Dear Nick, it read. I’ve gone to church with Louise Johnson and the children. Please make yourself at home. Eulalie.
“Make myself at home?” he asked incredulously to the universe at large, since no one else was there. “How the devil am I supposed to do that? I’m not even supposed to be here during the day.”
Hell. Another day of frustration and misery. Nick stomped out of the house—via the back door and making sure nobody saw him—and scurried to the house he shared with Junius.
Junius, naturally, was in a jolly mood. Junius was always in a jolly mood, and Nick didn’t understand it. Nor did he appreciate his uncle’s good humor. Especially today, when Nick was feeling rather like a bear who’s been deprived of sustenance for too damned long.
“Howdy, Nicky!” boomed Junius. “Beautiful day, isn’t it?”
Nick wondered if the man was trying to irritate him. “What’s so damned beautiful about it?”
“Why, it’s Sunday, Nicky! A day of rest. We don’t have to do no smithing today, and the house is built, and Miss Eulalie’s sister will be coming to town tomorrow, and we’ll have another lovely young lady to spruce up the place.”
“Cripes,” muttered Nick. He stomped to the stove and poured himself a mug of coffee.
“Here,” said Junius. “Miss Eulalie gave me some of these buns Mrs. Johnson made up when I left last night.” He eyed his nephew speculatively. “Say, where were you last night, Nicky? I didn’t see you come home till right now, and you come through the front door.”
Nick downed some coffee, glaring at his uncle over the brim of his mug. He didn’t want to answer that question, mainly because he felt kind of like one of those wicked seducers out of the old-time Gothic novels his stepmother used to read when he considered his relationship with Eulalie. Or, rather, what he wanted his relationship with Eulalie to be.
“Nick? You didn’t do anything you’re ashamed to tell me about, did you?” Junius’ normally sunny expression soured slightly.
Nick exploded. “Hell, no! I fell asleep on the damned bed, and she left me there to sleep.”
“Ah. Well, that was right nice of her. You’ve been workin’ mighty hard lately.”
Nice of her, my hind leg, Nick thought bitterly. She cheated. He might have figured she would, since she was a woman, and all women were sneaks and cheats.
“You want to go to church with me?”
“Church?” Nick looked at Junius as if he suspected the man of having lost his mind overnight.
“Sure! Miss Eulalie will be there, and if we sit near her, we’ll be able to hear her sing. She’s sure got a pretty voice.”
She had that, all right. And a pretty everything else. Nick had planned to explore it in depth the previous evening, but had been foiled, damn it.
In spite of himself, he offered a prayer of forgiveness for having blasphemed on the Sabbath. Then he cursed himself as a damned fool, and prayed again. He began to think of himself as hopeless.
“Come on, Nicky, change into a clean shirt and put on your Sunday suit, and let’s go hear Huffington huff.” Junius considered Reverend Huffington a little pompous, although he liked a good hellfire-and-damnation sermon as well as the next man.
Nick sat at the kitchen table, reached for one of Mrs. Johnson’s cinnamon buns, and scowled at his uncle. “Huffington’s an ass.” Once more, he winced inside, although he stopped himself from asking for forgiveness this time. “Yeah, that he is,” Junius agreed amiably. He, too, reached for a bun. Nick suspected it wasn’t his first. “But it’s Sunday, Nicky. Gotta thank the good Lord for lettin’ us live another day, I reckon.”
This particular Sunday morning, Nick saw no reason to thank anyone for anything, but he didn’t say so. What he said was, “Good bun.” Had lots of cinnamon on it, and Nick liked cinnamon.
Junius nudged Nick’s elbow. “Quit chawin’ and get dressed, Nicky.”
Nick heaved a huge sigh and stood, stuffing the last of the bun into his mouth. “Aw, hell, I reckon it can’t hurt.” And, as an added benefit, he’d get to see Eulalie and maybe walk her home or something. He’d be damned—forgive me, Father—if he’d let her get away again.
“Mebbe Miss Eulalie would like to come for dinner today after church, Nicky,” Junius said. “Got me a brisket smokin’ in the barrel out back, and Mrs. Johnson give me a mess of Swiss chard. I got some taters from the Loveladys’ store, and I can’t think of a better dinner than that, with a mess of pinto beans to go with it all.”
Hmm. Maybe his uncle had a good idea there. “Brisket’ll be ready at noon?”
“Noon or thereabouts. I ‘spect the preacher’ll get a late start this morning, seeing as how he got to bed late last night.” Junius winked at his nephew. “And I don’t think he was just sippin’ cider out of that glass he was suckin’ on all evening.”
“Huffington was drinking booze?” Nick asked incredulously as he headed to his bedroom to change.
“Wouldn’t surprise me none. The fellow likes a nip now and then.”
“I’ll be damned.”
“You surely will be if you keep talkin’ like that on a Sunday, Nicky Taggart.”
Shit.
* * * * *
Eulalie was trying not to drown out the rest of the congregation as they sang Washed in the Blood of the Lamb, not one of her favorite hymns since the notion of being washed in anyone’s blood disgusted her, when she saw Nick and Junius walk through the side entrance of the church. Junius looked like one of God’s more hard-working angels, what with his cheerful demeanor and his muscles. Nick looked like he wanted to kill something. Eulalie suspected herself.
She kept singing. Even when Nick and Junius spotted her, standing with the Johnsons, hymnal in hand, and made a beeline to their little group, her soprano didn’t wobble or squeak. She knew she should have taken a seat closer to the center of the church. She was too vulnerable here on the aisle.
Ah, well. She’d known ever since she and Nick struck their bargain that she’d have to face the music, so to speak, eventually. And, really, the notion excited her in a way that seemed out of place in church—not that God hadn’t created the process to begin with when He created people, so to consider lust a sin was disingenuous at the very least.
That being the case, and because she knew her time had come, she smiled at both men and moved over to give them room. Naturally, Nick shoved himself into the pew—if a few rough-hewn logs could be termed a pew—ahead of his uncle. Because there weren’t sufficient hymnals to go around, even though the congregation was extremely small, Eulalie offered to share hers with Nick. He grunted and took it from her, holding it so she could read the words and music. His hands looked odd holding the book, probably because they were so large and callused, more suited to handling a bellows and sledgehammer than a book of holy songs.
Junius sang as he did everything else: with great gusto. He had a nice, if untrained, bass voice. Nick didn’t sing at all. He just stood there beside her, rather like a lowering mountain, holding the book. Eulalie wondered if he didn’t like to sing, or if he was embarrassed to sing—some men were silly like that—or if he had a lousy voice. She’d like to find out. An image of Nick and herself singing in the evening while Patsy played the piano flitted through her head, but it was so absurd she thrust it away almost instantly.
The song ended, and everyone sat. Nick snapped the book shut and held it as he might have held a tool, on his knee next to his hat. Out of the corner of her eye, Eulalie saw that he’d tidied himself up for church and wore clean trousers, a white shirt, and a tie, vest and jacket. He’d also bathed and washed his hair, which was slicked back from his forehead. All in all, Nick looked quite respectable and very handsome. She almost wished she hadn’t noticed the last characteristic.
Junius was also clean and tidy, but there was something about Junius that made him seem rather like a restrained madman even under the most favorable of conditions. Not that he was one—a madman, that is. But he had a certain quality o
f unearthly innocence and humor about him that set him apart from the rest of the world, and he always looked as if he might explode into song or dance or laughter at the drop of a hat.
Or maybe Eulalie was spinning fantasies. Wouldn’t be the first time. She’d made a hero out of Edward, hadn’t she?
Good Lord, where had that thought sprung from? Edward had been a hero. Just because he wasn’t big and strong and … Eulalie gave herself a mental shake and told herself to stop thinking.
Since she couldn’t trust her thoughts this Sunday morning, she tried her best to concentrate on what the people in front of the congregation were saying. There were a small herd of them, from the Sunday-school superintendent, Mr. Vallens; to the lay speaker, Mr. Whittaker; to the lady in charge of tidying the sanctuary, Mrs. Martin.
It wasn’t the first time Eulalie had been struck by the resiliency of the human spirit. Fancy people coming all the way out to this frontier in the middle of nowhere and creating something resembling civilization out of absolutely nothing. Amazing. For instance, Mrs. Martin was every bit as fussy about her duties to the church as old Mrs. Perkins in the Episcopal Church had been back home in New York.
And Mr. Huffington delivered a most rousing sermon. It was a little too full of hellfire and damnation to suit Eulalie’s taste, but there wasn’t much to choose from out here, and she understood that Baptists were always prone to condemn their fellows. When she bowed her head in prayer, she cast a peep out of the corner of her eye at Nick, who was doing the same at her. Instantly she closed her eyes completely and felt herself flush. Blast!
What this church needed was a choir, Eulalie decided when the prayer concluded on a dolorous “Amen.” Glancing around the congregation, she had a brilliant idea. After Patsy arrived—tomorrow, thank God—she and Patsy ought to organize a choir. That would take Patsy’s mind off her problems and help to solidify their standing as righteous citizens in the community. It might also provide a little decent music in church on Sundays. Slanting a glance at Nick, she wondered if he’d be willing to sing with them. She was pretty sure she could count on Junius.
The notion of starting a church choir kept her entertained through the remainder of the church service, and when the congregation sang the closing hymn, Come Thou Fount of Many Blessings, she’d almost got over being nervous about what was to come. As soon as she turned to exit the pew and bumped into Nick’s broad back, her fate came back to her with a crunch.
“I beg your pardon, Nick,” she stammered, slapping a hand to her hat so it wouldn’t fall off.
He eyed her over his shoulder. “Think nothing of it.”
She thought he was being sarcastic, but couldn’t tell for sure. Not that it mattered. She donned her brightest smile and proceeded to greet her neighbors and friends as they all filed out of the church. Mrs. Johnson was hot on her heels, followed by her five children.
Junius caught her eye as they milled toward the front door. “Hope you can come to dinner with us today, Miss Eulalie. I’ve got a brisket smokin’ outside and everything’s ready.”
“Why, thank you, Mr. Taggart. How kind.”
“Figgered you’d need a day or two to get settled before you’re able to do much cookin’.”
“Thank you. I’d be delighted to join you two gentlemen for dinner.”
Junius gave her a beaming smile. Nick frowned. He would.
At the front door, Mr. Huffington smiled his flock out onto the street, shaking hands and slapping backs and acting generally like a politician, although Eulalie hadn’t been told if he had any political aspirations.
“Good to see you, Nick. Junius,” the minister said, smiling at the two men who, Eulalie gathered, were not regular church attendees.
“Gotta thank the Lord sometimes, Huff,” Junius said genially.
“All the time’s better,” said Mr. Huffington with the barest hint of reproof in his voice.
Nick said, “Huh,” and turned on Eulalie.
She wasn’t quite ready for him yet. Holding out her hand to Mr. Huffington and doing her best to ignore Nick, she smiled sweetly and said, “Thank you for a most interesting sermon, Mr. Huffington. It was … um … quite rousing.” Lord, she wished she’d thought her speech through before delivering it.
“Thank you so much, Miss Gibb,” the reverend said, gushing slightly. He didn’t release her hand. “I try to deliver a moving message.”
“It was moving, all right,” grumbled Nick, eyeing their clasped hands. “And now we’re going to be moving.”
Eulalie retrieved her hand, using slightly more force than was usually required. “Actually, Mr. Huffington, before I go, I wanted to ask you a question.”
Nick heaved an aggrieved sigh. Eulalie shot him a repressive look. For heaven’s sake, anyone would think he was her husband, the way he was trying to direct her life. Eulalie didn’t appreciate him for it. The man was supposed to protect her, not order her around.
“I will be thrilled to answer any question you might propound, Miss Gibb,” Mr. Huffington assured her.
Was he making sheep’s eyes at her? Egad. Maybe Nick had a point. However, that was neither here nor there. “Have you ever considered forming a choir, Mr. Huffington? I should be very happy to help organize an effort in that regard if you believe your congregation would support it.”
“A choir?”
Eulalie was surprised to find herself suddenly flanked by two matrons of the church. She blinked at them, hoping she hadn’t done something wrong. “Er … yes.”
“A choir?”
Good Lord, here were two more women, one of whom, Mrs. Fanning, elbowed her way past Nick to get at Eulalie. Mrs. Fanning was probably the only female in Rio Peñasco with the bulk to do so.
“What’s this about a choir?” Mrs. Johnson appeared, leading her string of children. “We’ve been needing a choir for a coon’s age.”
Eulalie began to breathe more easily. Evidently she hadn’t broached a forbidden subject. Modestly she said, “Well, I just thought it might be nice. And my sister would be happy to play the piano or an organ—if we could find one somewhere.”
“My Samuel brought his family’s organ from New Hampshire,” said Mrs. Fanning. “I ‘spect we might could donate it to the church.”
“And Mrs. Sullivan can make choir robes.”
“I’ll be happy to direct,” said Eulalie, wondering how her position as saloon singer would allow her to conduct choir practice once a week, but willing to do anything to be accepted in the community. Maybe the Rio Peñasco Baptist Church’s choir could break with tradition and hold rehearsals at noon or something.
“Well, my goodness gracious sakes alive,” said Mr. Huffington, looking slightly alarmed by the herd of women that was growing ever larger around him. “What an interesting suggestion, Miss Gibb.”
“It’s the same one we’ve been making for a couple years now, Huff,” Mrs. Fanning reminded him darkly.
The minister flinched. It was a sensible reaction to the overpowering woman’s aggressive posture. “Er … but no one ever offered to do the work before,” he pointed out in a small voice.
Mrs. Fanning sniffed. It was Mrs. Johnson who said, “Well, there’s no sense hashing over what used to be. Now we have Eulalie.” And suddenly Eulalie found herself being beamed upon by an entire townful of rugged western matrons. Would wonders never cease?
When she was finally able to break free from the throng, Nick and Junius fell into step beside her as if they’d choreographed the move. She glanced from one man to the other. Junius’ smile was as broad and bright as the sun. Nick still looked as if he wanted to murder someone. This time Eulalie had no doubt it was her.
“That was right nice of you, Miss Eulalie,” said Junius with his customary vigor. “I wouldn’t mind singin’ in a choir myself.”
“You?” Nick guffawed.
“I think that’s wonderful, Mr. Taggart.” Eulalie gave Nick a quelling glance. He remained unquelled, curse him.
Junius sl
apped Nick on the back. “And you can join, too, Nicky! You’ve got a great voice.”
“Huh,” said Nick.
But Eulalie’s interest was piqued. “Really? What range do you sing, Nick?”
He squinted at her. “What’s that mean?”
“I mean, are you a bass, like your uncle, or do you sing in the tenor range?”
Nick shrugged his massive shoulders. “Beats me.”
“I reckon Nicky sings same as me,” said Junius. “Belt out a few bars of somethin’, Nicky.”
Nick eyed his uncle with what looked to Eulalie like horror. “Not right here on the street, for cripes’ sake.”
Smiling inside, Eulalie guessed Nick Taggart, while a big, strong, masculine fellow, had one or two foibles. “We’ll discuss it later,” she said.
“Don’t threaten me,” grumbled Nick.
Eulalie laughed. “Thank you for inviting me to dinner, Mr. Taggart.”
“Call me Junius, Miss Eulalie. Everybody does. I feel like an old man when you call me Mr. Taggart that way.”
“Very well. Junius. And please, call me Eulalie.”
Dinner was delicious. Eulalie had never tasted smoked meat until she’d moved west, but she liked it. And the pinto beans people served with everything were quite tasty, too, especially the way Junius fixed them with chilies and onions and garlic. At least she and Nick would smell alike when they consummated their deal.
The idea of consummation sent hot shivers up Eulalie’s spine, and she endeavored not to think about it. It was difficult not to, however, with Nick eyeing her as if she were a piece of cake he aimed to devour as soon as the meal was finished.
A knock came at the door just as Eulalie took a last bite of brisket. It occurred to her to ask Mrs. Sullivan if her costumes could be altered slightly so as to make more room for her expanding tummy. Sternly she told herself not to be silly. The problem wasn’t with the costumes. It was with her tendency to eat everything that was put in front of her. When Patsy got here, that would change. She hoped.
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