Page 5 of Poppy’s Prayers (Clover Creek Community #8)
Poppy stood in the doorway of the small cabin she shared with Jacob, her eyes tracing over the life they had hastily built together. With each item she placed into her worn-out satchel—a few dresses, her mother’s locket, the quilt Sarah had made for her when she first started teaching—she felt pieces of her heart splinter.
Poppy heaved the last of her belongings onto the wagon. Her flaming red hair lay damp against her forehead from exertion. She took a moment to glance back at the home she was leaving behind, letting herself feel the pang of loss for what could have been.
“Come on, Poppy,” Sarah called gently from the driver’s bench. “Let’s head home.”
With a deep breath, Poppy climbed beside her sister, the wagon creaking under the shift of weight as they set off toward the King family homestead.
Two days passed, filled with the quiet company of Sarah and the mundane tasks that kept Poppy’s hands busy and her mind numb. She found solace in the rhythm of kneading dough and the simplicity of hanging laundry on the line.
She was even pleased not to have to make decisions about what to cook every day. It seemed to her that eating three times a day was a waste. Of course, the child within her demanded food to grow.
On the third morning, as Poppy bent over the garden pulling weeds, the sound of hoofbeats disturbed the stillness. She straightened, brushing dirt from her hands as she watched a familiar figure dismount from his horse. Jacob’s dark hair was tousled by the wind, and his eyes, which once seemed to hold the depth of night, now appeared clouded with confusion.
“Jacob,” she greeted him coolly, her arms crossing over her chest in a protective shield.
“Poppy,” he replied.
“Did it really take you two full days to notice I was gone?” Poppy couldn’t keep the bitterness from her voice, her green eyes flashing with the accusation. She’d never understood the phrase that love and hate were opposite sides of the same coin before. As much as she loved Jacob, he could make her angrier than anyone else on earth.
Jacob’s jaw tightened, a muscle ticking in his cheek. He looked around the yard, taking in the absence of her presence in their shared space.
“Poppy, I—” He began, but she cut him off with a sharp wave of her hand.
“Save your words, Jacob. I’ve heard them all before.” Her voice was as somber as the twilight descending upon the landscape, and she turned away.
“Poppy,” Jacob said, “I’ve been…preoccupied. But you can’t think I wouldn’t notice your absence. The silence in the house was deafening without you.”
“The silence in the house is deafening even if I’m there! I talk to myself, but I don’t answer. And it’s not as if you want to talk to me. You’ve proven that time and again.”
“I miss your voice.”
“Silence can be a comfort to some,” she said, not turning to face him. “Perhaps you’re just not used to it yet.”
Jacob took a step closer, and she could feel the warmth of him just out of reach. Poppy understood loss. It was a language they both spoke too fluently. But where Jacob had let it define him, Poppy fought with every breath to love despite it.
“Poppy,” he tried again, his tone softer this time, “I didn’t mean for things to become…what they are.”
She finally turned to look at him, seeing the way the last light of day played across his troubled features. It would have been so easy to melt into his apology. But the trail of their love was fraught with the ruts of his indifference, and Poppy knew she needed to heal before she could return to him if she ever could.
“Maybe not, Jacob,” she acknowledged. “But it doesn’t change that they did. And it doesn’t change that I’m here now, with Sarah, where I should have been all along.”
He looked as if he wanted to say more, to bridge the gap between them with words or perhaps an embrace. But the set of Poppy’s shoulders told him all he needed to know. It was going to take a lot more than one quick conversation to get her to return home.
“Take care of yourself, Poppy,” he said finally, sounding utterly defeated. “And take care of my baby.”
“I always do,” she replied as she walked away, leaving Jacob standing alone with the realization that her absence was a void nothing but her presence could fill.
*****
Jacob stood on the porch of Sarah’s modest homestead. The door swung open with a creak, and there she was—Poppy.
“Poppy,” he began, his voice rough. “You need to come home.”
Her green eyes flashed. “Home?” she asked. “Your house never felt like home, Jacob. It took me leaving for you to even notice my absence!”
“Poppy, I—” His words faltered under her glare.
“Two days, Jacob. Two days before you came looking.” She crossed her arms, her stance as rigid as the beliefs that rooted her.
“Please, just come back, we can—”
“Can what? Continue living as strangers under the same roof?” Her voice rose, and the air between them crackled with the tension of unspoken grievances.
“Dammit, Poppy, I’m trying here!” He stepped forward, closing the distance between them, but she was immovable.
“Try harder!” And with a swift movement, her hand reached down and picked up her shoe from beside the door. In one fluid motion, it sailed through the air, narrowly missing his head as he ducked.
“Goodness, woman!” he exclaimed, part shock, part admiration coloring his tone.
“Get out of here, Jacob. I won’t be coming back to a loveless marriage,” she spat.
He picked up the discarded shoe, turning it over in his hands. “I’ll leave,” he said quietly, “but this isn’t over.”
“Isn’t it?” Her voice was softer now, but the resolve remained.
“Poppy, I—” He stopped, realizing any further words were futile. With a heavy heart, he mounted his horse, still clutching her shoe.
As he rode home, he felt a stirring deep within—a quickening of his spirit he hadn’t felt in years. It surged through him—the realization that it was Poppy who made him feel alive.
An image of her anger imprinted itself upon his mind. Her strength and that redheaded temper—it awakened something within him.
The war had stripped him of much, taught him about survival with loss and grief. But Poppy…she was teaching him about responsibility—not just to the land or the cattle, but to the heart.
*****
Jacob hitched the chestnut mare to the buggy with meticulous care. “Today,” he murmured to himself. Today, he would start over with Poppy.
The drive to Sarah’s house was a slow one, deliberately so. Jacob took the long way around, letting the gentle sway of the buggy lull him into a state of reflection. When he finally arrived, he found Poppy sitting on the porch, wrapped in a shawl against the morning chill.
“Morning, Poppy,” he greeted her, the words careful, respectful. His dark eyes met hers, searching for a sign of forgiveness.
“Jacob,” she replied, her tone guarded yet not unkind. She descended the steps, eyeing the buggy with a mix of curiosity and caution.
“Would you join me for a drive?” he asked, extending a hand to help her up. It was a simple gesture, but one loaded with significance. Her fingers were cool as they brushed his, a fleeting touch that sent a jolt through him.
They drove in silence at first. Jacob stole glances at Poppy, wishing she’d say something. Anything. He had no idea how she was feeling, but he was pleased she’d joined him. He reached out and took her hand, feeling the roughness of her skin from days of hard work. She didn’t pull away.
“Poppy, I...” He faltered, the weight of his words heavy on his tongue. “I’ve missed this. Missed you.”
She looked at him then. “Jacob, why now? Why all of this?”
“Because I’ve been a fool,” he admitted. “And because I can’t imagine my life without you in it.”
“Do you only want me because of the baby?” she asked, wishing she could keep the sadness from her voice.
“The baby isn’t real to me yet. It’s an idea. You are real to me. The softness of your skin, the sound of your voice. It’s you I miss, Poppy, not the child you carry.”
Poppy watched him for a moment, wondering if he was telling the truth. She felt obligated to give him another chance because of the vows they’d made and the child she was expecting. And for her heart. But would he just break it again?
*****
Sunday came, and with it the church service that gathered the whole community together. Jacob stood at the entrance, scanning the crowd until he found Poppy. He approached her, wanting to be close to her if only for the time they were in the church.
“May I sit with you?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
“All right,” she consented, moving over to make space for him on the pew.
The sermon spoke of redemption and sacrifice, themes that resonated deep within Jacob’s battered soul. As the preacher’s words filled the small wooden chapel, Jacob felt a renewed sense of purpose—to be a better man, for Poppy and for their unborn child.
When the service ended, he offered his arm, and she took it. They walked out together, stepping into the sunlight that bathed everything in a hopeful glow. Without a word, he led her to the buggy, and they embarked on another drive—a silent promise hanging between them.
“Please come home, Poppy,” Jacob said after a long stretch of silence. “I know I’ve got no right to ask, after all I’ve done, but I’m begging you. I feel so lost without you.”
Poppy turned to look at him, her expression unreadable. Jacob laid bare his heart, vulnerable and exposed, waiting for her verdict.
*****
Poppy stood in the center of Sarah’s parlor, her fingers idly tracing the outline of her swollen belly. The room was dim, dust motes dancing in the slivers of light that managed to pry through the closed drapes. She could hear Jacob outside.
“Are you sure about this, Poppy?” Sarah asked, her voice laced with concern.
“Things will be different,” Poppy murmured more to herself than to Sarah. “He said they would be.”
Sarah’s brow furrowed, and she reached out, placing a gentle hand on Poppy’s arm. “You know I’m here, no matter what, right?”
Poppy nodded, a lump forming in her throat. She didn’t feel like she had much choice—she was four months along, and the baby needed a father. A proper family. “I know, Sarah. Thank you.”
They moved methodically through the house, gathering the few belongings Poppy had brought with her when she sought refuge with Sarah. Her hands trembled as she folded clothes.
“You two better stay for supper,” Sarah insisted when they had collected everything. Her tone left no room for argument.
“Supper sounds good,” Jacob said from the doorway. His eyes met Poppy’s, searching, seeking forgiveness or perhaps reassurance.
“Thank you, Sarah,” Poppy replied, forcing a smile. It was a simple gesture, a meal among family, but it felt like a farewell—a subtle acknowledgment of the threshold she was about to cross back into a world where uncertainty ruled.
They sat around Sarah’s humble table, the spread simple but hearty. Beans stewed with salt pork, cornbread baked to a golden hue, and apple preserves—all laid out on plates that had seen better days.
“Remember, things have got to change,” Poppy said quietly as she pushed a spoonful of beans around her plate.
“They will,” he promised. Poppy hoped that this time, the promise would hold, would take root like the seeds Sarah planted each spring, and bloom into something new, something better.
The meal ended, and they lingered for a while, not quite ready to step out into the fading light, to face the journey back to what once was home.
The wagon wheels rolled over the uneven path, a rhythmic thrumming that seemed to echo Poppy’s heartbeat. It was dark, and the only light came from the lantern on the buggy itself.
Poppy sat beside him, wrapped in a quilt she had brought from Sarah’s, and she shivered, not entirely from the cold. The silence between them stretched out until Jacob reached over and took one of her hands.
“Poppy,” he said softly. It was the first word he’d spoken since they left Sarah’s house.
She turned to look at him, her eyes searching his face in the dim light. And then, without a word, he leaned in, his lips finding hers in a kiss that was at once familiar and startlingly new. It was a kiss that spoke of regret and longing.
In the confines of their small cabin, they rediscovered each other. Clothes were shed, and they came together with a tenderness that seemed both out of place and natural at the same time. That night, under the heavy blanket of darkness, they made love with a gentle urgency.
Poppy was the first to stir the following morning. She rose quietly, careful not to wake Jacob, who lay beside her, his breaths deep and even in sleep.
She dressed in silence and tiptoed to the small stove, stoking the embers to life before setting a pot of water to boil. There were eggs to be gathered from the hens out back, and she retrieved them with a practiced hand. Breakfast would be simple: eggs, whatever bread was left, and tea. As she cracked the shells against the rim of the skillet, she allowed herself to feel a cautious spark of hope. Maybe, just maybe, things really could be different this time.
Jacob stirred as the scent of cooking food filled the cabin, and he joined her at the table, his hair tousled from sleep. They ate mostly in silence. Poppy sipped her tea, its warmth spreading through her, and allowed herself to believe, if only for this fleeting moment, that they may be able to make things work between them.
*****
The morning air held a chill that whispered of the changing seasons, and Poppy wrapped her shawl tighter around her shoulders as she watched Jacob prepare to head out to the fields.
“Jacob,” Poppy called out softly, reluctant to break the stillness of dawn.
He turned, and for a moment, something flickered across his face, and Poppy’s heart clenched with a mix of hope and trepidation. He approached her, his boots scuffing the wooden floorboards, and stopped just a breath away.
“Be safe,” she murmured.
“Always am,” he replied, the hint of a smile ghosting his lips as he leaned down. His kiss was brief, a fleeting press of warmth that filled her with hope. Then he straightened up, the mask of the stoic farmer slipping back into place.
“See you at supper,” he said, turning away, the finality in his tone wrapping around Poppy like a shroud.
She watched him walk away, the door closing behind him with a soft click that resounded through the space. Poppy stood motionless, her hand lifting to touch her lips, the ghost of his kiss lingering like a promise—or perhaps a goodbye.
*****
Days passed, each one bleeding into the next. The initial spark that had ignited within Poppy’s chest began to dim, suffocated by the return of silence and distance. She tried to hold onto the thoughts of their renewed connection, but with no signs it would continue, it dimmed to a distant memory.
Jacob’s presence returned to the way it had been before she left, always there and yet unreachable. His conversations were curt, his smiles rare and fleeting. At night, he lay beside her, his breaths steady and even while hers caught in her throat, feeling choked with unshed tears. She would lie awake, listening to the howl of a distant coyote, the rustling of leaves in the wind—and wonder where the man she had married had gone. The vibrant laughter and shared dreams had been replaced by silence.
In her moments of solitude, Poppy gazed out at the sprawling expanse of their homestead. It was a harsh reminder of the reality they faced.
As she stood alone, her hands resting atop the swell of her belly, Poppy realized that survival was a fight to keep the embers of love alive amidst the ashes of grief and responsibility. Whatever it took, she would find a way to get back what they’d lost.
The door creaked behind her as she turned and stepped back into the dimness of the cabin. Poppy was not about to give in to despair. She’d be damned if she let that fire die out without a fight.
Her gaze landed on the small bookshelf that housed the few treasures she had brought from her old life—a well-worn Bible from Sarah, a collection of Shakespearean plays, and a few beloved novels. Literature—the solace of her solitude.
“Words,” she whispered to herself, a notion taking root. “Words have power.”
The following day, after Jacob left for the fields, Poppy sat at the table, ink and paper before her. With a resolute breath, she began to pen a letter, her handwriting looping gracefully across the page. She wrote of memories, of moments they had shared in laughter and tender whispers. She spoke of her dreams for their child, the future they might build together if only they could bridge the chasm that had opened up between them.
When the letter was done, she folded it carefully and left it atop his pillow. Each day, a new letter waited for him.
Evenings came, and with them, Jacob’s return. His dark eyes would flicker with a fleeting spark of curiosity as he found her missives, though he said nothing. But Poppy noticed the subtle shifts—a longer linger in his gaze, a softening around the edges of his stoic demeanor.
She felt it during their silent suppers. And so, she persisted, weaving her love and resolve into every sentence, every plea penned by candlelight.
She invited him to join her on walks, their boots crunching through the new fallen snow.
“Look, Jacob,” she’d say softly, her hand resting on his arm as she gestured toward the horizon. “There’s so much we haven’t seen yet.”
And sometimes, just sometimes, she caught the flicker of something in his eyes, a glimmer of the man who had once looked at her as though she were the most wondrous discovery.
Slowly, Poppy chipped away at the walls Jacob had built around himself. She had no illusions—it would take time, effort, perhaps even heartache. But she would slowly rekindle what they had lost.