Read At Every Turn for Free Online Page A

give.”
    “I can’t.” I shrugged into the filthy duster and scampered back into the driver’s seat.
    “Why not?” He pushed up from the ground, swiping the dirt from his behind before positioning himself near the crank at the front of the car.
    I studied the large driving gloves as I pulled them over my small fingers. “Because I told everyone I’d make the donation.”
    “Everyone, as in—?”
    My fingers curved around the steering wheel. “The whole church.” My voice fell to a whisper. “And I asked them to match my donation.”
    He whistled long and low. “That’s some kind of predicament. Did you really think your father would give you that kind of money—for a missionary?”
    “I hoped so. But obviously I was wrong.” I yanked the goggles in front of my eyes before he cranked the engine. But my vision fogged. I lifted them again, wiped the moisture from the lenses, and breathed another prayer.
    Webster plopped into the seat beside me. His face had lost its laughter.
    “Oh, Webster. What am I going to do?”
    He pressed his full lips together, the edges of his mouth fighting a rare downward turn. “Either tell them you don’t have the money or find a way to get it.”
    I groaned. “That’s what Father said, too.” I rested my forehead on the steering wheel. “I can’t get those kids out of my head. I see their little faces, and I know I have to help them.” I raised up and looked him straight in the eyes. “I have to do this. It’s more than just wanting to be part of God’s work in this world. It’s an aching hole in my heart. I don’t know any other way to fill it.”
    My shoulders lifted and fell as the idling engine jiggled us. “How can I raise such an amount—and in only seven weeks?” I shook my head. “Father’s money is the only thing I have. I must find a way to convince him to give it.”
    “Are you sure?”
    Of course I was sure. My foot cramped on the brake. I put the car in gear, motored down the little path, and turned onto the main road. I oughtn’t to have expected more, I guessed. In the course of our two-year friendship, Webster had never mentioned God or attending church, though he’d never belittled my faith, either. He had no idea what it meant to obey the voice of the Lord. And yet he did seem to believe I could raise the money on my own.
    The idea turned itself over in my head as we bounced up the drive beside the house and through the porte cochere. When we reached the garage, I pulled the handbrake, let the engine fall silent.
    Webster unfolded himself from the car. “Leave it here. I’ll need to clean ’er up a bit.” His long legs carried him into the carriage house, out of sight.
    The silence jarred, as unfamiliar as the new thoughts swirling around my head. Raise the funds myself. Was such a thing really possible? Behind the wheel of a motorcar, any goal seemed attainable. Just another challenge to meet.
    Stripping off the coat and goggles, I returned them to the nail on the wall inside what used to be my pony’s stall. And I remembered. Every time I fell from that pony’s back, I brushed off my dress and climbed back on again. Was this really any different?
    On my way back out into the light of day, I stopped beside the Packard. A girl couldn’t spend her entire life behind the wheel of a car with the wind in her face. Sometimes she had to move on the strength of her own two feet.

 5 
    A fter another quick wash of my face and hands and a change of clothes, I cajoled Betsy, the upstairs maid, into helping me maneuver Grandmother out of bed. With one of us on each side, we propped her upright. She weighed little more than a child. Either one of us might have carried her. But we both knew she’d hate that. Instead, she shuffled through the hall and down the stairs at a pace even a turtle would find tedious.
    “Come now, Mrs. Benson, we’re almost there.” Betsy’s childlike voice belied her forty-plus years.
    Grandmother grimaced but