Grace and the Preacher

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

He fingered the twenty-dollar gold piece weighting his pocket. Warm. Round. Real. He closed his eyes and drew a slow breath, pulling in the scent of rotting food, manure, and plain old Missouri dirt. An unpleasant perfume. But what did it matter? The sun heated his head, the wind touched his face, and no bars penned him in. Free…He was free.

  Claight clapped him on the shoulder. “Whatcha wanna do first, brother? Find a café an’ order up somethin’ good? I’d like a big juicy steak. Maybe even two.”

  “Mebbe we can find somethin’ good to drink instead.” Wilton grinned like he’d lost all sense. “One of the fellers inside tol’ me the barber on Sixth Street keeps a secret supply o’ whiskey an’ sells it out the back door. I could sure use a nip.”

  Earl snorted. “You’ve never had a nip o’ whiskey in your life, you dumb cluck. You’d likely end up actin’ like a blame idiot an’ get yourself arrested for bein’ drunk an’ disorderly. You wanna get thrown back in a jail cell the first day you’re out?”

  “Earl’s right, Wilton. Too risky.” Claight chortled. “ ’Sides, Pa’s likely still got his liquor-maker in the cellar. Now that we’re all growed up, he’ll invite us to put a dipper in the kettle. No sense in spendin’ our money foolishly.”

  Earl didn’t approve of  Claight’s reasoning, but he wouldn’t argue. Not if  it kept Wilton from squandering his release money. “Go ahead an’ visit a café if you want. Me? I’m headin’ for the train station, checkin’ the schedules. I’ll be catchin’ the first ride to Springfield.”

  Claight slipped his hands in his pockets and squinted at the bright morning sun. “I reckon no café’s gonna serve anything better’n Ma’s cookin’.” A slow grin grew on his face. “It’s Monday. Way back when, Monday was ham an’ beans day.”

  “With corrrrnbread.” Wilton drawled the word, nearly drooling.

  Claight nudged Earl with his elbow. “You figure Ma still keeps to her ol’ cookin’ schedule? Not that we could get to Cooperville today yet. But Tuesday was—”

  “Beef stew an’ biscuits.” Wilton smacked his lips. “I say let’s grab some cheese an’ crackers at the mercantile to tide us over an’ just head for home.”

  “Sounds good to me.” Claight started forward.

  Earl grabbed his arm. “You fellas go to the mercantile. Meet me at the train station. I’ll check the price of tickets to Springfield.”

  Claight nodded. “C’mon, Wilton.” The two of them ambled in the direction of town, Wilton shifting his shoulders like he had a bad itch. The new clothes probably felt as foreign on him as they did on Earl.

  Earl watched for a few seconds to make sure they wouldn’t change their minds and turn back. Then he took off at a trot for the train station. If  he was lucky, there’d still be a chance to catch a ride to Springfield. Stagecoaches used to run twice a week between Springfield and Cooperville—Tuesdays and Fridays. If  he could get to Springfield yet today, he stood a chance of catching a ride to Cooperville tomorrow, and then he’d be face-to-face with his cousin Theophil after ten long years of separation. Eagerness made his belly tremble.

  At the station he discovered more than a dozen people already waiting outside the ticket window. He bit back a growl of  impatience as he joined the line. Three fellows in suits and gentleman’s hats stepped up behind him, leaving a good four-foot gap. The couple in front of  him glanced back. Their eyes widened, and they shifted forward as far as they could, whispering together.

  Earl gritted his teeth and looked aside. Shadows fell across the platform. His single shadow looked lonely between two clusters cast by the other folks. He knew he smelled just fine. This morning’s bath had taken care of that. So most likely his brown trousers and tan shirt looked like prison stripes to them.

  Maybe he should’ve visited the general merchandise store and bought a set of clothes, or at least a different shirt, before coming to the station. But that meant wasted funds and wasted time. He’d turn a blind eye to folks’ gawking and finger-pointing. It wouldn’t be easy. Their judgmental glares burned worse than the blazing sun. But he’d do it. The twenty dollars in his pocket needed to last him all the way home.

  He inched forward, sending frequent looks up the street for his brothers. Knowing Wilton, he was probably exploring every shelf  in the store and finding excuses to part with his money. And Claight was probably egging him on. Those two…Didn’t seem they’d changed much while closed up inside those prison walls. But Earl had. He could feel the change deep inside. He was tougher, wiser, more determined.

  Right now he was determined to get home.

  The couple in front of  him scurried in the direction of the waiting trains, and Earl stepped up to the counter. “I’m needin’ a ticket to Springfield. When’s it leave the station?”

  The ticket master withdrew a bit, chewing the tip of  his mustache like a mouse nibbling cheese. “S-Springfield, you say? The Number 441 leaves for Springfield in”—he peered at a clock on the wall—“fifteen minutes.”

  So he needed to hurry. Earl slapped his coin on the counter. “I need three tickets. One for today’s train, two for tomorrow’s.”

  “Y-yes, sir. Right away.” The scrawny man bustled around, stamping squares of paper and jangling coins in a partitioned tin box. “Here you go.” He slid the tickets and change toward Earl with his fingertips.

  Earl pocketed the change. He pinched up today’s ticket for the Number 441 and pointed to the other two. “Pretty soon a couple of  fellows dressed like me are gonna show up in your line.”

  The man’s face was whiter than snow. He blinked rapidly. “Two more…like you?”

  “Their names are Claight and Wilton Boyd. You give ’em those tickets an’ tell ’em Earl covered their fare ’cause they’ll need to get a hotel for the night.”

  A whistle blared, and a man’s voice called, “Boarding for Springfield! All for Springfield, get aboard!”

  Earl glowered at the ticket master. “Did you get all that?”

  “Yessir. Claight and Wilton. Give them the tickets and tell them to get a hotel.”

  “That’s right.” Earl curled his fist around his ticket and made a dash for the belching train at the end of the boarding platform. He shoved the ticket at the blue-suited porter.

  “Luggage, sir?” Then the porter looked Earl up and down, and his face went as white as the ticket master’s. He gulped.

  Earl forced a smile. “I travel light. Where’s my seat?”

  Red streaks formed on the porter’s clean-shaven cheeks. “Take whichever one you like.”

  Claight would bully somebody else out of  his seat just because he could, but Earl entered the train car and chose an empty bench. He hunkered low and tipped his forehead against the window. Within minutes the porter strode up the aisle, announcing, “Heading for Springfield, folks. Roughly a five-hour ride. Five hours to Springfield…” He moved on to the next car, his voice drifting behind him.

  The train shuddered to life. The rattling start changed to a rhythmic chug-chug as the engine picked up speed. Earl shifted his gaze from the window to the tall back of the seat in front of  him. His stomach growled, but he folded his arms over his chest, closed his eyes, and pretended to sleep.

  North of  Cooperville, Missouri

  Theo

  “Whoa, Rosie…” Theo pulled gently on the reins, and the horse slowed from her steady clop-clop to a halt. She tapped the ground and huffed, shaking her mane. He chuckled. “I’ll say one thing for you, you aren’t a lazy creature. Stand still now, and rest for a minute. You’ve earned it.”

  Since Saturday morning he and Rosie had covered roughly thirty miles. Hardly a dent in the more than three hundred miles between Cooperville and Bird’s Nest, Iowa, but every mile farther from Cooperville meant one mile closer to home. He would celebrate each one.

  He patted the horse’s neck while taking in his surroundings. Clouds were rolling in from the east, turning the evening sky a menacing gray. Thunder rumbled in the distance. Rain
would surely follow. Sleeping out under the stars didn’t bother him, but if  it started raining he’d need shelter—an old shed, an outcropping, even some thick brush. He searched the rolling hills that stretched on both sides of the dirt road. The ground held thick grass and was dotted with trees, but no shelter presented itself.

  “What’re we gonna do, Rosie?” He didn’t expect an answer, but it felt good—less lonely—to talk to the animal. “Another hour or so and that storm will be on top of us. I’m not keen on getting soaked.”

  Ahead several yards a stake pounded in the ground held a wooden sign shaped like an arrow. He urged Rosie to the crossroads and read the sign—Stockton, 2 miles. The arrow pointed to a narrow, winding road.

  He chewed the inside of  his cheek. Rosie could carry him another two miles without taxing her too much. Should he go to Stockton? When he’d first set out, he determined to avoid towns. Being seen in towns meant leaving a trail. The fewer towns he visited, the harder it would be for his cousins to track him. But he could find a place out of the weather to bed down for the night in Stockton. There’d also be a general merchandise store. The jerked beef and cornbread that Aunt Lula gave him was long gone, and this morning’s breakfast of  fresh-caught fish, although tasty and plenty filling at the time, hadn’t lasted past noon. His stomach writhed with hunger.

  If  he spent the night in Stockton, he could use some of the money jingling in his pocket for supplies, maybe enough to carry him for the remainder of  his journey. Then he could go back to staying off established roads and avoiding towns. Thunder rumbled again, a threatening sound. His stomach growled and then cramped. He winced. If  he didn’t visit a town at all, he might starve to death. Showing himself to a mercantile owner was a risk he’d have to take. He needed a shelter for the night, and he needed ready supplies, or he’d waste valuable time hunting, fishing, or foraging.

  He touched his heels to Rosie’s sides. “C’mon, girl. Let’s head in to Stockton.”

  Rosie bobbed her head, snorted, and broke into her steady, even canter. They reached the edge of  Stockton as dusk brushed the horizon pink and fat raindrops began to fall. Theo folded his jacket collar around his neck and tugged his hat over his ears. Rosie, her head low, carried him along the row of  buildings. Theo passed a stone bank, a false-fronted restaurant where the smell of  biscuits and fried meat nearly turned his belly inside out, and a brick hardware store before spotting the Stockton Mercantile. Lanterns still glowed inside, and the screened front door was propped open with a brick.

  “Whoa, girl.” He slid down from his worn saddle and looped Rosie’s reins over the rail running along the raised boardwalk. He darted underneath the porch overhang and removed his hat. He slapped it against his pant leg, sending water droplets in all directions, then plopped it back over his hair. Finally he entered the store.

  The floorboards creaked, announcing his presence, but nobody welcomed him, so he called out, “Hello, anybody here?”

  A skinny man wearing a cobbler apron over his clothes scuttled from a back corner of the cluttered store. The man came straight at Theo, his gaze roving from Theo’s scuffed boots to his water-stained hat. “Hey, there, stranger. It’s closin’ time. I was just fixin’ to lock up.”

  Thunder boomed, rattling the windows. The fellow was probably eager to get home where he’d be safe from the storm. Theo offered an apologetic grimace. “Sorry to keep you, but I’m needing supplies for the road. Was hopin’ you could help me.”

  The man scratched his chin, seeming to probe Theo with his narrowed gaze. Then he sighed. “You do look a little down an’ out. I reckon I can help you. C’mon over here.” He moved to the far side of the counter, and Theo stepped close. “Supplies for the road, you say? How long a journey?”

  Theo did a quick mental calculation. “Another four, five weeks.”

  The man glanced outside. “Don’t see a wagon. You on horseback?”

  Theo nodded.

  He huffed. “Son, you can’t carry a month’s worth of supplies on the back of a horse. How about enough vittles to holdja for a couple weeks? It’ll be a heap easier for your animal to pack. That seem agreeable?”

  It’d probably be easier on his money supply, too. Theo nodded.

  “All right then. Let’s see, you’ll need flour—no, let’s do cornmeal instead. Some salt, saleratus, bacon. If you use the drippings from the bacon, you won’t have to carry lard…” Rain pattered on the roof, occasional claps of thunder intruding as the man bustled from shelf to shelf, gathering items. “You got a fry pan or somethin’ to cook in?”

  Theo had speared the fish with a stick and held it over the flame. He shook his head.

  “Gonna need a fry pan, then, too.” He hurried from behind the counter and retrieved a cast-iron skillet from a table covered with pots and pans. “Smallest one I got—perfect for a fella travelin’ alone.”

  The pile on the counter grew. Examining it all, Theo understood why Rosie would have trouble carrying enough supplies for a month. He fingered the coins in his pocket, worry nibbling at his empty gut. How much would all this cost? He wished he’d paid more attention when he helped Aunt Lula with the Saturday shopping.

  Finally the mercantile owner flopped a cloth bag of dried apples on top of the stack and brushed his palms together. “All right, let’s see what you owe me.” He applied the stub of a pencil to a pad of paper, muttering. At last he slapped the pencil down and announced, “Four dollars an’ seventy-six cents. Let’s drop the penny an’ make it an even four dollars and six bits.”

  Blowing out a breath of relief, Theo counted out the money and placed it in the man’s palm. “There you are. An’ thank you for staying open for me. I appreciate it.”

  “You’re welcome, although I’ll probably catch fire when I get home late for supper. My wife’s a stickler for punctuality.” He chuckled. “You’d think after twenty-two years of marriage she’d figure out there ain’t a man alive who can keep to a woman’s schedule.”

  Theo couldn’t refute or support such a claim. He hefted the sack of supplies over his shoulder and headed for the door. Before stepping outside, he paused. “My horse and me need a place to bed down out of the rain. Is there someplace in town we could stay the night?”

  The man slowly sauntered toward Theo, his face puckered into a thoughtful scowl. “There’s a hotel up the street, but o’ course they won’t welcome your horse inside. Or you can ask at the livery on the east edge of town. Quite a few drifters pay two bits to lay their heads in a pile of  hay.”

  Another two bits? Theo sighed. “Thanks, mister.” He started to step off the porch.

  “Hold up there a minute.” The mercantile owner gave Theo another long, steady stare. “Now, this ain’t somethin’ I do every day, an’ if my wife knew, she’d come after me with a broom, but I’m gonna do it anyway.”

  Rain pounded the porch’s tin roof and formed puddles on the dirt street. Theo was eager to get going, but curiosity held him in place.

  “There’s a lean-to on the back o’ my store, where I keep empty crates an’ such until I chop ’em up for kindling. It’s not much, probably even sadder than the place the innkeeper sent Mary an’ Joseph to when they were huntin’ a room, but it’ll keep the rain off your head at least. You’re welcome to take your horse an’ bed down in it tonight.”

  Theo gawked at the man, stunned by his kindness. He choked out, “Th-thank you. But why?”

  A funny grin appeared on the mercantile owner’s face. He shrugged. “Don’t rightly know. I reckon it’d press on my conscience if  I sent you out on a night like this.” Then he frowned and pointed at Theo. “Don’t you betray my trust by bustin’ into the mercantile durin’ the night an’ robbin’ the place, you hear?”

  “No, sir!”

  His expression relaxed. “All right then. Just go through the alleyway here. Rest good tonight, Mister…Mister…” He tipped his head. “Say, I didn’t catch your name.”

  Theo smiled. “
Good night, sir.” He grabbed Rosie’s reins and pulled her through the alley.

  Fairland, Kansas

  Bess Kirby

  Bess tied her bonnet strings beneath her left ear in a jaunty bow, checked her reflection to be sure no flour spatters decorated the sleeves or skirt of her green calico dress—sometimes her apron didn’t catch everything—and then, satisfied with her appearance, headed out the front door of  her house. With nary a pause, she clipped across the porch boards on the soles of  her freshly buffed black lace-up shoes, down the wide steps, and onto the flat rock pathway leading to the street. She hummed as she went.

  Moving from the shaded porch to the sunshine always made her smile. Her boarders claimed the porch a cheerful place with its spindled railing all the way around and a half-dozen rocking chairs inviting a body to take a rest, and Bess didn’t disagree. After all, her dear Sam had insisted their house have a porch big enough that she, he, and all the grandchildren they’d have someday could gather with room to spare. He’d always been one for looking ahead with confidence, and the porch proved it. So she treasured the porch. But she couldn’t resist sunshine. And spring was the best time to collect sunbeams.

  So she shifted the bonnet to the back of  her head, tilted her chin to catch the rays, and made her way up Fairland Avenue toward Main Street. As she went, she admired the tender sprigs of green grass carpeting the town square, imagining the fine picnic she and the ladies of the social committee had planned. There’d be no watermelons, of course. It was too early for melons. But Regina Pritchard promised to bring ice cream, Viola Schmucker was baking a half dozen mouth-watering pecan pies, and Ione Hidde committed to baking no less than four chocolate cakes.

  Bess pressed her gloved fingers to her mouth to hold back a giggle. With so much sugar coursing through their veins, the congregants would probably bounce in the pews the next morning. Or snore. If they didn’t scare away the new preacher, it would be as much a miracle as the water turning into wine, but she had no intention of changing their plans. Everyone knew dear Reverend Cristler had a sweet tooth, and they would indulge him with his favorites.