Your Dream and Mine by Susan Kirby Page B

that she was scared and confused and reluctant to do as she was told. And that her mother got impatient. Then he stepped out of the dark recess, startling her with his touch.
    “You heard her. Go to bed.”
    He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to. His expression was cold steel, his eyes the color of a snake she’d seen at the zoo. Even his tattooed arms looked like snakeskin.
    Her mother left with him. Left her alone, crying under the covers. It was three days before the neighbors noticed Thomasina in the hallway alone and called the Department of Children and Family Services. She was four, left behind by a mother who was hardly more than a child herself.
    Through the tunnel into the light, Thomasina knew in her adult mind she had not walked it alone. What had seemed so devastating at the time was divine intervention. She knew too, that she was His workmanship in the making as He saw her safely through the years of foster care and into the loving arms of Flo and Nathan.
    The campground for at-risk children would be her work. This Thomasina would do, both for her heavenly Father, and for her heart parents, too. Was it time? Was Milt’s farm the place she’d been trusting God to lead her to for this work? If so, the farm would be hers.
    Thomasina’s nerves jumped as something bumped on the other side of the house. Trace. A wistfulness twined its way through her, a secret lonesome yearning she was too honest to deny and too tired to pursue. She closed her eyes and envisioned God covering her with His hand.
    The sunlight was shining in the uncurtained window when Thomasina awakened. She’d forgotten to set her alarm. One look at the clock, and she knew it was too late to make it to early church in Bloomington. Eleven o’clockservices would throw her even further behind. Wishing she’d asked someone about services in Liberty Flats, Thomasina rolled to her feet, stood still and listened for signs of life in the next apartment. No running water, no music, no footsteps, not a sound. Trace was either still sleeping, or he was gone.
    Thomasina showered and shampooed and styled her hair in a waterfall of dark waves. By nine-fifteen, she had herself turned out in a filmy ivory cap-sleeved blouse and a pale dusty green summer-weight suit, gold accessories included. Not bad for living out of boxes. In good spirits, she hummed and slipped into high heels and sunglasses and grabbed her purse, keys and Bible on her way out the door.
    Cars were lined up and down both sides of Church Street for two blocks. Thomasina was about to circle when she spotted Trace on the roof of his latest acquisition. His olivegreen T-shirt was a second skin spanning broad shoulders and chest, tapering to the beltless band of his faded jeans. He worked a crowbar, stripping shingles from the roof with muscle-rippling efficiency.
    Thomasina stopped in the street and hit the window button. “Mind if I park in your driveway?”
    He tipped back the ball cap shading his face and wiped his brow with a brown forearm. “Help yourself. Nice morning, isn’t it?”
    Thomasina smiled in agreement, and backed up a little so she could make the turn into his driveway. She climbed out, put her sunglasses in her purse and flung a hand in the air. “Thanks. The keys are in the ignition if you need to move it.”
    A knee protruded through a hole in his jeans as he shifted his stance. “Thought you’d be moving furniture today.”
    “After church,” she said. “What time does it start? Do you know?”
    “Ten, I think.” Eye caught by sunlight shining in her hair, he dropped his crowbar and moved to the edge of the roof. “Unless they’ve changed their schedule. I haven’t been in a while.”
    “You’re welcome to come with me. I could use a familiar face.”
    “I could use another pair of hands,” he countered.
    “I’d offer, but I don’t like heights.”
    He shot her a lopsided grin. “Heaven-bound and you don’t like heights?”
    She smiled.
    He