Page 3 of Poppy’s Prayers (Clover Creek Community #8)

Poppy tied her apron. The kitchen of their small homestead was warm, a haven from the crisp morning air that swept across the Oregon plains. With practiced hands, she sifted through the flour, fingers grazing the coarse grains as she prepared to knead the dough for bread. She had learned to bake it just how Jacob preferred, with a touch of honey and a crust baked to golden perfection.

Every corner of the house bore evidence of Poppy’s meticulous care. Handmade curtains fluttered gently at the open windows, the floors were swept clean of the ever-encroaching dust, and wildflowers adorned the simple wooden table she recognized as Elmer’s work.

As the bread baked, releasing a comforting aroma into the room, Poppy set about preparing a hearty breakfast. She fried bacon until it sizzled and popped alongside eggs from their hens, which she cooked just shy of runny—just the way he might have liked them if he ever voiced a preference. She could remember her mother telling Sarah that the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach. She only wished Jacob had heard the same thing.

“Breakfast is ready,” she said softly, as Jacob finally stood and dressed.

“Thank you, Poppy,” Jacob murmured, taking a seat at the head of the table. His words were polite. He began to eat with mechanical precision, each bite a function of survival rather than enjoyment.

Poppy watched him from across the table, her appetite waning in the face of his detachment. She longed to reach out, to bridge the chasm with gentle words or a tender touch, but his face spoke clearly that her touch wouldn’t be welcome.

“Is the bread to your liking?” she asked, hoping that he would open up and talk to her. Any conversation was better than no conversation.

“It’s fine,” Jacob replied without looking up.

Poppy pressed her lips together, biting back the sigh that threatened to escape. The constant longing for his affection gnawed at her insides. She knew of his past, of the brother lost on battlefields steeped in blood and sorrow. She understood that grief could be a land with no clear path forward. But she couldn’t understand why he wouldn’t let her soothe him.

“Jacob,” she began, hesitating as she sought the courage to voice her feelings, “I wish we could... talk more. About anything, really.”

He paused, his fork mid-air, and for a fleeting moment, Poppy thought she saw a flicker of something more behind the guarded veil of his eyes. But just as quickly as it appeared, it vanished.

“Maybe later, Poppy,” he said quietly.

The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the prairie as Poppy stood at the wooden gate, her fingers curled around the weathered post. She watched Sarah and Elmer’s wagon approach.

“Evening, Poppy,” Elmer called out, touching the brim of his hat with a calloused hand as he brought the horses to a halt. Sarah’s warm smile appeared over the edge of the wagon.

“Hello, sister,” Sarah greeted, her eyes soft with concern as she took in Poppy’s troubled expression.

“Mind if I take a moment?” Poppy asked, her voice barely above a whisper, betraying the turmoil within.

“Of course not, dear,” Sarah replied, reaching out her hand to help Poppy into the wagon.

They settled beneath the shade of an old cottonwood tree, where Hannah Scott had already spread a quilt for their gathering. The pastor’s wife looked up from her mending, her eyes gentle but perceptive.

“Poppy,” Hannah said, setting aside her work. “You look like you’re carrying the weight of the world.”

“Feels like it, sometimes,” Poppy admitted, tucking a loose strand of red hair behind her ear.

“Jacob isn’t giving you any trouble, is he?” Elmer’s protective tone was softened by his underlying worry.

“It’s not trouble, exactly…” Poppy hesitated, looking down at her hands folded in her lap. “He’s just…so far away, even when he’s right beside me. I cook his favorite meals, keep the house just so, but it’s like he’s still out there on the trail, fighting ghosts I can’t see.”

Hannah reached out, placing her hand over Poppy’s. “I remember feeling much the same about Jed when we first married. He was a good man, but love wasn’t what brought us together.”

“Then how did you manage?” Poppy asked, her green eyes searching Hannah’s face for some secret way to Jacob’s heart.

“Time and patience,” Hannah said softly. “And prayer, lots of prayer. But one day, I realized I couldn’t imagine my life without him. The love came quietly, not with grand gestures or passionate declarations, but in the small moments—the shared glances, the unspoken understanding, the quiet strength we drew from each other.”

“Does it ever get easier?” Poppy’s voice trembled as she spoke.

“Love is like growing a garden,” Sarah chimed in. “You tend to it every day, even when the soil’s stubborn and the wind’s relentless. And in time, it gives back more than you put in.”

“Perhaps,” Poppy murmured. “Perhaps it’s time for me to learn the language of patience.” Poppy had once had a student who didn’t seem able to learn to read. But she worked with them every day until he was one of the best readers in the class. She couldn’t help but wonder what that kind of patience would do for love.

“Poppy,” Sarah’s voice broke through the twilight hush. “Are you coming? Supper won’t eat itself.”

“Coming,” Poppy replied.

Inside, the scent of stew mingled with the aroma of fresh bread. Jacob sat at the head of the table. Hannah’s gentle smile greeted her as Poppy took her seat, the warmth in the room offering a contrast to the chill settling outside.

“Your dedication, it’s something to admire,” Elmer said, nodding toward Poppy with a smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. “Jacob’s a lucky man.”

“Thank you, Elmer. I do try,” Poppy said, her fingers fiddling with the hem of her apron.

“The effort shows,” Sarah added. “You’ve made a wonderful home here. It’s more than just cooking and cleaning—it’s love stitched into every corner.”

“Love is an investment,” Hannah interjected. “Like the good book says, ‘Love is patient, love is kind.’ There’s truth in waiting, in kindness—even when it feels like you’re waiting for rain in a drought.”

“Patience is a language I’m still learning,” Poppy admitted. “But I believe in its power. I’ll continue to speak it, hoping one day he’ll understand.”

“Jacob will come around,” Elmer reassured. “It’ll take time to find his way back to softer feelings.”

“Still, sometimes I fear...” Poppy trailed off.

“Poppy,” Sarah reached across the table, her hand resting atop hers. “Remember why you started this journey. You wanted to build something lasting.”

“She’s right,” Hannah agreed, her eyes holding a spark that mirrored the firelight. “The heart has its own journey. Yours and Jacob’s may take longer roads, but they are headed to the same destination.”

“Then I shall walk that road, however long it may be,” Poppy resolved, her voice steadier now. “I’ll be as patient as I can. Of course, if he doesn’t start talking to me a bit more, he may have to deal with my redheaded temper. I’m not sure he’d find that altogether pleasant.”

They ate in companionable silence, each lost in their thoughts yet bound together by the common threads of hope and perseverance.

*****

Poppy stood by the window, her fingers tracing the delicate lace curtains she had sewn herself. Her red hair was gathered in a loose braid, a few strands escaping to frame her thoughtful face. She gazed out at the expanse of land that stretched beyond their property.

“Jacob,” she whispered to the empty room, “I wish you’d let me in.”

Outside, Jacob was tending to the dairy cows, his movements deliberate and steady. The cows milled about, their lowing a familiar backdrop to his thoughts. As he leaned against the fence, his gaze settled on the rolling hills.

“Am I a coward?” he mused silently. “Or am I sparing her the burden of my broken pieces?”

The wooden boards of the porch creaked as Poppy stepped outside, her presence a silent beacon of warmth and resilience. She approached him tentatively, searching for the connection she so desperately craved.

“Jacob, supper will be ready soon,” she said, her voice soft but laced with unspoken yearning. “I’ve made your favorite—beef stew with dumplings.”

“Thank you, Poppy,” he replied, the corners of his mouth lifting in a fleeting attempt at a smile. “Sounds good.”

Inside the barn, Jacob grappled with the pain of his past. He remembered the brother he had lost, the blood-soaked fields, the screams that still haunted his dreams. He wanted to tell Poppy, to share the crushing weight of guilt and grief, but fear held his tongue. Each time he neared the precipice of vulnerability, the specter of his brother’s accusing eyes pulled him back.

“Poppy deserves better than a shadow of a man,” he thought. “What would she think of me if she knew I’d killed my own brother?”

*****

“Jacob,” Poppy called out, her voice steady despite the fluttering in her chest. “Supper’s ready.”

He didn’t turn at first, the hammer pounding loudly.

“Jacob!” she tried again.

Finally, he paused, setting the hammer down and wiping his brow with the back of his hand. His dark eyes met hers across the distance.

“Coming,” he replied.

“Thank you for fixing the fence today,” she said, attempting to initiate some form of conversation.

“Needed doing,” was all Jacob muttered, his gaze fixed on the bowl before him.

“Jacob…” she said, “we need to talk. This—us—it can’t go on like this.”

He looked up then, his features hardening slightly, the lines around his eyes deepening. “What’s there to talk about? I’m here. I’m fulfilling my duties as a husband.”

“Being here isn’t the same as being present,” she retorted. “I feel like I’m living with a ghost sometimes.”

“Maybe that’s all I am now,” he shot back. “Ghosts of men lost, dreams buried—they don’t just vanish because the war ended.”

“Then let me in, Jacob. Let me share the burden,” Poppy pleaded, reaching a tentative hand across the table.

Jacob recoiled slightly before catching himself. He looked at her hand, then slowly placed his own atop it. It was a small gesture, far from the connection Poppy craved, but it was a start, a momentary bridge across the chasm.

The weeks turned into months. Poppy tended to the garden, the vibrant blooms juxtaposing the muted tones of their interactions. Jacob continued his labor, doing all he could to build the farm into something they could be proud of.

In the quiet moments, when the moon hung low and the coyotes howled in the distance, Poppy would lie awake, listening to Jacob’s breathing. And for just a while, as sleep claimed her and the barriers of daylight faded, she allowed herself to believe their love could yet grow strong enough to withstand the trials of the trail and the echoes of war that still lingered in the air.

*****

Poppy stood by the kitchen window. She kneaded dough with practiced hands, each push and fold a rhythmic testament to her dedication. The scent of baked bread soon filled the small cabin, weaving an unspoken invitation to warmth in a space that often felt too quiet.

Outside, Jacob tended to the dairy cows, his silhouette a steady fixture against the horizon. Though he remained distant, she found solace in the assurance that, despite the emotional void between them, he was always there.

“I talked to Mrs. Mitchell today,” she said softly.

“What about?” he asked, not truly interested, but he knew the part he was supposed to play.

“I haven’t been feeling well, and I talked to her about it. She thinks I’m expecting. I’m going to see the doctor tomorrow to make sure.”

For once, Jacob had a reaction, and it warmed Poppy’s heart. “Really? A baby?”

“Would that make you happy?” she asked.

“I honestly can’t think of anything that would make me happier.”

She smiled. “I hope Mrs. Mitchell is right then. I’d love to see you happy.” Because she realized she never had. Whatever he was hiding was keeping him from being able to smile.

For the rest of the evening, he seemed to truly care about her. She knew he was focused on the baby, but hopefully loving the baby would translate into loving its mother. Maybe she wouldn’t feel so alone any longer.

Later, Poppy climbed into bed beside her husband. Even as he slept, turned away, she reached out to lightly touch his arm, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath her fingertips.

“Goodnight, Jacob,” she murmured, letting her hand rest there but a moment longer before withdrawing. “We have tomorrow, and I will not give up on us.”