As she passed the gas pumps, the sun caught a flash of silver that seemed to leap up and blind her, so that she had to stop for a moment and rub her eyes.
“Blinded by the light?” an unfamiliar voice asked.
She stepped forward, and the sun disappeared behind the gas pump, revealing a stranger with a shock of thick, oil-black hair gassing up a silver pickup. A smile played over his lips as he regarded her with eyes so clear and green she almost expected them to ripple. He was slim but well built, his shoulder muscles straining against a plain black T-shirt. Dizziness rushed to her head as his strange green eyes bored into hers, and she wondered if she’d taken in too much sun down at the swimhole.
“It must have been those.” She pointed to the bundle of brightly colored hula hoops in the back of his truck, some covered in holographic tape that reflected the sunlight.
“Oh, those.” He laughed lightly. “They aren’t mine. The bike is, though—that’s my baby.”
“You and everyone else around here,” she said.
“Really?” He scrutinized her so closely she felt her face go hot. “Is there a track in town?”
She nodded. “They have meets every Friday. It’s like a religion around here.”
He crossed his arms. “And you don’t buy into it.”
“Oh, I don’t buy into anything.” She took in a big gulp of Wyoming air, hoping it would help clear her mind. She felt suddenly hot and tingly, like she’d sat too close to a roaring campfire for way too long.
“So, you live around here?” he asked. The gas pump clicked, and he removed the nozzle and replaced it with one fluid motion, his eyes not leaving hers.
“Yeah. And, let me guess, you came here to find oil and get rich quick?”
He tilted his head, one hand on his hip. “Is that an option?”
“Are you kidding me?”
He shrugged. “Listen, I don’t know anything about anything. I just rolled into town and—well, you can say a little voice told me to get off the highway here.”
He sounded genuine, though it was hard to believe that anything but oil or family would draw a guy like him to Carbon County. Still, she could play along.
“Believe it or not,” she told him, “you’re looking at America’s next oil boomtown. The rig’s a few miles down that way.”
“Really?” His look of blatant surprise was enough to convince her that he really didn’t know. “Is there work there?”
“Are you looking for work? Around here?”
“I might be.” The corner of his mouth twitched into a smile.
“Well then, yeah. If I can get a job there, you should be fine—just tell the foreman you have two hands and you’re not afraid to get dirty. It helps if you can lift a hundred pounds without dying, too,” she added.
“You work on an oil rig?” He looked impressed.
“I do.” She allowed herself a small, proud smile.
“Well, hey.” He reached over and tapped her forearm, leaving a small, tingly spot on her flesh where his fingers had been. “Thanks for the tip . . . I’m sorry, what’s your name?”
“Daphne.” She tore her eyes away from the place he’d touched her, back into the magnetic green of his gaze.
“Owen.” He held out his hand, and she took it, her pulse beating against her wrist like the last burst of rain during an afternoon squall.
Then the bell over the convenience store door tinkled, and cool air brushed her hand where his had been. A girl with wild, colorful dreadlocks and a backless batik shirt came oozing through it, her legs golden and endless in cutoffs so short the pockets stuck out below the bottom. She was chewing lazily on a Twizzler, her lips and tongue a lurid red from the dye.
“Want one?” she asked, planting herself next to Owen. Together they looked like a pair of panthers that had escaped the zoo, all sleek muscle and hungry green eyes.
“No thanks.” Owen was still staring at Daphne—and as hard as she tried to focus on the newcomer, Daphne couldn’t help gazing back.
“Suit yourself.” The girl dug in the pack for another, then turned to Daphne. “Who’s this?”
“I’m Daphne,” she said quickly. She didn’t like the possessive way the girl talked to Owen: like she owned him. Daphne already had the sense that Owen wasn’t the kind of guy who let himself be owned. “I was just telling Owen about the oil rig in town.”
“There’s an oil rig in town?” A lazy smile spread across the girl’s face. “That’s brilliant. It’s . . . really kind of poetic.”
“This is Luna,” Owen explained, when it became clear the girl wasn’t going to introduce herself. “She’s my . . . well, we . . .”
“He’s my Earth Brother,” Luna jumped in, taking Owen’s arm. “See how we have the same eyes?”
Daphne nodded. It wasn’t just their eyes: They almost had the same body, slim yet packed with powerful muscles, and the same energy buzzed around them like a force field. It was strange that even though they looked so similar, Daphne found herself liking Owen so much more.
“Daphne works on the rig,” Owen explained to Luna admiringly.
“Beautiful.” Luna grinned like a cat. “I knew this was the place. I could feel it as soon as we pulled off the highway. Finally.” She turned to Daphne. “We’ve been driving around forever, looking for the right spot. You think a hippie hooper could find work around here, too?”
“Probably.” Daphne recalled her first conversation with Dale, when he’d told her about the bars and massage parlors that would inevitably follow the oil boom. “Maybe not right away, but soon. As long as you don’t mind waiting tables or whatever.”
“I’ll make it work,” Luna said, winking at her. She turned to Owen. “You want to go hit a campground, or should we bite the bullet and try to find an apartment?”
“Let’s stick with camping for now,” Owen suggested. “Until I can nail down some work.”
“Sure.” Luna was already bounding toward the cab of the truck. “See you around, Daphne.”
Owen stayed planted a moment longer, his eyes lingering on hers. “So I guess I’ll see you soon?” he asked. “At the rig or maybe just around?”
Daphne nodded. Her skin was still tingling, and her throat felt tight. She hoped she wasn’t getting sick—a cold would make working on the rig torturous, but skipping work for something so trivial was unthinkable.
“Wish me luck.” Owen smiled, and it was like a break in a thunderstorm. She couldn’t help smiling back. “I’ll see you.”
“See you,” she whispered.
She turned and started back to Uncle Floyd’s truck, her feet landing mechanically on the cracked pavement, willing herself not to turn around as the roar of Owen’s truck disappeared down Buzzard Road. She got in and started the engine, taking a deep breath to try to still her racing pulse before pulling away.
She was halfway home before she realized she’d forgotten all about Janie’s Doritos.
THE Carbon County First Church of God was in a former Pizza Hut just a ways past the mostly deserted All Good Things Shopping Plaza on Route 16. Volunteers from the congregation had painted the roof white and affixed a narrow steeple to the top, but the shape was unmistakable, and the faint scent of pepperoni still lurked beneath the fresh coats of varnish on the pews. Heavy curtains obscured the windows, giving the light inside a murky, underwater quality, and a brigade of volunteers led by Aunt Karen had covered the walls in needlepoint Bible verses and hand-painted wooden crosses.
Daphne fiddled with her dress, a gray castoff dotted with pink flowers that had once hugged Janie in all the right places, but hung slackly from her own bony shoulders. She wasn’t used to wearing dresses, and the feeling of her legs touching under the loose cotton made her almost as uncomfortable as the gaze of the life-size wooden Jesus hanging from a cross above the pulpit.
“It’s
getting crowded,” Daphne marveled. The church was almost full, but Carbon County residents kept filing in, packing the rows of seats. The family in front of Daphne scooted down to make room for two elderly ladies in stiff pastel hats who cooed and preened like pigeons as they settled in.
“It didn’t used to be like this,” Aunt Karen leaned across Janie’s lap to whisper. “Back when Ted Senior was pastor, Madge and Eunice were practically the whole congregation.”
The two old ladies, hearing their names, turned and offered doddering smiles.
“You’ll love Pastor Ted, dear.” The one in the purple hat patted Daphne’s arm. “We all do.”
Her friend shushed her as the church filled with recorded organ music and a young man in a gray suit emerged from behind the purple velvet curtain that separated the chapel from what had once been the Pizza Hut’s kitchen.
“Hello, friends!” he called over the organ’s swell.
The congregation was on its feet in seconds, clapping and cheering. “Praise be!” someone called, and the chant was taken up throughout the church. “Praise be!” “God bless!” “I believe!”
Daphne clapped mechanically. Pastor Ted had the kind of clean, unlined face that reminded her of people in commercials for Disney World, always standing next to Mickey Mouse under some fireworks display with their eyes open wide in wonder.
“What a glorious day for Carbon County!” Pastor Ted leapt onto the stage and was behind the pulpit in two easy bounds, adjusting the microphone as the applause reluctantly died down. “Who’s feeling God’s blessings today more than ever before?”
A murmur rippled through the chapel. Daphne felt it bubbling out of the Peytons like oil from the dry ravine on their land, the simmering excitement of an unexpected discovery. Floyd’s insistence that they thank the Lord for their good fortune in person, as he’d put it, was the only reason she’d agreed to join them at church that day. Since she’d arrived in Carbon County, she’d concocted a different excuse each Sunday—staying home to keep an eye on the stew bubbling in Aunt Karen’s Crock-pot, faking a cold—but the thought of Floyd’s disappointment if she bailed yet again was even harder to bear than the uncomfortable sense of judgment she felt whenever she set foot inside a place of worship.
“Today, I want to address some unequivocal signs from above.” The church fell silent as Pastor Ted trained his gaze slowly around the room. For a moment, Daphne felt like his summer-blue eyes were staring directly into hers.
There had been a period in her life, shortly after her father died, when her mother insisted on church every Sunday, zipping Daphne into a stiff dress and forcing her to sit, silent and fidgeting, on a hard wooden bench. Those days had ended when Myra met Jim, but the miserable feeling of sitting fatherless in a chapel full of families had remained, and Myra still trotted out the Lord’s name when she wanted to make Daphne feel especially guilty about something.
“We’ve been seeing some pretty amazing things here in Carbon County lately,” the pastor continued, “some true signs from God. I’m talking angels. I’m talking miracles. I’m talking End Times. Do you believe?”
“I believe!” the congregation thundered, startling Daphne half out of her seat. When she’d attended church as a kid, she was expected to sit quietly through the sermon. Here, talking back was obviously encouraged.
“In Corinthians,” Pastor Ted continued, his cheeks pink with fervor, “it says that when the trumpet sounds, the dead in Christ will rise and the living will become immortal. That time is coming—that time is almost here! We all heard the trumpets—how could we miss ’em? And they have marked the beginning of the End Times, when Christ will come back to claim us, the Children of God. Are you ready, Carbon County? Do you believe?”
“I believe!” The response around her was automatic, galvanic. Elderly Madge and Eunice trembled in front of her with conviction, their faces upturned to Pastor Ted like tulips drinking in the sun.
“And the wonders didn’t stop there,” Pastor Ted continued. “First there were the trumpets, and then another holy miracle—the discovery of oil, right here in Carbon County. Because God, in His greatness, has chosen to dole out His blessings in small doses. He’s given us this oil as a reward for our piety and worship. But mark my words, this isn’t the last miracle Carbon County will see. There will be many more. Do you believe?”
“I believe!” The chant was a blast of sound, almost loud enough to blow the peaked white roof off the former Pizza Hut.
On either side of Daphne, the Peytons leaned forward, waving their hands in the air and crying out to the heavens. She felt out of place sitting silently among them, her hands folded on her lap like her mom had taught her. But she couldn’t bring herself to start screaming along. It would have felt fake, like she was lying not just in front of her family and their friends, but to the huge wooden Jesus hanging above Pastor Ted’s head.
“Finally, I want to welcome a newcomer to our fold,” Pastor Ted said. His kindly blue eyes met Daphne’s as the congregation quieted, turning to stare at her. Suddenly, it was like all the air in the church had been sucked out through a vacuum. She fidgeted miserably, looking down at her lap and praying that Pastor Ted would move on.
“Folks, we are so blessed to have Daphne Peyton in our midst,” the pastor went on. “Daphne arrived on the same day as the trumpets, like an angel coming down to us from heaven, and she also happens to be the one who discovered the oil. It could be a coincidence—but I say it’s a sign. I think God has big plans for Daphne Peyton, and I for one can’t wait to see what they are.”
Daphne’s face went scarlet, and she dug her fingernails hard into her palm. She knew Pastor Ted meant well, but being in the spotlight felt more than just humiliating. It felt dangerous. She’d come to Carbon County to lay low and try to forget what had happened with Jim in Detroit. With her name on everyone’s mind, how long would it be before her secret came out?
“Now, let us pray,” Pastor Ted concluded. He bent his head, and the congregation followed, murmuring words about shepherds and pastures. Daphne lowered her eyes, but her lips stayed in a single straight line. She couldn’t remember the words, and they would have been false coming from her lips anyway.
Why had Pastor Ted singled her out, as opposed to Floyd? It wasn’t like she’d found the oil on purpose—it had been Uncle Floyd’s hunch, and Uncle Floyd who had gotten that terrible Rick Bodey out there to prove it. All she’d done was get mad and jab a stick in the ground.
As the congregation finished their prayer and Pastor Ted urged everyone to join him at the picnic tables out back for a potluck lunch, she vowed to herself that she’d let Floyd take the credit—and the spotlight.
He deserved it so much more than she did.
THE moment the service was over, Janie grabbed her arm and pulled her through a crush of people to the front of the church, muttering something about getting all the good food before it was gone. The congregation had already pulled the purple curtain aside to reveal the Pizza Hut kitchen perfectly intact, its metal prep tables covered in casserole dishes and giant Tupperware containers, cakes blanketed in inches of pink icing.
“Here.” Janie shoved a paper plate at her, and they dove into the fray. The congregation swarmed the dishes like a many-tentacled squid, grabbing at potato salads and bean dip, deviled eggs and lasagna and tuna noodle casserole.
It was a relief to step out the back door and into the early summer air. They sat at one of a dozen picnic tables covered in plastic gingham, and Daphne tried to pay attention to the food on her plate, wondering which lump was which: They all looked like identical masses of noodles and coagulated cheese.
“That was some sermon, wasn’t it?” Karen Peyton plonked down next to Janie, carefully setting down a plate piled with coleslaw and hot dog casserole, a paper cup of pink lemonade, and a big bowl of melting ice cream.
Uncle Floyd climbed in next to her.
“Daphne, what do you think of Pastor Ted?” he asked.
“He’s—very charismatic,” she said carefully.
She was about to dig into what looked like mac ’n’ cheese when she felt Janie’s pink gel mani pressing into her thigh. “The Varleys are coming over here,” she hissed. “They haven’t spoken to me since I got preggers!”
Daphne looked up to see a man in a blue gingham shirt striding toward them. He wore cowboy boots polished to a rich mahogany and a large, round belt buckle embossed with an elk’s head. Even if Doug hadn’t been slinking along behind him, it would have been obvious that the man was his father. He had the same oversize head and rolling, pigeon-toed strut, and he exuded the same cockiness. Taking up the rear was a thin, faded blond with a ski-jump nose, carrying a small baking pan.
Karen Peyton stood, sandwiched between the bench and the picnic table. “Well, Vince and Deirdre, Doug, what a nice surprise! Please join us.”
“I baked you a Bundt cake.” Deirdre set the pan down on the table.
Next to Daphne, Janie was practically vibrating. “That is so nice!” she cried. “What a sweet gesture—baby loves cake, don’t you?” She patted her tummy happily.
Deirdre’s smile looked like it hurt. “We couldn’t be happier for you,” she began, smoothing her prim blue skirt as she sat.
“Happy for us,” Floyd interrupted. “For all of us. This is some gift we’ve received from the Lord, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” Vince Varley nodded approvingly. “I’m glad you see it that way, Floyd. It’s a gift for us.”
Floyd’s eyebrows knit. “Well, of course it is—my daughter, your son, and we all get to share the joys of being grandparents.”
“Of course they’re a little young,” Karen added. “But what can you do? The Lord works in mysterious ways.”
A cloud passed over Vince Varley’s face, wiping away his good-natured smile.
“Of course He does!” Deirdre interjected quickly. “And we’re just thrilled about all of it—aren’t we, Vince?”
End Times Page 8