by DiAnn Mills
Casey dug her heels into Stampede’s sides and let the stallion fly.
Warm nights gave way to warmer mornings, and by afternoon the temperature heated up again. Casey remembered this part of Texas rarely saw snow, which sounded better than the subzero temperatures of the North, especially the winters in the Utah, Idaho, Montana, Wyoming, and Dakota territories. Watching the seasons change had been a splendid sight, but a warmer climate suited her bones.
As the miles lay behind her and the forests grew thick and green, she began to look for a small quaint town to call her own. She bathed in the sparkling creeks feeding off the Brazos River and passed huge clusters of tall, spindly pine. Choosing to travel back roads, she avoided anyone who might cause her harm, but now and then she met a traveler and asked where they were bound or where they’d been.
Surely she could hide from all those who wanted her dead.
*****
Morgan dusted off the sides of his jeans and stomped the miles of dirt from his boots. He’d been to Arizona and New Mexico, and now he was back in Texas. He’d searched for Casey and Jenkins since May, and here it was July. He still limped after a long day in the saddle, and the comforts of home sounded good. The hotel near the livery in Houston advertised a good meal, a bed, and a bath. He sorely needed all three. Come tomorrow evening, he planned to ride toward his ranch and see how he could help his mother and family. Leaving her to run his place was another one of those things that needed to change. She’d sold the ranch to him some years back, but he’d wanted her to stay, along with his younger brother and sister. Now she ran the place like a man because he was out chasing Jenkins. What a good son he’d turned out to be.
Bone-tired, Morgan reflected on the days since leaving Vernal, sleeping little and pondering, always wondering what to do. How to end the vendetta? How to go on with his life? How to forget Casey? The answers lay in returning to the Lord, but he rode on in search of another way, his own way.
At times he prayed. At times he cursed the God who gave him life. Sometimes he wept. It just came more easily to ride mile after mile, to run away from the demons hot on his trail. When sleep refused to ease his pain, he stared up at the sky and remembered the full moon and the many stars the night he led Casey down from the snow-covered mountain. Then the torment began again. He barely knew this woman. He should hate her.
Anxious for an end to it all, Morgan considered putting a bullet in his head. But he feared facing God as much as he feared the moment-by-moment nightmares.
I’m a coward. Don’t even have the guts to finish it.
All of his anguish had brought him to Houston. A part of him said his mother deserved a son who didn’t look like he’d driven cattle for weeks on end. He’d clean up and ride on north to see her. Maybe talk, really talk about his past.
Morgan knew this city had a preacher on the west side of town—a man who had a reputation for having answers. Perhaps if this man explained why God had allowed things to happen, Morgan could go on. He could step over the line and be a man again. He might even find his faith in God.
After checking his horse at the livery and taking a bath, he made his way to a white board church. The door opened easily, as though inviting him inside. A twinge of guilt whispered to him that he wasn’t worthy to step inside. And logic agreed.
Raised stained-glass windows and a nice cross-breeze made it pleasant. He removed his hat and walked down front. His boots creaked across the wooden floor, as though telling him he might have waited too long. A Bible rested on the pulpit, and he picked it up. Not certain where to turn, he held it in his hands. Some folks believed just holding the Good Book cured them of diseases and problems. He didn’t believe that, but he did know the power of God’s Word.
“Need some help?”
Morgan lifted his gaze to a tall man standing in the doorway. The sun illuminated his figure. Morgan nearly spooked.
“Are you the preacher?” He wasn’t the man Morgan expected.
“Yes, sir. Do you have need of me?”
“I might.” The preacher made his way toward him. He didn’t have the years of wisdom Morgan craved. A white-haired preacher like the one from home suited him better.
“No man steps inside an empty church unless he has a heart to match.”
“You don’t know anything about it.”
“We could talk.” The preacher walked closer. “You look mighty troubled.”
“Do you always call it like you see it?”
“Yes, sir, I do. Straight to the point.”
Morgan hesitated. Already he’d abandoned the reason he came here in the first place. “I’ll just head on out.”
“I can leave,” the preacher said. His lanky frame reminded Morgan of a cowhand. His light brown hair hung to his shoulders.
“That’s not necessary. Got a few things to do.” Morgan placed the Bible back in its place and stepped away from the pulpit.
“Nothing’s as important as getting right with God.”
Morgan stopped. “I’d like to believe that.”
“Are you running from the law?”
“No.”
“Then you must be running from God. Best you take care of it here and now.”
Morgan didn’t like the preacher’s cocky attitude. He preferred a man of God who wasn’t so pushy.
“I’ve made you mad,” the preacher said. “Good. We’re getting somewhere. As a believer—and I think you are—you can’t run anywhere that God won’t find you. In the worst of places, He’ll show up and surprise you.”
“And if a man is angry about something God’s done?” Morgan said.
“God doesn’t get involved with evil. We have plenty of that around us.” The preacher held up his hands. “I know what you’re going to say. God has the power to stop anything. Mister, whatever’s eating at you will destroy you. The only answer is to turn back to God. He’s allowed something to happen in your life, something you can’t push aside. Understand the good is from God, and evil is from the devil. And for some things, we won’t have the answers till Judgment Day.”
“It’s complicated.” Morgan swallowed hard. His knees weakened, and he desperately wanted to leave.
“Complicated for us, but not for Him.”
Morgan stopped in the middle of the aisle and met the young preacher eye to eye. The color of his gaze was dark, nearly black, like Morgan felt. The simple words spoken by the man of God had been said before but never with such clarity. Or maybe he finally heard. Some things we won’t have the answers for till judgment day.
“Give Him the problem. You don’t have to carry it,” the preacher said.
Living with the guilt and hate had turned Morgan’s heart into stone.
“Would you like for me to pray with you?”
The preacher was the unlikeliest person for Morgan to turn to for advice—not to mention prayer. “I’ll be thinking on it.” He brushed past the man to the door.
The preacher chuckled. “Doesn’t make any sense to me why a man would want to go on bein’ miserable when he has a chance to find peace.”
Morgan’s hand touched the door. Sunshine burst ahead of him, but behind him were shadows—always shadows loomed behind him. Wasn’t this why he’d ridden for days? Cried like a child and begged for a sign? Had he grown so hard that hunting down Jenkins meant more than life? More than finding Casey? More than the God of his youth? He wanted to cover his ears and stop the agony raging through his soul, but the questions came from his heart.
He whirled back around and made the trek down the aisle, past the preacher, to the altar.
Chapter 10
Morgan stayed in Houston with the preacher for nearly a month. For once, he wasn’t planning how to kill Jenkins. No longer tormented by a voracious need to find the outlaw, he helped out at the small church and reflected upon the past four years. Doing things for others made him happy, and he caught himself laughing, really laughing. This had to be real peace.
With a freedom in his
soul not evident in years, Morgan realized his hate-fueled vendetta never would have been satisfied by killing Jenkins. The loathing for the outlaw had given him a reason to get up every morning. If Jenkins had been killed, Morgan would no longer have had a reason to live. His demons never would have let him go. The preacher helped him face the truth about himself and seek forgiveness. What happened four years ago was not his fault, but he could help Casey escape the same fate. The pain of regret left him determined to be a different man. He’d treated his family and God shamefully. Surely the future held more than the past.
Now he understood how Casey must feel—her longing for a free life gave her strength. He no longer concerned himself to why they’d met or even why the attraction. Its frail beginnings felt warm and almost forbidden. The thought shook him to his toes. Perhaps his need to help her stemmed from the same desire to live for tomorrow and discard the filth from yesterday. If so, that was enough.
I’ve become a philosopher. Must have been the coming-to-Jesus meeting with the preacher. Morgan prayed the insight would also give him wisdom.
He set his sights on finding Casey, but first he needed reconciliation with his family. After a week, he posted a letter to his mother that he’d be home soon and had much to tell her. Then he sent another one to Doc in Vernal, being careful not to mention names. He wrote:
Wire me if you know of our lady’s whereabouts. I need to find her before anyone else does. Remember our parting conversation? God finally has my attention. The past is behind me. I’m in Houston for a few more weeks, then will move on to see my mother near Kahlerville.
A week later, Morgan received a telegram from Doc.
Not heard from our lady. Rumors aren’t good. Please find her.
*****
Late one July morning, amid dripping sweat that soaked the back of her shirt and flooded her mind with discouragement, Casey met a boy riding a mule near the outskirts of a rural town. He greeted her with a wide grin and a face dotted with peach-colored freckles. Hair the color of straw fell across his forehead and around huge ears. Bare feet emerged like wings from the sides of the swaybacked animal.
“Fine mule you have there.” She forced a smile.
“Thank you, sir.” He raked back the hair from his face and patted the animal’s neck. “Your horse is real fine.”
Her smile proved genuine. “His name is Stampede. Likes to run.”
“My pa would like him. He loves good horseflesh.”
“Can you tell me the name of the town up ahead?”
“Kahlerville.”
“Does your town have a preacher?”
“We sure do.” He sat taller on the mule.
“Does he live there, or is he the traveling kind?” A spurt of something livened her spirit. Maybe it was the innocence of the boy.
“Oh, Reverend Rainer and his wife live right beside the church. In a parsonage. That’s what ya call the house where a preacher lives.”
“You don’t say. I didn’t know that. Does he preach a good sermon?”
With a tug to his outstretched ear, the boy contemplated her question. “Well, I don’t always listen real good like I should, but my pa says Reverend Rainer is better than most. A lot of folks come on Sundays and Wednesday night prayer meetings, if that helps.”
“Is your sheriff law abiding?”
The boy nodded. “We don’t have any outlaws, and if we did, my pa says we’d string ’em up.”
Casey smiled. “Sounds like a fine town.”
“My pa calls it sleepy ’cause nothing ever happens, but that suits my ma.”
“Thank you. I may pay your town a visit.”
The boy disappeared, and Casey wondered if Kahlerville could be her town. But a tough sheriff might recognize her. Or would he? If his reputation scared away those who broke the law, then the likelihood of an outlaw settling in Kahlerville seemed small, making it a potentially safe place to live.
She was so tired of running and being called “sir.” Life seemed no easier than riding with Jenkins, except this way she had a chance to live better. She followed the same road lined with huge oaks into town and rode down through the center of activity. One side of the street held a barber-undertaker, a boardinghouse, and a general store that had the sign POST OFFICE. A bit of melancholy met her at the thought of Hank and Maude. A small building clearly marked LAW OFFICE caught her attention. The opposite side of the street marked the sheriff’s office and a two-story bank building. She laughed. Clever banker.
She shielded her eyes from the sun’s glare and spotted a newspaper and telegraph office, the newest of the buildings. Several feet outside of town, beyond a cluster of pine trees, stood a two-story saloon. She’d never had a liking for whiskey. She’d tried it twice, and both times, she’d gotten sick. Two ladies sunned themselves from a second-story window and waved as she rode by. The red and purple trimmed building obviously housed entertainment for citizens of the sleepy town.
Casey looked beyond the edge of town and viewed a livery and blacksmith. A growing town, not too large. For a moment she wondered if Morgan’s hometown looked anything like this, but he’d indicated that he lived west from where she roamed.
She rode on past the business establishments to where the road wound to the right and then curved sharply back to the left. Off to the left in a grove of pine trees nestled a small church and a neatly kept two-story frame home. Both appeared to have received a recent coat of whitewash. Everything in this part of Texas looked green and pretty. Between the house and the church, a tall man labored over a picket fence. The pounding of his hammer echoed through the morning air like a woodpecker bent on making its place in the world. The man stopped long enough to pull a nail from his pocket. So intent were his efforts that he apparently didn’t notice the lone rider.
The sound of children’s laughter captured her attention, and she turned to see a schoolhouse set back even farther from the main road on the right. Ah, noontime. In her curiosity with Kahlerville, she’d ignored the rumbling in her stomach, and she seldom took time for anything but water in the mornings. The entire picturesque scene flooded her with a sense of peace and safety. Maybe she didn’t belong here at all, but she wanted a place to call home.
Tying her horse to a hitching post in the churchyard, she observed that the man had discovered her. He waved at her with a little less fervor than the two ladies at the saloon. Finding a burst of courage, she seized the opportunity to greet him while walking his way.
“Morning, sir. I’m looking for Reverend Rainer.”
“That’s me. What can I do for you?”
He looked about sixty years old with silver hair and soft gray eyes that radiated warmth. Perspiration beaded his face, and she noticed several lines etched across his forehead, revealing a man consumed with care.
Casey removed her hat so as not to leave any doubt of her gender. “My name is Shawne Flanagan,” she said. “I met a young boy outside of town who directed me to you. I’ve just ridden in and hoped you could help me.”
“Certainly.” He wiped his sweat-beaded face on the arm of his blue shirt. “Would you like to come inside?”
“Oh, no, sir. I’m much too dirty.” Casey moistened her lips and wished she’d changed into her dress, but then she wouldn’t look proper sitting atop a horse. If the reverend judged her based on clothing and cleanliness, she’d already failed. At least she’d removed her gun belt and stored her Colt in the saddlebag. “Please excuse the way I look. I’ve been traveling for a long time, and this clothing is more practical.” All the while, she searched his gray eyes for disapproval.
“Nonsense. You look fine to me. I’m ready for a cool drink of water. How about you?”
She followed him to a covered well and silently watched as he lowered then raised a bucket. The rope creaked and groaned, but soon the bucket surfaced, full of clear, cool water. The two shared a dipper, and Casey relaxed slightly with the preacher’s easy talk of the weather.
“Are you certain y
ou wouldn’t like to come inside?” he said.
She shook her head. “I’m comfortable right here, and I don’t want to take you away from your chores.”
He chuckled. “Young lady, I’d much rather talk any day than mend fence.”
They laughed together, and Casey realized the time had come to speak her mind. “Sir, as I said before, I just rode into town, and I’m wondering if you could recommend a place to stay and any available work.”
Reverend Rainer appeared to contemplate her request. His gaze focused on the dirt road back into town. “Let me think. Work isn’t plentiful for a young woman. The boardinghouse is run by some good folks. What kind of work have you done?”
“I’ve done cooking. Truthfully, I’d do about anything respectable.” Why didn’t I bathe before coming here?
He paused for a moment. “Have you done any nursing?”
“Yes, sir. I’ve taken care of sick folks.”
“And you said you can cook?”
“Yes, sir.” I’ve cooked everything from squirrel to rattler.
“Can you come back by here this afternoon before supper? I may have something for you.”
Thoroughly pleased with the twist of events, she formed an easy smile. “Thank you, Reverend. I’ll be here.”
As she rode Stampede to the livery stable, her spirits lifted. For the first time in many days, encouragement wove a trail of hope around her heart. She arranged for her stallion and gathered up her saddlebags to visit the boardinghouse. A short while later, Casey soaked in a warm bath and fought the sleep it invited. Her eyelids refused to stay open, and the thought of a real bed with clean linens tugged at her senses, but the prospect of sleeping past the appointed hour and keeping Reverend Rainer waiting didn’t settle well.
After a polite inquiry to the owners of the establishment, Casey was led to the kitchen, where she used an iron to smooth out the wrinkles of her blue traveling dress. She’d rather have tackled an angry mama bear. Thank goodness Rose had taught her a few womanly chores. Clean, neatly dressed, and her hair piled high and pinned into place, Casey felt much better about her second meeting with Reverend Rainer. She made her way down the stairs of the boardinghouse and ran straightway into the sheriff, a tall man with hair and eyes as dark as Jenkins’s. The star on his chest fixed in her mind.