Reverend Cristler cradled her hand between his wide palms and chuckled, ducking his head in a gesture of humility. “Thank you, Mrs. Kirby. You’ve always had a way of making me feel appreciated.” His gaze lifted toward the rows of pews momentarily before settling on her again. “It’s comforting to know how supportive the people of Fairland Gospel Church are to their minister. Our new pastor is a very fortunate young man to be able to become part of such a warm and loving congregation.”
Her hand was getting overly warm in his grasp, but she didn’t pull away. “I was thinking about him, too, and said a little prayer that folks will be patient with him as he learns to fill the pulpit. Chances are a young, inexperienced preacher is going to seem sorely lacking after our years of listening to your well-executed sermons.”
She flicked a look at Grace, noting the worry lines on the young woman’s brow. She offered Grace a smile. “I’m sure all will go well for him. As you said, Reverend, this is a warm and loving congregation.” He was a warm and loving preacher, too. He still hadn’t released her hand.
Bess swallowed a titter. “I should get to the boardinghouse. My boarders are probably sitting around the table right now, wondering when their dinner will appear.”
Reverend Cristler stepped back, abruptly releasing her. Color stained his cheeks above his neatly trimmed gray beard. “My apologies, Mrs. Kirby. I’ve prevented you from seeing to your responsibilities.” He began another slow perusal of the room. “Just because I’m finding it difficult to leave doesn’t mean I should delay you as well.” Sadness tingeing his features, he aimed a smile at her. “You and your Sam were among the first people in the area to join the Fairland Gospel Church. Do you remember?”
Bess couldn’t hold back a short laugh. “Oh, my, yes. You baptized us in the creek. In November. I decided then and there, only the most sincere of believers would submit to such a treatment, so I was most certainly saved for all eternity.” She sniffed and blinked to clear the moisture clouding her vision. “But it was worth it. For both Sam and me. We grew and changed so much under your leadership.”
She’d told everybody to leave, that they could have their say on the day of the picnic, but now she couldn’t seem to stop talking. “And you’ve been there for me during the worst times in my life—burying our newborn twin girls, then burying Sam after the runaway horses trampled him.” He took her hand again, and she placed her other hand over his, finding comfort anew in his strong, tender grip. “Of course, you’ve been there for the joyous times, too—helping me open the boardinghouse and now giving me the privilege of hosting the new preacher.”
He smiled, his tawny-brown eyes glowing. “I couldn’t entrust our new preacher to better hands. The fellowship and care he’ll receive at your boardinghouse will be refreshment for his soul. I have no doubt.”
“Thank you for your confidence in me, Revered Cristler.”
He squeezed her hand, released it, and then slipped his hands into his jacket pockets. “People will have to stop calling me Reverend and begin calling me by my given name, Philemon.” He chuckled again, shaking his head. “That will be…strange.”
No matter what everybody else did, she would always call him Reverend. Anything else would seem indecent after so many years. Unexpectedly, a niggle of regret teased her heart. She inched toward the door.
“I need to get home now, but…” An idea popped into her head. “Do you have something waiting in your oven?”
“We usually eat cold sandwiches on Sundays.” Grace’s cheeks flushed pink. “I know it sounds lazy, but Sunday mornings are so hectic, readying ourselves and the church for service. But I make sure Uncle Philemon has a hot breakfast before he preaches.”
Bess clicked her tongue on her teeth. Why hadn’t she ever invited them before? “Well then, please join my other boarders and me for Easter dinner.”
The reverend’s eyebrows shot high. “Are you sure you want two more around the table? You already feed…how many?”
“Five. Plus myself.” They both appeared uncertain. If the reverend was anything like the men staying in her boardinghouse, she knew how to convince him. “I’ve got ham, roasted potatoes and carrots, fresh bread, relishes, and three kinds of pies waiting. That is”—she cringed—“if it all isn’t burned to a crisp by now. If you’re willing to risk it, follow me home and have a seat in the dining room.”
Reverend Cristler and Grace exchanged a look. Grace shrugged, and the minister nodded. He turned to Bess. “Mrs. Kirby, we appreciate your kind invitation, and we gladly accept. In fact, even if everything is burned to a crisp, we will eat it without complaining, and we’ll help with the dishes afterward.”
Bess laughed. She couldn’t help it. Happiness bubbled up and out. “I’ve never allowed a man in my kitchen, and I’m not about to start now, but I will take Grace’s help.” She looped arms with the young woman and quirked her fingers at the preacher. “Come along then. We’d better hurry. Because if we don’t, Mr. Swain will rummage through the cupboards until he finds the pies, and there won’t be a slice left for anyone else.”
Reverend Cristler turned one more look of longing toward the front of the sanctuary, toward the pulpit and the wooden cross hanging on the wall behind it. Then he released a deep sigh, gave a nod, and moved in her direction. “By all means, let’s hurry.”
Grace
By the end of dinner at the Kirby dining table, Grace had decided, when she had her own house, she would invite guests to enjoy a meal at her table as often as possible. Mrs. Kirby’s graciousness, her attention to each person in attendance, built a desire inside her to emulate the woman’s hospitality. As Mrs. Kirby had said about caring for the big old tomcat, whatever was done for the least of these was the same as serving Jesus. The desire to serve Jesus created a lovely ache in the center of her soul. She told Mrs. Kirby as much as they readied the dishes for washing while Uncle Philemon visited with the boarders in the parlor.
The woman paused to cup Grace’s cheeks and smile at her. “Why, Grace, you’ve been blessed with the gift of servanthood. I’ve long suspected it, seeing how you care for your uncle and attend to those who come to the post office. But hearing you say it out loud lets me know for sure. I’m so happy for you.”
Grace couldn’t stop smiling. She scraped bits from a bar of soap into the hot wash water. “I watched you today, and I watched your boarders. You were so attentive and kind to all of them. And they were all so relaxed and comfortable at your table. That’s what I want to be—attentive and kind. That’s how I want people to feel when they visit my house—relaxed, comfortable, as if they’re really, really welcome there.”
An unexpected worry struck. She paused and sent Mrs. Kirby a questioning look. “Aunt Wilhelmina never invited people to our house for a meal. Do you suppose it’s because Uncle Philemon—being caught up in his ministry—didn’t want the interruption? Or perhaps my aunt was already overly taxed, being his helpmeet. I wonder if I will be too—”
She closed her mouth and swallowed the question quivering on the end of her tongue. If she allowed it to escape, she would let Mrs. Kirby know she already viewed herself as Rufus Dille’s wife and partner in ministry. The whole town might be speculating, but she couldn’t let them know how badly she wanted their suppositions to be true. How would she survive the humiliation if Rufus changed his mind about being her Rufus after meeting her?
Mrs. Kirby set a plate on the floor for Sammy-Cat and crossed to the washstand. “I won’t begin to pretend I know about your uncle’s preferences. But I knew your aunt pretty well. Please don’t think I’m criticizing her, because I’m not. Wilhelmina was one of the most giving people I ever met. And organized! My goodness, I think she could have served as president of the United States and kept the entire country in order.”
Grace grinned, imagining her aunt with a white wig and tricorn hat like George Washington.
“But she was also very…high-strung. That’s probably why you rarely s
aw guests at your dinner table. She wanted everything to be perfect at all times, and she put so much time and effort into keeping the church spotless, leading different service projects in the community, supporting your uncle, and taking care of you, there wasn’t time left over for what she considered entertainment.” Mrs. Kirby sighed. “She did everything with a sincere heart, but sometimes I think she forgot to enjoy herself.”
She waggled her finger at Grace. “When you’re a preacher’s wife, remember you don’t have to be serious all the time. You can have fun while you’re serving.”
“When you’re a preacher’s wife…” Grace quickly returned her attention to the dishes. She scrubbed three plates and several bowls before the lump in her throat had cleared enough for her to speak again. “Mrs. Kirby?”
The woman was using a length of toweling to dry the clean dishes. She barely glanced at Grace. “Hmm?”
“How long did Mr. Kirby court you before he asked you to marry him?”
The woman’s eyes widened, and she stilled for several seconds.
Grace bit her lip. She’d offended her hostess. Years ago she had asked Aunt Wilhelmina a similar question and had been told quite bluntly not to ask presumptuous questions. But if she didn’t ask, how would she know what to expect? Many of her friends had enjoyed a full year of courting before they announced their betrothals. But her friends had been younger, not already considered an old maid. Grace didn’t have years to spare. Still, she should have thought before she asked such an intimate question.
“I’m sorry if I insulted you by asking.”
Mrs. Kirby slung the damp towel over her shoulder, plopped the plate on a sideboard, and pulled Grace away from the dry sink to a small worktable in the middle of the kitchen. She sat and drew Grace down beside her. “Dear girl, you didn’t insult me. You gave me a gift.”
Grace frowned. “A gift?”
“Of course. Do you know how many people ask me about Sam?”
“No, ma’am.”
“This is how many.” Mrs. Kirby formed a zero with her thumb and forefinger. She shook her head, the glimmer of happiness in her eyes dimming. “I think they’re afraid talking about him will make me feel sad. But talking about him gives me joy. Talking about him helps me remember him. If people ask about him, then I know they remember him, too. So never feel guilty about talking about my Sam.”
Grace sagged in relief. “Thank you.”
“Now, you wondered about our courtship?”
Grace nodded and leaned in, eager to hear what Mrs. Kirby would say. She’d overheard her uncle mention that Sam Kirby and Bess were already in their early thirties when they met and fell in love. Surely Mrs. Kirby’s experience would tell Grace what to expect.
“Would you be shocked if I told you Sam and I had only known each other for seven weeks when we stood before a preacher and recited our wedding vows?”
Grace’s mouth dropped open.
Mrs. Kirby laughed. “Shall I shock you even more? I would have married him after seven days. That’s how sure I was about him. But it took him a little longer.” She released a girlish giggle that didn’t match her snow-white hair and gently lined face. “He said I was so spirited, so full of life, he didn’t know if he could manage to subdue me long enough to put a ring on my finger. I suppose he was right in some ways. I’d been too busy to think about marriage.”
She glanced toward the doorway leading to the dining room, as if reassuring herself they were alone, and then whispered, “I was a missionary before he and I met.”
This woman was full of surprises. “You were?”
“Mm-hm. At an Indian reservation.” She smoothed her apron over her knees, her head low. “I don’t tell very many people about that. Lots of folks turn their noses up at the ones they call heathen redskins.” Her gaze collided with Grace’s. Defensiveness glittered in her gray-blue eyes. “But they don’t know the native people the way I do. I can tell you, Grace, they are a noble people, very religious, but very lost because they didn’t worship the true God. So I went to the reservation when I was twenty-one years old, and I stayed for ten years, teaching them English and telling them about Jesus. I’d still be there, I suppose, if Sam Kirby hadn’t driven a delivery wagon through the reservation gates and stolen my heart.”
“How did you know, for sure, he was meant to be your beau?”
“Oh, my dear Grace…” She sighed. For a moment tears glistened in her eyes. “If you stay in close fellowship with the Father, when He brings the right person into your life, you’ll know. Down deep inside you’ll know. I can’t explain it any other way.”
The closing words from Rufus’s last letter to her whispered through Grace’s memory. “I am sincerely yours…” Her heart began to pound in double beats, and she placed her hands over her bodice. She smiled. “Thank you, Mrs. Kirby.”
The woman smiled, too, her expression so warm and filled with understanding that Grace was certain she saw Grace’s hopefulness. “You’re welcome. Now, shall we finish these dishes and join the others in the parlor for a bit of relaxation and conversation? Sunday is supposed to be a day of rest, you know.”
Lexington, Missouri
Theo
For the first time since he set out from Cooperville two weeks ago, Theo’s stomach wasn’t tied in knots. He kept his gaze aimed at the gently rolling road laid out before him instead of constantly peeking over his shoulder. And—most telling of all—he caught himself whistling, a sure sign of lightheartedness.
The wagon’s wheels hit a rut, bouncing him on the seat and turning his tune into a grunt. He righted himself, then picked up the song where he’d left off—midway through one of Granny Iva’s favorite hymns, “Fairest Lord Jesus.” The folks Doc Wollard rounded up for Rufus Dille’s burial had sung it next to the grave, and the tune had played in his head ever since.
Was it disrespectful to be so carefree when it had taken a man’s death to erase his worries? He clamped his lips together and stilled the song. Yesterday afternoon a dozen or so members of the doc’s church joined the Wollards and Theo under a trio of hickory trees at the back corner of their church’s cemetery for a simple farewell ceremony. The preacher who never got a chance to deliver a sermon now lay in an unmarked grave shaded by those hickories. His final request for someone to deliver a message to Grace Cristler of Fairland, Kansas, put Theo on a road sure to keep him safe from his cousins.
After the burial Theo and the doc had spent time poring over a map, planning his course. The journey would take him far from the usual roads between western Missouri and central Iowa. By waiting until Sunday to head out, he allowed himself a full week to reach Fairland and gave Claight, Earl, and Wilton extra time to reach Iowa ahead of him.
He and the doc reasoned his cousins would most likely ride into Bird’s Nest while Theo was still in Kansas. Instead of retracing his path to Lexington and then going north, as he’d originally planned, he’d take a different route, riding north until he hit the border between Kansas and Iowa, cross the river there, and work his way east to Bird’s Nest. He probably wouldn’t reach Bird’s Nest until the end of April.
Knowing his cousins the way he did, he was sure they wouldn’t be patient enough to stay around and watch for him. By then, they’d figure they missed him somehow and would go back to Cooperville, hoping to locate him on the return trip. Then maybe, hopefully, they’d decide to stay there with their ma instead of hunting him.
Whether they’d stay put in Cooperville or not, at least for now he was safe, and being safe gave him blessed peace, something he couldn’t recall having in ages. As much as he mourned Rufus Dille’s senseless death—a memory of the man would always hover in the back of his mind—he wouldn’t rue the great relief in being able to set aside his worry, even if it was temporary, about being caught. He felt like a new man, sitting high on the wagon seat, wearing a clean set of clothes thanks to Mrs. Wollard’s kindness in washing them, and bearing a cal
m attitude.
He flicked the reins, stirring the plodding horses into picking up their feet, and began whistling again.
Fairland, Kansas
Grace
Grace placed her hand in the bend of her uncle’s elbow as they walked home from the boardinghouse. Springtime weather in Kansas was as changeable as a wealthy woman’s wardrobe, but this year Easter Sunday had dawned calm, dry, and pleasantly cool—Grace’s favorite kind of day, regardless of the season. The beautiful weather, combined with the memory of such sweet fellowship with Mrs. Kirby, brought a smile to her lips, and she couldn’t resist squeezing Uncle Philemon’s arm in a little hug of contentment.
He glanced at her. “Are you chilly, my dear? I’ll lend you my jacket.”
“My shawl is protection enough. It’s very pleasant this afternoon.” She pulled in a full breath of the scented air. “And it’s starting to smell like summer already.”
He chuckled. “What does summer smell like?”
“Sunshine and roses.”
He patted her hand, his indulgent smile intact. “Ah, Grace, I’d never considered that sunshine might have an aroma. I suppose I’ll have to explore that when summer arrives.”
“You can explore it now. Look at the sun shining brightly. Take a big whiff and sample it for yourself.”
With another chuckle he closed his lips and breathed deeply, his nostrils flaring. Then he stopped, bent forward, and released a mighty sneeze. He straightened and reached for the handkerchief in his jacket pocket, laughing. “I suppose I’ll leave the ‘big whiffs’ to you from now on. They don’t seem fond of me.”
Grace smiled. She liked his teasing mood. Especially today, when he could have been downhearted, considering he had finished his time of service at the church. The hours with Mrs. Kirby and her boarders had obviously relaxed him.
He wiped his nose, tucked the handkerchief back where it belonged, and stuck out his elbow. She caught hold, and they began moving along the edge of the road, their feet stirring dust. A robin, one of spring’s harbingers, swooped from a tree and landed in the grass nearby. It tipped its head and watched them pass, its bright eyes and alert bearing bringing another rush of happiness through Grace’s frame.
Grace and the Preacher Page 9