A Hero in the Making

by Laurie Kingery

  “He seems to be a veritable fount of hidden talents,” Ella said wryly, knowing it was illogical to feel hurt that Nate hadn’t told her of this first.

  Faith laughed. “Yes, he does! Fortunately for the church, piano playing is one of them. He may not be in town forever, but it’s nice of him to help us while he can. Now, Ella, about my reason for coming...”

  “Let’s sit down,” Ella said, gesturing toward one of the empty tables, aware that she’d been remiss in not inviting Faith to do so sooner.

  “Thank you,” Faith said and settled herself on a chair. “Ella, as you know, the church has a fund for helping people who need it.”

  “I know. The Fund for the Deserving Poor, isn’t that what you call it?”

  “That’s right. We’ve been able to help so many people in Simpson Creek through the generosity of those who donate.”

  What does this have to do with me? And then she was afraid she knew.

  “Oh, Faith, I’m sorry. As much as I’d like to help, I’m afraid the business isn’t doing well enough yet that I could afford to donate—”

  “No, Ella! I should be the one to apologize,” Faith said quickly. “I didn’t make myself clear. I’ve spoken to the group that maintains the fund within the church, and we’re agreed. We’d like to help you.”

  Ella looked blank. “Help me what? I’m not destitute, Faith.” She made a sweeping gesture to encompass the tables and chairs, the counter and the cooking area behind it. “I have my own business. I have a place to live. I’m not exactly ‘deserving poor.’”

  Deserving was a description she’d never felt fit her. Poor—well, she’d always been uncomfortably close to that.

  Faith’s expression was crestfallen. “Oh, dear, I meant no offense. I’ve told them they needed to change the name of the fund to something more...I don’t know...broad? I mean, we’ve helped a lot of those who truly are destitute and will continue to do that, but since God has blessed us with enough contributions, we also want to help those within the church who merely need a little hand in obtaining what they need to better their lives. I’ve discussed with them the problems you’ve experienced because of having your business at the back of the saloon, and, Ella, we’d like to help you build your café in another location.”

  Ella could hardly believe her ears. “That...that’s very nice of you, but I don’t own any land for such a place, nor do I have the funds yet to purchase it.”

  “But the church does, Ella dear. As a relative newcomer to Simpson Creek, maybe you’re not aware that the original deed for the church land includes the meadow across the creek from it, on both sides of the road. We’d like to lease you a piece of it big enough to accommodate your café, and schedule a building day for the church men to construct the café for you. Like a barn raising,” she concluded with a smile. “We’ll make an event of it—the ladies will cook the midday meal, the men will build your café. All you have to do is accept, Ella dear.”

  Ella sat still in her chair, her heart pounding, wanting to accept and achieve her dream, but fearful, too. What strings are attached to such a gift? “I appreciate the offer, Faith, but I’m not destitute,” she repeated. “I make my own way. I have a roof over my head. I’m sure there are many more worse-off folks than me—”

  “Ella, the church is a body of believers who are supposed to help each other,” Faith said patiently. “Don’t let pride stand in your way. It might be years before you could afford to do this for yourself. Yes, we help people who are truly penniless, but before you came to town, we helped Milly Brookfield—Milly Matthews back then—rebuild her barn after the Comanches burned it down. Everyone had a glorious time. Please say yes, Ella.”

  Milly Brookfield, the founder of the Spinsters’ Club, had once needed the town to raise a barn for her? Now she was married to an Englishman who was on the town council, their ranch was prospering, and the Brookfields were considered pillars of the community.

  Charity girl. You ain’t nothin’ but a charity girl, the voice within her jeered. What makes you think you got a right to anything? What makes you think you kin say no?

  Where had that voice come from? she wondered.

  “Just think of it, Ella. It was nice that Mr. Detwiler could give you a start, but think of having a place of your own where you don’t need to fend off drunken customers from the saloon. My husband and I would be nearby if you needed help, and it would be so handy for your Sunday after-church customers. I imagine your business could triple! You’d get all the travelers coming in from the East before they even saw the hotel restaurant.”

  Ella closed her eyes, picturing it. A café of her own, just as she’d dreamed of. All she had to do was agree to let them build it for her. She’d never have to be afraid of who was coming through the door from the saloon, or of walking back to the boardinghouse past a saloon full of rowdy customers... ELLA’S CAFÉ, the sign over the door would proclaim in neat lettering. Breakfast, Dinner and Supper—Reasonable Prices for Tasty Fare. She could expand her menu, maybe even hire help. Folks would come from all over the county...

  Nothin’ but a charity girl, accepting handouts. Don’t you know there’s always a price when you take charity? Now, just come sit on my lap, girl, and tell me how much you appreciate what I’ve done for you...

  She tried to suppress a shudder as that haunting voice from the past faded, leaving her no more of a memory of the speaker than it ever had. And what would a church expect in return? Surely there could be no unpleasant obligations to a congregation of believers.

  “I...I don’t know, Faith. I appreciate the offer, but I’ll have to think about it,” she said.

  “Don’t just think—pray about it,” the preacher’s wife advised, rising. “You don’t have to decide today, dear. We’d have to schedule a Saturday for it, of course. But it would be better to get it under way before cold weather comes.”

  “Of course. I—I’ll let you know very soon. And, Faith,” she called as the preacher’s wife neared the door, “I want you to know I appreciate the offer, no matter what I decide.”

  After Faith left, she stood there for a long time, staring out the window without actually focusing on anything. What should she choose to do about the amazing gift she was being offered? Perhaps Faith was right—she should pray about it. Lord, what should I do? Is it right to accept such a gift?

  No heavenly Voice answered her, but she couldn’t think of anything in scripture that forbade accepting such charity.

  What would Nate say about it? she wondered. He’d probably think her a fool to do anything but jump at the chance, she thought. But would he give her Godly counsel? She had no idea how he stood with the Lord. Maybe he wasn’t even a believer. After all, it hadn’t been that long since he was helping peddle a potion he knew to be useless at best—hardly the actions of a Christian.

  She would wait on an answer from the Lord, Ella thought. In the meantime, however, she would talk it over with Maude, who was always a source of wisdom and common sense.

  Ella needed to tell her why Nate had chosen not to sit with them at church this morning, too. She’d had an opportunity to ask him about it when they were doing the dishes, and she’d been right that he was being cautious in the presence of the gossips. Well, she’d better get going or she and Maude wouldn’t have any time to talk before she had to return to fix supper.

  * * *

  “Are you still expecting Zeke Carter to come in?” Nate asked that evening after he had complimented her on his supper of ham, scalloped potatoes, black-eyed peas and peach cobbler.

  Ella shrugged. “Who knows? I usually keep the café open for another hour or so,” she said.

  “Then perhaps we ought not to provoke him with my presence this time,” Nate suggested. “I’ll sit in the saloon until you’re ready to put up the closed sign, then I’ll come help you clean up.”

/>   “Perhaps that would be wise,” she agreed as Nate pushed open the door that led to the saloon. Oh, why can’t the quarrelsome old man move to another town? Well, even if she didn’t have to defend Bohannan’s presence to the graybeard tonight, she resolved that Carter would learn not to assume he could push her around.

  The man trudged in right after she had completed the thought. He surveyed the room, squinting suspiciously behind the counter, then sat down and turned his gaze to her. “What’s fer supper tonight?”

  She told him. “And I’m sure you’ll enjoy it,” she said, then drew herself up and looked him right in the eye. “But before I can serve you, Mr. Carter, there’s the matter of payment for last Sunday night’s supper. I’m sure you just forgot,” she added pleasantly. “It was four bits.”

  He glared at her. She returned his gaze steadily, though she held her breath, half expecting a verbal explosion. She was glad she currently had no other customers whose presence might make him even more apt to be belligerent.

  “Consarned distrustful females,” he grumbled, but pulled out the coins, fairly slapping them into her outstretched palm. “I was gonna pay you after I et my vittles tonight. Remembered I hadn’t paid soon’s I got home the other night.”

  Ella said nothing more, letting him save face.

  She served several other customers after she’d brought out Carter’s dinner, and the old man offered her no more difficulty. He didn’t even seem to notice when the music began filtering through the door from the saloon, though Mayor Gilmore did.

  “Hmm, George must be practicing,” Ella heard him say to his wife. “I don’t remember him playing that well before.”

  Ella smiled to herself and pretended she hadn’t overheard. She wasn’t about to inform the mayor that it was Nate Bohannan playing, not George Detwiler—not when Zeke Carter’s ears were clearly tuned to everything that was said. Instead, she just enjoyed the music, especially the haunting tunes that had been popular during the War Between the States, such as “Tenting Tonight” and “Lorena.”

  As the tables began to empty, she washed each customer’s dishes, so that by the time the last diner left and she’d locked the door, the dishes were all done. Hanging up the damp dish towel, she went to tell Bohannan she was all finished in the café.

  He stopped playing and rose from the piano bench as she approached. “Is the troll gone?” he asked with mock fearfulness.

  * * *

  As he’d hoped, calling Carter a troll made her giggle, which transformed Ella’s usually guarded features and did something funny to his heart.

  She covered her mouth, then tried to assume a stern look. “Mr. Bohannan, I’m sure it’s not right to call him a name,” she said. Then, as if realizing her sternness was utterly unconvincing, she let herself grin back at him. “But it fits, unfortunately.”

  “You ready for some help cleaning up?”

  “No, I’m all done, thank you,” she said. “It was most pleasant listening to you play while I worked. My, my, you’re quite the musician.”

  Her admiring tone caused a fullness in his chest that he was quite unused to. “Why, thank you, Miss Ella,” he said, bowing to hide how good her words made him feel—good enough to stifle the regret he felt at knowing he’d never see that banjo again, thanks to Salali.

  “Mayor Gilmore thought it was Detwiler playing,” she added with a conspiratorial chuckle. “I’d have enlightened him, but the ‘troll’ was still there.”

  “I’m glad you didn’t,” he said. Should he offer to walk her home now? he wondered. But he didn’t want to end this moment. She might not be so relaxed with him once they were outside where anyone might see them.

  “Faith—Mrs. Chadwick, that is—tells me you’re going to be playing at the Sunday services for a while,” she said. “From what I heard tonight, I can see the congregation won’t suffer in Sarah’s absence.”

  He ducked his head and rubbed his neck to hide his pleasure at yet another compliment. “I’m happy to help out,” he said, and refrained from adding, while I can. He didn’t want to remind her of his temporariness in Simpson Creek.

  “I was surprised when you didn’t agree to play for Detwiler in the saloon,” she said suddenly.

  He shrugged. “I really didn’t want to spend my evenings surrounded by cigar smoke and whiskey. I’m glad he was able to get someone else.”

  She looked at the door then, and he knew she was thinking of leaving. Not yet, his heart pleaded. Then he got an idea. “Before I came to Simpson Creek, it’d been a long time since I’d been a regular churchgoer, Miss Ella. My pa and I used to go, in some of the small towns we lived in... And Miss Sarah left a list of hymns for next Sunday as a suggestion, but the truth is, I don’t remember how fast or slow some of them should be played. Before I walk you home, could I play the hymns for you, and maybe you could let me know if I’m playing them right?”

  “I...I suppose so,” she said, and looked as if she would sit down in a nearby chair—one of the ones he had repaired. He wanted her closer, he realized.

  “Could you... I mean, would you be willing to sing them as I play, so I can tell if I’m getting the tempo right? Especially this song, ‘O Day of Rest and Gladness.’”

  Ella looked doubtful. “I—I’ve never sung by myself before... You should get Maude to practice with you—she has a lovely singing voice. She’s sung solos at church before.”

  “I heard you sing when you were next to me in church, and you have a very pleasant voice, Miss Ella. Besides, it’s just the two of us. No one else will hear,” he coaxed. “Come and stand right here close to me so I can hear you,” he said, pointing to a spot on the plank floor near him but not so near she would get uneasy and refuse. It felt like luring a wild creature. He turned back to the piano and began to play the introductory bars of the hymn.

  She missed her cue the first time. Without looking up, he began again and nodded his head when she was to begin.

  This time, Ella began to sing, shyly at first, but then as he played on, her voice gained confidence and rose in a lovely soprano above the piano chords.

  “I think you should be singing some solos, too, Miss Ella,” he praised after the song was done.

  “Oh, no, I wouldn’t like that,” she insisted. “You mustn’t suggest it to anyone.” But he could tell she enjoyed the compliment.

  “I’m sure you know the next one,” he said, and launched into “Holy, Holy, Holy.” This time, after she’d sung a couple of lines, he joined her, fitting his tenor voice to hers. Their two voices fit perfectly together. Ella faltered in surprise at first, but since he kept playing, she kept singing along. The closing hymn would be “Abide with Me,” but after they sang and he played that one, Nate was loath to stop. He began “Lorena,” one of the songs he’d played while she was still working, and together they sang the hauntingly beautiful lines.

  Was he imagining it, or had she stepped a little closer while he’d played?

  “You’re much too modest, Nate,” she told him. “You played those songs perfectly.”

  Well, he had made it a point to attend church when he could—at least until he had fallen in with Salali.

  Enjoying himself, he might have started another tune, but she said, “It’s getting late. Besides, I want to ask your opinion on something as we walk.”

  She threw her shawl around her before he could assist her, and they walked out to the café again and out the back door.

  Darkness closed around them as they walked around the side of the saloon and emerged onto Main Street at the front of the building. Here and there lamps gleamed from windows—in the hotel across the street, behind the wrought-iron fence in the mayor’s grand house—but for the most part, their only illumination consisted of the silvery light emanating from the all-but-full moon above.

  “You wanted my opinion?”
he prompted.

  “Yes. I told you Faith was coming to talk to me about something, remember? I’ve asked Maude what she thinks about what Faith said, but I thought it would be useful to ask more than one friend.”

  “I’m honored that you number me among your friends, and my opinion worthy of consideration, Miss Ella.” He kept his tone light. “Go on.”

  “The church is offering to build my café, on ground it owns, with funds it collects for the ‘deserving poor.’ It would be located on the other side of the road from that meadow across the creek.”

  He waited, but he didn’t hear a question in what she had said. “That’s wonderful news, Miss Ella,” he said as they went single file through the alley. “Just what you’d been hoping for, wasn’t it, getting away from the saloon? And so much sooner than you thought possible.”

  Emerging onto Travis Street, she turned to him. “But it doesn’t seem right to take money intended for the destitute.”

  “They’re offering it to you, Miss Ella. The church must want you to have it. I don’t see a catch in your accepting such a gift, do you? Are you hesitating because you think there are strings attached?”

  She twisted her hands together, her dark eyes searching his face. “No, I can’t think what the ‘strings’ could be. Faith says they’re expanding the goals of the fund to include folks like me—not destitute but who just need some additional help—but I don’t know...that’s an awfully big gift...”

  “What did Miss Maude say?”

  “That I should take it.”

  “There, you see? I agree.” He’d have liked to tease her by adding “unless you’ll miss the drunken cowboys,” but of course that wouldn’t be a laughing matter to a woman alone like Ella. “When would they build it?”