Sanctuary Among Strangers

by Josie Finch

  “And I’m pregnant.”

  The White Spring cemetery was on a hill and a swooping chill made Warren scoot over and huddle next to a larger monument.

  Warren knew angels usually came and went through sacred places on earth, places imbued with emotion and spirituality. Churches and cemeteries were the easiest to make the connection. And since both Lettie and Warren had a tie to this particular cemetery, it made sense he landed there.

  It made sense, but it did not help him.

  Warren wiped the blood on his pants and wrapped his arms around himself to hold in as much heat as he could. Above, the stars gave a weak and lonely light—nothing like the warm comfort of the magical place he had just been with Lettie. Now, Lettie was far, far away in another world.

  Warren wanted to cry but he didn’t. He buried his frown into the back of his fist and tried to think.

  He was in White Spring. If he remembered correctly, a town called Beckettsville was about fifteen miles to the east, and Topeka was quite a bit north. But he would need to head south. When he was a kid and his parents were still alive, there was a community of Fallen angels in a town called Cunard. The church just outside the town was a hub, a place where a lot of angels traveled through to earth. If Warren was going to find anyone to help him, it would be there.

  Cunard was about seventeen miles from White Spring. To make the trip, he would need some supplies. But right away he would have to find more clothes. A coat. Shelter and food.

  Warren shivered. He prayed the citizens of White Spring would be charitable toward a stranger in the cold winter night. Their kindness was the only thing Warren had at this point. The life he was living when he heard that knock on his door back in his studio was gone forever.

  Warren pushed himself up and gave one last look to his parent’s headstones. He didn’t know where they were or if he would ever see them again. But he couldn’t think about that now.

  Their story was over but his was just beginning.

  Chapter Two

  Pastor Joseph Ellis pulled the collar of his wool coat up to his jaw to protect his skin against the bite of the winter evening. Winters on the prairie were never easy. But the grief that had been placed on his shoulders for the past several hours made him feel even more vulnerable to the cruel cold.

  Joseph had arrived in White Spring around noon. It was one of his regular stops in the wide circuit he ran as a traveling pastor. He had wanted to go directly to the livery stable to let his mare, Belle, warm up and rest after the morning travel. Then he wanted to get a room for himself at the boardinghouse across the street. But he had not made it even halfway down the short main street when a girl of around ten years waved him down. She wore a maroon coat and had blue eyes, bright and gleaming with tears.

  When Pastor Ellis dismounted and kneeled before her on the frosty road she explained her name was Flora Durnham and her brother was dying. Her family needed a pastor.

  Pastor Ellis walked with her, holding Belle’s reins in one hand and the girl’s gloved hand in his other. Flora led him to one of the nicest houses in town.

  The Durnham family was well to do. At least, as well as a family could do in a town like White Spring.

  The doctor had left the day before. He had done everything he could and promised the end would be swift. But still the young man held on to the frayed edges of his life.

  The family did not attend church services regularly and not even the shattering blow of death could keep them from social niceties. Too embarrassed to seek out a local priest in time of need, the youngest daughter summoned the traveling pastor.

  She brought him into the house, through the parlor and down a hallway. The faded, wispy white photographs of generations past stared down from the walls. The family had known death but had never considered it would arrive so raw and terrible for the strong, healthy young man that was the pride of their family.

  The girl led Pastor Ellis upstairs to where their mother was tending the young man in his bedroom. He was unconscious. When his mother wanted to say a prayer with him, Pastor Ellis was the young man’s voice. They were joined by an older sister, and a younger brother. The father stood stern in the doorway, never crossing the threshold.

  The family said they didn't know how to pray, but Joseph thought they did just fine.

  As the mother drifted in and out of the room, each member of the family came in and Joseph did his best to guide the words they needed to hear themselves say before it was too late.

  More time passed and the young man was still alive.

  Thus the family went through the motions of their day according to the hands on the mantle clock. Flora read from her school primer, the father took a law appointment in his front office. The mother and older sister took turns tending to the bedside of the young man and going about the chores of the house like any other day.

  When the young man finally stilled and the life left his body at eighteen past four in the afternoon, Pastor Ellis was the one who gently placed the soft sheet to cover him.

  When it was over, there was no hugging or wiping away of tears. The Durnham’s were a proud family and did not want to show their grief. Joseph had gotten used to the respectable distance of his profession. Hot or turbulent emotions were always steadied by a simple hand pressed on a shoulder. He wished he could give more, as much for himself as others. Sometimes he felt starved for human touch. The only people that hugged him were old church ladies with nothing to be embarrassed about, who really understood that a hug was one of the most sacred things in this life. Still, perhaps it was better to be a lone, roving pastor and starved for touch and affection rather than living in a house and town full of people and feeling the same way.

  The family did not plan to have a home funeral. Pastor Ellis walked to the local mortician to make arrangements.

  When he arrived back at the Durnham’s to check in before carrying on his way, the mother and sisters had cooked him a dinner, wrapped in wax paper and cheese cloth, tied with twine. They thanked him for his time and declined his services as a minister for the funeral.

  The younger brother, now the only brother, retrieved Belle from her stay in the Durnham’s carriage house. When the boy went back inside, Joseph was alone and his job with the family was done.

  Joseph stood in front of the house for a few moments. He knew the pain the Durnham’s were feeling very well. As a child he had lost his sister. But he tended to keep the memory buried deep enough that it did not interfere with his work. Swallowing the echoes of pain, Joseph looked up into the cold, dark sky. Sleety rain began to fall. There was not much snow this year, just sleet and cold. A glance at his pocket watch revealed it was nearly six. The sun would be completely set soon.

  Joseph decided to take care of Belle first. Then he could get some rest and eat. Joseph carefully packed away the warm parcel of food in his saddle bag.

  He patted Belle’s soft snout before he mounted. It was a quick ride to the livery stable. Joseph paid the fee for Belle’s grooming, feed, and board and took his things to find a place to spend the night himself.

  He was used to spending nights on his bedroll in barns, on kitchen floors, or in churches that opened their doors to him. Even the most well-to-do, like the Durnham’s, didn’t give money for Joseph’s services as a pastor. They paid in food, oats for Belle, or a place to sleep. Usually, Joseph didn’t mind.

  But he was tired and the night was going to be cold. Joseph dug in his pocket and found he had just enough money for one night at the boarding house. He praised the Lord accordingly.

  Having an entire room to himself seemed like an overindulgent luxury, but Joseph decided to enjoy the rare occurrence. He hung his coat and took a moment to wash in a basin of hot water the host had brought up.

  There was a small writing desk in the corner and Joseph sat there with the parcel from the Durnham family. A carrot and beef stew cooked into a thick crust. Joseph dug out a three tined fork from his bag and took his time eating dinner.
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  He seemed to be able to taste every motion that went into preparing the meal: Every cracked egg, every tap of a spoon against the pot after the gravy was stirred. Joseph decided to save some of the food for later.

  Joseph didn’t plan to stay in White Spring long. The only regular stop he had in town was Widow Margaret Larson and her granddaughter Abigail, who had turned thirteen that year. Every time Pastor Ellis was in town he would pay a visit and help them with things around the house that were too heavy for either of the ladies to attend to. Then they would read some passages in the Bible and pray. Sometimes Widow Larson would play the pump organ but Abigail was learning how to play very well and had taken over the task when company called.

  But after the harrowing day Joseph had been through, he wasn’t in the right mood for music. On top of that, the temptation of a real bed to sleep in was very difficult to resist. Joseph checked his pocket watch and found it read seven o’clock. A nap wouldn’t break any commandments. He decided he would lay down for a bit then call on the Larson house around eight o’clock.

  With the best of intentions, Joseph fell into a deep sleep. For a time, he forgot all about cold, loneliness, and death.

  Joseph woke up ten minutes after nine. He threw the pocket watch down on the pillow and slumped his shoulders as he sat on the edge of the bed. Not only had he slept far too late to call on Widow Larson, he had also burned most of the oil in the only lamp because he forgot to turn it down.

  He sighed. He was really just going through the motions. He knew he should be upset with himself for not being more careful. But he also knew he was not perfect and he had long been losing faith.

  Joseph was a lonely shepherd tending a scattered flock. And he was tired. He knew his work was important, but he didn’t know how much longer he could keep doing it. One of these days he would cut his circuit, pick a direction, and just ride. West sounded nice.

  Well, you can’t go west this very moment, Joseph chastised himself. So you might as well just be lazy tonight.

  Joseph stood and began unbuttoning his shirt. He would take off his clothes, turn out the lamp, and get a real, good night’s sleep.

  But Joseph’s hands stilled over the third button. The sleeting snow clinked against the window glass and a chill ran up Joseph’s spine.

  No. You have to go.

  The thought was much more of a feeling. An aching, urgent need. If he didn’t go, something very bad was going to happen.

  Joseph was not a superstitious man, which made the feeling seem even more important. He buttoned his shirt back up.

  The thought of going out in the cold night for apparently no reason made Joseph question his sanity for a moment. Maybe he just wasn’t quite awake yet. Maybe he was overreacting. Maybe he didn’t have to leave the warmth and comfort of his rented room.

  Joseph tucked in his shirt properly and retrieved his coat.

  There’s no harm in simply checking in, he thought.

  Widow Larson’s house was a short walk from the boarding house in the cold night.

  Though the other houses on the block had darkened windows, Joseph could see the lantern was lit full in the front room. Perhaps Widow Larson and Abigail were up late reading.

  Joseph mounted the stairs and raised his fist to knock but stopped short when he saw the front door was ajar, standing open several inches and letting the frigid winter air into the house.

  Joseph swallowed, thinking perhaps the feeling he had back in his rented room was not as superstitious as he had thought. He pushed the door open and stepped into the parlor. The room was cold, as though the door had been open for longer than a minute or two.

  The drawing table was at the settee with an open diary on top and the lantern flickered as Joseph walked across the room. He was about to call out when he heard a clamor in the back of the house.

  He rushed through the kitchen and saw the door to the back porch was open. Though it was dark, he made his way into the enclosed room, thinking at the last moment of his pistol nestled in its holster, resting on the top of the dresser in his room at the boarding house.

  But there was no need for a pistol.

  Widow Larson, wearing a deep purple calico that matched the bags under her eyes, had a man cornered in the enclosed porch. She stood between him and the closed back door, wielding a broom in one hand and a wire rug beater in the other. Her grey hair sat in a perfect bun and she had a lot more fight than one might expect from her less than five foot frame.

  A walking candle set on an overturned washtub cast long light into the room. It was enough to illuminate the figures of both opponents. But instead of a frightened woman and a belligerent man, Joseph found the opposite. The man was cowering and Widow Larson was what she herself might describe as “spitting mad.”

  “Margaret!” Joseph exclaimed, forgoing the etiquette of using her last name. “What’s going on?”

  “Oh, hello pastor. You’ve got perfect timing. I just caught this man breaking into my house.”

  Joseph looked around and saw no broken windows. The door appeared undamaged. The back porch was cluttered with odds and ends but nothing looked disturbed.

  The man had both his hands raised in surrender. When he spoke, his voice held an edge of desperation.

  “I’m really sorry,” the man said. “I was just looking for a warm place to sleep for the night.”

  Joseph slowly approached Widow Larson. “What exactly did he break?”

  “Nothin’,” she spat. “He used a key.”

  Joseph frowned. “Where was the key?”

  “Hanging on a nail next to the back door outside,” Margaret answered.

  “You… didn't hide it?”

  “Of course not. If I hid it, I wouldn't remember where it was when I needed it.”

  Joseph was aware that the man shouldn't have been in the house without an invitation but there was a large difference between breaking in and simply using the key hanging next to the door on a bitterly cold winter night.

  The man spoke up, though his voice was not very assertive. “And, I might add, I gave the key back to her.”

  Joseph glanced down and saw the key was sitting next to the candle on the tub.

  The man gave a weak smile and pointed to the door. “So, I can just be on my way...”

  Margaret jumped in front of him before he could move. “Oh no you don't. Three houses been broke into this month. And I've caught the guy that did it."

  Joseph sighed. “Have you though, Margaret?”

  “Pastor, you know where every word in the Bible lands and if this were a spiritual matter I would ask your opinion, but I know a thief when I see one.”

  Joseph ran a tired hand over his face. “Judge not, and you shall not be judged. Condemn not, and you shall not be condemned. Forgive, and you will be forgiven.”

  Margaret gave an exasperated sigh. “Not now, Pastor. This will give me something to talk about at the ladies round table for a week!”

  Joseph turned toward the man. “What’s your name?”

  “Warren Harting,” he answered promptly.

  “Highwayman’s name if I ever heard one!” Margaret interrupted.

  “I’m not aware of any Harting gangs in the area, Missus Larson,” Joseph said calmly.

  “Well, he could make up any name he wants, anyhow,” she snapped. “So don’t believe him.”

  Rather than seeking a birth certificate, Joseph changed the subject. “Margaret… Where's Abigail?”

  “I sent her to run for the sheriff to arrest the man that broke into our house.”

  “With a key,” Joseph said flatly.

  “Oh, pastor. He ain’t some desperate homeless person. No vagabond around here has shoes that nice.”

  Joseph glanced down and saw the man—Mr. Harting—was wearing dress boots and nice pants. He was wearing an oversized sack coat that made his figure seem less formidable than it really was. Perhaps that’s how Widow Larson found the courage to corner the man with a rug beater.r />
  Joseph sighed. Abigail must have left in such a rush she had left the front door open. Joseph hoped he had some time before the sheriff arrived.

  “You don’t look like you’ve been living outside long,” Joseph said. “Where are you from, Mr. Harting?”

  “Beckettsville,” he answered.

  Joseph recognized the name of the next town over to the east.

  Mr. Harting continued, “I have an important family matter to attend to and while I was passing through I got… robbed.”

  Mr. Harting leaned into the light and pointed to a gash across his face. Joseph immediately felt bad for not noticing the wound sooner.

  “They beat me up and took everything I had. I stole this coat from a shed down the alley because I didn’t have one. And when I saw the key here… Look. I was only going to rest for a couple hours and be on my way. I promise I wasn’t going to steal anything else or hurt anyone.”

  Joseph had seen a lot of lies in his life, and he didn’t believe the man was telling one. Despite Mr. Harting’s nice shoes and oversized coat, it was clear he was not a weak man. He could have easily overpowered or hurt the old woman, but he hadn't.

  Joseph held his hands out, hoping to establish some peace. “See, Margaret. If he was robbed outside of town, he should be reporting it to the sheriff. Whoever broke into those houses is still out there.”

  Margaret was not going to have any peace. “He still broke into my house, pastor. Two wrongs don’t make a right… but I can’t tell you what book that’s in.”

  “An eye for an eye might be a better reference for you, if you don’t mind my saying,” Joseph said warily.

  Heavy footsteps rattled the dishes in the kitchen and a moment later a tall man ducked through the door and into the enclosed porch. He used his swagger to show off his attitude, but his attitude was not one of confidence. Abigail followed behind him, hair wild and her eyes wide with excitement.

  “Deputy Martin,” Margaret said. “Where’s Sheriff Betts?”

  “He don’t make house calls this late, anymore, Margaret. But I can do the job just the same. This guy broke in, huh?”