Karen Witemeyer
Page 6
“Don’t just stand there sucking up the air. Get to eatin’.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Crockett took hold of the chair nearest him and pulled it out. Before he dropped into his seat, however, he favored his hostess with a bright smile. “Thank you for the fine meal, Miss Bessie.”
The woman grunted and turned her back on him. “Just make sure you leave the night’s payment on the table—it’ll be two dollars.” Then without another word, she disappeared into what he could only assume was a back bedroom and shut the door with a decisive thump—a thump followed by a click that sounded suspiciously like a key turning in a lock.
Did she think he would do her harm? Or was she simply protective of her privacy? He supposed the precaution wasn’t wholly without merit. An unscrupulous man might attempt to take advantage. Although Crockett imagined Miss Bessie could hold her own with most. She’d probably have any disrespectful fellow hog-tied and booted out the back door before he could sneeze.
The woman was as no-nonsense as they came and seemed an expert at keeping folks at a distance. She’d never even asked his name. Nevertheless, she provided a roof over his head, food for his stomach, and a place to lay his head. If he’d wanted conversation, he could have stayed with the marshal.
Crockett laid his hat on the corner of the table and took his seat. After saying grace for the meal, asking the Lord’s blessings on Miss Bessie, and thanking God for watching over him during the craziness with Silas Robbins, he took a few extra minutes to petition the Almighty on Joanna’s behalf.
Provide the right man for her mission, Lord. Work through him to reestablish a flock of believers and assist Joanna in her efforts to win over her father. Soften Silas’s heart to your message. Penetrate it with your truth.
As he mentally closed out the prayer, it occurred to him that he’d not mentioned the Brenham congregation. Adding a quick postscript, he asked that the elders be granted wisdom in their decision and that the members be blessed as a result.
His memory jogged, Crockett dug out the telegram from his trouser pocket and set the crumpled paper beside his spoon. Too hungry to resist the call of the rolls any longer, he slathered one with butter, ate it in two bites, then buttered another before unfolding the message.
STAY IN DEANVILLE.
ELDERS WILL MEET AND SEND INSTRUCTIONS.
Crockett’s jaw halted midchew. His eyes moved over the words a second time.
Stay in Deanville? Really? He’d expected them to encourage him to make all possible haste.
Well, if he were to be completely honest, he’d expected them to arrange a late afternoon service to accommodate his tardy arrival. Pretty vain expectation, now that he thought about it. People had farms to see to, families to tend. It would be unrealistic to ask them to stay in town all day or to make a long return trip. And in truth, that wouldn’t be in his best interests, either. Surely only a handful of members would turn out for an evening service. Did he really want a decision to be made when the majority of the members had only heard the first candidate?
Crockett resumed his chewing, though he barely tasted the buttery bread any longer. His mind was fully consumed with generating convincing arguments as to why he shouldn’t feel threatened or disheartened by the telegram.
While he slurped his soup, he lectured himself about how God was in control, how he knew what was best. During the consumption of his third and fourth rolls, he imagined scenarios where waiting for a later date to speak would actually prove beneficial. Perhaps a member of considerable influence in the congregation was currently out of town. Maybe an afternoon service would require preaching over wailing babies who’d missed naps. Or maybe the Lord knew that a tree was fixing to fall on the church roof at precisely 3:42 tomorrow afternoon, and keeping him away meant saving his life and the lives of dozens of church members.
All right, so that last one was a bit farfetched. But stranger things had happened. Like a preacher being stolen from a train instead of watches and jewelry. Who would’ve believed that would happen?
Crockett stood and carried his dishes to the washtub. As his bowl and utensils slid beneath the murky water, he cast a glance at the bolted door to his right. Washing the dishes himself might not do much to improve Miss Bessie’s hospitality, but perhaps the small kindness would ease her burden a little. Crockett added some warm water from the kettle on the back of the stove, rolled up his sleeves, and got to work—not only on his dishes but on the few others he found in the bottom of the tub.
When he’d washed, dried, and stacked them on the counter, he hung up the damp towel and rolled down his sleeves. Then he covered the rolls he’d left on the table and collected his telegram. Scanning the kitchen to make sure he was leaving it as tidy as he’d found it, he placed two silver dollars beside the bread pan, where his hostess would be sure to find them, grabbed his hat, and headed for his room.
His travel satchel sat waiting for him on the end of a too-short bed atop a brown patchwork quilt that needed mending. He ran his finger along a frayed square that had come unstitched on one side. Miss Bessie would have his hide for sure if he snagged a satchel buckle on that and tore it further.
He hung his hat on the bedpost and moved the satchel from the bed to the small desk beneath the room’s single window. A plain lamp with a slightly sooty chimney jiggled when the bag hit the desk, and its low flame flickered. Crockett adjusted the wick to allow more light to fill the dim room, then unbuckled the satchel and extracted his Bible. A page of sermon notes fell from inside the front cover and fluttered to the floor. Crockett bent to retrieve it.
That’s when the idea struck.
An idea that would bless a particular young lady on her birthday while, at the same time, improving his chances at landing the Brenham job. An idea so perfect, it had to be inspired.
Blowing out a deep breath in an attempt to calm his suddenly racing pulse, Crockett ordered his notes, took his Bible in hand, and began preaching in hushed tones to the lacy throw pillows on Miss Bessie’s bed.
9
Joanna huffed out a breath and watched her disobedient hair flutter in the mirror. Why did she even bother? The coils never stayed where she put them. Why couldn’t she have lovely blond wisps like Holly Brewster? Her hair never pushed out of its pins or frizzed into an orange halo. Joanna had even overheard Holly complain to Becky Sue one time that it took her an hour to brush it out every night since it had grown past her hips. Joanna could barely keep hers long enough to reach the bottom of her shoulder blades. Any longer and the weight of it when piled atop her head induced headaches.
Maybe she should give up trying to look like a lady and simply wear it in a thick plait behind her neck. Heaven knew it would be easier to manage. But somehow the thought of giving up on arranging her hair felt like giving up on her chances of finding a husband. She was only turning twenty-one today. Surely that didn’t qualify her for old-maid status yet.
Stiffening her spine, Joanna shoved another pin into the fluffy knot at her nape. Then, almost as if her mother were in the room, Joanna heard the echo of a tender voice soothing long-ago tears.
“A woman’s hair is her glory, Joanna. And yours is truly glorious.”
Joanna closed her eyes and recalled the feel of her mother drawing a brush through her thick tresses as the two of them sat on her bed.
“It’s vibrant like a sunrise. Untamed like the most beautiful landscape. It reminds me of your father—wild, yet full of love. Your hair is a gift from God, Joanna. Don’t despise it because it is different. See the beauty in his gift.”
She opened her eyes and stared hard into the mirror. Her mother had taught her to examine the world through an artist’s eye, to find splendor in a landscape where others saw only dirt and rocks. Under her mother’s skilled tutelage, Joanna had learned to turn a dry creek bed into a beacon of hope through the stroke of her brush, portraying what could be instead of what was. Yet when she looked upon her reflection, her training proved ineffectual.
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nbsp; “’Tis a gift, Joanna.” She scowled at the woman in the mirror. “To scorn it would be to dishonor the Giver.”
So she looked again. Past the recalcitrant curls. Past the inadequate length. Past even the unnamable color that existed somewhere between ginger and cinnamon. She allowed her vision to blur slightly so that no details distracted. A minute passed. Then another. Until she realized her perspective had shifted. She saw not her own bright tresses, but the darker, russet tones of her father’s hair. And not his alone, for her mind also recalled the light brown curls of her mother. The hair her father had always loved to touch, to twist around his finger when the two of them snuggled together on the settee during quiet evenings. Mama would lean her head against his shoulder, while Daddy wrapped his arm around her.
Joanna blinked, her gaze reluctant to focus on the present. I see the gift now, God. Thank you.
Wiping the sentimentality from the corner of her eyes, Joanna gave a little sniff and turned away from her mirror. She smoothed the wrinkles from her Sunday-best dress—a periwinkle polished muslin with indigo trim—and collected her Bible from the small table beside her bed.
She might not yet have a preacher, but she had a Lord who deserved her worship, and though her father and his men had made themselves scarce the minute breakfast ended, she intended to start her twenty-first year with a positive outlook. There’d be no quiet Bible reading in the parlor for her this Sunday. No, it was time to wake up the old chapel with hymns and brush the dust from the pews.
Joanna arranged her favorite straw bonnet upon her head, the one decorated with clusters of periwinkle blooms that made her eyes look more blue than gray, then tied the ribbons beneath her chin and tugged her mother’s gloves over her hands.
Today she was going to church.
By the time Joanna neared the chapel, the sunny sky and quiet morning had restored her good humor. She hadn’t encountered a single soul on the walk over, even with taking the road instead of the shortcut through the field. But she didn’t mind the solitude. In fact, she welcomed it. She’d never been good at making idle chitchat. She much preferred to be alone with her thoughts. No one around to try to impress. No one to interrupt her musings. No one to hear should a song suddenly rise to her lips.
Grinning to herself, Joanna put voice to the hymn that had been running through her head since she left the house. “‘For the beauty of the earth, for the glory of the skies.’” Timid at first, her breathy tones slipped softly into the morning air. She twisted her head to peer behind her, making sure no one was within earshot.
“‘For the love which from our birth, over and around us lies.’” Joanna’s voice grew stronger as she entered the churchyard. The words brought her mother to mind as well as her God, and her heart swelled as she moved into the chorus. “‘Lord of all, to Thee we raise, this our hymn of grateful praise.’”
Her gaze caressed the trees by the church walls as she sang the second verse, the lyrics proclaiming God’s glory in his creation. Joanna’s voice grew bolder as she climbed the steps. Swept up in the moment, she turned around and truly raised her song to the heavens.
“‘For the joy of human love; brother, sister, parent, child. Friends on—’”
“‘Earth and friends above,’” a rich, masculine voice sang from behind. “‘For all gentle thoughts and mild.’”
Joanna gasped and spun around.
Crockett Archer, eyes twinkling, stood in the chapel entrance.
Heat flooded her cheeks. Would she forever be embarrassing herself in front of this man? And how had he even come to be here? A dozen questions raced through her mind, but they all dissolved on her tongue as the handsome parson ignored her distress and continued singing, his deep baritone resonating through her.
“‘Lord of all, to Thee we raise, this our hymn of grateful praise.’”
She expected him to stop after the refrain, but he continued unabashedly on to the final verse and turned to her, silently urging her to join him.
Unable to resist, and not really wanting to, Joanna shyly added her melody to his, while returning her attention to the sky, away from Brother Archer’s all-too-penetrating stare.
“‘For thy church that evermore lifteth holy hands above.’” Gradually, she increased her volume until she matched his, finding an amazing freedom in singing without reservation. “‘Off’ring up on every shore her pure sacrifice of love.’”
When they came to the final refrain, she switched from the melody to a line of harmony and closed her eyes as the blend of notes reached into her very spirit. “‘Lord of all, to Thee we raise, this our hymn of grateful praise.’”
The final chord hung in the air between them, the memory of its sound filling the silence. Neither of them spoke for a long moment, then Brother Archer murmured a quiet, reverent “Amen.”
The Lord had blessed her with another gift, Joanna decided. A perfect moment to treasure in her heart.
Brother Archer turned to her then, a rascal’s grin curving his lips. “Surprise.”
That was stating it mildly.
Joanna darted a smile up at him, amazed at how comfortable she’d grown beside him as they sang. Usually her encounters with men left her acutely aware of her shortcomings, despite their efforts at politeness. But Brother Archer was different. Instead of kindly overlooking her flaws, he acted as if he were completely unaware of their existence.
“What are you doing here?” Joanna blurted, needing to change the directions of her thoughts before she could examine them too closely.
The parson winked at her. “Granting a birthday wish.”
Joanna’s breath caught. Does he mean . . . ? Is he . . . staying? Her heart hammered wildly in her breast until logic asserted itself. The man had a job waiting for him. Whatever his reasons for returning, she’d be foolish to read too much into them.
Brother Archer took her arm and led her into the small entryway. “After I wired the elders in Brenham, they responded by asking me to hold up in Deanville until they could meet and decide on a new plan. So, since I won’t be delivering my sermon there this morning, I thought it might be nice to deliver it somewhere else. To someone who might appreciate it more than the pillows in my room at the boardinghouse.”
He grinned at her with such sincerity and good humor that Joanna felt guilty over the pang of disappointment that shot through her at his words. He’d gone out of his way to give her a precious gift. The least she could do was show some appreciation.
Manufacturing a smile, she did her best to beam it up at him. “But how did you know I would be here?” she asked. “I usually conduct my Sunday devotions in my parlor at home.”
Brother Archer glanced sheepishly at the floor, where a piece of rope lay huddled in the corner. “I’d intended to ring the bell as a call to worship, but the pull cord appears to have rotted.” He brushed his hands together as if ridding them of leftover fibers. “I was fixin’ to saddle up and ride to your place when your singing drew me to the front of the church. I’m sure Sunflower appreciates the reprieve.”
Hearing her mare’s name emerge from such masculine lips struck Joanna as quite ridiculous, and she found herself fighting down a giggle. Crockett Archer seemed the type to ride a steed named Hercules or Samson, not an animal named after the yellow blossoms that cover Texas fields in autumn. But since she’d been the one to offer him a horse, she hadn’t felt right about assigning him one of her father’s mounts. Therefore, she’d lent him her palomino. The mare was sturdy and strong and had enough fire in her to keep even a man like Crockett Archer on his toes.
“I didn’t see her when I arrived.” If she had, she never would have burst into song. Although, she had to admit, she’d rather enjoyed it when the parson had joined his voice to hers. It almost made her embarrassment worth it. Almost.
“I tied her up around back. Here . . .” He took her arm and led her down the center aisle. “I cleaned off the first few rows at the front. I wasn’t sure where you usually sat.”
Suddenly the quiet of the building registered. Her footsteps echoed loudly in her ears as she made her way down the aisle. The utter emptiness of the place soaked into her bones and left them cold. Abandoned. Like the pew she used to share with her mother.
Brother Archer handed her into the pew, and Joanna sidled along the edge of the bench and took her seat, bracing herself for the loneliness that would strike the moment he left her to take his place at the podium.
But the parson didn’t leave. Instead he folded his tall frame into the pew beside her. Her coldness vanished.
“When my brothers and I worshiped together at home,” he said, reaching over the back of the pew in front of them to collect a slender book, “Neill led the songs. As the youngest, his voice was the last to change.”
Joanna smiled, imaging a younger version of Crockett Archer, his adolescent voice cracking while his big brothers looked on.
“When it did finally lower, it didn’t deepen as far as the rest of ours did. As the only Archer who could sing a decent tenor, he got stuck with the job.”
“Does he mind?”
“Neill? Nah. He’s always had a hankerin’ for music. Took to playing Pa’s fiddle when he was about half grown. Made such a screeching racket, Travis banished him to the barn. But now folks actually pay him to play for their shindigs.” Brother Archer shook his head as if such a thing was hard to believe, but an unmistakable gleam of pride shone in his dark eyes. “It gives him a reason to get off the ranch every now and again, which is probably a good thing.”