Georgia on Her Mind(34)

“It’ll be all right.” I reach for her hand.

“I miss Walter,” she says, her hand trembling under mine.

“I know.” I park, slip the keys out of the ignition and open my door.

Her face is white. “You think I’m dying, Macy?”

Ah, so this is the source of her fear. “No, I don’t.”

“Could be my heart, you know.” The lines fanning out from her wise blue eyes are not crinkled into a smile. She’s scared.

“And it could be nothing. Something simple. Either way, there are wonderful medications and procedures today. You’ll live to be a hundred.”

She squeezes my fingers. “Not without my Walter. I’m ready to see him.”

Oh, my heart hurts for her. I’m angry at her son for ignoring her so she has to face old age without his love, without the comfort of family. I may be chasing my own career rainbow, but I love my family.

I slip out and go over to her side of the car. It occurs to me that I should pray for her.

But here, in the parking lot?

Mrs. Woodward slides her pocketbook over her arm and links her elbow with mine. “Better go before I change my mind.”

We take a few steps. I can’t shake the idea of prayer, so I gently grab Mrs. W’s elbow and say, “Can I pray with you?”

It felt good to get the words out. I wonder if she’ll protest, but she bows her head. “All right.”

“Lord…” I pause, not sure where to go next. Starting over. “Comfort Mrs. Woodward, Father. Assure her that You are with her and that You love her.”

Her eyes are brimming with tears when she looks at me. “Thank you.”

“Let’s go hear some good news.”

Two hours later, we know the source of her ills. It’s her gallbladder. Oh, the gall! We had fun with that one on the ride home.

“See, you’re not dying.” I had to bring it up, but didn’t rub it in.

“It sure felt like it at times.” Mrs. W’s voice is fresh and chipper. Relieved.

“The doctor’s office will call with a surgery appointment and you’ll be good as new.” I pull into our complex and up to her driveway.

“You’ll go with me, won’t you?” Her voice cracks with uncertainty.

The doctor assured her about a hundred times what a simple and painless procedure it is to remove a stone-filled gallbladder, but I don’t think she’s buying it.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” I say. “But remember I leave Monday for a week. It has to be after that, okay?”

“Thank you, Macy.”

I help her to her door. She reaches up, grabs my neck and pulls me down for a tender kiss on the cheek. With tears in my eyes, I hurry off to work.



Smallville, Kansas, turns out to be more like Dot In The Dirt, Kansas. How the Casper sales staff finds these out-of-the-way companies I’ll never know. Locating this town had to require a Lewis and Clark expedition.

There’s no Wal-Mart, no McDonald’s, no sub shops and no cell service. Tuesday morning I head west out of the motel parking lot, down Main Street, the only main street, to Carrington’s Western Warehouse.

The sunny day is cold and windy, but the sun is shining. My stomach rumbles as I look for a place to grab a quick bite. I pass the drugstore, the grocery store/diner, but by the number of cars out front, I figure the diner would take too long. Next is the hardware store, then Carrington’s Western Warehouse. It’s last on the tour.

I’d pay fifty bucks right now for an Egg McMuffin and large Diet Coke. How can they not have a McDonald’s? Fighting fast-food panic, I grip my cell phone in my hand. I can’t even call Lucy to complain.

Being without cell service also means I won’t hear from headhunter extraordinaire Peyton Danner. We played phone tag all last week. As curious as I am to hear what she has to say, I am kind of glad we haven’t connected. Being stranded in Kansas gives me time to think and pray. If God has a new job opportunity for me, I’ll be glad to take it, but if there is a lesson to be learned at Casper, I want to learn it.

I park my rented car in the visitor slot by Carrington’s front door. I check my watch—8:05. Perfect.

“Amos Carrington,” I say to the receptionist.

“Shore thang. What’s your name, honey?” She’s a cowgirl behind a desk, wrangling e-mails, phones and faxes. I like her.

“Macy Moore, Casper & Company.”

Within seconds a lanky rancher wearing pointed-toe boots and a string tie comes out with a Kansas-size grin. He pumps my hand. “Little lady, welcome. We start work at 7:00 a.m. around here.”

I grin. “Yes, sir.”





Chapter Sixteen




It’s a Monday in mid-April when I head for my Casper office, having survived a week at Carrington’s Western Warehouse.

Amos gave me a parting gift—a pair of luscious deep red leather boots. He said, “Macy, I trust the good Lord knew what He was doing when He gave you brown hair, but if you ask me, you’re a redhead at the roots.”

So this morning I felt a little feisty as I jerked on my Carrington boots. How do you like me now, Attila the Hun?

Humming a chorus I heard on the radio, I thump around the corner to my office, thinking ahead to tonight’s dinner with Lucy and Jack.