Northern edge of Lexington, Missouri
Earl
Earl could hardly believe he’d made it so far on his own. For a boy who’d never ventured more than a mile from home until he’d been sent to the state penitentiary, the idea of traveling from one end of the state to the other would have been as likely as his pa being named the governor of Missouri. But here he was, standing on the bank of the Missouri River. If he’d made it this far, there was hope of making it all the way to Bird’s Nest, Iowa, and finding his cousin Theophil.
Thanks to a kindly elderly couple who’d let him bed down in their barn last night, he was better rested than he’d been in quite a while. His stomach was full, too. It didn’t matter that he’d filled it with chunks of hard-as-bricks cornmeal muffins tossed into a barrel behind a café. At least it’d been a meal that didn’t require him to fish for it or trap it. Amazing how good something as simple as an old corn muffin tasted when a fellow only had to pick it up and eat it. ’Course, it probably helped that he’d been hungry enough to eat the sole of his own boot.
Now to cross the river and travel the final 120 miles to Bird’s Nest. If he pushed his horse more than he’d been doing, he could be there in ten, maybe eleven days. The end of the journey was so near it made him want to whoop with glee. He yanked off his battered hat, ready to let loose.
“Hey there, mister.”
Earl smacked his hat against his thigh and whirled toward the voice. Two men—one tall and gangly, the other short and bowlegged—approached. Neither wore badges, and they looked friendly enough. Still, he tensed. He glanced at his horse. He’d let loose of the reins so the animal could munch on the tender grass near the water. The horse had wandered only a few feet upriver. He could get in the saddle and escape real quick if need be.
He set his feet wide and puffed his chest to make himself as big as possible and faced the men. “Hey yourself.”
The bowlegged one spat a stream of tobacco into the grass. “You needin’ to cross?”
A half-dozen small boats lined the bank. These two probably owned one of them and wanted some business. Earl let down his guard a bit. “Yep. Gotta get my horse across, too.”
“Ferry’ll carry you both.”
Ferries cost money. “I was hopin’ to find a bridge.”
The gangly one of the pair angled his weight on one hip and cocked his head, seeming to take aim at Earl. “Ain’t no bridges in Lexington, mister. River’s too wide here. Got some closer to Kansas City. That’s a ways off, though.”
Apparently he would have to make use of a ferry whether he wanted to or not. “You own a ferry?”
The bowlegged one pointed at his pal with his thumb. “His pa does. Him an’ me help him run it.”
“How much?” Earl sucked in his breath and held it. He hoped he wouldn’t have to swim across.
“Ten cents for horse and rider.”
He had ten cents. His breath whooshed out. “All right. Thank you. I’ll make use of your ferry.” He fished a dime from his pocket and handed it over.
The two waited while he caught hold of his horse’s reins and pulled the animal away from the grass. He trailed the two men to a flat, warped craft no more than twelve feet square that looked like it’d seen better days. He grimaced. “You sure there aren’t any bridges around here?”
“We’re sure.” Bowlegs grabbed two poles from the grass and stepped onto the craft first. It rocked back and forth but didn’t tip.
The gangly one unlooped a ragged rope from a post, tossed it onto the wooden platform, and then stepped on. He took one of the poles from his buddy, and both men jammed the ends into the water, holding the ferry steady.
Gangly snorted. “Let’s go, mister. We ain’t got all day.”
He’d probably end up swimming after all, but he’d already paid, and he doubted they’d give his dime back. “C’mon, boy.” He yanked the reins and forced the horse to follow him on board.
In unison, the men gave the poles a push, and the ferry eased into the gently moving water. Earl held tight to the horse’s neck. If this thing spilled him overboard, he’d trust his horse to carry him to the bank. Hopefully the bank on the north side.
“Where you headin’, mister?” Bowlegs sent another stream of tobacco-tinged spittle into the water.
“Bird’s Nest.”
“Where’s that?”
“In Iowa.”
Gangly flicked a frown in Earl’s direction. “There’ll be other rivers to cross before you get out of Missouri. You’ll likely find a bridge or two where the water ain’t so wide.”
Earl sure hoped so. The ferry’s rocking motion was making him feel queasy. If he lost his corn muffins, he wouldn’t be too happy.
“Want a word of advice?”
Earl shrugged.
“Rumors’ve been flyin’ about some fellas who put up their own bridges an’ charge folks to go across. If the person lookin’ to cross is by himself, they come up with some excuse to keep him around ’til night falls. Then, while he’s sleepin’, they clunk him on the head, put him in a grave, an’ keep whatever tack he has with him.”
Earl scowled. “You tryin’ to scare me into givin’ you more money?”
The man shook his head. He heaved against the pole again, sending the boat several feet across the current. “Nuh-uh. Just tellin’ you what we’ve heard. Three, four families have reported a missin’ husband or brother. Folks in town’re sayin’ there’s probably lots more been killed but their kin just ain’t figured it out yet. Or maybe nobody cared.”
Gooseflesh exploded over Earl’s frame. If something happened to him, how would Ma, Pa, and his brothers know about it? Maybe he should’ve sent some penny postcards when he went through towns. Just so they might worry if he suddenly stopped writing. Surely they’d worry, wouldn’t they?
One more push and the ferry bumped against the opposite bank. The jolt nearly sent Earl on his backside, but he held tight to the horse’s neck, and the trusty beast kept him from falling. He scrambled off the ferry as quickly as possible. Safely on solid ground, he turned and raised his hand in a farewell as the two men lifted their poles and set them down on the other side of the raft.
Bowlegs called, “Be watchful, mister.”
Earl nodded grimly. “Thanks. I will.”
Fairland, Kansas
Grace
Wednesday morning Grace fastened her lace collar over the neckline of her gray dress, flung her lightweight shawl around her shoulders, and stepped from her bedroom into the hallway. She met Uncle Philemon, who was moving up the hallway at twice his usual speed. She drew back with a little gasp, and he stopped abruptly.
“Grace, dear, I thought you’d left for the post office already.”
“No, sir. I’m going now.” She looked him up and down. Instead of the casual trousers and work shirt he’d been wearing since he turned his ministerial responsibilities over to Rufus, he had donned his preacher suit. “Where are you going?”
He combed his mustache with his fingers, but she glimpsed a hint of a grin lifting the corners of his lips. “I’m…driving Bess to Bonner Springs.”
Oh, he was, was he? She put her hand on her hip. “That’s four miles away.”
He adjusted his tie. “Yes, I believe that’s correct.”
“Why are you going?”
“She ordered a new bedstead from the catalog, and it’s waiting for her at the railroad depot. We’re going to pick it up.”
“Another bedstead?” Grace frowned. “But she has beds in every room.”
“Well, apparently”—he pressed his fist to his mouth and coughed lightly—“Mrs. Ewing has complained that her current bed is, er, too narrow. She requested a larger one.”
Grace swallowed a chortle. She shouldn’t laugh. Mrs. Ewing was a very nice lady, but she tended to linger at the table longer than most. “I still don’t understand why you’re taking Mrs. Kirby. Couldn’t one of her boarders—maybe Mr. Abel or Mr. Ba
llard—drive her?”
He slipped his arm around her waist and ushered her toward the front door. “Perhaps one of them could, but I offered to go and she accepted.”
“Why?”
“Why did she accept?”
“Why did you offer?” She didn’t mean to be impertinent, but he’d spent every afternoon last week working in Mrs. Kirby’s garden, had coffee and cake with her on Monday afternoon at the little café in the back of the bank after making visits to a few parishioners with Rufus, and escorted her to Feed & Seed yesterday to help her select vegetable seeds for her garden. As if she needed assistance in such a simple task.
As much as Grace liked Mrs. Kirby, the woman seemed to be dominating Uncle Philemon’s time. He still hadn’t turned the soil for the garden plot behind their house.
He shook his head, humor twinkling in his eyes. “Because I enjoy her company. Is there some reason you oppose my spending time with her?”
“She…You…I…”
“Grace…” He smiled, his expression tender. “Bess Kirby was one of your aunt’s dearest friends, and she and I have remained friends. During my years of serving, I had little time to socialize. Now that Reverend Dille has taken over my responsibilities, I have the freedom to simply be Philemon, and I must say I’ve found it more pleasurable than I’d expected.”
She hung her head. “I’m being silly. First I worried you’d wither from loneliness when you stopped being the church’s minister, and now I’m worrying because you aren’t lonely.”
He patted her shoulder. “You needn’t worry about me, dear Grace.”
An image of him bent over, kissing Mrs. Kirby’s hand, appeared in her mind’s eye. “Maybe not, but it seems as though you’re…rushing…things.”
“I’m not rushing anything. Although at my age I don’t have the luxury of taking things too slowly.”
She lowered her head, abashed.
He cupped her chin and lifted her face. “Bess is a lovely, kind, generous woman.”
Grace nodded. She couldn’t refute anything he’d said about the boardinghouse owner.
“We have many things in common, including the loss of a spouse, and we make each other laugh. As much as I loved Wilhelmina and continue to treasure the memory of every year we had together, laughter didn’t come easily to her.”
Grace nodded again, recalling her aunt’s serious expression and formal bearing. Aunt Wilhelmina was always dignified, always a lady, and Grace did her best to emulate her.
“I appreciate Bess’s lighthearted nature.”
Yes, Mrs. Kirby was lighthearted…yet ladylike. Why hadn’t Aunt Wilhelmina learned she could be both?
“She is a good friend to me, just as she is to you. And best of all, she loves the Lord.”
Grace sucked in her lips to keep from smiling.
He raised one eyebrow. “What?”
She giggled. “Uncle Philemon, you’re enamored with Mrs. Kirby.”
He gave her chin a light pinch and lowered his hand. “Is that so terrible?”
“I suppose not.” But it would certainly change things for her. Mrs. Kirby operated a business. If Uncle Philemon decided to marry her, he’d move into the boardinghouse, and Grace would be left here at their little house alone. Unless he chose to sell it. But maybe—
“Grace, if we don’t leave now, you’re going to be late to the post office, and Bess is going to wonder if I changed my mind about driving her.” He opened the door and gave her a playful nudge over the threshold. “If you’re still concerned, we’ll talk more at supper, all right?”
“Will you be back in time for supper?”
“Bess has responsibilities at the boardinghouse, so, yes, we intend to be back. If we’re not, though, don’t worry. We’re sensible enough to take care of ourselves, and Bess has directed Mrs. Flynn and Mrs. Ewing to prepare a meal for the boarders if we’re delayed. Good-bye now, dear.” He delivered a quick peck on her cheek and then hurried up the block, his stride long and his arms swinging.
Grace held the tails of her shawl crisscrossed over her waist and walked slowly, her mind tumbling with worrisome thoughts, puzzling thoughts, and even a few what-if thoughts. She wanted Uncle Philemon to be happy, and if Mrs. Kirby could give him joy in these later years of his life, then she shouldn’t stand in the way. She’d been so concerned about leaving Uncle Philemon to fend for himself, and now it seemed they’d traded positions. He was leaving her. How would she manage all by herself with no one to look after or talk to?
She unlocked the post office and propped open the door with a brick. Leaving the door open each day invited in a pleasant breeze, but the breeze carried road dust. Yesterday’s deposits left a fine coating on every surface. But dusting was an easy task, and she preferred frequent dusting to being trapped in a closed building.
She hung her shawl on a peg and retrieved her little basket of cleaning items from beneath the counter. As she removed the rag she used to dust, the approach of clomping footsteps on the boardwalk pulled her attention to the doorway. Her heart gave a little leap when Rufus stepped into the building. A smile formed without effort. After her dreary thoughts about being left alone, she was even happier than usual to have company. Especially his company.
She set the basket aside and moved to the end of the counter. “Good morning.”
He didn’t return her smile. He didn’t speak.
Worry attacked. She laced her fingers together. “Is something wrong? Has something happened to Uncle Philemon or Mrs. Kirby?”
He waved one hand as if erasing her words. “No, they’re fine. They just set off in her wagon, both of them laughin’ an’ talkin’. They seemed happy as larks.”
Grace released a heavy sigh and leaned against the counter. “Thank goodness. You frightened me with your troubled countenance.”
His lips quirked into a half smile. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. Guess I was just thinkin’…” He lowered his head, rubbed the end of his nose with his finger, then jerked his gaze to meet hers. “Do you figure those two are gonna get hitched?”
So he had observed romance flaring to life between the pair. An odd combination of elation and apprehension wiggled through her middle. “I suppose it’s possible.”
He pushed his hands into his trouser pockets and scowled. “I’ll have to say the words for ’em if they do.”
She didn’t understand his fretfulness. Uncle Philemon had performed dozens of wedding ceremonies, and he always shared a few scriptures and read from a little book provided by the ministerial alliance. It didn’t seem a complicated service. “Yes, that is one of a preacher’s duties.”
He pulled in a full breath, held it for several seconds, then let it whoosh out. “Miss Cristler, since your uncle and Aunt Bess—” He chuckled self-consciously and shrugged. “That’s what she invited me to call her…Aunt Bess.”
Grace smiled. If things went the way she and Rufus surmised, she might be calling Mrs. Kirby “Aunt Bess,” too, one day soon.
“Since they’re courting, I thought maybe…if you had a mind to…” He hunched his shoulders. With his hands deep in his pockets and his arms pressed tight to his sides, he gave the appearance of a turtle trying to shrink inside its shell. “…we could court, too.”
Grace’s ears began to ring. Her mouth fell open. Oh, how she’d hoped he would want to court her. It was what Uncle Philemon had hoped, too, so she knew he would approve even if Rufus asked more quickly after his arrival in Fairland than either of them might have expected. She longed to agree joyfully and without restraint, but his reticence rendered her speechless.
Why would the man who boldly penned “I am sincerely yours” verbalize the request so hesitantly?
“I, um…”
He yanked his hands out of his pockets and took a step forward. “I think you’re the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen. Thought so the minute I saw you comin’ across the grass with your uncle.”
Oh, such beauti
ful words, even though he still appeared more fearful than fervent. Her knees began to tremble. She locked her gaze on his eyes—brown, like her papa’s had been—and held her breath.
He curled his hands around her upper arms, the touch so light it seemed butterflies had come to rest on her flesh. “I can’t think of anybody who’d be a better wife for a preacher. You an’ me, we’d work together at the church. We’d be a…team.”
The same way Uncle Philemon and Aunt Wilhelmina had always been. Her muscles had gone quivery and almost liquid, but she managed to raise her arms and curl her fingers loosely around his wrists. Her breath eased out, carrying a whisper. “Partners in ministry.”
Finally a smile broke across his features. “Yes. That’s it. Partners.” His fingers tightened, and he leaned down a bit, bringing his face closer to hers. “Say yes, Grace. Please say yes.”
Her vision blurred. She nodded, and a warm tear slid down her cheek. “Yes, Rufus. Yes.”
Bess
The creak of the wheels and the high-pitched twang of the seat’s springs brought to Bess’s mind notes from oboes and clarinets. The horses’ clip-clopping hooves made a fine percussion section, and the wind’s whistle through the trees became trilling flutes. Mourning doves cooed and added their song. She might have been listening to a complete orchestra and choir regaling her with a springtime melody. But then again, maybe it was the company that created the glorious song. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d enjoyed a day more.
Bess angled herself on the seat and tipped her head so she could gaze at Philemon from the corner of her eye. He still wore his easy grin, the one that had graced his face from the moment he arrived on her porch that morning. The long ride, the bouncing wooden seat, the effort of loading the maple bedstead into the wagon, the simple lunch of bread, cheese, and ginger water alongside the road, the wind-stirred dust coating his good suit coat—nothing had dimmed his cheerful countenance. There was much to admire about Philemon Cristler, but she thought she liked his cheerful countenance the most.
Grace and the Preacher Page 19