The Preacher's Bride (Brides of Simpson Creek)

by Laurie Kingery

  * * *

  A caterpillar metamorphosing into a butterfly was no more startling of a transformation, Faith thought, than the instant change to Polly’s demeanor when the first trio of cowboys showed up at the churchyard. The strident, officious tyrant vanished in an instant, to be replaced with a smiling, sweet-voiced charmer who added “please” to every request.

  “Well, hello, gentlemen!” she cooed, as three cowboys tied their horses to the hitching rail. “Have you come for the box social?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” one of them said shyly. “We got that advertisement the boy brung out to the Lazy O.”

  “Well, you’re certainly welcome!” Polly proclaimed. “You’re a bit early, but feel free to take a seat or mingle with our ladies. But you must be thirsty after your ride into town. Faith, won’t you please pour them some lemonade?”

  As Faith moved to comply, she thought how Polly was almost pretty when she relaxed and stopped ordering folks around. Perhaps she’d catch the eye of one of these ranch hands—although the spinsters had discovered most cowboys weren’t really looking to settle down. They just liked a good party with respectable females now and then, because the only other type they usually met were saloon girls. But if one of them flirted with Polly, at least it would keep her from bothering Gil. Faith handed out glasses of lemonade and responded courteously and automatically to the cowboys’ thanks, while a part of her longed for Gil to appear. Meanwhile, couples and other cowboys began to arrive, as did Delbert Perry, the former drunkard who had become the town’s odd-job man.

  As if summoned by her thoughts, Gil crossed the lawn with his father, then helped the old man to sit at one of the benches.

  Gil’s gaze sought Faith out. “Hello, Miss Faith,” he called. “Fine weather for the social, isn’t it? There’s even a nice breeze.”

  Before she could even reply, however, Mrs. Detwiler, bearing a box decorated with rickrack in a rainbow of gaudy colors, plopped herself down next to Reverend Chadwick.

  “How are you, Reverend? You’re lookin’ fit as a fiddle!” she crowed, loud enough to be heard halfway down the street. “I’m gonna just give you this box outright, because I know it’s the one you always want.”

  Polly looked like she’d swallowed a june bug sidewise, Faith thought.

  “But Mrs. Detwiler, the decorator of each box is supposed to be a secret!” Polly protested.

  “Nonsense, girl, I’ve been making my supper box for the rev’rend at box socials since before you were old enough to put your hair up,” Mrs. Detwiler said with a sniff. “And don’t try to tell me our preachers have to bid, neither,” she added. “It ain’t like a man a’ the cloth has a lot a’ spare pennies lyin’ around.”

  Faith tried to suppress a grin. Polly had certainly met her match, for Mrs. Detwiler had been bossing the town around since the days when her late husband was the preacher, so she wasn’t about to be dictated to by the likes of Polly Shackleford.

  “Well, of course Reverend Chadwick doesn’t have to actually pay,” Polly assured her, “because of his age and the respect we all have for him...”

  “I can afford to pay for one of the supper boxes,” Gil murmured, obviously trying to spread oil on troubled waters. “But you’d asked me to judge the decorating, back when Papa was ill—perhaps he could do that instead, because he’s doing so well now?”

  “Of course,” Polly said. “What a lovely idea... Now we have that settled, we need an auctioneer. Reverend Gil, would you be willing to do that?”

  Faith thought Gil hesitated for a moment before he said, “Certainly, but I’m wishing to bid, too. May I still do that if I’m auctioneering?”

  “I suppose there is no reason why not because you must have a supper to eat, too,” Polly said, fluttering her lashes at Gil in a way that made Faith want to utter an unladylike snort. “Perhaps I could give you a hint which one I decorated?”

  Because Polly’s coy question was so patently opposite of the position she’d spouted earlier, it was all Faith could do to smother her indignation.

  Gil looked uncomfortable, then relieved as Mayor Gilmore beckoned him over to their table. “Excuse me, ladies,” he murmured as he left them.

  Polly looked momentarily discomfited at not receiving an answer, but then the direction of her gaze changed. “Why, hello, Mr. Merriwell,” she simpered.

  Faith looked up to see the dapperly dressed Georgian making his way toward them. He had obviously come with her mother and father, but the couple had stopped at another table to speak with Mrs. Patterson.

  Yancey greeted everyone and was introduced to Mrs. Detwiler and Reverend Chadwick. He was his most effusive, charming self, but Faith guessed from the skeptical look in the older woman’s eye, Mrs. Detwiler wasn’t taken in.

  “You look familiar, Mr. Merriwell,” she muttered. “Ever been to San Antone? I was just there visitin’ my niece...”

  Was it Faith’s imagination or had the Georgian paled slightly?

  Mrs. Detwiler clapped her hands. “I know what it is—you look just like a feller I saw sellin’ snake oil to a pack a’ gullible fools.”

  “I’ve never been to San Antonio, madam,” Merriwell said stiffly. “And I’m a newspaperman, not a charlatan.”

  “Oh, they say everyone has a double,” Mrs. Detwiler said, not the least put out by the Georgian’s cool tone. “Don’t think nothin’ of it.”

  Merriwell’s gaze slid back to Polly and then to Faith.

  “I’ve come to cover the first social event since my arrival, ladies,” he announced. “But I confess I am also looking forward to bidding on the supper box you put together, Miss Faith.” He nodded toward the table, where her box with the others of the Spinsters’ Club.

  Faith had been irritated when he’d returned to the house on some pretext this morning and found her preparing the ham croquettes. She was sure he’d seen the waiting box on the kitchen table, too. She didn’t want him bidding on her entry and then being forced to sit beside him and share it.

  Merriwell went on, “I’m very partial to h—”

  Faith quickly put up a hand to halt his words. “You must say no more, Mr. Merriwell. Our president,” she said, nodding at Polly, “has said we must preserve the mystery and not reveal who decorated which box. I fear you’re disqualified to bid on mine in any case by having seen it during the preparation stages.” She desperately hoped that because she’d appeared to support Polly’s insistence on keeping the makers’ identities secret, the other woman wouldn’t argue the rule she’d just made up.

  “I’m sure there’s no such rule,” Polly said flatly, dashing Faith’s hopes. “Mr. Merriwell, you feel free to bid as you wish. I had rather been hoping you’d like to bid on mine, though,” she murmured, with an air of graceful defeat.

  The nerve of the woman, after just offering to give Gil a hint about which one she’d made, Faith thought, taking a breath before embarrassing Polly in front of Merriwell.

  A true lady must remain above the fray, Faith remembered her mother saying, and shut her mouth again. How inconvenient to have remembered that stricture at this moment.

  Merriwell looked uncomfortable again. He could not very well say he much preferred to win Faith’s supper box. It would not be chivalrous. “I am beset by two very appealing choices,” he said at last. “I shall just have to hope the fates guide me to the right one.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  “It’s time for the judging of the decorated supper boxes, everyone,” Polly announced a few minutes later. She was in her glory as mistress of ceremonies. “To be followed by the gentlemen bidding on them. Reverend Chadwick, will you come forward and do the honors?”

  Assisted by Gil, the old man made his slow way to the front, leaning heavily on his cane, but Faith recalled the day the preacher had been struck down by his stroke and had hung on
to life by the merest thread. Perhaps if there was a God who cared about people—some people, Faith thought, He certainly cared for this man.

  “Now, sir, all you need to do is look at all the boxes on this table and indicate which one you think is the most beautifully decorated. There will be a prize for the one you pick—a free dress length of the fabric of your choice at the mercantile. Thank you for that donation, Mrs. Patterson.”

  As Faith watched, the old preacher bent low over the supper box-laden table, his gaze touching each one of the boxes. There were boxes decorated in all shades of the rainbow, some embellished with ribbons, some with lace, a few with designs made of buttons or beads. Some boxes displayed more decorating skill than others. At last he picked a box decorated to look like the Lone Star flag of Texas.

  “Th-this one,” he said, pointing to it. “Th’ w-winner.”

  Maude Harkey stood and took a bow. “Thank you, Reverend!”

  The old man beamed at her amid the applause.

  Gil assisted his father back to his seat, then returned to the front.

  “It’s time to start the bidding, gentlemen,” Polly said. “Please be ready to drop your money into the bowl here, for we will not be able to take your I.O.Us.” There was much good-natured groaning from the cowboys and a couple of the husbands. “Remember, this money goes to the Fund for the Deserving Poor of Simpson Creek.” She took a deep breath. “Reverend Chadwick will auction off the boxes from this side of the bowl first,” Polly declared. “These are the boxes provided by the married ladies. You husbands, I trust you know which one your wife made—if you know what’s good for you.”

  There were snickers from the married ladies.

  “Remember, gentlemen, you are to wait until all the boxes have been claimed before you commence to devouring yours—or perhaps I should have said, sharing it with the lady who made it. Reverend, you may begin.”

  Gil took hold of a pretty box trimmed with gathered ruffles and held it up. “Husbands, who would like to bid for this first supper box? Remember to be generous because the money all goes to charity...”

  “Looks like the one I saw my Mary Louise stitchin’,” a rawboned rancher called out. “I’ll bid two bits.”

  Beside him, his wife bristled. “Henry Robert Priddy, you are the stingiest man in San Saba County! You’d better bid more than that or I’ll give it away.”

  Grinning, the man raised his arm again. “All right, I was jes’ joshin’ with you, Mary Lou. Four bits, then.”

  Mollified, his wife settled down.

  “Are there any other competing bids?” Gil asked.

  Of course there were none, so Priddy ambled up to claim his prize.

  The bidding proceeded, and soon each of the married ladies’ decorated boxes had been auctioned off. Coins spilled from Polly’s fingers and clinked against the sides as she dipped her fingers in the bowl.

  “Now I’m sure we bachelors can do better than this,” Gil said with a wink at the single men, who all sat together in the seats to the left of the auction table. “After all, we don’t have the expense of a family with youngsters to support, so let’s see some generous bidding!”

  It was time for Polly to sit down and let Gil proceed, but instead she dimpled prettily and remained standing by Gil. “We will do things a little differently for the bachelors,” she called out, her voice sweetly pitched. “As each supper box is bidden for and won by one lucky bidder, the lady who decorated the box and filled it with delicious goodies will go to sit by the gentleman who won it.” She smiled as the cowboys stomped and cheered at the prospect of each having a lady to call his own, at least while the social went on.

  “And something else I was thinking, Reverend,” she went on, “I had previously suggested that the identities of the box decorators be unknown—”

  Suggested? The spinsters exchanged amused glances, and Ella looked like she wanted to shout the truth.

  “—so that the bidders would be unbiased, but perhaps we could raise more money for this most worthy charity if each designer was known. Would any of you ladies object?” she asked with wide-eyed and completely false sincerity.

  Faith knew exactly what had motivated Polly’s changed opinion, and from the knowing glances thrown her way by the other spinsters, they had guessed it, too. Polly hadn’t had the chance to hint to Gil or Merriwell which box was her creation, whereas it would be rather obvious that the one decorated like Faith’s dress was made by her. Polly was afraid that neither Gil nor Merriwell would know which box was hers when its turn to be auctioned came, and she could end up sitting with one of the grinning cowboys, rather than Gil or Merriwell, as she hoped.

  Faith felt sorry for Gil and even for Merriwell, for she could tell neither of them really wanted to share supper with the pushy girl. Now that the identity of each contributor would be known, neither man could take polite refuge in ignorance. Faith knew as sure as she was sitting there that Polly would make both men feel guilty with her entreating, possibly teary, gaze if one of them, at least, did not bid on her supper box. She’d already made sure each man knew she wanted him to win her contribution. What would they do?

  Faith was afraid Gil would bid on Polly’s supper box just to be kind, and end up the lone bidder. He’d be stuck eating supper with Polly. Then Merriwell would be free to bid on hers. Faith was sure she didn’t want to have the meal she’d worked so hard on bought by Yancey Merriwell, and be forced to sit with him, enduring his overdone gallantry. Even though he’d been the perfect, respectful gentleman at home since she’d made her feelings clear to her father, she’d much prefer the company of anyone else—the homeliest of the cowboys or a character such as Delbert Perry.

  She studied the table carefully as Gil raised the first of the spinsters’ supper boxes—the one made by her cousin Louisa. She’d noticed when Gil auctioned the boxes made by the wives, he’d started with the boxes at the front of the table, and progressed by rows until the last boxes in the back had been taken.

  Polly’s box, a lovely thing adorned with a design of a rose embroidered on cloth and embellished by tiny red beads, sat one row ahead of Faith’s. Faith’s was the last box.

  Oh, dear. That was unfortunate, for if Gil was maneuvered into bidding on Polly’s supper box and there was no opposing bid, Merriwell would be free to win hers.

  She was certain then that Polly had arranged the boxes thus deliberately.

  Polly turned then, and as if reading Faith’s mind, flashed a smirk at her.

  Oh, well, Faith thought, resigning herself. It was only a box social, and it meant nothing in terms of her future. She had no claim on Gil after all—hadn’t they both been of the opinion that they would not suit because she was a nonbeliever? She could make polite conversation with Yancey Merriwell for the time it took to eat the ham croquette supper. After all, her parents were sitting nearby—it wasn’t as if the Georgian would dare to behave improperly.

  But her heart would have none of her resignation, and suddenly she was aware of Gil’s eyes on hers. She could tell he shared her misgivings.

  He resumed auctioning off the boxes. Maude Harkey’s fetched a nice price and the cowboy who won it had an appealing grin, even if he was bowlegged. The supper boxes made by Kate Patterson and Ella Justiss, two of the newer spinsters, were won by a pair of cowhands from a ranch near Lampasas. Jane Jeffries’s box went to a redheaded fellow from the Lazy O. Then Gil picked up Polly’s box.

  “Who made this pretty rose-decorated box?” Gil said, holding it up. Faith thought his smile flattened somewhat, as if he already knew. He opened it. “Mmm, fried chicken and pecan pie. You fellows who haven’t won a supper box ought to be sure and bid on this one.”

  Faith saw Polly smile brighten. “Why, I did, Reverend Gil, and I promise you, it’s the best fried chicken you’ll ever eat.” She fluttered her lashes at him till Faith wante
d to ask her if a speck of dust had blown into her eye.

  “Hear that, gentlemen? Who doesn’t love fried chicken? What am I to bid?” he asked, but he looked directly at Merriwell. The Georgian grinned as if he knew exactly the fix Gil was in.

  Silence reigned. Polly Shackleford began to squirm.

  “I’ll bid ten cents!” called out Delbert Perry. “It’s surely worth more’n that, but that’s all I got in my pocket.”

  Polly went red. Faith knew she wanted to object, but there was no graceful way she could.

  “A quarter,” Gil said quietly, probably more for Delbert’s sake than Polly’s.

  “Three bits,” the Georgian said in a drawl that was more like a purr.

  “Oh, come on now, fellows,” Gil chided them all. “This box is worth more than that, and it’s all for the sake of charity.”

  “I’ll bid an eagle,” called out a voice from the back, and everyone turned as one to see who had bid a ten-dollar gold piece.

  Faith thought she’d seen the ordinary-looking fellow before, but she couldn’t place him. He stood at the back wearing travel-dusty trousers and holding his hat, and his eyes never left Polly.

  Polly jumped up. “Bob!” she cried. “What are you doing here?” Her face was suffused with joy.

  “I’ve come back t’ claim you, if you’ll still have me, Polly Shackleford. Leavin’ you was the biggest mistake I ever made.”

  Then Faith knew who the man was—Bob Henshaw, the druggist who’d answered a Spinsters’ Club advertisement sometime back. He’d taken a shine to Polly at Prissy Gilmore’s barbecue, and they’d seemed to be destined for the altar. But then he’d claimed he was homesick and fled back to Austin.

  “I reckon I got scairt a’ what a big step marryin’ was,” Henshaw confessed. “But Maw died last month, and I reckoned I’d been a pure fool to leave you like I did. Will you let me buy your supper box at least, and we kin sit together and talk about courtin’ again?”