Sarai (Jill Eileen Smith) by Jill Smith Page A

speak with her here? For a heartbeat she wanted to believe it, to know that her prayers were answered. But as she picked up her pace and hurried toward the camp’s fire, she wondered at the wisdom of her choice.

10
    “I looked for you. Where were you?” Abram accepted the clay bowl of stew from Sarai’s hands and angled his head to the side, motioning for her to sit beside him on the smooth rock that served as a bench.
    Sarai sat, nerves tense, hands clutching a small loaf of bread and a flask of barley beer. “I went to Melah’s tent, looking for her.” She avoided his gaze, though she felt it resting on her, sizing her up, certain he could read her thoughts.
    “Melah has been here with the women since I returned with Lot and Eliezer. Why would you go to her tent when she is obviously here?” He set the bowl of stew between them, taking the loaf from her hands. His fingers brushed hers, and she recoiled, surprised at the shock the intrusion of his touch brought. “Your hands are cold.” His gaze fully fixed on her now did nothing to still the rapid beating of her heart.
    “I’m not feeling so good.” It wasn’t a lie, for in truth, the closer she’d come to Abram’s side, the more her insides churned, and she could not shake a sudden overpowering sense of dread. He would never understand or approve. She should run back to Melah’s tent even now and retrieve the image, cast it into the fire. She should expose Melah’s idol worship to Abram and put an end to her niece’s errant ways.
    Concern etched his brow, and he touched her cheek, stroking her skin. “Your face is flushed. Perhaps you should lie down. I will send Lila to bring you some wine and herbs. Have you not slept well?”
    She closed her eyes against the feel of his hand, guilt a heavy weight over her heart. She shook her head, unable to speak. She should confess all to him now . . .
    “If you need rest, we can wait another day to move south. The shepherds can handle the flocks along the way.” He reached for her hand then and pressed it to his lips. “Talk to me, Sarai. What troubles you?”
    She could not look at him, and yet she knew if she did not, he would suspect more than she dared tell him. Swallowing hard, she met his gaze, undone by the tender look in his eyes.
    “I’m sorry for this afternoon. If that’s what this is about—”
    “No, no. You did nothing wrong. It is time to move, as we knew it would be. I just have to get used to this nomadic life. It wearies me sometimes. I thought Adonai told you this land would be ours, but if that is the case, I don’t see why we have to move about so much.” She hadn’t planned to complain, but the words sprang to her lips, a quick escape from the guilt of what she couldn’t say.
    He leaned away from her, his chest lifting in a deep sigh. Silence passed between them for the space of several heartbeats, disturbed only by the sound of other conversations about them. At last he broke off a piece of the bread loaf and dipped it into the stew, then handed it to her.
    “It is the life of a shepherd to go where the grass can feed the flocks and herds. This new land Adonai has sent us to is not like the irrigated lands of Ur or Harran.” He broke a piece of bread for himself and scooped up a large chunk of lamb and lentils. He chewed and swallowed and smiled at her. “Very tasty. No one can surpass your ability to bake and cook, my princess.” He handed her another piece. “I must adjust to this nomadic life as well. It is not at all what we’ve known during these first fifty years of our marriage, but then, it is a great adventure, is it not?”
    His twinkling eyes put her at ease, and she accepted a drink from his clay cup, wrapping her hands around his as he gently lifted it to her lips. When he pulled the cup away, he leaned in and kissed the few drops of beer left on her lips.
    “Mmmm . . . even after fifty years, you still taste good.” He touched a finger to her mouth and