Free The Preacher's Daughter by Cheryl St.john Page B

Keeping it like this would be easier.
    They walked in silence all the way back to the Chaney home where the only light from an upstairs window shone from his sister’s room. He held open the front door, and Lorabeth entered into the foyer ahead of him.
    “If you’d like to lie down, I can make up a bed for you,” Lorabeth offered, always kind, always thoughtful.
    “I’ll wait in the library,” he said, accustomed to holding back, keeping himself apart from others. “You go ahead and rest.”
    She moved toward the rear hallway.
    “Aren’t you going to your room?” he asked.
    “I’m going to use the wash room first,” she told him.
    He turned away, feeling more foolish than ever.
    Lorabeth drew water from the back of the stove and carried it to the wash room. She was exhausted, it was true. Every new experience was exhilarating, and she didn’t want to miss out on a thing. Benjamin hadn’t wanted to take her hand, that had been the problem, she guessed, and she felt awkward and ignorant. In her excitement, she’d made a blunder that had put a wrinkle in things between them.
    She was confused, and confusion was an unfamiliar feeling. She was used to having things straight in her head. She’d always known what she wanted. Or she thought she’d known. She’d wanted more. A way out. A life without censor or deprivation.
    And here she was, living in the town doctor’s home, privileged to a way of life she’d only dreamed of until now. She should have been content.
    But she did want more. There was still so much to explore and dreams to indulge.
    Benjamin stirred up all those dreams and longings she’d held dear for so long. He was the first man besides her father and brothers that she’d spent any time with, and he intrigued her.
    He was waiting for her when she returned, and the sight created a warm glow in her chest.
    She studied him in the golden flicker of the lamp that hung on the foyer wall. He had nice eyes, friendly but sort of sad, a straight slim nose and a generous mouth that rarely curved into a smile. Looking at him made her stomach feel funny.
    A thin wail traveled down from the upstairs hall.
    Benjamin’s face tilted upward in expectation. The cry was the only sound in the enormous house. Seconds ticked by and their gazes met and held in expectancy. Gooseflesh rose along Lorabeth’s arms and down her spine.
    Finally the wavering cry ended, and a door opened and closed. Dr. Chaney appeared at the head of the stairs wearing rumpled clothing and a tired grin.
    “It’s a girl,” he said, making his way down to where they waited, and Lorabeth had to move aside to let him pass on the stairs.
    “Ellie?” The single name was Benjamin’s only question.
    “Ellie’s just fine,” Dr. Chaney assured him. “Tired but fine.”
    Relief crossed Benjamin’s features.
    “As soon as Sophie helps Ellie change and freshen up, you can go in and see them.”
    Lorabeth thought Benjamin might simply head on home now that he knew everything was all right, but he nodded and perched on the bottom stair to wait.
    Dr. Chaney enlisted Lorabeth to help wake the children, share the news and ferry them one at a time from their beds to their mother and back. Each child was given a few minutes alone with their parents and new sibling while Lorabeth stood near the door and waited. More than once she saw Caleb and Ellie gazing upon their new child, on their older children, and sharing loving smiles.
    Once Dr. Chaney leaned over Ellie and pressed his face to her hair as though she was the air he needed to breathe. The moment was so precious, so painfully intimate, that Lorabeth’s heart ached with yearning for a similar bond, a tender belonging.
    By the time the last child had seen the new sister, Lorabeth had dozens of tender images stored in her mind.
    “I’ll be heading home now,” Benjamin told her after he’d seen his sister. He plucked his hat from a hook on the coat tree in the foyer. “I locked the kitchen