The two men sat together in glum silence, saying nothing but gulping hot beverages and munching toasted sandwiches while Melissa chattered on.
At last, Melissa fell silent when a large sugar cookie arrived at the table for her. Cody finally decided to speak.
“Wes, what am I doing wrong with the choir? Everything else is going so well. Why won't the choir do what I ask?”
Wesley knew what Cody meant, and he knew the answer. He hoped the pastor was willing to hear it. “We're too used to Kristina,” he told him bluntly. “And to be honest, she's a better director than you. If you want the choir to do well again, give it back to her.”
Cody blinked a couple of times. “Is it really appropriate for a woman to be teaching men that way?”
“Teaching? Cody, all she does is wave her arms around. It's not indecent. And she's really good at it. She's had training. I'd suggest you let her do it. You'll never get the results she does. Your gifts are in other areas.”
“I've never known a town like this, for letting women take on unusual roles,” Cody commented, his eyebrows low.
“We're a small community. Everyone is allowed to do what needs to be done. We don't have enough people to only delegate tasks to the men when there are willing, talented women to do some of them. I'll say it again. If you want a good choir, let Kristina lead it. And if you want to fit in here, don't try to change things that work.”
Cody nodded. “That's good advice. Thank you for your honesty. Everyone else I've asked has talked about giving people time to adjust. That didn't feel quite right.”
“Because it isn't. You will need to give people time to adjust, but they'll only do it if you focus on what truly needs to be done.”
Cody sighed. “You're right. Could you… tell me some more about Miss Heitschmidt? I seem to have gotten onto her bad side, and I don't even know what I've done. It's pretty important for the music leader and the pastor to get along.”
Wesley had an opinion about that, too, but he wasn't about to butt in. “I think you should talk to her, not me. She's a reasonable woman for the most part, but she has a German temper. Just let her say what's on her mind and don't argue with her about it. I think that will help a lot.”
Cody considered and his face took on a look Wesley recognized; the bewildered emotion of someone more than halfway in love and not sure what to do about it. If Kristina didn't let that temper of hers take over, she still had a chance.
Then a more pressing issue occurred to Wesley. He glanced at his daughter, who was focused intensely on the table, where she was using the crumbs of sugar cookie to create a tiny row. “Um, Pastor…” he said in an undertone. Melissa showed no sign of having heard his soft comment.
“Cody, please, Wes,” the pastor replied full-voiced.
Wesley touched his fingertip to his lips and indicated his daughter with a sideways move of his head. The pastor dipped his chin in acknowledgement. “Cody then. I… um… I'm having some trouble with um… with my marriage.” He hated admitting it out loud, even in a near-whisper, but the situation was beyond him and getting worse. There seemed to be no solution.
“Well, I'm sorry to hear that,” Cody said softly, though he didn't sound in the least surprised. Gossip and small towns went hand in hand after all. “I don't know what advice I could possibly give you, though.”
“No one does,” Wesley replied. “But I would appreciate some prayer.”
“Now that I can manage,” Cody replied. “I promise to pray for a solution. I really do think God wants marriages to be happy.” And then the young man's blue eyes went misty and far away, and Wesley knew he was imagining what a happy marriage would be like, preferably with a sweet, freckle-faced musician.
As lunch was over, the men parted company soon afterwards and Wesley headed home. Once again, Samantha had left. He suspected she went to her lover when she wanted revenge on Wesley, but honestly, he didn't care. When she was in that mood, anything was better than having her around. It felt like surrender, but such was the reality of his life.
She didn't return home the entire weekend, which was the longest she'd ever been gone. He was tempted to look for her, but feared what he might find. Besides, life was so much quieter without her in it. So Wesley did nothing, though he wrestled constantly with a combination of relief and guilt. On Monday morning, there was still no sign of Samantha, which presented Wesley with a problem. What should he do with Melissa while he was at work? His mother was not an option. She'd told him, in no uncertain terms, that the daughter of `that stupid slut' would never be her responsibility. This left him only one possibility. He set up some paper and pencils in the corner of his office and kept her there.
She colored happily throughout the morning, and they ate lunch at the café. They were just settling comfortably into an afternoon of the same, when the bell above the bank door jangled and Sheriff Brody clomped in, his boots making a terrible clatter on the floorboards. He made a beeline for the open door of Wesley's office, and the grim expression on his face made Wes's stomach clench.
“Mr. Fulton, I'm afraid I have very bad news for you.”
“What is it?” Wesley asked, his voice barely above a whisper. His stomach dropped to somewhere around the vicinity of his knees.
“It's about your wife.”
The swooping sensation turned to a queasy churning. Oh Lord, what has that woman done now? Assaulted someone? He wouldn't put it past her. “What about her? What happened?”
The sheriff's broad shoulders sagged and his mouth followed the downward curve of his salt and pepper moustache, into a grief-stricken frown.
A sensation of trembling, icy fear took hold of Wesley. Something worse than an assault. Did she accidentally kill someone? He remembered the time she'd waved a knife at him, during an argument while she was cooking.
“She…” Brody stopped, swallowed, and tried again. “She fell through the ice on the river.”
Wesley's brain rejected the comment, it was so far from what he'd imagined. “The ice on the river is too thin to stand on. Why would she have been there?”
“I have no idea why,” Brody replied, “but the fact is that she was.”
“Is she all right?” Wesley shot from his chair and circled the desk to stand in front of the sheriff.
“Wes,” Brody said, his heavy hand wrapping around Wesley's shoulder, “she's dead. It looks like she's been there a while. Maybe since yesterday morning.”
A buzzing sound began in Wesley's ears. Dead. Samantha's dead. How could she be dead? It wasn't possible. She was young, and while her wits were scattered, her body was healthy. Dead. Drowned. A violent, painful end to a painful life. Wesley's stomach wrapped itself in a painful knot.
“Excuse me,” he muttered, before hurrying through the bank to the water closet. He barely made it.
When his fit of retching finally ended, he staggered back through the spacious lobby of the bank to his office. Sheriff Brody was there, but this time so was Allison, clutching Melissa.
“Wes,” was all she said as she threw herself against him. His arms came around her and his daughter and he trembled violently.
“Wesley,” Brody said in a grim voice, “I'm terribly sorry. But I have to ask you a few questions.”
He numbly looked up at the Sheriff's face, not really taking in what he was seeing.
“Sheriff,” Allison said gently, “he's in shock. You don't think he had anything to do with…”
“Of course not. That's not what I meant. I just need to know what I should do with the body.”
“Bring her home,” Wesley told him firmly. “Bring her home. That's where she belongs.” His voice broke.
The sheriff nodded and walked out.
Wesley was close to losing control. “Come on, honey,” Allison said. “You need to get out of here.”
He scooped Melissa onto his hip, took Allison's offered arm and let her lead him away. She called out to the clerk at the service counter, saying Wesley would not
be back for a while.
Later, he could never remember the details of that walk; whether the wind blew, whether sun or clouds dominated the sky, whether it was cold or pleasant. His only memories were Allison's arms around his waist and Melissa's around his neck.
They entered the front door as the Sheriff's deputy was leaving.
“Where is she?” Wesley asked. For some reason, it seemed vital that he see Samantha now. The stairway was not wide enough to accommodate two adults side by side, so he carried Melissa up alone, Allison trailing behind him.
In the guest bedroom at the front of the house, Samantha had been laid out on the sunny yellow quilt, her hands folded on her bosom, her eyes closed. But her skin was ugly and grey.
The buzzing in Wesley's head intensified and spots floated across his field of vision. Bit by bit, the implications of this event began to dawn on him. No more violent outbursts. No more wild mood swings. No more pitying glances from his wife's lovers. He was free. For a moment, a sensation of relief passed over him. Life without Samantha would be so much easier… wouldn't it?
But wait, who would take care of Melissa when he was at work? And without Samantha's admittedly unappealing cooking, what would they eat? Sandwiches and oatmeal would not hold them indefinitely. And what kind of man felt relief over the death of his wife? What was wrong with him?
An arm crossed his field of vision. Allison had removed a handkerchief from the bureau drawer and spread it over Samantha's discolored face. It didn't move.
“She's not breathing,” he said stupidly. Of course she's not breathing, idiot. She's dead!
Overwhelmed, Wesley sank into a chair in the corner of the room, clutched Melissa to his chest, and burst into ragged sobs.
A soft hand came to rest on his shoulder.
“Wes, Wesley…” Allison wanted his attention, but he was unable to give it. Grief and guilt had bowled him under. This was his fault. He knew Samantha shouldn't be left. He knew she was unstable. He'd failed her, failed to protect, honor, or cherish her. He'd failed as a husband, and he was about to fail as a father, too.
“I'm going to get some help. Wait for me.” The sound of Allison's footsteps grew softer as she retreated down the hallway. Wait for her? As if he were able to do anything else. How long he sat clutching his daughter and choking on bitter sobs, he had no idea. It felt like an eternity. But then there were people in the room. Cody grasped his shoulder. He turned and met the preacher's eyes, but no words passed between them. Wesley felt fragile, far too fragile to utter a word. Allison trailed her delicate fingertips over his back and he knew what he needed.
He handed Melissa to Cody and rose, grabbing his friend and crushing her to his chest. Inhaling the sweet, familiar Allison-scent of her, like clean laundry and woman, the world came back into focus a little… or rather, she did. Here was something real, an anchor to reality. Across the room, he heard Melissa and Cody talking, but didn't take in any of the words. He just concentrated on breathing, on holding Allison and on trying to regain his composure.
The next sound to register on his senses was the clatter of more boots on the floor planks.
“Son?” He glanced up. His mother was there, along with Kristina Heitschmidt. His loved ones were rallying around him. On some distant level, it helped a little.
“Mama, she's…” he started, but as usual Mrs. Fulton didn't wait for anyone. She took charge, pushing Allison away from him and hugging him herself.
Conversation swirled around him unheeded, and then Melissa thrust herself into his arms and they all stumbled from the room. He was led, unresisting, back down to the parlor and pressed into a seat. The room slowly came into focus. His mother sat beside him on the sofa.
“This is my fault,” Wesley said at last.
“No,” his mother protested. “It was an accident. She went through the ice. You know that.”
“Why was she out on the ice? Everyone knows it's not safe. The river never freezes hard enough to stand on. It must have been intentional.” Oh, Lord. Had he really said that out loud? He hadn't meant to.
“Wesley,” Cody crouched in front of him, meeting his eyes. “That doesn't make it your fault.”
“I knew she was… unstable. She's… tried things before. I shouldn't have left her. It's enough I work all day. There's no way I should be doing these other things; going to church, being a deacon. She never liked it.”
“You could have brought her with you,” Cody reminded him.
“She wouldn't go. Called them a bunch of two-faced hypocrites. There was… gossip, about her, at the church. They weren't nice to her there.” Wesley fell silent again.
“I'm sorry to hear that,” Cody told him. “I would never have permitted it. I promise you, Wesley, no matter what anyone says, she's going to have a beautiful funeral, right there at the church, and I don't care what anyone says about it.”
A rattling noise diverted attention to the doorway, where Kristina stood holding a tray of cups and tea accessories in shaking hands. Mrs. Fulton jumped from the sofa and rescued the tea service before Kristina could drop it. It was hers, after all. She'd given it to them, since Samantha had never been interested in owning such things.
Mrs. Fulton poured a cup and handed it to him. He didn't drink, just held the warm cup in his unsteady hands.
“Pastor, I…” Wesley began hesitantly, trying to engage in the reality around him for the first time since receiving the terrible news. “What am I going to do? How can I take care of Melissa alone?”
“Wesley, I'm going to be real honest here. I'm not sure exactly how you're going to make your life work now. Things will change, that's for certain. But you'll never be alone.”
Wesley handed the untouched tea back to his mother and buried his face in his hands.
“Let's pray,” Cody suggested. “Lord God, we cry out to you today for your comfort for Wesley. Help him, Lord. Remind him he's not alone. He has friends and family who love him, and you will never leave him.” And then the young pastor began to recite scripture. “The Lord is my shepherd. I shall not want.”
“He maketh me lie down in green pastures.” Kristina joined him. “He leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul.”
A third voice chimed in. Allison, holding Melissa, entered into the room and sat down beside her best friend, taking his other hand. “He leadeth me down the paths of righteousness for his name's sake.”
Wesley spoke too, his voice breaking on the next line. “Yea, thou I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil, for thou art with me. Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies. Thou anointest my head with oil. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”
“Amen,” Cody added. “That's where she is now, Wesley. In the house of the Lord. There's no better, safer place for her than there.”
Wesley nodded. Samantha was at peace at last, her troubles over. His own were only getting worse.
He needed something… what was it? That familiar scent wafted over him and he turned, crushing Allison and Melissa in another tight hug and letting the world slip away again.
Chapter 4
By evening, everyone had left. Melissa cried herself to sleep in his arms in the rocking chair and he tucked her into her little bed. He returned slowly to his bedroom, regarded the rumpled bed, and gulped. The sheets hadn't been changed in a while. The bed smelled like Samantha, like the perfume he'd bought her, and their last lovemaking session, a few days before her death. She was gone from the guest bedroom now, her body at the church, prepared for visitation and burial. The bedding on which she'd lain had been removed and burned. The bare mattress had seemed to glare accusingly at him, so he'd shut the door, locking it behind him.
Now he would have to strip this bed, too. There was no way he would be able to sleep bathed in the scent of his late wife. Just inhaling it was interfering
with his ability to think. No, he would have to remove it all. He folded the sheets and blankets and carried them down the hall to the guest room. Tossing them inside, he shut the door again and returned to his room. Now he had another bare bed to deal with. He began hunting for bedding. Where did most people keep sheets and blankets? In a linen closet or a clothes press. They were in neither. Under the bed? No. In the wardrobe? No. He knew there were more pieces somewhere. Samantha never put anything anywhere sensible. At last he opened her bureau drawers one by one and found sheets in the bottom, with piles of chemises on top of them. Rolling his eyes, he quickly made up the bed before continuing the hunt for more quilts. A sudden idea had him creeping into Melissa's room, where sure enough, a pile of quilts sat in the bottom of her wardrobe with dirty boots on top. He reached down to the second quilt in the pile, a navy one with gold stars on it, and carried it back to his bedroom. At last he had a clean, fragrance-free bed to sleep in, and he climbed between the sheets in his long gray union suit underwear, trying to relax.
“Mama! Mama!” Soft sobs rang through the house. Sighing, Wesley hauled himself out of bed and into Melissa's bedroom. Without a word, he scooped the weeping toddler into his arms and carried her back into his bedroom, tucking her into the bed beside him. For tonight, neither of them wanted to be alone. Just for tonight…
Allison stumbled home, blinded by tears, her heart aching with an almost physical pain. Wesley seemed destroyed by grief. Her love, her friend, the only man she'd ever given her heart to was hurting, and it hurt her too. The long steps from the Fulton house on the south side of town to the Spencers' on the north end seemed to take a year, and icy wind, blowing with crumbled leaves and bits of dirt, pelted her. She stumbled and nearly fell, barely managing to right herself. Leaning her hand against the slender trunk of an immature elm tree, she stopped moving and gave herself over to tears.
High Plains Promise (Love on the High Plains Book 2) Page 4
