Promises to Keep, Nan Rossiter [feel good fiction books .txt] 📗

of the barn, the heady sweet scent of hay enveloping him and taking him back in time. He looked up at the rays of dusty sunlight streaming through the old glass windows and wondered how many hay bales he and his brothers had tossed up into the hot, airless space. Even now, he could feel the prickly twine on his hands. Except for the buzz of flies trapped in the windows, the barn was quiet.

He went back outside and walked past the line of John Deere tractors and implements, noting that their old red New Holland baler—with several parts on the ground—must be broken, which was probably why the grass was so high. He whistled for Gus and called his name, but there was no sign of him, and he began to wonder if his brothers’ hounds had mischievously led his unsuspecting pup off somewhere and left him.

“Gus!” he shouted, starting to worry. He walked over to the pasture fence, and looked across the field, dotted with cattle grazing lazily in the hot summer sun. Some of the wiser ones had congregated under a stand of trees and were lying on the grass, chewing their cud and swishing their tails at the flies. Just then, Gage saw the two hounds nosing around the water trough, and he waited hopefully to see Gus appear, too, but when he didn’t, he walked toward them. “What did you two rascals do with my dog?” he asked, but they just wagged their tails innocently and lay down in the cool shade. “This is crazy,” Gage muttered. “Where the hell is he?” He walked in the opposite direction, past the house again, and Chase came out on the porch with a beer in his hand.

“Haven’t found him?” he asked.

Gage shook his head. “No. I have no idea where he is.”

“I’ll be right out,” his brother said.

Gage walked on, feeling stupid. His family was all here, mourning the loss of his father, and he was out looking for—and worried about—his dog. “C’mon, Gus,” he muttered. “Show yourself . . .” As he rounded the corner of the house, he heard a commotion and looked up to see a flock of panicked loons rising above the trees, their wings whistling as they beat the air, and he suddenly knew where his dog had gone. He looked across the field at the big, muddy cow pond and saw Gus splashing happily in the water. A wave of relief swept over him—even as he shook his head in dismay.

“Found him!” he called to his brother, who’d just come out again.

“Good!” Chase called, waving and going back inside to retrieve his beer.

“Gus!” Gage commanded, and the wayward Lab looked up, splashed out of the pond—the bottom of which he’d stirred into a muddy froth—and raced toward him, loping like a porpoise through the swaying grass, and then, before Gage could stop him, he shook his entire body from head to tail, sending mud and water everywhere!

“Nice,” Gage grumbled, looking down at his clothes, but when he looked up at the beaming face of his carefree dog, all he could do was laugh. “I can’t take you back to the house like that, so it’s the hose or the river . . .” And since Gage wasn’t eager to go back to the house yet, he said, “I guess it’s the river for you.”

Gus trotted happily alongside Gage as he followed the once-worn path to the river that ran along the south pasture. He passed the place where his dad had, so long ago, gotten his tractor stuck, and continued over the rolling landscape to the spot in the river where the rushing water fell into a deep swimming hole. “Okay,” he said, and Gus plunged into the cold, clear water, all the mud on his legs and paws and fur swirling away. Under Gage’s watchful eye, he splashed around for several minutes until Gage was sure he was clean—albeit still wet—and then they turned and walked together in the direction of the gnarled, old oak tree he and his brothers had long ago dubbed the “Tennyson Tree.” The majestic tree stood on a grassy knoll overlooking the entire farm. It had endured years of sun, wind, and rain . . . and even two tornadoes. It was under this tree that Cale was buried.

43

WHEN RUTH LINDSTROM LOOKED UP AND SAW MAEVE STANDING AT THE end of their pew, her whole face brightened into a smile and she poked her husband to make room. It had been several weeks since Maeve had made it to church, but for some odd reason, the stars had aligned that morning—she hadn’t had to work and she hadn’t been lazing in bed beside Gage—so when she’d felt the nudge to attend, along with additional pressure from Harper the night before (who loved going to church because she usually saw her friend Rudy there), she couldn’t say no. Her dad stood up, kissed her cheek, let her into the pew, and sat down beside her. Sitting between her parents, Maeve felt like a little kid again, and when she turned to see Harper in the same position—between her parents—right behind them, she winked. Harper grinned and winked back.

Maeve scanned the bulletin to see what was planned for that morning and was delighted to see the sermon would be delivered by the younger of their church’s two ministers, Jennifer Whipple. Even though Maeve didn’t go to church very often, when she did go, she always loved Jen’s insightful sermons and this one, titled A Gentle Whisper, immediately piqued her curiosity. She’d heard—and ignored—plenty of gentle whispers in her lifetime. Maybe it was time she listened. She gazed out the window, watching a robin hop along the branches of a dogwood tree, looking for berries, and thought about everything that had happened in the last twenty-four hours.

She and Macey had packed up a few of her necessities, but because they didn’t know who would be looking after the chickens—and there was a chance she’d be