Pecos Valley Revival

by Alice Duncan

  He looked as if he were losing his temper now, which was very unusual. Phil epitomized the easygoing, honest-to-the-bone cowboy the novelists are always writing about, and he seldom got angry—except with me. “Darn it, do you have any idea what it feels like to have somebody you . . . uh . . . care about ignore you? Act as if you don’t matter to them? Treat you like dirt? Make you feel like two cents?”

  I think my mouth fell open. He’d just described my whole entire life during the past few days. Should I confess it?

  And rip my pride to shreds?

  Good Lord, no!

  Well . . . maybe.

  “Um . . . well, yes, I do, actually.”

  He blinked at me. “You do?”

  I hesitated and then decided what the heck. If Phil knew how much his hanging around with Esther Strickland had hurt me, he was too much of an innate gentleman to tell anybody else and compound my misery. Heck, the rest of my friends had been doing that with their understanding sympathy and consoling looks and words for days now; he didn’t have to. “Yes, Phil, I do.”

  He stared at me for a moment or two as he pondered my answer. Then he said tentatively, “Are . . . I mean . . . is that because you thought Miss Strickland and I were, um, interested in each other?”

  He turned a brilliant beet red. Phil was ever a modest person; it must have embarrassed him to say those words because it implied that both Esther Strickland and I cared for him, and he would consider that boasting, which is something Phil never did. Silly boy. Phil was tall, handsome, well built, and about the nicest guy in the universe. What female in her right mind wouldn’t care for him?

  I stood my ground, wondering if my own face was flaming. I was surely embarrassed enough for it to be. Trying to sound practical and down to earth, I said as sarcastically as I could, “Yes, Phil. My feelings were hurt when you seemed to throw me over for Esther Strickland. Wouldn’t your feelings be hurt if I threw you over for Kenny Sawyer?” Not that Kenny had ever paid the least bit of attention to me. I guess I wasn’t pretty enough for him.

  “You mean . . . you mean you were jealous?”

  He sounded so utterly incredulous, I stamped my foot. Childish gesture, I know, but Phil had looked and acted so astounded, I couldn’t believe this was an honest reaction on his part. He couldn’t possibly be that naïve, could he?

  Shoot, maybe he could. “Well, of course, I was jealous, you idiot!”

  “But . . . but you never acted jealous,” he said wonderingly.

  “That’s because I have my pride, darn it. But how would you feel if I’d waltzed off with another man? You’ve been ignoring me ever since the Stricklands came to town. You’ve been all over Esther Strickland, and she’s been all over you!”

  “I never!” he cried indignantly.

  “You were, too!” I was having none of his fatuous protests. “Do you have any idea how humiliating it’s been for me to watch you hovering over her? Do you know how many of my friends have offered me sympathy because they thought you’d fallen madly in love with that woman and forgotten about me? How many times have you bought me Whitman’s Samplers? Never! That’s how many times, Phil Gunderson! And you did it right in front of my friends!” My throat started to close up and I was on the verge of tears. By that time I was so mad at him, I really didn’t want him to see me cry. I’d already confessed too much, blast my always-overeager tongue.

  “Whitman’s Samplers?” Phil stared at me. “But that was from her brother because she was sick. He gave me the money and asked me to get something at the store. Did you think I was giving her candy?”

  I stared back at him. “The candy was from her brother? You didn’t tell me that! You didn’t tell anybody that! You waltzed right into my own parents’ store and asked for candy to give to another woman, Phil Gunderson, right in front of my friends, me, and God almighty Himself! How do you think that made me feel?”

  He threw his hands in the air in a gesture of frustration. “But Annabelle, it didn’t mean anything.” His mouth pressed into a tight line for a second, and then he burst out, “Doggone it, Annabelle Blue . . . all right, I’ll admit it. I was trying to make you jealous, but you never acted jealous, so I didn’t think you were! You never showed by so much as a sidelong glance that you gave a rap one way or another whether I courted Esther Strickland. Or Hazel Fish, for that matter!”

  “Well, of course, I didn’t!”

  “Why not?”

  “I already told you! I have my pride!”

  “How the devil was I supposed to know that? How can I tell what you’re thinking? I’m not a mind reader. Why didn’t you say something?”

  “Because I didn’t want to look like a fool, for heaven’s sake!”

  “Well, damn it!” Phil whapped his leg with his black derby hat. He must have been really aggravated, because he never swore in front of ladies—not even me, whose status as a lady had been called into question more than once.

  We stood there, eyeing each other, for several seconds. I don’t know about Phil, but I didn’t have a clue what to say next. I was, however, beginning to lose that my-heart-is-broken-in-half-and-the-only-reason-I’m-still-upright-is-because-my-brain-doesn’t-have-sense-enough-to-stop-working feeling. Had he really been hanging around with Esther in an attempt to make me jealous? Really? How . . . how gratifying. Or something.

  I licked my lips. “Um, Phil, did you mean what you said just now?”

  He glared at me, his eyebrows forming a splendid V over his nose. He looked quite the rakish gent for a second or two. Almost like one of my romantic heroes. “Are you accusing me of lying, Annabelle?”

  “Well, no, not really. But, well, I just wondered.”

  “I don’t lie.”

  “Of course not. But . . . well, um. . . .” I wanted him to repeat what he’d said. Just in case I’d misunderstood him the first time.

  Thank God, he did. “For your information, I was trying to make you jealous. I know it was a stupid thing to do, since you clearly don’t give a hang about me, but—”

  “What?” I couldn’t believe my ears. “What do you mean I don’t give a hang about you? That’s not true! You know that’s not true!”

  “Oh, yeah? You couldn’t prove it by me. You’ve never treated me like anything but a pal. A buddy. A brother, for Pete’s sake. Damn it, Annabelle, I want to marry you someday! I love you! I don’t want to be your damned brother!”

  I know my mouth fell open that time. And my brain went blank. And my heart stumbled. After I don’t know how long, I whispered, “You love me?”

  He rolled his eyes. “Geez Louise, Annabelle Blue, I know you’re not stupid, but that’s about the dumbest question anybody’s ever asked anybody else.”

  “No it’s not. You’ve never told me before that . . . that you love me.” My voice had suddenly gone very small and squeaky.

  “Well, why should I? You’ve never given me any indication that you’d care to hear the words, have you? And you sure as hell have never mentioned that you return the sentiment.”

  “Um . . . I. . . .” Shoot, he was right. And he was right because, as much as I cared about him, I was still totally ambivalent about marriage. Marriage was so . . . permanent. Sort of like a life sentence, if you know what I mean.

  “See?” Phil demanded. “That’s what I mean. You don’t want to hear it. Yet you think I ought to pay attention to you and ignore other girls. But you never let me know if it’s worth the effort. Whether I’m succeeding. Whether you even want me to hang around you. Well, darn it, Annabelle, that’s not fair.”

  I hung my head. He was right.

  “So I started paying attention to Esther, hoping that might jar you off your damned high horse.”

  “It did.” I said it humbly.

  “Yeah, well, you still don’t seem to be very happy to know I love you. How do you think that makes me feel?” He turned around, making a complete circle, and threw his arms in the air again. I’d never seen Phil so upset. He was still glaring.
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  Something in me snapped. Risking everything—or so it seemed at the time—I rushed over and threw my arms around him. He dropped his hat as he embraced me. “But I do love you, Phil! I do! I just don’t want to get married right now.”

  He nuzzled the hair around my hat. “You do? Love me?”

  I’d started crying. For some reason, it didn’t seem humiliating, perhaps because we seemed to have broken through some sort of barrier. “You stupid man! Of course, I love you. But I’m only nineteen years old. I want to see the world—a little bit of it, anyhow—before I settle down on a ranch in the middle of nowhere and hide away from the world forever.”

  “Well, hell, so do I,” he said. I think he was laughing, although I wasn’t sure because I didn’t lift my head.

  “Really?”

  “Really. I’m only twenty-one myself, Annabelle. We have lots of time before we settle down. I’ve got to save up some so I can support a wife and family. And I’d like to see something of the world, too. You’re not the only one who’s interested in seeing something outside Rosedale, New Mexico.”

  “Oh, Phil, I’m sorry I’ve been so silly.”

  “And I’m sorry I’ve been so stupid.”

  And that was that. I felt so much better about life. After I mopped my cheeks and asked Phil several times if he thought anybody would know I’d been crying, and having been assured almost as many times that they wouldn’t, although I’m pretty sure he was lying because men never pay attention to stuff like that, we strolled back to the campfire hand in hand. My heart was singing.

  The afternoon seemed brighter, too. The chilly weather seemed pleasant to me now, instead of oppressive and ugly. The clouds, which had before appeared menacing, had taken on an aspect of benevolence, reminding me that autumn had arrived, and that pretty soon we’d be celebrating Halloween and Thanksgiving and then Christmas, my very favorite holidays of the year. I remembered that I loved fall and winter in New Mexico, and that we had the most beautiful sky in the world. Okay, so the rest of the landscape wasn’t exactly the stuff of dreams, but it was vast and open and impressive, and a magnificent example of God’s blessings to those of us who were privileged to live here—give or take a scorpion or two and the occasional rattlesnake and skunk.

  Possibilities opened before me. I hadn’t known that Phil, too, desired adventure and romance. Maybe we could pursue those two goals together.

  Or maybe not. After all, I couldn’t shake the notion that I’d really like to meet a few more men before Phil and I got hitched.

  Okay, so Phil could have his own adventures, and I could have mine. Naturally, he wouldn’t meet anyone whom he’d rather be with than me. As for me . . . well, I wouldn’t do anything wrong with any of the men who courted me and swore their undying devotion before I came home and married him.

  It’s probably clear that reality and I didn’t have much more than a nodding acquaintance in those days. Still and all, my heart was pure. And I was so very young.

  I’m ashamed to say that when I noticed Esther Strickland looking at us as if she wished we were both being roasted alive over a spit, I felt a totally unworthy surge of satisfaction.

  Chapter Ten

  Was it my imagination, or was everyone sitting around the campfire looking at Phil and me and smiling—well, except for Charles and Edward, who never smiled? I know for a fact that Myrtle smiled when she turned and saw us coming to take the seats she’d saved. Of course, her happy mood might have been due to the fact that Sonny Clyde was sitting on her other side.

  I saw Mayberry and Zilpha on the other side of the fire circle and waved. They waved back. So did Hannah and Richard, who were together—and sitting right next to Josephine and Armando Contreras. My joy slipped a trifle when I took in that particular combination of humanity. If Josephine and Richard were carrying on a clandestine love affair, they were being mighty subtle about it at the moment.

  Oh, well. There wasn’t anything I could do about anybody else’s romantic affairs. Heck, I couldn’t even handle my own.

  Phil and I had just sat, and I’d just adjusted the skirt of my lovely gray dress, when Mr. Gunderson stepped up on the platform. He looked as solemn as I’d ever seen him.

  Holding up his hand, he addressed the audience through a megaphone. “Ladies and gents, we’re gathered here today on what was supposed to be the last day of a festive occasion. Somebody destroyed it for all of us when he took the lives of our friends, Ken Sawyer and Hazel Fish.”

  A subdued murmur went around the fire circle, Sarah sobbed once, loudly, and my mood wavered a little more. Two murders. In Rosedale. It didn’t seem possible. And during the rodeo, which was supposed to be the lighthearted conclusion of a hard year of ranching. Good Lord.

  Mr. Gunderson continued, “I’ve asked Reverend Milo Strickland, who will be leaving our fair city tomorrow—”

  I sat up straighter, my mood improving dramatically. Then I leaned over and whispered to Myrtle, “Did you know he was leaving tomorrow?”

  “—to lead us in prayer.”

  “Yes. He told me he was cutting his revival short because of the tragedy. Tragedies.”

  Myrtle had spoken quickly and quietly, as if she wanted to hear every word Mr. Gunderson said, so I didn’t ask her any more questions, but listened, too.

  “It’s a sad day when religion has to take a backseat to crime,” said Mr. Gunderson. “And I hope the Stricklands and their friends understand that we here in Rosedale are, for the most part, law-abiding, Christian citizens. I’m not casting aspersions on anybody, but I know that no one from Rosedale committed these two terrible crimes.”

  The crowd’s reaction to that declaration was another murmur, this one of agreement. I wasn’t so sure myself, but I sure wanted to believe him. It’s pretty awful to think that the guy who lives next door, figuratively speaking, might be a homicidal maniac. Phil took my hand again, and my heart beat a little tippity-tap in my chest. I shot him a quick smile, but he wasn’t looking at me. With a sigh, I turned my attention back to Mr. Gunderson.

  “So, I’m going to shut up now,” he said. “And let Mr. Strickland take over. After the prayer, the Baptists and the Methodists will lead us in a few hymns to honor the fallen.”

  It sounded as if he were referring to people killed in a war. We used to hold services for the fallen at the Methodist Church during the Great War. I was too young to understand exactly what was going on, but I remember feeling very sad for all the people in the congregation who were crying. As out-of-the-way a place as Rosedale was, we lost a whole lot of boys in that awful conflict. Our present-day killings seemed to me to be even more senseless than the war killings, and my newly happified mood suffered a rather severe setback.

  “Then, after we sing a few hymns, we’ll have a little supper. Then we’ll all gather round the fire again to conclude our evening.” Mr. Gunderson stepped from the platform. He offered the megaphone to Reverend Strickland, but the latter, with a small smile, shook his head. I guess he already knew he could be heard for miles around without help.

  Reverend Strickland delivered a moving prayer. I couldn’t fault the man for lack of sincerity. He seemed truly impassioned as he begged God to forgive the sinner who’d killed two innocents. I’m not sure how innocent Kenny was, and I didn’t think God was any too fond of gossips, but I appreciated the preacher’s point. He didn’t mention any special wish that the sinner who’d murdered the two young people be caught and punished, but I figured maybe ministers hesitated to voice such entreaties to a loving God. Then again, what did I know? Obviously, not much.

  Our Methodist preacher led us in Amazing Grace, and the Baptist preacher had us sing Gather at the River, and then we all solemnly trooped over to the food tables. Before we dug in, we expressed our condolences to Mr. and Mrs. Fish and Mrs. Sawyer and Sarah Molina. Reverend Strickland had arranged that little lineup, I guess. I also guess it was appropriate, but it sure cast a damper over the meal. Which was appropriate, too, I suppose, this b
eing in the nature of a solemn occasion. All I know for sure is that my mood, which had initially soared into the skies after Phil and I had made up with each other, was now hovering down around my pretty black pumps.

  The weather didn’t help. By that time of the evening, it was pitch black outside and freezing cold—almost literally. I kept pulling my sweater more tightly around my shoulders, but it didn’t help much. I should have brought my heavy winter coat, but hadn’t because it’s brown wool and wouldn’t have gone well with my gray dress, and I’d wanted to look my best for Phil in case he still cared. Now that I knew he did still care, I berated myself as a fool. What price vanity, Annabelle Blue? Probably pneumonia. Besides that, I knew as well as I knew my own name that Phil didn’t give a rap what people wore. He didn’t pay attention to stuff like that.

  “You look chilly, Annabelle,” he murmured as he followed me in the chow line. We served ourselves that evening.

  Feeling silly, I murmured back, “I should have brought my coat.”

  “I can run fetch you one.”

  I turned a grateful glance upon him. “Would you really? That would be very nice of you, Phil.”

  “Sure. As long as you don’t mind it being kind of big on you.” He gave me one of his heart-stopping smiles, and I decided then and there that I wouldn’t mind anything at all, ever, as long as I knew Phil was there with me.

  Ergo, I smiled back. “Thanks.” I almost added you’re a pal, but stopped myself in time. After our mutual confessions behind the barn, I figured that statement would be in the nature of a reminder to him that he’d accused me of treating him like a brother.

  He made as if to go right that minute, but I forestalled him. “Wait until you’ve filled your plate, Phil. You don’t have to go right this minute.”

  “Nuts. You’re cold now. I can see you’ve got goose bumps.” And off he went.

  It was then I realized Esther Strickland and her brother had been right behind us in the line. I, feeling magnanimous, smiled at the both of them. Milo Strickland returned my smile with one of generous benevolence, as befitted a man of God. Esther already had a smile pasted on her face. It didn’t alter a single iota, but I couldn’t help but wonder if Phil’s attentions to me were making her a teensy bit jealous. I hoped so. Petty of me, I know, but there you go. I never claimed to be a saint.