The Preacher's Bride (Brides of Simpson Creek)

by Laurie Kingery

  Gil raised his hand from the shirt he’d been trying to button. “I don’t need to know that right now, George. Just tell me what happened as we go,” he said, joining the man on the step. “Papa, I’ll be back soon as I can,” he called back into the house.

  “Rev’rend, there was a handful a’ cowboys drinkin’ in the saloon, and that fella from Georgia, too,” Detwiler said as they walked. “I wasn’t payin’ no special attention, but then I saw Lupe was the only one servin’ drinks, an’ she said Dovie’d gone upstairs with that Georgia feller. An’ then we heard this unearthly scream, and we ran upstairs, and there was blood everywhere... He cut her everywhere, Rev’rend...”

  The Georgia feller. Yancey Merriwell.

  “Where’s Merriwell now?” Gil asked as they passed Gilmore House. They were nearly to the saloon. “Sheriff Bishop have him in a jail cell?”

  The saloonkeeper shook his head. “Nope, we heard a clatterin’ on the roof as we ran up the stairs—that was Merriwell slidin’ off the roof to escape. Then we heard a horse gallopin’ away, and one of the cowboys yellin’ that he’d stolen his horse. Bishop and th’ deputy are ridin’ out after him, but I reckon that scoundrel got a good start,” he said.

  They reached the saloon then, and pushed the batwing doors open. A handful of cowboys milled around the bottom of the steps, staring upward, but they opened a path for Gil and Detwiler as they approached.

  Gil’s first thought on seeing the young woman stretched out on the narrow bed with its cheap white-painted iron headboard was that she was several shades whiter than the threadbare, dingy sheet she lay on.

  Instantly the bare-board walls of the little room faded and Gil was standing in another saloon, in another city, at another time, standing over another bloody saloon girl. Only that girl was dead—and her baby inside her, too. His baby.

  Nolan Walker raised his head from the bloodstained bandage he was pressing to her chest, his face grim, his eyes devoid of hope. He shook his head at Gil.

  Gil thought he meant she was already dead, too, and his heart sank. Lord, how could this be happening again? But then the doctor smoothed her hair away from a sweat-pearled forehead and said, “Dovie, the preacher’s here.”

  The saloon girl’s eyes fluttered open and she stared at Gil as he knelt beside the bed. “Preacher, I’m...not gonna make it,” she said in a voice so devoid of strength he couldn’t be sure he’d actually heard it. “Wan’ you to pray for me. I ain’t been...a good woman.”

  Gil had never met the woman, but now he called her by her name as if she’d sat in a pew every Sunday. “Dovie, Doctor Nolan’s here, and he’s doing everything he can for you. You’ve got to hang on. I’m going to pray that you get better.”

  The injured woman shook her head with a vigor borne of desperation. “No...stabbed me in th’ lung, I think,” she said, gulping for air like a landed perch. “I ain’t got...much time. Wanna repent my s-sins...”

  Gil met Nolan’s eyes, and the look in them confirmed his fears and Dovie’s own words. He closed his eyes, asking for the right words.

  “Dovie, Jesus told the thief on the cross that he was forgiven for his sins, and you must believe He forgives you, too, for whatever you’ve done. Are you asking Him for forgiveness, Dovie?”

  She nodded, gulping again for air. There was a bluish-gray cast to the skin around her mouth now, and the irises of her staring eyes widened. “Wanna go to Heaven,” she murmured. “Don’ d-deserve to...” Her eyelids sagged halfway over her eyes as if she no longer had the power to hold them open.

  “None of us do, Dovie, but He forgives us and takes us home to be with Him,” Gil murmured, holding her cold, clammy hand.

  She made an attempt at a smile, exhaled shakily and went still.

  * * *

  Her father returned to the house just as Faith and her mother were finishing breakfast the next morning. His face was drawn, his eyes stricken.

  “Robert, what’s the matter?” her mother asked, rising.

  “I went out to see if anyone had seen Merriwell,” he said, sinking into a chair. “His bed hadn’t been slept in, so I thought maybe he’d overindulged at the saloon last night. Thought he mighta got into trouble, so I checked at the jail. No one was there, but I ran into George Detwiler, and he told me Yancey’d killed a woman in his saloon last night. One of the—” he darted a glance at Faith “—one of the women who works there.”

  Faith covered her mouth in horror. She heard her mother ask, “Is he in jail?”

  Her father shook his head. “Apparently he stole one of the horses at the hitching rail and lit out. Sheriff Bishop and his deputy rode after him, and they haven’t come back yet.” He laid his head on his arms and his shoulders shook. “Lydia, how could I have been so wrong about a man?”

  Her mother went to him and put her arms around him, laying her head on his. “Robert, you couldn’t have known...”

  Faith stared at them without really seeing her parents, remembering last night when the Georgian had said he was going out for a walk. There’d been a darkness in Yancey Merriwell’s eyes, and she could almost see the anger radiating from him in waves. He’d taken her rejection of him out on another woman, and the woman had paid with her life.

  “Detwiler said there’s no church service this morning, just the mayor leading folks in prayer if they want to participate,” her father went on, his voice muffled and thick with unshed tears. “He said young Gil came and comforted the woman until she...passed. He’s apparently taking it real hard. No one knows where he went.”

  “G—Reverend Gil left?” Faith cried. “Where would he have gone?” Surely he wouldn’t have tried to apprehend the murderer himself. Not in a buggy.

  Her father lifted his head. “Detwiler said his mama is sitting with Reverend Chadwick now,” he said.

  She had to find him. She ran upstairs, got enough coins from her small savings to rent a horse and headed for the door.

  “Are you going to church, Faith?” her mother asked, half rising. “Wait a moment, and I’ll go with you—”

  “I have to find Gil!” she called over her shoulder.

  Her father shouted something after her, but she was out the door before he could complete his sentence.

  * * *

  Faith wished she believed enough to pray, at least enough of a prayer so she would go the correct way. But she figured it wasn’t right to pray just for a selfish wish like that, if you weren’t first on speaking terms with the One you prayed to.

  Hoping she was picking the direction Gil had gone, Faith headed the rented gelding eastward at a lope. She was nearly all the way to San Saba when she spotted the buggy sitting under the shady bows of an enormous live oak.

  She nudged the horse forward, but only at a walk. The back of the buggy faced the road, so she couldn’t tell if Gil was in the buggy or had left it.

  She found him sitting in the buggy, his head bowed in prayer. He was so intent he hadn’t even heard her approach.

  “Gil?” Faith called softly, not wanting to startle him.

  He raised his head slowly, as if coming out of a trance, and she saw that his eyes were full of torment.

  He blinked, his eyes struggling to focus. “Faith.” His voice was dull.

  “Are you all right? I was worried about you, Gil,” she said, peering into the buggy from the back of her mount. She was still worried about him, she thought, seeing his red-rimmed eyes.

  “Have they found Merriwell?” he asked.

  Faith shook her head. “I passed Sheriff Bishop and his deputy riding back into town as I was leaving it,” she said. “They tried to track him as soon as it was light, but they lost his trail after he forded a creek in a rocky area. They’re putting the word out to other towns nearby.”

  “Is Papa all right? I shouldn’t have left him like that,
but he said it was all right. That I needed to go pray.”

  “Mrs. Detwiler is with him, so I’m sure he’s fine,” she said. “Gil, it’s horrible what Merriwell did. That poor girl...but...” Her voice trailed off. As awful as the murder of the saloon girl was, Gil seemed to be grieving over more than that. Unless—had he had some sort of liaison with her?

  She tried again when he said nothing else. “Gil, did you...know her?”

  “Dovie Maxwell? No,” he said, “I’d never met her before last night.”

  She was startled by the extent of the suffering in his eyes. “Doctor Nolan says you...you comforted her,” Faith said.

  Gil nodded. “She died a believer,” he said. “She went to Heaven, I’m sure of it. Thank God.”

  “Then why...” She couldn’t ask him why he was so upset. Surely he viewed that as some sort of victory in the midst of tragedy. “Can we— Would you like to get out of the buggy and sit with me underneath the tree?”

  Something flickered in his eyes, and his gaze became shuttered, distant. “Perhaps we should stay as we are,” he said. “You should ride back to town, Faith. Your parents will worry about you. You shouldn’t be out here alone.” He turned away.

  I’m not alone, I’m with you, she wanted to say. What had happened to the smiling man who had spoken of miracles last night?

  “You have to tell me what’s wrong,” she insisted, when he said nothing else. “As awful as it is, there’s something more bothering you than that poor woman’s death.”

  He moved to descend from the buggy. “All right, I’ll tell you, but then you must ride back.”

  She dismounted and tied the gelding’s reins to the back of the buggy, then stood in front of him. Gil made no move to sit down, but he faced her at least.

  “I should have told you about it long before this,” Gil said, his eyes on his shoes, “so you wouldn’t think so highly of me. But I haven’t told anyone, not even Papa. If the congregation knew...well, I’m sure they would appoint another preacher,” he said, and lifted his eyes to hers.

  “Knew what, Gil? What could you possibly have done?” Faith realized this conversation was similar to the one when she had confessed her lack of belief to him. But surely nothing Gil Chadwick could have done was as bad as what she had told him.

  “What happened to Dovie—the girl at the saloon,” he began, his voice thick and hoarse with emotion, “happened to my wife. She died in a saloon, too.”

  His wife? But how could that be? Gil had fought in the war, then went to a seminary before coming to Simpson Creek. He’d never made mention of a wife, let alone a wife with such a scandalous background. A preacher would never ally himself with such a woman.

  Any more than he would marry a nonbeliever, a voice inside her whispered.

  “I fell in love with a girl while I was at seminary at Independence,” Gil finally continued. “Suellen wasn’t at her...place of business when I met her, so I didn’t suspect what she was. I was already head over heels in love when I found out she worked at a saloon. I’d already done more with her than a man should do unless he’s married to a woman,” he admitted. A tear trickled down his cheek.

  “Then she told me she was...with child. Naturally, I wanted to do the right thing, not only because it was right but because I loved her. I married her. I was only months away from graduating, and I told her we’d go far from there and no one would ever know about her past. I knew she didn’t believe in God...in anything but herself really. I told myself my example would rub off on her, and she’d learn to be a good preacher’s wife.”

  Faith just stood there, unable to think of anything to say.

  “I rented some rooms—a humble place, but it was decent and safe, and I promised her we’d be leaving town soon. I gave her as much money as I had for food and clothing. But I guess she missed the excitement, the baubles men would buy her, the attention they paid her. Guess she figured she’d better get what she could before...before the baby started showing. She’d sneak off to the saloon to work in the afternoons, then sneak back to our lodgings before I got home.”

  In one of the tree limbs overhead, a catbird called.

  “Go on,” Faith said.

  “One day she wasn’t there when I got there. I sat down and waited, thinking maybe she’d gone out to buy something for our meal and was late getting back. I waited for hours... Then one of the girls from the saloon came and told me there’d been a gun battle at the saloon, and Suellen had been caught in the crossfire. She was wounded and not expected to live.

  “I didn’t believe what the girl said,” he said. “Not till I saw Suellen. She breathed her last breath an hour after I arrived, despite all the desperate praying I did, all the promises I made to God... And our unborn child died with her.” He was weeping again, silent sobs that shook his shoulders.

  Faith gathered him in her arms, and he did not resist.

  Chapter Eighteen

  He had to let go of Faith, he had to, he told himself, but he felt like a drowning man holding on to the only thing that kept him from being swept under.

  But at last he had no more tears left, and he pulled away from her, knowing she’d been sobbing, too.

  Her eyes were like wet emeralds.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “What a weak man I must seem, weeping on your shoulder like that.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know who made it a rule that men should not cry, but it’s a foolish rule. I think those tears have been held inside you a long time. They needed to be released.”

  He tore his eyes away from her. Faith was right. Other than a few tears once he’d regained the privacy of his lodgings after arranging for Suellen’s funeral, he’d not allowed himself to fully mourn her. He couldn’t very well tell the dean of students what had happened.

  “Thank you, Faith,” he murmured. She hadn’t condemned him for becoming involved with such a woman, or even expressed disapproval that he’d had a secret marriage.

  She took hold of his hand, forcing him to look at her. “I’m sorry for what happened back then, Gil. But you did the right, honorable thing by Suellen. You loved her, you married her and you planned to provide a good home for her and the baby. It wasn’t your fault that she was killed.”

  He shook his head. “Maybe not. But I involved myself with her, a woman who was not a believer, knowing it was wrong. Even if she hadn’t been killed, it wouldn’t have worked in the end. Sooner or later she would have grown tired of my profession and the responsibilities that go with it, the high standards expected of a preacher’s wife, and she would have grown to resent me.”

  She waited as if she knew worse was coming.

  “Don’t you see? I can’t do it again.”

  She stared wordlessly at him, her eyes enormous in her pale face.

  “When I watched Dovie die last night, it took me back to that time...when I sat at Suellen’s bedside,” he said. “And I realized I’d let myself fall in love with you—despite what I said, despite knowing you weren’t a believer. Despite what had happened before when I...loved someone who had no faith.”

  He saw a tear slide down her cheek then, and sadness rose in him, that he should be the cause of that tear, and the others, and perhaps more to come. He only wanted to bring her happiness.

  He looked deeply into her eyes. “Faith, I love you. I want to court you and marry you. But I can’t keep fooling myself that it would be right for us to continue as we have been when you’re not a believer. You tried to tell me as much before.”

  She took a step toward him, holding out a hand. “Gil, I—I want to believe... I want to...to share that with you. But...what if I let myself trust God...and He lets me down again?”

  She was thinking about her brother, he knew. He wished he had some easy answer to give her, some answer that his theological training had
given him. But he didn’t.

  “Believing is a leap of faith,” he told her.

  “That’s what Mama said about love, too,” she murmured.

  “Very true, because God created love. But don’t believe in Him just because of me. You have to believe for your own sake.”

  Faith whirled away, fists clenched, as if she couldn’t listen anymore. “I have to think...”

  When she thought, she would probably come to the conclusion that after what he’d done, he had no right to tell anyone what to believe. That he was a fraud, a hypocrite.

  Please, Lord, teach her about the grace You offer. The forgiveness. I’ll do whatever I must to become a completely honest man, not one who keeps secrets, but let Faith see Your love.

  “Yes, think. Maybe you should confide in another believer you can trust. And pray, Faith. Even if you don’t know if He’s there. He is and he’ll listen, I promise you.”

  “I—I’ll do that,” she said.

  “You should go back now,” he said gently, when she didn’t move.

  “Are you coming?”

  “In a few minutes. I expect they’ll be wanting me to say a few words over Dovie.”

  There would be no grand laying to rest for the saloon girl, no more than there had been for Suellen. The little amount of cash Gil could lay hands on then had made sure his wife at least had a coffin, rather than merely a shroud. The Fund for the Deserving Poor that the Spinsters’ Club sponsored would probably provide a coffin for Dovie. But there would be no one to properly mourn her. He wondered if George Detwiler knew of any next of kin who should be notified.

  Meanwhile Dovie’s killer ran loose, probably heading for new territory where he could assume a new identity, his violent tendencies unknown. Thinking of this, Gil clucked to the horse and turned him in a circle, heading back for town, always keeping Faith in sight on her rented gelding. It was highly unlikely that Merriwell was hiding out anywhere close by, but he wouldn’t take any chances with Faith’s safety. And there were always Comanches to watch out for, too.