whispered plea fell from her tongue and ended in a sigh as she realized the irony of it all. To think how many years she had spent avoiding Bruce Millikan. Now she lay here in dire need and the one person she prayed would find her—was none other than Bruce. She laughed aloud at her own folly. A bird flew across the sky chirping, as if mocking her.
Would Bruce chastise her for not hiding her Quaker speech and keeping them all from danger? Would he be angry at her for running to the river rather than back to the wagon? Perhaps he would be livid at her for separating from Marta. At any rate, no matter what she could have done, Bruce would no doubt feel she had made the wrong decision. She'd never been able to please him.
Wrapping her arms around her, Flora consoled herself with the thought that God was the only one she needed to please. In her heart, she knew she had done what she thought was best. The one thing that she could have done differently was conceal her speech. Would such an act of deception be worth saving their lives? Where was her faith? Flora rolled over on her side, allowing a single tear to slip out of the corner of her eye and down her temple, where it trailed the hairline to her ear.
“Father, where does one's faith meet the common sense thee gave us?” She bit her bottom lip in worry. “Is the line truly as blurry as it appears right now? Please forgive me and help me see thy will more clearly.”
Flora's rampant thoughts grew distant as she struggled to stay awake and alert. Fatigue claimed her senses until she could no longer keep her eyelids open. She yawned, unable to resist the slumber that seized her.
“Flora!” Where could she be? Bruce climbed over the rugged path banking the river. His booted foot slipped in a patch of mud. He braced himself, throwing both arms out to regain his balance as he kept going. Something moved in the water. It looked like a torn piece of cloth snagged on a piece of driftwood. His heart skidded with a start. Bruce plowed into the water, gasping as the cold wetness seeped into his clothes and against his skin.
Irene had warned him in a tearful state that Flora couldn't swim. He pushed through the water, pressing through the current until it was deep enough to swim. Bruce swung his arms and kicked as hard as he could, chasing after the log. The current was strong, but he wouldn't give up.
He reached out to grab the log, but it rolled from his grasp. Swinging his other arm around, Bruce gripped it tight. He pulled himself up and grabbed the gray cloth, recognizing a piece of Flora's skirt.
“God, please don't let anything happen to her.” He closed his eyes and squeezed the cloth. Panic pulsed through his chest, slicing through fear and guilt. Should he have waited to take Marta back? For a moment, he couldn't breathe, and he held onto the log, allowing the current to carry him in the direction it would have most likely carried Flora. “Father, help me find her,” he whispered, his voice raspy and strange to his ears.
As he floated on the log, Bruce scanned the area around him, looking for any other movement or more clothing—anything. The current shifted and swirled him, and then he saw her, lying on a rock, face down. Was she conscious?
“Flora!”
She didn't move.
Bruce pushed off of the log and swam toward her, hope giving him renewed strength. He reached the boulder and hoisted himself up beside her. “Flora, speak to me.” Bruce brushed her damp hair from her face. Water dripped from his hand onto her closed eyelids. She gasped and jerked, blinking and wiping her face.
“I'm sorry,” Bruce said, breathing a sigh of relief. “I was worried when thee didn't answer.”
“Bruce?” Her blue-gray eyes widened. “Thee found me!” She tried to sit up, a mixture of relief and excitement replacing her groggy state. At the sudden movement, her face fell into a frown, and she winced. “Marta?”
“She's fine.” He leaned forward to help her,
Would Bruce chastise her for not hiding her Quaker speech and keeping them all from danger? Would he be angry at her for running to the river rather than back to the wagon? Perhaps he would be livid at her for separating from Marta. At any rate, no matter what she could have done, Bruce would no doubt feel she had made the wrong decision. She'd never been able to please him.
Wrapping her arms around her, Flora consoled herself with the thought that God was the only one she needed to please. In her heart, she knew she had done what she thought was best. The one thing that she could have done differently was conceal her speech. Would such an act of deception be worth saving their lives? Where was her faith? Flora rolled over on her side, allowing a single tear to slip out of the corner of her eye and down her temple, where it trailed the hairline to her ear.
“Father, where does one's faith meet the common sense thee gave us?” She bit her bottom lip in worry. “Is the line truly as blurry as it appears right now? Please forgive me and help me see thy will more clearly.”
Flora's rampant thoughts grew distant as she struggled to stay awake and alert. Fatigue claimed her senses until she could no longer keep her eyelids open. She yawned, unable to resist the slumber that seized her.
“Flora!” Where could she be? Bruce climbed over the rugged path banking the river. His booted foot slipped in a patch of mud. He braced himself, throwing both arms out to regain his balance as he kept going. Something moved in the water. It looked like a torn piece of cloth snagged on a piece of driftwood. His heart skidded with a start. Bruce plowed into the water, gasping as the cold wetness seeped into his clothes and against his skin.
Irene had warned him in a tearful state that Flora couldn't swim. He pushed through the water, pressing through the current until it was deep enough to swim. Bruce swung his arms and kicked as hard as he could, chasing after the log. The current was strong, but he wouldn't give up.
He reached out to grab the log, but it rolled from his grasp. Swinging his other arm around, Bruce gripped it tight. He pulled himself up and grabbed the gray cloth, recognizing a piece of Flora's skirt.
“God, please don't let anything happen to her.” He closed his eyes and squeezed the cloth. Panic pulsed through his chest, slicing through fear and guilt. Should he have waited to take Marta back? For a moment, he couldn't breathe, and he held onto the log, allowing the current to carry him in the direction it would have most likely carried Flora. “Father, help me find her,” he whispered, his voice raspy and strange to his ears.
As he floated on the log, Bruce scanned the area around him, looking for any other movement or more clothing—anything. The current shifted and swirled him, and then he saw her, lying on a rock, face down. Was she conscious?
“Flora!”
She didn't move.
Bruce pushed off of the log and swam toward her, hope giving him renewed strength. He reached the boulder and hoisted himself up beside her. “Flora, speak to me.” Bruce brushed her damp hair from her face. Water dripped from his hand onto her closed eyelids. She gasped and jerked, blinking and wiping her face.
“I'm sorry,” Bruce said, breathing a sigh of relief. “I was worried when thee didn't answer.”
“Bruce?” Her blue-gray eyes widened. “Thee found me!” She tried to sit up, a mixture of relief and excitement replacing her groggy state. At the sudden movement, her face fell into a frown, and she winced. “Marta?”
“She's fine.” He leaned forward to help her,
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