He rolled his dirty clothes into the bedroll, strapped it and the valise on the back of the saddle, and then took hold of Rosie’s reins. “C’mon, girl, let’s get to the other side of the river.” But before he crossed to the bridge, he guided Rosie to the house.
The warped door hung crooked on its hinges. All kinds of critters, human or not, would find their way inside if he left it that way. Theo shifted the door into position as best he could. With the door secure, he fished a dime from his pocket and dropped it on the square of hard-packed earth in front of the door. He stared at the slim silver coin for a moment, considering putting it back in his pocket. Then he shook his head.
“Theophil Garrison is no thief. Passage is ten cents. So there you are, paid in full.”
He swung himself into the saddle, flicked the reins, and aimed Rosie north. If all went well, he’d reach Fairland by late afternoon.
Fairland, Kansas
A fiddle’s merry tune, laughter, and the good smells of fried chicken, chocolate cake, and fresh bread greeted Theo when Rosie clopped up Fairland’s Main Street. His stomach rolled over in desire, and at the same time dizziness attacked. Riding all day under the sun with nothing more than water from his canteen to fill his stomach left him weak and quivery. He wanted some of that fried chicken.
Tall buildings, most constructed from native stone, blocked the lazily hanging sun and swallowed him up in shadows. But ahead sunlight flowed over a patch of ground absent of buildings. Dozens of wagons crowded along the edge of the sunny patch. And that’s where the cheerful sounds and tempting aromas were located. So he nudged Rosie with his heels and urged her closer.
He came upon a party of some sort. Strips of crinkly paper, some red and some white, were strung on low-hanging tree branches. They reminded him of the cranberry and popcorn strings Granny Iva draped on their Christmas tree, and his lips twitched with a smile of recollection. Red-and-white checked cloths draped over tables waved gently in the evening breeze, but there was no worry about them flying away. They were weighted down with platters and bowls and kettles. His mouth watered, imagining what he’d find if he peeked inside those containers.
Folks spread out everywhere across a grassy square, some lounging on quilts, others seated on chairs obviously borrowed from dining rooms, and still others milling at the tables or in groups on the lawn. The fiddle he’d heard was tucked under the chin of a portly man who sat on the tail of a wagon in the center of the grassy square. Listeners bobbed their heads or clapped along with the music between bites of food.
Theo slid down from the saddle and stood at the edge of the area, toying with Rosie’s reins. She nudged his shoulder, as if telling him to join the party. He wanted to. Hunger gnawed at him, and everyone seemed to be having a good time. It would be mighty fine to be part of it. But he remained rooted in place, watching, wishing, wondering who he should approach with his message.
The fiddler ended his tune, and applause broke out. Theo clapped, too, unable to resist. The man waved his bow over his head in a gesture of thanks, then settled the instrument under his chin again. Before he could start another song, a woman with snow-white hair swept into a fat bun at the nape of her neck and a graceful yet determined stride hurried to the wagon’s edge and offered the man a filled plate. The two of them talked for a bit, both smiling and laughing a little, and then the man set aside his fiddle to take the plate instead.
The woman turned, her smile triumphant, and her gaze whisked across the expanse of grass and attached to Theo. An expression of unmistakable delight broke across her face. She pinched her skirt between her fingers and strode straight at him, her smile never dimming. As she came, others turned to watch her progress. Voices hushed, and by the time she reached him, every person in the square was looking at him, some leaning forward with ears turned in his direction.
She stopped less than two feet from him. Her eyes were pale grayish-blue, the color of the sky right after a storm cleared, and they reflected warmth and genuineness. Theo liked her instantly. Especially liked the way she made him feel as if she was happy to meet him.
She stuck out her hand. “Welcome to Fairland, young man.”
He gave her hand a little shake. “Thank you, ma’am.”
She linked her hands behind her back and continued to beam at him. “I’m Mrs. Bess Kirby, the boardinghouse owner. I have your room all ready, Reverend Dille.”
So the welcome he’d seen on her face wasn’t meant for him after all. He should have known. Nobody’d been happy to see him come to a place since Granny Iva died. He cleared his throat. “Ma’am…”
Mrs. Kirby turned and quirked her fingers at the crowd. “Reverend Cristler, Grace, come over here. Everybody, come meet our new preacher.”
Grace? Theo’s heart started thumping. A tall man with a neatly trimmed gray beard and mustache offered his elbow to a young woman and escorted her across the grass. Townsfolk fell in behind the pair, but he hardly noticed anyone except the woman named Grace. This must be the woman Rufus Dille had held in such high esteem. His mouth went so dry he couldn’t speak. He couldn’t stop staring.
She was slender, the kind of slender Uncle Smithers would have called spindly but what Theo thought of as swanlike. She walked with her head high and her spine straight, but she clung to the man’s arm so tight her fingers lost all color. Did she only pretend to be brave? Her plain green dress was a shade or two darker than the new grass under their feet, and a little wisp of lace circled her neck and drew attention to her heart-shaped face and hazel eyes. She was a comely woman.
As soon as she and the man reached Theo, the man stepped away from her and took hold of Theo’s hand. He shook it long and firmly. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Reverend Dille. We expected you a little sooner. I hope you didn’t run into trouble on the road.”
These people didn’t know even a portion of the trouble Reverend Dille had faced. Theo licked his lips, gathering courage.
Grace seemed to examine Rosie, her face pinched in puzzlement. “Is this your horse?”
Theo nodded.
“I thought you’d arrive by wagon.”
The anger he’d felt that morning when he awakened to find the wagon missing returned. “It got stole.”
The crowd reared back in shock and surprise. Mrs. Kirby gasped. “Oh, my lands! Were you beset by robbers?” She grabbed Grace’s hand, and the two women huddled close.
“No, they didn’t bother me. Just took…everything.” He bobbed his head toward Rosie. “Except my horse and a few clothes.”
Mrs. Kirby and Grace exchanged a look that spoke of a host of emotions. The older woman said, “I’m so glad you weren’t hurt or killed. Many times those who have little regard for others’ belongings also have little regard for God-created life. You’re very blessed to be with us here today.” She touched his arm. “God had His hand of protection on you.”
Theo hadn’t thought of it that way. He nodded, his stiff muscles making the movement jerky. “I reckon so. Thank you, ma’am, for reminding me.”
Grace’s brow pinched, but she didn’t say anything.
Theo leaned sideways a bit and took a good look at the tables, streamers, and quilts laid out. This wasn’t going to be easy. They were good folks—he could sense it. And they were in the middle of some kind of celebration. Telling them their new preacher wasn’t coming because he’d died would upset them and ruin their happiness. He took no pleasure in the task, but it had to be done.
He pulled in a breath. “Folks, I’m sorry I interrupted your party. But since you’re all here, there’s somethin’…” His legs started to quake. Then his hands trembled. He broke out in sweat. He swiped one palm down his face, clearing the moisture. “Somethin’…”
Mrs. Kirby took hold of his arm. “Young man, are you ill?”
He managed a smile. The concern in her face reminded him of Granny Iva. “No, ma’am. Just tuckered. And hungry. When the men stole the wagon, the
y took my food. I wanted to get here well before Sunday service, so I didn’t stop today to catch fish or snare a rabbit.”
The woman kept her grip on his arm while she scanned the faces. “Regina? Ione? Fill a plate for this young man.” Two gray-haired women separated themselves from the crowd and hurried toward the tables. “Everyone, move aside, please. We need to let Reverend Dille sit and rest and fill his stomach.”
With hardly a murmur, people formed two ranks, opening a pathway wide enough for him and Mrs. Kirby to pass side by side. They made their way through the gap, and Grace and Reverend Cristler followed close behind them.
The preacher’s low chuckle rumbled in Theo’s ear. “This is a little how Moses must have felt when God parted the Red Sea for the children of Israel.”
Somewhere in the back of Theo’s brain, he recalled a Bible story about Moses. A basket, a watchful sister, and a princess were in the tale, but nothing about the Red Sea came to mind. He couldn’t speak for Moses, but he wondered if this was how royalty felt—a little flattered, a little flustered, a lot unworthy—when folks made way but stayed close to get a peek.
Mrs. Kirby escorted him straight to a chair. The moment he sat, one of the women who’d been sent to the food tables put a plate heaping with food in his hands. Mingled aromas rose from the plate. Roast beef, chicken, stewed vegetables, biscuits, ham and beans…Saliva pooled in his mouth. He swallowed, battling the urge to plunge in.
The second woman pressed a fork into his fingers. She smiled. “We already blessed the food, so go right ahead and partake, Reverend Dille.”
Reverend Dille…He needed to tell them. “I, um…”
A strong, firm hand gripped his shoulder. He looked up into Reverend Cristler’s face.
“You’ve had a long journey.”
The preacher couldn’t know how long. Theo sent his gaze across the many faces aimed at him, all with expressions of expectation and welcome. The welcome wasn’t really for him, but at that moment he let himself pretend it was all for him.
“There will be time for talking later. You eat, son.”
A lump filled Theo’s throat. Nobody’d ever called him son before. The title warmed him, filled him, robbed him of any desire to bring pain on the man. They’d all have to be told but not in the midst of celebration. As the preacher said, there’d be time for talking…later.
He nodded. “Yes, sir.”
Grace
Grace sat on one of the chairs near Mr. Dryer, nodding her head slightly to the beat of his fiddle’s melody. Her plate held a piece of Mrs. Schmucker’s pecan pie, but Grace had lost her appetite for the delectable dessert. She couldn’t resist sending surreptitious glances to her left, where Rufus Dille set into his plate of food like a man who hadn’t seen sustenance in a week.
Clearly he was hungry. She didn’t begrudge him the opportunity to eat. But where were the manners she’d expected from someone who penned such well-written and proper missives? His physical appearance closely matched the image she had painted in her head—so closely it almost unnerved her. She detected the scent of cloves on him, too, which brought an instant recognition. But something about his behavior seemed…peculiar.
She moved a pecan around on the plate with her fork and retraced the moments since Mrs. Kirby had taken off across the grass to welcome the new preacher to town. As Grace and Uncle Philemon had approached, Rufus’s gaze locked on her. She’d seen recognition in his eyes, and his steady perusal sent little tingles of awareness up and down her spine. But why hadn’t she witnessed the eagerness or tenderness she’d anticipated? Instead, he’d appeared uncertain. And perhaps a little guilty.
As she watched him, he used a biscuit half to wipe his plate clean and then tucked the entire sodden chunk of bread in his mouth. His cheek bulged as he chewed, and then he bobbed his head in a mighty swallow. He leaned back in the chair and sighed, and although Grace couldn’t hear the expulsion of breath over the fiddle’s tune, she sensed great satisfaction in the release. She expected one of the social committee ladies to bustle over and offer to refill his plate. When none approached, she sent a look around the square.
The ladies were all occupied elsewhere—Mrs. Kirby conversing with Uncle Philemon and a few other townspeople, Mrs. Schmucker organizing games for the youngsters, Mrs. Hidde rearranging the platters on the serving table, and Mrs. Pritchard scooping ice cream onto slices of pie or wedges of cake for eager picnickers.
She returned her attention to Rufus, who sat holding his empty plate and looking as forlorn and uncomfortable as anyone she’d ever seen. Her heart rolled over in sympathy. As the newcomer, he would be too shy to help himself to more servings. She should go to his assistance. But if she approached him, uninvited, would he consider her forward?
“I am sincerely yours…”
The man who’d signed his letters so boldly and affectionately would not rebuff her. She bolted from her chair, placed her plate on the seat, and hurried the short distance to Rufus. “Mr. Dille?”
He looked up, and the same expression of half admiration, half regret she’d seen earlier pinched his face anew. She wished he were as relaxed and approachable as he’d seemed in his letters.
She linked her fingers together to control the trembling. “H-have you had enough to eat?”
He glanced at the plate, his brow puckering, then offered a hesitant nod. “Yes.”
Grace swallowed a smile. The boyish reaction pleased her. He didn’t want to be greedy, but he wanted more. “Are you sure? There’s plenty. And you’ll certainly want to partake of dessert. Mrs. Pritchard’s ice cream is a marvelous treat. Especially this time of year when the weather is warming.”
He licked his lips and offered a weak shrug. “I admit, ice cream sounds awful good.”
Grace blinked twice, unsettled again but uncertain why. Her nervousness at finally meeting him was creating angst. She forced a smile. “Well, come along then. You shouldn’t dally. The ice cream goes quickly.”
He rose and accompanied her to the table, carrying his tin plate as carefully as if it were crafted of fine porcelain. She’d wondered how it would feel to walk side by side with Rufus, had imagined it dozens of times. Moving beside him across the lawn, the essence of cloves teasing her nose and their shadows sliding ahead of them on the grass, seemed like a dream.
He tempered his stride to match her shorter one, and her heart fluttered like a leaf in a breeze at the gentlemanly treatment. When they reached the dessert table, which was only a short distance from his chair, she was as winded as if she’d run a mile-long footrace.
She raised her voice to be heard over the children’s laughter and Mr. Dryer’s fiddle. “Mrs. Pritchard, Reverend Dille would like some of your wonderful ice cream.”
Mrs. Pritchard aimed her beaming smile at Rufus. “Then I’m very pleased you came when you did, young man. There’s very little left, and it’s close to turning into a milky puddle.” She paused with her arm up to her elbow in the ice cream bucket. “Wouldn’t you rather have it alongside some pie or cake?”
He looked at Grace as if seeking advice.
Grace said, “I’m particularly fond of the ice cream with chocolate cake.”
“Cake, please.”
His prompt concession made her knees go weak. She hugged herself and commanded her quivery legs to hold her upright.
Mrs. Pritchard looked expectantly at Grace. “Put a piece of the cake on his plate, Grace, before this ice cream turns to mush.”
With a self-conscious giggle, she forked a sizable wedge of cake onto Rufus’s plate. Mrs. Pritchard then plopped the ice cream on top. It oozed over the sides and slid toward his thumbs.
Mrs. Pritchard grimaced. “You’d better eat quickly, or you’ll end up drinking it instead.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” Rufus grinned and stabbed his fork through the mess. He lifted a huge bite, popped it in his mouth, and chewed and swallowed. “Mm, that’s good.”
Mrs. Pritchard
smiled her thanks, and Rufus turned toward the chair he’d vacated. Grace automatically accompanied him.
Between bites, he said, “What are you folks celebratin’? Somebody’s birthday?”
Grace started to answer, but Mrs. Kirby hurried over and lightly gripped Grace’s arm. “Please excuse me for intruding upon your conversation, but the families with younger children are ready to go home. We need to make our presentation.”
Grace offered Rufus an apologetic smile and then trailed Mrs. Kirby to the fiddler’s wagon. Deacon Judd was already in the wagon bed, his chest puffed out in a pompous pose. The other social committee ladies stood in a little cluster behind Deacon Judd. Grace hid a giggle. He might harbor resentment toward her uncle, but he never missed an opportunity to be the center of attention.
Mr. Dryer helped Mrs. Kirby into the back of the wagon. He turned and held his hands to Grace.
She shook her head. “I’m fine right here, thank you.”
“You sure? He’s your uncle, you know.”
But she wasn’t a church leader. She wasn’t even an official member of the social committee. She’d keep her feet on the ground. “I’m sure.”
“All right then.” Mr. Dryer grinned at the group in the wagon. “Ready?” They nodded, and he put two fingers in his mouth and blew. The shrill whistle blasted Grace’s eardrum. She winced, but the whistle had its desired effect. All across the square people stopped talking and turned toward the wagon.
Theo
Theo inched forward along with everyone else. He didn’t have much choice. If he didn’t move with them, he’d be trampled. Besides, it felt good—comforting—to be part of the smiling, whispering, eager throng even though he didn’t know the reason for the excitement. His pulse thrumming in curiosity, he held his sticky plate and looked up at the people in the wagon.
Grace and the Preacher Page 12