Back Roads to Bliss (Saskatchewan Saga Book #6): A Novel by Ruth Glover Page B

banking the fire for the night, before blowing out the lamp, he turned to his Bible. He found himself comforted by David’s assurance of the Lord’s deliverance: “Their soul is melted because of trouble. They reel to and fro, and stagger like a drunken man, and are at their wits’ end. Then they cry unto the L ORD in their trouble, and he bringeth them out of their distresses. He maketh the storm a calm, so that the waves thereof are still. Then are they glad because they be quiet; so he bringeth them unto their desired haven” (Ps. 107:26b–30). Desired haven—Parker dared hope for it even now.
    Quiet in heart and spirit at last, he slept.

    Mornings in the north, in winter, were times of desperation. Pity the husband and father, the man of the household, to whom was assigned the fire-building task.
    Gritting his teeth, Parker slid from the cocoon of his quilts, thrust his feet into his shoes, and shivered his way to the stove.
    Happy the dawning when a few live coals remained from the night’s fire. This morning Parker wasn’t so fortunate. First shaking down the grate and removing several scoops of ashes, he crumpled an old newspaper, placed it in position, covered it with fine chips and specially cut kindling, so called because it “kindled” or lit quickly, and set a match to it. Leaving the stove open for the moment, Parker huddled at its side, absorbing the first promise of warmth, feeding the fire with suitably sized wood until it was blazing brightly and popping cheerily.
    The cold receded grudgingly, inch by inch. Soon the nail heads nearest the stove were free of frost; eventually the ice in the kettle thawed, the hot water began to steam, and a first washing of sooty hands was possible. Shaving would come later; baths were reserved for Saturday nights.
    The day—when he started out later for the Morrison place—was sunny, bright with promise. Parker’s boots slid and stumbled over the rut-frozen roads, but if the schoolchildren could navigate them day after day, in fair weather and foul, so could he. It was with relief, however, that he turned in at the gate and trudged the lane to the house. Smoke spiraled from the stovepipe, and Parker anticipated a hot cup of tea and perhaps an oatcake or scone, usually forthcoming from this Scottish family.
    The door swung open while his gloved fist was still raised to knock, and Molly’s fresh face and welcoming smile greeted him; her hand pulled him into the room. Her warm cheek was pressed to his cold one, and then she was unbuttoning his wraps, helping him out of them, hanging them up.
    “Come to the fire,” she urged and led him to the favored spot.
    Mary, gentle Mary, Molly’s mother, greeted him warmly, and soon Mam, beloved grandmother, came in to offer her cheek for a kiss. It was from Mam Molly got her abundant head of lively hair, though the one head was white now, and the other coal black; it was from Mam Molly got the bluest eyes imaginable, fading ever so little now in the lined face and sparkling with life and vigor in the other. Parker thought of his womanless estate and envied the life and warmth and beauty so abundantly displayed in the Morrison home. God willing, he would, one day soon, rob the house of its sweetest and best.
    As he had anticipated, a hot cup of tea and a buttered scone were soon daintily served, along with a snowy serviette to cover his knee. Molly, lithe and lissome, restless with winter’s restrictions, folded herself on a braided rug at Parker’s feet, cup in hand, her eyes raised to his and filled with love and longing.
    “What brings you tramping over here this time of the week?” she asked, knowing there had to be a reason in this weather.
    “We need to talk, Molly,” Parker said, handing her his cup and drawing a deep breath.
    Mary was instantly alert. “Mam and I have things to do,” she said with a twinkle, and the two—mother and grandmother—left for one of the bedrooms that had been added to the