“Wait.” He touched her arm to stop her. “I have something of yours.” He pulled his other hand out from behind his back and there was her hat.
“My hat!”
“I cleaned it up as best I could, but I’m afraid it’s a bit battered.” He brushed at the torn yellow ribbon before he handed it to her.
“But amazingly it seems all of a piece.” Adria held it up to examine it. “The ribbon can be replaced.” She looked back at Logan, smiling this time with no reservations or worry of what those passing by might think. “I can’t thank you enough. I hated losing this hat.”
“Hats are useful.” He knocked the brim of his own hat up to a jaunty angle. “To keep our brains from getting fried.”
Adria laughed. “Yes, or frozen according to the season. Now I do need to get to work, Mr. Farrell.”
“If you will allow me, Miss Starr, I’ll walk with you. I was going that way.”
“Which way?”
“Whichever way you are going.” His eyes flashed with a smile again.
She gave in gracefully. What else could she do? A few more steps down the walk with him would hardly matter after they’d been talking together for several minutes. Besides, Carlton didn’t own her. She hadn’t promised him anything. He was the one always doing the promising. Unlike this Mr. Farrell. She doubted he’d ever promised any girl anything. He let that smile and those eyes do the promising for him. Promises that probably disappeared on the wind as soon as he tired of whatever town he was in. She needed to remember that free as a bird to him had nothing to do with building nests.
Even so, she could feel her pulse accelerating as he matched his pace to hers and told her how he found her hat thrown over next to the walkways and thus safe from the wagons and horses. How long had it been since she and Carlton could talk this long without some disagreement rearing up between them?
She tried to think back. Maybe it was that picnic last October. A beautiful fall day. A basket full of ham sandwiches, apples, and Carlton’s favorite raisin pie. A buggy ride out to a flat field on his grandparents’ farm that backed up to a creek that fed into the Salt River. The day had been warm. The creek low. They had shed their shoes and Carlton rolled up his pants while she modestly stripped off her stockings without showing an undue amount of leg. She didn’t remember who had started splashing the other one first, but soon they were both soaked. And laughing.
Carlton had caught her to him and kissed her there in the middle of the creek. And she, forgetting Aunt Ruth’s warnings about being reckless when alone with a man, had kissed him back with abandon. The sun, the water, the laughter. It was like rolling down a hill. She had come to her senses and pushed him away. Shoved him actually. So hard that he fell backward into the water, but he had merely laughed again.
He got to his feet and followed her out of the creek where they sat in the sun to dry off. He didn’t try to kiss her again, but he had a different light in his eyes when he looked at her. And in the buggy on the way home he talked about where they would build their house. As though the kiss had settled everything, when all it had done was unsettle Adria.
This man beside her was unsettling her too, even as she only half listened to him going on and on about the friendliness of the people here. She knew his name and nothing else except that his smile and those eyes were making her heart beat faster. Not that she’d let him know that. Now or ever.
When he paused, she murmured a few words of agreement. She would be glad to get to the store where she could settle behind the counter and attend to her job of waiting on customers. Even if Logan Farrell came in to buy something, he’d simply be another customer then. Some of the men tried to flirt with her from time to time, but she paid them no attention. She knew it didn’t mean anything. They knew it didn’t mean anything. But walking with Logan felt different out here on the street.
They were almost to the store when pounding footsteps sounded behind them. Even before she glanced back, Adria knew it would be Carlton running after them.
“Uh-oh,” Logan said. “Whoever that is bearing down on us does not look happy. Wouldn’t happen to be your fellow, would it?”
“Whether he is or isn’t, that is hardly any of your concern, Mr. Farrell.” Adria kept her voice level.
“Maybe not, but from the look on his face, I think maybe he’s got some concerns. I better head on down the street before I get another black eye.” But he was still smiling. “My mother always told me beautiful women could be dangerous.”
“Was your mother beautiful?” Adria knew Carlton was only a few steps away, but she refused to look back at him.
“Actually she was. And wise as well.”
“Adria.” Carlton spoke behind them.
Adria turned toward him with a swish of her skirt. “Good morning, Carlton.”
She gave him her sweetest smile, even though, from the color in his cheeks, he looked ready to explode. He was breathing hard from the run to catch up with them. Somebody must have gone into the hat factory and reported on her. As if she couldn’t walk with whomever she pleased on the streets.
She took a breath to keep her anger from rising to match Carlton’s. “Have you met Mr. Farrell? He’s new to town.” She looked over at Logan. “Mr. Farrell, Mr. Damon. Mr. Damon’s father owns the hat factory. Perhaps you could find a position there.” Adria looked back at Carlton, her smile still firmly in place. “Mr. Farrell is hoping to find a job here in town.”
“We’re not hiring.” Carlton almost spit out the words. He obviously wasn’t going to be placated with smiles.
“No worries. Hat making isn’t for me anyway.” Logan held out his hand toward Carlton. “But good to meet you, Mr. Damon.”
“I wish I could say the same.” Carlton ignored Logan’s hand, and after a couple of seconds Logan let his hand fall back down to his side.
Rude. That was what Carlton was being. And unreasonable. Logan hadn’t done anything to him or to her. Except perhaps save her life.
Adria pretended Carlton hadn’t spoken. “Mr. Farrell fortuitously knocked me out of the path of a team of runaway horses yesterday afternoon. And got a nasty bump on the head in the process. And then this morning he found my hat that I lost when I fell and was kind enough to return it.” She saw no need in describing how Logan landed on top of her. Perhaps the roiling dust from the wagons and horses had kept others on the street from catching sight of that unseemly result of their collision.
Carlton just stared at her, his frown growing darker. Surely he wouldn’t rather she had been trampled than rescued by this stranger. That stirred her anger to match his. He was being worse than unreasonable.
“Look, fellow, we were just talking. No harm done.” Logan held up his hands in surrender. “I’ll just be on down the street.”
Carlton grabbed Logan’s shirt and stepped closer to him, face-to-face. “You stay down that street and away from my girl.”
“Carlton!” Adria grabbed his arm. “Stop it! You’re acting like an idiot.”
“Keep quiet, Adria.” Carlton shot a look over at her. “I’ll handle this.”
“You don’t really want to mess with me, fellow.” Logan’s smile was completely gone as he stood very still, staring back at Carlton. “Really you don’t. I already told you, the lady and I were having an easy conversation. Nothing for you to get riled up about. But now I suggest you let go of my shirt.”
They stared at each other a moment longer, and then Carlton turned loose of the man and stepped back. “Just so you understand.”
Logan smoothed down his shirt front. “I think I might be understanding more than you.” He turned toward Adria, his smile flashing through his eyes again as if the whole episode had been no more than a joke. “Good day, Miss Starr.”
“Good day, Mr. Farrell.”
She waited until he turned and walked away before she looked at Carlton. “You don’t own me, Carlton Damon. I can talk to whomever I please, and if you ever make a scene like that again, you wil
l be the one I’m not talking to.”
“But Adria, that man is nothing but trouble. Anybody can see that.”
“He wasn’t the one making the trouble.” She gave him a hard look. “Good day, Mr. Damon.”
He started to say something, but she didn’t listen. She turned and went inside the store. Mr. Billiter and a customer scooted away from the window when she came in. She and the two men had obviously been the morning entertainment.
Fourteen
Keeping a deathbed vigil was not Will’s favorite part of pastoring a church. Even less so since he had kept a vigil at his own beloved wife’s bedside and prayed fervently for a miracle that didn’t come. However, in his years as a pastor, he had attended many deaths. A duty as necessary in serving a church as preaching from the pulpit on Sunday mornings.
Births and deaths, opposite spectrums of life, but sometimes joy and sorrow joined, as they had for Mary. Entering the birthing process was a walk through the shadow of death for women. To continue the Bible directive to go forth and be fruitful often meant men must marry more than once. As Hazel told him he should.
Will pushed such thoughts aside. He must stop dwelling on his own losses and consider the joys and sorrows of his new church members. Nothing in this deathbed visit was remotely similar to his last moments with Mary. This man, George Sanderson, wasn’t even a member of his church. He was of the Catholic faith. Springfield seemed to be divided down the middle. Protestants in the eastern side of town, Catholics in the west. Some said the line of demarcation was the courthouse. When Will arrived at the sickroom, the parish priest was already in attendance, prepared to give the man his last rites should the need arise.
Father Jeffers pulled Will aside when he entered the sickroom to quietly assure him of his welcome and relieve Will of any concern that his presence might prove awkward.
“Prayer, yours and mine, can be a comfort to the family.” Father Jeffers kept his voice low. “Mr. Sanderson’s children are growing weary. Their father has lingered longer than the doctors expected.”
“I see.” The man on the bed showed no sign of life except his labored breathing. His time was short. Will had seen the same scene too many times, but when it was an older man, as Mr. Sanderson appeared to be, the sadness wasn’t quite as palpable.
The priest introduced the two men in the room as sons. One man turned from staring out the window to nod toward Will and the other one paused in pacing the room to shake his hand. Both men looked very ready for the ordeal to be over. A woman sat in a chair close to the bed, her hand on the sheet that covered the man. The priest indicated she was a daughter. She appeared to be the only grief-stricken person in the room.
When she looked up at Will, dark smudges under her eyes indicated she had been watching her father die for many hours. “Please pray for Father.”
So Will stepped up to the man’s bed and put a hand on his shoulder. He prayed for healing although he had no faith that would be. The stink of death was already in the room, and though the man continued to breathe, his spirit seemed to have abandoned his body. Will pulled up more prayer words, asking comfort for those around the man and for God’s will to be done. He had never been able to speak or even think that prayer while his Mary lay dying. He saw no reason for God to take his Mary, but mortal man could not understand God’s ways.
He spoke his prayer aloud and then, after his amen, silently added a plea for this man to surrender to death and end his suffering while delivering his daughter from the hope that flickered vainly in her eyes.
Will hadn’t stayed at the man’s bedside long. Father Jeffers was their under-shepherd. Not Will. He’d done his duty as requested. Offered his comfort. The people couldn’t see how dry his own spirit was. The proper words had come from his mouth.
Later, before he retired to bed, he included the man and his daughter and sons in his nightly prayers.
Hear my cry, O God; attend unto my prayer.
He used to pray with every confidence that such would be the case. Now he didn’t have that same assurance, but didn’t the Bible say that God answered the prayer of faith? Jesus said such faith could move mountains if a man did not doubt in his heart but believed that whatever he prayed should come to pass. Will did not believe George Sanderson was going to rise up from his sickbed and be whole again. He had believed Mary would. Had some sliver of doubt sneaked into his prayers that took his Mary from him?
The next morning when he got to church, he was not surprised to hear George Sanderson had slipped into eternity during the night. The church was abuzz with the news, but he supposed that was normal. Springfield was not a large town. George Sanderson was a respected businessman whose hotel near the courthouse had long been a focal point in the town.
Will considered changing his prepared sermon on the Great Commission to one of comfort from the Psalms. But no, better to stay with the Great Commission sermon to assure these people he would work for church growth. Didn’t all Christians want their churches bigger and better? And even in this season of doubt, Will felt no less compelled to share the gospel. Yet, at the same time, he felt akin to Peter, who had been warned by Jesus that Satan desired to sift him as wheat.
Will had helped his father thresh wheat on their farm. The wheat stalks were broken, beaten and stomped to release the grain. In the Bible, Jesus had prayed for Peter’s faith to be strong. But each man faced his own time of sifting. Would that the Lord was praying for Will to keep him from ending up broken and of no use on the threshing room floor.
When he stood behind a pulpit, he wanted the fire of belief in his words. He desired to be the Lord’s servant to his people. Whatever else was bedeviling him, the love for his people had not lessened, even these he was only beginning to know. Now, as he sat in the pastor’s chair behind the pulpit while the congregation sang a hymn, he looked out over the ones clustered in the pews in front of him and wanted to care for these sheep the Lord had sent him to shepherd. To keep them safe in the fold.
Forty-seven people looked back at him expectantly. Some watched him warily, as though withholding their approval until he proved worthy. Others stared up at him with childlike trust that the Lord had sent them the very man their church needed. Before Mary died, he would have been confident that was true. Now, with the devil sifting his beliefs, Will’s faith was being tried as surely as Peter’s had been when he had denied knowing Jesus thrice before the cock crowed. And yet even as Peter was rejecting him, Jesus was praying for him.
Will looked up toward the ceiling as they came to the end of the hymn. He knew the words so well he had no need of a book to sing. “Rock of Ages cleft for me.” A prayer rose in his heart that he would find his way through this dry-bone valley with doubts rising like tares all around him. Not doubts of God’s existence. He could have no doubts there, but what of his own calling to preach? Perhaps he had merely been puffed up by his skill in oratory. His mother had been so proud when he surrendered to preach. Perhaps he had basked in that pride too much. The Bible stated quite clearly that pride goeth before a fall.
He shoved such thoughts aside. A true calling or not, he was here in this pulpit with a gospel message for the people waiting so expectantly for him to speak. Whatever his failings, the Lord could take his words and empower them in the ears of those listening. That too was in the Bible.
The congregation settled back into their pews as the deacons came forward to pass the offering plates. Mr. Manderly continued to pump and play the organ. A hymn Will did not know, or perhaps the man merely lacked the skill to make the song recognizable. Mr. Manderly had donated the organ, and Will had been assured that most of the time the man hit enough right notes to enable the congregation to get through a couple of hymns each service.
Will kept his eyes on his Bible in an attitude of prayer. He never felt he should watch the offering plates being passed. What the people gave was between them and the Lord. In the church he’d led in Danville, the offering was always sufficient for the needs of the ch
urch, although now and again the deacons had insisted he preach on the blessings of tithing. Such a need might arise here as well, but no one would be ready to hear such a message from a preacher on his second Sunday.
At the clatter of the metal plates being placed on the table to the side of the church, Will stood up and approached the pulpit. He held its sides and studied the people while Mr. Manderly pumped on through the song. Will knew a few of the names now. The four deacons. Their wives. The children. He had always been good at recalling children’s names. They were so pleased when he spoke their names, as though he’d given them a gift by recognizing them.
On the fifth pew was the lady who had brought him the cherry pie on Friday. A delicious pie. He must remember to properly thank her after the service. Not a hard duty at all. If she was a schoolteacher as he’d been told, she was a much more attractive teacher than any he’d had as a youth. Today, the same as the day she’d brought the pie, her blonde hair was neatly tucked under a proper hat. While he wasn’t near enough to see her eyes now, he remembered they were a lovely light blue. He would not at all mind engaging her in conversation to thank her for the pie. Perhaps, according to the offering just collected, he could order another one. He kept his gaze away from the offering plates.
The young woman next to the schoolteacher was an opposite in looks. Curls of her dark hair escaped the small hat perched on her head. She did have her hair tucked up, but it appeared to be a bit unruly. A beautiful young woman, but right now, she appeared somewhat ill at ease as the music continued.
Perhaps that was due to the handsome man sitting in the pew behind her with a smile that seemed to brand him as carefree as a cowbird. Those were the birds that didn’t bother building their own nests but instead waited for the opportune time to lay their eggs in another bird’s nest. That left the cowbird with nothing to do but whistle through the spring while other birds worked to feed their hatchlings.
River to Redemption Page 11