Between the Altars

By Felicia Ferguson

Author's Note: I can't tell y'all how much I love how this story has come together. It has become more than I imagined when I first had the general idea of Shane finding a prayer journal and then realizing I needed to practice my character development skills. I hope you've enjoyed reading it as much as I've enjoyed writing it. And with only two more chapters left, I'm going to miss it more than I can say when it's over. FYI, I do have thoughts about a Between the Altars II, but we'll see what the muse has planned.

As always, the characters belong to Martha Williamson's brilliant mind and the incredible talents of the Signed, Sealed, Delivered cast. Any additional characters and extrapolations are mine. Enjoy!


Chapter Six

The oven timer dinged, and as Shane pulled open the door, warmed nutmeg and cinnamon hit her nose. Taking a deep breath, she grabbed the oven mitt and tugged on the rack pulling the apple crumble out to take a better look. Almost there.

The doorbell rang just as she reached for a tasting spoon. "Oliver, darling? Will you get the door?" When he didn't answer, she glanced over her shoulder to find him leaning against the couch once again staring at he with a contented awe. Love, pure and deep, seeped through her, curving her lips in a smile that was quickly becoming reserved for moments just like this.

Oliver's mouth dropped open, but the doorbell silenced any words he might have said. Shane nodded. I know. I love you too. She lifted her brows and glanced toward the foyer.

Recalled to his duty as host, he bobbed his head in a quick nod. "Of course. . .Shane." Her name slipped between his lips on a low whisper—his first and favorite endearment.

Shane grabbed the counter as her knees buckled. Taking a deep breath, she smiled ruefully and shook her head, wondering if he had idea what that whisper on that word did to her pulse. Deciding he probably did, she turned back to the apple crumble and pulled it from the oven.

Rita came through the living room carrying a large plastic platter. Unwilling to risk a batch of chocolate gingersnap cookies with blue cheese and mustard frosting, Shane had assured her a simple veggie tray was more than enough for their dinner. "Where do you want me to put this?"

"On the counter anywhere is fine. I think we'll do buffet style for dinner anyway." Shane glanced toward the hallway where Joe and Norman stood talking with Oliver while removing their coats. "Where's Bil? I thought he was coming too."

Rita grimaced as she set the tray down near the wine glasses and carafe Shane had set out for the evening. Pouring a glass of wine, she said, "Oh, he decided to stay at the farm. Apparently, there are a few cows that are expecting any time now, and he didn't want to leave the Kellsers short-handed—especially since Mrs. Kellser isn't doing well."

Shane pursed her lips then sighed. It wasn't unexpected given her terminal diagnosis, but the decline had to be hitting the girls hard.

Rita glanced over her shoulder as Oliver, Norman, and Joe sat in the living room. Lowering her voice, her gaze grew serious. "And speaking of pregnancies, Norman and I talked today, and we've decided we want to try to get pregnant."

Shane's eyes widened. "I thought he only wanted to adopt? Since when did he change his mind?"

Rita pushed her glasses up then took in a quick breath. "Well, we had a long talk about why he only wanted to adopt—about his worries—and we realized that they don't matter. What matters is that they'll be our children."

She paused then shook her head. "And I know we'll adopt too—it's important to both of us. There's just so many hoops to jump through I figured it would be easier to start out the old-fashioned way."

Shane pulled the crown roast out of the wall oven and set it on the counter, then looped an arm around Rita's shoulder and gave her a side hug. "However, you two decide to be parents, I know you'll be great at it."

Rita nodded her agreement, then winced. "But to have kids we really need a house and a yard. My apartment over the framing shop is just too tiny." She glanced over toward Norman and lowered her voice. "And Norman really isn't comfortable living next door to a lingerie store—even though we are married."

Shane flashed an encouraging smile. "I think a house is the perfect first step toward having a family. Do you have an agent?"

"Well, Ramon's about to get his realtor's license, and he said when he passes the state test he's more than happy to help us look."

"Ramon?" A realtor? Shane shook her head and rolled her eyes. Why not?

Rita glanced over to the living room couch where the discussion turned to the various New Year's Eve activities in the area. She dropped her voice a bit then peered at Shane. "What about you and Oliver? Have you discussed children?"

Shane pursed her lips. "We're both open to them. But we want to take it slowly. Maybe in a few years. You know, trust the timing." Flashing a warm smile, she squeezed Rita's wrist then looked over to the living room. "Who's ready for dinner?"


Two hours later, stomachs full and conversation lulling, Shane slid her hand into Oliver's under the table and gave it a long squeeze. Running her thumb along his knuckles, she savored the warmth of family and the promise of new beginnings. He glanced over at her with a question in his eyes and she smiled. "Just contemplating."

Oliver hummed and his lips curved with warm contentment.

A reminder chime rang from somewhere in the living room, and Rita's eyes widened. "Oh, Norman. It's time."

Norman swiped his napkin across his mouth then laid it on the table. Grimacing, he shook his head and turned an apologetic look toward Shane. "Sorry to eat and run, but we're going to watch the fireworks downtown . . .with Ramon."

Rita patted his arm and shot him a placating look. "Well, Ramon and a group of his friends from his old dance studio. But we'll see you at work on Monday."

Shane gave Rita and Norman a long hug then closed the front door with a wave. She patted the door and sighed as Oliver and Joe's muted conversation murmured from the living room. A contented smile slipped over her lips. I love us.

She rejoined them and found Oliver in his usual place on the couch, arm stretched over the back as if waiting for her, while Joe sat in an arm chair by the window. The tree glowed in the corner and Shane idly wondered when Oliver usually undecorated from Christmas. Did he wait until. . .What did he call it? Epi-something? Epiphany!

A flicker of delight skimmed over her as she curled into the couch and savored the unconscious drop of his hand to her shoulder. Placing her own hand on his chest, she said, "Did you ask him?"

Joe's brow lifted in curiosity as he leaned forward. "Ask me what?"

"Ah, yes," Oliver said with a sniff as he removed his arm from her shoulders and stood. He walked to the bookcase and located the journal, then, giving it to Joe, he returned to Shane's side and took her hand.

Shane smiled and gave his hand a slight squeeze as they watched Joe study the book.

Oliver nodded his approval of Joe's careful external study. "We found it on a shelf in the hall closet a few weeks ago. It appears to be a prayer journal, but there's no identify information. We were wondering if you might be able to identify the owner."

Joe turned the book over, searching for any exterior indicators. Finding none, he glanced up. "I've never seen it before. Do you mind if I open it?"

"Oh, yes, please." Oliver nodded.

Shane pursed her lips, then said, "We know it was given by a man to his wife, and it's the wife who journaled her prayers. But other than that, there is no identifying information. Not even a date."

Joe opened the cover and studied the inscription. "Well, I know one thing for sure. That's your great-grandfather's handwriting, Oliver. Joseph Lindley O'Toole."

Oliver's mouth dropped open as he absorbed the information. He pulled his gaze to Shane and said, "I was actually named for him, Oliver Joseph Lindley O'Toole."

Shane stroked the back of his hand with her thumb, savoring his awe and delight. She glanced over to Joe with a new, deeper respect. How kind of him to not only give Oliver his last name, but to completely seal his heritage as an O'Toole by honoring him so extravagantly.

Joe nodded as if reading her mind then flipped to the next page. "And since the man is Grandpa Joseph, then the writer has to be your great-grandmother, Cordelia."

"Oh, I love that name. Cordelia." Shane allowed the word to roll around her mouth then flashed a teasing look to Oliver. "Almost as good as eschew."

Oliver's lips twitched at the memory. "Almost."

Joe looked lost by the inside joke, but his pleased grin couldn't be smothered. He cleared his throat and handed the journal over to her before leaning back in his chair, settling in for the story. "As you know, Joseph was a professional writer, what they used to call a man of letters, as well as a post master. He helped establish the post office here in Denver at a central location. Matter of fact, that's how he became a poet laureate for the state. The governor awarded him for his dedication and hard work as well as for his writing skills—although your great-great grandfather didn't appreciate hanging up his saddle and spurs."

"Maddog O'Toole, right?" Shane said garnering a surprised look from Oliver. She grinned. "Norman found his whip a while back while looking for a book on flora and fauna in the western states to identify that plant that got misdirected. He told me the story."

Delight glowed in Oliver's eyes. She toyed with his four-in-hand knot and winked at him. "Well, if I'm going to be an O'Toole one day, I should know more than the ugly green tie story."

Oliver and Joe chuckled.

"Be happy to tell you anything you want to know." Joe steepled his fingers in front of him, then jerking his head toward the journal, he said, "Anyway. A few years after Joseph became poet laureate, he decided he needed help around the house. He was a bachelor, and older—somewhere in his forties, I think.

"He was a very particular man. Now, Denver was still fairly rough and tumble, and he didn't want just anyone taking care of his house—this house. So, he took out an ad for a housekeeper in a newspaper back east—Boston I think, since that's where the O'Tooles were originally from. Cordelia wasn't from high society, but she was still considered an old maid and had to leave home to find work because there were too many younger mouths to feed.

"From what I understand she was a governess in an orphans' home for a while. But that just wasn't a good fit for whatever reason. She was a bit of dreamer, though, so when she saw the ad, she jumped at the chance to head out west."

Oliver's brow furrowed. "So, this would have been early 1900s, then? And she came alone?"

Joe nodded. "Back then, it wasn't all that uncommon."

Thrill skimmed over Shane's heart. "So, what happened? They must have fallen in love."

"They did, and after a few years, they married." A wide smile wrinkled Joe's cheeks. "But it scandalized half of Denver. A well-respected older man and a friend of the Governor taking his young housekeeper as his wife? There were rumors, of course, but from what little Dad said, they must have been deeply in love." He paused and lifted his brows as he looked from Shane to Oliver. "Reminds me of another couple I know."

Shane turned toward Oliver, then squeezed his hand and whispered, "Yes, it does, doesn't it?"

Oliver's cheek crinkled in a one-sided smile, then he sobered. "Dad, in the journal, Cordelia writes about miscarrying a child."

Joe's eyebrows lifted in surprise. "I never heard anything about a miscarriage when I was growing up. But then, Dad may not have known."

Oliver nodded. "It continues with her experiencing a difficult second pregnancy, but ends without any indication of the result. If Chester was their second child, then he lived, but what of Cordelia?"

Joe heaved a deep sigh as his gaze flicked between them.

Shane's brow wrinkled, and she tightened her grip on Oliver's hand. "She didn't make it, did she?"

Joe winced and shook his head. "No. Dad didn't know the whole story, and he said Grandpa Joe never would really talk about it. But apparently, she died in childbirth—with him."

Shane tucked her head onto Oliver's shoulder as tears clouded her gaze. Did Cordelia even get to see her son before she died? What final words would she have said to Joseph? She stroked the embossing of Jesus on the journal's cover, then flipped to the last prayer and traced its words.

The days grow shorter, but I am weak and feeble, oh God in Heaven. Be to me as Hur and Aaron were to Moses, and deliver this child safely. I give it to You. Guard it, keep it, even if I cannot.

Like the other prayers on these pages, her final one had been answered, but was she happy God had answered it the way He obviously had? Wouldn't she have wanted to live to see and raise her child? To possibly have more with the man she loved?

Shane lips tightened as skepticism crept through her. But really, if God knew from the beginning that Chester would survive, did her prayer to keep him safe even matter?

If God has everything all figured out, what's the point of prayer?

I don't pray to change God. I pray to change me.

Shane bit her lip as her conversation with Dale floated through her. If prayer wasn't about changing God or His plan, maybe it was about helping a person to accept the plan no matter what it was?

Cordelia could have decided she and Joseph were too different. Could have walked away from the marriage. But if she accepted God had put them together because she loved him despite their differences, then her prayer to change herself would have been exactly what Dale said prayer was for. And even though they didn't spend their lives together, they did have several years to love and be loved. If that time was all God had planned for them, then at least they had it.

That has to mean something, right?

And then, of course, there's Chester.

Oliver's concern wrapped around her as his arms circled her in a long, gentle squeeze. His voice, low, soothing, whispered over her, echoing her thoughts. "At least we know who wrote journal and that the baby, Chester, survived."

She looked up and wiped away her tears, offering him a sad smile. "Yes. At least we know that. And that they were O'Tooles." An idea flickered through her, and she pulled out of Oliver's embrace. Turning to Joe, she said, "When I was getting ready for the Christmas Eve service, I noticed several photos in the guest bedroom. I assume one of those is of Joseph and Cordelia?"

Joe spread his hands wide and shrugged. "Possibly."


They made their way up the stairs with Oliver in the lead. Shane half turned and asked, "Joe, did you know your grandfather?"

Joe shook his head as they reached the second floor. "No, he died years before I was born, but I found his poetry journals when I was teenager. All handwritten and all about Colorado. He wrote about the mountains, the meadows, even the snow. Beautiful work. They're boxed away somewhere now."

Oliver paused outside the guest room door, curiosity lifting his brow. "I would like to see those, Dad."

Joe clapped a hand on his shoulder and smiled. "Sure, come over any time. We'll dig through my storage unit and see what we can find." He followed Shane into the bedroom and scanned the room. "You didn't change anything in here, huh?"

Oliver's lips twitched as he shook his head. "Uh, no. Nothing except hanging the pictures and adding the cedar chest."

Shane's brows lifted, and she shot Oliver an inquiring glance.

"This was my room as a boy." He gave one of the bedposts a fond pat. "This is actually what prompted my thought of a four-poster bed in Randy Lynn Amidon's letter."

Shane shook her head. Growing up around all these antiques, knowing they were family pieces, and Oliver's pride in being an O'Toole, no wonder he felt more at home in the early twentieth century.

Joe studied the photos and finally pointed to one in particular. "Here. I'm ninety-percent sure this is them."

A handsome couple stared out of the black and white posed photo. Shane grinned at the man. Tall and erect, his hair was combed back away from his face and he was dressed in a dark suit, white collared shirt, and striped tie. Yes, Joseph Lindley O'Toole was the perfect namesake for her future husband.

Love glowed in his eyes as he looked down at Cordelia. Hair curled in the style of the time, she wore a long coat with a fur trimmed collar and cuffs and stared up at him with an equally besotted look.

"Yes," Shane said, completely satisfied with Joe's earlier description. "They do look like they're in love." Her lips curved in an indulgent smile as she glanced at Oliver.

He placed his arm around her shoulder and squeezed her to him. Then he pointed to another picture. "And this is Granddad as a young man, correct?"

Joe peered at the photo of a twenty-something man dressed in a vintage postal uniform, mail bag slung over one shoulder, and standing in front of an early delivery van. "Yes, that's Dad. Chester Stanley O'Toole. I think Stanley was the name of Cordelia's father. And Chester is somewhere back in the O'Toole family."

"And Chester is the one who took you to the Berkeley Park church?" Shane felt rather than saw Oliver's nod. Chester, the man Theresa knew and Oliver adored. The one who midwifed a package of goose eggs and could hand stamp anything. And the man who taught Oliver to quote Shakespeare and the Bible. No, Oliver wasn't his biological grandson, but without Chester, he wouldn't be the man he was, the man Shane loved and would love forever.

I owe you a big debt, Chester Stanley O'Toole.

Eyes misting, she surveyed the remaining photos. There was one more, incredibly important person she wanted to meet. "Where's your mom in here, Joe?"

Joe scanned the faces again and shook his head. "She's not in any of these pictures."

A soft smile flickered over Oliver's lips as his thumb circled Shane's shoulder. "I have my favorite photo of her and Granddad in my room. . ." He looked down at her, bringing his lips within a breath of hers. . .our room. She felt rather than heard the clarification as the blue in his eyes deepened.

Shane shivered. She'd never seen the master bedroom. Never been upstairs at all until Christmas Eve. Would he let her see it? Or would he rather wait until—

"You know, I think I'm going to head out." Amused delight soaked Joe's words, sending heat up the back of Shane's neck.

She cleared her throat and dragged her gaze from Oliver's. "Oh, are you sure?"

Joe's grin widened until it seemed it might split his cheeks. "Very. Happy New Year, you two." He grabbed Shane's hand and gave it a long squeeze as he glanced between them. "Love you, both."

Then, with a nod for Oliver, he turned and headed downstairs. A moment later, the front door opened and closed.

Just like that, they were alone. And their future bedroom was right down the hallway. Shane's pulse skittered. She bit her lip and watched Oliver. They hadn't outright discussed waiting. But as much as her hormones would love to cross the invisible line sooner, it felt right to wait and have a true wedding night with Oliver. Wouldn't he want the same?

He took in a deep breath and dropped his arm from her shoulder. Clasping his hands behind him, he rose up on his toes. "I believe it would be best if we returned to the living room." His lips twisted into an indulgent smile. "Although, I would be happy to retrieve the picture, if you would like."

Grateful for his suggestion, Shane cupped his cheek and nodded.

"Then, I will meet you downstairs."


Shane refilled their wine glasses then set Oliver's on the coffee table and curled up on the couch. She took a long sip and smiled as he entered carrying a five by seven picture frame.

Oliver sat and handed her the framed photo with a fond smile. "This is Granddad, Chester, and Grandmother, Marjorie. It was taken around the time I was born, or possibly just before then."

Chester sat in an arm chair clad in a three-piece suit. The familiar pocket watch gleamed from the vest pocket. A pipe jutted out from the corner of his mouth and reading glasses clung to his head while an open book lay in his lap. Marjorie sat on the rolled arm, legs crossed under her long pencil skirt as she leaned toward Chester and kissed the top of his balding head. Joy and love radiated from the photo.

Shane's gaze caught on Marjorie's left hand and her heart melted. The green moonstone engagement ring she now wore gleamed under the camera flash.

This was my grandmother's ring. She was the finest woman I ever knew. Until you.

Shane wiped her suddenly damp cheeks as her lips curved into an awed smile. "There's a lot of love in your family, Oliver." And it was their legacy.

He sighed and nodded. "Yes."

She scanned the photo, analyzing the details as if she were investigating a dead letter and absorbing them into her heart. After a moment, recognition dawned on her. "This photo was taken here, in this room, wasn't it?"

Oliver's eyes glowed with approval. "Yes. Right over there by the window, I believe."

Shane shook her head and glanced around the room. "How did you end up here anyway?"

He took the picture from her and stood it on the coffee table then picked up his wine glass and settled his arm around her shoulders. "Well, Dad was an only child, and I believe I might have mentioned Granddad passed away when I was young—eight to be exact. He and Grandmother closed up this house when they moved to Orcas island. But after he died, Grandmother returned and stayed her until she passed when I was fourteen. Momma, of course, left the year before. Once the estate was settled, Dad and I moved here."

Shane took a sip of her wine then lifted her brows. "And Joe obviously didn't redecorate."

"Ah, no." Oliver's cheeks wrinkled as he shook his head. "A postal worker's salary doesn't allow for much of a redecorating budget. And, well, Dad isn't much on the indoors anyway. I was perfectly happy with everything remaining the same, though."

She slipped her hand into his and searched his eyes. "It must have been good to have the familiarity after so much change and loss."

Oliver nodded. "But once Momma's post cards stopped, and I blamed Dad, living together became, well. . .shall we say. . .less than pleasant. And it only grew worse after he told me of her death."

Shane pressed her lips in a thin, pain-filled line and lifted her brows.

He sighed and stared at the fire as his recap slowed with the replay of memories. "So, when I turned eighteen, I moved out. I had been working at the post office as a zip code shelver since the summer between junior and senior year of high school. I moved up to postal carrier after graduation, so all I needed was an apartment.

"Two years later, Dad left to work at FedEx and offered the house to me. Despite my anger at him, I couldn't turn down the opportunity to return to the ancestral home I loved. And I've been here ever since."

Shane nodded as she pieced together a bit more of Oliver's life. A ding sounded, breaking the companionable silence between them. She grimaced. Ten o'clock. Lifting her gaze to Oliver's, she watched him with a silent question in her eyes.

His lips curved in a conspiratorial smile. "Would you like to stay and ring in the New Year with me? You will, of course, be out past your curfew."

A wide smile wreathed Shane's lips as delight shimmered through her. "I won't tell if you won't. Besides, I came prepared—just in case." Brows lifting, her grin turned mischievous as she grabbed her purse. Her fingers found two cylindrical tubes and tugged them out with a flourish. "What's New Year's without party horns?" Her smile dimmed a bit as she added, "But sadly, the store was out of confetti."

"Oh, yes, that is most certainly a travesty." Oliver's wry tone wrapped around her, sending her into a fit of giggles. A fond smile skirted over his lips as his eyes warmed with memory, and he rose from the couch.

Intrigued, Shane watched as he moved toward the record player, selected a record from the shelf, and lowered the swing arm.

"We do have two hours before we'll need to employ your party favors. Until then. . .may I have this dance?" Oliver extended his hand as soulful and familiar tones filled the room.

In every heart, there is a room

A sanctuary safe and strong. . .

Shane's eyes welled as she took his hand and melted into his arms. "Oliver, I only dance with you."