by Lilah Rivers
“You mean what, Jodi? Everybody admires the sheriff, they’re not likely to gossip behind his back.”
“Not his,” Jodi clarified, “mine.And yours. I mean, it doesn’t really matter to me what these folks make of me—after your child is born, I’ll be going back to Rhode Island, presumably. I don’t want to leave you with a sullied reputation.”
Clinton cut in, “With all due respect, Sunday is the Lord’s day, a day of rest. I think to leave you with him after services is a good idea. If he keeps popping by here, then tongues may start to waggle. Hiding is never a good idea.”
“That’s certainly true,” Jodi agreed.
But Amy shook her head. “Having the sheriff here isn’t hiding from anybody! He’s welcome here, and I think we should have him back. But I also agree that, if you two share a mutual fancy, there’s no reason to be ashamed of it; not on a Sunday nor any other day.”
Jodi wanted to believe that, and it did make sense. What was starting to make even more sense, to Jodi at least, was that she was nervous about other things, things that weren’t so easy to resolve even after weeks and weeks of struggle.
And, as always, Amy seemed to be able to read Jodi’s mind and heart. She reached over to rest a comforting hand on Jodi’s arm. “Relax, hon, just enjoy yourself.”
Jodi knew her old friend was right again. And what worried Jodi was that she truly hadn’t enjoyed herself or her life as much as she could have; of the two friends, Jodi was the more disciplined and conservative and Amy the more free-spirited. Each had admired the qualities of the other, and Jodi saw this as one small and hopelessly harmless opportunity to emulate Amy’s more distinct qualities.
“You’re right,” Jodi said with a sigh and a smile and a sip of tea. “We’ll just have to see where the day goes.”
But she was still worried, and the next day she took some time to sit down to write a letter to her parents. They’d always been sources of comfort and support before; stalwart Martin and loving Ellen. In all the emotional confusion and tumult of her adventure thus far, they’d never been far from her mind or her heart. And as nervousness and confusion deepened, so did her love and longing for them. Just the simple act of writing a few well-chosen words, to reassure them and herself, would do her a world of good—a way to reach out and hold her mother’s hand, hug her father again, even if only in a very removed fashion.
My dearest parents, Jodi wrote, pen scratching against the paper.
It’s my fondest hope and prayer that this letter finds you both well and happy. I can only apologize if I have not been writing often enough. I find myself surprised to have been here with a few weeks having passed. The long trip and the weeks before my departure make it all seem as though a lifetime has passed.
All here is well, I’m sure you’re anxious to know. Amy is healthy and happy, and both she and her fine, loving husband Clinton send their very best. You’re both welcome to visit at anytime, should you take the notion.
They have a fine ranch home here in New Mexico, which is breathtaking in scenery and weather, and the people here are as decent as one might find anywhere. Their sheriff is a very fine man indeed, it would seem; hard to gauge from moment to moment, a man of inner complexity but outward calm, humility, and simplicity. He’s like this place itself in many ways—spectacular to the eye and intriguing to the soul.
But I shouldn’t go on about myself, only enough to assure you both that I am well and happy and that our decision for me to accept Amy’s invitation was a good one, one which need bring you no anxiety whatsoever.
Instead, I have failed to inquire about my cousin Alice and her Giles. I’m sure plans for their nuptials are proceeded expeditiously. I can’t imagine they will wait until I return, which won’t be for another seven or eight months, I shouldn’t think. But if they do, I will stand proudly and happily with the rest of our family to see them off on their road together.
With that, I will leave you to your chores and duties in hopes that you will be contented with my contentment, glad as I am glad, and looking forward as I am to a quick and happy reunion.
Your loving daughter,
Jodi.
Chapter 21
Angeldale Sheriff’s Deputy Doyle Hollett rode back from Harmond. He’d found nothing in the way of any hard clues to bring back to Sheriff Covey. It had been a difficult few days, trying to get information from people who either knew nothing or thought they knew it all. Were he to take the citizens of Harmond at their word, they were being menaced by Mexicans, Comanche, even the armies of Satan himself. The town law was drunk around the clock, and the man running the local saloon, the Cactus Rose, seemed to be handling most of the governance. But there was nothing conclusive, nothing even connecting one theory to the next besides a whiskey bottle and the need for some kind of local attention and approval.
And so, Doyle had to ride back empty handed and empty hearted. He’d had hopes of bringing back some spectacular deduction, a black-hearted culprit perhaps; something that would finally establish him in Angeldale as more than Sheriff Covey’s deputy.
True, being the deputy in a town like that had a lot of benefits, and both the job and the place suited Doyle well. But he also knew that he was considered a whelp compared to Scott Covey himself, and Doyle often felt that way, too. But he wanted not only to crawl out from under the sheriff’s shadow, but to honor the man who cast that shadow. He’d hoped to make Sheriff Covey proud, to show him that his time and tutelage hadn’t been wasted.
But riding back from Harmond in his state, Doyle had to wonder if that just wasn’t so. Perhaps his entire career in law enforcement was waste of time, he had to consider—his own and Sheriff Covey’s.
A great horned owl flew overhead, crying out and drawing Doyle’s attention to the glare of the sun.
But whatever doubts he had about himself, he had even more lingering doubts about the world around him. Something was nagging at the back of his conscience, and it was more than his possible shortcomings.
The badge can make the man, Doyle reminded himself, that’s what Scott always says. It can make you strong and true, or it can make you weak and craven. It can help a man become whatever his inner self truly wants to become; a leader or follower, a hero or a sinner. I may not be a hero, but I’m no sinner! I may be a follower, but I know which leader to follow: He who leads us all in the right direction.
Doyle looked around the New Mexico desert, cactus rising up among the silver sage and a roadrunner ducking from one to the next. It was beautiful country, a sky so wide and blue that it seemed to go on forever. He’d never lived anywhere else and wanted never to. It was pristine and pure,and struck Doyle with such majesty and grace that he knew his doubts were unfounded.
No, he reminded himself, this place needs me, men like me. There’s power here, but also innocence, and that innocence does need protecting. This whole place needs protecting from the dangerous elements it harbors; bad men with hard faces and bent minds. They use the mountains for shelter, they live on the critters, drink from the streams. But it won’t be long before those mountains are all crumbled, the critters all dead, the streams filthy with refuse and human remains. That’s what humans bring to places like this, to one another, to themselves.
His speckled mare carried Doyle back toward Angeldale, back to his home. But his sense of purpose was renewed, and new thoughts crackled in his brain.
And perhaps this trip wasn’t such a waste or failure after all, Doyle assured himself. There does seem to be something afoot, something I can’t quite place or name. But if there is a rustler or some other unknown force working against the interests of the people of either town, then it can be discovered. Criminals can only hide, that’s what Scott taught me. And that’s surely true. If there were rustlers here and they’ve fled, the law elsewhere will find them. If instead they are hiding, they will have to reveal themselves eventually—that’s what Scott taught me.
Scott, Doyle thought. Sheriff Scott Covey of Angeldale,
New Mexico. A man could hardly have a better mentor or friend, and what town could have a better or more reliable sheriff? Here’s a man of real virtue, a man true to his word! Were every town run by a man like the sheriff, what shelter could any criminal find anywhere? They’d have to jump into the ocean and swim back to the King Georges of the empire and their ilk! Well, let them and welcome!
But Doyle knew that what made Scott so admirable was his exceptional integrity, well beyond most men of Doyle’s experience. Others’ failure to rise to his measure was a big part of what inspired Doyle, and what instilled such faith in the lessons Scott had to share.
Doyle felt better as he rode into town, his town.
The vaguely familiar face of Jodi Hoffman flashed in Doyle’s imagination. He could well recall his boss and friend’s words of warning away from the young woman, and his professional reasons had made good sense.
But the more Doyle reviewed the facts, the clearer his own perspective came to the fore to push Scott’s to the side.
She’s been here a while now, Doyle told himself, and over the course of time, things take their own course. She’s attractive and from a good family, surely, and I am the deputy of Angeldale, after all—a position of some worth and respect. Even if I’m not the sheriff, I may well be; almost certainly will be, given time and good fortune. And why not? It’s not my fault that there was no answer to this question of rustlers! I find it hard to imagine that there truly are any, and in that case, I haven’t failed to find them, I’ve succeeded in finding that there aren’t any rustlers to be found!
The familiar buildings of Angeldale became more tightly clustered as he rode through the outskirts and toward the center of town. Doyle nodded to one familiar citizen, tipping his hat.
These are my people, Doyle thought.They’re in my charge, their lives are in my hands. Surely that makes me more than some pounding puppy. I know they see me that way, but every puppy grows up eventually. They find their mate and raise a litter of their own.
Every dog has his day.
So Doyle rode back to the sheriff’s office and jailhouse, shoulders back, spine straight, feeling as if he was riding into a new era in his life. A new future.
Chapter 22
Scott had felt more than uncomfortable entering the sanctuary of the First Baptist Church of Angeldale. He was pleased and proud to be in the company of the Burnetts and their guest, Jodi Hoffman, there was no question of that.
But he well knew the scrutiny he naturally and rightfully attracted as their sheriff. It was for him to show the very best example, to be a pillar of rightness to help guide them toward a better and more peaceable society.
It had never occurred to him to arrive at church services in any company at all, much less with an unmarried woman. Though Scott had many times reminded himself of the holiness of marriage, of its many benefits to man and woman and their society and the God which created all, there were other appearances to consider—and he seemed increasingly unable to consider anything else.
He felt as though the congregation was staring directly at him as Pastor Reed Beaumont led them through services, as if Scott had become a bane, an unwanted distraction. He glanced around and saw nothing of the sort, no judgmental stares or shaking heads. But it was easy to imagine that they’d turned away just before he’d tried to catch them in the act.
Pastor Beaumont had selected a story from the Book of Judges, that of Samson and Delilah. He read the verses depicting the King of Israel’s travails with the Philistine woman Delilah, who subverted his strength despite an increasing dedication to him.
As much as Scott was loath to admit it, he could see much of himself in the tale. He felt as if God were speaking to him through the verse, through the pastor, as if the scripture had been intended just for him. He listened intently to the story of a strong, capable leader undone by love. It was as if Scott’s own late father had written the verse to torment his son, as if this had been the book which led the woe-begotten man to drink so heavily and be so stern and restrictive with his son. He’d scolded his son never to show his emotions, that emotion was weakness and that weakness was unworthy, leading only to the grave.
And here was the story of the strongest man alive at the time, a man favored by God and blessed by God, a man destined to lead his people and who did that very thing. And it was when that selfsame man opened himself to love, and more so to an honest expression of that love, that he was betrayed and undone.
Scott had to wonder, how can this be? Is it simply coincidence, or my imagination, or some strange mixture of the two? Or was I right, and God is reminding me in the starkest manner possible that I’m perhaps making a terrible mistake.
“When they stood him among the pillars,” Pastor Beaumont read, “Samson said to the servant who held his hand, ‘Put me where I can feel the pillars that support the temple, so that I may lean against them.’”
But sitting next to the lovely and pure Jodi Hoffman, it was almost impossible to imagine her as the Philistine Delilah, a woman with duplicitous intentions. While it had been tempting for Scott to imagine that she’d charmed him for reasons of her own security, the notion had faded under greater scrutiny. She made Scott feel stronger, not weaker, and she seemed to have no interest in weakening him at all. The more Scott analyzed the puzzle of her presence in his life, the more he realized that Jodi seemed to have no other motive than she presented: to help her friend, to honor God, to find some reasonable measure of happiness and a way to serve the community.
Scott knew that he truly wanted nothing more than that himself, though he’d been prepared to settle for less—far less.
“Now the temple was crowded with men and women; all the rulers of the Philistines were there, and on the roof were about three thousand men and women watching Samson perform.”
Scott glanced around again, the words of the scripture sinking in with greater clarity. They are quite like those throngs, Scott reasoned, yet they make no demands of me to perform. They have not put out my eyes or robbed me of my strength. They have been the source of my strength, in point of fact, the purpose of my life!
Pastor Beaumont read on, “Then Samson prayed to the Lord, ‘Sovereign Lord, remember me. Please, God, strengthen me just once more, and let me with one blow get revenge on the Philistines for my two eyes.’”
Scott could envision the scene: Samson standing in the temple, the center of ridicule and mockery, drawing upon the true source of his strength to do the Lord’s bidding, the work of social justice.
“Then Samson reached toward the two central pillars on which the temple stood. Bracing himself against them, his right hand on the one and his left hand on the other, Samson said, ‘Let me die with the Philistines!’ He pushed with all his might, and down came the temple on the rulers and all the people in it. Thus he killed many more when he died than while he lived.”
But these shall not die, Scott thought. I surely will not bring down any stones upon their heads. Shall I? Am I facing some colossal destruction despite my own dedication—is that what the scripture is meant to impart to me?
Scott looked around the congregation. He wasn’t sure if they’d heard in the sermon what he had heard, if in fact he’d heard it rightly. But it seemed unmistakable to his ears, his brain, his heart, and his soul. It was meant for him, Scott was certain. But he could not be certain just what it meant for him, or what it should mean to him. He knew there was a lesson in the scripture, one he was meant to hear and to heed, and he had a lingering feeling that if he failed to deduce it correctly there would be a terrible price, perhaps not for him alone to pay.
“Then his brothers and his father’s whole family went down to get him,” Pastor Beaumont read on. “They brought him back and buried him between Zorah and Eshtaol in the tomb of Manoah his father. He had led Israel twenty years.”
The story’s end, which Scott had known well, rang with new dread, as if a glimpse of what was coming over the horizon, distant but getting closer fast. Uns
toppable.
Chapter 23
Jodi walked out of the sanctuary with Amy, Clinton, and Scott. The sermon had been slightly confusing to Jodi. She well understood the meaning of the scripture, that true strength comes only from God, that vanity was a distraction presented by the forces of evil. But what lesson she could take away from it eluded her, and that was something church services had always provided Jodi. She’d lived her life by the examples set forth in that wondrous tome, and she rarely had any difficulty understanding what God was trying to tell her.