Page 13 of Of Might and Mettle

She went on anyway. His words were almost exactly what she’d told herself over the years—those lies of the enemy that still tried to make their way in, even now—and she would speak truth, even if he didn’t hear it. Even if he got mad at her for it. Because she wished someone had said something to help her then.

“If God made the world so exquisite and beautiful, Antonio, don’t you think he put just as much effort in for you? He watches over the sparrows—yes, even over the loud, annoying macaws—and he knows exactly who you are and who you are meant to be.”

As she spoke, his gaze turned thoughtful, and a smile now twitched at the corners of his lips. “You got me there. I can’t argue with you if you’re quoting Scripture,” he said.

“And if you know it,” she said with a smile, “then take it one step further and believe it. Walk in it.”

“Well, Lorelle, you’ve definitely surprised me today.” She blinked. He let out a chuckle, running a hand through his sweat-damp hair. “You’ve got mettle.”

She blinked, then laughed. She waved her hand. “Well, that’s obvious, isn’t it?”

He laughed with her. “Yes, but I mean mettle, as in m-e-t-t-l-e.”

She made a face at him, narrowing her eyes. “That’s not English or Spanish, Antonio.”

He laughed again. “It’s English, and it’s a compliment. You have inner strength, resilience to make it through difficult situations. You’ve spent this entire time trying to make me feel better; don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

“You could have at least made my job a little easier.”

“Where do you get it from?” He picked Peluche up off the ground, now that the pup had started gnawing on his boot. “You have all the reason to be mad at God, mad at the world, for your hand . . . at least you can’t blame it on any action you took.”

She let out a breath. Definitely not the way she was expecting the conversation to go, but this might be her opportunity to help him see that his leg wasn’t a curse, wasn’t a mistake. That God could use him still.

“When Paul was writing the letter to the Corinthians, talking about the thorn in his side, do you remember what God answered him?”

Antonio blinked, then chuckled. “A test? All right . . . Leviathan, can you help me out here?” Though Antonio addressed the pup, the little bundle of fur was squirming again, so Antonio let him down. He let out a breath, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t remember. Something about grace? Paul always wrote about grace.”

“His name is Peluche,” she said, and the pup bounded over to her. She laughed at the look on Antonio’s face. He might have murmured ‘traitor’ under his breath, and she swallowed another laugh.

“But yes, you’re right,” she said. “Paul wrote of how God said, ‘My grace is sufficient for thee: For my strength is made perfect in weakness.’ That doesn’t just apply to Paul, but to you and me. God isn’t going to make my hand grow,” she said, “but I can lean on His strength, like a crutch that will never fail me.” She pulled up a long stick and leveraged it into the ground, leaning against it.

Antonio’s brows knit together, his shoulders tensing. “A crutch?”

“It’s okay to have a crutch,” she said. “We all do. I, for one, prefer leaning on Jesus than trying to do it on my own. Sometimes that means praying and letting it go to God, and other times that means taking the help I’m being offered.” She held out the walking stick.

Antonio tensed, a frown darkening his features. She could almost hear the silent protest written on his face.

Praying for wisdom, she went on, “What would you say if you saw a man who drowned his sorrows in drink? We all know someone who hides their fears behind a wide smile, or insecurities behind their pride, or they use anger to mask their pain. Those are things we use to get through the difficult moments, the points where we are weak. There is no shame in turning to God when He has so freely offered His help.”

As she’d spoken, Antonio’s focus had turned away, down the road, though by his stillness, she knew he’d heard her. Now, as her words dissipated into the murmurs of the forest, he met her gaze and grasped the stick.

“Thank you, Lorelle,” he said.

They started down the path again, this time at a slower pace as Antonio leaned on the stick to keep his balance. Peluche walked between them, trying to nip at the stick.

And while they settled into a peaceful silence, Lorelle worked her mind through the steps she had learned at the ballet rehearsal the night before. She ghosted a few variations, careful not to get out of pace with Antonio, but worked on memorizing each step, every beat from the drums and the flutes and the timing, so when she returned, she might be able to take the position as principal dancer. Or she would even take the cardinal role again, if only she made it back in time.

Cardinal wings flashed in her memory, illuminated a garish red as lightning split the sky. She stumbled mid-step. She trusted God, but maybe she could afford to adopt some of Antonio’s guardedness. Maybe there was someone out to get her, too.

Chapter nine

The Passport Guy

Raised voices outside his room roused Antonio from sleep, exhaustion clinging to his bones. Perhaps it’d been a mistake booking the inn by the port—but it had been the only one open at the hour they’d arrived. And they’d obligingly prepared two rooms and hot baths—after Antonio had all but emptied his pockets.

But the privacy of separate accommodations and the blessing of a hot bath had been worth it. The sand from the river and the sweat that had accumulated were not things he wanted on his skin for much longer, and the fresh change of clothes had been something like heaven.

“The tide is lowering,” said one rough voice, speaking from somewhere outside his window. “We need to leave now or we’re stuck in the bay until the afternoon.”