Texas Angel, 2-in-1

by Judith Pella

  Dear Benjamin,

  It pains me greatly to write this letter, yet I am left with no other choice. My heart is breaking, husband. My very soul teeters on the edge of destruction. I am desperate with loneliness. I don’t know how I can make you understand when I can barely do so myself. I realize only now how much I thrived on my life in Boston—my friends and especially my family. I need all that desperately. I am empty and lost without it. That is why I have decided to do what I am doing. I have left you, Benjamin. You, of course, will not believe this, but I think it was God’s providence that Haden showed up at the peak of my despair. He is taking me back to Boston. You may think what you will, but I must quickly add that the situation is completely innocent between Haden and me. He is merely acting as my escort.

  I ask, no, I implore you not to attempt to follow me. I will not come back if that is your intent, not now at least. I must see my family. I will have our baby in Boston. When I recover from that, perhaps I will be in a better frame of mind to return to Texas. In the meantime, Benjamin, I want you to continue with your ministry. I do not wish to be the cause of its failure. Moreover, I do not want you to end up hating me for making you quit as I hate you for making me come to Texas. Though you may now consider me to be a heathen reprobate, I believe God’s work to be important. I will not stand in its way.

  Forgive me, Benjamin, for not being the strong woman of God you deserve. Forgive me for . . . for everything. I guess there is nothing more to say. Perhaps someday it will be right again between us, but even you must admit it has not been so for years. Texas was only the proverbial back-breaking straw. We have had no real marriage for a long time, and right at this moment I have little hope we ever will. I can only say that time will tell. Until then, serve God. It is what you do best. God only knows what heights you will reach unencumbered by a millstone such as I.

  I’ll say no more, Benjamin. God be with you.

  Always,

  Rebekah

  Before the letter tumbled from Benjamin’s hand, he saw perhaps the greatest affront it held. Clearly the word Always at the end had been changed from another word. Rebekah had first written Love, then had darkly scrawled Always over it, as if she thought he might not be able to tell.

  Taking a sharp breath, he clamped his mouth so tightly closed that it began to hurt, but the pain was oddly welcome. He stood still by the table for a while, resisting the temptation to retrieve the fallen letter and read it again. The cold began to penetrate his body and make him shake, but still he stood unmoving, his mind blank except for a white flame inside his head, which he knew was the beginning of rage.

  Part of him knew he should quell that rage before it grew stronger, but another part wanted to give it full vent. Finally, it was the latter that won out.

  How dare she to do this to him? The selfish, foolish vixen! And how could she write such gibberish? She’d made it sound as though their marriage was a huge disaster. All marriages had a few problems, but she had blown theirs all out of proportion. Was she demented? No, the words on that page had not been those of insanity. She had given them much thought, perhaps even agonized over them. But she was thinking only of herself—as always.

  She cared neither for him nor for God, as she tried to claim. She’d always cared only for her own comforts. He could not remember a day in the last year when she had not whined about Boston. She had never given Texas a chance. She had scorned his holy call from the begin.ning, and now she was two-faced enough to say she believed the work of God to be important! The work of God meant nothing to her and neither did he, God’s servant. She relished destroying him in this way, thrusting a knife into his heart and twisting it vilely. And the most vile twist of all was her running off with Haden! What a pitiful attempt she had made in trying to couch it in innocence.

  Innocence, indeed!

  His wife had run off with his brother!

  Thus Benjamin raged for the next hour. He grabbed Rebekah’s precious sugar bowl, the one her mother had given to her as a special going.away present. He flung it against the rough logs of the cabin wall. It shattered, spilling expensive and hard-to-come-by sugar all over the floor. Benjamin reveled in the broken china, shattered like his wife’s shattered marriage vows.

  And she had the nerve to think he might chase after her! Ha! He would no more do that than he would give up his ministry. Let her crawl back to him. Not that he would take her back after she had defiled herself so.

  Nearly blinded by fury, he grabbed something else to throw, a piece of crockery on the sideboard. Then he saw her wedding rings lying together side by side. He knew she had never before taken them from her finger. Until now. The horrible finality of what had happened gripped him stronger than rage, stronger than fury or righteous indignation. The realization came that she was gone, his children were gone, the life he had so cherished . . . gone. It assailed him like a blow to the gut. It sent bitter, burning bile up his throat.

  “Oh, God!”

  His knees gave out and he crumpled to the floor, crying like a child. Great choking sobs exploded from his being. The reaction surprised him, even angered him further, but he could not quench it. The tears just kept coming. And the white flame of rage turned darkly black as his soul descended into despair.

  Until the moment he found the note under the sugar bowl, he’d thought he had a perfect marriage, a perfect family. There were a few problems, as any marriage of length encountered, but he’d been so certain they needed but a small fix. Even now he found it hard to believe they could have been so serious. Could he have been that wrong? Yes, he had known Rebekah was not happy with their move. But “teetering on the edge of destruction”? Surely he was not so blind that he could have missed it. Had he known . . . had he known . . . what then? What would he have done? What could he have done? Even she had acknowledged the importance of his ministry. Did she expect him to give it all up for her happiness?

  No, she did not. So she had left on her own. Did she not realize that act in itself had the potential to be just as destructive to his ministry as his leaving it? He hardly dared think of the repercussions. Yet they crowded into his distraught mind in spite of himself. How could he be accepted as a leader of his parish if he could not handle his own family?

  Would he then become an object of scorn? Oh, how Rebekah would enjoy seeing that. She had on occasion pointed out what she perceived to be his arrogance, but which he defined as righteousness. Regardless of the semantics, she would love to see him shamed before his flock.

  Shamed! How can I bear it, dear God?

  He dropped his head into his hands as fresh tears assailed him. Then he reached out and gathered Rebekah’s letter into his hand, crumpling it into a ball. With a few words, his life was ended. All that mattered was crushed as certainly as he crushed the paper in his hand.

  The sound of a horse’s whinny in the yard momentarily arrested his attention. Devastated as he was, the common tasks of life called. In his earlier panic he had left the horses to themselves, one still loaded with supplies.

  Taking a steadying breath, he started to rise. At that moment, he heard footfall on the doorstep. He could hardly ignore the knock on the door. Whoever it was would know, with two horses roaming in the yard, that someone was home.

  CHAPTER

  26

  BENJAMIN RUBBED HIS HANDS ACROSS his face. His first instinct was to act as if all was normal. Swallowing back the lump in his throat, he rose as a muffled knock struck his door. But even as he stepped toward the door, he wondered if he could ignore it.

  But why? Should he run and hide because of a faithless wife?

  A surge of renewed anger made him open the door. John Hunter faced him.

  “Reverend, I’m sure glad you’re here. My mother has finally passed.”

  “I’m sorry, John.” Benjamin’s voice trod roughly over the words.

  “You okay, Reverend?”

  What a poor actor he was! But he tried a moment longer. “Yes . . . of course. Everyth
ing is fine. It’s . . . just . . . fine.” His voice began to deteriorate, and he sucked in further speech.

  Hunter peered over Benjamin’s shoulder, and his brow wrinkled. Benjamin knew that Hunter would see at once how unusual it was for the house to be so quiet and empty of family life.

  “Is it Mrs. Sinclair?” There was true concern in Hunter’s voice.

  “Why . . . would you ask?”

  “Well, I know of her condition, an’ my missus wanted her to come to our place when her time came.” Hunter licked his lips as though uncomfortable. It wasn’t like him to interfere in another’s business, and Benjamin knew the man was even less inclined to intrude upon a minister’s affairs.

  “She is not here,” Benjamin replied sharply. His anger, never really abated, rose again—anger at Rebekah for putting him in such an awkward position, anger at his vulnerability. “No one is here!” His voice was ragged with pain. “Do you want to know where she is?”

  “Well . . . uh . . . I don’t—”

  “You’ll find out eventually.” Benjamin threw the wad of paper at his hapless visitor. “See for yourself.” The letter brushed Hunter’s nose, then dropped to the floor before he could react. But Benjamin could not let it go. He swept the letter from the floor and shoved it in Hunter’s face until he took it in hand. “Go ahead. Read it!”

  This was obviously the last thing John Hunter wanted to do, but he obediently smoothed out the paper and scanned the writing, attempting to catch the meaning without gleaning too much of a personal nature.

  But no matter how quickly he read, he could not avoid the basic tenets of the missive.

  “Reverend, I’m sorry.”

  Hunter’s tone made Benjamin instantly regret his impulsive act. For it was filled with pity. Benjamin spun around and strode to the fireplace, forgetting there was no fire in it to offer some distraction. He grabbed a couple of chunks of wood and tossed them inside, then reached for the tinderbox on the mantel. His hands fumbled as he tried unsuccessfully to ignite a spark.

  “Reverend?” Hunter entreated gently.

  “What—? This has never worked properly.” He gave the flint a hard strike and the box flew from his hands.

  “Let me help you, Reverend.” Hunter bent down and retrieved the box. Benjamin thought his friend’s words had deeper meaning, but his flock was not supposed to minister to him. He should be above their help. It was his responsibility to help them.

  “Forgive me, John, I’ve lost track of why you came. Your mother . . .”

  Hunter struck a flame, but when he bent to set it to the wood, he must have realized there was no kindling, nothing but the large pieces of wood to start the fire. Letting the little flame die, he reached for some kindling in a bucket next to the hearth.

  “Don’t bother with that,” Benjamin said suddenly. “We need to get to your place.”

  “I don’t expect you to come now. . . .”

  “Nonsense! Your mother must have a proper burial.” Anger, shame, confusion, emptiness—all retreated momentarily in a sudden sense of purpose, though it appeared more like mania as he raced outside and began unloading supplies from his horse. “As soon as I take care of these supplies, we will be off.” He took an armload and strode back into the cabin with Hunter hurrying after him.

  “Reverend, please. I can wait.” Hunter grabbed Benjamin’s arm, but Benjamin shook him off.

  Benjamin piled the items on the table, but as he did so, a carefully wrapped package tore. He stared at the contents. It contained the pretty blue calico he had bought for Rebekah. Picking it up, he was about to fling it across the room when he caught Hunter’s figure out of the corner of his eye. Instead, he offered the package to him.

  “Your wife could use this.” Benjamin’s voice sounded as cold as the fireless hearth. “Rebekah will never need it.”

  “I can’t take that, Reverend. Why don’t you set it down and, while you’re at it, sit down yourself. Maybe you’d just like to talk or something.”

  “Would you counsel me, John? What do you say to a minister whose life is ruined?”

  “Now, don’t talk that way.” Hunter pulled out a corner of the bench by the table and motioned for Benjamin to sit. Then taking his own advice, he slipped onto the bench himself. “Come on, Reverend. Sit.”

  Benjamin suddenly felt once more how shaky he was. He realized he hadn’t sat, much less rested, since coming home. Perhaps it would help after all. Maybe it would make his mind work and think properly, calmly. Straddling the bench so as to face Hunter, he stared at him, as if expecting the very action to somehow solve his problems.

  Perhaps taking Benjamin’s look as leave to speak, Hunter went on, “I’ll be frank with you, Reverend. You know I don’t know more than you about much of anything, ’cept maybe farming and frontier life. But even I know that no one is perfect, no matter how hard one tries to be so. Don’t you think for a minute that any of your parishioners ever expected you to be perfect—or your wife. Things happen, and it don’t change the man you are.”

  “You think no less of me for what has happened?” Benjamin wasn’t certain why this should surprise him so, perhaps because he might have thought less of Hunter had the tables been turned.

  “Listen here, Reverend, anyone knows this land ain’t kind to women. Why do you suppose there’s so few of ’em around? My wife has threatened to leave many times. After the cholera epidemic near two years ago when we lost our two youngest children, I thought she’d snap for sure.”

  “But she didn’t.”

  “All folks are different.”

  “It is kind of you to try to comfort me in this way, John, but you and I both know more is expected of me—”

  “You only expect it of yourself,” Hunter cut in rather sharply for the soft-spoken man that he was.

  “God expects it of me.” As Benjamin said the words, it was the first time that day the full import of what had happened struck him. He hadn’t let himself think of God, at least not in this context. Not in the sense that he had failed God.

  “I don’t know about any of that,” Hunter was saying. “But as far as I can see, you haven’t done nothing to let God down yet. God doesn’t expect you to be perfect, does He?”

  Of course He does! Benjamin wanted to shout. A father always expects his sons to be perfect. But, if only on an intellectual basis, Benjamin knew he wasn’t perfect and never could be as long as he was shackled by his human frame. Yet in striving as hard as he did to be so, he had come to forget that fact. He made sure he did everything right according to the Scriptures, just so he would not have to be faced with his humanity. Perhaps that’s what angered him most about what Rebekah had done. She had forced him to confront the fact that he was, after all, only a man.

  “There’s still a couple of hours of daylight left,” Benjamin hedged. “Let’s use it to make our way to your cabin.”

  “I wouldn’t ask that of you—”

  “I couldn’t bear to spend the night here, John.” Benjamin wondered what he would do the next night and the night after that? How long could he escape reality?

  With an understanding shrug, John said, “In that case, let’s finish unloading those supplies and be on our way.”

  CHAPTER

  27

  THE NEWS OF BENJAMIN’S TROUBLED marriage spread quickly through his circuit. To John Hunter’s credit, it came not from him but rather from Albert Petty, the Cooksburg storekeeper. He had surmised the situation when Benjamin Sinclair’s wife, brother, and brood of kids had come to the store to purchase supplies for the trail. That, together with rumors—Nell Hunter let a thing or two slip here and there—and the story was out, loaded with varying degrees of misinformation.

  Not everyone received it with as much magnanimity as Hunter.

  Amos Hawke had a good laugh.

  “Don’t that beat all!” he chuckled as he shared a glass of ale with Albert Petty. “The preacher’s wife ran off with his own brother. Can’t say as I blame the poor wom
an.”

  “And her several months gone with child,” added Petty with a sly grin.

  “You suppose the kid is even the preacher’s?”

  “Who knows?”

  “Well, all’s I can say is that self-righteous Bible-beater got what he deserved.”

  Because Benjamin had just completed his circuit, he used that as an excuse to stay home when he returned from reading a service over the grave of John Hunter’s mother. He didn’t let himself believe he was hiding out. He always took time off after completing his circuit, though occasionally a member of his flock would come to fetch him as Hunter had to perform an emergency service. Now was no different. Even a tarnished preacher was better than none at all when there was a need.

  Another death forced Benjamin to ride two days to the home of Jim Wilson, whose wife had died in childbirth along with the infant. Because Wilson lived in a tiny enclave of settlers, mostly his relatives, there were about twenty-five present at the service. Benjamin had often used Wilson’s cabin or one of his clan’s for church services on his circuit, so he knew everyone present.

  They stood around the graves in a drizzly spring rain. Benjamin quoted Scripture from memory so as not to expose his Bible to the elements.

  “ ‘I am the resurrection, and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live. And whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.’ Do you believe this, Jim Wilson?” Benjamin glanced up to see the bereaved man nod and went on. “Then I commend the spirits of Sarah Reed Wilson and Robert James Wilson into the hands of God through our Lord Jesus Christ.”

  Because the bodies had been laid in their graves days previously, the service ended there. The group of mourners hurried into Jim Wilson’s warm, dry cabin to offer further condolences and to partake of a meal.