Earl chirped to the horse, and the animal closed the distance with a jarring trot. Earl slid down, gripped the reins, and searched the area. Where was the owner? Then a slender man with a sharp chin, pointed nose, and beady black eyes seemed to appear out of nowhere. Earl sucked in his lips to hold back a laugh. Yep, the fellow looked just like a weasel.
The man scurried over, his narrow stride making him rock to and fro, and stuck out his scrawny hand. “Howdy, stranger. You lookin’ to buy? I got plenty to sell.”
Earl winced. Weasel’s high, squeaky voice made him think of a mouse hollering to be let out of one of Ma’s wire traps. “I’m needin’ food stores for the road. What’ve you got?”
Weasel’s eyes lit. “Oh, I got plenty for the road, mister. Just look an’ see. Canned ham, three whole cases o’ black-eyed peas.” He leaped into the wagon’s bed and gestured for Earl to join him. “Cornmeal, lard…an’ pans for doin’ your cookin’. How long you figure to be travelin’?”
Earl nosed through items. What a hodgepodge. Weasel must’ve scoured back alleys all over the city to accumulate such a variety of goods. “I’m not sure. I—” A book on top of a stack of worn shirts caught his attention. He snatched it up and held it in front of him, his thumbs digging into the soft black leather. Uneasy tremors worked their way through his frame.
Weasel grinned. “You wantin’ that Bible, mister? It’s some old, but the words are still in it. I’ll make you a good deal.”
Earl slipped the front cover open, and his blood turned cold. He jammed the book at Weasel. “Where’d you get this?”
“Easy, mister.” Weasel shuffled backward a few inches, wringing his hands. “What you gettin’ all het up about?”
“This is my cousin’s Bible, give to him by his grandmother.” Earl remembered how Theophil tried to keep it hidden so none of his cousins would bother it. But Earl had seen it enough to recognize it now. And he sure knew the name—Iva Haney Garrison—written inside the flap.
“All my goods’re resale. So he must’ve sold it to me.”
Earl glowered at the man. “You’re a dirty liar.”
Weasel’s beady gaze narrowed. “That ain’t no way to talk. You got no cause to call me names.”
“I’ll call you liar an’ a thief.” The warning from the two river-ferry operators came back to haunt Earl. “An’ maybe even a murderer.”
“Murderer?” Weasel gaped at Earl. “I— I—”
Earl used the Bible to point at Weasel. “My cousin would never part with this. Never. Not while he still drew breath. So either you banged him over the head an’ stole it from him, or somebody else did. I wanna know where you got it.”
Weasel grabbed the edge of the wagon and jumped out. Earl scrambled out after him, careful not to drop the Bible. He caught the man by his ragged coat collar and spun him around.
“You let go o’ me!”
The shrill command pierced Earl’s ears, but he didn’t let go. He shook Weasel the way he’d shake a blanket to rid it of vermin. “I’m losin’ patience with you, Weasel, an’ when I lose patience, I bust somethin’ hard. You want me to bust your nose?”
He crossed his skinny arms in front of his face. “No!”
Earl shook him again, making the man’s arms fly around worse than a rag doll’s limbs. “Then talk. Where’d you steal this Bible?”
“Didn’t steal it! I bought it!”
“From who?”
“Some fellas from the other side o’ Independence—live right close to the Kansas border. Buy lots o’ stuff from ’em. They gimme good deals.”
Earl let go of Weasel’s collar and then grabbed a handful of the front of his coat. He yanked him so close their noses nearly touched. “I wanna know their names an’ how to find ’em.”
Fairland, Kansas
Grace
Grace tucked the lamb-and-vegetable stew into the oven, then wiped her hands on her apron. She sent a smile at Mrs. Kirby, who sat at the little worktable dividing dough into walnut-sized balls. “That’s the last of the lamb. After eating it every day this week, I’m surprised we haven’t started growing wool on our arms.”
Mrs. Kirby didn’t look up.
Grace teased, “Do you have wool in your ears?”
The woman gave a start. Her hands stilled, and she tipped her face in Grace’s direction. “Did you say something, dear?”
Swallowing a giggle, Grace nodded. “Yes, ma’am. I used the last of the leg of lamb in our stew for supper. Are you tired of lamb yet?”
Mrs. Kirby shook her head. “Having something to eat should always be considered a blessing.” She returned to pinching off bits of dough and rolling them into balls.
Grace sank down in the chair across from the older woman and reached for the dough. Poor Mrs. Kirby must be exhausted after her long days of caring for Uncle Philemon. Apparently tiredness had robbed her of her normally cheerful outlook, because she’d been quiet and somber all day. “Let me finish this. You go lie down. I’ll wake you when the stew is heated and the rolls are baked.”
She went on working as if Grace hadn’t spoken. “When I lived on the reservation, there were weeks we survived on rabbit, whatever birds the young men managed to snare, and greens gathered from the creek beds. We ate only one meal a day, but we were very grateful for it.” She released a heavy sigh. “How I miss those days. Those people.”
Grace frowned. “If you were on a government reservation, why did you have to scrounge for food?”
Mrs. Kirby’s lips formed a grim line. “Sometimes the supplies didn’t arrive as promised. I can’t say what was to blame, whether incompetence or neglect, but far too many promises made to the native people were broken. And no one seemed to care.”
“Except you?”
She looked up. Tears brightened her gray-blue eyes. “Of course I cared. I loved them. I still do. I—”
A tap at the back door interrupted. Grace leaped up and raced across the floor. She lifted the corner of the curtain, and she couldn’t squelch a little cry of happiness when she spotted Rufus on the other side. She whirled to face Mrs. Kirby.
“Since Uncle Philemon hasn’t had any fever all day, may Rufus come in and have supper with us tonight?” She hoped the news they wanted to share with Uncle Philemon and Mrs. Kirby would bring a smile to the woman’s face again.
“If it’s all right with your uncle, I suppose it’s all right with me.”
Her uncle wouldn’t fuss. Grace pulled the door open. “We’ll have supper soon. Uncle Philemon’s fever is gone, so you may join us.”
He yanked off his hat and stepped over the threshold. As he entered, he grazed her upper arm with his fingers and offered a secretive smile.
She bit the insides of her cheeks to keep from dissolving into girlish giggles. Her heart beat such a raucous thrum she marveled that it remained inside her chest. Did every woman feel so buoyant, so deliriously happy when she knew she’d soon be a bride?
Mrs. Kirby glanced their way, a slight frown creasing her brow. “You two look as sated as a pair of kittens who fell into a cream bucket and drank their way out. Would you like to share the reason?”
Grace looked at Rufus, who looked at her. They both ducked their heads and grinned.
Mrs. Kirby shook her head. “Well, whatever it is, wait until Philemon has come to the table. Then you need only share it once.”
Rufus worried his hat with his hands. “Where is Reverend Cristler?”
“In his room, resting.” Grace took the hat before he twisted it into a wad and carried it to the parlor’s hall tree. She returned to the kitchen and toyed with her apron skirt, sending Rufus a hopeful look. “If you’d like to go back and…speak with him…I’m sure he would welcome you after his long week closed away from everyone.”
Rufus took a shaky step forward. “Yes, I should. I mean, I will. I’ll…” He gestured to the hallway, then darted around the corner.
Grace crossed to the cha
ir, but she was too giddy to sit. She reached for the dough.
Mrs. Kirby caught her wrist. “May I presume you and Rufus have some significant news to share?”
Grace couldn’t contain the joyous giggle pressing for escape. “Yes, ma’am. Rufus asked. And I”—she hunched her shoulders and released a little squeal—“said yes.”
Bess
Bess swallowed a knot of agony. “To matrimony?”
“Yes, ma’am. And we set a date. The twenty-seventh of May.”
Bess released Grace’s wrist. Her arm fell limply to the tabletop. “So soon?”
Grace scooted the chair close to Bess and sat. She linked her hands in her lap, her hazel eyes aglow. “I know it seems as though we’re moving quickly, but truthfully, Mrs. Kirby, I loved him before I saw him. And I know he already cared for me. His letters indicated so. These past days, having to talk with a door between us, made us realize we no longer want anything standing between us. We want to join our lives in every way. Do you understand what I mean?”
Bess released a low chuckle. “My dear, I’m not so old I can’t remember how it felt to fall so headlong in love I lost all reason.” Images of Sam flooded her mind, and then images of Philemon’s dear face crept in. She sniffed. “I’m happy for you both. Truly I am.” Her vision clouded.
She pushed to her feet and stepped away from the table, using her apron to wipe her eyes dry. “You know, Grace, I believe you are capable of keeping watch over your uncle and preventing him from becoming too active. Since his fever is gone, I should return to my home.”
Grace leaped up, worry pinching her face. “You aren’t going to stay for supper? Uncle Philemon will be so disappointed. It’s his first meal at the dining room table all week.”
Bess forced a smile. “He should enjoy it with his family. I’ll gather my things and get out of the way.”
“But—”
“No, dear one.” Bess touched Grace’s cheek. How she’d come to love this young woman. Being Aunt Bess to Grace would have been such a gift. Yet she couldn’t ignore God’s tug on her heart. A day in introspection and prayer had settled her plans. She had work to do far from Fairland. It would hurt to leave, but she knew abundant blessings awaited her. She swallowed a blend of sad and happy tears. “It’s time for me to go.”
She hurried to Grace’s bedroom. From the room next door, male voices—deep, relaxed—rumbled. In another year Philemon could very well have a great-niece or -nephew to bounce on his knee. Wondrous things were in store for him. He wouldn’t miss her at all then. She gathered her clothes and other items, shoved them into the belly of the bag, and hurried out the front door without telling anyone good-bye.
To make up for leaving her boarders unattended for so many days, Bess prepared a near feast for their breakfast Saturday morning—fried ham, fluffy scrambled eggs, three kinds of muffins, sliced cheese and salami, stewed tomatoes, and Belker Swain’s favorite—cold pork and beans. She would never admit to anyone that the real purpose for fixing such an elaborate breakfast was to keep herself from thinking about Philemon. Or the fact that it hadn’t worked.
While they ate, the boarders regaled her with stories about how they managed the week without her. They seemed to take great pleasure in being able to see to their own cooking, laundry, and shopping, and caring for the animals. At first Bess battled melancholy. Hadn’t they missed her at all? Then she scolded herself. How could she leave if they were unable to manage without her? Their independence was God’s way of confirming His call on her heart. She should celebrate. Even so, the recognition was bittersweet at best.
After breakfast Ruby and Gertrude insisted on clearing the table and washing the dishes. Bess started to shoo them out of her kitchen, but something held her tongue. Instead, she thanked them and headed out to the garden. Whether she was in Fairland to harvest the vegetables or not, the boardinghouse residents would need the food to carry them through the winter. So she would plant her garden as usual.
When she opened the first packet of seeds—sweet peas—a wave of remembrance washed over her. She and Philemon had visited Feed & Seed together and pinched every sweet pea packet, seeking the plumpest seeds to put in the ground. She crushed the packet to her chest, and a few wrinkled green peas rolled over her hand and bounced on the ground. She bent to pick them up, but tears distorted her vision.
“Oh, pooh.” She swished her wrist over her eyes and sank onto her bottom between the neatly turned rows. Sunlight warmed her head, the smell of the rich soil filled her nostrils, and a pleasant breeze—cool but not biting—tousled the strings of her bonnet. Such a perfect morning. Such a May morning. She wanted to enjoy it, but the sense of loss wouldn’t allow her to celebrate. She closed her eyes and whispered, “My dear heavenly Father, won’t You ignite all joy in my soul? I shouldn’t follow You with such a heavy heart.”
“And why is it heavy?” The familiar voice came from directly behind her left shoulder.
She opened her eyes, planted her palms against the ground, and angled herself to glare at Philemon, who squatted behind her. “What are you doing over here? I expressly told Grace you were to stay home and rest for another week.”
He gestured to her basket of medicinal herbs. “You left this behind. I thought you might need it, so I brought it to you.”
She struggled to her feet, her entangled skirt and the soft ground hindering her. Once upright, she leaned over and snatched the basket into her arms. “Thank you for bringing it. Now go home and rest. I didn’t spend a week coddling you so you could do something foolish and bring another attack of the fever upon yourself.”
He stretched to his feet slowly, grimacing as he caught his balance. His unsteadiness only fueled her ire. Why had Grace allowed him out of the house? She grabbed his elbow. “I will walk you home, and then you are to stay there if I have to tether you to your porch.”
“Bess…” He cupped his hand over hers and looked down at her with such sadness all irritation fled and only regret remained. “Please tell me what I did to make you change your mind about marrying me. Was it the fever? Did it frighten you to think you could lose another husband? If so, I would understand.”
How could she explain without making him feel guilty? She sent up a silent prayer for wisdom and gathered her thoughts. “It was your fever that changed my mind, but not for the reason you think.”
He squinted against the sun. “Then what?”
Beneath her hand, his muscles quivered. He needed to sit. She guided him to the bench beneath the pecan tree. When he’d seated himself, she moved to the edge of the spotty patch of sunlight and shadow and faced him like a schoolchild reciting for her teacher.
“You already know I worked as a missionary on an Oklahoma Indian reservation before I met and married Sam.”
He nodded. “Yes. Sam often spoke to me about his regret at pulling you away from there.”
Bess blinked twice. He had? He’d never said such a thing to her. Perhaps preachers were privy to more secrets than she’d realized.
“He knew how much you loved the people.”
“I loved him, too.”
Philemon’s expression softened. “Of course you did. And that’s what I assured him of—you loved him, you married him willingly, and you did not regret your life with him.”
“I most certainly didn’t. I could never regret my years with Sam.”
“Yet…you regret committing to a courtship with me.” He held out his hands in entreaty. “Please tell me what I did wrong.”
“Oh, Philemon.” She couldn’t bear the pain in his dear eyes. She hurried across the sunlight-dappled grass and took his hands. “You didn’t do anything wrong. But while you were ill and I used the herbal treatments I learned about while living with the native people at the reservation, my heart was broken for those people again. I…I want to go back.”
He gazed at her. The limbs blocking the sunshine painted a lacy pattern across his face, but she still witnessed confusi
on in his expression. “To the reservation? In Oklahoma?”
“If they’ll have me. I intend to contact the mission board that sent me before. If I’m not needed at that reservation, then perhaps there’s another one where I could serve. But I feel the pull so strongly it’s an ache in the center of my soul.” She squeezed his hands, beseeching him to understand. “It’s a God-pull. I can’t deny it. I have to answer the call.”
“Of course you do.” He spoke so staunchly it took her by surprise. “One can’t ignore God’s call. We must always be obedient to His call, whenever it comes and wherever it leads us.”
She nearly sagged with relief. “Then you understand. And you aren’t angry with me.”
His mustache had gone untrimmed during his illness, but she still spotted the tender upturning of his lips. “I was never angry. Only disappointed. Hurt. Confused. But who am I to stand in the way of a calling God Himself has placed on your life? I would never be so selfish as to rob you of the joy of following God’s will.”
He rose, hands still held within hers, and smiled down at her. “My prayers will go with you, dear Bess. And if you need someone to write a letter of recommendation to the mission board on your behalf, you know you can rely on me.”
She lowered her head and pressed her lips to his hands. “Thank you, Philemon.”
“No, thank you.”
She looked at him, puzzled.
“You nursed me back to health, and you reminded me that God is never finished with us. Not while we still draw breath. I struggled with stepping down from the pulpit even though I knew without doubt it was what He wanted me to do, but I saw it as a sign that I was getting too old to be of use.” His smile returned. “If I remember correctly, you and I are only a year or two apart in age. If He can call you into service, then I can trust He has something in mind for me, too. I will be patient and wait for His call.”
Grace and the Preacher Page 26