Moonlight on the Millpond Read online

  All Scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

  Cover images © Getty Images; George and Monserrate Schwartz/Alamy Images

  Cover by Terry Dugan Design, Minneapolis, Minnesota

  The Author

  LORI WICK is one of the most versatile Christian fiction writers in the market today. Her works include pioneer fiction, a series set in Victorian England, and contemporary novels. Lori’s books (more than 4 million copies in print) continue to delight readers and top the Christian bestselling fiction list. Lori and her husband, Bob, live in Wisconsin and are the parents of “the three coolest kids in the world.”

  MOONLIGHT ON THE MILLPOND

  Copyright © 2005 by Lori Wick

  Published by Harvest House Publishers

  Eugene, Oregon 97402

  www.harvesthousepublishers.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Wick, Lori.

  Moonlight on the millpond / Lori Wick.

  p. cm. — (Tucker Mills trilogy ; bk. 1)

  ISBN 0-7369-1158-8 (pbk.)

  1. Brothers and sisters—Fiction. 2. Massachusetts—Fiction. 3. Sawmills—Fiction.

  I. Title. II. Series.

  PS3573.I237M66 2005

  813'.54—dc22

  2004029889

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, digital, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  Printed in the United States of America

  05 06 07 08 09 10 11 12 / BP-CF / 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  For the newest

  members of the family:

  Max and Rachel.

  I love you.

  CONTENTS

  Wonderful people I wish to thank…

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Epilogue

  Glossary

  Dear Reader,

  Books by Lori Wick

  Wonderful people I wish to thank…

  Mary Margaret, who always rolls with the punches. We have rushed, and we have had time, and you’re always up for it. Thank you, my friend, for your faithfulness in the Body, in our friendship, and in our working relationship. I never want to do this without you.

  Dooner (Jeff Muldoon), for the loan of the name. It’s one of my favorites of all time.

  Abby, for the covered bridge. I so appreciate you and all your facets. The rare diamond that you are keeps presenting new ones, and each is a delight. Thank you for being both a friend and a daughter every step of the way. Also, thanks for going on that first trip. Those pictures are my favorites.

  Phil, for all the great teaching and wonderful words, even those that wound. Your capacity for love and patience with the Body is precious. Thank you for teaching us what it looks like to pray for all men, for never giving up on us, and for loving a repentant heart as much as God does.

  Tim and Matt, for being grown men who still seek their parents’ approval. You guys are so cool. I love you.

  Bob, for not one trip to Massachusetts, but two. You’re quite the travel partner, especially when the rain is dumping. Thanks for the amazing amount of work you did on this book. My mother once said that if she could have picked a husband for me from anywhere in the world, you would have been the one. I think we both have great taste.

  Prologue

  The street quiet, almost oddly so, she waited in the usual place. Their place. The strong emotions that always filled her heart at these times were different tonight. The feelings surging through her were just as strong, but the joy and anticipation were missing. She peeked around the corner to see if he was coming and told herself to breathe when his handsome face came into view.

  He noticed nothing amiss until he stepped around the corner to take her into his arms, stopping when he saw the expression on her face.

  The small blonde woman looked into the eyes of the man she loved, her heart pounding with grief, knowing that it was all true: She’d been betrayed. She confronted him and then waited, clearly able to see the guilt he could not hide.

  “Is it true?” she asked again, hating his silence but terrified of his answer. “Are you married?”

  “I can explain,” he began hoarsely, but the woman shook her head, and he stopped.

  “What could you possibly say?” she whispered. “I love you. You told me you loved me and that we’d be married someday. I was willing to wait forever.”

  “We can still be together,” the man tried again, desperate not to lose her. “My wife need never know.”

  The hurt gave way to rage. Her blue eyes flashed fire as they drilled into his. Her hand itched to strike him, but she said and did nothing. Instead, she turned away, but before she could go two steps, she stopped. Turning back long enough to say one more thing, she commanded, “Don’t contact me or come near me ever again.”

  She held his eyes until his dropped with shame. Only then did she turn resolutely away. This time she did not stop or look back.

  One

  Tucker Mills, Massachusetts—1838

  Jace Randall’s gaze followed the consistent progress of the log as it moved through the saw blade, his eyes probably more watchful than they needed to be. All looked to be in order—he had done everything correctly—but his eyes never wavered from the saw blade or the huge log that was being transfigured methodically into boards.

  Jace was new at the job. And his inexperience was causing him fear, fear that he would cost his uncle money rather than be the asset they both planned on. This sudden opportunity had come his way, and it was not one he wanted to squander.

  Woody Randall, longtime owner of the Randall Sawmill in Tucker Mills, Massachusetts, had asked Jace, his only nephew, to come and work with him. Jace had read the letter over six times. Never at any point did his uncle ask him to make the trip to Tucker Mills so he could work for him. The word with was always used, and when Jace accepted the offer, he found out why.

  Woody’s health was in decline, and as much as that man wanted to live forever, recent events told him there was no chance. He had written to Jace, who lived in Pine River, keeping the letter a bit vague. As soon as Jace accepted, however, Woody’s next letter detailed his plans to someday have Jace own the sawmill in Tucker Mills.

  The offer wasn’t without conditions, but Woody wrote to Jace that he knew him to be hardworking, and he was fairly confident that the younger Randall would have no trouble catching on.

  “You’re attracting another crowd,” Woody called out, lifting his voice slightly to be heard over the noise of the machinery.

  Jace glanced behind him. Three of the young ladies from town were walking past the millpond at a snail’s pace. Two of them were doing their best to see inside the mill and not be caught in the act. Jace turned away with little more than a glance.

  “I’m here to work, not visit with the women.”

  “Can’t you do both?” Woody asked, thumping him in the chest at the same time.

  Jace’s handsome face split with a grin that he threw in his uncle’s direction, but he didn’t comment further. If the truth be told, he was very intereste
d in finding a girl, but his sister’s last words as he left Pine River had stopped him cold.

  The women like you too much, Jace Randall, and you don’t always use your head. I know you’ll go to Tucker Mills and fall for the first woman who smiles at you. You’ll find yourself with a wife and six babies on your hands before you can blink.

  Eden Randall, whose every letter asked if he’d found a girl, was a sister ten years his senior who had practically raised him. She liked to be right. Jace savored the few times she was wrong. And so, if it took every fiber of his being to avoid being lassoed and married by one of the local girls, Jace would expend the energy. He’d been in Tucker Mills for more than five months and had yet to give one of them a single glance.

  “Get ahold of that board, Jace!” Woody shouted, and Jace realized that he’d allowed his mind to drift. The men worked together for the next ten minutes before shutting down the operation and heading to the house. Almost noon. It was time for dinner.

  “You look tired, Doyle,” Cathy Shephard said to her husband of many years, watching him eat the midday meal she had brought to him in the store.

  “I think I am a little,” he said, his tone telling more.

  Cathy debated her next comment. He didn’t want to discuss his health, of that she was sure, but his skin color was off and his eyes didn’t have their usual gleam.

  He was rarely irritable or in a poor humor, and Cathy couldn’t imagine a man more easy to live with than Doyle Shephard. She had fallen in love with him when she was still a teen; he was five years older. And she still loved him and knew he loved her in return. But right now she wanted to ignore the tone in his voice and press him over the way he felt.

  Doyle had opened the store at 8:00 as usual, but there was something missing in his step this day. Cathy didn’t work in the store— at least not on a regular basis—but she’d been over that morning to collect some goods and had watched her husband in action. He usually enjoyed the start of each day and greeted customers with enthusiasm, but not today. Today his smile had been just as kind, but his voice lacked strength and his eyes showed strain.

  “I can handle things this afternoon,” Cathy said midmeal.

  “Why would you need to do that?”

  “Because you look like you need to rest.”

  “I’ll be all right,” Doyle told her, but there was little conviction behind the words.

  Cathy let the matter drop. Knowing that her work at home could wait, she made a promise to herself to find excuses to be around the store off and on for the rest of the day. But she wisely kept this plan to herself.

  “Where have you been?” Alison Muldoon asked of her 16-year-old daughter when she came in the door a little late.

  Hillary Muldoon rolled her eyes. “Greta and Mercy insisted that we crawl past the sawmill so Greta could get a glimpse of Jace Randall.”

  Alison looked patient and then concerned. “And what do you think of her being so enamored with Jace?”

  “I think it’s silly.” Hillary started setting the table and kept talking. “She doesn’t even know him, but she’s desperate to have someone special in her life.”

  Alison nodded but didn’t comment.

  “And Jace is certainly good looking,” Hillary added, causing her mother to look at her. Alison was pleased with what she saw. Hillary wasn’t the least bit starry eyed, stating only the facts as she saw them.

  “It’s awfully quiet around here,” Hillary commented. “Where are the boys?”

  “They ran a loaf of fresh bread over to old Mr. Sager,” Alison told her, referring to her sons. “He’s not feeling the best right now.”

  As if on cue, a commotion sounded outside the door, and the boys trooped noisily into the kitchen.

  “He gave us candy,” 12-year-old Joshua Muldoon stated, “but we didn’t eat it.”

  “I’m glad of that,” his mother told him with an approving look. “Your father will be home any minute for dinner. You can enjoy it later.”

  “I wanted to lick it,” 11-year-old Peter Muldoon admitted, “but Josh said no.”

  Alison laughed a little over this declaration, loving his honesty. She set a steaming bowl of potatoes on the table and went to the other room to find her five-year-old son, Martin. He was making a stack with his blocks, his hand steady and his eyes intent.

  “Your father will be here soon,” Alison told him.

  “I can show him my blocks,” Martin said, hand still steady. But just then the back door opened and closed, sending the tower to the floor.

  “Did I do that, Marty?” Douglas Muldoon asked, coming to kiss his wife while speaking to his son.

  “It’s all right,” Martin forgave, but his eyes looked a little sad.

  “You can work on it again after dinner,” Alison encouraged, stopping him when he would have reached for the blocks again.

  Not five minutes later they were gathered around the table to pray. The dishes were passed and the meal began. Douglas waited only until everyone had food on their plates to share his news.

  “Thank you, Clara,” Jace said to the woman who kept house and cooked the noon dinner for his uncle six days a week. Clara had been on the job for more than 20 years, and although she was sometimes outspoken, she was not unkind. Her husband had worked for Woody until the day of his death.

  The table, set and laden with food, invited the men to eat. Clara made her way from the room. Jace barely glanced at her, his gaze going to Woody. They had accomplished much that morning, but on the walk home, Woody’s breathing had been labored. He was eating, but his movements were slow and deliberate.

  The first time Jace had witnessed this, he’d offered to handle the afternoon workload. Woody had frowned at him and said nothing. Jace had learned not to comment, but his heart grew heavy with the fact that one of these days Woody would not have the energy to go on. Jace wondered just what he would do when that time came and then pushed it from his mind. He still had a lot to learn, and he was in no hurry to see his uncle gone.

  “What are you looking so worried about?” Woody had spotted the reflection.

  “Just the mill,” Jace hedged. “Asa expects his boards this week.”

  “We’ll get it done,” Woody said easily, meaning it and not just trying to comfort the younger man.

  “How often have orders been late?”

  “Never,” Woody told him.

  Jace felt his heart sink a bit. Logs would come to the sawmill off and on all winter, but cutting didn’t usually start until February, making the spring demand for boards overwhelming at times. And the planting had to be done before too much spring passed as well. Woody didn’t work the sawmill all year. He was a farmer by trade. Jace couldn’t help wondering how the older man had done it all these years.

  “Is there dessert?” Woody asked Clara when she came from the kitchen with the coffeepot.

  “When is there not dessert, Woody Randall?”

  “I remember a day,” he teased, “even if you don’t.”

  Clara’s hands came to her waist. “The Dresdens’ kitchen was on fire!” she reminded him. “I thought the safety of those children might be more important than remembering to put the crumble in to bake.”

  With that she walked back to the kitchen, ignoring Woody’s satisfied chuckle. She returned with a warm pie, taking great delight in putting it on the table close to Woody, its aroma wafting throughout the room.

  “You don’t deserve it,” she told Woody, her eyes sparkling with hidden laughter, “but there it is!”

  Woody grinned at her, but Clara only shook her head and moved back to the kitchen. Jace cut large slices for both of them, knowing they were enjoying some of the fruit Clara had put up last summer. Since this was mid-March, it wouldn’t be long before she would be planting her garden too.

  Thank you for praying, Mother. Alison—thoughtful over Douglas’ news—wrote in a letter that afternoon. She continued,

  I have something to tell you. Douglas came home for dinne
r and announced to the family that he’d received a letter from the manager of the bank. Someone has given a large donation through the bank to our small church family. Doug will meet with the other elders this week to discuss it. His plan is to be patient and go slowly in order to develop a path that will work well for the church family.

  As you may recall from my letters, the church family is growing here. We love meeting in our home, and also love the hospitality we’re able to offer. We’ve been so thankful for the space, but it might be time to think about having our own building.

  Douglas has such a heart for Tucker Mills. Please keep praying for us and for hearts to continue to soften. Please also pray that we will be wise with this gift. Douglas’ main concern is our unity, which affects our testimony here. He reminded us that we can keep the work going, no matter where we meet. Our building matters very little. Praying for the lives of all in Tucker Mills is of paramount importance.

  I miss you, think of you often, and pray for you. I know you pray for me.

  Your loving daughter,

  Alison

  Alison reread the letter and realized she hadn’t shared a word about the family. She added a paragraph to let her mother know how the children were doing and even to say that they might be able to come to Boston to see her sometime later in the year.

  She closed the letter just as Martin came looking for her. He had pinched his finger in a cupboard door and wanted the comfort of her lap. Happy to sit in silence with his warm body close to her, Alison prayed for the little boy in her lap and for their small church family to never lose its focus: to walk humbly with their God.

  Midafternoon found Jace at Shephard Store looking for a tool that Woody requested. Cathy was working on her own in the store, but Jace caught a glimpse of Doyle in the office—not working but sitting at the desk. Jace called to him, but Doyle only waved and held his place.