“Pa, did you ever wonder what it would be like if He did it? I mean, if God really decided to tap you on the shoulder and ask you to do something that’s gonna be, you know, hard to do? Did you ever wonder, if He did decide to tap you, how He would do it? Like, I always wondered if He would speak aloud to me, burning bush and all, or speak with a voice inside my own head. Or maybe He would come in a dream, or just kind of, I don’t know, send me a message, sort of heart-to-heart, see?”
Wyatt Marshall sat back down on the stoop, heavily. This burden of his son’s was a tremendous load. Wyatt would do almost anything to take that burden for Sean, whatever it was. But he realized no amount of prayer was going to change the facts: this was Sean’s burden to bear. Wyatt was willing, sure enough, but he had not been called to the Lord’s service. Sean had. With fresh pain clearly written on his face, Wyatt answered his son.
“I have wondered, Sean. I guess I always believed I would just know.”
The men stared silently at one another as seconds ticked by. Finally, Wyatt asked his son the question left hanging in the air. “So, which one is it, Sean? How did our Lord tap you?”
“The last one. And, you do know, Pa. You just know.” He smiled at his Pa. Sean thought his father looked beaten, wrung out. He appeared to have aged some over a matter of days. “Shoot, Pa, you look sad. Don’t be. I think Blair an’ me have a good life ahead. We’re happy,” he promised.
His father said nothing right away. But finally he stood, brushed off his seat again and faced his son. “Then I’m happy for you, Sean. You should be warned that the business of setting things right in the world might not happen soon enough to suit you. That’s exactly why you’ve got to have faith that eventually, our Lord will dispense his justice and even things up. Justice might be slow, but it will come, son. Until then, keep watch o’er your backside.” He took his hand from his son’s shoulder and hugged him fiercely instead, slapping his back with both hands to emphasize his love for him.
“I…thanks, Pa. I love you.”
“I love you too, son. Now, go an’ get that lovely bride a yours an’ get out of here.”
Chapter 19
They were Mr. and Mrs. Sean Marshall. It made Sean feel like he was someone else, an altogether strange sensation. He wondered what his bride was thinking. He was surprised and pleased that Blair had not been too nervous about their being together. If anything, Sean was nervous enough for the both of them. He wasn’t concerned he’d fail in any way, but he was worried about hurting Blair. To his relief, there’d been nothing to worry about. Blair had taken him by the hand, sensing his doubt, and had led them both through a wondrously tender union. He placed his hand over her belly and felt the warmth through the lacy white dressing gown Mavis had given her as a wedding gift. After long minutes of blissful silence, Sean spoke first.
“Blair, are you…okay?”
She smiled, and her hand joined his over the top of her belly. “I feel fine, Sean. I was just thinking about the baby.”
“Say, Blair, do you already have a girl’s name picked out? Because if you don’t and if it is a girl, do you think we could name her Leslie?”
It would not be a girl, Blair knew. Her father always got what he set out for, and he’d said it would be a boy. “I wouldn’t mind it at all. Leslie…it’s a pretty name for a girl, Sean. But what if it’s a boy?”
“Think it will be?” His thrill at the thought was evident.
“Could be just as easy.”
“Hmm. Just before we left Cloverdale, Pa gave me, you know, a fatherly talk. And he gave me some advice for the both of us. He said we’d come across some battles in our life together and we shouldn’t expect to win them all. Battles against evil, you know—”
“I reckon I do,” Blair interrupted with contempt for the thoughts Sean’s words brought to mind.
Sean turned onto his side and stroked his wife’s cheek and gently tucked some stray curls away from her temple. “Anyhow, Blair, he said that we should leave it to God to fight the big trials since that’s what our belief is all about, knowing He’ll save or avenge us from the larger evils, so long as we keep faith. But Pa also said that we can hope to win the little battles for ourselves, little victories, he’d said. So I was thinking that if it is a boy, maybe we should name him Victory.” He looked at her relaxed face, her deep brown eyes. “Whaddya say, Blair? No one but us knows we even won this little victory over evil, no one but us and the preacher. I think it’s a masterful name for a son of ours.”
“Victor…our little Victory.” She squeezed his hand. She’d been surprised at her level of grief and worry over whether the music man might have harmed her baby. She was growing to love the small mound that was forming in her belly. It was time to give that love a name, wasn’t it? “Yes. I like it, Sean. In fact, I love it.”
Chapter 20
Talk around town said that Blair was made pregnant by the man who raped her. Rebecca wasn’t so sure. She was the only person who knew that Sean had decided to step in and marry Blair before the act of rape had occurred. Sean could not have predicted such a horrible fate would befall Blair. But he’d known something.
Is it his child? A tight, frayed little voice in her head wondered. No! You must not think such thoughts, Rebecca admonished herself. She knew in her heart of hearts that Sean would not have done such a thing. His was an act of mercy, of charity. Without him actually saying so, Rebecca suspected that Sean’s intentions concerning Blair were for her salvation. She’d promised Sean that she would never ask him why, and she wouldn’t. But it was a black secret that concerned Blair’s pregnancy, and Rebecca only prayed that Sean would not be harmed by it.
Chapter 21
“Guess tomorrow we ought’a be getting that barn roof finished, eh, Preacher? Rain’s gone for a while, and things dried up. Best get to it while the gettin’s good, make hay while the sun shines, as they say.” Angus Tjaden elbowed the preacher’s ribs.
“Yes, I s’pose now’s a good a time as any,” Bowman replied, tucking his scowl away. “Is the work party willing?”
“Wyatt Marshall says he can make himself available. Will and Sean told me they could be there to help, and me and my three boys will show. Couple o’ the others here today said they’d try to get free for a while.”
“Well then, I guess I better get to makin’ a barrel of iced-up tea. I’ll supply some fried cush as well to keep the men going,” Bowman said. Cush was a southern tidbit made of well-salted cornmeal and bacon left sit to congeal, then cut into bars and fried in bacon grease. Bowman saw that Angus flinched some, then caught himself at it just a tick later. The man’s cherub cheeks pinked up on the spot. Bowman knew folks hallowed Angus Tjaden as a neighbor and friend, and one of the main reasons was that big round face of his, plain as potatoes, which registered every emotion that swept across his five-gallon noggin. The man was incapable of deceit. I guess talk of such paltry fixin’s amid the fine-smoked salmon and oysters and other delectable dishes present at one’a his barbecues is too vulgar to mention. Bowman burned.
“Well, that’s good of ya to offer it, Preacher. You bein’ on your own these days an’ all, why not let the womenfolk handle the food? My Signey offered to send some cold fried chicken and slaw.”
“Nonsense!” Bowman said. “The unwritten rules of a barn-raising dictate the holder to bring the food and drink. I can manage it.” Bowman then softened a tad. Blair was gone and he couldn’t cook much other than eggs and oatmeal for himself, both of which he would be pleased to never eat again. He shot a withering glance in his daughter’s direction. He would not have minded some fried chicken and slaw. “Uh, but if Mrs. Tjaden is so inclined…” he added, noting the relief clearly written on Angus’s face.
“Speaking of Mrs. Tjaden, is there to be another Mrs. Tjaden added to your clan soon, Angus?” Bowman noticed, and he was certain Sean Marshall had too, that
Elrod, the eldest of the Tjaden boys kept buzzing around Rebecca.
A broad smile broke out across Angus’s face as he followed Bowman’s stare. “Oh, I would not be surprised a bit, not one little bit. Rebecca is a treasure, I tell you. And you, preacher—” Angus stopped himself from asking about Blair’s pregnancy. Emotions were oddly strained between the preacher and his daughter. Angus cleared his throat and resumed, “All’s well with you?”
Preacher Bowman grunted his reply, but studied Angus Tjaden’s goodly and substantial face in a most unsettling way.
Chapter 22
May 14, 1928
Cloverdale, Oregon
The afternoon was a beauty; the sky was blue as a jay, a smattering of clouds waltzed with the delicate currents, and the kind-hearted sun kept its rays steady but moderate. Blair jumped up to fetch Wyatt a scoop of tea when she saw him approach.
“Fine day, Father.” She smiled, one forearm resting upon her slightly bulging waist as she proffered the ladle.
“Certainly is, daughter. You rest yourself now. We can help ourselves.”
Smiling, she sat back down on the pile of shake and squinted up at the men at work. It was a high pitch, that roof, and on top of a two-story barn. Wyatt rested with one hand laid on the back of his daughter-in-law’s neck. His son had been correct. She was a might tougher than one would guess. Something dark in her past had made her so. Wyatt reflected on it now and then, certain that it had something to do with her father, the preacher, but not understanding why the two never talked to each other. He knew that Blair still struggled with some auspicious issue, a private matter, but he often saw the young woman’s face change in a flicker at the mere mention of her father. Sometimes the girl’s sudden changes unnerved him. They could come about so quickly and completely. But his son was happy, and she seemed to be happy in his company. There wasn’t much more that Wyatt could have hoped for.
Preacher Bowman could only watch as his daughter, his wife, swelling with his son, conversed with her father-in-law. If there was one man in the whole valley who could ruin Bowman, it was Wyatt Marshall. No one had more money or inspired more respect than he. Whatever Wyatt said would be believed. Preacher Bowman had reason to fear the man.
Bowman watched as Marshall made his way back to the rooftop. The rafters had been covered with cross boards, and the shake was three quarters to the peak. The preacher had been resting for a spell. It would have looked inappropriate if he rested any longer. He climbed up after Wyatt.
“Can ya hand me another stack?”
Wyatt reached with the hand he was using to steady himself and slipped. His feet grappled for the cross boards even before his hands came down to catch him, but to no avail. Wyatt Marshall slipped off the roof. In a desperate grab, he caught a cross board and was holding on to his life with the strength of the last three fingers of his right hand. The hand was turned painfully while the rest of him dangled vertically over the peak of the barn.
Preacher Bowman had been shadowing Wyatt. He was the only man near when the accident happened. He scurried to the edge of the roof to help the man, grabbing for the outstretched left hand. That secured, the preacher grabbed hold of Wyatt’s right wrist and clenched tightly.
“What has she told you about me?” he asked Wyatt through clenched teeth.
“What? Preacher, help me. I…I can’t hang on.”
“What did the little demon tell you about me? Answer me or so help me I’ll let you drop.”
Wyatt felt his grip loosening and he struggled to hang on. “Demon? Preacher, I don’t—there’s nothing—ah! Please help me!”
The preacher searched Wyatt Marshall’s eyes and saw confusion suddenly change to understanding.
And Wyatt did understand. He had suspected all along that there was some dark secret that only those in the preacher’s house knew of, and probably his son. His imagination would not have allowed him to guess just what that darkness was, until then. But in the flash of an instant, with his life literally hanging in the balance, everything became startlingly clear for Wyatt.
“‘For I do not do the good I want, but the evil I do not want is what I do…’” The preacher let go of Wyatt’s wrist.
Blair screamed.
The body of Wyatt Marshall hit the ground with a whump. His legs were twisted in a most gruesome way. It all seemed to happen in slow motion. The men came running from all directions, and everyone was shouting. Blair’s mouth was still open, but she screamed silently. Her head rose up mechanically to look at the perch from which her kindly father-in-law had fallen. Her eyes met a look in her father’s. It was a satisfied look. He’d killed Wyatt Marshall, and he looked satisfied, no, justified. She knew that look so very well. The day turned suddenly cold. Blair fainted.
Chapter 23
The body of Wyatt Marshall was laid in the back of a wagon and led to the homestead where Mavis waited. One of the Tjaden boys ran the entire distance to tell her there had been an accident and then cranked up Wyatt’s Model-T in order to fetch a doctor. The nearest one was at least an hour’s ride away, in Tillamook.
The lumber wagon pulled up in front of the house. Will and Sean had to restrain their mother by her shoulders from going to see her husband, whose fatal head injury became immediately apparent to those in attendance, the instant he was lifted by his oldest boy. The race to Tillamook would be a futile one. Wyatt Marshall had died instantly. Tiny, bony Mavis Marshall put up a hell of a fight against her two strong sons, but it soon became clear that she had derived most, if not all of her strength, from her husband. When she was told he was already gone, that strength ebbed from her like an outgoing tide, only for Mavis, the tide would never completely roll in again.
October, 1928
Cloverdale, Oregon
Wyatt’s death occurred months earlier, but Mavis seemed to still suffer some sense of shock or other mental defect. She wandered around the house with all the jerkiness of a Chaplin movie and always with the wonder of someone who can’t be made to accept. In her own mind, she didn’t believe it. Every part of her world seemed suspended in a state of unreality. She went through the motions of being a functioning person, but she was numb and without motive. She kept waiting to wake up from a bad dream, but it surely was the longest nightmare she’d ever had. To Sean’s dismay, his mother could not remember Wyatt’s funeral. She did not remember the service or, later, the wake. She could not remember hearing the words over Wyatt’s grave as the first shovelful of dirt was thrown atop the mahogany box, words that Sean could not forget.
“The good always die young,” Angus Tjaden had said in the emotional eulogy he gave for his best friend, “because God wants the good ones for Himself.”
To Sean, the words had not granted the peace of mind intended by their kind neighbor. Instead, they sounded hauntingly prophetic.
Blair had to remind Mavis to eat, and recently had begun sitting in a chair beside Mavis’ bed to ensure that the emaciated woman would eat. Blair had scarce time for watching over Mavis, but she made time for the woman who had shown so much kindness to her. It simply meant that Blair’s days would be a bit longer, a little more froward. She would rise earlier and, when necessary, would continue her chores on into the night hours. It was October. Winter was coming. There was much work to be done on the farm and one less man to see to it. Everyone took on a greater work load. Sean took his orders from his older brother, Will, who rightfully became the family’s patriarch by default.
In Mavis’s confused and sometimes trancelike state, she could not notice the changes in Blair. Her daughter-in-law would sit by her bedside and watch her eat, and oftentimes, Blair would read to her. Mavis was grateful to have Blair’s companionship, even though she never really listened to the words Blair was reading. Mavis also failed to notice that the girl held no book in her hands. It seemed to Mavis that the larger Blair’s pregnancy grew, th
e more often the girl would read for her.
Mavis went to sleep early on that day, perhaps coming down with a touch of flu. Blair accepted it as a chance to soak in a warm tub. She loved that tub. She dried herself and applied scented powder before slipping on the roomy nightdress. She was braiding her long, dark hair when her husband entered the bedroom. Sean was tuckered and bone-weary, but the sight of his lovely wife’s reflection in the gilded mirror, nimbly tying her thick and glossy hair with pretty ribbons, brought a smile to his lips. Catching his gaze, she finished and walked over to him.
Sean kissed her head and sat down on the bed to remove his boots. Blair pushed his hands away and began untying the laces and pulling the boots free for him. That done, she rose up and playfully pushed him back onto the bed and unbuttoned his shirt. When her fingers reached his dungarees, he stopped her.
“Don’t, Blair. It’ll make me…”
“So?” Her eyes arched up seductively.
“I…we can’t. Can we? I mean, I don’t want to hurt the baby.”
“I’ll make it so we don’t harm the little man. Just lay back and leave it to me.”
She pulled his jeans off and spread his shirt open. She could not resist running her hands over his glistening torso, still tan from the outdoor work performed shirtless in the heat of September. She ran playful fingers through his soft swirls of chest hair before gathering up her nightdress.
She lay still on her back, twisting her braid with her fingers and staring out the window at the darkening late afternoon. Sean was awake too, she could tell, but he was lost in his own thoughts. Blair was trying to talk to herself, and she was angry. The inner-voice, the one Blair had learned to depend upon more and more for bolster, if not protection, was only supposed to be there for the hard parts. She was supposed to give Blair the strength she lacked to handle the hard things.
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