The parson settled back into the pew, his shoulder brushing hers so slightly she doubted he was even aware of the contact, despite the fact that she found it hard to be aware of anything else.
“I found a couple of these behind the pulpit.” He rubbed the cover of the hymnal he’d retrieved against his trouser leg, gave it a quick inspection, and handed it to her. “I’m no troubadour, but I’d gladly join you in a hymn or two before the sermon. If you’d like.”
Taking the book, she thumbed through the pages, seizing the excuse to look anywhere other than his face. Because, really, how could she be expected to converse with any semblance of rationality when the warm kindness in his brown eyes was turning her insides to mush?
“This one,” she managed to squeak as she smoothed the pages open.
He nodded, inhaled, and led her in the familiar strains of Charles Wesley’s “Love Divine, All Loves Excelling.”
She added her alto to his baritone, one song after another. Joanna would have been edified aplenty just staying in that pew with him and singing all morning. But all too soon he set the hymnal aside and strode to the front of the sanctuary.
“Brothers and sisters,” he began, his gaze sweeping the invisible congregation before landing on her with a wink, “how blessed we are to come together on this Lord’s Day, sanctified by the blood of Christ. But there are others outside these walls whose souls are perishing. Men and women, neighbors, friends, even members of our own families who are in desperate need of the living water that only Christ can provide. Their souls are parched and withering away, yet they don’t admit their thirst.”
The parson’s eyes glowed with compassion as they met hers; however, the ache that usually came when she contemplated the state of her father’s soul did not come. For there was passion in Crockett Archer’s eyes, too—fiery passion that filled her with hope, with purpose.
He didn’t speak with religious rhetoric designed to impress and elevate his standing as a holy emissary of God. Nor did he shout out condemnation and dire warnings in order to frighten his listeners into obedience. No, Crockett Archer spoke in the same charismatic manner that had endeared him to her yesterday when he’d disarmed Jackson Spivey with friendly banter and genuine concern. His voice carried authority, but more than that, it carried authenticity. And it was the latter that held her enthralled.
She followed where he led, opening her Bible to 1 Peter and reading along as he quoted verses that brought evangelism into a new, more personal light. In chapter two he emphasized how all of God’s people are a royal priesthood, not just the ministers in the pulpit or the missionaries in foreign fields. And as such, they are called to live holy lives so that others might see and be influenced. Like the wives in chapter three who won over their husbands, not with words but with chaste and reverent behavior. Yet verse fifteen also spoke of the need to always be ready to give an answer as to the reason for the hope evident in one’s life.
The parson’s words penetrated her heart on a level so personal, so deep, it was as if God himself were speaking truth into her soul. Crockett Archer might have written this sermon for a church dozens of miles away, but in that moment Joanna knew that the Lord had intended its message for her.
10
Silas Robbins reined in his gray, dismounted, and walked the beast to the barn. He and Jasper had gotten caught wrangling one of his heifers out of a mud pit in the far west pasture. Thanks to the stubborn gal’s refusal to cooperate, it’d taken longer than expected to haul her sorry hide out of the mire, leaving him late for lunch and wearing more dirt than a wallowing hog.
Some prize of a father he was turning out to be. First his birthday present ran off to Deanville without granting his little girl’s wish, then he’d run off himself this morning to avoid the daughter he loved more than life.
Silas’s jaw clenched as he hefted the saddle from Marauder’s back and slapped it onto the half wall that marked the edge of the first stall. After dragging the blankets off as well, he grabbed a strip of toweling and rubbed down his horse.
Why couldn’t he have just sat in the parlor with her for once and let her read him a handful of those infernal verses she put such stock in? It wasn’t as if they were gonna flay his skin or set fire to his heathen ears. He wouldn’t even have had to listen, really. Just sit there and pretend for a few minutes. It was her birthday, for pity’s sake. He coulda done it just this once.
He ran the towel in small, firm circles across Marauder’s side, cleaning away the animal’s sweat and wishing he could clean away his guilt as easily.
Jo asked so little of him. So little, yet so very much. More than she could comprehend. Martha hadn’t understood, either. Probably ’cause he’d never had the heart to explain. She’d seen such goodness in everyone, especially her church folk. It woulda broken her heart to learn the truth. That those holy fellers sittin’ beside her on the pew every Sunday were just as vile beneath their shiny veneer as any drunkard or thief. Worse, even.
No, he’d not had the heart to destroy his wife’s illusions. And the same held true for his daughter. He’d thought he could set his memories aside for Jo’s sake. Just for today. But across the breakfast table, he’d read the invitation in her eyes before she gave it voice. And in that moment, nausea had rolled so viciously through his innards that he’d nearly spewed the contents of his stomach all over the platter of toast Frank had just passed him.
He’d ridden out five minutes later.
Silas finished up with his horse and turned him loose in the corral. Then, straightening his shoulders, he gritted his teeth and marched up to the house.
Pulling the back door open, Silas stepped into the washroom and quickly divested himself of his mud-splattered shirt and pried his caked boots from his feet. His trousers would have to wait for the privacy of his bedroom. He washed his hands, face, and chest, and ran his fingers through his rusty hair before entering the kitchen. His stockinged feet made no noise as he shuffled across the floor to lift the lid and peek into the stew pot Jo had left simmering on the stove.
As he inhaled a tantalizing whiff of beef, onions, and potatoes, the sound of voices carried to him from down the hall. So sure he’d find his quiet little Jo waiting for him somewhat sullen and forlorn thanks to his hasty departure, he was shocked to hear her voice echo so animatedly through the house. Her subdued laugh even reached his ears, bringing a smile to his face.
That smile disappeared the instant a masculine chuckle hit the air. Silas reached for the gun at his hip.
Jasper and the others were still out wrestling cows. Which meant a stranger was in his parlor. Alone with Jo.
Silas cocked his weapon and charged down the short hallway, a growl rumbling in his chest. He burst through the open doorway, not taking time to do more than register the tall man’s position by the mantelpiece.
“Touch my daughter and I’ll be digging your grave before the day’s out, stranger.”
“Daddy!” Jo gasped and lurched protectively into the line of fire at the same moment the man turned from his perusal of one of Martha’s landscapes. Recognition slammed into Silas like a well-aimed fist.
“Mr. Robbins,” the preacher man said with a nod of calm acknowledgment as he stepped out from behind Jo’s intended shield. “It appears I’m a little overdressed for Sunday dinner.” Archer ran his hands along the lapels of his coat, leaving Silas all too aware of his lack of shirt.
“What’re you doing in my parlor, preacher man?” Silas demanded. He held his gun arm steady, determined to regain the control that seemed to be sifting through his fingers. He’d not let this young pup put him on the defensive.
Before the man could answer, however, Joanna shoved herself into her father’s face, forcing him to lower his weapon.
“Brother Archer rode in from Deanville this morning to deliver a birthday sermon for me.” She threw the words at him. “A gift you arranged, I’ll thank you to recall. I invited him to join us for dinner, as any hospitable person woul
d. Now quit your barking and put some clothes on. The food will be on the table in fifteen minutes.”
With that, she stormed out.
Silas glared at the parson, sure he was somehow responsible for his daughter’s switch in loyalty. Archer met his scowl with an annoying degree of nonchalance. Silas holstered his revolver with a grunt. Honest living had apparently robbed him of his ability to intimidate properly.
“Thought you was in a hurry to leave, preacher man. Why’d ya come back?” Silas crossed his arms over his chest and braced his legs apart. He might be forty-six, but there wasn’t a speck of flab on his frame. He didn’t need a firearm to enforce his will. Archer would be wise to take note.
The parson’s grip tightened on his lapels, but the man’s eyes never wavered. Silas got the impression that Crockett Archer was fightin’ hard against the urge to remove his coat and square off with him.
Curious. Preachers, in his experience, went out of their way to avoid confrontation and faced it only when trapped. This Archer fellow seemed exactly the opposite. He was itchin’ for the chance to take him down a peg or two. Silas shifted his jaw, remembering the blow the parson had dealt him yesterday. But the man had been trapped then. What was driving him now?
“Due to my interrupted travels yesterday,” the parson explained, “I missed my appointment in Brenham.”
Ah, so the feller held a grudge. Ha! He might preach forgiveness, but he was as much a hypocrite as the rest of his kind.
“Since I had to wait for a new one to be scheduled, I thought I would spend my time in a worthy pursuit. And I could think of nothing more worthy than delivering a sermon as a birthday gift to your daughter.”
Archer released his lapels and held out a hand to Silas. “I really ought to thank you, sir. You caused me no small amount of trouble yesterday, it’s true, but you also brought a blessing into my life. Your daughter has a pure heart and a sense of spiritual purpose that humbles me. I am better for having known her. Thank you for giving me that opportunity.”
Silas frowned down at the preacher’s outstretched hand. What game was he playing? He lifted his focus to search Archer’s eyes, hunting for any hint of sarcasm or sanctimony. He found none. Maybe the sermonizer was just better at hiding his motives than most. One thing was for sure, though, he’d not give Archer the satisfaction of thinking himself the bigger man. Silas unfolded his arms and grasped the preacher’s hand.
The pressure built as both men tightened their grips. Their gazes met, challenge rife between them. Archer finally released Silas’s hand, but Silas didn’t kid himself by thinking it was due to any lack of stamina. The man’s grip was like a vise. He’d let go as a matter of choice. What bothered Silas was not knowing what drove that choice.
“I think I’ll see if I can lend a hand in the kitchen.” The parson smiled and stepped around him.
Silas stared at the spot on the parlor rug that Archer had just vacated. Something about that man ate at his craw. He dressed like a preacher and spoke like one most of the time, but beneath that window dressing stood a man who acted more like a hardened cowman.
As Silas trudged to his bedroom to change his muddy trousers, he continued chewing over the Crockett Archer puzzle. He didn’t fit Silas’s expectations. He wasn’t soft or overly scholarly. Although the man did carry more books and journals than clothes in that satchel of his, his hands boasted calluses, and his skin was tanned from the sun. Plus he spoke like a normal person, not with a bunch of highfalutin words that didn’t mean nothin’ to nobody but himself. The man was strong and willing to stand up for himself yet was not prideful or sanctimonious. He’d fled yesterday to fulfill some private mission but came back this morning to give Jo a gift.
Silas gritted his teeth as he pulled a new work shirt over his head. The man didn’t fit any of his tried-and-true notions for preachers. He was a riddle. Silas didn’t like riddles. They were messy, unpredictable. And they forced a man to reconsider things that were better left alone.
Silas wanted him gone.
11
After enduring the weight of Silas’s disapproval all through the tasty meal of beef stew, corn bread, and leftover chocolate cake, Crockett decided he’d worn his welcome thin enough and took his leave. Joanna insisted he keep Sunflower for his journey, so he and the little mare returned to Deanville, making good time.
Worshiping with Joanna Robbins had been a singular experience. Awkward at first, yet incredibly intimate as time went on. He’d never been one to believe the size of one’s audience was an indicator of success. Shoot, for years his audience had consisted solely of his three brothers. God could impact hearers’ hearts no matter the size of the congregation. And Joanna’s heart thirsted like none other he had encountered.
As he’d stood in the long-abandoned pulpit, he’d made an effort not to stare directly at her for more than a few seconds at a time, not wanting to cause her discomfort. Yet he’d been continually drawn to her—her lovely face tipped up to meet his, her gaze intent and unwavering. He’d preached enough to know when a congregant was thinking more about Sunday dinner than the sermon and could easily recognize the glaze of sleepiness that numbed folks’ attention after a too-long Saturday night.
Joanna’s avid interest had inspired him, bringing words to his mouth that he hadn’t rehearsed and fostering an energy that continued to hum through him even now. There had been times in the past where he’d felt the Spirit moving within him, granting him words beyond what he had prepared, but never before had he felt more like a vessel in the Lord’s hand than he had as he stood in front of Joanna Robbins. It was quite humbling, yet exhilarating at the same time.
His mind busy mulling over the morning’s events as he strolled from the livery to Miss Bessie’s, Crockett nearly missed the frenetic waving of the telegraph operator scurrying across the street toward him.
“Mr. Archer! Mr. Archer!” The little man dodged two buggies and a mule cart before finally reaching Crockett’s side.
“Yes?”
Slightly out of breath, the man leaned against the hitching post as he reached into his vest pocket. “I’ve been waiting for you for an age,” he huffed. “This telegram arrived for you an hour ago. It’s from that church in Brenham you been correspondin’ with. It seemed real urgent, and I worried when I couldn’t find you. Miss Bessie said you left early this morning but that your belongings were still in your room. I hoped that meant you was comin’ back.”
Crockett frowned and held out his hand to accept the paper. “I appreciate you tracking me down.”
“It says you’re to meet that fellow in Caldwell tonight.”
“Yes. I can see that.” Crockett looked up from the message to glare at the nosy operator. Mr. Hoffmann was taking the afternoon train from Brenham to Caldwell and asked Crockett to meet him at the hotel restaurant for supper at six so they could discuss the elders’ decision.
An unwelcome heaviness settled in the pit of Crockett’s stomach. Why were they sending someone to talk to him? Why not just have him come to Brenham?
“How far is the ride to Caldwell?” Crockett stuffed the telegram inside his coat and slipped a coin into the operator’s waiting hand.
“About eight and a half miles if you take the northeast road. You got plenty of time to make it, as long as that horse of yours ain’t too winded.”
“I’ll rent a fresh one from the livery.” He wouldn’t take Joanna’s horse out of Deanville. She’d been kind to loan Sunflower to him, and he’d not abuse her generosity. Besides, he couldn’t be sure he’d be returning. Despite the knots tightening in his gut, there was a chance he’d be taking the train to Brenham with Mr. Hoffmann after their meeting.
He needed to pack his things and get on the road.
“Thanks for your help, Mr. . . .” Crockett held out his hand as he searched his mind for a name to fit the little man with the big mustache.
“Stallings. Ed Stallings.” The operator shook his hand and stepped back. “You better be on y
our way, Mr. Archer.”
“Can’t argue with that.” Crockett smiled, feeling slightly more charitable toward the interfering fellow. He waved farewell to Mr. Stallings and made for the boardinghouse with long, purposeful strides.
Miss Bessie must have seen him coming, for her bedroom door was firmly shut with her behind it by the time he arrived in the kitchen.
Shaking his head, Crockett crossed the kitchen and raised his voice so that it might pass through the wooden barrier. “I’m checking out, Miss Bessie. Thank you for the room.”
He turned to go, but the creak of a hinge stopped him.
“Will ya be comin’ back?” His cloistered hostess emerged through the small opening, an unreadable expression on her face.
“I suspect not, but one never knows for sure.” The way he figured it, from Caldwell he’d be catching a train headed in one of two directions—either on to Brenham or home to Palestine.
“Well.” Miss Bessie fiddled with her apron, not quite meeting his gaze. “Should ya ever wander back this way, you’ll have a room waiting for ya.” A touch of color stained her cheeks, and she immediately surged out of the doorway to start bustling about the kitchen. She collected pots and pans from where they’d been drying on the counter and piled them into her arms like homemade armor. “Unless I’m full-up, o’ course.”
“Of course.” Crockett grinned and wondered what Miss Bessie would do if he plunked a thank-you kiss smack-dab in the middle of her cheek. The poor woman would probably suffer a heart seizure. He opted to tip his hat to her instead. “Thank you for the invite, ma’am. I’ll be sure to stop by if I find myself in Deanville again.”
She nodded, then turned her back, signaling she’d said her piece and didn’t aim to expand upon it.
Oddly reluctant to say good-bye, Crockett held his tongue as he exited the kitchen. It took only a couple minutes to gather his things from his room and buckle the straps on his satchel. He glanced back into the kitchen on his way out but didn’t see any sign of his hostess. Once outside on the road, however, he glanced over his shoulder at the small house and caught the motion of a curtain in the parlor window falling back into place.
Karen Witemeyer Page 7
