The Preacher’s Daughter

by Cheryl St. John

  “It’s all right.” Suzanne took a seat.

  Ben waited for Wes to follow suit, then perched warily on a painted bench.

  The man took a breath as though fortifying himself. “Was your mother Sylvia Foster?”

  The air left Ben’s lungs. He stiffened his spine and narrowed his gaze. How would this man know that? “Who are you?”

  “Well…” His disturbing eyes moved from his wife to Ben. “I think I’m your father.”

  The words hung in the air. The drone of a bee was the only sound save the pounding in Ben’s ears. “I don’t have a father.”

  “Everyone has a father,” Wes answered.

  Ben had thought the same thing a hundred times, but a biological fact didn’t make a family. Ben stood and moved to the bottom of the stairs as though preparing to get away. “What are you trying to pull?”

  Suzanne spoke up then. “I’m the one who asked Wes to come here and see you for himself. You two are the spitting image of each other.” She gestured by jutting an upraised palm toward her husband. “Look at him!”

  Ben’s instincts were on alert. He didn’t want to look, he didn’t want to recognize any such thing. He knew the circumstances of his conception, and he didn’t need to imagine them. But the oddly familiar sense he’d gotten at first sight of Wes nagged at his peace of mind.

  Wes hadn’t moved from his perch on the wooden chair, though his body was rigid. The man had hair the same color and texture as his own; his eyes were the same shocking blue that startled Ben each time he looked into a mirror. The man’s hands were large, his fingers long, nails flat and blunt. Looking at Wes’s hand was like looking at his own, except for the added years.

  Ben had always known that his father could have been any of a hundred men. It should be no surprise to discover a man who looked exactly like he would in twenty years.

  “My mother was a whore,” he said flatly. “If what you say was true, it wouldn’t say much for you.”

  He glanced at Suzanne, realizing she was learning that her husband had paid a cheap whore for sex.

  “Wes and I have been married eighteen years,” she told him as though guessing his thoughts. “And the situation wasn’t what you’re thinking.”

  The anger and resentment that were never far below the surface welled up in a ball of rage in Ben’s belly.

  “Your mother was Sylvia Foster, wasn’t she?” Wes asked. “You have an older sister named Ellianna.”

  Ben’s gaze shot to Wes, and he placed one foot on the bottom stair in a move toward the man. “What the hell do you know about her?”

  “I told you I knew your mother.”

  “And my sister? You knew my sister?”

  “Saw her when she was a tiny little thing is all.”

  “Get off my land.”

  “Dr. Chaney, please listen,” Suzanne begged.

  “You don’t have anything to say that I want to hear,” he told Wes. “My mother was a whore. If you knew her, that’s your sad story. I don’t need it, thanks. I don’t know what you want from me or why you came here, but I don’t want anything to do with you.”

  With a pained expression, Wes glanced at his wife. She shrugged and stood to reach for his hand. He took it and they moved past Ben into the yard. The man paused and turned his head to the side as though he wanted to say more. Apparently he thought better of it and continued on to the buggy.

  Ben strode to his barn and waited for the sound of horses and harnesses to assure him they’d gone.

  He looked at his hands and found them shaking. He curled his fingers into fists and pressed them against his eyes.

  Years of safely guarded emotions clawed at his soul like demons gaining a foothold to scramble out of a pit. He knew where he came from. He’d dealt with it. He couldn’t change it. He didn’t need anyone except his family. Ellie. Caleb—the Chaneys who’d become his family by choice—because they wanted him.

  He sure as hell didn’t need the hellish reminders that man wanted to dredge up, and Ben refused to acknowledge Wesley Evans as his father and buckle to the depravity of being sired by a whore.

  What would it prove?

  Ben replaced hay in stalls and pens, then untethered Delilah the goat and let her follow him as he worked. The animals were his solace; helping them had healed him. He spoke to them—nonsensical things, important things—as though purging himself of all the confusion and anger could heal him. Delilah was a good listener, and followed him from barn to house.

  He donned a jacket and pulled up the collar against a late-afternoon chill. Minutes later a galloping rider approached from the road.

  Ben recognized Riggs Webb, son of the Arcade Hotel manager.

  “Ice wagon ran over Mrs. McKinley’s dog, Doc!” Riggs managed out of breath. “She’s hurt bad.”

  “I’ll grab my bag,” Ben called. “Can I take your horse and you follow with my wagon?”

  He was only a few minutes away from town, and the dog still lay in the street when he arrived. A small crowd milling around the injured animal parted when he arrived.

  The dog wasn’t bleeding from his head or mouth, but his back legs looked crushed, and the high-pitched whine was pathetic. Ben filled a hypodermic needle and immediately gave the canine a sedative.

  Mrs. McKinley sobbed into a lace hanky. “Beau was right beside me in my garden. I was covering my bulbs with straw. Then he heard the dismissal bell and ran toward the schoolhouse. He likes to follow the children home, you know. Can you help him, Dr. Ben?”

  Mrs. McKinley lived right beside Ben’s house in town, and Beau greeted him with a friendly yip and a visit each time he saw Ben come and go.

  “I’ll do my best, ma’am.”

  The ice truck was stopped several feet away. “Somebody fill a gunnysack with ice and bring it to me.”

  Robbie Rentchler hurried to do Ben’s bidding, and Ben placed the ice on the dog’s hindquarters. “Help me get him on this blanket so I can take ’im to my place.”

  Robbie helped him, and they placed the now-unconscious dog in the back of the wagon.

  Mrs. McKinley cried like a little girl who was losing her best friend. Eva Kirkpatrick had come out of her dress shop, and she draped an arm around the woman’s shoulders to comfort her. “Why don’t you come in and I’ll make us some tea? Benjamin will let you know how Beau is doing.”

  Ben thanked her with a nod and took the dog home.

  The most serious injury was a broken hip. He worked on the animal through the evening, setting the bone and keeping him sedated while he made the cast and let it set.

  He believed the animal would make a recovery, but he wasn’t sure how well he’d be able to get around afterward.

  Eva drove Mrs. McKinley out to see the patient that evening. Ben greeted them and offered them cups of coffee.

  “How come no woman has caught your fancy yet, Benjamin?” Eva asked in her friendly manner as they sat at his kitchen table. She glanced around the spacious, obviously little-used room. It looked pretty much like it had the day he’d moved in.

  He shrugged good-naturedly. When he’d first come to Newton, Caleb’s first office had been above Miss Kirkpatrick’s dress shop. Ben had been Caleb’s helper until leaving for college, so he’d had plenty of opportunities to get to know the kindhearted woman. “Don’t know, Miss Eva. None compare to you, I reckon.”

  She laughed. “None compare to that sister of yours is more likely.”

  “That woman is a dear,” Mrs. McKinley agreed. “Taking on all she has, what with you boys and Dr. Chaney’s son, and now her own children. Watched you boys grow from skinny young things to strappin’ men under her care, I did.”

  “I don’t know if you can entirely credit Ellie with their remarkable size and strength,” Eva chided. “Heredity may have had something to do with it.”

  Her friendly remark jolted Ben’s thoughts back to the man who’d been there that morning. He and Flynn had survived in spite of family origin, thanks to Ellie.


  Mrs. McKinley waved away Eva’s comment and added another spoonful of sugar to her coffee. “I’ll be so lonely without Beau tonight,” she said, and a tear rolled down the thin pale skin of her cheek. “He sleeps across the foot of my bed and keeps my feet warm even in the dead of winter.”

  “Why don’t you come stay the night with me?” Eva suggested, patting the elderly woman’s arm. “We’ll play a game of cribbage in front of the fire.”

  “That’s kind of you, dear. Thank you.”

  Ben took them to see Beau again before they left. The mutt was awake and raised his head and thumped his tail at his mistress’s attention. Ben took it as a good sign that the animal was alert, though he planned to keep him sedated and resting for several days until he let him go home.

  Beau was the focus for his thoughts and attention the next two days and nights, and Ben was glad for the distraction. When he felt the animal was recovered enough so that Mrs. McKinley could care for him, he drove the wagon to town and got him settled.

  Ben ate supper at the Arcade and once it was dark, rode to the Chaneys’. He let himself in the front door and stood in the foyer listening to the heartwarming sounds of life and family. This was what was missing in his house. Children’s voices carried from upstairs. It was bedtime.

  He found Flynn in Caleb’s study.

  “Hi, Ben! I heard about Mrs. McKinley’s Beau.” They’d been neighbors with Mrs. McKinley for years, and it was a family joke to call the dog Mrs. McKinley’s Beau. “How’s he doin’?”

  “I think he’s gonna be all right. Where is everyone?”

  “Caleb got called out. Ellie and Lorabeth are upstairs. I’m finishin’ my studies.”

  “Would you mind askin’ Ellie to come talk to me in the kitchen when she’s finished?”

  “Don’t you want to go tell her yourself?”

  “I don’t want to get the kids all excited. I’ll just wait.”

  “Okay.” Flynn left and returned a few minutes later. “She said she’ll be down shortly.”

  Ben watched Flynn tally a row of figures and eventually wandered into the kitchen, where he pulled out a chair and waited. He considered pouring a cup of coffee, but apprehension made his stomach refuse that idea. He needed to find out whatever Ellie knew, but he was afraid of what the facts might be. She would be straight with him; she always had been.

  A few minutes later Ellie showed up. She leaned over him to smooth his hair and press her face to his temple in a motherly gesture.

  Ben caught her hand. Emotions welled up and he fought for control.

  With her hand still in his, his sister sat on the bench beside him. Her look flickered over his face and hair. “Something wrong?”

  He dropped his gaze to the tabletop and composed his thoughts and his words. “Had a visitor a couple days ago.”

  “Who was it?” she asked.

  “Man name o’ Wes Evans.” He brought his attention to her face to observe her reaction. “Ever heard of ’im?”

  Ellie’s lifted brows and slow blink showed a measure of surprise. “Wes? What did he look like? What did he want?”

  “Matter of fact, he looked a lot like me.”

  A floorboard creaked overhead and the clock in the hallway chimed, but neither of them flicked an eyelash as they stared at each other.

  “Do you remember him, Ellie?”

  “Vaguely. She—” they never called her mother “—had a friend named Wes for a time. I was too little to remember much. He was kind, I think. I don’t recall things being so bad around that time. They got worse later. Ben, what did he want?”

  “A week or so ago his wife brought her cat for treatment, and she stared at me the whole time. I know why now. Apparently she went home and told her husband she’d seen me. I have no idea what that conversation must’ve been like…but she brought him to see me.”

  Ellie stared at him wide-eyed.

  “He thinks he’s my father.”

  She blinked a few times. Opened and closed her mouth. Gripped his fingers and then let go to press both hands to her breast as though her heart was a speeding train threatening to jump the rails.

  “Why would he admit to that?” he asked. “Why would he tell his wife he fathered a kid with a whore?”

  She shook her head, apparently trying to reason or remember. “What did you say to him?”

  “I told him to leave me the hell alone.”

  “Oh, Ben.” She stared at him wide-eyed. “We haven’t talked about this for a long time. I think about it every day. I don’t need to take it out and beat myself with it, too.”

  “You’re the one who said I shouldn’t punish myself with the past.”

  She conceded with a begrudging nod. “But you’re the one who told Caleb the truth about Winston and what he did to me—what she let him do to me—because you wanted to stay with Caleb so badly, remember? You told him that night after Winston came after me again.”

  “I doubt I’ll ever forget.”

  “So we admit the truth, but we don’t punish ourselves with it,” she insisted.

  “The truth is our mother was a whore and we don’t know who our fathers are,” he said bluntly.

  “But if you had a chance to know,” she said, her voice intense now, “would you take it?”

  He looked at her. “A man like that isn’t worth opening a vein for, Ellie.”

  “Can you be sure what kind of man he is?”

  “He was one of them.”

  She closed her eyes. A tear slipped beneath her lashes, and the sight made his chest ache.

  “Ellie.”

  “I’m not sad for me, Ben, I’m aching inside for you.” She opened her eyes. “You’re the only one who can decide if you want to give this man a chance or not. If you want to know the truth. If you can handle it.”

  “What good would it do?”

  “I don’t know. And neither do you. But you have a chance to find out.” She stood and gazed down at him. “You’re not him. You’re not any of them. Maybe that’s what you’d learn. Or maybe you’d learn he’s not the piece of dung you’ve believed he is all these years, and you just don’t want to stop hating him because hate is easy.”

  Her words found their mark and sank in. He placed his elbows on the tabletop and laced his fingers over the lower half of his face.

  Soft footsteps sounded, and Lorabeth stepped into the semidarkened kitchen. “Oh, I’m sorry. Am I interrupting you?”

  She turned as though to leave.

  “No,” Ben said before she could go. “Come on in.”

  He got up and turned up the wick on the wall lamp.

  Lorabeth held a book against her midriff. “I was going to make some tea and read.”

  “I’m tired,” Ellie said with a weak smile. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m heading upstairs.” She leaned over and pecked Ben’s cheek with a light kiss.

  “’Night, Ellie.”

  Lorabeth laid the book on the table, pumped water into the kettle and stoked the fire in the stove. “Will you join me?”

  “Sure.”

  The water boiled and she poured it over leaves in the teapot, then let them stand while she got cups from the cupboard. “How’s your patient?”

  “News sure travels,” he answered. “Dog’s doin’ well.”

  “There’s no home social this week because the Iversons are holding a dance at their place. A barn dance, Ellie called it. She and Caleb are planning to go, and she said her mother-in-law will come stay with the children so I can go, too.”

  The harvest dance was a yearly event, but his thoughts had been elsewhere, and he hadn’t given the festivity any consideration. “Will you let me escort you?” he asked.

  She gave him a bright smile. “I would love that. This will be our chance to really dance, won’t it?”

  He nodded. “It will.”

  She poured their tea and set the sugar bowl in front of him. “Is everything all right?”

  “What do you mean?”

>   “You’re awfully quiet.”

  “I’ve just had a lot on my mind.”

  “Of course. I liked all the books. I’m reading this one a second time.”

  “I’ll return them and bring you more.”

  Her smile showed her delight. She appreciated small things, things others would deem inconsequential. He liked that about her. He understood. He knew what it was like to miss out on things others took for granted and to be grateful for them when they were finally yours.

  Recent events had ripped open emotional wounds and shed light on unresolved fears he had never wanted to face. Maybe he didn’t want to face the truth about Wes because it would place some of the responsibility on himself. Responsibility to accept and understand and forgive instead of hating and blaming. He needed wisdom to put his life in order.

  Chapter Ten

  “Can I ask you a question, Lorabeth?”

  She picked up her cup and blew lightly across the surface of her tea. “Sure.”

  He absently stirred a spoonful of sugar into his. “What does the Bible have to say about fathers?”

  “Well, all the stories about fathers are stories of men who loved their children. Men like Joseph and Abraham and David. The apostle Paul tells us we’re supposed to honor our fathers and mothers.”

  “Yeah, I heard that. What about parents who don’t deserve honor?”

  She frowned and a little crease formed between her brows. “You ask tough questions, Benjamin.”

  “Does your father deserve honor?”

  She nodded. “I respect him and I respect his position as my parent. I may not have always agreed with all of his mandates, but I recognize his right to have those opinions and make the rules.”

  Ben rested his elbows on the table and leaned toward her. “What if he’d been cruel to you and your brothers and sister? What then? What if he’d never provided for you or even cared if you lived or died?”

  She brought her gaze to his in the lamplight, and he hoped his emotions and confusion weren’t plainly displayed on his face.

  “My father taught me to always take the verses in context, so let’s look at that one in its context.”