Turbulent Skies Christian Thrillers Box Set 4-6

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 2

“How are you doing?” Russel asks, turning around in his seat to stare at me.

I give him a smile. “A little tired,” I tell him. I discovered early that Russel likes it when I act a little mopey, a little weak. Heaven knows his departed wife must have been exhausted every minute of the day. I get drained just thinking about all of Sarah’s barn chores and homeschool activities. Something else I should have mentioned earlier. Gospel Kingdom, where my husband preaches, acts as if any child who sets foot in a public school setting will be worshipping Satan by the time they reach their first recess.

There are some things I’m totally fine with. If Russel refuses to get his kids their shots, that’s on him, not me. He’s their father, after all. I’m just the substitute. But seriously, teaching four kids I barely know everything they need for their K-12 education? Just because their dad is afraid of the big bad world corrupting his sweet, impressionable children?

In the back of my mind, I know that if we’re going to make this picture-perfect family thing work, I’ll have to change my mentality. I’m going to have to stop using words like his and mine and let everything morph into that nebulous gray area called ours.

Until then, we’re definitely what would qualify as a work in progress.

I hope Russel is as patient now that we’re married as he was when we were courting.

“Miss Anastasia?” Betsy sits in front of me, her blond braids streaming over her shoulders. I may not know how to milk a cow, churn butter, or lead a church ladies’ luncheon, but I do a wicked French braid. Actually, six of them, seeing as how I now have three stepdaughters who want nothing more than to twin pigtail braids each and every morning.

It’s the one thing I do for them that makes me feel like their mom. That makes me believe this blended family thing might just work.

I do believe in miracles. But I’ve learned from experience not to hold my breath.

“Miss Anastasia?” Betsy asks again, and I wonder if I’m meant to correct her or if her father will take the lead.

“Betsy,” Russel says. His voice is gentle but firm. That sums up my new husband in a nutshell.

Gentle but firm.

Don’t tell him so, but I think that’s what made me fall in love with him to begin with. I wasn’t looking for romance, I hope you understand. I can’t tell him that, though, or he’ll think I was using him. Manipulating him to get what I wanted. That’s not how it happened.

Not really.

I love him. That part isn’t a lie. But I’m not who he thinks I am.

My husband is lecturing his nine-year-old daughter — our nine-year-old daughter — about family, respect, and titles. She gives me an apologetic smile and starts over. “Mom?”

“Yes, Betsy?” I hope my smile doesn’t look as uncomfortable as hers. I’m trying. God knows how hard I’m trying.

“Can I have my fruit salad now, or should I wait?”

Betsy is Russel’s oldest, and she looks just like her father. Long face. High cheek bones. Shave off Russel’s beard and cut off Betsy’s braids, and they’d be indistinguishable.

Almost.

Russel looks pleased that his daughter has caught on to the new routine. That she’s calling me Mom and asking me about domestic matters like the proper time to eat. I packed the snacks all by myself, I’m pleased to tell you. Woke up with Russel right at five this morning. While he went out to tend to the animals, there I was in his kitchen, cutting up fruit so his children wouldn’t have to stoop so low as to purchase commercial airport food.

I check the time, my smile still glued to my face. “Let’s take off,” I tell Betsy, “and when the captain turns off the seatbelt light, I’ll pull out the fruit. Does that sound okay?”

Russel gives a slight frown at this last part. I forgot I’m not supposed to ask the children about their own preferences and desires. I’m the mother figure after all. It’s up to me to tell them when it’s time to eat. But I notice the hint of a genuine smile flick across Betsy’s face, and I figure I’m doing all right for now.

When Russel proposed to me, he made his high view of marriage absolutely clear. Come hell or high water, nothing but death itself would have the power to dissolve our most holy of unions.

That was all right with me. Sure, I was nervous. What bride isn’t? I may be young, but I’m not an i***t. I didn’t walk into this marriage blindly and assume that love itself would fuel our lifetime of matrimonial bliss. Come on. The man’s been a widower for less than half a year. Don’t you think I’m expecting there to be some so-called bumps in the road?

Russel also made it clear on the afternoon of his proposal that he by no means expects to stop having children. He went on to quote some Bible passage about quivers and arrows, old-fashioned stuff I didn’t understand and didn’t have the heart to ask about.

I’m not who he thinks I am, but I can’t tell him the whole truth. Not yet. That’s the problem with a courtship as fast as ours.

I hate to think that I’m using my husband. But I’m pretty sure that if you were to dig down deep, the offense runs in both directions. Would I ever advise someone to marry a widower whose wife has only been gone for six short months? Not a chance. I’m no psychologist, but I think it’s pretty clear that Russel’s using me too. Not in any nefarious kind of way, but in a very practical one. He needs a woman to look after the kids, to water the hens, wash the laundry, pass out bulletins at church. Pastors and farmers are similarly notorious for relying on their women to keep things running smoothly, and my husband happens to be both.

I know the road ahead of us is going to be difficult. I know there will be some shocks coming our way. Like when Russel realizes that my body’s unable to give him any more arrows for his quiver, or however the metaphor works. I’m supposed to be far less initiated into the world of fertility and reproductive health than I am, so I can’t tell Russel the truth.

Not yet.

I’m not who he thinks I am.

And yet I know he loves me. I see it in his eyes when he smiles approvingly at me before he turns around in his seat. Apparently, he’s pleased with the way I’ve handled his daughter’s mealtime question. I know he’s looking forward to flying back to Michigan with me. To introducing me to his parents, to the infirm father and the rest of the family that was unable to make our wedding on such short notice. I know he’s proud of me. I’ve only seen one picture of his first wife, and she looks just as tired as you’d expect a homeschooling, homesteading mom of four to be. She isn’t ugly. Far from it. But you can tell farm life and the demands of being married to a pastor had drained away a decent amount of her youthful vitality.

Is this why Russel chose me? Am I simply the ten-year newer model? Is that why we’re doing this, pretending to play house together? I worry about that sometimes. Worry that in ten years I’ll look and act as tired and as drained as good old Sarah must have been before she reached her chapter’s end.

But I can’t think about ten years in the future right now.

“Mom?” Annie asks from her seat beside me. She’s the youngest of Russel’s kids and has had the easiest time adjusting to my introduction into their family.

“Yes, sweetie?” I ask, feeling like I’m an understudy reciting someone else’s lines.

“Can you read me a book?”

I let out my breath. Yes. That much I can do, at least. When I’m done raising Russel’s kids, I really should find myself a job as an audiobook narrator for all the practice I’ve had.

I grab my bag. Before Russel, whenever I went traveling, I brought one small carry-on suitcase for clothes and essentials. Now, I feel like I’ve packed for an army just so our kids can look clean and stay entertained on this three-day excursion to meet his folks in Michigan.

The good news is that while I’m reading to Russel’s kids, I can turn my mind off. Most of these books I’ve already memorized. Part of Russel’s parenting philosophy involves a general shunning of the materialistic world. I can’t say I love the idea that even books for children are lumped into the category of extemporaneous expenses. Thankfully, I bought the children books as presents when their father and I were still dating. Since technically they were purchased with my money and not ours, Russel hasn’t complained.

Besides, the older kids have plenty of books for their assigned reading. There’s no reason the younger two shouldn’t get the same gift simply because they’re not officially school aged yet. I’m about to remind Betsy that she and her sister have homework to finish, but then I realize they’ve both already pulled out their books.

Good girls.

Now if I can only teach them to act like kids every so often, I’ll feel like I’ve really started to make some progress.

“Mom?” Annie asks, tugging at my sleeve. It’s a gesture that would make her father frown, but I don’t mind. Aren’t mothers supposed to be tugged on every now and then?

“Give me just a second,” I tell her. “I’ve got to find the books I packed.” I’m digging through my carry-on. So far I’ve found enough food to last our family at least two days, extra water (the only expense Russel agreed to purchase at the airport itself), and all the kids’ toiletries, including their multivitamins and an entire case of essential oils (which I still don’t know how to use properly). I even have Betsy’s pajamas, which she forgot to pack into her own bag and which I tossed into mine at the very last minute while Russel was waiting in the driveway, eager to head toward the airport this morning.

“Andrew has the books in his backpack,” Annie reminds me.

Right. I’d entirely forgotten. Back when we were getting ready to load the car, I made an exaggerated grunting noise when I picked up my carry-on. Really, I was just trying to get at least one of the kids to crack a smile, but Russel took me seriously and told Andrew to put some of the items in his bag to lighten my load.

Nothing like getting rescued by a five-year-old boy.

“Andrew?” I ask in as kind of a voice as I can. “May I have your backpack, please, so I can pick out some books to read to your sister?”

I’m expecting a scowl, an unkind word, an askew glance, but Andrew just shrugs then grabs his bag from beneath the seat in front of him.

Good boy, I want to tell him, although it sounds more like something you’d say when you’re training a puppy. Instead, I just smile and thank him. It’s a little ridiculous the degree of relief I’m feeling that I didn’t have to get into a fight with my stepson or delve into a lecture on the importance of parental respect.

Trust me, kid, I get it, I want to tell him sometimes. It’s not like going from single to married with four kids is a simple transition. But I’m supposed to be more mature than he is, and I’m certainly not allowed the luxury of throwing a tantrum. Instead, I open up the book, take a breath, and start to read.

To onlookers, we’re the picture-perfect family. A little stoic, perhaps. I’m sure I look strange in this head covering. People stare at me when I’m out with my family in public, but I don’t care what they think.

If they knew the whole truth of who I was, what I’ve been through, what I’ve done in the name of survival, their entire opinion of who I am would change in an instant.

I’m not who they think I am. But for right now, I’m doing my best to pretend.