Chapter Twenty-One
By the time Henry and James reached home, the sun had already begun its slow descent toward the western horizon.
The wagon creaked as it rolled through the front gate, its bed laden with sacks of feed, coils of fencing wire, lamp oil, and a crate of supplies from the mercantile.
Dust clung to the horses’ flanks, and Henry welcomed the familiar sight of home after a long day in Weatherford.
He climbed down from the wagon and stretched the stiffness from his shoulders.
The house stood just as it always had, warm evening light spilling from the kitchen windows.
The small flower bed Nora had planted in front of the porch had begun to bloom despite the summer heat, bright splashes of yellow and blue softening the weathered timbers of the old ranch house.
The scent of buttermilk fried chicken drifted on the breeze from the open kitchen window.
James glanced toward the house. “I’m hungry enough to eat nails and ask for gravy,” he said.
Henry smiled. “Yeah,” he agreed. “But we should get the horses fed and watered first.”
“Right you are.”
As they worked, he glanced over his shoulder to see Nora standing at the kitchen window.
Ordinarily, she would have stepped onto the porch to greet them, perhaps asking whether they had found everything they needed or whether the journey had gone smoothly.
Perhaps yesterday’s argument still lingered more deeply than he’d hoped.
Just then, James caught Henry watching her. “You’ll have to give her a little time.”
Henry sighed quietly. “I know.”
“I meant what I said.” James lifted a sack of flour onto his shoulder. “You can’t expect trust to grow overnight.”
“I don’t.” Henry rested one hand against the wagon wheel. “I only hoped...” He left the sentence unfinished.
James smiled kindly. “She’ll talk when she’s ready.”
Henry looked toward the kitchen once more before leading the horses to the stables.
***
Supper was quieter than usual. Not uncomfortable, but rather subdued.
Nora had prepared fried chicken with buttered potatoes from the garden, fresh green beans, and thick slices of bread still warm from the oven.
Everything was cooked beautifully, yet she scarcely seemed aware of the compliments James offered between mouthfuls.
Her smile came politely and never quite reached her eyes.
Lola carried most of the conversation, recounting an elaborate story about Buttercup refusing to cross a puddle that morning because, in her opinion, the pony believed frogs might leap out and nibble her hooves.
James laughed so heartily that Lola nearly fell off her chair trying to imitate Buttercup’s indignant snort.
Even Henry smiled. But each time his eyes drifted toward Nora, he found her quietly watching her plate.
He had hoped she might have reached some decision while he was away.
That perhaps, after supper, they would finally sit together and speak honestly.
Not because he wished to force the truth from her.
Because he wanted to understand. Instead, an invisible distance seemed to have settled between them.
Not born of anger, but something else and it disappointed him more than he cared to admit.
After the meal, Henry carried Lola upstairs. She climbed willingly beneath the patchwork quilt, clutching the rag doll Nora had mended only a few days earlier. “Will Nora put me to bed tomorrow?” she asked sleepily.
“If she’d like to.”
“I hope she does.”
Henry tucked the blanket gently beneath her shoulders. Lola yawned as she closed her eyes. Henry remained beside the bed until her breathing slowed into the peaceful rhythm of sleep. For a moment, he simply watched her.
The house had grown wonderfully still by the time he descended the stairs. James had already returned home, leaving only the quiet creak of the old floorboards and the occasional chirp of crickets drifting through the open windows.
As Henry passed the sitting room, a faint glow drew his attention toward the kitchen.
Nora sat alone at the table, a single oil lamp burned beside her, its golden light falling across the open pages of her Bible.
She had not heard him enter. One hand rested lightly upon the page while the other absentmindedly traced the edge of the worn leather cover.
For several moments Henry simply stood in the doorway. There was something deeply peaceful about the sight. The house, which for so long had echoed with little more than silence and duty, now held a different sort of quiet. One filled with warmth rather than emptiness.
At last, he cleared his throat gently. “What are you reading?”
She looked up, momentarily startled before offering him a small smile. “The twenty-third Psalm.”
Henry nodded. “My sister used to love that one.”
Nora glanced back down at the page. “So did my mother.” Her voice softened. “When I was frightened as a little girl, Father Harper’s wife would have me recite it until my breathing slowed.” She looked at the familiar words. “I still find myself returning to it.”
Henry pulled out the chair opposite her. “May I?”
“Of course.”
He sat down and for a few moments they simply looked at the open Bible together. Then, Nora began reading quietly.
“The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.” Her voice was steady and the words flowed naturally, as though they had lived within her for many years.
“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for Thou art with me; Thy rod and Thy staff they comfort me.” She stopped there, her fingers rested lightly upon the page. “I’ve always loved those verses.”
Henry looked at her. “Why?”
She was silent for a moment before answering, “Because they remind me that danger doesn’t mean God has abandoned us.
” She smiled sadly. “Sometimes, life leads us through very dark valleys.” Her gaze remained upon the Scriptures.
“We don’t always understand why… But He walks beside us all the same.
” She looked up. “I think that’s what gives me courage. ”
Henry lowered his eyes. The words settled somewhere unexpectedly deep. The valley of the shadow of death. He had walked through one of his own.
Nora seemed to read something of those thoughts upon his face. “You were a man of faith once.”
It was not a question. Henry smiled faintly. “I was.” He leaned back in his chair, his eyes drifting toward the window where the moonlight silvered the yard outside. “My mother saw to that.”
He could almost picture her now, Bible tucked beneath one arm as she called him and Samantha in from the yard on Sunday mornings.
“There wasn’t a single day that began without Scripture in our house.
” He smiled. “Father would read before breakfast while Samantha and I tried very hard not to fidget.”
Ruth listened without interrupting.
“When I enlisted...” Henry continued, “...I carried a small New Testament in my pocket.” He looked down at his hands.
“I read from it nearly every evening when things were quiet. When men were afraid… Sometimes I’d read aloud.
” He paused for a beat. “There were fellows who’d never set foot inside a church.
But they’d still ask me to read.” He swallowed. “I believed every word.”
Silence settled gently between them. “What changed?” Ruth asked softly.
Henry was quiet for a long while. “I came home,” he said.
“And I thought… if I survived the war, God had surely preserved me for a reason.” His eyes glistened in the lamplight.
“That all those long nights that I prayed for this ranch, for my sister, our family, that it meant something.
That God had heard me and kept them safe. “
He looked around the kitchen. “I used to dream of us all sitting right here.” The words caught in his throat. “Then I stepped off the train and discovered there was no family waiting for me.” He looked down. “Only fresh graves.”
The room fell silent. “I couldn’t understand it,” he admitted. “I’d prayed for their safety every day. I begged God to watch over them.” His fingers tightened together. “And He didn’t.” He drew a slow breath. “After that...”
He shook his head. “I stopped asking and I stopped praying. It hurt too much to have faith anymore...”
Nora reached across the table and rested her hand gently over his. Henry looked down at her hand and he did not pull away. And then he looked back at her.
“I don’t know why God allows suffering,” Nora said. “I’ve asked that question myself many times.” She smiled sadly. “But I do know that He stays.” She glanced once more at the Psalm. “Even in the valley.”
Neither of them spoke for several moments and then Nora bowed her head. “May I pray for you?”
Henry instinctively stiffened. For years, prayer had felt like a reminder of everything he had lost. Every unanswered plea and disappointment.
His first impulse was to refuse. Yet as he looked at Ruth across the table, he found he could not. He gave the smallest nod. “If you’d like.”
She folded her hands. “Gracious Father...Thank You for being patient with us when our hearts struggle to trust You.” She paused. “Thank You for walking beside us, even when we cannot always see Your hand.”
Henry lowered his eyes.
“Lord, You know every sorrow Henry carries. You know every question he has never spoken aloud. You know every burden he has tried to bear alone.” Her voice trembled slightly. “Please help him to know that You have never abandoned him.”
Outside, the wind rustled softly through the cottonwoods while inside, the house seemed wrapped in a profound stillness. Henry expected the familiar resistance to rise within him. The bitterness and anger. Instead... a strange peace settled quietly over his heart.
Not all at once, not enough to answer every question.
But enough to loosen, if only slightly, the tight knot he had carried inside for so many years.
For the first time since returning from the war, prayer did not feel like an accusation.
It did not remind him of all he had lost. It felt...
safe. Like finding shelter beneath a sturdy roof while a storm still raged outside.
When Nora finally whispered, “Amen,” Henry found that he had closed his eyes without even realizing it. He opened them slowly. Neither of them spoke, because words seemed unnecessary.
At last, Nora smiled. “I think I’ll turn in.”
He rose as she gathered her Bible. “Goodnight, Henry.”
“Goodnight.”
He remained alone in the quiet kitchen. The lamp flickered softly beside the chair where she had been sitting. Henry rested one hand on the back of it and smiled faintly at himself. How curious. Only weeks ago, he had avoided every conversation about God. Now, he found himself lingering over one.
He still carried questions, still carried grief, nothing about that had changed. Yet somewhere between a shared prayer and an old psalm, the certainty that God had abandoned him no longer seemed quite as absolute as it once had.
Perhaps faith did not return all at once, but rather it came quietly. One prayer, one conversation, one small step at a time.