Free Too Rich for a Bride by Mona Hodgson

“A baby is good news, Kat.”
    She wanted to believe him. But more than anything, she hoped he believed it.

EIGHT

    ucker lifted the pitchfork from a nail in the wall of the hayloft where his father stored sheaves of hay and straw. He breathed in the earthy scents of leather, hay, wet horses, and manure, feeling more at home out here in the barn than he did in his father’s house. How was it that he reached hundreds of strangers for Christ every year in camp meetings but couldn’t so much as nudge his own father?
    Or help Willow?
    He’d asked why time and again, and God hadn’t been forthcoming with so much as a hint.
    Tucker jabbed the pitchfork into the haystack. “Here you go, fellas.” He tossed a meal of hay down into the stalls for Trojan and Titan.
    He’d been so certain God had called him to the ministry. He felt most at peace when he was preaching. He glanced down at the ice wagon.
    Had God changed His mind?
    Tucker descended the ladder from the loft and looked around. The barn was no bigger than necessary to house two ice wagons, five or six horses, and a small tack room where his father kept extra ice hooks, picks, and saws.
    Although Tucker didn’t much like his current circumstances, he knew he had to do all he could to save the business and see to his parents’ needs.
    And to Willow’s.
    His responsibilities meant convincing the banker that the Raines Ice Company was a good investment; that if he had the funds to build the business, he was capable of doing so. He’d stopped by the First National Bank on the way to the depot that morning and set up an appointment for three thirty that afternoon. In the meantime, he’d write his Wednesday letter to Willow and then head to the post office. Two weeks had passed since his meeting with Willow’s attendant, so a report could arrive in today’s mail.
    The prospect spurred him into action. He retrieved his five-pound block of ice from the wagon and let the canvas flaps close.
    “See you later, fellas.” Tucker shut the barn doors on his way out and walked the twenty-foot path to the square-cut log cabin. His father’s property consisted of the modest dwelling, the barn, and an outhouse on an acre with a creek running through the back of it.
    Tucker climbed the two steps up to the back door and stomped his muddy boots on the rag rug just inside the kitchen. He crossed to the small icebox and set the block of ice in the top of it.
    Until eleven days ago when he boarded the train in Stockton, he’d been living in a parsonage. He had his own room in the basement, but spent most of his free time with the Hutchinson family of six who lived upstairs. Before that, while attending seminary in San Francisco, he’d shared a rented room with three other students, and he’d spent his first six nights in Cripple Creek sleeping in the hayloft with the horses and a crusty barn owl for company.
    Now he had the whole house to himself and didn’t much like it. Too quiet and settled, with a coldness that had nothing to do with the room temperature.
    Tucker set the ice tongs by the door and moved into the sitting area. The knotty pine side tables were devoid of any family photos. The day thefishermen found Willow in the river was the day his father found having children too much of a burden.
    Embarrassment. Shame. Grief. Loathing. All were gripping reactions to the sorrow dividing his family. Tucker understood that reality and yet was powerless to change it.
    After Tucker added a lump of coal to the parlor stove, he went to the smaller of two bedchambers. He lifted his leather bag onto the bed and unbuckled the straps. He’d removed his clothing and hung it in the wardrobe Monday evening, but he hadn’t touched the few whatnots he’d packed. This was as good a time as any.
    Tucker pulled out his writing box and carried it to his mother’s plank table. He opened the lid to the box and lifted the picture frame off the stationery. He studied the watercolor portrait as