by Deeanne Gist
Frowning, Mrs. Bogart cocked her head. ‘‘What do you mean?’’
Katherine moistened her lips. ‘‘I want you to understand I’m not gossiping. I just thought you might want to, um, pray about this.’’
‘‘Pray about what?’’
Katherine scanned the store, then moved around the counter to Mrs. Bogart’s side. ‘‘Do you remember when that cowboy who worked for the judge left town in a hurry?’’
‘‘No. Not particularly.’’
‘‘Well, he did.’’ She lowered her voice. ‘‘And I have it from a good source that it was because he compromised Miss Spreckelmeyer.’’
The woman regarded Katherine at length before exasperation transformed her face. ‘‘Of all the ridiculous . . .’’ She tugged her gloves more tightly into place. ‘‘I wouldn’t believe everything I heard if I were you, Mrs. Crook.’’
The censure of the preacher’s wife stung. Katherine straightened. ‘‘Think what you will, Mrs. Bogart. Hamilton told me Essie was so desperate for a husband that she threw herself at him—right here in this very store when no one else was around. Why, she even wrote down the names of the men in town she’d decided to try her wiles on. Hamilton saw it with his own eyes. As a matter of fact, he was one of the men on her list.’’
A troubled frown puckered Mrs. Bogart’s brows.
Katherine lifted her chin. ‘‘And the cowboy I was telling you about told Hamilton she did the same thing to him. Only he was not as discerning as my husband, and when the sheriff caught that man and Essie in an, um, unfortunate encounter, he and the judge ran the fellow right out of town—as if he were the one at fault.’’
Mrs. Bogart searched Katherine’s eyes. And though Katherine couldn’t be certain of the details, she knew she wasn’t far from the mark. Jeremy and Harley were as close to Essie as anyone and not nearly so guarded with their tongues. It didn’t take much to put two and two together.
She picked up a pencil and handed it to the preacher’s wife. ‘‘Your signature, Mrs. Bogart?’’
The woman scribbled down her name, and for all her earlier bravado, her disorientation was such that she left the store without her butter box. No matter. Katherine would see that it was delivered to her before the next batch of cream was ready for churning.
chapter TWENTY-FOUR
HARLEY PRESSED HIMSELF against the arm of Essie’s chair and watched every stitch she took. The fire popped, filling the parlor with warmth.
‘‘Cain’t ya take bigger stitches? Then you’d finish quicker.’’
‘‘Smaller ones are better,’’ she answered. ‘‘You want these trousers to hold up through the winter, don’t you?’’
‘‘Well, shore. But I ain’t never had brand-new pants before. Not even at Christmas.’’
‘‘Well, in another hour or so, you will.’’
Pushing away from the chair, he wandered throughout the room. But instead of admiring the scenic painting above the secretary or the bronze cherub on the mantel, he squatted down and smoothed the tangled strands at the edge of their Axminster rug.
‘‘Go into the kitchen and ask my mother for a fork,’’ she said. ‘‘Tell her you are going to rake the fringe in the parlor for her.’’
He raced out to do her bidding, returning shortly with fork in hand. She expected him to tire of the chore, but he gave it his full attention, lining the threads up like teeth on a comb.
‘‘Ewing’s gonna take me hunting,’’ he said without deviating from his task.
‘‘Is he?’’ She paused, picturing Ewing’s carefully controlled expression when he’d escorted her to the door last week after her confession.
‘‘Hunting for what?’’
‘‘Dove.’’
‘‘Dove? But you’d need a gun to bring down one of those.’’
‘‘I know. He’s gonna teach me how ta shoot. I already know how to load.’’
‘‘But you’re only seven.’’
‘‘Ewing says his daddy gave him his first gun when he was six.’’
She tried to remember when Grandpa had taught her to shoot, but she couldn’t recall. Surely she’d been older than six or seven.
A knock at the front door interrupted her musings.
‘‘Want me ta get it?’’ Harley asked.
‘‘Please.’’
The boy loved to answer the door. Such a simple, ordinary thing, unless you were an orphan and had no door to open.
‘‘Howdy, Ewing,’’ she heard Harley say. ‘‘Come on in.’’
Essie stiffened. She’d been to the orphanage several times this past week but had not seen any sign of him there or anywhere else in town.
He stepped into the parlor, hat in hand, his strawberry blond hair neatly combed. A moment passed before it dawned on her how he was dressed.
He wore a black cutaway, black vest, black necktie, light-colored trousers, and pale gloves. The consummate dress for a gentleman caller.
‘‘Hello, Essie.’’
She felt heat rush to her cheeks. ‘‘Ewing.’’ She put down her sewing and stood. ‘‘My goodness. I . . . well, can I offer you something to drink?’’
‘‘No.’’ He swallowed. ‘‘Actually, I was wondering if I could interest you in a carriage ride?’’
Perplexed, she studied him. His face had cleared of all expression. She couldn’t imagine his motive for asking such a thing. ‘‘Why?’’
‘‘Because that’s what courting couples do.’’
Her lips parted. Surely he didn’t still want to court her? Yet his rust-colored eyes were intense and determined.
‘‘What are you saying, Ewing?’’
‘‘I’m saying my feelings haven’t changed.’’ He looked to the side, floundered a moment, then returned his gaze to hers. ‘‘Well, that’s not exactly true.’’
She stood mute and completely caught off guard. Never in all her imaginings had she expected him to show up on her doorstep.
She glanced at Harley. The boy had stopped combing the fringe and placed his full attention onto them, his brown eyes alert.
‘‘Harley?’’ Ewing said. ‘‘Run along to the kitchen for a moment and let me speak to Miss Spreckelmeyer. Would you?’’
‘‘She cain’t go with ya right now. She’s makin’ me some pants.’’
‘‘Go on, Harley,’’ she said. ‘‘Tell Mother I said you’ve worked so hard you deserve a cookie.’’
His eyes lit up. ‘‘A cookie? Right now? Before supper?’’
‘‘Yes.’’
He raced from the room, his rapid footfalls echoing in his wake.
Essie indicated her father’s chair on the opposite side of the hearth from hers, and the two of them sat down.
Ewing crinkled the brim of his hat and stared at the fire. ‘‘I’m not going to pretend I’m not devastated. I am. But my feelings, the ones that count, haven’t changed.’’
She had no idea what to say. Those stolen moments beneath the magnolia tree had not been forced upon her. She’d been a willing participant. Not for one second had she considered how her actions might later affect Ewing or any other man. Of course, she hadn’t thought there would ever be any other man. Yet now an honorable one sat before her, his heart in his hand.
‘‘I’ve been doing a lot of thinking,’’ he said, ‘‘and a lot of praying. I came to the conclusion that I wouldn’t be much of a preacher if I held against you something God has already forgiven.’’
Forgiven? How could God forgive her when she hadn’t even forgiven herself, not to mention Adam? Disbelief warred with shame and regret. ‘‘I’m unworthy of it,’’ she whispered.
His expression softened. ‘‘None of us are worthy of it. That’s not the point. The point is, I’m not perfect and you’re not perfect. But that doesn’t mean I don’t have strong feelings for you, because I do. And I’d still like to court you. If you’ll have me, anyway.’’
She could not reconcile the boy she’d known with this man. This amazingly grac
ious, poised, well-spoken man. He deserved better.
‘‘But I’m so old.’’
‘‘Old?’’ A hesitant smile lifted one corner of his mouth. ‘‘Are you telling me you have some gray hairs tucked up in that bun of yours?’’
‘‘Certainly not.’’
‘‘Well, then. Let’s not worry over trivialities such as how old you are and how old I am.’’
‘‘Seven years is not trivial.’’
‘‘It is to me.’’
And, of course, it probably was to him. Anyone who could overlook her unchaste life would certainly be able to overlook her advancing age.
‘‘What’s the matter?’’ he asked.
I don’t know, she thought. This was what she’d always wanted. Ewing might not send her pulse skittering, but he was a good man and a cherished friend. He’d be an excellent father and provider. If he was willing to accept her the way she was, how could she turn him down?
He shifted in his chair. ‘‘We would, of course, need to be very circumspect in how we proceed.’’
She frowned, unsure of his point.
‘‘What I mean to say is, now that I am aware of your, um, weakness, I think it is essential that we do everything we can to guard you from yourself.’’ Both his tone and posture stiffened.
‘‘Guard me from myself?’’ she asked.
‘‘Yes.’’ He cleared his throat. ‘‘As you know, I have been offered the position of pastor at our church. And as such, my actions and those of the woman I court must be above reproach.’’
A spurt of defensiveness leapt to the forefront. What exactly did he think she was going to do? Drag him to the nearest tree and have her way with him?
With effort, she squelched her uncharitable thoughts. After all, she was the confessed sinner here, not him. And if he was willing to overlook her transgression, she could at least remember he was only trying to do what he thought best. Still, he needn’t sound so self-righteous about it.
‘‘First,’’ he said, ‘‘any . . . um, extravagant feelings we have must be carefully repressed.’’
The image of him as a youngster jumping from a tree in an effort to fly flashed into her mind, along with the shockingly coarse words he’d exclaimed after his subsequent fall. She pushed the memory aside.
‘‘If we wish to express affectionate fondness in our visits,’’ he continued, ‘‘then we must keep it a sentiment, not debase it with animal passions.’’
Animal passions? She might have regretted her tryst with Adam. She might have felt profound remorse for squandering the most precious gift she had to offer. But never once had she considered her actions with him ‘‘animal passions.’’
‘‘Also, a woman’s dress,’’ he said, ‘‘is an expression of her inner soul and should serve to heighten her charm, not draw attention to her . . . to her garments.’’
What on earth? Ewing was suddenly so stiff and upright, spouting rules as if he’d memorized them along with his Bible verses. She sighed. Had his Bible college impressed these ideals upon him? Was he trying to act the way he thought a preacher should?
She became conscious of her plain wool gown and gloveless hands. Not exactly an outfit she would have chosen to receive callers in. But she didn’t know she was going to have any callers.
‘‘Do you have some objection to the way I dress, Ewing?’’
‘‘Your hats are very extravagant,’’ he answered with a gentle tone. ‘‘I think it might be best to tone them down a bit. Quite a bit.’’
She slowly straightened her spine. Tone down her hats? But they were her pride and joy. ‘‘You think they are excessive somehow?’’
‘‘I don’t mind them, Essie. I’m just not sure they are fitting for a preacher’s wife to wear.’’
‘‘Well, I don’t happen to be a preacher’s wife,’’ she snapped.
‘‘Yet,’’ he said softly.
Her breath caught. Well. If she’d had any question about his intentions, they were certainly clear now. But for heaven’s sake, what could possibly be wrong with wearing a pretty hat?
‘‘And though we have known each other for our whole lives,’’ he continued, ‘‘I think it best to start using a more formal form of address. From now on, I will call you Miss Spreckelmeyer and you must call me Mr. Wortham.’’
She stopped just short of snorting. Hadn’t he been the one to insist upon first names when he’d returned home? Still, she knew he was right, but it seemed so absurd. When he was a toddler, she’d slapped him on his backside for sticking his tongue out at her. She’d kissed his knee when he fell and scraped it raw. She’d quizzed him on his multiplication tables. She’d helped him place his first worm on a hook.
And now she must call him Mr. Wortham?
‘‘Anything else?’’ she asked, trying to keep the exasperation out of her voice.
‘‘Just one more thing.’’
She folded her hands in her lap and waited.
‘‘You must give up bicycle riding.’’
She sucked in her breath.
‘‘I know this is difficult for you,’’ he said. ‘‘But there are doctors, well-respected doctors, who claim that the bicycle will ruin the feminine organs of matrimonial necessity.’’ Color rushed to his face. ‘‘And it is believed to greatly increase the labor pains of childbirth. And it will develop muscular legs, which would be an unsightly contrast to underdeveloped feminine arms. Forgive me for mentioning such delicate subjects, but I wanted you to understand how serious this is and why I am so opposed to women riding.’’
His color remained high, attesting to his embarrassment.
Her high color had nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with total and complete outrage. ‘‘You cannot possibly believe that bunch of poppycock. Cosmopolitan trumpeted the benefits of riding for women just last month.’’
‘‘Cosmopolitan is a magazine, Essie. Hardly the same as a doctor.’’
‘‘You are to call me ‘Miss Spreckelmeyer,’ if I am not mistaken.’’ She sat stiff, her fingernails making indentations in her hands as she clasped them tightly.
He sighed. ‘‘You are angry. I knew this last one would be a touchy one.’’
‘‘Touchy? It is outrageous. And you are living in the Dark Ages.’’
‘‘Lower your voice,’’ he whispered. ‘‘You know good and well that the leaders of God’s church have a completely different set of expectations to adhere to.’’
‘‘Are you now going to try and tell me the Bible says I cannot ride a bike?’’
He searched her eyes. ‘‘You yourself have admitted to stumbling, Essie—Miss Spreckelmeyer. I am merely trying to keep us both on the straight and narrow.’’
Sputtering, she strove to collect her thoughts but could think of no polite way to express them.
He sighed. ‘‘The honest truth is that the elders were very reluctant to appoint someone my age to such an important position in the community. But it was either that or hire someone who was less qualified or who’d not been born and raised in Corsicana.’’
She held herself still, neither encouraging nor discouraging him.
‘‘I can’t afford to do anything the least bit controversial,’’ he said, combing his fingers through his hair. ‘‘I have to show them my age is nothing to be concerned about. And while I am courting you, everything you do reflects back on me.’’
She pictured Preacher Bogart and the church elders. They were indeed an intimidating force and should not be taken lightly.
Her heart pounded as her mother’s words came whistling back through her mind. ‘‘Is that bicycle so important you’d rather have it than a man? Than babies of your own?’’
She wouldn’t, of course. It wasn’t really the bike, though, so much as what it represented. Freedom. Independence. Progress.
On the other hand, if she did sacrifice those things, she would reap a harvest of untold value. She’d have a husband, a home, a place in the community, children.
Wilting a little, she lowered her chin. ‘‘All right, Mr. Wortham. I will put away my wheels for now—but not necessarily forever.’’
‘‘Thank you.’’ He stood and offered her a gloved hand. ‘‘I’d like to take you for a carriage ride, Miss Spreckelmeyer. Will you do me the honor?’’
After a charged moment, she allowed him to assist her to her feet. ‘‘If you would excuse me for a moment, I must go and change first.’’
She made her way to her room, telling herself this was exactly what she’d been wishing for. But instead of a weight being lifted, she felt heavy and burdened.
—————
The sun provided Essie with warmth, while Ewing provided her with conversation. He kept the carriage close to the sidewalk, restraining the horses from using undue speed.
Making their way down Eleventh Street, the false fronts of town began to be replaced with quiet homes and picket fences. A scattering of crimson clover lined the road.
Ewing pointed to a flock of birds flying in V formation. The lead bird dropped off to the back of the line, allowing another to take its place.
‘‘I wonder how they know when their turn at the front of the line is up,’’ he said. ‘‘I wonder if some birds are lazier than others and don’t fight the wind as long as they should. What would the other birds do, do you think?’’
Essie followed their progress across the blanket of blue overhead. ‘‘I have no idea. I never thought about it before.’’
‘‘Look,’’ Ewing said, spotting some black huckleberries in a vacant lot and pulling over. ‘‘Want some?’’
It took them ten minutes to pick a handful and less than a minute to eat them.
‘‘I wish they weren’t so tedious to harvest,’’ he said. ‘‘I haven’t had any of those since before I left.’’
‘‘They don’t have any huckleberries in Tennessee?’’
‘‘In the mountains they do.’’
‘‘You’ve been on a mountain?’’
Shaking out his handkerchief, he laid it across his hands and presented it to her. She placed her hand inside and allowed him to wipe her fingers clean of huckleberry juice.