“And Lord, please watch over young Runs Like a Deer, and cause his leg to continue to heal,” Gil prayed a few mornings later in the church sanctuary. He’d been thinking of the Indian boy this morning, and hoped his leg was on the mend. And that the Comanche band had moved on by now, so they were no longer a threat to the Simpson Creek area. “Thanks for all the blessings You bestow on us, and help us to show others how much You love them—particularly Faith. Lord, help her to believe in You—”
Behind him, he heard the church door creak open, and the sound of bootheels echoing on the plank flooring.
“Pardon me, Reverend...”
Gil opened his eyes and turned, seeing that the speaker was Luis Menendez, Sheriff Bishop’s young deputy.
“Deputy Menendez, buenas dias to you. What can I do for you today?”
“Buenas dias to you, too, sir. Sheriff Bishop was wondering if you could come down to the jail for a few moments. Major McConley is there and wanted to speak to you about your recent experience with the Indians.”
Gil sighed inwardly. Just when he had been hoping the cavalry’s scrutiny would have shifted to something else...
“Of course, Deputy. Tell the sheriff I’ll be right there. I just want to check on my father first.” His father had been doing all right in the last few days without the presence of his spinster nurses, but Gil still kept a close eye on him.
He found the cavalry officer ensconced in the chair opposite Sam Bishop’s desk, talking to the sheriff. The man straightened as Gil entered.
“Reverend Gil, thanks for coming down,” Sam greeted him. “This is Major McConley, commanding officer for the nearby detachment of the U.S. Cavalry. Major, Reverend Gil is our pastor at the Simpson Creek Church.”
The cavalry officer extended his hand. “Reverend, an honor. But, Sheriff, I thought I’d met your preacher—isn’t he an older man? I hope he didn’t...”
“My father is recovering from the effects of an apoplexy, Major, that’s caused him problems with speaking. I’m taking his place.”
“I see. He’s a fine man, your father. Please give him my best wishes for a return to complete health.”
“Thank you, sir, I will.”
The major peered at him closely. “Speaking of healing, you appear to be healing up from your scrape with the redskins, Reverend. Sheriff Bishop tells me you were quite the worse for wear.”
Gil nodded. “I thank God I was able to escape. Have you...found any sign of the Comanches?”
The major shook his head. “Nary a trace, but there’s so much ground to cover...we could have just missed it. Folks still need to be careful.”
“But I’m told they’re a wandering people,” Gil said. “Maybe they moved camp right after they attacked me.”
Gil saw the major’s eyes narrow and hoped he hadn’t come across as a little too eager to believe the Indians were gone. He’d have to wonder why.
“It’s true that the hunting and raiding bands range widely,” McConley acknowledged. “Sheriff Bishop tells me you started out riding north, but when you ran into the Indians you just let the horse pick his direction and concentrated on escape. Natural enough, I suppose. Can you remember markings on their lances or arrows, or the feathers in their hair, anything like that? That can be distinct to a particular band, and our scouts—often Indians of other tribes or half-breeds—can sometimes identify the band from those markings. Did they wear warpaint? Did their horses? Any particular hairstyle, or I was hoping you’d remembered something else about your experience, something that might help us narrow down the area to search.”
Gil thought hard. “It all happened so fast... No, they weren’t wearing warpaint nor were their horses painted. Some of them had feathers dangling from their lances, some didn’t. Their hair was loose and long, as I recall. I didn’t see any of the arrows, but they had quivers of them on their backs.”
The major’s pale eyes gave nothing away. “That’s all you can recall?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so. All my energies were concentrated on escape.”
Bishop rubbed his chin and exchanged glances with the major.
“Very well, Reverend,” the major said, rising. “I figured it wouldn’t hurt to try to see if you’d recollected anything more than what you told Sheriff Bishop before. Appreciate your time, sir.”
The three men walked outside together to where the major’s mount with its distinctive cavalry saddle was tethered to the hitching post. Gil wondered yet again if he’d done the right thing by being less than truthful with the cavalry officer. He didn’t want to save the Indian boy at the expense of the townspeople’s safety, but he knew that far too often, the army’s version of controlling the Indians had resulted in wholesale slaughter of Indian women and children.
“If you think of anything else, Reverend, Sheriff Bishop knows how to get hold of me,” McConley said, extending a hand.
“Go with God, Major,” Gil said. He knew that the other man was aware he had made no promise.
“Oh, there you are, Reverend,” a man’s voice called, and Gil looked up and beheld Yancey Merriwell bearing down on them, pencil at the ready and notebook in hand. “I was wondering if I might get that interview now.”
There was plenty Gil wanted to say to Merriwell, but none of it had to do with his Indian encounter, so it was probably best to forestall the encounter until he could control his ire. He noticed that the newspaperman’s gaze distracted by the sight of the splendidly uniformed cavalryman preparing to mount his horse, and saw his opportunity for escape.
“Oh, you can interview me anytime, Mr. Merriwell,” Gil said with a breezy wave. “Why not talk to Major McConley here while you have the chance? I’ll warrant he has some fascinating tales of the frontier to share with your readers.”
He saw by the spark of interest in Merriwell’s eyes he had been successful in his attempt at distraction.
“True enough, I suppose,” Merriwell drawled. “Very well, then, Major, I’m Yancey Merriwell, new associate editor with the Simpson Creek Chronicle. Might I have a few moments of your time?”
Gil glanced behind him as he strode away, and felt only a little guilty as he saw the annoyed expression on the major’s face.
Chapter Fifteen
Adorning little boxes—or in this case a lidded basket her mother let her borrow for the purpose—was not her forte, Faith thought, surveying the box of fabric scraps in her mother’s workroom. There was nothing she could see that would really make the box distinctively hers. And how on earth did one attach the fabric to the basket? She’d seen such boxes before because box socials were a staple of small-town events, but she’d never examined one close-up. Did one have to stitch the fabric to the box somehow?
At least the supper inside the box would be something other than the usual fried chicken. There would be plenty of that popular main dish because it was so easy to prepare ahead, yet still tasted delicious cold. She wanted to make something unexpected, something that would cause the winner to appreciate her originality, yet was still as tasty as fried chicken.
What else tasted good cold? Ham. She’d made ham croquettes once under her mother’s tutelage and they’d come out well...ham croquettes it would be. Her mother readily agreed to let Faith slice off a portion of the smoked ham hanging in their springhouse. She would prepare it in the morning so she would be available in the afternoon to help the other spinsters set up and decorate the tables in the churchyard for the box social. She’d fill the rest of the basket with slices of fresh-baked bread, coleslaw and angel food cake with peach topping.
She only hoped Gil liked ham as well as the rest of her selections. But would he be the one who bid on her decorated box? Maybe he’d feel that bidding on it would be tantamount to a declaration he was not willing to make, now or maybe ever, as long as she continued in her state of disbelief.
Goodness, what if he didn’t bid for her decorated box, and no one else bid, either? How embarrassing that would be!
But she was putting the cart before the horse, she reminded herself. Before a lack of bids could even be a problem, she needed to have a decorated box to offer. But there was nothing in this box of fabric scraps that appealed. Should she go see if Mrs. Patterson had any pretty remnants of calico or gingham to adorn it? She had a few coins saved in a tiny porcelain box in her chest of drawers...
Inspiration struck. She’d already selected a dress to wear to the event, one of willowy green with three rows of a slightly darker green lace starting at each shoulder and ending in a vee at her waist. It had been made for her by Milly Brookfield, who had cut out the pattern at her sister Sarah’s house, where she was staying for a few days. Was it possible Sarah kept fabric scraps as Faith’s mother did and still had some left?
Folding the dress over her arm and clutching the box, Faith fairly flew up the street to Sarah and Dr. Walker’s house, hoping it wasn’t an inconvenient time to be visiting.
She was in luck, for it so happened Sarah had put little Elizabeth down for a nap moments ago and was delighted to see her—even more so when Faith explained the reason for her visit.
Sarah looked at the dress and her face brightened. “Yes, I do have the remnants from that dress. Before little Elizabeth came along, I’d been thinking about making a quilt with the scraps I had. I suppose I thought I’d have all kinds of time while the baby napped.” She chuckled. “How silly of me! When I’m not feeding Elizabeth, I’m doing her laundry,” she said, nodding toward the window that faced the backyard, where a score of cloths and an assortment of baby clothes flapped in the spring sunshine. “Or cooking meals so my dear Nolan doesn’t starve. Then before I know it—” she waved a hand “—it’s time to go to bed and I wonder where the day has gone.”
Faith clapped a hand over her mouth. “Goodness, I’m sorry. I never stopped to think how busy you must be. If you could just point me toward the scraps, I’ll see if you have a big enough piece for the basket and let you get back to whatever you need to be doing.”
Now Sarah laughed out loud. “Don’t you dare think you’re going to just waltz out of here without a good chat! Nolan’s been out on a call at one of the ranches, and I’m fairly starved for adult company, especially of the female variety. No, sit right down there,” she said, pointing to a chair by the table, “and I’ll go get the sack. If I remember right, there’s not only plenty to cover your basket, but enough of the matching lace to trim it with, too. Faith Bennett, we are going to make you the prettiest decorated box in the history of box socials.”
“But what if Elizabeth wakes?” Faith asked uneasily, with a glance at the slumbering baby in the cradle a few feet away.
“Then I’ll nurse her and then you can hold her while I work. This will be fun!” Sarah enthused. “I’ll just put the kettle on to boil for tea before I fetch the fabric.”
“So, are you hoping Gil will bid on your basket?” Sarah asked some minutes later, while Faith was cutting the fabric remnant to fit the basket under the other woman’s direction.
Faith shrugged and kept her eyes on the scissors and the cloth. “I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe...but we’re so different, Sarah. I don’t know if it’s a good idea...”
“Nonsense, Faith. It’s as plain as piecrust Reverend Gil is sweet on you. And opposites attract, don’t they? Look at my sister—who’d have thought she’d wed a British aristocrat? And I was so sure I could never love a Yankee, remember? Yet those very differences make for the most interesting marriages, we’ve both found.”
Faith winced inwardly. Sarah couldn’t know that the difference between Gil and her ran much deeper than nationality or regionalism. Without commenting, she held out the trimmed piece of cotton cloth.
Sarah took it, then studied Faith. “Or perhaps you’re more interested in your papa’s new assistant? Polly says he’s very handsome.” Sarah’s tone was teasing and her blue eyes danced with mischief.
Faith raised horrified eyes. “Not if he was the last man in the whole state of Texas!”
“I’m relieved to hear it.” Sarah took an egg from a bowl on the sideboard and expertly separating the white from the yolk. Using the tip of her little finger, she dabbed egg white along the edges of the box, then pressed the fabric into the homemade glue. “He doesn’t seem your type at all.” Her baby began to fuss, and Sarah turned to the cradle.
Certainly Merriwell wasn’t her type, but Sarah would be shocked if she knew that both of them were nonbelievers.
Sarah picked up baby Elizabeth, placed her against her chest, patting her back and swaying from side to side. “She often half wakes up like that before she’s had a good long sleep, but I can often soothe her back into slumber this way.”
Faith marveled at her friend’s ease with her baby. Only weeks ago, Sarah had been so unsure of her ability to take care of a baby, but now she seemed to be a natural at motherhood. Would she be so competent with a baby? Again, an unbidden image of a child of hers and Gil’s, with Gil hovering in the background, rose in her mind.
She dismissed the thought. “I think I can do the trim now that I’ve seen how you do it,” she said, lifting the darker green lace from the box.
“We’ll be coming to the box social, too, so I suppose I ought to put some thought into decorating a box myself,” Sarah mused. “Though of course Nolan would bid on mine even if I wrapped it in brown paper.” She laughed. “I think he’s too much the frugal Yankee to understand decorating what is, after all, only a container of food. So tell me, what treats are you fixing for yours?”
Faith described her menu as she cut the lace and glued it to her basket lid to match the V pattern of the lace on her dress’s bodice.
“It sounds delicious,” Sarah commented, then looked flustered as Elizabeth, contrary to what her mother had said, not only refused to go back to sleep but began to wail in earnest.
Faith had planned to stay long enough to keep Sarah company while her friend worked on her own box, but soon it became apparent that the baby wasn’t going to settle down anytime soon.
“I suppose I’d better go,” she said regretfully. “Thanks for helping me, Sarah.”
“Sorry Elizabeth’s so fussy,” Sarah said, lowering herself into the rocking chair and preparing to feed her baby. “But I was happy to help. I’ll be interested to see what happens tomorrow afternoon at the social. Pray about what you should do, Faith. I promise that will help.”
If only Faith could be sure of that, too.
* * *
Saturday afternoon, Gil, who’d been going over the church accounts at the kitchen table, heard his father chuckling in the study. He’d thought the old man was still napping in his bedroom, but instead found him standing by the window that gave a view of the churchyard.
“What’s so funny, Papa?” he asked, coming to stand behind him. He followed his father’s gaze.
Earlier, several of the youths of the town had laid wooden planks on sawhorses to serve as tables, and lugged benches from the social hall to both sides of each one for seating. They’d been paid in cookies and lemonade, courtesy of Sarah Walker. Now, Gil saw, there were several ladies from the Spinsters’ Club scurrying around, spreading tablecloths and pinning bows at intervals along the sides of the benches and at the ends of the tables. Others carried out armloads of decorated boxes and set them out on a table on two sides of a multicolored china bowl.
Polly Shackleford stood in the midst of it all, pointing here and there and yelling orders through cupped hands. He spotted Faith working near the end of one table, looking slender and lovely in a light green dress that reminded him of spring.
Cautiously, Gil raised the window, not wanting the ladies to know they were observed—not that they could have heard the creak of a window over Polly�
�s screeching.
“No, no, Ella!” he heard her snap, when one of the ladies started to put a last box to the right of the bowl, “I said, the single ladies’ boxes should be on the right, the married ladies’ on the left. We want to make things easy for the auctioneer, don’t we?”
The young woman being corrected protested, “But I can’t tell one box from the other, Polly. The only one I’m sure of is the one I decorated.”
Polly’s exasperated sigh was so loud Gil could hear it from the parsonage window. “The whole purpose of having the boxes on separate sides is so we can auction off the married ladies’ contributions first, because one can assume only their husbands will be bidding on them,” Polly told the other woman. “Then we can get on to the more interesting bidding for the spinsters’ dinners. The married ladies have presumably informed their spouses which box they decorated, but as for us spinsters, remember, ladies, no one is to give any of the gentlemen a hint about which decorated box is hers, do you hear? Not that it takes much guessing when it comes to your contribution, Faith,” she accused, pointing at one of the boxes, then at Faith’s dress. “How very obvious of you to decorate your supper box to match your dress. Don’t you know that men like a little mystery, a little surprise?”
He saw Faith bite her lip and could imagine her annoyance at Polly’s condescending tone. And from the resentful looks on several other faces, she wasn’t alone. Mutiny was brewing among the ranks of the Spinsters’ Club.
“I’d think men like to know who they’re going to sit with, Polly,” Maude Harkey retorted. “That’s how box socials are always run. You stop picking on Faith and Ella or we’ll unelect you president.”
Gil closed the window, not wanting to hear any more. He turned to his father. “Sounds like this is going to be an interesting event.”
His father nodded, and pointed at Polly, who was pointing a finger at Maude. “B-bossy...g-g-girl.”
Gil chuckled. “I can’t help but agree. I only hope I don’t have to go break up a fight out there.” The clock struck the hour of four just then, and Gil glanced up at it. “We’d better spruce ourselves up now if we’re going to attend, right? You still want me to bid on Mrs. Detwiler’s supper box for you, don’t you? There’s sure to be chocolate cake in it.”
The Preacher's Bride (Brides of Simpson Creek) Page 15
