Out to Canaan by Jan Karon Read Free Book Online

out a burdock and tossed it on the pile.
    And now this. A corporation? That didn’t sound good. Mule hadn’t known any details, he had merely talked on the phone with a real estate company who was making general inquiries about Fernbank.
    â€œTake no thought for the morrow . . .” he muttered, quoting Matthew.
    â€œDon’t worry about anything . . .” he said aloud, quoting his all-time standby verse in the fourth chapter of Philippians, “but in everything, by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving, make your requests known unto God, and the peace that passes all understanding will fill your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus.”
    He’d been doing it all wrong. As usual, he was trying to focus on the big picture.
    He glanced at the stepping-stones he and Cynthia had laid together last year, making a path through the hedge. There! Right under his nose.
    Step by step. That was the answer.

CHAPTER THREE
    Eden
    â€œYou know how some people think all we have to do in Mitford is watch paint peel?”
    â€œI do.”
    Emma snorted with disgust. “Mack Stroupe’s house could’ve held us spellbound for th’ last fifteen years.”
    â€œI haven’t driven by there in a while.”
    â€œLooked like a shack on th’ Creek ’til guess what?”
    â€œI can’t guess.”
    â€œFour pickups hauled in there this mornin’ with men and stepladders. Th’ first coat was on by noon, I saw it myself when I went to Hessie’s for lunch.”
    â€œAha.”
    â€œThey painted it blue. I hate blue on a house. Somebody said blue is the color of authority—which is why police officers are th’ men in blue. They say it’s a color that makes you look like you are somebody!”
    â€œWell, well . . .”
    â€œAn’ take pink. What do you think happened when a sheriff in Texas painted his jail cells pink? The men calmed down, no more violence, can you beat that?”
    â€œHard to beat,” he said, gluing the wooden base back onto the bookend. “And Texas, of all places.”
    â€œWhere do you think Mack Stroupe gets his money?”
    â€œWhat money?”
    â€œTo buy a new truck, to paint his house. I even heard he had a manicure at Fancy Skinner’s place.”
    â€œA manicure? Mack?”
    â€œA manicure,” she said icily.
    â€œGood heavens.” This was serious. “He didn’t get a mask, too, did he?”
    â€œA mask? Why would he need a mask when he can lie, cheat, and steal without one?”
    â€œNow, Emma, I don’t know about the stealing.”
    â€œMaybe you don’t, but I do.” She looked imperious.
    Run from gossip! the Scriptures said. It would be hard to put it more plainly than that.
    â€œI’m going up the street a few minutes. It looks like rain, better close the windows before you leave. Give Harold my congratulations on being moved off the route and into sorting.”
    â€œSorting and working the window,” she said proudly.

    â€œWinnie!” he called, as the bell jingled on the bakeshop door.
    Blast if he didn’t love the smell of this place. What would happen if the bakery was sold? Anybody could move in here, hawking any manner of goods and wares. Could cards and stationery smell this wonderful, or piece goods, or kitchen wares?
    Five years before he arrived on the scene, Winnie had scraped together the money for this storefront, painted it inside and out, installed ovens and secondhand display cases, stenciled Sweet Stuff Bakery on the window, and settled into twenty years of unflagging hard work.
    Her winning smile and generous spirit had been a hallmark of thisstreet. Hadn’t she faithfully fed Miss Rose and Uncle Billy when the old couple tottered by for their daily handout? Yes, and sent something home for the birds, into the bargain.
    He found her in the kitchen, sitting on a stool and scribbling