Authors: Deborah Raney
Natalie lay down midafternoon for yet another Nurse Meg–prescribed nap. David had promised that he would wake her before he left for Timoné. But she had lain awake for the past half-hour thinking and praying. Her thoughts were not troubled, though she didn’t know how long it might be before she saw David again. Instead of feeling panic at his going, she felt perfect peace. Instead of feeling gloomy about the weeks—perhaps months—they would be apart, she felt anticipation for the things God would teach her while she was away—and for the reunion she and David would have when finally she was able to return to her beloved Timoné.
She was just thinking of getting up when she heard a soft knock at her door. David stepped into her room, and the rich aroma of coffee and buttered toast wafted from the tray he held in his hands. “Hey, sleepyhead,” he said, putting the tray on her nightstand and placing a warm hand on her cheek. He helped her sit up in the bed.
She yawned and smiled. “I think surely I’ve slept as much in these last two weeks as I have in my whole life.”
“You just keep it up. It’s the best thing you could do to get well now.”
“It does make the time go more quickly,” she told him. “I’ll be grateful for that while I’m back in the States.” She had almost said “while I’m back home,” but what she had told David that day on the river was true—
Timoné
was her home now. And even more so since she’d come to love David.
He went to the window and rolled up the bamboo shades, letting the light stream across her bed. She watched him as he stood, illumined by the tropical sun. She loved the way that sun had burnished golden highlights in his dark hair and beard, and coppered his skin as deeply as the natives’.
He seemed to have a new serenity, and she thought it amazing that they each had so recently found the peace for which they’d longed. To the end of her life, she would carry deep regret for the sorrow her foolish, rebellious actions had caused. But she understood now that God was a God of deliverance and redemption. There was no sin so great that he could not forgive, no tragedy so profound that he could not bring something good out of it.
She fell back against the down pillows, savoring their softness. “Oh, how I wish I could take this bed with me when I go back to Timoné.”
David turned and looked at her, an odd expression on his face.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
He sat down on the edge of the chair beside her and enveloped her right hand in both of his. “Natalie, if I have my way you won’t need a bed.”
She pushed herself up again, supporting her weight on her elbows. “What are you talking about?” Surely, after all they’d been through together, he hadn’t changed his mind about her going back to Timoné.
A slow smile painted his face as he brushed a strand of hair from her forehead. “I have a perfectly lovely bed in my
utta …”
“But … what about your back? I couldn’t ask you to—”
“I wasn’t offering to give up my bed. I was— I
am
offering to share it with you, Natalie.”
Before the meaning of his words congealed in her mind, he slid from the chair to sit beside her. Turning to her and taking her face in his hands,
he placed an exquisitely tender kiss on her parched lips. “Natalie Camfield, I love you and I want you to be my wife. There’s nothing I long for more than to have you lying in my arms every night before I fall asleep.”
She gave a little sigh and leaned over to lay her head upon his strong shoulder. “Oh, David …”
“Is that a yes?”
She heard the smile in his voice, and she nodded into the soft fabric of his denim shirt, unable to speak.
“You go home, get well,” he told her. “I’ll be counting every minute until you’re in my arms again.” He stood now, kissed his fingertips and, bending down, transferred the kiss to her lips with a feather-light touch. “
Mi carru
. My love.”
Then, without another word, he turned and ducked through the doorway.
Acknowledgments
I
would like to thank the following people for their roles in bringing
After the Rains
into being:
Miss Linda Buller, who will soon celebrate her ninety-first birthday, and whose many years as a missionary in Colombia have been an inspiration to me.
Police Chief Jim Dailey, Judge Ted Ice, Gerry Loomis of the Harvey County Sheriff’s Department, County Attorney Matt Treaster, Joyce Roach, Vern Schmidt and others in local law enforcement agencies who patiently answered my many questions.
Dr. Mel and Cheryl Hodde, the wonderful writing team who make up Hannah Alexander, for providing information on the medical aspects of this story.
Tom and Diane Tehan, doing the Lord’s work in Thailand, for sharing invaluable information and literature on the work of translator linguists.
Author Gayle G. Roper, who unknowingly provided my theme in one of the chapters of her wonderful book on contentment,
Riding the Waves
(Broadman and Holman, 2001).
Others who helped with research on various topics: Melody Carlson, Jason Efken, Larry Greene, Cyndi Kempke, Erin Pennington; and my children, Ryan and Tobi Layton, Tarl Raney, Trey Raney, and Tavia Raney, who brought my memories of life as a preteen and teenager into the twenty-first century.
Those who read my manuscript in its early stages and offered suggestions and encouragement: Lorie Battershill, Meredith Efken, Kim Hlad, Cyndi Kempke, Terry Stucky, and my parents, Max and Winifred Teeter.
Dan and Jeanne Billings, whose charming Victorian bed-and-break-fast, the Emma Creek Inn, near Hesston, Kansas, provided a lovely writing retreat away from the cry of the telephone, doorbell, and dirty laundry—and
came complete with a nice fat tomcat to warm my feet. Thank you, Alex.
My incredible editors at WaterBrook Press, Erin Healy, Traci DePree, and Laura Barker.
And as always, my biggest supporter, encourager, and the love of my life—my husband Ken.
___________________
A note to my readers: As in
Beneath a Southern Sky
, the villages, native people, and dialects of Timoné and Conzalez—while based on actual people groups of South America—are fictionalized as portrayed in
After the Rains
, and are the products of my imagination.
For more information, or to write me, please visit my Web site at
www.deborahraney.com
. I love hearing from my readers!