Free What Once Was Lost by Kim Vogel Sawyer Page B

spoke again. “Although I’m certainly no expert in carpentry, I admit it appears the main bodyof the house is unscathed. Smoke damage, of course, but nothing structural. Even the roof—with the exception of the area above the kitchen add-on, obviously the place where the fire originated—seems to have been spared damage.”
    Christina’s hopes rose.
    “But I still can’t recommend approving the necessary funds for the project.”
    Her toes were starting to feel numb. Christina shifted from foot to foot on the brittle grass to keep the blood flowing. “Mr. Regehr, please help me understand. If the house is salvageable, why not approve rebuilding the kitchen?”
    Mr. Regehr clamped his lips together, and his thick gray eyebrows descended into a scowl. For several seconds he glared at her, the way a schoolmaster might try to intimidate a misbehaving student. Christina fidgeted beneath his stern look, but she wouldn’t be cowed. Bringing the poor farm residents back together was too important to allow one man’s negativity to deter her. Finally he harrumphed and flung a disgruntled look at the other man.
    The second man, tall and thin with gray-blue eyes so pale they almost seemed colorless, aimed his gaze somewhere beyond Christina’s shoulder. “If I might be frank, Miss Willems, the board isn’t certain the asylum should continue … at this location.”
    A strand of hair, pulled free from the figure-eight twist on her head by a gust of wind, tickled her cheek as trepidation teased her soul. When Father had taken the position as the poor farm’s manager, he’d been instructed to prepare for full occupancy since the county had no other suitable place for the area’s destitute. “Does the board intend to open a poor farm elsewhere in Shawnee County?”
    “No, but—”
    “Miss Willems?” Wes danced in place, his long arms wrapped across his middle. “Can we finish our talkin’ in the barn? The wind’s fixin’ to freeze my nose off.”
    Apparently the two visitors agreed, because without a word they turnedand strode toward the solid rock barn. Wes bounded ahead, and Christina scurried alongside the black-suited men. Wes held the door open while everyone stepped inside. Then he closed the double doors and dropped the crossbar into place. He released a shuddering breath, a relieved smile creasing his square face. Gesturing to a low bench along one stall, he said, “Miss Willems, set yourself down. I’ll fetch some barrels an’ such for the fellas.”
    “No need.” The older man’s gruff voice stopped Wes in his trek across the barn. With a resigned lift of his shoulders, Wes leaned against the closest support beam and traced designs in the dirt with the toe of his boot. Mr. Regehr planted his feet wide and folded his arms across his chest. “We won’t be here long enough to warrant sitting.”
    Christina had started to lower herself onto the bench, but Mr. Regehr’s blunt statement brought her upright again.
    “Breneman, finish your explanation, and then we must return to town.”
    Mr. Breneman gave a solemn nod. “Miss Willems, when the Brambleville Asylum for the Poor opened, it was under your father’s direction. While it’s no fault of yours that he’s no longer overseeing the operation, the board has some concerns about leaving it in your hands.”
    Christina’s jaw dropped. Shortly after her father’s death, she’d received a visit from the head of the mission board, and she assumed the board was confident in her ability to serve as manager. After all, her parents had been involved in mission work from the time she was born. She’d grown up learning to serve. She knew no other means of living.
    Her entire frame began to tremble. She eased onto the bench lest her quivering legs chose to collapse. “Not once in the past year when I’ve communicated with the board via letters and monthly reports has anyone expressed concern.”
    Mr. Breneman grimaced. “We aren’t making