Jerking upright, he looked wildly around in case a feather-bellied snake had suddenly slithered into his bed.
No. No snake. Nor any other wild creature.
Just Jezebel. For some unknown reason, the cat had decided to sleep with him every night, no matter how much the littlers tried to entice her into their own room. Probably too much jiggling and giggling going on there for anyone’s taste.
Nathaniel was not a cat person. Not that he would ever mistreat one, of course; having grown up with dogs, he had simply never felt any particular affinity for the breed. But this animal insisted upon sharing his quarters. He had shooed her away. She always returned. He had even closed his door. Somehow, some way, she managed to get back inside. At last he had given up.
That didn’t mean he’d gotten used to her furry black tail being draped over and around any exposed part of his body.
“You. Huh. You couldnta given me just another half-hour or so t’ snooze?” Yawning, he hauled the cat into his lap, and chucked her under the chin. A favorite spot, he’d learned; and, to prove it, she began to purr so loudly that her very bones seemed to vibrate.
Maybe, this being Sunday, she had opted to take pity on her poor excuse for a human being. Probably not exactly the replacement for Reverend Winthrop she would have chosen, but she was stuck with this one. Jezebel’s usual method to wake him meant sprawling like an Egyptian Sphinx on his chest until she spied the very faintest movement of his closed eyelids. At that point, she would pounce, squalling forth some noise halfway between a cat’s yowl and a dog’s bark.
The first time of being jolted into consciousness by this unorthodox alarm clock had nearly sent him rocketing right out of the bed. After several mornings of the same routine, however, he’d grown relaxed enough to merely pull the pillow over his ears, in response.
“Well, c’mon, then, Jezzy,” he adjured her, disentangled himself from the sheet and plopping both bare feet onto the rag rug. “Go get yourself some food.”
Food. The cat’s ears pricked forward. Hopping up onto the sill of Nathaniel’s open window, she flicked her busy tail a few more times, and then slipped soundlessly down to disappear in the great outdoors.
As early as it was, Nathaniel could hear the littlers moving through the house like a tidal wave—invincible, unstoppable, and full of noise. Yawning again, he stretched out last night’s kinks, sought the bathroom facilities, and wrapped himself in his favorite flannel robe to join the family for breakfast. Wondering, as he padded down the hall, what new and exciting event might come up this morning.
He had expected his first ecclesiastical assignment to be quite different from the seminary’s quiet, conventional routine. But not quite this different!
Over yesterday’s supper table, the whole household had dissected every detail of Miss Parris Porter’s visit, ad infinitum. In answer to his question about the use of “La Bastille,” the famous French institution, in reference to their neighbor, Carrie had confessed.
“It is her first name, of course you know that,” she pointed out.
“Ahuh.” Nathaniel leaned back into his chair to enjoy a sip of coffee and study the smiling, sweet-natured face turned toward him. “And you have firsthand knowledge of the dungeon, do you?”
“Well, no. It’s just—uh. Well. Because…”
“B’cause she’d make a perfect prison guard,” piped up Emmie with great enthusiasm.
“Oh, yeah,” agreed Linnie after a gulp of milk. “Always nosy, and gettin’ in where she shouldn’t, and askin’ questions, and bein’ nasty!”
“And I bit her!” Hollie finished off the discussion, quite satisfied with her own role in the earlier drama.
Delilah registered shock. “Oh, honeybee, you didn’t! You know how wrong that is! Shame, shame on you.”
His chair creaked as Nathaniel straightened, expression stern, straight black brows drawn together in a frown. “She sure does know how wrong that is. We had ourselves a little talk afterward, didn’t we, Hollie? She’s promised it won’t ever happen again. And she’s t’ apologize t’morrah, after church, when she sees Miss Porter.”
Grimacing, the little girl reached for a biscuit smeared with her favorite jam. Purple. Somehow the sticky stuff miraculously transferred itself from the plate to her hands to her navy plaid smock to her plump cheeks. “Sure ’nuff, Rev’rund.” She aimed a colorful grin in his direction. “Soon’s I see her.”
“Ahuh. And don’t go thinkin’ you can run off and hide, young lady,” he admonished her, fighting for control over his own grin that wanted to break free. “I will serve as your personal escort.”
Dishes were passed from one diner to the other, clinking; utensils were used, moved, dropped; a glass of water was accidentally tipped over, and the plate of butter accidentally turned upside down.
“Only thing is, Nate,” interjected Portia, at this point, “Miss Porter is not a good cook. Do we really have to eat that dreadful cake she brought over?”
Remembering that conversation now, next morning and two hours after breakfast, Nathaniel couldn’t help the disrespectful smile that sprung to life while he bathed and shaved and dressed in his best frock coat and plain wool trousers.
This was an important day, his first at the helm of a bereaved and empty church. To be honest, he was feeling a good case of nerves before he faced that open pulpit. Sweaty palms, tousled hair that refused to lie down flat, a couple of razor nicks, and butterflies in the stomach threatening a revolution. What he needed was a bit of free time for meditation.
And he got it, too. At least ten minutes’ worth, anyway, kneeling beside his neatly made bed to silently commune with God, before all hell broke loose out in the kitchen.
Upon hearing the crash of some solid object, and then the ensuing screams and wails, he dithered. After all, Delilah should have things well in hand. That’s why she was here, right? And the older girls, what were they up to?
Fifteen seconds later, he was thundering down the hall and into the kitchen, where Hollie lay shrieking and entangled through the legs of a heavy chair. Nathaniel’s heart skidded to a painful stop in tandem with his racing feet. Bending, he wrestled the child free to pull her into his arms.
No questions yet. Just reassurance and comfort, patting and soothing. That much he knew. That much he had already learned.
The tears slowed, the sobs dwindled. More frightened than hurt, she snuggled trustingly up against his bracing coat front and sighed.
“Any cuts?” he asked gently. “Any bleedin’? Any bruises?”
A shake of the head to each query. A head almost unfamiliar to him, since the nimbus of flaxen hair had been carefully wetted down and combed within an inch of its life.
“Haven’t we discussed you kids not climbin’ around like monkeys?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Then what in—heck—were you doin’, climbin’ around like a monkey?”
Another faint brimming of tears from the great blue eyes. With a final hiccup, she held out her hand and spread apart her fingers. There, nestled into the curve of her palm, lay a colorful enamel pin.
“It was my papa’s,” she explained, pink lips trembling. “He wore it t’ church every Sunday, and then he kept it up there, atop that cabinet. So I wanted you t’ wear it, too, ’specially for your first day.”
Now his heart not only stopped, it twisted straight across his breast and damned near broke. “Hollie—” he began over the enormous lump in his throat. Carefully he picked up the small ornament. A memento, of sorts, testifying to the Reverend Winthrop’s good behavior and perfect attendance as attributes.
“Izzat okay?” she whispered.
“It’s absolutely okay. Thank you, Hollie. I’d be mighty proud t’ wear this.”
Just then, Delilah came huffing and puffing back into the kitchen, skidding, as he had, to a stop.
“Parson, sir, I’m so sorry! The older girls went on ahead t’ adult classes at church, and I was upstairs gettin’ Emmie and L
innie ready for Sunday School. What in the world has happened, and has Hollie gotten herself in trouble somehow?”
Hastily, Nathaniel explained. No, no trouble. No harm. No damage.
“Then we prob’ly should get us a move on, Parson, sir. Don’t wanna be late your first mornin’ in church. How would that look?”
Cheered by all the good going on in this new-minted day, he laughed. “Not very praiseworthy, Delilah. Not very praiseworthy, a’tall.”
And so it was that the Reverend Nathaniel Yancey made his way to The Little Chapel in the Pines as part of a parade.
Preceding him, Miss Delilah Trubody, dressed remarkably in a dark blue silk dress, white-collared, slim-waisted, full-skirted that, upon first appearance, had had Parson, sir, almost dropping his teeth in astonishment. By comparison to her usual daily costumes, she might have been about to enter a convent. Delilah was holding the hand of a small towheaded child on either side of her: to the right, Emmie, wearing a short pink frock with a sash and puffed sleeves; to the left, Linnie, wearing a short yellow frock with a big floppy bow and elbow cuffs.
Trailing along behind strode Nathaniel, bedecked with his pin, carrying a small tousled girl-child in pastel blue, smiling and waving to the gathered crowd as does the Queen to her loyal subjects.
The church was packed, every neat wooden pew filled by members suited up in their best.
His entourage marched down the center aisle as nonchalantly as if this were a day like any other. With what showed undoubtedly as a flourish, Nathaniel seated everyone in the very first row, reserved for the pastor’s family, where the older girls had already been established.
From his pulpit, the new Reverend looked joyously out over the sanctuary. Flowers, sunlight, clean white paint, and eager interested faces.
“God be praised for this glorious day!” he announced in his trajectory church voice. “Welcome! Welcome, all! I am so delighted to see so many here this mornin’. And I hope t’ meet each and ev’ry one of you, after our worship, and get t’ know who you are. As you have prob’ly heard by now, my name is Reverend Nathaniel Yancey, and I’m so happy t’ join you in the service. Let’s all bow our heads in prayer.”
And so the service proceeded. The Easter season, consisting of the Forty Days of Lent, the Crucifixion, and the Resurrection, had passed, along with selections of music particular to the church calendar. Today’s hymns included Amazing Grace and Rock of Ages, both favorites, judging by the vigor and enthusiasm with which the congregation belted out the words.
Nathaniel had based his sermon upon the Seventh Chapter of Matthew: “Judge not, that ye be not judged.” He spoke of hypocrisy, and of the mote that is in thy brother’s eye, and of all the good things coming from the Father.
Never one to sit still if he could move, he found himself so caught up in the day’s homily that he naturally gravitated from one side of the chancel to the other. Scattered among the parishioners, he noted Buckwell Murray, the stationmaster, nodding and approving, beside a woman who must be his wife.
Also, prominently featured in one of the front pews, was Parris Porter, dressed in a fine gray silk walking dress that was gussied up with more frills and furbelows than could be counted. Did she realize that the message he was recounting so earnestly correlated directly with her Friday’s visit? Probably not. The deliberately obtuse remain obtuse, no matter any provocation.
The sight that afforded him the most pleasure as he continued on with the text, however, was the line of females seated in the very front pew, from the easygoing Delilah all the way down to baby Hollie. The females he was beginning to consider his family, blood or no blood. In fact, he suspected even Jezebel might have enjoyed his sermon, could one of the littlers have smuggled her inside.
And of the row of attentive ladies, he managed to catch the eye of Carrie on several occasions.
As a show of support for the new master of the parsonage, the girls had sent their beaux to the back, to be corralled after the service. Seeing Caroline so apparently mindful of his every word sent a strange sort of thrill to Nathaniel’s lonely heart, and it was thanks to this rapt absorption that he was discovering a real talent for oratory.
At least, he hoped it was that. And not just an overactive ego giving him a kick in the arse.
Afterward, no altar boy or candle lighter preceded him out into the hall. No pomp and circumstance, no papist leanings, no special robes or stoles. Only the warmth and friendliness of a simple service.
“Good t’ listen t’ you, Reverend,” boomed Buckwell, first in line at greeting and handshaking by the open door. “You raked in the bucks t’day, and that’s a fact.”
“Oh. Huh.” With everything else going on, Nathaniel had given no thought to the ushers and the collection plates being passed around. “You may be right, Buck. Thanks for comin’. And this must be your lovely wife, Hannah?”
Just then little Hollie, finally released from the threat of dire things to come if she didn’t sit still and keep quiet during the service, came running back and raised her arms. Without even turning a hair, without even interrupting his chat with the stationmaster, Nathaniel complied. Up went the little girl, beaming. And ping! went every woman’s heartstrings, as its owner fell slightly in love with the tall, handsome leader of his flock.
Charm and cordiality rolled around like ripples in a pond, encompassing all the church-goers and spreading outward from there.
Until those waves ran smack up against the self-important Parris Porter, rolling forward with the gait of an ocean liner.
“Reverend!” she exclaimed, reaching out both hands to clasp his, as if they were friends of years’ standing. “What a wonderful sermon!”
“Glad t’ hear you think so,” said Nathaniel. Holding Hollie close to his chest had never seemed more righteous. Or more of a barrier. At least Miss Porter was unable to wrap him in her embrace, as he suspected she might have tried otherwise.
Just then, the little girl turned her head, stared directly at the lady, and stuck out her tongue.
Parris gasped. Her “Why, the nerve—!” told the parson that his words had, like the seeds of the Biblical sower, fallen onto rocky soil, with no chance to take root and thrive.
“You’ll have to excuse my little sister,” cut in Caroline smoothly, at his elbow. “This whole week has seemed upside down for her, with so much going on. I know she’ll want to apologize to you later, Miss Porter. But, for now, lunch and a nap are probably in order.” With a smile, she eased the woman along in line and immediately greeted the next congregant.
“Oh, that was a master stroke,” Nathaniel murmured, once the crowd had begun to thin. “Thank you, Carrie. I appreciate your help.”
“Any time, Parson, sir.” The blue eyes danced with mischief. “Come on, Hollie, you’re old enough to walk home from here. Let’s give this poor man a few minutes of peace and quiet.” Flinging a grin over her shoulder at him, she took the little girl’s hand and started away.
He was left with a feeling of complete and utter bliss.
Of course, reaching the parsonage a bit later, after a few final farewells to lingerers and a last check to make sure that everything had been closed and returned to normal inside the sanctuary, that euphoric feeling faded away just a bit upon discovering that all three swains had shown up.
Portia and her devoted fiancé Andy had disappeared to the back porch swing; Tina and Josh had decided, with the weather being so pleasant, to meander off on a stroll toward downtown. That left Caroline to help Delilah, already changed, with a breath of relief, from her Sunday clothes to her working clothes, prepare dinner.
Peace and quiet. Peace and quiet. Did Nathaniel really desire peace and quiet? Or was he beginning to grow used to this helter-skelter household and its incredible mix? Removing his clerical collar and hanging his frock coat carefully over the back of his desk chair, he returned to the front porch. There, with the black cat in attendance and his feet propped comfortably upon a stool, he leaned back in
to the settee and surveyed his domain.
“Oh, yoo-hoo, Reverend,” came a voice from around the corner. “I’m so glad I found you alone, without any nasty little limpets clinging to your arm.”
Oh, hellfire and damnation.
It was Parris Porter again, mincing forward in her formal duds to climb the stairs. Did the woman never give up?
Sighing, he pulled himself upright. No matter what his reaction to this pesky neighbor, he was a gentleman, after all; a man of the cloth. Courtesy and good manners demanded that he behave like one.
“Miss Porter,” he acknowledged her presence with a nod. “Didn’t expect t’ be seein’ you again right away.”
“Well, goodness, there was such a crush around you after the service,” she pointed out, smirking. “I could hardly get a word in edgewise. And then that—that—”
Careful! His inner voice warned her. Watch what you say.
“—your ward—that is, I suppose they’re all your wards now, whatever their ages—that Caroline just sort of oozed in and took over. I’m surprised you would allow such—well, such boldness!”
“Oh, I let quite a bit get past me,” said Nathaniel temperately. His remark went right over her head, flying away unheeded. “I am an easy-goin’ man, most of the time. Was there somethin’ you wanted, Miss Porter?”
She had taken up position not far away, applying, even in the shade of the broad porch roof, the service of a pretty sandalwood folding fan, more suitable for attendance at some sophisticated Opera House than the parsonage of a frontier town.
“I did, indeed, Reverend. Although it’s a bit last minute, I wanted to invite you over for Sunday dinner. Fried chicken, doesn’t that sound tempting? And my cook can work wonders in the kitchen.”
Now how was he supposed to get out of this one? Granted, there would be plenty of social calls and ministerial visits penciled into his study calendar. But the only way he’d set foot in that house next door was with reinforcements.
“Well, now, I thank you kindly for the invitation, Miss Porter, but I’ve only just—”
A Western Romance: Nathaniel Yancey: Taking the High Road (Book 6) (Taking the High Road series) Page 6
