Hearts Unfold

First Revised Edition

Copyright © 2012
 
Karen Welch

All rights reserved

ISBN-13:979-1470073794

ISBN-10:147007379X

This
book is a work of fiction.
 
Names,
characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s
imagination or used fictitiously.
 
Any
resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, locales
or events is entirely coincidental.

Cover
photography licensed through iStockphoto LP, 1240 20 AVE SE, Calgary, Alberta,
T2G 1M8 Canada and Getty Images, Inc.(US).
 
Photo credit-Tetra Images; Photographer: Rob Lewine.

Cover
designed by C.W. Ferris

Acknowledgements

My
warmest gratitude to family and friends who have encouraged, supported and
inspired me to make this effort.
 
My
husband John and son Chris have lived this adventure with me from day to day;
and without their patience and interest, I’m sure I would have given up very
early on.
 
Special thanks are due to the
brave friends who struggled through rough drafts and still found the courage to
read more, in particular Martha Tilden, Sue Boyle and Rev. John Wilson, to
husband John for providing enduring editorial support as well as musical and
theological guidance, and last but far from least, to my son Chris for
designing my cover.
 

This book is dedicated to John,
who makes me possible.

“Hearts unfold like flowers
before Thee,

Opening to the sun above.”

Joyful, Joyful We Adore Thee—

Henry Van Dyke, 1907

December
23
^rd
, 1967

Sheriff
Jack Deem had been on the job for more hours than he cared to calculate.
 
A storm like this one brought on all kinds of
emergencies at the best of times, but just before Christmas, with everybody and
his brother trying to get home for the holidays, there were sure to be more
than his little crew could handle.
 
When
that call had come in just before dawn from a trucker who’d pulled over to put
on chains and spotted what he thought might be an accident, Jack had sensed
this was going to be one of
those
holidays; the kind he always prayed wouldn’t come his way.

He
hadn’t been wrong.
 
The twisted carcass
of a car angled halfway up a tree, two young people dead at the scene; his day
had started with a sick churning in his stomach that hadn’t eased since.
 
That had been over twenty-four hours ago now.
 
In between, he’d seen two of his eldest
constituents off to the hospital by ambulance, one with a heart attack, the
other after a bad fall down the some icy steps.
 
With the power out over much of the county, there’d been dozens of calls
from folks worried about family or neighbors without heat and expecting his
office to have time to check on them.
 
The dispatcher had been overwhelmed with reports of too many fender
benders and cars in ditches to count.
 
He’d taken a nap sometime during the night in an empty cell at the jail,
only to be roused by a call about a woman ready to give birth at the truck stop
out on the highway.
 

All
part of a rural sheriff’s life, he thought wearily.
 
As he’d been a rural sheriff for thirty years
now, one would think he’d have learned to just take it in stride.
 
But this last call, which had come into the
office just as he was telling himself the worst might be over, really had his
gut tied in a knot.
 
Old Miss Hagen, who
kept him informed of anything she considered remotely suspicious, felt he’d
want to know there was smoke coming from the house up at Valley Rise Farm.
 

Smoke.
 
His chest constricted at the thought of what
that might mean.
 
The house, deserted now
for two years, but still full of the treasures left behind.
 
The house where he and J.D. had played as
boys, where he’d first seen Lilianne; the house where Emily had grown up.
 
Miss Hagen had suggested hippies.
 
He’d scoffed at the idea, but the more he
thought about the alternatives, the more he hoped someone
had
broken in to get out of the storm.
 
He might bring the full wrath of his office
down on their heads, but he knew he would secretly bless them for being nothing
more than a nuisance.

The
winding road to the farm took some time to navigate.
 
As he eased the cruiser through the deep,
crusted snow, letting the tire chains cut their way up the incline, Jack tried
to think of any plausible explanation, other than the possibility that Miss
Hagen had just been seeing things.
 
But
now, as he approached the ridge on which the house was situated, he could see
for himself the column of gray against the bright blue of the sky.
 
The thin line of smoke could mean only one thing.
 
Someone was using the fireplace.
 
His anxiety began to morph toward anger and
he prepared himself to come down hard on some poor unsuspecting soul.
 

He
stopped the car just inside the gate, scanning the yard.
 
Nothing to indicate an intruder, no tire
tracks or footprints.
 
And then, just as
he stepped out into the snow, the front door swung open.
 
A girl burst onto the porch, a tall, lean
girl, graceful as a dancer, her heavy, dark hair instantly swept behind her by
the wind.
 
She stopped at the rail,
waving her arms and calling out to him before he was even in earshot.

He
paused in the slow wade across the yard and stared.
 
His heart lunging against his ribcage, he
jerked off his sunglasses, making absolutely sure his exhausted brain wasn’t
playing tricks on him.

“What
on earth are you doing here?”
 
He
realized he sounded gruff, something he’d never been with her, but just now he
wasn’t sure whether he wanted to hug her until she squealed, or give her a good
shaking.

Without
so much as a hello, she grabbed his hand, dragging him toward the door.
 
“Never mind that now!”

Following
her through the door, not bothering to stamp the snow off his boots, his gaze
swept the room, taking in the furniture chaotically strewn out of place, the
rug rolled to one side, and a pallet of some sort on the floor beside the
hearth.
 
He stopped in his tracks, instinctively
pulling back to halt her progress toward the motionless figure on the floor, a
bloodied bandage wrapping his head.

He
had never in all her life raised his voice to her, but the shock was too
much.
 
With each explosive word
rebounding off the walls, he shouted, “
What
in the name of all that’s holy is going on up here!”

Prologue

For the
better part of two years, the old house at Valley Rise Farm had been left
standing in limbo.
 
After nearly seven
decades of sheltering, it for the first time faced an uncertain future, and the
possibility of neglect or abandonment.

Not
that it was actually old in comparison to many in the valley, having been built
in the early days of the 20
^th
Century.
 
Nonetheless, it stood on the site of an 18
^th
Century homestead, and the land beneath it had seen a great deal of history
pass by, leaving behind the echoes of change and the wisdom of generations.

Built
by a bachelor farmer, this house had known only two owners in its time and been
home to but four individuals.
 
If houses
could speak, which of course they cannot, this house would have spoken softly,
with refinement, of books and music and the gentle use of its land.
 
It had never been the scene of riotous living,
or any sort of unpleasantness or conflict.
 
It had sheltered for many years a lonely man who had abandoned the hope
of having a family, and later a loving family who had cherished every day, as
if there might never be enough days to enjoy.

Now the
house stood awaiting what would be the final in a series of sad events.
 
The present owner, the nephew of the lonely
bachelor and the head of the happy family, had been confined by a devastating
illness to a single room, miles away.
 
Until his passing, the house was destined to stand empty.
 
There was the girl, his daughter, but she was
young and most likely too busy with life elsewhere to ever return to this
remote valley.
 
She would no doubt choose
to build her future out in the world, allowing the house to pass into new
hands.
 
While during her childhood, she
had been dedicated to this home that had been so lovingly created for her,
illness, death, grief and ultimately change had sent her away from her
carefully planned future here.

Everything
remained exactly as they had left it.
 
Nothing had been taken away, as if they had expected to return.
 
The girl had even come to visit once or
twice.
 
She had been so sad, so quiet,
seeming to hesitate at the door, afraid to come too far inside, afraid to
disturb the memories that shadowed every room.
 
If houses could grieve, this one would have then, for the demise of the
girl's indomitable spirit.

But
houses can only stand and wait for someone to bring life back through the door.
 
They are always ready, prepared to accept
change and welcome newcomers.
 
They may
hold memories of the past, but they are not held back by them.
 
As the seasons came and went, the house
continued to wait for some sign of change, some stirring toward its next life.

All
around the valley, there were signs that the coming winter would be a hard one;
signs that Mother Nature posts for anyone who chooses to take note.
 
Out in the world, there were signs too,
discontent, conflict and violence.
 
As
with every generation the young were restless, urging for change, losing
themselves in their own freedom.
 
Far
away, a war raged on, a war the people had grown tired of hearing about, weary
of spending lives on.

But for
houses that sit in isolated valleys, life looks much the same with every
passing year.
 
Only when the people who
inhabit them fill them with noise and energy, or quiet and calm, do houses have
any share in the happenings of the world.
 
Houses must be loved or resented, treasured or neglected, in order to be
touched by the history that passes by in their time.

If the house could have seen
beyond its view of hills and valleys, it might have noticed the signs of change
coming its way.
 
The girl, who had for so
long been quietly waiting for a sign toward her own future, was inspired to
look to the past for direction.
 
If the
house had known, it might have attempted to appear less forsaken, might have
stood a little taller on its foundation, and might have tried to hold in a
little more warmth from the winter sunlight.
 
But as is the case with houses, it could only stand and wait.