“Of course!” Polly called, and went flying into Bob Henshaw’s arms. “Oh, how I’ve missed you!”
“Ain’t that sweet?” Mrs. Detwiler opined loudly, and everyone chuckled as the grinning Henshaw, his arm around Polly’s waist, walked to the front and plunked his ten-dollar gold piece into the china bowl with a resounding clang.
In the midst of the celebration, Milly Brookfield arrived in her buckboard. It was driven by one of her cowhands, and after she’d descended, baby Nicholas in her arms, he turned the wagon and headed into town. Milly slipped into a seat beside Sarah, and Faith heard her whisper she was sorry to be late.
Faith glanced at Gil. He smiled at the happy couple, but there was a worried set to his jaw now.
Faith knew why. With Polly enjoying a reunion with her former suitor, there was nothing to keep Merriwell from bidding on Faith’s supper box now. And something about the Georgian’s stylish clothes made Faith think he had deeper pockets than a small-town preacher, despite the sad tale of impoverishment back in Atlanta he’d told her father.
There were two other spinsters’ boxes to bid on, and those were bought quickly by one remaining cowboy and Delbert Perry.
Everyone sat up straighter, aware that only one supper box was left, but two men. It would be a duel between the Georgian and the preacher.
“Last but not least, a supper box whose ornamentation bears a striking resemblance to Miss Faith Bennett’s dress. Might you have decorated this one, Miss Faith?” he asked with a wink.
Faith nodded, not trusting her voice.
Gil lifted the lid. “Ham croquettes,” he said. “They look delicious, Miss Faith. I’ll start the bidding at fifty cents.”
“Ham croquettes—my favorite dish, as it happens,” Yancey Merriwell drawled. “A dollar.”
“A dollar and twenty-five cents,” countered Gil.
“Two dollars.”
“Two dollars and fifty cents.”
By the time Merriwell bid five dollars, the cowboys were hooting and clapping, but the townsfolk glared at the Georgian and clucked their tongues in disapproval. Murmurs arose about a lack of respect toward a man of the cloth. They wanted their preacher to win supper with the lady of his choice and knew he didn’t have endless funds to do so. Faith even noticed her father give his employee a sharp look, but Merriwell seemed oblivious.
Gil’s eagerness to win the bidding warmed Faith’s heart, but she too knew he couldn’t afford it. The salary the town’s preacher received was sufficient to cover their food and clothing needs and not much else, and at that they were fortunate. Some preachers had to ride a circuit or take other jobs to supplement their income.
Oh, Gil, just stop bidding, she thought. This is foolishness. It’s all right. It’s only a supper.
There was silence as everyone waited to see if their preacher would top the interloper’s bid.
“Excuse me, Reverend Gil,” called Milly Brookfield, half rising and holding up a hand.
Folks turned around to stare.
“Mrs. Brookfield, is there something I can help you with?” Gil inquired, the tense planes of his face relaxing slightly at this brief respite from the duel between himself and Merriwell.
Faith saw Milly smile sweetly. “I’m so sorry to be late. Looks like I missed the married ladies’ bidding. Because my husband is away on the cattle drive, old Josh was going to bid on my supper box, but I could tell he’d much rather go visit the saloon, because he doesn’t get away from the ranch much...”
Merriwell fidgeted at the delay, obviously eager for his victory.
“I’ve barely met Mr. Merriwell,” Milly went on, “just here at church, of course—but I was hoping I could ask him a favor.”
Merriwell’s expression smoothed. He had to know all eyes were on him. “Yes, ma’am? I’m at your service,” he said in his thickest, Deep South drawl, only the most gentlemanly curiosity present in his gaze.
“Well...I see there’s but one box left, and two of you gentlemen. Because I was late, I have one that’s way too much for me to eat by myself. My main dish is ham, too, raised and smoked right out on our ranch. I know our preacher—” she gave deliberate emphasis to the word “—would really like to sit with Miss Faith for supper, while I’d love to hear all about Atlanta, and Georgia...” She smiled appealingly at Merriwell. “Would you do me the kindness of sharing my supper, and letting Reverend Gil share Faith’s?”
Merriwell flushed. He was fairly caught and he knew it. To refuse and insist on his own preference would not be the act of a gentleman. Worse, his rudeness would render him permanently unwelcome in Simpson Creek.
Faith stared at Milly. The former spinster’s face was all innocent entreaty aimed at the Georgian. Faith saw Gil was as surprised as she was. When she glanced at Sarah, however, she could tell Milly’s sister was trying to smother a conspiratorial grin.
“Of course, Mrs. Brookfield. I’d be delighted,” Merriwell said. He shot a regretful glance at Faith before striding to the front to claim his prize. When he would have dropped his eagle in the bowl, however, Gil held up a hand to stop him.
“Oh, you don’t have to pay, Mr. Merriwell. Your generosity of spirit should be rewarded, I think.”
* * *
“Lord, we thank You for these supper boxes and the ladies who prepared them. Bless the food in them to the nourishment of our bodies. We thank You for the fellowship we experience with each other and all the blessings You give us. Amen.”
After an answering chorus of amens, Gil led Faith to the stone bench under the live oak trees, close to the tables but far enough away that their conversation would not be overheard. He figured the congregation would understand.
He watched as Faith gracefully set out the contents of her supper box between them. She looked happy, though still a little dazed.
He took up one of the ham croquettes, dipped it in small bowl of sweet mustard sauce that she had provided, and took a bite. “Mmm, delicious.”
She looked at him, her green eyes shining. “I’m glad you like it, Gil.”
He glanced over to where Milly Brookfield was sitting with Merriwell, her sleeping son napping on a quilt at her feet. Gil was relieved to see Merriwell was smiling and talking to Milly—he had been afraid the Georgian would sulk after being maneuvered into sitting with someone other than Faith, but Merriwell had apparently accepted defeat with reasonably good grace.
He nodded toward them. “I think we just experienced a miracle, Faith,” he said. “We were rescued out of a disagreeable situation against what seemed like impossible odds.”
Her gaze shifted, and he saw she was looking at Milly and Merriwell, as he just had.
“I think it’s more like a conspiracy of wonderful friends,” she said, skeptical but still smiling. “Sarah Walker just winked at me.”
“At the very least, an answer to prayer. I thank God for the deep friendship among you ladies that brought about the blessing.”
“I suppose I would say amen to that, if I was a believer,” she said lightly. “But you said you prayed about it?”
He nodded. “Before the auction, and again when it seemed I would have to watch Merrifield eating supper with you.”
Her eyes widened at what he had implied.
Yes, that means I would have been jealous. I don’t know what is going to happen between us, given the impasse we face, but I would have been jealous, watching you with him.
When she spoke again, she made no reference to his implication. “Do you think God wants to hear about such little things?” she asked, as if she hadn’t even considered such a possibility.
“I do, Faith. The Bible says He cares if a single sparrow falls. I knew you didn’t want to sit and eat with that fellow, and I asked Him to make it possible for me to do so instead.”
He watched d
elightedly as a pink blush rose into her cheeks.
“I can’t imagine how they managed the timing,” she marveled.
“Timing?”
She chuckled. “You don’t think Milly’s lateness was an accident, do you? I wouldn’t be surprised if old Josh was hiding in the bushes somewhere in the trees by the creek, so Sarah could signal him when to bring the wagon around to the church to cause Milly to arrive just after the bidding for the married ladies’ suppers.”
“And the unexpected appearance of Polly’s former fiancé, just at the right time?” He nodded toward the end of one of the other tables, where Polly sat with Bob Henshaw. Neither one of the reunited couple was eating—they were both too busy staring into each other’s eyes. “If that wasn’t a miracle, I don’t know what is.”
“Whether it is or not, I’m happy for her,” Faith remarked. “She’s been so miserable since he left. It’s why she’s been so bossy, I think.”
And flirtatious. Gil was relieved to think he wouldn’t be fending off Polly’s coquettish behavior toward him anymore, because he hadn’t been able to return her feelings.
Because he was in love with the woman across the table from him. Help me, Lord. Help me win Faith for Your kingdom.
“Yes, I think I’ll be performing another wedding soon,” he said.
Faith chuckled. “I only wonder if Polly will move to Austin or she will talk him into opening a druggist’s shop here.”
Later, when the planks-and-sawhorse tables had been taken down and put away, and the last of the cowboys, spinsters and married couples had departed for their respective ranches or houses in town, Gil walked Faith home.
“Your supper was delicious, Faith,” he said, as they walked down the quiet street. “I’m so glad your friend did what she did to make that possible.”
“Me, too,” she murmured. “I’ll have to thank Milly when I see her in church tomorrow. I think she was just going to stay the night with Sarah because tomorrow’s Sunday.”
“I’ll make it a point to do the same.”
Once again, Gil wished Faith lived farther than she did from the church. He wanted to spend more time with her, discover what on her mind. In her soul. But they had only to walk past the parsonage and the doctor’s office, and there was the Bennett home. And from the light he saw through the curtains, it looked as if her parents might still be in the parlor. He didn’t want to talk with her on the porch, aware that their conversation might be overheard through the open windows.
“Perhaps we could go for a buggy ride tomorrow afternoon?” he asked, keeping his voice low.
He could feel her hesitance. She stared up at him in the dim light.
“Gil—”
“Are you worried about running into Comanches? I happened to speak to Major McConley and Sheriff Bishop the other day, and from what they were saying, there haven’t been any other Indian sightings since my encounter with them. I think they probably left the area after that, fearing I’d report the incident. In any case, we wouldn’t go far.”
“No, it’s not that,” Faith said. “Like you, I think they’ve gone. But I thought we agreed we weren’t going to do anything that looked like courting.”
“It’s not—not unless...well, you know. I’m thinking of it as spending time with a friend.”
She looked skeptical at his argument. “Gil, I can’t help thinking that spending time with me is keeping you from courting the right woman.”
You are the right woman! he wanted to exclaim. If only—
If only. He could not wish her into something she was not.
“Faith,” he said instead, “I want you to rest easy on one thing. As nice and pretty as the other ladies in the Spinsters’ Club are, I do not feel led toward any of them. If you weren’t here, I don’t believe that would change.”
She didn’t look convinced, but she agreed to go.
Chapter Seventeen
“Did you have a nice supper with the preacher? You certainly seemed to be enjoying yourself,” Merriwell said from the parlor, as she stepped into the house.
Faith whirled from the hat rack, where she had hung her light muslin shawl.
“Oh! I thought Mama and Papa were sitting there,” she said, looking around the room as if they still might be lurking in the corner somewhere.
“They went on to bed,” he murmured in his smooth drawl, and waited.
She realized he had asked her a question, and she had not answered. Something about the man put her so off balance.
“Yes, we had an enjoyable time,” she said. “Reverend Gil is my friend. I always enjoy his company.” She was aware she sounded a little defensive.
“Careful, Miss Faith,” he said, keeping his voice low. “For all your protestations of being a freethinker like myself, I believe he’s trying to transform you into one of his sheep.”
Better a sheep than a sly goat like yourself, she thought but didn’t say it.
He sighed. “But it’s none of my business, I suppose.”
“That’s right. What I do and think is my own affair.”
“Pity. We could have made quite a team, you and I. Your father doesn’t appreciate what a keen mind you have, you know. I’ve seen it, though. Working on the newspaper together, we could have been quite a force for freedom of thought in this town.”
She stared at him. How had he known how much she longed to be a part of the newspaper business? To be important to her father? Merriwell tempted her with the very thing she longed so much for.
She remembered Gil’s father once doing a sermon on Christ’s temptation in the wilderness, how the Devil had led him up to a summit and tempted him with worldly power. Had Jesus felt the pull of what could be, like she did?
“And what would Simpson Creek look like, with more people like you here, I wonder?” she murmured out loud. “No, Mr. Merriwell,” she said, deliberately using his last name instead of Yancey, as he’d asked her to before. “I think I like Simpson Creek just as it is.” Before you came, that is.
It was a pointed reply, and she knew he got her point by his swift intake of breath.
“Very well,” he said after a moment. “If your mind is quite made up, do not fear that I will press you further. But you do have to make up your mind as to what you are, you know. Sooner or later you will trip up, and reveal yourself for what you are. Already, I’ll wager, you’ve come close, haven’t you? How will they treat you when they find out you’re different?” He chuckled. “They won’t act so Christian to you then, I believe.”
She couldn’t quite stifle a shiver, remembering the times she’d left her eyes open and her head unbowed during prayer—either out of rebellion or absentmindedness, only to have someone in the congregation look up too soon and see her. Or the time when she’d daydreamed during one of Papa’s table blessings over the meal, and kept her eyes shut, only to hear her mother laugh and tell her he’d said amen a minute ago?
“Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me, Miss Faith. I wonder, though, does the Bible thumper suspect?”
“Gil’s never thumped a Bible in his life,” she said indignantly, though she was careful to keep her voice down, too, lest her parents hear her. “But yes, he knows. I would not keep such a thing from him. And he does not condemn me.”
Merriwell arched a brow. “I give you credit for your honesty, then—with him at least. How very noble of him. But he can never marry you, can he, as things are? What do they call it, those Christians, an ‘unequal yoke’? Yes, that’s it, as if you were both dumb oxen.”
She felt as if he’d struck her. “No, he can’t,” she breathed, her throat so thick and tight with that truth it threatened to choke her. It was all she could manage to utter, with the wild sorrow and anger swirling inside her. “And as it doesn’t concern you, you have no right to talk about such
a thing,” she seethed.
“I suppose not. My humblest apologies, Miss Faith,” he said, his regret patently false. He moved toward the door. “I believe I will take a walk before I turn in. Good night.”
Going out to smoke one of those smelly cheroots, Faith guessed, or perhaps to have a drink at the saloon. She’d smelled both tobacco and whiskey on him before, and had heard the door open late at night, after the household had gone to bed. She supposed her father didn’t care as long as his employee did these things away from the house.
Now she stared at the door long after it had closed behind him, knowing the anger he had aroused and her uncertainty about what she should do about Gil would keep her sleepless for hours.
* * *
Gil lay awake for a long time, too, pondering his course just as Faith was doing. Yet when the insistent knocking at the door came, it woke him from a deep sleep.
“Rev’rend, we need you! Wake up!” shouted a voice outside.
His brain still fogged with sleep and the remnants of a dream, Gil stumbled out of bed. Coming out into the hallway that divided the two bedrooms, he saw his father struggling to get up.
“Papa, I’ll see who it is,” he said. “You can stay in bed.”
George Detwiler stood on the doorstep, his collarless shirt splashed with crimson.
“Reverend, y’ got t’come to the saloon! She’s cut bad...I think she’s d-dying!” George cried, his eyes wild, his hands raised in entreaty. They were bloodstained, too.
Faith! But no, the saloon owner hadn’t said her name, Gil realized. He’d been dreaming about her just before the knocking. There was no reason to think Faith would be at the saloon.
“Who’s been cut, George?” he asked. “Did you tell Doc Walker?”
“Yessir, I notified him first, and he ran on down, but she said she was gonna die and she wanted th’ preacher,” Detwiler said. “It’s Dovie, one of the two girls workin’ in my saloon, Rev’rend. She went upstairs with one a’ the customers—that’s strictly between them and the men, y’understand, I don’t tell them they can or they can’t, and I sure don’t take no part of any money—”
The Preacher's Bride (Brides of Simpson Creek) Page 17
