The hour was still early enough, and the area quiet enough, to hear the warbles of mockingbird and vireo, the scolding of an angry cactus wren, the calls of a catbird. From somewhere off in the distance came the barking of someone’s dog, and then another, in response. The town was waking up, as shopkeepers unlocked their doors, worker hollered out to worker, miners set off clanging for a day deep in the bowels of the earth.
Overhead, as Nathaniel clopped sedately along, a slight breeze went soughing through the pine branches. Farther away, he caught a glimpse of rugged blue ripples and tan-colored stone: the Carson River, winding its way southwest. His heart lifted. Water!
Taking the turns from street to street, as instructed, he reached a stately two-story brick house established in a grove of fir and yew. Large enough, by outward appearance, to afford a dining room for entertaining parishioners and a good-sized separate study for his work. Perfect. Perfect even for a view of young mountains beyond, from the generous white-painted wraparound porch.
He could visualize himself sitting there, at the close of day, preparing a sermon or simply absorbing whatever of nature’s miracles came his way. Yes, indeed. A nice cup of coffee, brewed by his capable housekeeper, a plate of oatmeal cookies, and the Good Book on his knee. Peace and harmony, quiet and calm.
“Hey, mister, you gettin’ down here, or what?” demanded a testy childish voice.
Startled, Nathaniel swerved his attention from beguiling fantasy to the reality beside his carriage wheels. “I beg your pardon?”
Another voice chimed in. “Well, you been sittin’ there for a mighty long time. You wait much more, you’ll take root and grow moss.”
Then a third voice, accusingly: “You s’posed to be here, or you headin’ off somewheres else and got lost?”
“Uh. Lost. I don’t believe so.” He shook his head, as if to clear away the cobwebs, and climbed down.
Three small urchins stood surveying him. All with suspicious big china-blue eyes. All with a nimbus of tumbled, uncombed hair bleached almost white by the sun. All with torn, patched, and dirty pinafores, legs scabbed and scratched from some unknown cause, and dusty bare feet.
Toward them, down the path, approached a black cat large as a young panther, dragging a skeletal bone that looked amazingly like the ham hock of a hog. Growling with every step, as if to warn away any interloper.
On one side of the house stood a young couple, carrying on their tête-à-tête conversation in apparently serious tones, oblivious to any outside happenings. On the other side stood another young couple, equally absorbed. A third couple, younger still, had taken over a bench tucked away under several tall ponderosas.
Parked comfortably in a chair on that inviting front porch sat a woman with frizzy black hair, a tight-laced low-cut scarlet silk gown, and a cigarette in her mouth.
Nathaniel gaped. Pulling his confirmation letter free, he gazed at its address, then gazed up at the house with its address, and then swiveled back to his letter again.
“Whasamatter, mister?” asked the smallest of the three girls, tugging at his pant leg. “You sure you ain’t lost?”
Dazed and disbelieving, Nathaniel swallowed hard and looked down at the child without really seeing her. “Uh, well. I’m—uh—I’m not really sure…”
By now the front-porch sitter, curious and questioning, had decided to meander out to join the group congregating beside the stationmaster’s carriage. Closer to, she appeared even more frowsy. As if she had just gotten out of bed and came down to greet the day, without benefit of hairbrush or washcloth.
“H’lo, there,” she greeted him. “Somethin’ I can help you with, dearie?”
“Well—uh—possibly. Seems like I must have the wrong place, but then the numbers are correct, so I ain’t rightly sure just where…”
With a speculative smile, she was sweeping him a glance up and down through mascara’ed lashes. “How’s about you just tell me who or what you’re lookin’ for?”
“I am lookin’,” Nathaniel drew himself up, in the formal black frock coat, to his full six feet plus of imposing manhood, “for the parsonage.”
The smile widened. “Look no more, Mr. Outatowner. You done just found it.”
II
“I’m afraid it may be a while before I can absorb all this.”
“You just take all the time you need, honey,” the siren in the red dress said comfortably. “My name is Delilah Trubody. Maybe you’d want a cuppa coffee to tide you over?”
The whole motley crowd had adjourned to a spacious kitchen, via the simple expedient of a shrill whistle from Delilah that gathered them in like lemmings. However wide and high the space, Nathaniel, perched on the edge of a ladderback chair, was feeling more and more constrained by the number of bodies clustered close, the shuffling, the squirming, the muted noise, and the minor bickering of one’s elbow jabbed into another’s ribs.
Claustrophobic. Definitely claustrophobic. But how could that happen in a roomful of human beings?
“I take it that you’re our new preacher, set t’ take over The Little Chapel,” observed the frowzy-haired woman. Lifting her skirt to wrap its folds around the handle of a steaming enameled coffeepot, she poured a cup full and handed it over to the befuddled man propped in disbelief at the table. “We’d all like to give you welcome t’ the place. I, Parson, sir, am your housekeeper.”
“Almighty God!” blurted out the good Reverend, aghast.
What church-sanctioned housekeeper dressed this way, like some refugee from the neighborhood bordello, or spoke with such familiarity to a man of the cloth? Or, worse yet, sat out in public smoking a thin cigarillo for all the world to see? Nathaniel felt like Alice, falling through the looking glass into another sphere.
A moment of awareness, to catch the discerning expression on her sharp foxy features, and he hastily backtracked. “I mean—uh—well—of course, you are. You—uh—have been assigned to the parsonage, then?”
“For the last five years, Parson, sir. Reverend Winthrop offered me the position. Say, wouldja like some gingerbread t’ go with that coffee? Fresh-baked this mornin’.”
“Uh—no, thanks, this is—this is just fine. Uh—five years, you say?” Nathaniel, who was feeling completely overwhelmed, repeated with a hint of desperation.
Delilah had seated herself comfortably at the table, reaching out to wrap one arm about the smallest youngster. “These kids are gettin’ restless. Tell you what, Parson, sir, let me give you their names, and then they can take off outside again. That’ll give us a nice chance t’ talk.”
“Yes—uh—that sounds like an excellent idea.”
“All right, then. This here’s Hollister Winthrop, but we call her Hollie. Tell the nice man how old you are, honeybee,” urged the housekeeper with a warm smile.
Defiant blue eyes met his. “I’s four years old. Who are you, mister, and why’re you here?”
“I’m the Reverend Nathaniel Yancey, Miss Winthrop,” said Nathaniel, hard put to explain his position to this child. And a girl child, at that. He had had little or no experience with either children in general or girl children in particular, and devoutly hoped that all of them would soon clear off the property and leave him to his dream of peace and quiet. “And I’ve been sent here to minister to the needs of those at The Little Chapel.”
The blue eyes darkened, filling with tears. “That’s my paw’s job. You can’t have it!”
“Shush, baby, shush,” soothed Delilah, smoothing the flaxen hair with a gentle hand. “You know we talked all about that, now, didn’t we?” She looked up, her troubled gaze seeking the Reverend’s for understanding. “It’s been hard on all the kids, with Pastor Winthrop’s passin’ on to his reward just a few weeks ago. Still some adjustin’ t’ do.”
Thus far, the noise and clamor had been kept at a minimum, as the young ones either shifted position, uttered a low murmur of agreement, or shuffled from standing to sitting to standing again.
Clearly every last
one of them was only waiting their turn for introduction and release. Like wild animals sprung from a cage, thought Nathaniel irreverently but not entirely incorrectly.
“Next.” The housekeeper motioned to two more girls, slightly older but similar in appearance: steps ascending in a staircase. “This is Hollie’s sister, Lindsay. Say hello, Linnie.”
“H’lo,” came the shy greeting. “I’m five.”
“And last is Emerson, who prefers Emmie. She’s six, aren’cha, darlin’? And all three are smart as whips, I swear. Know their times tables, and readin’ ev’ry book in sight.” She beamed proudly at the children.
Emerson lifted her skirts and bent her knees in a curtsey. “Glad t’ meetcha, Reverend Yancey.”
Cute. He must admit that they were cute. Even if he was anxious to find privacy and solitude somewhere away from them.
“All right, then, you li’l ones head on outside to play for a while. Stay in our yard, y’hear? And don’t tease the cat!” adjured Delilah, as the girls scampered away.
“Cat?”
“Why, yes, Parson, sir, you couldn’ta missed her. Haulin’ a pig bone around almost as big as she is.”
“I did see some four-legged animal. I thought maybe you’d tamed a panther.”
Relieved laughter from everyone, most of all from Delilah, who approved, “Oh, good, you got a sense of humor. That’ll help a lot, ’round here.”
“And does that—uh—cat—have a name?”
“Oh, sure. We call her Jezebel.”
Jezebel. He might have known: another female. The place was overrun by females. Not that he had anything against the fairer sex, for heaven’s sake; but there were just all those female things involved. Frilly underwear, and curling irons, and emotional upheavals…
“Now, Parson, sir, you all can meet the older girls. This is Christina, who’s eighteen and steppin’ out with Josh Lundquist.”
Another nice curtsey. This one, with a neatly pressed walnut-colored skirt above high-button boots, was made with more panache than Hollie’s earlier attempt, but with no less respect. Responding, Nathaniel rose to offer a slight bow and a shake of the hand to both.
Christina, the youngest of this set of sisters, stood with her fingers entwined in those of the young man beside her. Fresh-faced, freckle-faced Josh Lundquist, who radiated warmth and good humor, tossed back a lock of flaming red hair, like some restive horse, and reached out. “Glad t’ make your acquaintance, Reverend. Come a long distance t’ get here, didja?”
“I surely did, Josh. From St. Louis, by way of Charleston.”
From the few distracted glimpses he’d already gotten of the three Winthrop women, all were similar in coloring and carriage: thick curling black hair, worn loose to the shoulders or tied back with a bow; dark-fringed lashes framing eyes as blue as the Madonna’s robe; complexion tinged with healthy outdoor pink and tan. Pretty. And, he suspected, quite personable.
“All right,” said Delilah. “Marchin’ orders. You two can go on out with the li’l ones and get t’ spoonin’. Nothin’ you can’t do in public, though. Next.”
Next came Portia, one year older and one year more flirtatious. Hair pulled into a tangle of ringlets that begged some man’s fingers to disentangle, luscious little bejeweled earlobes that begged some man’s lips to help himself to, simple shirtwaist deliberately cut out to curve over a bosom that begged some man’s hand to explore. Not just pretty. Pulchritudinous.
Linked by hand both physically and romantically, her beau Andy Templeton was a tall, lanky, brown-haired fellow, whose demeanor seemed sleepy-eyed and laid back but could be, the Reverend suspected, quietly vigilant. One wouldn’t survive long in a wild and wooly mining town otherwise.
“You’ll notice, Parson, sir, by the ring on Portia’s hand, that she and Andy have been affianced,” Delilah amended their introduction with another smile.
More good humor. The house and its present occupants simply radiated good humor. Which was important, for the atmosphere of a parsonage. Nathaniel sincerely hoped that he could continue on with that mood, once everyone had cleared the hell—the heck out of here.
From outside came squeals of mischief and cries of “No fair!” from the young cubs probably inflicting misery and mayhem upon some member of society, thus far unannounced. Please, God, no visitors to this house of bedlam yet, not until things had been sorted out and he had the place to himself, as promised by the bishop of his order.
“And, last, is our oldest, Caroline,” proclaimed the housekeeper. Her wicked eyes were sparkling with amusement for Nathaniel’s beaten and buffaloed look, which had taken over his features since the first moment of arrival and was only deepening. “Carrie was twenty, her last birthday, in September, lookin’ maybe t’ marry up with Luke Dundall, one of these days.”
“Oh, Delilah, nothing is set yet,” protested Caroline, moving forward to take the Reverend’s hand in a quick firm grip. “Luke and I have been seeing each other for a while, but we don’t know—there’s always—well, things are sort of—”
“The timin’ might not be right,” was Nathaniel’s suggestion. He guessed that the girl was not always so indecisive; she had a look about her as quick and firm as her handshake, one that accepted no dilly-dallying around.
She brightened. “Yes, that’s it. Anyway, Parson, this is Luke Dundall, he works at the Virginia City Mercantile Bank.”
“How d’ you do, Mr. Dundall?”
Now this was a surprise. Nicely dressed in a dark gray suit and string tie, Luke Dundall’s impression was one of a staid, respectable capitalist. Except that, given his thatch of silver hair and lined face, he must be at least twenty-five years Caroline’s senior. Not exactly the type Nathaniel would have expected her to choose.
He gave himself a mental slap for the pre-judging. He’d only just met the girl; what could he possibly know about her likes and dislikes?
With all the introductions finished and everyone set with a name to their face, Nathaniel wasn’t quite out of the woods yet. Sharp-eyed Caroline, who clearly used her head for more than displaying the latest hairstyle, had noted and filed away in her memory his reaction to the overflowing parsonage, the jumble of residents, and, most of all, to Delilah herself. She did not quickly forget. Nor did she easily forgive.
“How do you like your coffee, Pastor?” she asked now, with a cool edge to her voice.
“My coffee? Why, Miss Winthrop, it’s fine. Quite delicious, in fact. The best I’ve had in a long time. Why, did you brew this?”
“No. Delilah did.” As if that clinched the matter. “She also keeps all of us together and going, cooks and cleans, and runs this place like a champion.”
So don’t be judging by appearance. And you a minister of the church!
At the implied rebuke, a slight blush crept up over his cheekbones. “I see. Well, thank you for the information, Miss Winthrop.”
The frowzy-looking housekeeper, with hair much blacker than Mother Nature had ever intended, chuckled like a boiling teakettle. “It’s all right, Carrie. Parson sir and I will come to an understandin’, just see if we don’t. You two wanna go on outside with the others, now? Better check up on the li’l ones and see who’s killin’ who.”
After the door closed behind the last of the crowd, and Nathaniel was finally, blessedly alone with Delilah in the large kitchen, he drew in a breath and exhaled on a heavy sigh.
“Uh-huh. Kinda caught between Oh My God and My Sweet Merciful Heaven, aintcha?”
He essayed a sheepish smile. “That obvious, is it?”
She rose to pour herself a cup of coffee, refilled his own mug, and slapped down a plate of gingerbread slices onto the table. “Well, sure. And not surprisin’, seein’ what you’re faced with. Nobody toldja what t’ expect, back there at that seminary?”
“No.” Just the faintest hint of bitterness. “This posting became available, and I was assigned. Simple as that. Because, I was informed, the Reverend Winthrop had—uh—passed away, under
tragic circumstances.”
“He did.” Delilah’s expression, as she sipped at her brew, had grown somber and sad. “There was a knock-down brawl goin’ on, down at one of the saloons, and the Reverend was called in to help.”
“Help? Why a minister? Isn’t there a local sheriff, t’ deal with such things?”
“Oh, yeah, and he was there. Him and a coupla deputies. But the man causin’ all the ruckus was one of The Chapel’s members—Lemuel Jones. A decent feller most of the time, Parson, sir, but once in a while he goes off on a bender. This was one of ’em.”
“But I still don’t understand how—”
“He was tryin’ t’ talk sense into Lemuel, get him just t’ walk away from what he’d started, but there was too many hotheads involved. Bullets started t’ fly, and the Reverend was snagged in the crossfire. Poor dear man was dead b’fore he even hit the floor.”
Horrified, Nathaniel found himself shaking his head in concert with the housekeeper. Were he Roman Catholic, that would have been his moment to make the sign of the cross.
“And what happened to this—uh—Mr. Jones?”
“Oh, he sobered up after a night in the calaboose. Lem didn’t pull the trigger, o’ course; he wasn’t even armed. But he felt responsible, all the same. And, God knows, the whole thing was his fault. Ain’t had a drop of likker since.”
Silence for a few minutes, while Nathaniel digested all this. Along with giving in to temptation, in the form of a gingerbread slice, which was, as Delilah had promised, quite tasty.
“And the girls?” he said finally. “I noticed the age difference between both sets of sisters, and the difference in their distinctive coloring.”
There was nothing Delilah enjoyed more than a cup of coffee and a wee bit of gossip. All in the most kindly way, of course. Settling in, she proceeded to relate all she knew of the Winthrop history.
The Reverend Isaac Winthrop and his wife, Sophronia, had set up their household at the newly built parsonage, at the same time as the establishment of The Little Chapel in the Pines. The congregation began with modest numbers but had gradually increased in size and enthusiasm, thanks to the dedicated efforts of the ministerial couple. Both were well-liked, generous, godly people who practiced their faith as they saw it: in the practical ways needed for a bedrock mining town.
A Western Romance: Nathaniel Yancey: Taking the High Road (Book 6) (Taking the High Road series) Page 2
