Grace and the Preacher

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  Russ strode forward. “Sorry we couldn’t be more help to you, mister. If you tell us where you’re headin’ next, we’ll pass that along to your cousin if  he happens by.”

  Earl stifled a growl. If they told Theophil that his cousin was hunting him, he’d go into hiding as fast as a gopher diving into its hole. And he wouldn’t come out ’til next spring. “That’s all right. Reckon I’ll stick around town a day or two and hope to cross paths with him.”

  The smells drifting from the open windows were about to make him writhe in agony. He fingered the remaining coins in his pocket and pushed aside his pride. “Could I…maybe…buy a plate of  food from you?”

  “You sure can’t.” The woman’s tone turned tart.

  He shouldn’t have asked. His spine stiff, he turned toward the edge of the yard where he’d left his horse.

  She reached for him. “I won’t take no money from you, Mr. Boyd, but I’d be pleased to give you a portion of what we’ve got. Nothin’ fancy—roasted quail Russ brought down this mornin’, boiled split peas seasoned with onion, an’ biscuits.”

  Earl’s mouth watered.

  “Do you mind simple fare?”

  “Ma’am, that meal sounds good enough to feed a king.”

  She laughed, then turned to her husband. “Russ, put this fella’s horse in the barn. I’ll take him in an’ let him use the washstand. Then we’ll eat.”

  Uncertainty creased Russ’s face. Earl saw it plain as day.

  The man’s wife must have seen it, too, because she released a little huff and balled her fist on one hip. “Russell Hooker, everybody says the Garrisons were good, good people, an’ this man is their kin.”

  If she knew him and his kinfolk, she’d never assume he was anything close to good, good people, but Earl decided not to argue.

  “You want folks in town lookin’ down their noses at us for turnin’ away one of the Garrisons?” She flounced toward the door, tweaking her finger at Earl. “Mr. Boyd, you come with me. Your horse’ll be as content as a lamb in clover in our barn. An’ you’ll be welcome at my table just as soon as you put some soap an’ water to your face an’ hands. We might not be fancy folks, but I ain’t never let somebody with dirty hands set up to my table, an’ I ain’t gonna start now.”

  Fairland, Kansas

  Grace

  Grace placed a generous piece of spiced applesauce cake on Uncle Philemon’s plate and then reached for the coffeepot to refill his cup. “I’m sorry there’s no whipped cream to put on the cake. I meant to stop by the McLains’ and buy a pint of cream, but I”—she winced—“forgot.”

  He pushed his fork tines through the moist cake and smiled. “This is fine without the whipped cream. I’m pleased you had time to bake. Did you leave the post office early today?”

  “Yes, sir.” She poured coffee into her cup and slid back into her chair. “I hope no one came by after I locked the door, but not one soul visited the post office from the time I opened until four o’clock, when I decided to go home.” Except Rufus, and he hadn’t come to post a letter or check his box. “It seemed silly to stay when there was work I could do at home.”

  He lifted his cup, took a noisy slurp, then settled it back on the saucer. “Would you like to tell me what stole your concentration?”

  She sent him a blank look.

  He pointed to the cake. “Grace, you have baked this particular cake at least twice a month for the past three years. Not once have you neglected to top it with whipped cream.” He took a bite, chewed, and swallowed. “Not that I’m complaining. It’s quite flavorful on its own.” As if to prove his words, he forked up another bite and followed it with a sip of coffee. “But something pressing must have come along to distract you. Should I be concerned?”

  During her hours at the post office, all alone with her thoughts, she’d formulated several different ways to tell her uncle about Rufus’s request to court her. But none of them seemed adequate. After she’d scraped herself  from the clouds and thought rationally, she realized she should have sent Rufus to ask Uncle Philemon for permission before agreeing to courtship. It didn’t matter that her uncle had confessed to hoping the new minister would seek Grace’s hand. Aunt Wilhelmina was adamant that there were proper and improper ways of doing things, and one should always be proper. She had run headlong down the improper path. Uncle Philemon would be very disappointed.

  “Grace?”

  She’d sat too long gripping her coffee cup and biting her lip. She lifted her gaze. “Yes, sir?”

  “What transpired today?”

  The pendulum on the wall clock suddenly sounded as ominous as the footsteps of a prisoner going to the gallows. Grace gulped. “Well, you see, Rufus—that is, Reverend Dille—came by the post office shortly after I opened the door this morning.”

  Uncle Philemon’s expression didn’t change.

  “He asked me a question, and I…I said…”

  Her uncle pushed the half-eaten cake aside. “What did he ask?”

  She gathered her courage and blurted, “To court me.”

  “I see.” The corner of  his lips twitched. “That would tend to steal one’s concentration.”

  Grace rose and hurried around the table. She knelt next to his chair and reached for his hand. “Are you upset?”

  He chuckled. “Why would I be upset?”

  She cringed. “Aunt Wilhelmina would be upset. He should have come to you first.” She shouldn’t blame Rufus. “I should have insisted he come to you first. I should have received your permission before I agreed.”

  His eyebrows rose. “You agreed?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, then, it seems I need to have a man-to-man talk with Reverend Dille and confirm his intentions.” He slipped his hand free of  her grasp and briefly cupped her cheek. “Before I talk to him, though, let me ask you an important question.”

  She remained as still as a mouse trying to avoid the attention of a hawk.

  “Do you want to be courted by Rufus Dille?”

  His serious tone sent prickles of apprehension up her spine. “Why do you ask?”

  Uncle Philemon gestured to the chair next to him, and Grace sat. He took her hand and held it loosely between his. “Grace, he and I exchanged a few letters while he attended seminary. You and he wrote to each other for months. You must be aware that his speech and his written communications are very different.”

  Even his handwriting was different. “Mrs. Kirby said it’s probably because when a person writes, he has time to think carefully and formulate his words before putting them on paper. Speaking is faster, so it emerges differently. Especially if the speaker is nervous or shy.”

  “You visited with Bess about Reverend Dille?” Uncle Philemon seemed pleased.

  “Shortly after he arrived. I was puzzled by his unsophisticated speech patterns, too.”

  He frowned, his expression thoughtful. “I realize he’s very new to the pulpit. I’m sure, given time, he will become more comfortable and confident and this will be reflected in his sermons.”

  The need to defend Rufus roared up so wildly Grace couldn’t stay quiet. “He values your Bible, Uncle Philemon, and holds you in very high regard. He told me so.”

  A soft smile replaced his frown. “I’m glad, because I believe in his sincerity and desire to serve well even if  I remain a bit…bewildered, shall we say…by some of  his mannerisms. I wish I knew a bit more about Rufus’s background.”

  “He told me all about his family in his letters. You can read them for yourself  if you like.”

  “Thank you. If you don’t mind, I believe it would set my mind at ease to read what he sent you.”

  She hurried to her bedroom and retrieved the letters from their nestling spot between a handkerchief on which her mother had embroidered delicate forget-me-nots and her father’s tortoiseshell mustache comb. As she handed the letters to her uncle, a worry struck. “You’ll give them back to me, won’t you?” Now that Rufus was he
r beau, the written messages had become even more treasured.

  “Of course I will. I only want to glean information about his background. I believe it will help me assist him in feeling comfortable in his new role as leader of our congregation.” He ran his thumb along the edges of the stacked envelopes, creating a rhythmic thwip, thwip. “If you don’t mind, I’ll read these before I turn in tonight. We’ve been invited for supper at the boardinghouse tomorrow evening. That should allow me the opportunity to take Rufus aside for a few minutes and inquire about his intentions toward you.”

  Grace hugged herself. Excitement and nervousness warred within her. “All right.”

  He stopped flicking the envelopes and settled a serious look on her. “Grace, you didn’t answer my question. Do you want to be courted by Rufus Dille?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Are you sure?”

  She searched herself. The elation she’d experienced when Rufus asked to court her returned and sent a wave of  joy through her chest. “Yes, sir.”

  He took her hand again and squeezed it, the pressure uncomfortable, not because of physical pain, but because it seemed to speak of an inner torment. “I want to be certain you aren’t accepting his attention because I invited an unmarried preacher to Fairland. Admittedly I want to see you married and raising your own family because I know how badly you want to be a wife and mother. But you need not be obligated to accept Rufus’s attention if you find him displeasing in any way.”

  An image of  Rufus’s square jaw, rich brown eyes, and thick dark hair flooded her memory. He was tall with broad shoulders and narrow hips—what Mrs. Perry would brazenly call a fine figure of a man. Oh, such a pleasing picture filled her mind’s eye. She shivered—a completely different shiver than she’d ever experienced before—and tamped back a delighted giggle. “I don’t find him displeasing, Uncle. Honestly, I don’t.”

  “We are talking about the person with whom you could spend the rest of your life. This is not a decision that should be made lightly or hastily, and Reverend Dille has been in Fairland only a very short time. As you told me this morning when speaking of  Bess and me, it isn’t necessary to rush into a relationship.”

  She patted her uncle’s hand. “I’m sure you won’t find any reason why he wouldn’t be a suitable husband to me or father to any future children. But…but if you do…”—she gulped—“I will withdraw my approval for him to court me.”

  A silent prayer immediately followed her declaration. Let Uncle approve him in every way, Lord, please? I’m twenty-three already. I don’t have time to waste.

  Theo

  When Aunt Bess asked Theo to put an extra leaf  in the dining room table for the evening meal, he’d figured that Grace and her uncle were joining them. He also inwardly wagered the wily woman had asked them so he and Grace could have some time together under her watchful gaze. Less than halfway through the fancy four-course meal, he realized the truth. So did every other person who resided under the Kirby roof. The boardinghouse owner and the former preacher for the Fairland Gospel Church made eyes at each other from the opposite ends of the table during every course from soup to bread pudding.

  The gentleman boarders rolled their eyes and guffawed behind their hands, the lady boarders tsk-tsked and pursed their lips, and Grace appeared flustered by the open flirting. As for Theo, he was still catching up from his lack of  food the day before and was content to ignore the pair of  lovebirds and focus on filling his stomach.

  When Grace stood to help Aunt Bess clear the table after dessert, Theo expected Reverend Cristler to shoo his niece away and volunteer to help. But Theo got the second surprise of the evening. The man aimed a near frown at him and said, “I’d like to speak with you. In the parlor.”

  Aunt Bess paused in the doorway to the kitchen, her hands full. “Philemon, why don’t you use my little sitting room? You’ll have privacy there.”

  Grace sent a wide-eyed look from Theo to her uncle, then she scurried through the doorway as if someone had fired a walnut from a slingshot at her.

  His heart pounded so big and booming he wondered if anyone else heard it. He trailed Grace’s uncle past the open staircase to a short hallway tucked behind the stairs and then into a small room with unpainted walls and a bare wood floor. As stark as a jail cell. The door closed, and Theo jumped at the click of the latch the way someone might jump at a cannon’s blast.

  Reverend Cristler pointed to a pair of chairs flanking a round table in the center of the room. “Have a seat, son.”

  The last time the man called him “son,” he’d been flattered and honored. This time it caused a rush of near panic, but he wasn’t sure why. He forced his rubbery legs to carry him to the table, and he sat stiffly in one of the chairs. “Yes, sir? What is it?”

  The older man hitched his pant legs, settled in the other chair, and fixed his dark eyes on Theo’s face. “May I speak frankly to you?”

  If  he refused, would the preacher honor his choice? He shrugged.

  Reverend Cristler’s gaze narrowed slightly. “I understand you have asked my niece to become her beau.”

  “Yes, sir. I asked her if she’d mind if we courted, and she said she wouldn’t.”

  His thick, gray brows pinched together. “Rufus, I would surmise from your upbringing that you understand the convention of speaking to a young woman’s father or, as in this case, guardian before approaching such a subject with the young lady.”

  “Um…” Theo fidgeted on the chair. “What do you know about my upbringing?”

  “Only what I read in your letters to Grace.”

  He wished he could read those himself. The information would be very useful right then.

  “Although Bowling Green isn’t an eastern city where protocol is strictly followed, I’m sure people there are still aware of accepted etiquette. Am I correct?”

  Theo wasn’t completely sure what he meant by etiquette. Rules, maybe? He offered a hesitant nod.

  “Then I’m puzzled why you went to Grace first rather than to me. Were you fearful I would refuse your request?”

  Fear settled heavily around him. Sweat broke out across his shoulders and forehead, almost as bad as when he stood in the pulpit to preach. He wiped his forehead and coughed out a weak laugh. “You might say that.”

  “Then I must apologize for whatever I’ve done that gives you reason to avoid me.”

  Theo couldn’t ignore the comment. It wouldn’t be fair to the kindhearted man who’d done nothing but try to help him. “You haven’t done anything. It’s just…me.” He swallowed. Rufus Dille handled a painful death with dignity. He wouldn’t have cowered in front of  Grace’s uncle. Theo forced himself to sit up straight and meet the man’s gaze. “Sometimes I get nervous. And then I don’t do the right thing. I…I apologize for not coming to you.”

  Reverend Cristler’s expression softened a bit. “Thank you, Rufus.” He crossed his legs and linked his hands on his knee, a much more relaxed pose. “You must feel very fortunate to have been given a scholarship to the Clineburgh Seminary. Generally those are granted to young men who show great promise.”

  Would anyone ever say Theo Garrison showed great promise? Rufus Dille was a lucky man. “Y-yes, sir.”

  “What kind of education did you receive prior to attending seminary?”

  Since Reverend Cristler was asking, and since Theo didn’t believe the man was the type of person who would try to trick somebody, he could answer for Theo this time instead of  Rufus. “Not as much as I wanted. Had to quit an’ start workin’ to help the family.”

  “You received a scholarship to seminary, so may I presume your family was financially unable to send you?”

  A truthful answer left his mouth before he had a chance to think. “Yep.” He cleared his throat. He was Rufus, not Theo. “Er, yes, sir. Did you want somebody with money to marry Grace?” He wouldn’t blame the man if  he did. A wealthy person could give Grace a lot more than Theo—even as Rufus—
ever could.

  Reverend Cristler flapped his hand. “I have no issue with your family’s lack of affluence. There’s no shame in being poor, and I don’t believe that a lack of wealth reflects laziness or ignorance, the way some do. The Cristlers have always been hardworking, have stressed the importance of education, but have never been interested in the accumulation of wealth. The Bible warns that all evil springs from a love of money.”

  Theo nodded. He could tell some stories to validate the biblical warning.

  “Thus Grace understands that a minister’s salary will likely never provide for extravagance, and she is able to be content with little.” He leaned forward and gazed intently into Theo’s eyes. “Rufus, my desire for Grace is to marry a man who will love her, respect her, support and care for her in both the joyful and painful times of  life. Will you be that man?”

  Theo pulled in a breath that filled his lungs and straightened his shoulders. He looked boldly into Reverend Cristler’s lined face. “Yes, sir, I will be that man.”

  Bess

  Bess picked a chunk of potato from the basket and pushed it deep into the mound of soft soil. She patted the ground, reshaping the dome, then scurried to the next mound. As she worked, she flicked looks skyward. No billowing clouds yet, but John Ballard declared at breakfast his bum knee was promising rain over the weekend. He’d never been wrong before, and she wanted these potato starts in the ground where they’d receive a good soaking that would encourage them to grow. The way her boarders loved potatoes, it took bushels of them to last through the winter.

  She needed to hurry to beat the coming rain, but she also needed to finish her usual Friday cleaning chores—scrubbing floors, polishing furniture, and beating rugs. And of course the boarders expected a good dinner at six o’clock, as usual. Before coming out to the garden, she’d tucked a beef-and-vegetable stew in the oven, but she still needed to slice peaches for a cobbler. Philemon was spending his day in Grace’s garden, but he’d promised to come by after dinner. He favored her cinnamon-laced cobbler, and she was determined to have one ready when he arrived. But first she had to get these seed potatoes buried.