Women often visited the dressmaker’s shop, the mercantile, and even the millinery shop to collect pieces of town gossip, but Grace never indulged in such activity. She released a nervous laugh. “I suppose not. Let me check your box.”
“I’m actually more interested in a package. From Chicago. I ordered several spools of silk ribbon, all in pastel hues.”
“Then I’m sorry to disappoint you.” Grace removed a picture postcard and two envelopes from the Perrys’ cubby and gave them to the milliner. “Mr. Lunger didn’t bring any packages at all this week.”
Mrs. Perry made a sour face and tapped the mail against the wood countertop. “I was so hoping to place my Easter bonnets on the sale shelf this week.”
Grace offered the woman a sympathetic look. “Maybe you can buy some ribbon here in town. Mr. Benton carries ribbon in the general merchandise store.”
“He sells ribbon for men’s ties.”
“Isn’t the ribbon silk, though?” Her uncle’s ties were silk, and he’d purchased most of them from the merchant next door to the post office.
“Yes, the ribbon is silk, but it’s meant for men’s ties. It’s black.” She flipped her wrist in a dismissive gesture. “What woman wants black ribbon on an Easter bonnet? Or any spring bonnet, for that matter?” The milliner sniffed. “How am I to decorate my spring hats without pastel silk ribbons?”
Grace gave Mrs. Perry’s wrinkled hand a pat. “Surely the ribbons will arrive next week. You’ll have them in plenty of time to finish the bonnets for Easter.”
“Well, you be certain to come in and pick out a pretty bonnet, dear.” She flicked a look across the unadorned bodice of Grace’s brown dress. “I also sell lovely collars, hand-tatted by my nieces from Boston. If you buy a bonnet, I’ll let you choose a tatted collar free of charge. You’ll want to wear something feminine and eye catching when your preacher takes the pulpit for the first time, won’t you?”
Grace yanked her hand back. “Mrs. Perry…”
A sly smile curved the woman’s lips. “Oh, come now, Miss Cristler. Don’t be coy with me. Your uncle told the congregation that the new preacher is young and single. He’ll need a helpmate. Everyone knows you’d make the perfect preacher’s wife, having been raised by a clergyman and serving as his assistant since his wife’s passing during that dreadful flu epidemic. Is it three or four years now?”
“Five.” Grace didn’t rue a single year of assisting in her uncle’s ministry, either. Her aunt and uncle had been so good, taking her in when her parents died. She owed them a debt of gratitude and service.
“Yes, five. And a true blessing you’ve been to your dear uncle. But to appeal to a younger man, you need a softer hairstyle.” Mrs. Perry shook her head, clicking her tongue on her teeth. “Must you comb your lovely locks down so snugly?”
Grace smoothed her fingertips from her temple to the tightly wound bun at the nape of her neck. It took a great deal of effort to tame her thick, wavy hair into a bun, and she’d always been proud of her ability to fashion the style without the help of a mother or an aunt or a sister. Until now.
“The color of your hair, as rich red-brown as a maple leaf in fall, is so eye catching. With a softer hairstyle and a little rouge coloring your cheeks, you’d come close to being pretty.”
Close? Grace’s face heated.
“Not that pretty is necessary for a preacher’s wife. Your dear aunt, rest her soul, was a plain woman. But to my way of thinking, ministers are men first and servants of the Lord second.”
To Grace’s way of thinking, Mrs. Perry had it backward, and she started to say so.
“So donning a less, er, austere frock and setting off your face with a ruffled bonnet all covered with flowers and lace would appeal to the man. Then, when you’ve captured his attention, you can let him see all the wonderful qualities that would make you a fine wife for a preacher.”
Surely he already knew her qualities. By now he knew everything of importance about her, thanks to the weekly letters she’d written to him. If Rufus’s responses were any indication, he approved of her. But would he find her appearance displeasing when he set eyes on her for the first time?
The woman reached across the counter and delivered a pat on Grace’s cheek. “You be sure to come see me next week after my shipment of ribbons has arrived. We’ll find the perfect bonnet to help you capture your preacher’s heart.” She scooped up her letters and departed.
Grace sagged against the counter. Finally! Now maybe she could read her letter. She needed the assurance of his interest after listening to—
The door banged open again, and two youngsters raced in, clamoring for their pa’s mail. For the next hour Grace assisted one townsperson after another until more than a third of the cubbies were empty. The regulator clock on the wall chimed five, and Grace locked the door behind young Mrs. Morehead. The rest of the mail could wait until tomorrow when folks did their Saturday shopping. For now, she had her own mail to read.
Jefferson City, Missouri
Earl Boyd
Earl held the printed page in front of him and stared hard. Black letters in all capitals marched across the top of the paper. EARLY RELEASE. Beautiful words, those. But was he dreaming? Or maybe it was a joke. Guards liked playing mean pranks on the prisoners, tossing handfuls of sawdust down the backs of their shirts or shaving lye soap into their breakfast mush. He pulled the page closer to his face, squinting at every detail.
The warden standing on the other side of the iron bars of Earl’s cell snorted. “It’s real. Governor signed it himself.”
Earl gawked at the prison’s manager. “I…I’m really gettin’ out?”
“Yep. You, your brothers, and three other men are bein’ let out early. We’ll release you by ten on Monday mornin’. Gotta make room for new prisoners being sent over from Topeka.” The man pulled a half-smoked cigar from his shirt pocket and settled it, unlit, in the corner of his mouth. “Lucky for you, you were still plenty young when you tried to hold up that train an’ make off with the gold shipment. Governor Crittenden decided you weren’t a hardened criminal, just a youth who made a bad choice.”
Earl wouldn’t contradict the governor, but the man misjudged him. Badly. Oh, it was true he’d been young—just seventeen—when he and his brothers planned the robbery. But even then he was already hard. Bad choices? Too many to count. Some perpetrated with his brothers, others on his own. He’d known the deeds were wrong and did them anyway. He deserved every year of the twelve-year sentence handed down by the judge and then some. Still, he wouldn’t argue. Not with freedom being dangled under his nose.
“I sent a telegram to your folks this morning, so they know you’ll be comin’ home.”
Home. Now that was a dandy word, one of the first he learned to spell when a gray-haired teacher jailed for grand larceny—a charge they figured out wasn’t even true, but not until the man had spent four years of his life behind bars instead of in a schoolhouse—took up residence in the cell across the hall and offered to teach Earl how to read. Boredom had led him to say yes, but he didn’t regret the decision now. Because he could read his own release papers.
He sat on the edge of the wooden bench that had served as his bed for the past ten years. Had Ma kept his old feather bed? He could hardly wait to sink into the down-filled sack made of gray-and-white-striped ticking. He closed his eyes and blew out a slow breath. Home…He, along with big brother Claight and little brother Wilton, was really going home.
The echo of the warden’s feet on the stone floor told him the man was moving on, probably to deliver the other release papers. Earl kept his eyes closed, imagining Claight’s and Wilton’s reactions to the news. They’d be more excited than two hound dogs on a jackrabbit’s trail. As soon as they got to Cooperville, they’d go hunting. But not for rabbits. For their double-crossing cousin. Their plans for revenge had fed them better than the prison cook during their long incarceration.
Earl po
pped his eyes open and fixed his gaze on the brick wall not six feet in front of his face. A dozen names were carved into the wall. He hadn’t added his even though he could write it, thanks to his teacher friend. Why leave his name in this shameful place?
His fingers closed tight around the paper, crunching it in his hands—strong hands, callused and scarred from years of laboring in the prison’s blacksmith shop. Ten years…That weasel Theophil had stomped Earl’s dreams and stole his chance to be rich. His brothers wanted a part of the vengeance, but he wouldn’t share it. Every punishing lick would be dealt with Earl’s hand. So before Claight or Wilton got a chance at their cousin, he’d find Theophil.
Conviction filled him. He had to find Theophil first.
Fairland, Kansas
Grace Cristler
With Rufus’s letter laid open on the desk beneath the yellow glow of her lamp, Grace dipped her pen to write a reply. But she held the pen above the page of stationery, uncertain how to begin.
She’d read Rufus’s latest missive a half-dozen times before leaving the post office, and she’d read it again while walking to the little bungalow where she and her uncle lived. While she and Uncle Philemon ate supper, she shared sections of the letter’s contents, including Rufus’s intention to arrive by wagon between the eleventh and thirteenth of April and his hopes of being settled enough to deliver his first sermon on the Sunday after Easter. She’d memorized all six paragraphs, which meant its newness should be erased by familiarity. But even now, an hour past her normal bedtime, five hours past the initial reading, its closing made her insides quaver.
I am sincerely yours,
Rufus
In every letter before this one, even as the contents lost their stiff air of formality and adopted a tone of friendliness, Rufus had closed simply “Sincerely, Rufus Dille,” lending a businesslike quality to the entire missive. Although this latest letter was written on the same unlined white paper in his bold, slanting script, it seemed less an informational message and more a love note because of the closing—“I am sincerely yours…”
“Your preacher,” Mr. Lunger had said, and Grace had frowned.
“Your preacher,” Mrs. Perry had called him, and Grace had refuted it in her mind.
But now…now she allowed herself to think of him differently. Not as the church’s new minister. Not as her uncle’s choice out of all the young men graduating from the Clineburgh Seminary. Not even as a potential beau, but as—her pulse skipped a beat and a tiny gasp escaped—her Rufus.
She touched the nib to the page and added a single possessive word to the salutation.
My dear Rufus…
Her mind’s eye painted a picture of the man. Tall. Dark haired. Intense eyes of deepest blue. She shook her head. No, not blue—brown. Deep, velvety brown, like her father’s eyes. With a strong yet sensitive face, wide hands that could reach out with compassion or form a fist of righteous indignation, and a trim yet sturdy build. A wonderful image.
She released a soft snort. “And now you’re being silly.” Indeed, she was. Would she care for him any less if he was short, pudgy, and homely? I am sincerely yours…She’d grown to admire the heart and soul of the man who penned thoughtful missives and shared his desire to serve the Lord. No, his outsides didn’t matter one bit. But even so, she held the picture in her imagination as she dipped the pen again.
How good to receive your letter and know that your travel plans are set. I have informed Uncle Philemon, as you requested, and he asked me to assure you that he has made arrangements with Mrs. Bess Kirby, a dear widow from our congregation who runs Fairland’s only boardinghouse, to provide lodging for you. Thus, you needn’t worry about locating a place to live. That should simplify your “settling in.” Eventually you’ll wish to purchase a house for yourself, but Uncle Philemon felt it would be best to let you become acquainted with everyone before setting up housekeeping.
The word housekeeping seemed to leap from the page. She rested her palm against her bodice, an attempt to restrain her thundering heartbeat. As much as Grace loved her uncle and desired to repay him for giving her a home, she longed to take care of her own house. Of her own furniture and belongings. Of her own family.
Would her daydreams come true and Rufus ask her to be his wife? If so, would he ask for her opinion when he was ready to purchase a house? Some men took the biblical instruction to lead the family as an exclusive responsibility, making all decisions without considering their wives’ preferences.
Uncle Philemon and Aunt Wilhelmina hadn’t modeled such a relationship, and Grace had always hoped for a marriage like theirs—loving, respectful, what Uncle Philemon referred to as a partnership and Aunt Wilhelmina dubbed a mutual calling. Perhaps Uncle Philemon’s position as pastor had put the two of them into ministry together.
She whispered, “Ministry…together.” She liked the way it sounded. She bent over the page.
Everyone in the congregation is looking forward to your arrival.
She paused, nibbling her lower lip. Had she fibbed? Leland Judd, the church’s head deacon, was still angry that Uncle Philemon hadn’t appointed his nephew, Irvin, as the new preacher. If she told Rufus about Mr. Judd and his nephew, would he have second thoughts about coming to Fairland? Uncle Philemon believed Mr. Judd would release his resentment once he met Rufus. Grace would trust her uncle’s judgment.
Of course it will seem strange at first to have another person filling the pulpit where Philemon Cristler has shared God’s Word for more than thirty years. Did he tell you he founded the Fairland Gospel Church even before a town was established here? He probably didn’t. He’s a very modest man. But I am not opposed to informing you that the town was named for the church, its first permanent residents choosing to build on the foundation of faith my uncle started. I divulge this not to boast but to assure you that you are entering a community that honors God and respects the clergy. I know you will feel at home very quickly.
“Oh, Rufus, I pray you will feel at home…” Unexpectedly, tears pricked. She’d grown up in Fairland after moving here as a child of ten. She’d watched her friends gain beaus, witnessed them speak their vows under Uncle Philemon’s guidance, and celebrated the arrival of children into their lives. So steadfastly she’d guarded her heart against envy or bitterness when opportunities for courtship passed her by, trusting God would bring the right man in His perfect timing.
Admittedly, she longed for God to hurry. She was nearly twenty-four, hardly a girl anymore. Her entreaties had increased in number during the past year, and now it seemed as if God was answering the prayer of her heart by bringing Rufus Dille to Fairland. Rufus, who—although he had not yet seen her in person—proclaimed himself to be sincerely hers.
Likely this would be the last letter she would send him. By the time it reached him, he would be finalizing his travel plans. So this letter was very important. This message would contain her final words before meeting him in person. She pulled in a slow breath, composing sentences in her mind. Some seemed too brazen, others too bland.
She would simply tell him the truth.
Butterflies danced through her middle. Her hand trembling, she dipped the pen’s metal nib into the ink pot and then carried the writing instrument to the page. With precise, carefully crafted strokes, she finished the missive.
I will count the days until you arrive in Fairland, Rufus. I know God has wondrous plans for you in this little Kansas town, and I will glory in seeing those plans come to pass.
Until we meet face-to-face, I remain—
Sincerely yours,
Grace
She blew on the ink with little puffs until the sheen turned dull. Then she folded the letter, slipped it into an envelope, and sealed the flap with dots of glue. She placed the sealed letter on her nightstand where she would see it upon opening her eyes in the morning, and then she climbed into her bed. As her eyes closed, she couldn’t resist releasing a sigh of contentment. She ant
icipated good dreams tonight.
Cooperville, Missouri
Theo
Theo curled on a pile of straw in the livery stable’s loft. The dry, sweet scent of the hay filled his nostrils, chasing away the animal smells rising from the stalls below. A scratchy horse blanket kept him warm, and his bag of shirts, britches, socks, and long johns made a serviceable pillow. He was comfortable. As comfortable as a fellow could be in a barn loft in the middle of the night. But he doubted he’d sleep, no matter how much tiredness pulled at him.
He had considered sneaking off without a word to his uncle and aunt, but his conscience had convinced him to at least tell them good-bye. After all, they’d provided him with a place to stay after Granny Iva died. He owed them a decent farewell. Uncle Smithers hadn’t appreciated the gesture. Theo’s ears felt blistered from his uncle’s tirade that ended with a command for him to get his gutless, no-good, ungrateful hide out of his house right that minute. Even though it meant spending the night in a barn loft, Theo was only too happy to obey.
Right before he stepped out the back door, Aunt Lula offered him a packet of jerked beef and the leftover corn muffins from their supper to take on his journey. She hadn’t asked where he was going. Probably because she didn’t care. Why should she? Her boys were coming home.
Home…
He swallowed a lump of longing. The farm where he’d lived with Granny Iva would forever be home to him. It didn’t matter that he’d been away from it longer than he’d lived there. It didn’t matter that somebody else owned the homestead now. That’s where Granny Iva was buried alongside his mama, who’d died birthing him, and Pappaw Burl. His best memories were there. So that’s where he was going. Yes, sir, come morning, first thing, long before the stagecoach had a chance to roll into town, he was going home.
Theo
Pinpricks of pale sunlight sneaked through cracks in the barn’s chinking and poked Theo to wakefulness. He rolled over, stretched, and tossed the blanket aside. For a few seconds he sat, blinking against the deep shadows. When his eyes had adjusted, he eased his way down the creaky loft ladder to the floor, little bits of hay drifting like snowflakes from his clothes as he went.
Grace and the Preacher Page 2