Room for Hope

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  He chewed the inside of his cheek, recalling how Belle had seen to the little ones through the church service, hushing them when they whispered and letting Adeline rest her head on her shoulder. He’d often looked at their row of heads—he couldn’t seem to help himself—and not once had he caught Mrs. Shilling acknowledging the children’s presence.

  The warm feeling the townspeople inspired dissolved, and a lump of discomfort replaced it. She’d taken Charley, Cassie, and Adeline into her home, but it seemed she was holding them away from her heart. And he was pretty sure he knew why.

  The thud of footsteps pulled Jesse from his musing. He stepped from behind the door and encountered the preacher on the other side of the threshold.

  The man’s face immediately lit with a smile. “Well, good morning! Or maybe I should say good afternoon.” He chuckled. “I believe the noon hour has passed.” He held out his hand. “I’m Ernest Savage, minister for the Buffalo Creek Chapel.”

  Jesse shook hands with him. The handshake was brief, firm, and told him a lot about the preacher’s strength. “Good afternoon. I’m Jesse Caudel.”

  “I’m glad you stayed long enough for me to meet you, Mr. Caudel.” The man spoke as energetically as he had from behind the pulpit, lending evidence of his genuineness. “My wife, Lois, already took our children home—as Lois would say, they’d worn out their ‘sit’—or I’d introduce her.” He pushed aside his suit coat and slipped his hands into his trouser pockets. “We don’t get many visitors to Buffalo Creek. What brings you to town?”

  Jesse had never established the habit of sharing his personal business with strangers, but he figured he could trust a preacher. “I guess you could say I’m nosing around, getting a feel for the community. I might be stepping into Sheriff Schlacter’s shoes.”

  Preacher Savage blew out a soft whistle. “Big shoes to fill. Folks around here have a lot of respect for Dodds Schlacter.” He looked Jesse up and down. “But I’m a pretty fair judge of character, and something tells me you’d do a fine job in his stead.”

  “I’d do my best. That’s all I can promise.”

  A smile lit the preacher’s eyes. “That’s all any of us can promise, isn’t it? Of course, believers also claim Philippians 4:13, ‘I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me.’ ” He tipped his head, his gaze holding Jesse captive. “Are you a believer, Mr. Caudel?”

  “Call me Jesse.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  Jesse grinned. The man was tenacious. “I suppose I didn’t.”

  The preacher laughed. “All right then. I won’t push. But I will invite you to have dinner with my family and me.”

  “Well, I—”

  “If you’re going to be our new sheriff, I’d like the chance to get acquainted.”

  Jesse considered the invitation. The man’s face—still young, earnest, honest—held an expression of openness that was hard to resist. If Jesse intended to make Buffalo Creek his new home, being friendly with the town’s clergy couldn’t hurt. And this man ministered to Neva Shilling. He could shed light on the strange circumstance of her being called Mrs. Warren Shilling when the folks of Beloit recognized another woman in that position.

  Jesse nodded. “Thank you. I think I’d enjoy taking a meal with your family.”

  Jesse

  Jesse dropped his napkin beside his plate, leaned back, and released a satisfied sigh. “Thank you, ma’am. That was a very good stew.” Not as flavorful as the vegetables-only stew he’d eaten at Neva Shilling’s table, but full of tender chunks of chicken and topped with moist dumplings. His stomach was achingly full.

  “I appreciate your kind words, Mr. Caudel.” Mrs. Savage’s smile crinkled into a grimace. “And thank you for being understanding about the broth Jenny spilled on your trousers. We’ve yet to make it through a meal without a mishap, but usually the children spatter their father’s clothes rather than a guest’s. I’d be happy to launder them for you.”

  Growing up on a farm, Jesse had definitely had worse things spattered on his britches. He waved a hand in dismissal. “No worries, ma’am. They’re still learning.”

  She shot a warm smile at him, then lifted the little girl from her highchair while the little boy climbed off his stool. With the girl wriggling in her arms, she addressed her son. “Come along now, Benji. It’s time for your nap.” Both children wailed as she ushered them out of the room. Somewhere up the hallway a door closed, muffling the protests.

  Preacher Savage shook his head, an indulgent chuckle rumbling from his chest. “I’m afraid those two inherited my orneriness. My mother says I was a ‘holy terror’ when I was a boy and it’s nothing short of a miracle that I became a ‘holy sharer’ as an adult.”

  Jesse laughed. During the hour-long meal, he’d grown fond of the young minister and his entire family. He couldn’t recollect the last time he’d felt so at ease with folks he’d just met. “I imagine your mother’s very proud of you, being a minister and all.”

  “No more than yours must be, having her son become a lawman.”

  Jesse’s chest constricted, and he coughed out a short laugh. “To be completely honest with you, Preacher, my ma was plenty upset when I left farming. She and my pa both expected me to stay close and help work their land. Matter of fact, that’s why they picked me from the group of orphans on the train. They had a whole herd of girls, but no boys. They took me home so they’d have a son big enough to help.”

  Everyone in Severlyn had known he was adopted, but he’d never told another soul about his humble beginning or how he’d become the Caudels’ boy since he’d left the Nebraska farmstead. But it felt right—safe even—telling Preacher Savage. Jesse shrugged. “They’re good people and I appreciate the upbringing they gave me, but I guess you could say farming just wasn’t in my blood.”

  From behind the closed door up the hallway, Mrs. Savage began singing a lullaby. The melody was a homey sound, one that brought a feeling of peace to the room. Dinner was over and he ought to leave, but instead he settled himself more comfortably in his chair and toyed with his empty coffee mug. “What do your folks do for a living, Preacher?”

  “Please call me Ernie. You aren’t a member of my congregation. Yet.” His dark eyes sparked with mischief. “And since I’m calling you Jesse, it only seems fitting.”

  “All right. Ernie.” The name put images of the holy terror he must have been in Jesse’s head, and a grin tugged at his mouth. “So is preaching in your blood, or did you come by the job another way?”

  Ernie crossed to the stove and poured himself another cup of coffee, talking as he went. “I come from a family of teachers. My mother taught in a little one-room schoolhouse before she married my father, my older sister teaches the youngest grades in Wakarusa, and my father is still teaching at a secondary school in Topeka.” He slid back into his chair and cupped the mug with both hands. “I planned to be a teacher, too. Even got my certificate. But then a lightning bolt hit me and let me know I was on the wrong path.”

  Jesse gawked at the man. “A…a lightning bolt? You mean, a real lightning bolt?”

  Ernie nodded. “It struck the ground about seven yards behind me. The current went in through my feet and out my hands. Singed some of my hair off, too, but luckily it grew back. Left scars on my hands and feet, though.” He held out his hands. Pale pink splotches decorated the center of each palm. “The shock knocked me unconscious, and while I was out I had a dream. Or maybe a vision. I can’t say for sure, but a Voice told me, ‘Tell them how I saved you.’ After I recovered, I enrolled in divinity school and trained to become a minister of the gospel.” He picked up his mug and took a slow sip. “Buffalo Creek Chapel is my first placement.”

  Open-mouthed, Jesse stared at the preacher for several seconds, gathering his senses. Then he shook his head. “I bet your congregation listens close when you tell that story.”

  Ernie chuckled. “I’ve never told them.”

  “But you said the
voice told you to—”

  “ ‘Tell them how I saved you.’ That’s right.” His eyes glinting with fervency, Ernie rested his elbows on the table and leaned closer to Jesse. “And I do. I tell them how Jesus saved me from my sins. You see, Jesse, I survived that lightning bolt, but it weakened my heart. Doctors tell me it’s likely my body will wear out early. But my soul will live forever with my Savior. That’s the message I share, because that’s the message that matters. And that’s why I asked you if you’re a believer. Lightning bolts or not, your body will wear out one day, too. Is your soul ready to meet your Maker?”

  Jesse drew back. “Whoa there, Reverend, I’m not one of your parishioners. No need to preach at me.”

  In the space of a heartbeat, gentle warmth replaced the intense glimmer. “I’m sorry. I said I wouldn’t push, didn’t I?”

  “Yep. You did.” Jesse watched Ernie closely for signs of the preacher returning. Seeing none, he braved a comment. “You like being a minister.”

  “Very much. I suppose it’s something like being an officer of the law. We both try to help people.”

  Jesse released a wry chuckle. “Of course, not all people appreciate the help.”

  Ernie raised one eyebrow and aimed a steady look at Jesse. “No, they don’t.”

  Jesse hurried on. “You’re awfully young yet. What—thirty? Thirty-one?”

  He grinned. “Twenty-eight.”

  “Twenty-eight…” Seven years younger than Jesse. “You’ve got a wife, children, and an entire congregation depending on you. Seems like a pretty big responsibility.”

  “No more than an entire town depending on a sheriff.”

  “I suspect church members need different kinds of help from their minister than folks do from their sheriff.” He’d help and move on to the next problem. A minister had to stick with the problems to the very end. “It must wear on you.”

  Ernie sipped his coffee, his brow scrunching. He set the cup aside. “Some days are more difficult than others—like today, telling everyone about Warren Shilling. It’s hard to understand why he was taken so soon.”

  Jesse went immediately on alert. “He owned the mercantile here in town?”

  “That’s right. I’m sorry you never got the chance to meet him. He was a good man—an honest businessman, a leader in our community, and a pillar of the church.”

  The praise took Jesse by surprise. Ernie must have been unaware of Warren’s other household. Given the ages of the children, it stood to reason Shilling had married Neva Gaines first. Which meant his marriage to Violet was a farce. If Ernie knew, he’d surely brand Warren Shilling a scoundrel rather than a saint. “Do I remember you saying he leaves a widow and two children?”

  “Yes.”

  “But there were five children with Mrs. Shilling this morning.”

  “That’s right. Warren spent every other month on the road, selling goods to people who lived far from town. In his travels, he apparently encountered children who needed a family and decided to take them in.” A look of wonder bloomed on Ernie’s face. “Can you imagine? These days people are struggling to get by, but he willingly assumed responsibility for those poor little waifs.”

  Jesse managed to squelch a snort.

  “When he took ill, he made arrangements for them to come here to Buffalo Creek. So now they’re with his wife.” Ernie blew out a breath, shaking his head. “Such a shame that he passed away. Mrs. Shilling will certainly struggle without him, and Bud, Belle, and the three little ones have suffered a great loss.”

  An image of Mrs. Shilling walking ahead of Charley and Cassie, ignoring little Adeline, flashed in his mind. “Mrs. Shilling isn’t going to raise those kids on her own, is she?”

  Ernie turned aside. “Only Mrs. Shilling can answer that question. I’m praying for her to have discernment.”

  She’d need more than discernment if she decided to raise her husband’s illegitimate offspring.

  Mrs. Savage tiptoed into the kitchen and sank into her chair. She aimed a weary smile across the table at the two men. “They’re sleeping. It only took five songs and three storybooks.”

  Ernie grinned. “A new record.”

  She sighed. “Indeed.” Then she glanced at Jesse’s cup and said brightly, “Would you like another cup of coffee before we bid you farewell, Mr. Caudel?”

  Jesse swallowed a laugh. Such a subtle way of asking him to go away. “No, thank you. I’m already sloshing.” He rose and extended his hand to Ernie. “I’ve enjoyed visiting with you, Preacher, and with your lovely wife. Thank you for the kind invitation.”

  Mrs. Savage blushed a becoming pink. “You’re welcome at our table any time, Mr. Caudel.”

  As long as he didn’t overstay his welcome.

  She began clearing the dishes, and Ernie escorted Jesse through the front room. At the door he gave Jesse’s shoulder a solid smack. “If you decide to make Buffalo Creek your home, I hope you’ll consider attending our chapel regularly. Man does not live by bread alone, but by the words of God.”

  Jesse grinned. Ernie had slipped into preacher talk again. “I’ll consider it, but my duties might keep me otherwise occupied on Sunday mornings.” In Beloit an officer was on duty every hour of the day, every day of the week. Jesse wasn’t a stranger to working on Sundays.

  “I’ll have you know Sheriff Schlacter is a member of the Episcopal Church on the other side of town and he rarely misses a service.” Ernie shrugged, smiling. “I think you’ll discover pretty quickly Buffalo Creek is a quiet town peopled with folks who don’t get into much mischief. Sundays are our day of rest, so they’re especially quiet.”

  Whether he’d intended to hint he wanted to join the other community members in rest or not, Jesse decided to take the statement as his cue to leave. He grabbed the doorknob.

  “And, Jesse?”

  The preacher-tone entered Ernie’s voice once more. Jesse sent a slow look in his direction.

  “I’ll pray for you to have discernment about becoming our new sheriff.”

  He didn’t take much stock in praying. The prayers his parents sent up for abundant crop yields or for the next baby to be a son hadn’t gone any farther than the ceiling to his way of thinking. But he’d been taught manners. “Thank you.”

  “I’ll also pray for your soul. It needs a Savior.”

  He wouldn’t tell this sincere young minister that he’d rather depend on himself. He said his good-byes and headed up the quiet street toward town and the sheriff’s office. Sheriff Schlacter had given him a key so he could come and go as he pleased during his stay. The small jail in the back of the office served him well as a hotel room. Which was good since the hotel in town charged a dollar a night and he hadn’t been given any kind of expense account.

  A cool breeze brushed his face and teased his hair—a pleasant, almost-welcoming touch. His boot heels thudded on the raised walkway, creating a hollow sound that echoed against the storefronts and offered him some company. He let his gaze drift up and down both sides of the street, once again noting how neatly kept everything appeared. His first, brief impression of the town hadn’t changed during his few days here. Would more time tarnish the image of peace and community pride? Somehow he hoped not. Seemed there ought to be places left in the world where a fellow could relax and trust the outside to truly reflect the inside.

  He rounded the corner for the sheriff’s small office. Outside the office on the boardwalk, a boy in blue dungarees and a brown corduroy jacket crouched on his haunches, shooting marbles in a chalk circle. Jesse took a wide step to avoid trampling him, and the boy looked up in surprise.

  Jesse looked back with equal surprise. “Charley Shilling…” He balled his fists on his hips in mock exasperation. “What do you think you’re doing out here by yourself?”

  Charley straightened, still pinching a red-and-white aggie between his thumb and index finger. “Nothing much. Just staying out of the way.”

  Jesse didn’t like the answer. He placed his hand o
n Charley’s skinny shoulder. “Does your aunt Neva know you’re out here?”

  “Huh-uh.”

  “She’ll worry if she looks for you and can’t find you.” He couldn’t be certain he was right, but this boy needed some assurance. “I think you should head on back to the mercantile.”

  “I don’t wanna.” Charley stepped from beneath Jesse’s hand and kicked a cloudy-blue marble into the street. He squinted over his shoulder at Jesse like he was taking aim. “Can I ask you something?”

  “You’ve got a tongue. Go ahead and ask.”

  “Aunt Neva’s not really my aunt, is she?”

  How’d he managed to walk into this conversation? Weariness washed over him. Jesse sighed and plopped onto the bench in front of the sheriff’s office. “What makes you ask that?”

  Charley inched toward Jesse, his somber gaze on the marble, which he turned this way and that. “In church the preacher said Aunt Neva was my daddy’s wife. If she was my aunt, she’d be my daddy’s sister.”

  So he’d reasoned out some of it. But Jesse hoped he hadn’t figured out the whole thing. No eight-year-old boy should have to face such truths about his own father. He caught the hand playing with the marble and pulled it downward. Charley shifted his attention to Jesse. Jesse offered a nod. “You’re right, Charley. But you know, there’s no law that says the title ‘aunt’ can’t be used for women other than your ma’s or pa’s sister. Sometimes it’s used because it’s more personal—”

  Charley crinkled his face in confusion.

  Jesse sought a word the boy would understand. “It’s friendlier than saying ‘Mrs. Shilling.’ And it’s more polite than calling an adult by her first name. Does that make sense?”

  “I guess so.”

  “So it’s okay for you to call her Aunt Neva.”

  Charley examined Jesse’s face for several seconds. Then he ducked his head. “My daddy said for us to call her Aunt Neva?”

  “Yep.”

  “And he wanted me and Cassie and Adeline to be with her?”

  “That’s what he told the doctor in Beloit, and that’s what the doctor told me.”