Redeeming-Love-By-Francine-Rivers

F R A N C I N E R I V E R S
took his hat from the hook by the door and left.
The morning sunlight streamed in through an open window. A fire
burned in the grate. Her stomach was full, and she was warm. She should
be satisfied. She should be able to relax and just lean back and not think
about anything. Solitude should be enough.
What was the matter with her?
Maybe it was the silence. She was used to sounds attacking her from all
sides. Men knocking on the doors, men telling her what they wanted, men
telling her what to do, men shouting, men singing, men swearing in the bar
below. Sometimes chairs crashed against walls and glasses shattered, and
there was always the Duchess telling her how grateful she should be. Or
Magowan telling some man his time was up and if he didn’t get his pants on
and get out, he’d regret it.
But she had never had this silence, this quiet that rang in her ears.
She complained.
“There’s plenty of sound,” Hosea said. “Just listen for it.”
With nothing else to occupy her, she did. And he was right. The silence
changed, and she heard sounds breaking through. It was like the rain used
to be when she put out the shiny tins in the dark little shack. She began to
pick out voices in the chorus around her. A cricket lived under the bed; a
bullfrog was just outside the window. A throng of feathered companions
came and went outside—robins, sparrows, and a noisy jay.
Finally, Angel stood on her own feet.
When she looked for something to put on, she found nothing. It hadn’t
occurred to her until then that nothing in the cabin belonged to her. None
of her own things were here. Where were they? Hadn’t he thought to bring
them along? What was she supposed to wear? A scratchy gunnysack?
He had precious little himself from the looks of it. A small chest of drawers
yielded an extra pair of worn long johns, a pair of dungarees, and some
heavy socks—all far too large for her. An old, battered black trunk was in
the corner, but she was too tired to open and rummage through it. Naked
and too weak to drag a blanket off the bed to put around herself, she just
leaned on the windowsill and drank in the fresh, cold air.
Half a dozen tiny birds flitted from branch to branch in a big tree. A larger
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