Sarai (Jill Eileen Smith) by Jill Smith Page B

leaned close. “The next fifty will be even better, Sarai. Our God has great things in store for us.” His gaze traveled to her middle as his hand covered hers, over the place where a child had never lain. “You will bear the promised one, Sarai. I am sure of it.”
    Heat crept up her neck from his intimate comments and the feel of his hand over hers. He still knew how to stir her emotions, to make her feel like a new bride when he wanted to, though those times were fewer and farther between. Had her prayers to the goddess somehow sparked his ardor? Or was his God trying to show her through Abram’s constant reminder that she had nothing to fear?
    But it was a woman’s place to give her husband an heir. The law of the land of her birth declared it so, and her father had held her to her vow even on his deathbed. She could not sit back and hope Abram had heard correctly from the God he feared. It was Abram’s kindness that kept him from putting her aside. She could have been divorced or reduced to a lesser wife’s status, or at the very least forced to share him years ago, if not for his strength of character and his faith in his God.
    “I hope you are right, my lord.” She squeezed his hand, willing his words to take root within her. Perhaps even this night . . . but her faith was not great enough to hope for it so soon.
    “I am right. Never doubt it.” He settled back to finish his meal, turning his attention back to the conversations going on around him. “There is Melah,” he said, turning to her moments later. “Do you want me to summon her here?”
    “No . . . no need.” Her calm shattered again at his comment, and she realized that he had not forgotten his initial question. “I found what I needed. Don’t trouble yourself.”
    He nodded, his brow lifted in puzzlement, but he turned to his stew a moment later, sharing the last of the bread with her. The food, mixed with the lie, tasted like dust in her mouth.

    Hot, dry winds whipped the sands of the Negev into a storm fiercer than Sarai had ever seen. The camp had moved from Bethel in search of greener pastures two weeks earlier, but summer’s heat had scorched even the outskirts of the desert grasses, forcing Abram to push on further south in the direction of Egypt.
    Sarai stood at the tent’s closed flap, listening to the sand slap its fine grains against the sturdy goat’s-hair enclosure, her stomach knotting with barely concealed dread. Abram had wrapped himself in his cloak and hooded turban, brandished his staff, and gone out into the storm.
    Where was he? Two days had passed if her guess was correct, though with the darkness and relentless whistle of wind, it was impossible to tell the passage of day or night. And still he had not returned.
    “He will come, mistress. You must not fret so.” Lila spoke from behind her, and when Sarai turned, she could barely see the outline of her maid’s face in the dimness. They could not risk a lamp during what little daylight a day afforded, lest the wind shaking the goat’s-hair enclosure somehow seeped beneath and whipped the tent into flames.
    “Then where is he?” Sarai drew in a shallow breath. It was hard to even breathe in the confines of the tent. He should have been back by now, unless something awful had happened. Was this sandstorm a punishment sent from Abram’s God because she had prayed to the moon goddess?
    “He and Eliezer and the others had a long way to go to reach the flocks. The camels can survive in the storm. I’m sure the master’s God will go with them.” Lila touched her arm, something she rarely did, the action somehow more comforting than Sarai had expected. Since Lila had married Eliezer, the relationship of servant to master had changed. Though Lila still served Sarai, she was not a slave, and Sarai considered her like a daughter.
    “Yes, I know. Abram’s God will not let the storm harm him.” Hadn’t Adonai promised to make Abram a blessing to nations? But