A Flicker of Light Read online

  Books by Katie Powner

  The Sowing Season

  A Flicker of Light

  © 2021 by Katie Powner

  Published by Bethany House Publishers

  11400 Hampshire Avenue South

  Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

  www.bethanyhouse.com

  Bethany House Publishers is a division of

  Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan

  www.bakerpublishinggroup.com

  Ebook edition created 2021

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

  ISBN 978-1-4934-3376-6

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design by Susan Zucker

  Author is represented by WordServe Literary Group.

  To Julia Marie (Leskiw) Reis

  When I see a high-top shoe

  A teddy bear or red canoe

  I think of you

  Contents

  Cover

  Half Title Page

  Books by Katie Powner

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Back Ads

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  Back Cover

  ONE

  Secrets are like pennies. Everybody’s got one, even the poorest among us. Some are new and shiny, and some are tarnished and worn smooth from age. I should’ve tossed mine in the Gallatin River years ago so I couldn’t pull it out and turn it over in my hand, wondering why. Wondering if.

  But I didn’t.

  “June? You out here?”

  The screen door creaks as Rand steps onto the porch, and I tuck my secret away. He eases himself into the wooden rocker beside mine.

  “It’s nice yet.”

  I nod. Fall is in the air, but today the sun is shining over the valley, and the mountain standing tall and proud before us is still blue. Soon it will be sharp and white, but today it almost looks friendly. I’ve lived here long enough to know it isn’t.

  Rand reaches over and places a gnarled hand over mine. I like the weight of it, anchoring me.

  “I’m waiting for the light.”

  This time he nods. “You talk to Mitch today?”

  “No.”

  I’ve been meaning to call my son. Rand reminds me every morning. But fear holds me back. I don’t want to leave my home.

  “There it is.” I point at the mountain as if Rand can’t see with his own eyes the light that appears there as the setting sun hits just the right position in the sky.

  Rand’s already-wrinkled face crinkles further as he smiles. “Wonder what the old codger’s up to tonight?”

  I squeeze his hand. “Searching for treasure, of course.”

  “Ah yes. Of course.”

  The old tale comforts me. When Mitch was little, I would say, “Look! Miner McGee turned his headlamp on,” and Mitch would frown and ask, “Does Miner McGee really live up there?” Always skeptical, he was. But not Bea. No, when Mitch’s daughter came along, my only grandchild, she would beg me to tell the story over and over, drinking it like water. She never questioned why an old man would live up there alone. Never questioned why the light only appeared on sunny days. Her only concern was, “What if he never finds the Big Sky Diamond?”

  “He will,” I would say. “He’ll never give up.”

  The sun sinks lower, and the light disappears. The story fades away. First Mitch grew up and out of the story, then Bea.

  I wonder what my son is doing.

  Rand’s boots scrape against the ancient porch as he struggles out of his seat. “You comin’?”

  “In a minute.”

  He plods back into the house, his right leg dragging a little behind. His shoulders stooped under the burden of seventy-one years of hard living. Lord Almighty, I love that man. Forty-four years together and I’ve never wanted any other life. Never wondered if we could weather any storm Montana threw our way.

  Until now.

  TWO

  Bea Michaels rubbed her eyes, blinked three times, and looked again. Yep. The two blue lines were still there.

  “Hot coffee.” Her version of a much stronger term fell a little flat. “Hot, hot, hot, hot coffee.”

  A rush of emotions crowded her heart. Her whole body. Joy, fear, confusion, anxiety, and amazement battled for control, flushing her cheeks and tingling her toes. This couldn’t be real. Couldn’t be true. But the little white stick said it was.

  She was going to be a mom.

  A strangled cry-laugh welled up from her throat, and she covered her mouth with one hand. Tears pricked her eyes. There was a baby inside her. Right at this very moment, her and Jeremy’s child was growing. But she wasn’t much more than a kid herself, was she? Even though she’d turned twenty-one a couple months ago, she’d never felt less like an adult.

  She thought she’d have more time to prepare. More confidence about the future. More . . . something.

  The sound of the apartment door slamming made her jump. Jeremy was home. But she wasn’t ready to face him. She didn’t know how to do this.

  Why did you leave me, Mom? She gasped for breath and covered her face with her hands.

  He found her standing in the bathroom, bawling.

  “Whoa, Bea.” He ran to her and gently put his hands on her shoulders. “Are you okay? What’s the matter?”

  “Y-yes.” She worked to force words out between sobs. “I don’t know. My m-mom will never . . . n-never . . .”

  His face softened, and he pulled her close. “You’re missing your mom today?”

  “No!” she wailed and wriggled out of his arms. Why was she blubbering like this? She wasn’t raised to blubber. “I mean, yes. But—but—look.”

  Since her words wouldn’t cooperate, she held up the white stick.

  Jeremy stared at it dumbly. “Um . . .”

  “It’s a pregnancy test.”

  His eyes widened.

  She wiped at her tears. Swiped her nose with her sleeve. Enough with the crying already. “It’s positive.”

  “You mean . . . ?” He searched her face for the truth.

  “Yes.” She started crying again. “You’re going
to be a daddy.”

  Wonder transformed his expression, giving her heart a little lift. She managed a shaky smile, and he shouted a questionable word.

  She swatted his arm. “Don’t swear.”

  “Sorry.” He slid an arm around her waist and shook his head. “I couldn’t help it.”

  Bea looked down at her stomach. “But she’ll hear you.”

  He knelt so his face was level with her belly. “She, huh?”

  Bea took a deep breath. She could do this. “Or he. Or one of each. Who knows?”

  He stood and gave her a solemn look. “Hot coffee.”

  “Exactly.” Her swollen eyes grew wide. “The hottest.”

  He reached for her. “With a double shot of espresso.”

  She leaned into him. “I just can’t believe it.”

  He wrapped his arms tightly around her and laid his head on top of hers. She breathed him in, thankful for his presence. His strength. For a few minutes, it was silent in their tiny bathroom except for the drip, drip, drip of the faucet their landlord had never fixed.

  When Jeremy spoke, his voice was heavy. “You’re sad because your mom’s not here for this.”

  Bea nodded into his chest. Sometimes he understood her feelings better than she did, despite a childhood filled with dysfunction and neglect. Or perhaps because of it.

  “She’ll never get to meet her. Or him.” Her husband’s cotton shirt muffled Bea’s voice. “She would’ve loved being a grandma.”

  In some ways, the last two years had flown by. Their whirlwind romance. Jeremy’s college graduation. The wedding. But in other ways, it had been the longest two years of her life. Mom had been her best friend. Her confidant. The cancer took her so fast, it didn’t even seem real sometimes. How would she get through this without her?

  “I’m scared.”

  It wasn’t something anyone in her family ever liked to admit, but it was a relief to say the words out loud. Jeremy released his hold on her and touched his forehead to hers. “Me too.”

  She avoided his eyes. “And you know what this means.”

  He took a step back and sighed. “Don’t call him yet.”

  “But—”

  “Let’s just enjoy this for the weekend. I’ll take you to dinner tomorrow to celebrate, anywhere you want. You can talk to him Monday.”

  Bea grabbed his hand and squeezed. The thought of food didn’t hold much appeal. It had been her queasy stomach five days in a row that made her first suspect she might be pregnant. But talking to her dad didn’t hold much appeal, either.

  “Okay.”

  She let Jeremy lead her out of the bathroom into the small living room that doubled as a dining room and connected to the kitchenette. He coaxed her onto the futon and insisted on making dinner. She smiled on the inside. He was going to be a good dad. But . . .

  Would she be a good mother?

  More tears began to fall. Mother. Such an innocent-sounding word, but it rang like a tornado siren in her mind. Her mother was gone. And the way her dad shut her out after? Well, it was almost like she’d lost them both.

  She’d been getting used to how it was just her and Jeremy. Two hearts against the world. Free to do whatever they wanted. Free to chart their own course into the future. But now she watched Jeremy move around the kitchen and thought about the mold they’d found in the bedroom carpet. The electrical fire they’d recently experienced when the oven shorted out. The bad news they’d received from Jeremy’s employer this week.

  They couldn’t stay here. Everything was about to change.

  Again.

  She rested her hands on her stomach. This was it. She was having a baby.

  Hot coffee.

  THREE

  The sky stretched far and wide as the open arms of Jesus. That’s what his mother used to say. Mitch Jensen hung one arm out his truck window and soaked up the sun.

  It wasn’t going to last. Heck, it could snow tomorrow. But he couldn’t remember a more beautiful start to fall.

  He pulled onto a long gravel drive and slowed, the familiar sight of his childhood home doing something to his chest that he wasn’t used to. Was that foreboding or exhaustion? It was only Monday. He shouldn’t be worn out already.

  When he turned off the truck’s engine, the quiet was just the right kind. Not unnatural and forced, like when nature goes still in the face of potential danger, but alive. Moose Creek was a small town with little more than a four-way stop, two bars, a diner, and a post office, but it was downright chaotic compared to this. He was thankful his parents, the indomitable Randall and Juniper Jensen, had been able to sell most of the surrounding acreage so they could continue living here even after his dad retired from ranching a couple years ago.

  Mitch braced himself as the front porch steps groaned under his weight. His dad had been calling him every few days, asking him to stop by. Dropping hints that something was wrong with his mom. Wondering if Mitch had talked to her lately. But Mitch wasn’t exactly sure what to expect on this visit. He’d asked Dad if his mom was sick, and he’d said, “Mebbe.” But that’s what he always said. About everything. Mebbe.

  His mom hadn’t answered any of his calls, and he hadn’t seen her or Dad in a few weeks. They hadn’t left the house as far as he knew. Hadn’t even been to church, from what he’d heard, which was a sure sign of debilitating illness. They never missed church.

  The heavy oak door was propped open, but he banged a fist on the screen frame before letting himself in. “Mom? Dad?”

  June poked her head around the corner from the kitchen. “Mitch? I didn’t know you were coming by.”

  He wiped his boots on the rug and joined her in the kitchen, where he found her rolling out a piecrust. “I’ve left you a couple messages.”

  “Oh, that. Bah.” She waved his words away like a pesky fly. “I’ve been busy.”

  “I can see that.” Three pies already sat on the counter. He gave them a sniff. “You picked your apples already?”

  “Stand back.” She shooed him to the side so she could open the oven door and pull out a fourth pie.

  He peered out the kitchen window. “Where’s Dad?”

  “Picking more apples. I reckon he saw your truck. Should be in any minute.”

  Mitch helped himself to a glass of water and covertly studied her as he waited for his father to appear. She looked healthy enough, scurrying around the kitchen same as always. Her cheeks had good color. Her movements appeared as smooth and confident at sixty-three as they’d been at forty. Unless there was something wrong on the inside . . .

  Oh no. Cancer. Was that what this was about? No, he couldn’t go through that again. Couldn’t face it. His chest constricted.

  The screen door creaked open and slapped shut.

  “Mitch?”

  “In here, Dad.”

  His heart beat faster as his father’s footsteps approached. Maybe this was why he’d felt a foreboding when he pulled up here. His parents were hiding a horrible diagnosis from him. He should’ve made the drive out to see them sooner.

  Rand carried a bucketful of apples to the table and set it down. “Howdy.”

  “Hey.” Mitch shifted on his feet. “I got off work early and thought I’d stop in.”

  June snorted. “He’s hovering is what he’s doing.”

  His dad lifted his baseball cap to scratch his head. “Well, it’s good to see ya.”

  “Don’t just stand there staring at each other.” June flicked at him and Rand with a towel. “Go pick some more apples.”

  Mitch followed his father as he went back out the door. It would be easier to have this conversation away from his mom, anyway.

  He watched Dad take each porch step carefully, setting his left leg firmly on the next step before heaving his right leg down with a grunt. Mitch couldn’t remember him ever moving so slowly. Had he been going downhill recently? Or had it been this bad for a while, and Mitch hadn’t noticed?

  He picked up an empty bucket at the bottom
of the steps. “Why don’t you tell me what’s going on, Dad?”

  Rand looked straight ahead and lumbered toward the three apple trees on the north side of the house. Mitch walked silently alongside, knowing his father would not be rushed. Rand wore his usual long-sleeved plaid pearl snap and faded jeans despite the sunshine, his wiry frame only managing to hold the pants up with the help of a worn leather belt embossed with his name.

  When they reached the trees, Mitch plucked a low-hanging apple and bit into it. “Kind of tart.”

  “Yeah.” Rand reached for an apple of his own and set it in the bucket. “I would’ve waited another week or two, but your mother insisted.”

  Mitch frowned. She’d always had a knack for knowing exactly when the apples were ready. “What are all the pies for? Something happening at church?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Then what are they for?”

  Rand let out a long sigh and shrugged. “Your mother hasn’t been herself lately, son.”

  Mitch’s stomach dropped. Here it came. The bad news. “Has she been to the doctor? Is it bad?”

  “No, no. No doctor. She won’t go nowhere. Just fritters around the house.”

  Mitch’s forehead crinkled. “Isn’t that what she usually does?”

  “Well.” Rand paused with an apple in each hand. “I suppose so.”

  What was going on here? His mother was her usual busy self, and if they hadn’t been to the doctor, there was no diagnosis. Mitch watched his father wince as he reached for an apple above his head and wondered which parent he was actually supposed to be worried about right now.

  “Why don’t you take a break, Dad.” He gestured toward the house. “I’ll finish this up.”

  Mitch carried two pies into his house, one for him—like he could eat an entire pie—and one for “that sweet little neighbor of yours,” as his mother put it. As if bringing five-foot-nothing Marge a pie wasn’t the last thing in the world he needed. He set them on the table. What on earth was he going to do with two whole pies?

  Even minus the two he took off their hands, his parents would be eating apple pie for breakfast, lunch, and dinner the rest of the week. But the excessive pie making wasn’t anything to be worried about, as he’d tried to tell his dad before he left. The industrious Juniper Jensen just needed a new hobby or a new friend or something. That’s all.