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might be privileged to win. So far Rayford felt he was a failure. While he was
certain God had given him the words and the courage to say them, he felt he
had done something wrong in communicating to Hattie. Maybe she was right.
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Maybe he had been self-serving. It had to appear to her that he was merely
getting out from under his own load of guilt. But he knew better. Before God
he believed his motives pure.
Yet clearly he had not persuaded Hattie of more than that he was sincere and
that he believed. What good was that? If he believed and she didn't, she had
to assume he believed something bogus, or she would have to admit she was
ignoring the truth.
What he had told her carried no other option.
And his performance during the interview with Cameron Williams! At the time,
Rayford had felt good about it, articulate, calm, rational. He knew he was
discussing revolutionary, jarring stuff, but he felt God had enabled him to be
lucid. Yet if he couldn't get any more reaction out of the reporter than
polite deference, what kind of a witness could he be? From the depths of his
soul Rayford wanted to be more productive. He believed he had wasted his life
before this, and he had only a short period to make up for lost time. He was
eternally grateful for his own salvation, but
now he wanted to share it, to bring more people to Christ. The magazine
interview had been an incredible opportunity, but in his gut he felt it had
not come off well.
Was it even worth the effort to pray for another chance? Rayford believed he
had seen the last of Cameron Williams. He wouldn't be calling Bruce Barnes,
and
Rayford's quotes would never see the pages of Global Weekly.
As Rayford shaved and showered and dressed, he heard Chloe packing. She had
obviously been embarrassed by him last night, probably even apologized to Mr.
Williams for her father's absurd ramblings. At least she had tapped on his
door and said good night when she came in. That was something, wasn't it?
Every time Rayford thought of Chloe, he felt a tightness in his chest, a great
emptiness and grief. He could live with his other failures if he must, but his
knees nearly buckled as he prayed silently for Chloe. I cannot lose her, he
thought, and he believed he would trade his own salvation for hers if that was
what it took.
With that commitment, he sensed God speaking to him, impressing upon him that
that was precisely the burden required for winning people, for leading them to
Christ. That was the attitude of Jesus himself, being willing to take on
himself the punishment of men and women so they could live.
Rayford was emboldened anew as he prayed for Chloe, still fighting the nagging
fear of failure. God, I need encouragement, he breathed. I need to know I
haven't turned her off forever. She had said good night, but he had also
heard her crying in bed.
He emerged in uniform and smiled at her as she stood by the door, dressed
casually for travel. Ready, sweetie? he said tentatively.
She nodded and seemed to work up a smile, then embraced him tight and long,
pressing her cheek against his chest. Thank you, he prayed silently, wondering
if he should say anything. Was this the time? Dare he press now?
Again he felt deeply impressed of God, as if the Lord were speaking directly
to his spirit, Patience. Let her be. Let her be. Keeping silent seemed as hard
as anything he had ever done. Chloe said nothing either. They grabbed a light
breakfast and headed to JFK.
Chloe was the first passenger on the plane. I'll try to get back and see
you,
Rayford told her before heading to the cockpit.
Don't worry if you can't, she said. I'll understand.
Buck waited until everyone else had boarded. As he approached his seat next to
Chloe, her body was turned toward the window, arms crossed, chin in her hand.
Whether she even had her eyes open, Buck couldn't tell. He assumed she would
turn to glance as he sat next to her, and he couldn't suppress a smile,
anticipating her reaction and only slightly worried that she would be less
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positive than he hoped.
He sat and waited, but she did not turn. Was she sleeping? Staring?
Meditating?
Praying? Was it possible she was crying? Buck hoped not. He already cared for
her
enough to be bothered when she seemed in pain.
And now he had a problem. As he warily watched for the change in position that
would allow Chloe to see him in her peripheral vision, he was suddenly awash
in fatigue. His muscles and joints ached, his eyes burned. His head felt like
lead. No way was he going to fall asleep and have her discover him dozing next
to her.
Buck gestured to get the attendant's attention. Coke, please, he whispered.
The temporary caffeine rush would allow him to stay awake a little longer.
When Chloe didn't move even to watch the safety instructions, Buck grew
impatient. Still, he didn't want to reveal himself. He wanted to be
discovered. And so he waited.
She must have grown weary of her position, because she stretched and used her
feet to push her carry-on bag under the seat in front of her. She took a last
sip of her juice and set it on the small tray between them. She stared at
Buck's glove-leather boots, the ones he had worn the day before. Chloe's eyes
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