A Lady Like Sarah

by Margaret Brownley

  Twenty-two

  It took Justin a full day just to clear the rubble from inside the church and another day to rehang the door and replace the missing floorboards. The pews and piano were damaged beyond repair.

  He worked long hours, but his heart wasn't in it. He questioned God's plan for him, questioned his ability to serve the people of Rocky Creek. Questioned why God brought Sarah into his life, only to take her away.

  He tried to pray, but the words wouldn't come. Each night upon retiring, Elizabeth asleep at the foot of his bed in her little crate, he sought comfort from the Bible, but doubts and questions continued to plague him.

  After another sleepless night, he sat at the kitchen table picking at the breakfast Ma had cooked for him. Since saying good-bye to Sarah even his appetite began to suffer.

  He made a list of all the things that still had to be done to ready the church for worship. The list seemed endless. For every chore he crossed off, he thought of two more to take its place.

  Next to him, Ma rocked Elizabeth in her arms. All rosy from her bath, the baby smelled like a flower garden after a spring shower.

  He leaned over and tickled her under her little pink chin, and her bowlike mouth curved up.

  He sat back in astonishment. "Look at that," he said, beaming. "She smiled at me."

  "Just a little indigestion," Ma said.

  Undaunted, he leaned forward again and made silly goo-goo sounds that would normally have made him feel like a fool. He was rewarded with another toothless grin. The softening in his heart pained him only because Sarah wasn't there to see Elizabeth smile.

  Satisfied, he sat back. "See? What did I tell you?"

  This time Ma didn't argue with him. "It's good to know that somethin' can put a smile on your face."

  Elizabeth wrinkled up her little nose and started to fuss. "I think it's time for someone's nap," Ma said. She rose and placed Elizabeth in the little crate and carried it to the other room where it was quiet. She returned moments later and glanced at Justin's chore list.

  "I think I can round up chairs for the church," she said. "How many do you need?"

  Justin couldn't begin to guess. "A hundred?"

  Ma looked dubious. "You'll be lucky if anyone shows up the first day."

  Justin's disappointment must have shown, for she leaned forward and patted his arm. "A few will come out of curiosity, I suppose, you being a new preacher and all." In a more cheerful voice, she added, "If you want, you can move the piano from my parlor to the church. It's out of tune, but it's better than nothing."

  He mopped up the runny egg yolks with a piece of bread. "I'm much obliged. Do you play?"

  The question seemed to startle her. "Me? I play a little. Nothing religious, mind you. Our piano player Mrs. Kimble died last year, bless her soul. I'll ask around. There's bound to be someone else in town who can play."

  Justin stared down at his list. "I don't know what I would have done without your help. I especially appreciate you taking care of Elizabeth. I haven't had time to look for a home for her."

  It wasn't only time that kept him from searching for suitable parents. After losing Sarah, he simply didn't have the heart to part with Elizabeth too. After the smile she gave him that morning, he wondered if he ever would.

  Ma sat down at the table opposite him. "I hope you don't judge our town by the condition of the church."

  "I'm not here to judge," he said. Still, he couldn't help but think that had the citizens of Rocky Creek built fewer saloons, more time would have been left for the church. But he wasn't about to share that opinion with his kindhearted landlady.

  "If you don't mind my saying so, you look like something the cat dragged in," she said.

  Justin grunted. "I've not been sleeping well."

  Ma gave a knowing nod. "She must have been some woman."

  Justin looked up in surprise, his fork held in midair. "What makes you think it's a woman keeping me awake?"

  "When a man spends half the night pacing the floor, it's generally because of some petticoat."

  Justin smiled at her choice of words. Petticoat was hardly a word that came to mind when he thought of Sarah.

  Ma folded her arms on the table. "Love is like a soft mattress. It's easy to fall into but near impossible to get out of."

  Justin lay his fork on his plate and wiped his mouth on his napkin. "God called me to be a clergyman," he said, more for his own benefit than for his landlady's. "That's what I need to think about. God's work."

  Ma gave him a tender, motherly look. "Seems to me like you're putting the cart before the horse."

  Justin raised a questioning brow. "I'm sorry?"

  "All I'm saying is, God made you a man before He made you a preacher."

  Twenty-three

  Sarah stepped out of the stagecoach in the center of Rocky Creek and felt a surge of panic. The town looked exactly as she remembered it, arousing the same old fears.

  Memories of the trial and verdict assailed her. The last time she'd left town, she was on a fast horse and dodging bullets. She'd hoped never to see Rocky Creek again, but here she was of her own free will and shaking like a quivering bow.

  Main Street was deserted, the residents inside away from the hot August sun. Hugged on three sides by rolling hills, the town appeared serene, but she knew better.

  She wondered where Justin was. She didn't want to see him yet, not while her future looked so bleak. She was taking a big chance on coming here, and she desperately wanted to believe that she hadn't misread the signs. She told herself that if Justin was right about the town not hanging a lady, then she had nothing to worry about. Maybe then she could clear her name and have a chance for a normal life.

  Oh, Justin, please be right.

  Just thinking of Justin gave her back the courage that had near deserted her. She could do this. She must do this. For his sake as well as her own.

  The town marshal's office was located directly across from the stage stop. She stepped off the wooden boardwalk, her pounding heart as erratic as an unbroken horse.

  Since the town was deserted, she abandoned the confining ladylike steps she'd tried to emulate. Instead, she kicked up her boots in high-steppin' strides and crossed Main Street.

  Before entering the office, she raised her eyes to heaven and braced herself with prayer. "God, I know I've asked for Your help a lot lately. I'm sure You got a lot of other people to help, and I don't want to take unfair advantage or anythin'. But if You have another one of those miracles lyin' around that You don't need, I'd be much obliged if You'd send it my way. Amen."

  She took a deep breath and went over the words she had copied down from a newspaper on the train ride to Texarkana and practiced in her head. Pressing against the butterflies in her stomach with one hand, she threw open the door with the other.

  Marshal Briggs sat behind his desk, his feet propped up, a hole centered on the sole of each boot. At sight of her, he quickly dropped his feet to the wooden floor with a thump and looked her up and down like a man buying livestock.

  "May I help you, ma'am?"

  Ma'am. No lawman had ever addressed her with such regard before. Encouraged, Sarah closed the door behind her. Standing proper as she imagined a lady to stand, hands folded demurely in front, she said, "I wish to turn myself in."

  The marshal's bushy gray eyebrows rose so high that only his receding hairline kept them from disappearing altogether. His eyes then crinkled as if he was privy to a joke.

  "And what crime are you guilty of, ma'am?" he asked, his voice edged with sarcasm. "Failing to do your wifely duties?" He winked. "Spreading vicious gossip?"

  The law man's mocking tone was downright insulting, and she could feel her anger beginning to flare. Her future was on the line, and she was in no mood for snide remarks. She threw back her head and nailed him with a scathing look that was more characteristic of her true nature than her earlier demeanor had been.

  "My name is Sarah Prescott."

  The smi
le slid off his face as quickly as a greenhorn off a bucking horse. This time, he not only looked shocked, his eyes practically popped out of his head.

  "You're the Prescott woman?" he sputtered.

  "I am," she said, keeping her voice steady.

  He rubbed his chin. "You don't look like her."

  "I'm her, all right," she said. "Since I'm now a lady, I demand all charges be dropped." Pleased that she had remembered the exact words she'd practiced, she gave herself a silent pat on the back.

  Marshal Briggs scratched his head. "I don't follow. What does one have to do with the other?"

  It was a question she hadn't expected and she wasn't sure how best to answer it. "I've heard it on good authority that no one hangs a lady."

  "You don't say?"

  "It's not right."

  He rubbed his chin. "And who might that authority be?"

  She hesitated. "I . . ."Drats! She couldn't remember the word Mrs. Springlock used to describe the word ain't. Contraption?Conception? Contraction? Yes, that was it, contraction.

  "I is not—" She stopped and tried again. "I are not—" The marshal frowned and she sighed. This could take all day.

  Choosing clarity over proper English, she blurted out, "I ain't at liberty to say."

  If Briggs noticed her lapse in grammar, he didn't show it. "In that case, I'm gonna have to carry out the judge's orders."

  "But I'm innocent, and you have no right to hang me."

  "You're a Prescott," he said as if that were explanation enough.

  "You can't hang me 'cuz of my family name."

  He pawed through a pile of papers. Finding what he was looking for, he waved a wrinkled document in the air. "I've got an order here that says I can." He tossed the paper aside.

  He scrutinized her. "Speaking of family, where's my brother-in-law? He sent a wire saying he'd captured you and was bringin' you in."

  "Y-your b-brother-in-law?" she stammered. She felt her hopes sink.

  "U.S. Marshal Owen is married to my sister."

  She bit her lip, her mind scrambling.

  "Well?" he said impatiently.

  Since there didn't seem to be any nice way of wording it, she decided to come right out and say it. "I-I'm sorry to tell you, but he's dead. Died in Missouri from a bullet wound, he did."

  The marshal's face turned beet red and the veins in his neck stood out in thick blue cords. "You killed him!" He rose to his feet, sending his chair flying backward.

  Startled by the unexpected accusation, she was momentarily speechless. She stared at him in disbelief. It had never occurred to her that she would be blamed for the marshal's death.

  "I did no such thing," she shot back, "and don't you go sayin' I did, you hear?"

  Hands on his desk he leaned forward. "The only reason he left Texas was because of you. In my book, that makes you responsible for his death."

  Panicking, she spun around and frantically tried to escape. Her fancy sleeve caught on the door latch, and before she could pull herself free, the marshal was on her like a hawk on a snake.

  She fought him off with everything she had, kicking and screaming all the while. Papers scattered, hats flew off nails, and the potbellied stove tilted to one side.

  She could have escaped had it not been for all the layers of lace and silk beneath her dress, which slowed her down.

  After much fumbling, Briggs finally managed to slam her up against the wall and snap handcuffs around her wrists. He was clearly winded, and he slumped against the wall next to her, trying to catch his breath.

  "What a pity I can only hang you once," he gasped.

  Not wanting to give him the satisfaction of thinking he had the upper hand, she lifted her head in open defiance. "I reckon that gives me the advantage."

  His gaze sharpened. "How do you mean? Advantage?"

  "There ain't no limit on how many times a person can escape."

  The marshal somewhat recovered, grabbed hold of her arm. "There isn't gonna be any escaping. Not this time!"

  Twenty-four

  Justin hammered the last nail in place and stood the pulpit upright. He wiggled it back and forth. It seemed sturdy enough, though it needed paint.

  He stood behind it and gazed at the mismatched chairs that his landlady had rounded up. He imagined the church filled with people. Families with small children. Older folks. Young. He thought of the couples he would join together in holy matrimony, the babies he would baptize.

  Maybe once he started preaching again, the aching loneliness and despair would go away, and he would better understand God's plan for him. Maybe then he could sleep again and stop thinking about Sarah.

  Today, as always whenever he thought of her, he said a silent prayer, ending with the plea, Lord, keep her safe.

  He forced his troubling thoughts away. Not now, not here. Today, his thoughts didn't belong to Sarah. Couldn't. Today he had to concentrate on spreading God's Word to the citizens of Rocky Creek.

  He donned his black frock coat that Ma had cleaned and ironed for him, picked up the Bible, and waited as he had so often waited on Sunday morning.

  It was almost 10 a.m. Soon worshippers would fill the church—and yet he felt none of the eager anticipation he normally felt on Sunday mornings.

  He closed his eyes and imagined himself back in Boston, back in the church he loved so much. He could practically smell the polished wood pews and waxy scent of burning candles. Hear the resonating chords of the organ.

  From his distant memory came the rattle of carriage wheels on cobblestones. He could almost hear the rustle of silken gowns and feathered hats, the tapping sound of high- buttoned shoes on white marble floors.

  Feeling the familiar sense of joy and expectancy return, he smiled broadly and opened his eyes. He walked to the door to greet the first arrivals and stared outside. Much to his surprise, not a single soul could be seen. Ma had warned him that few if any townsfolk would show, but he had refused to believe it.

  He'd tacked posters around town and was confident that at least some worshippers would attend service, if for no other reason than curiosity. He pulled his watch from his waistcoat pocket and checked the time. It was almost ten fifteen.

  Outside, the dirt road leading up the hill was deserted. Neither horse nor wagon headed his way.

  He walked to the end of the narrow dirt path. Loud voices, laughter, and music floated up from the saloons along Main Street. The revelers never stopped, but today was Sunday, the Lord's Day. Justin noted with surprise that these people treated the Sabbath like any other day of the week.

  Never would he have imagined such a thing in Boston. There, blue laws required saloons and other businesses to remain closed on the Sabbath.

  He stood on the hill overlooking the town and felt utterly alone and disheartened. "What am I doing here?" he shouted to the sky. "Why me? I don't understand these people. What could I possibly give them?"

  In the stillness of his troubled mind, he thought he heard a voice—her voice—seeming to come out of nowhere. "Your faith."

  He spun around, knowing even as he scanned the surrounding hillside, she was lost to him.

  Shaken, he turned back to the town. It was then that an idea came to him: If they won 't come to me, then I will go to them.

  The idea surprised, shocked him. Never did he have to seek out worshippers in Boston. Never, for that matter, did he have to do much more than stand behind a pulpit to spread God's Word. His ministry seldom went beyond the church walls, except for an occasional visitation. His convictions had been strong, but he had never really put his faith in action. Saddened by his past failures as a pastor, he resolved to do things differently here in Rocky Creek.

  Feeling more vitalized than he'd felt in ages, he hurried back into the church and grabbed his hat. With his Bible still in hand, he dashed back outside.

  Moments later, he rode down the center of Main Street and tethered his horse in front of Jake's Saloon, by far the noisiest saloon
of the lot. The place was packed.

  Justin stood outside the batwing doors and almost lost his nerve. "Faith, " Sarah had said. "You can offer them your faith. "

  An old man sat in a rocking chair in front of the saloon smoking his pipe. "The last stranger who walked in there without a gun was carried out feetfirst."

  "Thank you, sir, but I don't need a gun. I have something better."

  With that, he walked in and stood by the door until his eyes adjusted to the dim light. At first, no one paid attention to him.

  Men squeezed around square faro tables placing their bets. Others stood at the bar downing whiskey like water. Women in garish gowns flitted from one man to another, coyly smiling from behind feathered fans.

  Justin walked toward the bar. He was taller than most of the other men, and dressed in his dark trousers and frock coat, he stood out like an elephant in a herd of cows.

  The room suddenly grew quiet as all eyes turned in his direction.

  "Gentlemen," he said, tipping his hat. "And ladies. As I'm sure you've heard, I'm your new pastor." He glanced around the room. "Reverend Justin Wells at your service. I would like to welcome you all on this glorious day that the Lord has made."

  Silence followed his announcement. No one seemed to know what to make of the preacher's presence.

  Finally, Link Haskell, whom Justin recognized as the blacksmith who had welded metal door hinges for the church, raised his shot glass. "Welcome, preacher. Why don't you belly up to the bar and join us in a toast?"

  "Thank you, kindly, but I don't imbibe. Especially when I'm working."

  "You working?" someone slurred.

  "That I am," Justin said. "Preachers are allowed to work on the Sabbath. Now, then. If you will kindly bow your head in prayer, we'll begin."

  Stunned silence followed his proclamation. Mouths rounded in disbelief, Jaws dropped. One jowly man rolled his eyes. A drunk raised his head from a table, saliva dribbling from the corner of his mouth. Women in low-cut gowns peered at him from painted faces, their feathered fans beating what little air was left in the room.