Julie did not know what to make of Nightingale, nor did anyone else.
She stared at him, trying to find the hidden meaning of his words and decided that he meant exactly what he said.
“Well,” she said, “you’ll be happy to hear that I’ve been going to church.”
“Splendid! Glad to hear it!”
“I lost a bet with Rice Morgan, so I have to go.” She laughed. “I really do it to irritate the congregation. Last Sunday I took five of the worst drunks you’ve ever seen. Got them sobered up enough to move, and then we all walked in right in the middle of the sermon. Rice didn’t miss a word, but some of the congregation got upset about it. I know that was wrong. I won’t do it again.”
Nightingale looked at her intensely, pondering his thoughts, then said, “I’m not a very religious man myself, Miss Julie, but I see something in you that God wants and that He can use. Well, come along, Wynona.
We’ll go eat and then get us rooms in the finest hotel in Jordan City. Since there is only one, I know what it will be.”
Julie sat there as the two left, thinking of what Fergus had said. She had confessed it to no one, but although she went to church complaining, Rice Morgan’s preaching had stirred her more than she wanted to admit. She had tried to shake it off, but she couldn’t. What could be in me that God would want? she thought bitterly, then poured a drink and downed it quickly.
Dinner at the Abbots was an awkward event for Clinton. He had managed to finagle an invitation, and now as he sat there, he felt totally out of place. Donald Abbot owned the bank, and his wife had come from the top of St. Louis society. The Abbots had only the cream of Jordan City society for visitors to dinner, and Clinton had been silent most of the night except to answer a few questions.
The meal itself was very fine, and a maid served it expertly, but Clinton had been confused at which fork to use. He had secretly watched Lucy and imitated her actions.
“And what are your goals, Clinton?” Donald Abbot asked. He was a small dapper man with a large mustache, and he kept his eyes fixed on Clinton, as if the young man were a bug under a microscope. “What are your goals?” he repeated when Clinton did not answer.
“Well, sir, I reckon I’ll keep on punchin’ cows.” This seemed to be a reasonable enough ambition to Clinton. The ranch was getting bigger all the time. Clay had told him that in ten years they might well have the biggest ranch in all of Texas. “That’s what I do best, I guess.”
Mrs. Abbot stared at the young man and said, “But surely you have higher ambition than to be a cow puncher?”
“Oh, Mother, Clinton’s parents own a fine ranch. They’re adding to it all the time, and I suppose Clinton will own it one day,” Lucy said.
“Well, I don’t know about that,” Clinton said hurriedly. “There’s quite a bunch of us to divide it up, and I got an older brother named Brodie. He’d probably get the ranch if anything happened to Ma and Pa.”
Donald Abbot stared at the young man without speaking for a moment, then changed the subject. Clinton knew that somehow he had been crossed off the list of suitors that the Abbots would approve, and the thought depressed him.
The rest of the evening was a failure. He sat in the parlor across the room from Lucy while Mr. and Mrs. Abbot sat together on a couch. The three of them seemed to do most of the talking, and Clinton could not think of a single thing to say. Finally, the Abbots excused themselves, and Clinton noticed they did not speak of his coming back again. As soon as they left, he turned to Lucy and said, “I guess I didn’t make much of an impression on your folks.”
“Oh, they just don’t know you very well.”
Lucy came over and sat down beside Clinton, and he was fascinated with her. She was a blond-haired, blue-eyed beauty, wearing the latest fashions from the East, and the faint aura of her perfume seemed to make him dizzy. He reached over and took her hand. She did not resist, and then taking his courage in both hands, he did what he had wanted to do the first time he saw her. He put his arms around her and, pulling her close, kissed her. Her lips were soft beneath his, and her perfume seemed to be an incense that intoxicated his feelings.
But Lucy pulled away all at once, saying, “Oh, you mustn’t do that, Clinton!”
“Why not?”
“Just because.” Lucy Abbot, as a matter of fact, was an accomplished tease. She had learned at a much earlier age how to make men desire her. She would coyly let them pursue her with their attentions, and then she’d push them away at the moment when they were most stirred.
Clinton did not know how to behave with Lucy. He had been interested in several of the local girls and felt very much at home with them, but with Lucy he was almost tongue-tied. Finally, he said, “I’d like to take you to that dance next week, Lucy.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Clinton. I’ve already agreed to go with Tom Ellis.”
“Tom Ellis!”
“Yes. You should have asked me earlier, Clinton.”
Clinton got to his feet. “Well, I don’t know how much earlier I have to ask. What about next year?”
“Don’t be angry,” she said softly. She came and pressed herself against him and put her hand along his cheek. “I really like you, but Tom asked first. I’ll save you a dance. Maybe two.” Clinton started to put his arms around her, but she stepped back and whispered, “You’d better go now.
It’s getting late.”
“All right. You save me them dances now.”
“Oh, I will.”
Clinton left the house feeling confused and upset. As he stepped onto his horse, he stared at the Abbot house and said loudly, “Well, Tom Ellis, you might as well step aside because I’m gonna beat your time!” Turning the horse around, he kicked the animal into a dead run as he left Jordan City. When he was almost halfway home, a thought came to him, and he spoke aloud again, “Shoot, I was supposed to take Al huntin’! Forgot all about it. Well, I’ll make it up to her . . .”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SEVEN
Clinton had finished dressing for the dance and now stood in the center of his room trying to think if he had left anything out. He had begun getting ready almost in midafternoon. Taking baths had not been one of his favorite habits, but he had heated water and taken a bath in the big tub, which he had moved into his bedroom. He had lathered with a great deal of the soft soap that his mother made and then had shaved carefully, as if getting every hair down to the level of the skin was an all important thing. He had given particular attention to his hair, anointing it with Macassar oil and plastering it close to his skull. To crown all this, he had put on a special lotion guaranteed to charm the birds out of the trees, then had dressed in new clothes that he had kept for such an occasion. He had no large mirror, but looking down, he admired the gray trousers, the snowy white shirt, the carefully tied string tie, and the multicolored vest that would have done honor to a gambler on a Mississippi riverboat!
Carefully, he picked up his new light brown leather hat and set it squarely on his head. “Well, now, that ought to do it,” he said, feeling satisfied with the results. He stepped outside of his room, turned down the hall, and as soon as he stepped into the big room, as they called it, Bob, the big dog, came out of a sound sleep and approached him stiff-legged, his lips drawn back exposing bright, sharp teeth and uttering a ferocious, deep-pitched growl.
“Well, I swear to my never!” Clay exclaimed, putting down the paper he had been reading. “If you don’t look like the big dog at the meat house! Ol’ Bob there don’t even know ya. He thinks you’re some kind of handsome stranger come in from Chicago.”
“Shut up, Bob!” Clinton said sharply. “Go somewhere and go to sleep.” Bob hung his head when he recognized Clinton and came over and tried to sit on his feet. “Get off of my new boots, you no-account hound!”
Clay had gotten up and was walking around Clinton with obvious admiration. “Wife, look at this boy. Wouldn’t that cock your pistol?”
Jerusalem said at once, “You leave
him alone, Clay.” Getting up, she walked over and stood in front of Clinton. “You look just fine, son. Your new clothes fit like a glove.”
Mary Aidan had come over and now wrinkled up her nose. “What’s that I smell?”
Clinton stared at her with indignation. “That’s me! I ordered that lotion all the way from Buffalo, New York.”
“Well, it stinks!”
“You hush, girl,” Jerusalem said. “It does not stink. It smells fine.”
Zane had been working on a new sheath for his knife, for he was very good at leatherwork. Now, from where he sat, he shaded his tone with admiration. “Why, you look pretty as a speckled pup under a wagon, Clinton. Danged if you don’t! You’re gonna have to fight them girls off with a stick. And what’s more, if you drop dead, we won’t have to do a thing to you but stick a lily in your hand.”
“You all leave him alone,” Jerusalem said sharply. “I wish the rest of you paid as much attention to your appearance as Clinton does. You go on and have a good time at the dance, son.”
Clay was not through. He grinned and said, “I ain’t sure all that ornament is scriptural, Clinton. You may be committin’ a sin by dressin’ up that fancy.”
“You hush, Clay,” Jerusalem said. “Clinton, I want you to take some food by the Stuart place. Anne Stuart isn’t doing well at all.”
“Sure, Ma.” Clinton looked around at his tormentors and said, “Blessed are ye when you are persecuted for righteousness sake.” He took the food from his mother and walked with righteous indignation out the door.
Clinton took the food by the Stuarts and was met by Caleb. “Ma sent this food by, Mr. Stuart.”
“Why, that was right thoughty of her, Clinton. Won’t you come in and set?”
“No, I got to get on. I’m going to a dance.”
Stuart said, “What’s that I smell?”
“That’s me,” Clinton said with intense satisfaction. “Lotion come all the way from Buffalo, New York.”
“Well, it’s mighty fine.”
“How’s Mrs. Stuart?”
“She ain’t too pert, son. I done sent Al into town to get some more medicine from Doctor Wood.”
“Well, I’ll ask the preacher to come by and pray for your wife. He’s right good at prayin’ for sick folk.”
“I appreciate that, son.”
Rice Morgan was sitting in his room, his Bible on his lap, but his eyes were closed. He had been praying for various members of his church, for he was aware that many of them needed it. He knew that he hung on to his position as pastor by a very slim majority and that he very likely would not be pastor for much longer. A number of the church members were outraged at the people he would invite from the saloons to come hear the gospel. In fact, the last time some of them had walked into the church, a few church members had up and walked out.
As he sat there in the stillness, not praying exactly, he waited for a time for something to come into his heart. He had discovered that he often got closer to God by listening than by talking. He heard the sounds of wagons passing in the street outside, people calling greetings to one another. From far away came the sound of a pistol shot, muffled but definite, but he paid no heed to any of those.
Finally, after a long time, he began to speak to the Lord aloud. It was a habit he had formed, for he had discovered that if he prayed aloud, his mind was less likely to wander. “Lord,” he said, “I’ve been praying for a long time for You to give me a companion, and I just have to admit to You, Lord— which You already know—that I’m lonely. I don’t want to run ahead of You, but a man needs a wife and children. You haven’t said I couldn’t have them, so I ask You right now to give me some kind of a promise. Whatever it is, Lord, if I’m not to have a wife and that’s Your will, so be it. But if You can give me a great gift like that, a family, I’d be grateful.”
He sat there as still as a statue for a long time, and then he opened his eyes and looked down at his Bible. An impulse came to him, and he shoved it away, but it returned again and then a third time. He had learned over long experience that when something kept returning, it sometimes came from God. He laid his hand on the Bible and struggled with the impulse. “Lord, I know so many who have tried to find guidance by reading the Bible and taking what they find when they open it as a sign. That never seemed right to me. I’ve always felt like searching the Scriptures. But I’ve been searching the Scriptures and praying for a long time, and You haven’t given me an answer. So, I may be losing my senses, but I’m goin’ to open the Bible. Lord, it would be very fine, and very proud I’d be, if You’d lead me to some verse that would help me.” He put his hands on the Bible and hesitated. “Right you! Now, open it.” He opened the Bible and stared down at it. He had turned to the book of Hosea. He read aloud the first verse, then part of the second verse, and then broke off. He read the third verse, “‘So he went and took Gomer the daughter of Diblaim; which conceived and bare him a son.’”
A hope came to Rice then as he sat there with the Bible open before him. He knew the book of Hosea very well and had often been touched by the history in it. The prophet Hosea had had a wife who had gone away from him with other men, had become a harlot, in fact, but God had said in the third verse that Hosea was to go take this woman, for she was his wife.
Rice sat there, saying nothing aloud, but reading the verses over and over again. Finally, he closed the Bible and held it in his hands, his head bowed. He closed his eyes and said, “Well, Lord, I may be wrong, but I’m going to take this as a word from You that I am to marry Julie Satterfield! If I’m wrong, please strike me dead or do something to head me off!” He got up then, tucked the Bible under his arm, and left his room, headed for the Golden Lady Saloon.
Julie stood looking out the window, not that there was anything that she cared to see, but she had grown tired of lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Lately, she had been feeling that her life was missing something. Sure, there was always the excitement of the saloons, the men, the drinking, but it wasn’t the same anymore. She had gone to hear Rice preach once with some of her friends from the saloon, and one thought had stuck with her. Rice had said that Jesus had come to give life to the fullest. My life is full, but not with the right things, she mused as her mind wandered. She watched as a freighter tried to replace a wheel that had come off of his wagon. His cursing filled the air but did not seem to help with the work. The streets of Jordan City were half full now. She knew there was a dance somewhere in town, but she had no interest in going.
Abruptly, Julie turned and went over to the dresser. She was wearing a thin robe tied with a sash over her gown, and she leaned over and looked into the mirror over her dressing table. The left side of her face was discolored, and her eye was almost closed. She stared at it, filled with disgust at what had happened, when suddenly a knock drew her attention. She had asked for some hot water to be sent to her room, and thinking it was Eddy bringing it, she went to the door, but when she opened it, she saw Rice Morgan standing there.
Quickly, Julie turned the bruised side of her face away and asked sharply, “What do you want, Rice?”
“I need to talk to you.”
Instantly, Julie said, “Is somebody hurt in my family?”
“No, it’s not that.”
Julie started to close the door. “I don’t want any of your preaching,
Rice. I’ve heard enough of it.”
“I didn’t come for that,” Rice said. “May I come in for a minute?”
Julie struggled, then shrugged. “If you want to, I suppose.” She turned and went over to the sofa and sat down.
As Rice entered, he ran his eyes around the room. Julie had taken two rooms that made a suite, the bedroom in one side and then a sitting room in the other. The lamp was not on, for it was not completely dark outside, and the last pale vestiges of the afternoon sun cast its golden shadows over the room. Tiny mites swirled in the pale sunbeams, and Rice noticed that Julie was behaving rather strangely. He went over an
d stood beside her and said, “May I sit down beside you?”
“If you want to, I suppose.”
Rice saw that she kept her face averted. He sat down and said what he had come to say. “I’m a very lonely man, Julie.”
The words hit Julie with a force that surprised her. She was so shocked she turned to face him, forgetful of the sight she must have made with her closed eye. “So, you’re lonely,” she said bitterly. “I thought you were the one man in the world who would never come to me like this! How many ‘lonely’ men have I had crying on my shoulder? You almost had me going, Rice, with all this preaching of yours, and to tell the truth—well, I was beginning to think there was something to all of it. And now you come here like this!”
Rice’s face changed only when he saw the bruises and the closed eye.
“What happened?”
“Oh, this?” Julie said bitterly. “Another lonely man came in here. I had to fight him off, so he hit me.”
“Julie, when I say I’m lonely, I don’t mean anything like that.” He sat there quietly, trying to put his thoughts together, and finally said, “I never have anyone to talk to. When I’ve taken a beating, or made a fool out of myself, or when I’m scared out of my wits, who am I going to tell it to? I don’t have anyone.”
Julie was shocked at his words. “Rice, I never think of you as being scared or making a fool out of yourself.”
Rice smiled, yet there was a bitterness in it. “There is soft you are, Julie! I’d hate for you to know all the things I do. We’re all of us, every man and woman in the world, frightened about something. We’re scared, and we all make fools out of ourselves from time to time. Me especially.”
Rice continued to speak, not looking at Julie, but she was staring at him.
Finally, he turned to her, lifted his head, and a wry smile turned the corners of his lips. “God took one look at man, and he said, ‘Adam, you need help,’ and He was right, Julie.”
Julie Satterfield had been pursued by men since she was in her early teens. A bitterness filled her now as she realized that she had not followed the right path. Her past was always a specter that haunted her at night when she was alone. This was one reason why she drank—to cover up and obliterate the memories of what she had been and what she had become.
The Yellow Rose Page 28
