Bending Toward the Sun Read Online Free PDF

twelve years. He’s not fond of sharing me.”
    He handed the book bag to her. “With anyone, or with someone who’s an Irish teamster?”
    “This is a new world from the one he escaped in Germany.” She met his gaze. “I value my friends. Each one of them.”
    She gave him a warm smile, then walked toward the store, hoping, for all her brave words, that her father was none the wiser.

    The next morning, Emilie finished the breakfast dishes. PaPa had gone to the store, which allowed her time alone in the kitchen—her favorite thinking place. It wasn’t breakfast or the cleanup that cradled her thoughts this morning.
    “I might have to invite meself to dinner.”
    More than once since Quaid had given her a ride home, she’d found herself distracted. The intriguing image of him sitting at the kitchen table enjoying the brats and red cabbage last night was foremost in her imagination. Then she’d remember her father’s hateful statements.
    “You have your status to think about. The McFarlands run freight wagons. They’re teamsters. They’re Irish.”
    PaPa was a kind man who would do most anything for anyone. She didn’t know this father who would slight another man for his heritage or the job he held. He’d defended the rights of all men to choose their livelihood regardless of color or race. He’d donated provisions to each of the three Union regiments that originated in Saint Charles. Had her father always been selectively prejudiced?
    She meant what she’d said to Quaid. Friends were meant to be friends, regardless of status.
    That very morning when her racing thoughts commandeered her sleep, she’d propped herself on her pillows and reread the sixteenth chapter of 1 Samuel by candlelight. The seventh verse still echoed in her heart.

The L ORD seeth not as man seeth; for man looketh on the outward appearance, but the L ORD looketh on the heart .
    Quaid’s heart was what mattered, not his status.

    At the bottom of the stairs about forty minutes later, Emilie stepped into the store, looking for PaPa. He was alone, as Maren wouldn’t be in to work until this afternoon. PaPa stood at the far wall, stocking a shelf with tinware and talking to a customer. Satisfied that he didn’t need her help, she headed to the grocery section. Her first duty was to pick through the vegetables to make sure none had turned. She was passing a display of dutch ovens when she overheard a conversation that slowed her steps.
    “I’ve found the sacks of sugar, Dumpling .” The woman spoke in German. “I’m too short to fetch it. Could you reach it for me?”
    Dumpling . She’d heard a man at the post office refer to his wife as his little petunia . Whatever possessed people to assign one another the name of a food or a plant and think it complimentary?
    “I beg your pardon, Miss Heinrich.”
    Jolted out of her musing, Emilie nearly tumbled the stack of dutch ovens. She turned to face the man who spoke with a slight Southern drawl—and who’d served her recently as a wheelwright. He pulled the bowler from his dark blond hair.
    “Mr. Cowlishaw.” He wasn’t wearing his gray trousers today. “I didn’t hear you approach.”
    “Soldiers with any chance of survival learn how to sneak around.” A shadow darkened his eyes. “Some habits stick with you, ma’am.”
    “I would suppose they do.” She tugged her apron straight. “Thank you, again, for your help with Mrs. Rafferty’s wagon.”
    “It was my pleasure.”
    Had the man forgotten the way Caroline practically accused him—a complete stranger—of killing her husband? Emilie glanced from the door to the produce. “May I help you find something?”
    He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a scrap of paper. “As you know from your quilting circle visits, I’m staying out at Mrs. Brantenberg’s farm some. Yesterday, when she learned I was coming into town last night for a meeting, she presented me with a list. I’m not much good at shopping for