Grace and the Preacher

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  The horses set up soft nickers or snorts of greeting. Theo went down one row of stalls and up the other, giving each of the beasts a scratch on the forehead. He’d miss the animals more than he’d miss most of the people in town. The horses had never branded him a turncoat.

  “Theo…” The livery owner’s gravelly voice carried from the rear of the barn. “You startled me. Why’re you awake when the whole town’s still sleepin’?”

  Theo sent a sheepish grin in Turcel Dorsey’s direction. “I slept here last night. Up in the loft. Hope you don’t mind.”

  “Reckon not.” The barrel-shaped man plucked a lantern from a nail pounded into a support beam, lit it, and then sauntered across the floor toward Theo. “Gotta say, though, the loft’s not the best place to lay your head. Some reason why you didn’t sleep at the Boyds’ place?”

  Theo stared at the straw-littered ground. “Uncle Smithers wouldn’t let me.”

  “He give you the boot?”

  His uncle’s furious words blasted through his memory again, and he winced. “You could say that.”

  Dorsey grunted, curling his lips. “Can’t say I’m surprised, seein’ as how I heard tell his boys’ll be back soon. Why he favors those sorry whelps over you, even if you ain’t spawned by him, I’ll never understand.”

  Heat built in Theo’s chest, and he shot a startled look at his boss. Nobody had said something so nice about him since Granny Iva died.

  “Still an’ all, he ought to at least give you time to find a new place to stay.” He raised one bushy eyebrow. “ ’Less you were thinkin’ you’d make the livery here your new home.”

  Theo forced a light laugh. “No, sir. But I wanted to talk to you first thing. That’s why I came here.”

  “All right then.” The man set the lantern at his feet and folded his arms over his chest. “What’d you need?”

  Theo explained his intention to return to Iowa. He shrugged. “I figure my aunt an’ uncle won’t need me helpin’ out around the place or bringin’ them my wages since Claight, Earl, and Wilton’ll be back. So I plan to head out today.”

  “You tellin’ me this is your last day of workin’ here?”

  Theo grimaced. “Well, sir, to be honest, I’d like to get on the road soon as possible. This mornin’.” He swallowed. “Now.”

  “Runnin’ scared, are ya?”

  Mr. Dorsey had never spoken unkindly to Theo, not like others who called him a traitor or lily-livered. The question coming from his boss, even though no derision colored his tone, hurt worse than if  his uncle or one of Smithers’s cronies had asked it. There was only one honest answer, and it shamed him to admit it, but he wouldn’t lie to the man who’d always treated him fairly. “Yes, sir, I am.”

  The livery owner heaved a sigh. “Can’t say I blame you. Those cousins o’ yours were ornery an’ vengeful before they spent ten years sittin’ in jail cells. They’ve likely stored up a good portion of  hate, an’ soon as they’re back, they’ll want to spew it. You’ll be their target.”

  Theo searched the man’s square face. “I’m still a coward for goin’, though, aren’t I?”

  “Some might say you’re cowardly. Others’d say you’re bein’ sensible.”

  Theo didn’t care about anybody else in town. Nobody else had treated him as decently. “But what do you say?”

  Dorsey chuckled. “I say my opinion don’t really matter. What matters is how you see yourself. When you look in the mirror, do you see a coward?”

  Theo tried not to look in mirrors. “Fact is, I don’t have any kind of  future here in Cooperville. There’s no good reason for me to stay anymore, so I’m goin’.”

  “Good enough.” Dorsey snatched up the lantern, threw his other arm across Theo’s shoulders, and herded him to the small office beneath the loft. The man unlocked a drawer in his desk and pulled out his tin cash box. “Lemme give you this last week’s pay, an’ then you can find your way back to Iowa. You plan on takin’ the stagecoach or ridin’ in a train?”

  “Well, I could buy tickets for the train or stagecoach, but I figure my money’d be better spent on a horse.” If  he had a horse, he wouldn’t have to set out all alone. “That’s the other reason I wanted to see you this mornin’, Mr. Dorsey. I’d like to buy one of your ridin’ horses.”

  The liveryman paused in counting out Theo’s wages. “You got money for that?”

  Theo pulled a small cloth pouch from his pocket and dropped it on the desk with a solid thunk. “After Uncle Smithers made me quit school an’ go to work, Aunt Lula let me hold out a little bit every week instead of giving over all my earnings. I’ve got more than ten years’ worth of savings in that bag, almost sixty-five dollars.”

  “That so?” Dorsey scooped up the bag and bounced it in his palm. “An’ your uncle don’t know anything about this?”

  “No.” Theo planted his palms on the desk and leaned in. “I’m trusting you not to tell him, either. Aunt Lula has to put up with him getting pickled most Saturday nights on his homemade gin an’ with his foul temper every other night o’ the week. He’d have plenty to say about her holding out on him, an’ I won’t be around to fend off  his guff.”

  Dorsey plopped the bag into Theo’s hand. “I won’t say anything. Not unless I’m directly asked.”

  He blew out a breath of relief. “Thanks. So…have I got enough for one of your horses?”

  Dorsey ambled around the desk and entered the barn floor. He stopped, seeming to examine each stall one by one. Then he strode to the center stall on the east side of the barn—Rosie’s stall. Theo hurried after him, his heart pounding in half  hope, half apprehension. Rosie was Theo’s favorite but also a favored horse by others in town. Would Dorsey really let her go?

  Dorsey propped his elbow on the stall door. “You’re familiar with Rosie. She’s saddle- and wagon-broke an’ has a mild disposition. Now, she’s an old girl—fifteen already, if  I’m rememberin’ correctly. But she still has plenty of years of ridin’ left in her. I could let her go for, oh, let’s say…forty-five dollars.”

  Theo expected to pay closer to sixty. “You sure?”

  Dorsey scowled. “Have you ever known me to be uncertain about a business deal?”

  “No, sir.”

  The man harrumphed. “Then stop askin’ foolish questions.”

  Theo hid a grin. “Yes, sir.”

  “Now, you’re gonna need a saddle. There’s one in the tack room that’s got a few mouse-chews on it. I’ll throw that in for another…three?”

  A horse and a saddle for less than fifty dollars? Mouse-chews on the saddle or not, he was being offered a gift. Theo swallowed the lump filling his throat and stuck out his hand. “That’s a deal, Mr. Dorsey, an’ I thank you for your kindness.”

  “Thank you for your hard work. I’ve run this livery for more’n twenty-five years an’ hired a dozen men to help out, but you’ve been my most dependable worker. Hate to see you go, but I won’t try to stop you.” Dorsey squeezed Theo’s hand, then stepped back and glanced at the window. “Sun’s sneakin’ upward. Town’ll be wakin’ soon. You better get on your way if you don’t want folks seein’ you headin’ out on Rosie.”

  Fairland, Kansas

  Grace

  Grace closed her Bible and laid it beside her on the pew when Uncle Philemon invited the congregation to stand for the closing prayer. She could hardly believe the service was already over. And she couldn’t recall one word of  her uncle’s sermon. She hoped he wouldn’t ask for her opinion during lunch as he was prone to do. She’d shame herself and disappoint him if she had to admit her lack of attentiveness.

  His reverent “Amen” signaled the prayer’s end—a prayer she hadn’t heard, either. How could she allow herself to woolgather during Sunday morning service? Was this how all young women behaved when they found themselves besotted with a fellow? She could have asked Aunt Wilhelmina, but she didn’t dare broach such a feminine topic with Uncle Philemon.

  “Grace, de
ar, you may sit, too.”

  Her uncle’s voice, tinged with amusement and gentle admonition, broke through her musings. A soft titter rolled through the sanctuary, and Grace realized she was the only one other than Uncle Philemon who was still standing. Since she always occupied the front pew, everyone had witnessed her faux pas. Fire exploded in her face, and she sat so quickly the pew squeaked. A few more snickers sounded, but Uncle Philemon cleared his throat and everyone fell silent.

  “Thank you for giving me a few extra minutes of your time. I know you’re all eager to return to your homes and partake of  Sunday dinner.” Her uncle’s warm smile eased Grace’s discomfit. “Travel plans for the young man who will assume pastoral duties are now complete, and he has advised us that his first Sunday in this pulpit”—he ran his hand over the wooden stand, the gesture so tender that tears stung Grace’s eyes—“will be April sixteenth.”

  Only three more weeks. A shiver of anticipation wiggled through Grace’s frame and erased the urge to cry.

  “I look forward to hearing the first message delivered by Reverend Dille—”

  Another series of chills attacked at the mention of  Rufus’s name.

  “—and trust all of you to make him feel as welcome and appreciated as I have always felt.”

  Behind Grace a few people sniffled. Guilt smote her. Should her desire to meet Rufus take precedence over compassion for her dear uncle? He’d dedicated half of  his life to this church and its people. Stepping down from the pulpit, even though he firmly believed God had directed him to do so, would be painful. She needed to support him rather than selfishly think of herself.

  She bolted to her feet and turned to face the congregation. “Uncle Philemon—I mean, Reverend Cristler—wishes us to welcome our new minister, and of course we will honor his request to do so when Reverend Dille arrives. But I also believe we should show our appreciation to our current minister for his years of service and devotion to each of us.” She sent a glance over her shoulder at her uncle. His bowed head spoke eloquently of  his humble spirit. He deserved more than her impetuous verbal accolades, and she knew exactly how to honor him.

  “So the Saturday before Reverend Dille steps onto the preacher’s platform for the first time, let’s meet in the town square at six o’clock for a church picnic.”

  Excited mumbles erupted. Grace smiled, pleased with their response. She turned to Uncle Philemon. His slight frown chased away her delight. She quickly sat.

  “I appreciate my niece’s enthusiasm. Her affection for me and her obvious partiality have led her to suggest the celebration.”

  Soft chuckles rose from various locations around the sanctuary, and Grace ducked her head.

  “But I don’t wish to presume that her desire is echoed by every member of the Fairland Gospel Church.” Uncle Philemon moved from behind the pulpit and unbuttoned his suit jacket. “Thus, I’m going to step outside. Leland?”

  The head deacon rose so abruptly the floorboard snapped like a distant rifle shot.

  “We’ve always operated on a democratic system in this congregation, and I’d like to make sure my niece’s suggestion meets everyone’s approval. Would you kindly put Grace’s idea to a vote?”

  “Sure thing, Preacher.” Mr. Judd strode importantly to the front of the church while Uncle Philemon slipped out the back door. The deacon planted himself at the head of the center aisle and cast a serious frown across the congregation. “Simple show of  hands. Who wants to meet in the town square on Saturday, the…the…”

  Grace whispered, “Fifteenth of  April.”

  His neck blotched with red. “Fifteenth of  April for a picnic?”

  Grace raised her hand, studiously keeping her gaze forward, but the flutter of movement behind her made her pulse pound in happiness.

  Mr. Judd’s gaze bounced from one corner of the room to the other. He shook his head slightly. “No need to ask for the same sign from those opposed. I’m pretty sure everybody in the place voted yes.”

  Grace clapped her hands over her mouth to hold back her cry of elation.

  He aimed a sour look at Grace. “You instigated this shindig, so I guess this’ll be your party instead of something organized by a church committee…the way we’ve done things in past years.”

  His condescending tone cowed her, and she bit the corner of  her lip, uncertain how to respond.

  “Leland Judd, shame on you for making that girl feel guilty for wanting to bestow a little recognition on our faithful minister.” The town’s boardinghouse owner, a longtime member of the church, marched up the aisle and joined Mr. Judd. “And you needn’t put every bit of responsibility for the picnic on her, either. Heaven knows she’s got enough to do between running the post office and seeing to her uncle’s household.”

  Mr. Judd grunted, but he shifted aside when Mrs. Kirby stepped onto the platform. The white-haired woman aimed a tart look at the deacon. “The truth be known, the church social committee should’ve already thought of honoring Reverend Cristler for his years of service. We owe Grace a thank-you for reminding us.”

  Grace nodded. Then she raised her hand.

  Mrs. Kirby laughed softly. “This isn’t a classroom, Grace. Go ahead and speak if you have something to say.”

  Her cheeks heating, Grace stepped up beside the older woman. “I have an idea. A way to honor Reverend Cristler.”

  “Leland Judd, come on back up here. It sounds as if there might be something else we need to vote on.”

  Grace waited until the deacon returned to the front. Then she wove her fingers together to keep her hands from shaking.

  “I suggest that members of the church bring notes addressed to Reverend Cristler to the post office prior to the day of our picnic.”

  “What kind of notes, Miss Cristler?” The question came from the town’s blacksmith, Lucas Bibb. Lines of worry marched across his broad forehead. Apparently he wasn’t as comfortable penning missives as Rufus Dille.

  Grace offered him an understanding smile. “Nothing elaborate. Perhaps a message of  farewell, good wishes for his retirement, or sharing one of your own special memories of  Reverend Cristler’s time of ministry.”

  “Whatcha gonna do with those notes?”

  The query came from somewhere on Grace’s right, but she couldn’t ascertain the asker. So she addressed the entire congregation. “I will compile them in an album so Reverend Cristler will have a remembrance of all of you.”

  Murmurs broke out across the room.

  Mr. Judd waved his arms. “Quiet, quiet. Let’s vote.” He narrowed his gaze. “Those wanting to make a book like Miss Cristler said, raise your hand.”

  For the second time that morning, hands shot toward the ceiling.

  Mr. Judd sighed. “It’s passed.” He returned to his seat.

  Mrs. Kirby clapped. “Wonderful!” She scanned the congregation. “Ladies of the social committee, please meet at my place at three this afternoon. Grace, you come, too. We will work together to make sure Reverend Cristler gets a fine send-off, the kind of send-off our dear reverend deserves. But for now, everybody go home and eat. You’ve likely got burnt offerings waiting.”

  With laughter and chatter, the people rose and streamed for the doors.

  Mrs. Kirby took Grace’s hand. “Dear one, I’m not trying to take over. I hope you don’t misunderstand my intentions.”

  Grace squeezed the older woman’s hand. “I understand completely, and I appreciate your help. I didn’t think the whole thing through before I mentioned it.”

  “Young and impetuous—I remember being the same way about a century ago myself.”

  Grace laughed. Mrs. Kirby was getting up in years, but she was far from ancient.

  “Rest assured, the ladies of the social committee enjoy nothing more than planning a party. It will be a day our minister will remember for years to come.” Then a frown pinched her face. “I only have one small concern, and it has to do with the new preacher.”

  Gra
ce’s heart caught. “What about him?”

  “Will he feel left out if we have a big send-off  for your uncle but no welcome-to-Fairland party for him?”

  An intimate question, one only someone who knew Rufus Dille well could answer. Grace’s frame went warm as she realized she knew exactly how to respond. “Reverend Dille is a modest man who would more likely be embarrassed by a flood of attention before he had a chance to prove himself. He will understand our affection for Uncle Philemon and join us in honoring him.”

  “So you recommend we wait and give him his party at, perhaps, the one-year anniversary of  his time in the pulpit?”

  Grace nodded. “Yes, ma’am. That sounds perfect.”

  Mischief twinkled in Mrs. Kirby’s eyes. “But who knows, dear? We might have cause for a different kind of celebration before he reaches his first year of service.”

  Grace knew what the woman was intimating. Her face flooded with heat, and she took a sideways step toward the door. “I’ll see you this afternoon for the organizational meeting. Have a good day, Mrs. Kirby.” She hurried off, sending up a silent prayer that Mrs. Kirby’s hint about Grace and Rufus joining their lives in love and service to God would come true.

  Jefferson City, Missouri

  Earl

  The penitentiary’s iron gate clanged shut behind him. The echo filled Earl’s ears, but he still could hardly believe it was true. Was he really outside the gate? He glanced at Claight and Wilton, who flanked him. Their hair, the same ripe-wheat color as his, sported fresh haircuts. Just like him, they wore stiff new trousers and crisp new shirts over their stocky frames. Their feet were protected by unscuffed new boots, the first new boots they’d ever had. Ma wouldn’t believe it if she saw them. They’d never looked so spit shined.