The Whippoorwill Trilogy

by Sharon Sala

  Her fervor to follow the dream was about to begin as she gazed out upon the man getting out of the buggy. Her pulse kicked. The preacher was finally here!

  She needed guidance and answers, and who better suited than a man of God? She held her breath, waiting, willing him to turn around. When he did, she exhaled on a sigh. His countenance was glorious, just as she had expected it to be.

  She dashed to the mirror and fussed with her hair, poking loose ends into place and pinching her cheeks until they were a deep, rosy pink. Smoothing her hands down the front of her dress, she stepped into the hall and made her way to the drawing room at the front of the house. Already she could hear Hetty’s loud, booming voice and winced, hoping the preacher would not be put off by her sister’s strange ways. A few moments later, she entered the room, pausing in the doorway and allowing herself a final moment to collect her thoughts.

  But then Hetty turned around and Charity’s thoughts were no longer her own.

  “Here’s Charity now,” she said. “Reverend Howe, this here’s my sister, Charity Doone.”

  Charity curtsied. “Reverend Howe, it is an honor, I’m sure.”

  To say Randall was stunned would be putting it mildly. He kept staring from Hetty, to Charity, and back again.

  When he could speak, the best he could say was, “You don’t look anything alike.”

  Hetty snorted. Charity blushed. At four inches over five feet tall, and with her baby doll face and womanly shape, she was the antithesis of Mehitable Doone.

  “Same sire, different dams,” Hetty said.

  It took Randall a moment to decipher the animal references to their parentage. Finally he deduced that they’d had the same father, but different mothers.

  “It’s a pleasure to be here. I hope I can be of some service,” Randall said.

  Impulsively, Charity reached for his hand. “Oh yes, Reverend, you certainly can! I have been suffering these many months now, puzzling to discern the message God has been sending me. I know you will have the answers I need.”

  Randall nodded, trying to concentrate on something beside the softness of her skin and the length of her lashes.

  “It has been difficult trying to live with all this confusion. I long to soothe the ravages of my soul,” she murmured, blessing him with a bashful smile.

  He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. Ravages of her soul, indeed. If this fine figure of a woman became a nun, it would be the greatest waste of femininity ever known to man.

  He patted her hand and then took a step back, hoping to maintain a proper distance between them. Yet even after she’d moved away, he could still feel her touch—hear her voice—even smell the scent of verbena on her person. She was woman personified. But a nun? He thought not and cleared his throat.

  “Sometimes we misinterpret God’s messages.”

  Hetty laughed out loud. “That’s what I been a’tellin’ her all along. I ain’t never heard tell of anyone becoming a nun after dreaming they was naked.”

  Randall’s mouth dropped.

  Charity glared at her sister, the flush high on her face. “You hush now, Sister. I won’t be made fun of.”

  “Is this true?” Randall asked.

  Charity shrugged. “Only in a manner of speaking.”

  “You dreamed you were naked?”

  Her lower lip jutted, not enough for a pout, just enough to show her disapproval. “Well… yes.”

  “And this was the sign that said you must be a nun?”

  “It’s a bit more involved than that,” Charity said.

  Randall smiled benevolently because he couldn’t think of a single comment that wouldn’t be misconstrued.

  “You know,” he said. “It’s been a long trip. If you would be so kind as to show me to my room, I’d like to rest before my sermon.”

  “Shore,” Hetty said. “Charity, you show him the way. I got things to do.”

  Charity smiled, pleased she would have the preacher all to herself. She could explain about her dream. Then he would understand.

  Randall grabbed his bag and started to follow the want-a-be nun when he remembered something he’d been going to ask.

  “Oh Hetty, I forgot to ask you something.”

  She was already buckling on a gun and holster and swapping hats.

  “Like what?” she asked.

  “What time did you schedule my sermon?”

  “Ask Charity, she’s the one who’s in charge of all that. All I did was promise to pick you up at the station. You and Sister Bare Ass there are on your own.”

  She strode out the door, ignoring Charity’s indignant glare and leaving the unlikely duo alone. Randall licked his lips and then turned.

  “My sermon,” he prompted. “What time?”

  Charity beamed. “Why, you’re giving it tonight, under a full moon.”

  The benches were full to overflowing as Randall gazed out across his new congregation. He would have been disappointed to know that they’d come out of curiosity, more than a desire to be saved. Life was difficult enough out here without worrying about a few measly sins. A couple of torches had been stuck into the ground on either side of his pulpit. Their fires burned hot, sending sparks and smoke spiraling up into the night sky. A lantern hung on a nail outside the livery, its flame weak—the wick in need of a trim. Lights from the bar next door spilled out of dirty windows and onto the ground.

  After the dusty ride from the train station to the ranch, Randall had brought his bag back into town so that he could change into clean clothes before the sermon. He had wanted to appear as fresh and dust-free as possible. But now he stood silently in the midst of the smoke and flames, his clerical robes billowing out about his feet and his bible held close to his chest.

  More than one person in the congregation took note of his holy appearance and commented upon it to a neighbor. But none were as taken as Charity Doone. She sat loose-lipped and silent, staring up at the man who would help seal her fate. Transfixed by his demeanor, she watched as he stepped up to the pulpit. When he opened the bible, she took a deep breath. Then his magnificent voice spilled out across the gathering like water over a damn, cleansing lost souls and healing weary bodies. She shivered where she sat.

  “Judge not, lest ye also be judged,” he began.

  Within moments, Charity was motionless. Her gaze darted from his lips, to the Good Book, to the breadth of his shoulders beneath his robes. Her thighs began to quiver. Her heart began to pound. When he shouted, “Praise the Lord,” she broke out into a sweat. Something was happening to her. Something she didn’t understand.

  He moved away from the pulpit and stepped into the aisle, pausing less than a yard from where Charity sat. Anxious not to miss a nuance of this wonderful night, she tilted her head for a better view and within seconds, she started to shake.

  Silhouetted against the back light from the torch, Randall Howe looked as if he was on fire. And in that moment he became the figure from her dream—the man surrounded by a bright, burning light—the man who had reached out to her. It was all she could do to sit still.

  She never knew when the sermon ended, but her mind was racing. She’d been given a sign. It just wasn’t what she’d expected. So, it hadn’t been God in her dream after all. It had been the preacher. She sighed, reminding herself that wasn’t so far off. Randall Howe was God’s representative. She’d just misunderstood.

  She kept remembering her dream, but this time there would be no mistaking the path she must take. By the time the last buggy had pulled off into the night, Charity was wound as tight as a top. To add to the turmoil in her soul, it started to rain.

  Randall was beside himself with glee. In spite of its inauspicious beginning, his first sermon on his missionary trail had been a resounding success. The collection money was jingling in his pockets and his fervor was at an all-time high. If only his colleagues could know this sensation, there would be an exodus of preachers out of the cities and into the wilderness. And then he fel
t the raindrops upon his face and turned with quick concern.

  “Miss Doone, it’s starting to rain. I fear it would not be wise to journey back to your ranch tonight. Is there a hotel nearby?”

  Still speechless by her revelation, she pointed toward a building across the street. There was no name on the front, only a sign in the window.

  ROOMS

  “Our horse and buggy are already in the livery. Under the circumstances, I think it would be wise it we stayed in town.”

  Charity’s fingers knotted. This was it! She’d been right!

  “Will your sister worry if we don’t come home?”

  Charity tried not to giggle. “No. She would expect us to stay. After all, she owns the hotel as well.”

  Randall thought of his bag in the back of the buggy. It should be safe in the livery for the night.

  The sky belched fire. The rumble of thunder put them in flight. They ran, but not soon enough. By the time they gained entrance into the hotel, they were drenched.

  The desk was vacant. Only a single lantern burned nearby.

  “Oh no, there’s nobody on duty. What shall we do?” Randall asked.

  Charity slipped behind the desk and pulled keys to adjoining rooms out of their slots.

  “The last man who worked here died. People just choose a room and leave their dollar on the desk when they leave.”

  Randall shook his head in disbelief. Despite the lack of amenities, this lawless country had some intriguing ways.

  “Here,” Charity said, handing Randall the lantern. “You lead the way. I’ll follow with the keys.”

  He did as she asked. Only after they started up the stairs did he realize that he was about to spend the night in an empty hotel with an unattended female. A loud crack of thunder, followed by bright-white shaft of lightning broke the darkness on the staircase.

  He looked down at her then and shuddered at the thought of her womanly flesh. His gaze moved from her body, to her face, and to the rapt expression that she wore. It was then he knew a moment of fear. He couldn’t do this—shouldn’t do this. She was an innocent, not a widow well-versed in the ways of a man.

  Then she touched his arm. Her voice was low and trembling.

  “Randall, please hurry.”

  He swallowed suddenly. Randall? Her familiarity was unlikely for a woman who dreamed of being a nun, but the darkness was a blanket to his conscience. He dashed up the steps ahead of her and stood aside as she unlocked each of their doors. He escorted her inside the room that was to be hers, staying until the lamp had been lit. When he looked at her again, she was shivering.

  Concern overrode lust.

  “Miss Doone, you should get out of your wet clothes and into a warm bed immediately, or I fear you shall catch your death.”

  Charity swayed toward the resonance of his voice. She looked at him then. The image of him surrounded by light was burned in her brain. Do it! Do it now, a voice said. Her hands moved to the long row of buttons that ran down the front of her dress. Her eyes were wide and fixed upon his face as she began to undo her clothes.

  Frozen to the spot, Randall stared. There was no mistaking her intent.

  “Miss Charity… what are you doing?”

  “The dream. I have to fulfill the dream.”

  He knew he should look at her face, but he couldn’t. His gaze was fixed upon the revelation of her pale, creamy skin, as one by one, the buttons came undone. His tongue felt thick—almost as thick as the swelling body part inside his pants.

  “Dream? What dream?”

  “I was wrong about my dream. It wasn’t about becoming a nun. It wasn’t God I was standing naked before.” She threw herself into Randall Howe’s arms. “Oh Randall, it was you.”

  It should be stated that on Randall’s behalf he did think about resisting. But it should also be mentioned that the thought came and went as fast as a fart. Within moments they were lying together in bed. Highlighted by the flickering light from her lamp, their naked bodies writhed upon the covers.

  Caught up in a passion of which she would never have believed, Charity Doone lost her virginity, and what she thought was her heart, to a man she’d known less than a day.

  Randall’s lust was easily overwhelmed by what little conscience he had. It wasn’t until he’d shot his own wad that it began to dawn on him just what he’d done, and by then it was too late to take anything back. Charity was in convulsions of rapture and moaning words of happy ever after in his ear. He waited with his heart in his mouth until she’d fallen asleep before he’d crept to his own room.

  From there, he watched the storm until it had passed, and then he watched for the first signs of gray to break the bleakness of night. This wasn’t Boston and there was no bishop to stand between him and what he’d just done. Out here, people made their own laws and he shuddered to think what kind of retribution a woman like Mehitable Doone might take on a man who’d done what he’d done.

  He dropped to his knees by the side of the bed and began to pray, making promises to God from the depths of his heart, swearing that he would never, as long as he lived, take advantage of a woman again. From this moment on he would be celibate—even if it drove him mad.

  At daybreak, he tiptoed to her door and looked in. She was sprawled out across her bed, her nudity all the more blatant for her lack of covers. He shuddered, silently cursing himself for his weaknesses and slipped back to his room.

  As he stood beside the window, he heard a sound that gave him some hope. It was the distant whistle of a west-bound train. In that moment, his decision was made. Without a backward glance, he grabbed his coat and his bible and headed for the stairs at a lope. Out the door he ran, then toward the livery to recover his bag.

  Just this once. Just this once, let me please get away and I’ll never do it again.

  Charity came awake within seconds, and as she did, the memory of last night came crashing down upon her.

  “Randall,” she gasped, and then bounced out of bed, grabbing clothes as she went.

  Haste made her nervous. She giggled girlishly as she tried to force buttons into holes, all the while planning the next fifty years of her life. And it was comforting to know what that would be. She shook her head as she thought of the dream and her own misconceptions.

  A nun. How silly. She couldn’t be a nun—not now. Not when she’d experienced the wonders of being a real woman.

  Finally she was dressed. She dashed next door, knocking lightly upon Randall’s door, but he didn’t answer. She knocked again, thinking to herself that he was just sleeping in. After all, the rigors of last night had been strenuous indeed. But still he didn’t answer. She frowned and then tried the knob. When it turned, she peeked inside. The room was empty. His clerical robes were gone, as was his bible. Her heart gave a funny twitch, which she ignored.

  Outside, she heard the loud, mournful wail of the train whistle as it began to leave. She turned and walked to the window, absently watching the smoke billowing from the smokestack and the slow flow of people and horses moving about in the street.

  The train whistled again, and as it did, a sudden panic came upon her. She spun around, gazing wildly about the room.

  “No,” she moaned, and clutched at her stomach. “He wouldn’t. He couldn’t!”

  Out into the street she ran, heading for the livery with single-minded intent. Once inside, her worst fears were revealed. He was missing and his bag was gone, too. She stood then, listening to the beat of her heart and hearing the last mournful call of the train as it disappeared into the distance.

  Without speaking, she hitched up her horses and climbed up in the buggy. A few minutes later, she started home. Back to Mehitable. Back to her shame.

  At first she was numb. But as the miles sped away, her emotions began to kick in. She went from heartbreak to humiliation and back again. By the time she topped the rise leading down to the ranch, she was sobbing hysterically and the horses had begun to stampede. The reins slipped from her finger
s, but she didn’t care. She fell back in the seat, hoping that she would die before her shame could ever be revealed.

  Near the barn, a young wrangler named Beau James was the first to hear the commotion. When he looked up and saw the runaway buggy, his heart skipped a beat. He’d long been an admirer of Mehitable’s sister, and the knowledge that she was in danger sent him running for his mount. His race from the barnyard brought the others out to see.

  Mehitable cried in alarm and jumped on her horse as she, too, gave chase, but it was Beau who got there first. Riding at full gallop, he leaned sideways and grabbed the lead horse’s reins. With every ounce of his strength, he began to pull back.

  Moments later it was over. The team had stopped.

  He leaped from his horse and dashed to the buggy. “Miss Charity! Miss Charity! Are you all right?”

  She took one look at the tenderness and concern on his face and fell forward into his arms.

  It has to be said now, that at that moment, Beau James fell the rest of the way in love. With her warm body against his and her soft hair tumbling around his face, it was all he could do not to cry. As for Charity, the knowledge that she had even failed at dying sent her into a new spasm of sobs.

  Beau’s heart twisted with panic as he looked back over his shoulder. Hetty was bearing down upon them at a fast pace. He didn’t know what to do except hold her.

  Moments later, Mehitable was on the ground running. “My God, girl, what happened? Where is the Reverend? Why did you come back alone?”

  Just the mention of his name was enough to send Charity into new fits of sorrow. She forgot Beau James was holding her. All she could think was to tell Sister. She would know what to do.