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Authors: Catherine Palmer
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the man who wanted to hunt him down. Swallowing, Caitrin picked up the length of bloodstained fabric and studied the delicate lace edging. Been a long time since I saw fine lace on a lady’s petticoat hem. Jack’s deep voice drifted through her thoughts. I decided you were something different, Miss Murphy. Something I’ve been needing a touch of.
Why had he needed her? She reflected on their conversation, and the answer was obvious. Jack Cornwall had needed Caitrin Murphy because of the three words she spoke on their first meeting … words he confessed he had never heard in his life. I love you. So simple, so easy to say. He had asked those words of her again and again. Yet she had not deigned to speak them to him a second time.
Despite his poor opinion of her in the letter to his parents, Jack had expressed a need. But she had been too proud … too high and mighty … to fill the empty place in him. Because he thought her stubborn and mouthy and because he had trifled and flirted with her while intending to marry another woman, she had railed out at him. Called him wicked, treacherous, a liar.
The Lord Jesus would never have done such a thing. Though Christ stood in righteous judgment of the unrepentant wicked, he also loved them so deeply he came to earth to give his very life for them. Aye, he dined with tax collectors, forgave thieves, and protected wanton women. “He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her,” the Master had said. “All things whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them.”
Oh, but the haughty Caitrin Murphy had been wounded. Too miffed to see beyond herself to Jack Cornwall’s need for true love—the love of God—she had spurned the man. And now he was gone.
Caitrin carried the lamp to the door. Who was the more wicked of the two? She knew very well the Light of Life, yet she had snuffed out that holy glow in the face of a man who had never heard a word of love spoken to him.
Shivering in misery, she pulled the door shut and glanced at the empty keyhole. Jack had gone off with the key. And that was all he had taken from this place—a little food, a few days rest, a head full of harsh words, and a key.
Remorse forming a lump in her throat, Caitrin set the lamp on a nail keg and fell to her knees beside the pile of hay on which she had first discovered Jack Cornwall. Clasping her hands together, she bent over and poured out her heart.
“Forgive my pride,” she whispered, “forgive my cruel words, and forgive my selfishness … my jealousy… . Oh, Father, that was it. I was jealous of her, that woman in the letter. It was Sean and the miner’s daughter all over again, and I was the one abandoned. Forgive me, please forgive me—”
A loud thump sent hay scattering across Caitrin’s lap. “Who’s Sean?”
Her eyes flew open to find Jack Cornwall himself crouched on the hay in front of her. Shirtless and smiling, he was the picture of vigor. For a moment, her mind reeled. Had God dropped the man from the sky? Was he an apparition to which she must beg forgiveness in person? She stared, unable to speak.
“Sean and the miner’s daughter,” Jack said. “Anybody I would know?”
Caitrin squinted up at the barn’s rafters. Then she focused on him again. “Where did you come from?”
“The loft. I exercise my shoulder up there at night.” In demonstration, he leapt up, grabbed a low wooden beam, and swung himself onto the loft ladder. From there, he seized a support beam with both hands and pulled up and down, his chin meeting the top of the bar as his muscles strained with the effort. Three, four, five, six. On the seventh, he let go and dropped down onto the hay again.
“I reckon I’m just about as good as new,” he said, breathing hard. “Take a look at the shoulder.”
Her tongue still tied in a knot, Caitrin studied the mound of hard sinew with its visible scar. Indeed, the wound had closed in front and back. Though
Why had he needed her? She reflected on their conversation, and the answer was obvious. Jack Cornwall had needed Caitrin Murphy because of the three words she spoke on their first meeting … words he confessed he had never heard in his life. I love you. So simple, so easy to say. He had asked those words of her again and again. Yet she had not deigned to speak them to him a second time.
Despite his poor opinion of her in the letter to his parents, Jack had expressed a need. But she had been too proud … too high and mighty … to fill the empty place in him. Because he thought her stubborn and mouthy and because he had trifled and flirted with her while intending to marry another woman, she had railed out at him. Called him wicked, treacherous, a liar.
The Lord Jesus would never have done such a thing. Though Christ stood in righteous judgment of the unrepentant wicked, he also loved them so deeply he came to earth to give his very life for them. Aye, he dined with tax collectors, forgave thieves, and protected wanton women. “He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her,” the Master had said. “All things whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them.”
Oh, but the haughty Caitrin Murphy had been wounded. Too miffed to see beyond herself to Jack Cornwall’s need for true love—the love of God—she had spurned the man. And now he was gone.
Caitrin carried the lamp to the door. Who was the more wicked of the two? She knew very well the Light of Life, yet she had snuffed out that holy glow in the face of a man who had never heard a word of love spoken to him.
Shivering in misery, she pulled the door shut and glanced at the empty keyhole. Jack had gone off with the key. And that was all he had taken from this place—a little food, a few days rest, a head full of harsh words, and a key.
Remorse forming a lump in her throat, Caitrin set the lamp on a nail keg and fell to her knees beside the pile of hay on which she had first discovered Jack Cornwall. Clasping her hands together, she bent over and poured out her heart.
“Forgive my pride,” she whispered, “forgive my cruel words, and forgive my selfishness … my jealousy… . Oh, Father, that was it. I was jealous of her, that woman in the letter. It was Sean and the miner’s daughter all over again, and I was the one abandoned. Forgive me, please forgive me—”
A loud thump sent hay scattering across Caitrin’s lap. “Who’s Sean?”
Her eyes flew open to find Jack Cornwall himself crouched on the hay in front of her. Shirtless and smiling, he was the picture of vigor. For a moment, her mind reeled. Had God dropped the man from the sky? Was he an apparition to which she must beg forgiveness in person? She stared, unable to speak.
“Sean and the miner’s daughter,” Jack said. “Anybody I would know?”
Caitrin squinted up at the barn’s rafters. Then she focused on him again. “Where did you come from?”
“The loft. I exercise my shoulder up there at night.” In demonstration, he leapt up, grabbed a low wooden beam, and swung himself onto the loft ladder. From there, he seized a support beam with both hands and pulled up and down, his chin meeting the top of the bar as his muscles strained with the effort. Three, four, five, six. On the seventh, he let go and dropped down onto the hay again.
“I reckon I’m just about as good as new,” he said, breathing hard. “Take a look at the shoulder.”
Her tongue still tied in a knot, Caitrin studied the mound of hard sinew with its visible scar. Indeed, the wound had closed in front and back. Though
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