms, rolled him across the floor, and even attempted to push him by his feet. Several times she had to stop and catch her breath but always went back to her task, refusing to forsake him. More pushing and pulling and at last he was securely inside.

“You’re a brute, too big for your own good,” she snapped at him when his head bumped into the wall. Remorse followed, and in a gentler voice, she said, “I will choose to believe you would help me if you could. Since you’re not up for talking, I’m going to assume you are the victim of an atrocious crime and in desperate need of kindness.” She laughed at her own absurdity. “Whatever you are, you showed up on my land.”

Rather than attempt to lift him onto a bed, she pulled the mattress from her parents’ room, laid it on the floor of the parlor, and rolled him onto it. Sweat ran in streams down her face when she at last had him settled.

She groaned when she thought of all she still had to do today. Everything in her wanted to collapse, curl up, and sleep for hours, but animals needed feeding, her garden ought to be weeded, and her stomach hadn’t been filled since daybreak. But first she had to see to the stranger’s wounds. A squeamish fear niggled its way into her mind, attempting to steal her resolve. Cleaning him would require her to see more of this man than she wanted to see. Perhaps if she went for the doctor, he’d not only see to any wounds but also wash this poor man’s stench away.

Unsure what to do, she looked out the window at the sun, low in the sky. Fetching a doctor would take time, so she’d have to travel in the dark. She scowled, knowing her situation was less than ideal, but what options did she have? Leave him and ride into the night or stay beside him and hope her mediocre doctoring skills would suffice. She felt ill-equipped to make such a decision. At last she decided to first inspect his wounds and see how severe they appeared. At the very least, she knew how to feed a convalescing invalid—nursing her sickly mother had given her plenty of experience.

Still stalling, she offered the man water, only to have it run down his cheek. She put the water aside and braced herself for the inevitable. With fresh rags and soap in hand, she set to work cleaning the caked-on mud and blood from his skin. The bruises could not be so easily washed away, but with time the swelling and color would dissipate. When she was bruised or scratched, her mama never fetched a doctor. Granted, this man had a great many more such injuries than she’d ever had, but they still did not seem so bad that a doctor needed to be summoned in the night. She took a deep breath, knowing his internal injuries could be worse than those on his purple face.

His shirt was tattered. Rather than save it, she cut it off and washed his arms and chest. It’s merely doctoring, she reassured herself when she felt her pulse jump with each stroke of the rag against his flesh. Two gashes in his upper chest required bandaging, and when she touched his ribs, he jerked to the side. Poor man—his ribs were so tender, likely broken or badly bruised. Once finish...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Endorsements
• Half Title Page
• Books by Rachel Fordham
• Title Page
• Copyright Page
• Dedication
• Contents
• Epigraph
• Chapter 1
• Chapter 2
• Chapter 3
• Chapter 4
• Two Years Later
• Chapter 5
• Chapter 6
• Chapter 7
• Chapter 8
• Chapter 9
• Chapter 10
• Chapter 11
• Chapter 12
• Chapter 13
• Chapter 14
• Chapter 15
• Chapter 16
• Chapter 17
• Chapter 18
• Chapter 19
• Chapter 20
• Chapter 21
• Chapter 22
• Chapter 23
• Chapter 24
• Chapter 25
• Chapter 26
• Epilogue
• Discussion Questions
• Author’s Note
• Another Heartwarming Story from Rachel Fordham
• About the Author
• Back Ads
• Back Cover