Grace and the Preacher

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  She waved Mr. Lunger on his way and busied herself  filling the mail cubbies. Every creak of a wagon’s wheel sent her to the window, her heart pounding in expectation, but closing time came, and she still hadn’t seen Rufus. She battled tears as she locked the post office and trudged for home. Halfway there a hopeful thought brought her to a halt.

  Maybe when he rode into town he’d spotted the boardinghouse and stopped there first. Mrs. Kirby would have told him Grace planned to visit in the evening, so he might have decided to settle in there and wait for her to arrive.

  The prospect of  finding Rufus at Mrs. Kirby’s house gave her feet wings. She dashed the remainder of the distance home. Uncle Philemon would have to be satisfied with a cold supper. She wanted to get to Mrs. Kirby’s as quickly as possible.

  Bess

  Bess circled the dining room table and poured tea in her favorite lilac-painted teacups for the social committee ladies. When they each had an aromatic, steaming cup precisely to the right of their dessert plates, she handed around a small serving platter of gingersnaps stacked in a pyramid. Fortunately Mr. Swain, the dear toothless man, couldn’t bite through the crisp cookies, or she’d have nothing to share.

  She swallowed a chortle. Belker Swain was as relentless as a child when it came to seeking out sweets. She hoped he wouldn’t find the stash of oatmeal cookies she’d hidden in a clean pickle crock in the cellar, or Reverend Cristler would have to do without his favorite treat.

  She filled her own cup and then settled into the chair at the head of table. “Now, then, Viola, would you please open our meeting with prayer?”

  The front-door buzzer intruded.

  Bess rose. “Go ahead and pray. Then you all can enjoy your tea while it’s hot. I’ll be right back.” Before the women had a chance to bow their heads, she exited the dining room and hurried to the door. She smiled when she found Grace on the porch. “Come right in, dear. I didn’t expect you quite so early, but you’re just in time to share a cup of tea and some gingersnaps with the ladies.”

  Grace stepped across the threshold and stopped on the little patch of parquet tiles. Her gaze flitted left and right, and she clung to the tails of  her shawl as if she feared a stout wind would rob her of the covering. “Is he here?” The question emerged on a breathless note. Had she run the distance between her house and Bess’s?

  Bess took Grace’s elbow and pulled her fully into the foyer, then closed the door behind her. She looked into the girl’s drawn face, and worry made her pulse scurry like mice escaping Sammy-Cat. “Your uncle was here most of the afternoon, chopping away with a hoe at my garden plot, but he left around the time I started supper preparations—between four and four thirty.”

  He should have been home by now. Where could the man have gone? Philemon had seemed in fine spirits when he left, but underneath he might be in the throes of despondency instead. Men were experts at hiding their true feelings.

  “I’m not seeking Uncle Philemon.”

  Grace’s tart response stole the worry so quickly Bess’s knees nearly gave way. She pursed her lips at the girl for frightening her so. “Well, then who?”

  “Rufus Dille. Isn’t he here yet?”

  Bess blew out a breath that ended with a slight chuckle. “Lands, Grace, you gave my old heart a scare. I feared—” It didn’t matter what she’d feared. Grace was still rolling in worry, and she needed assurance. “Dear one, you’re worrying unnecessarily.”

  Tears swam in the girl’s eyes, deepening the green flecks in her irises. “He said he’d be here between the eleventh and the thirteenth. It’s now the fourteenth, and he still hasn’t arrived. Do you think he changed his mind about coming?”

  Bess slipped her arm around Grace’s waist and drew her into the parlor. Thank goodness her boarders had chosen to sit on the porch and enjoy the evening air. She and Grace needed privacy. She handed the young woman the handkerchief she’d tucked beneath the cuff of  her sleeve that morning. “Dab your eyes.”

  She waited for Grace to obey, then she took hold of the girl’s wrists. “You’re borrowing worry. Reverend Dille is traveling all the way from Bowling Green. That’s clear on the other side of  Missouri from the Kansas border. Any number of things could delay his arrival.”

  Grace’s eyes flooded again. “Do you think bandits waylaid him?”

  This poor girl was so smitten she couldn’t think straight. Bess gave Grace’s wrists a little jerk. “His wagon could have broken an axle. One of  his horses might have thrown a shoe. Perhaps a stream flooded and he had to seek a different place to cross. He’s only one day late. It’s too early to fret.”

  Grace’s chin quivered. Twin tears slid down her cheeks. “I can’t help it. He’s my only—”

  She didn’t have to complete the sentence for Bess to understand. How many times had she looked in the little cracked mirror in her hut on the reservation and wondered if she was too old for love to find her? But then came Sam, and they’d enjoyed nearly twenty years of  laughter and tears, toil and play, the things of  living and loving.

  Grace wasn’t nearly as old as Bess had been before she found her God-chosen love, but the girl was old enough to worry about being left out of marriage, children, the wonder of sharing her life with someone. But she shouldn’t be looking at Reverend Dille as her only chance. One should never limit God’s plans for His children.

  Bess slid her hands to Grace’s upper arms and held tight. “If  Rufus Dille is meant to be the new minister of  Fairland Gospel Church, then God will bring him here. Nothing—no broken wagon, no poor roads, not even a whole gang of  bandits—can prevent God’s plan from seeing fulfillment. So stop your worry, Grace. Trust instead.”

  “I—I’ll try.”

  Bess angled her head and peered at Grace over the top of  her spectacles. “Young woman, I hope you’ll do more than try. I hope you’ll pray and release these concerns, as well as your own desperate plans, to God’s keeping.”

  Grace’s face glowed pink. “W-what do you mean ‘desperate plans’?”

  “If you’ve fixed your heart on Rufus Dille because you view him as your last opportunity for courtship, you might be forcing a relationship that was never meant to be. In so doing, you’ll sacrifice the life God planned for you.” She gave Grace’s shoulders a squeeze and then folded her arms across her chest. “In my opinion, there’s no sadder life than one that’s out of step with God’s will.”

  The girl lowered her head, bit her lower lip, and stood in silence. There was more Bess wanted to say, but she held her tongue, letting Grace think. In those quiet moments she sent up a prayer for the Father to give this frightened, confused young woman peace and discernment.

  Finally Grace turned her watery gaze on Bess. “Thank you for your wise counsel. I know now why Uncle Philemon thinks so highly of you.”

  He did? Fire erupted in Bess’s cheeks.

  “As you’ve no doubt already surmised, I have fallen in love with Rufus Dille through his letters.” She dropped her voice to a raspy whisper and hunched her shoulders, as if trying to make herself as small and unobtrusive as possible. “But perhaps I’ve allowed my imagination to build our relationship to more than it’s meant to be.”

  She drew in a shuddering breath and squared her shoulders. “I’ll try to set aside my own desires and remember that God’s plans are best. Even if  it means…if  it means…”—she swallowed—“spending the rest of my life taking care of  Uncle Philemon instead of my own family.” Her eyes turned moist again. “But is it wrong to want something…more?”

  Bess gathered her thoughts. Grace hadn’t asked a flippant question, and she deserved an honest reply even if  it might sting a little. “I don’t suppose it’s wrong to share our desires and hopes with the Father. He knows our every thought, so nothing we tell Him can catch Him unaware. But I think we need to exercise caution. You see, when we tell God ‘I want this instead of that,’ what we’re really saying is, ‘I don’t believe You know w
hat is best for me.’ And that’s a dangerous thing to say to the Almighty God.”

  Grace nodded, her expression serious. “I believe Uncle Philemon would tell me the same thing if  I had the courage to ask him. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” Bess smiled and slipped her arm through Grace’s elbow. “Now, let’s take your mind off your troubles, hmm? There are three ladies in my dining room eating cookies, drinking tea, and probably wondering what has happened to their hostess. Shall we join them and finalize the picnic plans?”

  “Yes, ma’am. But first, could we pray? For Reverend Dille’s protection.”

  “Will that make you feel better?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “All right then.” Bess bowed her head.

  At the mouth of the Kansas River

  Theo

  Theo propped his elbows on his knees and let his head hang low. Fairland was so close. Only four miles west. But first he had to cross the river. On the shabbiest bridge he’d ever seen.

  “Well, mister, you gonna gimme your ten cents to cross the bridge or not?” The man standing guard, dressed in britches with so many patches they resembled a quilt and a filthy shirt with toothpicks jammed through the fabric where buttons should be, looked as ill-kempt as the bridge itself.

  Theo gave the bridge another examination and cringed. “How far upriver to another bridge?”

  The man snatched off  his battered hat and whapped his thigh twice. “I tol’ you already. Seb’n miles to the next bridge. You wantin’ to get to Fairland?”

  Theo nodded. “Need to be there before Sunday.” The day the folks in the community expected to see Reverend Dille step behind the pulpit for the first time.

  “Well, then, this’s where you wanna cross.” He waved the hat in the direction of the bridge. “I he’ped build this thing myself. Been over it least a hunnerd times an’ nary had a trouble. ’Course, since it ain’t got rails on the sides an’ since dark is fallin’, you might wanna wait ’til mornin’. Just to be certain one o’ them wagon wheels don’t slide off the side into the water. Only happened a time or two, an’ only at dark. Crossin’ in sunshine’s smarter.”

  Theo scratched his chin. Crossing at Lawrence seemed the smartest. A big city like that would have a better bridge. But it would take almost a full day to reach Lawrence, then another to backtrack to Fairland, and by then the Sunday service would be over, and a whole church full of people would be trying to figure out what happened to their preacher. He had to get there before Sunday, or poor Reverend Dille would roll over in his grave.

  “I guess I’ll wait until morning then.” Theo sat up straight and peered around. A little house with smoke rising from an iron pipe in the roof and a lean-to shelter stood nestled next to the rise on the land. “That your place?”

  The man nodded. He hooked his thumbs in the pockets of  his trousers and beamed a gap-toothed smile. “Built it, too, ’bout twenty years back. Had me a ferry then. Toted folks back an’ forth across the river. Then my brothers an’ me got wise an’ built this bridge. Now all I gotta do is sit an’ watch ’stead o’ goin’ back an’ forth, back an’ forth all day.”

  Theo raised one eyebrow. “Been busy here?”

  He shrugged. “Busy as I wanna be. Well…”—he plopped his hat on his head and set off  in the direction of the house, dragging his heels across the uneven ground—“if you’re gonna wait ’til mornin’, reckon I’ll turn in.” He jolted to a stop and pointed at Theo. “But don’t be tryin’ to sneak across without payin’ your ten cents. I been known to set the law on folks that steal across my bridge.”

  “I won’t steal across.” Theo hopped down and moved to the rear of the wagon where Rosie tapped the ground with one front hoof, her head low. He cupped her chin and called after the man. “Is there someplace I can bed down for the night? In your lean-to, maybe?”

  A grin creased the man’s whiskery face. He returned to the wagon. “Why, sure, mister. You an’ your animals can make use o’ my barn. Won’t even charge ya none for puttin’ you up for the night.”

  “That’s neighborly of you.”

  “Why, sure. Got some hay an’ oats in there, too, if you wanna treat your horses.”

  “I’m sure they’d like that.” Theo rubbed Rosie’s chin. “They’ve been eating grass along the roadsides every evening.”

  “Well, then, better let ’em dip their heads in a bucket o’ oats, seein’ as how I don’t got grass growin’ around my place.”

  “Thank you. I will.”

  The man’s grin turned conniving. “Oats’re five cents per bucket. Never seen nobody come through here with two horses pullin’ an’ another’n pushin’.” He laughed and gave Rosie’s rear flank a smack.

  Theo forced a chuckle. He didn’t much care for this gentleman, but it seemed they were stuck with each other for the night. He dug in his pocket, found a dime and a nickel, and handed over the coins. “Thanks.”

  The man pocketed the money as fast as a striking snake. “I’ll check on ya when the sun comes up. You sleep good now.” He sauntered to the house and closed himself  inside.

  Theo climbed back on the wagon seat and guided the horses to the lean-to. It took a while to get them all unhitched and into the little shelter. Finally the horses were settled, each with a bucket of oats, and Theo rummaged in the back of the wagon for Rufus Dille’s bedroll. As he lifted it out, he noticed the bridge owner watching him from a window in the ramshackle house. The man’s narrowed gaze made gooseflesh pop out on Theo’s frame.

  The man raised his hand in farewell.

  Shakily Theo returned the gesture.

  Then the lamp went out behind the window, plunging the room into darkness.

  Theo stared at the dark window for several minutes, but he didn’t detect any movement. Rosie nickered and he jumped. He grabbed one of the valises to use as a pillow. With the bedroll tucked under one arm and the valise smacking against his leg, he darted for the lean-to. He dropped the items in the thin layer of old straw covering the dirt floor and curled his arm around Rosie’s neck. He clung, finding comfort in the animal’s warm, sleek hide.

  He whispered, “Got a funny feelin’ in the pit of my stomach, Rosie, ol’ girl. Sure wish Granny Iva was still alive. Back when I was little, if  I got spooked by somethin’, she’d pray for me, and I always felt better.” Granny Iva had told him he could talk to God anytime, but Theo had put off praying when Uncle Smithers shamed him into setting aside his Bible reading.

  Longing swept over him to tell his worry to God, the way he could have told it to Granny Iva. But she was long dead, and after all these years God had probably forgotten Theophil Garrison even lived down here on the earth.

  He stretched out between Rosie and the rough wood wall, but he didn’t close his eyes. He unsheathed his knife, gripped it in his fist, and determined to stay awake all night.

  Theo

  Theo growled under his breath and examined the area where he’d left the wagon the evening before. In the pale-pink light of dawn, he made out three different sets of  boot prints crisscrossing each other. How could he have slept so soundly that he didn’t hear somebody taking off with Mr. Dille’s wagon and horses? He followed the grooves carved by the wagon wheels past the house and up the hill. He stopped, fists on his hips, and glared across the rocky landscape.

  He stomped back to the house and banged on the door, knife at the ready. Nobody answered. He kicked the door open and burst inside. No one lay in the rumpled cot in the corner. Nobody sat at the table. Theo searched every corner of the small space, but the fellow who’d advised him to spend the night was gone. And was most likely a party to the theft. By now he and his cohorts were miles away or holed up in a hiding spot, laughing at him.

  Fury roared through Theo’s chest. The wagon and horses were worth more than two hundred dollars. All of  Mr. Dille’s belongings were in the bed along with Theo’s extra sets of clothes and the food stores Doc Wollard and his wife gave him. T
he thieves left him with nothing more than Rosie, a mouse-eaten saddle, and a valise. They’d not only stolen nearly everything of value, but they’d also taken his pride and sense of goodwill.

  He jammed his knife into its sheath, saddled Rosie, and climbed on her back. “Let’s chase ’em down, girl, and take our revenge.” He bent forward, reins gripped tight, ready to ride hard. But realization dropped on him like the barn walls caving in.

  He was acting just like his cousins. Hadn’t he spent his whole growing-up time with Aunt Lula and Uncle Smithers trying not to become like his self-serving, uncaring, rabble-rousing cousins? He sagged in the saddle, his head low, and forced himself to be calm, to think.

  It could take days to catch the thieves. If  he caught them at all. He wasn’t familiar with this area, and he suspected they’d pulled this kind of stunt before. They probably had a foolproof  hideaway. There was one of  him and three of them. He had a knife, but what if they had guns? Men who’d sneak off with another fellow’s belongings under the cover of darkness wouldn’t want to be exposed. They’d likely shoot him and leave him to rot without even bothering to put him in a grave.

  And what about his commitment to carry the message of  Reverend Dille’s passing to the folks of  Fairland? Should he set that aside because he’d been gullible and some conscienceless men had taken advantage of  him? As mad as he was, he recognized the futility of trying to chase the robbers. He needed to continue on.

  With a sigh he slid down from the saddle and returned to the lean-to. He opened the valise he’d used to cradle his head and found the stack of  letters from the woman named Grace and two complete sets of  Reverend Dille’s clothes, everything from long johns to string ties. Theo skimmed off  his travel-dusty britches and shirt. He kept his own long johns in place and pulled on a pair of  black trousers, one of the white shirts, and topped it with a black jacket. The clothes were wrinkled, but they didn’t smell like the barn. In fact…He sniffed one of the sleeves. They smelled a little like cloves. He’d never cared much for that scent, but at least he’d be presentable when he reached Fairland.