Texas Angel, 2-in-1

by Judith Pella

  This time he refused to be flustered. “I think it would be best to talk here in the corridor.”

  “As you wish. One moment, please.” She went back into the room and securely tucked a blanket around Hannah, who lay sleeping on Elise’s bunk. Then, closing the door behind her, she stepped out into the hall. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” Her lips slanted into a lopsided smile.

  “I see this visit is more expedient than I thought.”

  If it were possible, his mouth seemed to become even more taut and thin. Elise had an almost overwhelming urge to find a way to crack the ice of his demeanor. The last person she had seen so proud and arrogant had been Daphne Hearne. “What do you want, Reverend?” she asked more soberly, resisting the urge to goad him, to knock him down a notch, to vent on him what she had been too cowardly to do upon Mrs. Hearne.

  “My wife, foolishly, perhaps, but with a sincere heart, ministered to the physical needs of your child.”

  He licked his lips, and for the first time Elise realized that he might not like doing or saying what he felt he must.

  “The Word of God clearly indicates that as the physical needs are met, so must the spiritual needs be ministered unto. My wife failed to do this.”

  “You are wrong there, sir. Mrs. Sinclair very kindly spoke of God’s love and care.”

  His eyebrow twitched with disdain. “My wife has a rather simplistic view of matters of the Spirit.” He lifted his hands, opened the book he held, and began to speak. “Hear the Word of God: ‘And fear not them which kill the body, but are not able to kill the soul: but rather fear him’—God, our Father—‘which is able to destroy both soul and body in hell.’ ”

  Pausing, he turned several pages. Elise wondered why he even both.ered, since it was apparent he knew the words he read by heart.

  “ ‘For the wages of sin is death; but the gift of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord.’ Have you heard these words before, ma’am?”

  “Would it matter if I had?” she countered defensively.

  “It would matter if you cared for your soul. Do not deal lightly with the things of God. Your very soul lies in jeopardy. As the prophet Isaiah has written, ‘Your iniquities have separated between you and your God, and your sins have hid his face from you, that he will not hear.’ ”

  “Thank you for informing me of this, Reverend,” she said coldly. “But I don’t need you to tell me of my failings.”

  “Apparently you do. I have yet to see a repentant spirit in you.”

  “And it will be a cold day in that place of which you speak so eloquently before I’d repent to you!”

  “You have no right to take offense. I speak but the message of God, and I do so because I despair for your soul. Do you not care that you will burn in eternal damnation?” His face reddened with his zeal, and she actually thought he truly did care about her.

  Too bad he did so with such self-righteousness, such pretension. If he did care, it was only as a god cares for the lowly minions groveling at his feet. Well, maybe she had to grovel to Maurry Thomson, but she’d never do so to this pinch-faced, vainglorious buffoon!

  Glaring with all the disdain she could muster, she spit out her reply. “I never expected to do anything else but burn in hell, Reverend. Now I must see to my daughter.”

  She spun on her heel to make a grand exit from their conversation, but the door latch would not respond quickly enough to her hand. Muttering a curse, she gave it a shove with her shoulder, to no avail.

  Sinclair stepped forward and, without actually touching her, nudged her aside. “My door does this also.” He gave the latch a couple of tugs and jiggles and got the door to open.

  “Thank you,” she said out of mere instinct, cursing herself for the words the minute they were spoken. So much for her grand exit.

  “You are welcome.”

  His words were spoken deliberately. Maybe he thought she was taking the opportunity of the stuck door to thank him for his sermon.

  Perish the thought!

  “Thank you for opening the door.” Following her pointed words, she swung inside the cabin and shut the door with what she hoped was a firm motion.

  But once inside, Elise leaned against the closed door, her heart pounding as if she had just been chased by slave hunters, or worse. She heard the click of his shoes as he retreated down the hall.

  “I don’t want to burn in hell or anywhere else,” she murmured.

  But she supposed she would, just like he said. Surely God made no allowances for extenuating circumstances. Sin was sin whether one did it willfully or not. She was a sinner—no doubt about that. And the wages of sin is death, according to the reverend’s Bible. Then her gaze fell upon Rebekah Sinclair’s New Testament. The woman had said she should judge God by His words, not by the words of others. She wondered if Rebekah had been thinking of her husband when she’d said that.

  In that case, she thought, I will read her book . . . next chance I get. Tomorrow, perhaps.

  CHAPTER

  15

  SAN FELIPE DE AUSTING, FORMALLY established in 1824, just a little more than ten years ago, was situated on a pretty bluff surrounded by good land, plentiful timber, and, as evidenced by many patches of green, sufficient water. The town near the banks of the Brazos River had a population of some two or three hundred, and there were well over fifty houses. True, they were coarse buildings of unhewn logs and clapboard roofs. But it had very much the feel of an American frontier town. The residents of both San Felipe and Texas were overwhelmingly American, exemplified in the act of dropping the Mexican name of Tejas for the more American name of Texas. They even called themselves Texians, showing further disdain for their Mexican overlords.

  Benjamin felt certain he could be content in this land. Their final destination, however, was some distance northeast of this town. But after debarking the ship in Galveston and taking a coach to San Felipe, he had deemed it prudent to rest for a couple days before undertaking the final leg of their journey.

  Being so close to their destination, the two days’ wait had been excruciating for him. But Rebekah was so weary after the boat trip that she had begun to fall back into the melancholy that had lifted a bit after the birth of Leah.

  Rebekah came up to him as he stood on the porch of the hotel.

  “We are all packed.” The absence of even a hint of excitement in her voice made him wince.

  “Rebekah, we have come to a fine land. Truly a promised land.”

  “As you say, Benjamin.”

  He hated to rebuke her yet again, but her attitude was once again affecting the children. “Rebekah . . .”

  Just then the man they had hired to guide them to their destination of Cooksburg approached.

  “Morning, Reverend Sinclair.” His name was Walt Ramsey, and he was a seasoned frontiersman, dressed in worn buckskin with a beaver hat perched over long, unkempt hair. “Got the horses and mules all ready down at the stable.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Ramsey. I’ll get my family together and meet you there.”

  Fifteen minutes later the Sinclair entourage was gathered in the stable. Benjamin had purchased two horses, a dapple-gray mare, which was young and sturdy, and a bay gelding that was a bit older. These he would need for use on his circuit as well as for his family. He and Rebekah and Leah would ride these on the journey. He had also hired another horse and four mules to carry Micah and Isabel and all their belongings. He had been told when he arrived that wagons were out of the question because the roads, where there were roads, were little more than dirt tracks through rough terrain. In addition to these animals, he had also made the purchase of a milch cow. He felt certain they would want for nothing in their new home.

  “We’re getting a good early start,” Ramsey said when they were all mounted up. “I’ll bet we can get to Cooksburg by tomorrow afternoon.”

  “I don’t bet, Mr. Ramsey. I trust God,” Benjamin replied.

  “Well, then. God willing”—
Ramsey’s tone held a hint of a sneer— “we’ll make good time.”

  Benjamin groaned inwardly at the prospect of traveling two days with another uncouth specimen. He was disappointed his brother had not been in San Felipe to greet them. But then, Haden knew nothing of Benjamin’s decision to come to Texas. After asking around town, Benjamin learned that Haden was off somewhere exploring the country. Benjamin had left a message with the storekeeper, so he hoped that in due course Haden would catch up to him. True, Haden could be as uncouth as both Ramsey and Fife together, but he was family.

  Benjamin reminded himself, as he had been doing frequently since their journey began, that each unsaved soul he met was just further proof of the great need here for his ministry. And this urged him forward. For the next two days, he was constantly several lengths ahead of the group. It took all his restraint to keep from charging forward at a full gallop.

  The last leg of the long journey from Boston had just the opposite effect upon Rebekah. Two days of jostling on the back of a horse made her wonder how she would bear another minute, much less a lifetime, of this wilderness. Even in San Felipe there had been other women and social activities. The day after they left there was to be a ball, not that Benjamin would approve of dancing. The wife of the storekeeper had invited her to join the few women in town for their weekly sewing circle. But she had had to refuse because they would not be staying.

  Rebekah’s misery was compounded by their arrival at the settlement of Cooksburg. It seemed euphemistic to even bother attaching a name to a place that consisted of nothing more than a tavern and a trading post. Albert Petty, the proprietor of both establishments, extended to them a rather stilted welcome. He seemed a dour, introverted man, and Rebekah sensed he felt awkward having a man of the cloth invade his premises, where the odor of ardent spirits was quite strong. He did offer directions to the cabin that had been occupied by Benjamin’s predecessor, Rev. Meredith. Presumably this would be the Sinclairs’ new home. It was seven or eight miles northeast of Cooksburg.

  Mr. Petty also had some disturbing news. “Hope you have better luck in these parts than Meredith.”

  Ignoring the frivolous reference to luck, Benjamin inquired, “What happened to him?”

  “He was arrested about a year ago. The fool started preaching to the alcade himself. Made a right nuisance of himself, as I heard tell. Well, he was no young man, and he died in prison down in Saltillo.”

  Benjamin’s eyes skittered toward Rebekah. Had he known this all along and withheld it from her? A closer look at her husband showed he was just as shocked at the news as she. The bishop, no doubt out of Christian kindness, had been the one to withhold this information. Rebekah felt bitterness wrap itself more firmly than ever around her heart.

  They arrived at the cabin after dark. Benjamin managed to find a candle upon entering the log structure, but Rebekah was almost sorry he had, for the small flame justified her worst fears. The crudely built cabin consisted of only one room. And that room was not even as large as the typical Texas dwelling, which usually contained two rooms with an open-air corridor, often called a dog run, between them. Rebekah did not even want to think of how it compared to her cozy little home in Boston!

  Rev. Meredith had been a widower, a fact quite apparent in the shadowed view of the place. There were no furnishings to speak of save for a coarse table, crudely built, with two matching benches on either side. There was not even a stove. A blackened kettle hanging in the hearth indicated where Meredith had done his cooking. Rebekah’s lip quivered as she thought about cooking for a family of five over an open fire.

  The sleeping arrangements brought a lump to her throat. The one bed in the cabin was nothing more than a pile of weeds covered with a filthy blanket. It looked as if wild animals had recently enjoyed its use. The cabin was not just untidy—it was downright dirty. The women in San Felipe had jokingly referred to Texas dust, but this place seemed to be the source of it all. Benjamin had to chase out a family of raccoons that had taken up residence since Meredith’s absence. The animal odors were horrendous.

  Rebekah burst into tears.

  “By adversity we are made strong,” Benjamin said.

  She did not respond, knowing if she uttered a single word, it would be to scream things at her husband that were unfit for the tender ears of their children—not that she even knew such words. Silently she began chastising her worldly innocence.

  Benjamin continued in an annoyingly buoyant tone. “You have a wonderful, God-given talent for housekeeping, Rebekah. You shall have this place transformed into a cozy abode in no time. Think how blessed we are to have a house already built.”

  Still silent, she opened one of her carpetbags and took out a quilt her mother had made for her wedding. With as few words as possible she instructed the children to lie on the weed bed, then she covered them with the quilt. Isabel had begun to weep also, but Micah was stony. She knew she should comfort them, but she simply had nothing to give.

  “You have given the children the only bed in the place,” Benjamin pointed out.

  Ignoring him, she forced her attention to the sleeping Leah, whom Ramsey had taken from Rebekah’s arms when she had dismounted her horse.

  Silently, but with tears still flowing from her eyes, she found an empty wooden box no doubt used for firewood that she deemed would be a suitable cradle. Into this she placed a second quilt, the only other one she possessed, then took the sleeping baby and laid her in the box. Sitting down on the rickety bench by the table, Rebekah blew her nose into her handkerchief, avoiding her husband’s eyes.

  “Rebekah, I demand that you answer me!” He moved around to face her, but she kept her eyes fixed upon her hands folded in her lap.

  Sniffing back a fresh flow of tears, she dabbed her eyes. Maybe she would never speak to him again. That would serve him right for dragging her to this nightmarish place.

  “All right, wife! I will bring in the bedding from the trip. Perhaps by the time I return you will have come to your senses. I suggest you seek God for wisdom and strength to accept the lot He has bestowed upon you.”

  She wanted to yell that she would never accept it, but she said nothing as he exited. Neither did she pray. Stubbornly she refrained from all thoughts of God and faith. She loved God as much as anyone, but for the moment it galled her to obey her husband, even if it kept her from doing the one thing that really might help.

  Instead, she nursed her anger and self-pity. When Benjamin returned and spread out the bedding they had used on the trail, she silently lay down and closed her eyes.

  Benjamin wisely made his bed across the room from her.

  CHAPTER

  16

  BENJAMIN AWOKE WHILE IT WAS still dark. Quietly he pulled on his boots, then made his way outside. Walt Ramsey had bedded down outside and was still asleep. Benjamin was glad to slip away without having to socialize.

  He walked about fifty yards into the woods surrounding the cabin and knelt to pray in a small clearing. He did not lift his bowed head until the sun had fully risen. It did not concern him that Rebekah would be worried over his absence. Morning and evening prayers had been his habit since he had entered the ministry. But this time when he finished he did not return directly to the cabin. Instead, he took a few minutes to walk around in the woods and assess their new surroundings by the light of day.

  Whoever had built this cabin had chosen a pretty spot. He could hear the sounds of a creek not far away. Standing on a little knoll, he could see scattered groves of trees—oak, pine, hickory, magnolia—in a sea of undulating grass. The sky overhead was clear and a vivid blue.

  A rider approached from the west, and Benjamin waved vigorously. The fellow waved back and soon reined his mount before him.

  “Good morning, sir,” Benjamin greeted.

  “Morning!” The rider looked Benjamin over carefully. “You wouldn’t be the new preacher, would you?”

  Benjamin hesitated before answering, taking a moment to scrutinize
the rider first. After all, if this man was an agent of the Mexicans, it could cause no small amount of trouble to disclose his calling. Yet he could not have much of a ministry in this new land if he cowered in fear with every stranger he met. Luckily, or rather by the grace of God, the man spoke up again.

  “You don’t need to be a-feared of me if’n you’re the preacher, though I sure can understand if you are, seeing as how I’m a stranger.”

  “I fear none but the Lord God, sir.” Benjamin held the man’s gaze steadily. “But for the sake of His mission, I feel prudence is required.”

  The man grinned. “I reckon you don’t need to say more, Preacher.”

  Benjamin shrugged. He had already decided not to lie to anyone. “Does mere chance bring you this way, sir?”

  “No, as a matter of fact, it don’t. I came to the trading post last night to trade some furs, and Al Petty said you was here. There’s a mighty lot of folks in these parts that’ll be right glad to know you’re here.”

  “I’m pleased to hear that.”

  “Well, anyhow, I got me a couple hours sleep at Petty’s, then rode on up here as fast as I could in order to find you.” The man paused, dismounted, then thrust out his hand. “Name’s John Hunter.”

  Hunter was a man of about Benjamin’s age; short but powerfully built, with a broad, beardless face and heavy freckles. The addition of red hair gave him the look of an Irish leprechaun. His dress was suitable to the frontier—worn denim trousers, a coarsely woven brown shirt, and a leather vest.

  “I’m Reverend Benjamin Sinclair.” Benjamin shook Hunter’s hand. The man had a strong, firm grip that impressed Benjamin. He often used this means to make initial judgments of a man. “Can I be of service to you?” he asked.

  “That you can, Reverend. You see, my mother’s been ailing for a couple of months now, and I honestly think the only reason she’s hanging on is in hopes of seeing a man of the cloth so’s she can make her peace with God. When I heard you was here, I knew I better not go home unless I had you with me. Not that I’m anxious to see my ma die, but if she’s got to go, then I reckon it better be with a contented heart.”