Courting Trouble (36 page)

Bogart’s expression softened. ‘‘Then there should be no problem.

But we must speak with her first.’’

‘‘How prevalent is the rumor?’’

‘‘We have only heard the accusation from one source.’’

‘‘Who?’’

He shook his head. ‘‘That is not of importance.’’

‘‘And if Essie is guiltless, what then? Will this person spreading malicious gossip be permitted to continue?’’

‘‘We will talk with her.’’

‘‘Her?’’ He tightened his lips. ‘‘Figures.’’

Bogart’s eyes became troubled.

Ewing reined in his anger and gentled his tone. ‘‘Miss Spreckelmeyer hasn’t even consented to be my wife yet.’’

‘‘Perhaps, then, you should have a talk with her before she does.’’

————

Curled up beneath the feather coverlet on her bed, Essie stared through the darkness. Beams of orange shot from the grate of her heating stove before dissipating into thin air. She wondered what time it was—other than well past bedtime and well before sunrise.

Still, she was wide awake. No longer able to hide from her thoughts. Could she really be so selfish as to marry Ewing just for the sake of achieving a state of matrimony? She moaned.

The outline of her Bible was barely discernible on her nightstand.

Reaching over, she lifted the Book and plopped it beside her on top of the coverlet.

The cushioned leather was cool to the touch.

I’ve read this from front to back. I’ve memorized verses. Entire chapters, even. I’ve given my time to the widows and orphans and church. I’ve honored my parents—for the most part. I’ve not stolen or murdered or taken your name in vain. I have committed fornication, yes, but you pronounced me clean
.

Grasping the volume tightly in her hand, she hurled it across the room. It crashed into the wall with a loud
thunk
before banging to the floor.

So where’s my man? A man whom I not only like, but whom I love?

And who loves me in return? And who doesn’t ask me to be something that I’m not?

Anguished sobs burst from her. She smothered her face within the downy embrace of her pillow.
Why? Why?!

You shall have no other gods before me.

It’s not a god,
she insisted, addressing in her heart the powerful, non-audible voice resonating inside her soul.
It’s a dream. A desire. A hope
.

Your hope is not in me.

It is!

But she knew that wasn’t entirely true. From the moment she had turned thirty, she’d decided she was through ‘‘waiting on the Lord’’ for a husband. She’d decided to take matters into her own hands.

And what a fine muck she’d made of things. She’d packed more heartache into six months than she’d experienced in a lifetime.

Rubbing the edge of the soft, unbleached bedsheet against her lips, remorse swept through her.

She slithered out from under the covers and onto the wool rug surrounding her bed, then hurried to the wall, picked up her Bible and cradled it within her arms. She placed it back on the nightstand where it belonged and stroked its cover, thanking God for providing it for her. Then she crouched over, face to the floor, tears of sorrow rushing to her eyes.

Forgive my pride, Lord. I’m willing to deny myself of the things I desire most—a man, a marriage, and children
.

She sobbed, the ramifications of her prayer squeezing her with grief. For though she desperately wanted to please God, she’d been holding fast to this particular dream since childhood. The thought of living her entire earthly life without a man, without children, broke her heart.

Especially when she knew there was nothing wrong with wanting a man and marriage. The problem had occurred when she’d allowed it to consume her, rule her, orchestrate her every action.

Yet she was determined to have no other gods before Him. To be satisfied with whatever He had for her. No, not just satisfied or content. She wanted to rejoice in His plans for her.

She took a trembling breath.
I will embrace the life you have laid out for me, Lord, and I will live it joyfully so that I may be a witness to how great you are
.

Her tears slowed to a trickle, leaving her cheeks slick and salty.

She wondered if she really could live the life of a spinster with joy.

Images of herself old and gray, of this house empty and quiet, rattled her resolve. How could she embrace such a thing?

Help me be joyful, Lord. I’m afraid. Afraid of being alone
.

I will never leave you.

What if that wasn’t enough? She scoured her memory for characters in the Bible who had been alone or isolated. Joseph immediately came to mind, for he had been abandoned by his loved ones and sold into slavery. David had been unaccompanied as he faced Goliath.

Rahab had single-handedly risked death to shelter two spies. Daniel had been thrown into a lion’s den.

Yet they’d not really been alone. God had been with them. And every one of them had experienced victory. Great victory. Her determination resurfaced.

I want to do your will, Lord, and I want to do it with joy. Use me for your glory. I am yours. Amen
.

Slipping back into bed, she tarried in that place with Him. But this time she let Him do the talking. And what He had to say was the very last thing she expected.

But she acquiesced and promised to speak with Papa as soon as she had everything prepared.

You will need to soften his heart, though, Lord. And if this is not your will—close the doors. Amen
.

chapter THIRTY

EWING GAVE ROSEBUD her head as he made his way to Essie’s home. It had been three days since he’d proposed. Two days since Preacher Bogart’s ultimatum.

He’d prayed. He’d fasted. He’d railed at God. But he was no closer to a palatable solution than he was before. He was going to have to choose between his calling and Essie.

He supposed he could marry her and then move somewhere else.

But it would have to be outside the county, maybe even outside the state. But Essie had lived here all her life. He couldn’t imagine her being willing to move away. And truthfully, he didn’t want to live anywhere else, either.

He drug his hand down his face. If he were really honest with himself, he’d admit that Essie wasn’t everything he’d remembered her to be. He’d left home a child and had carried with him an image of Essie that didn’t quite translate into reality when he’d returned.

He realized now that all the things he’d loved about her were from a child’s perspective. She’d fished with him. Swam with him. Climbed trees with him. Hunted with him. Played ball with him.

He’d absolutely adored her. Worshiped her, even. And had decided at a very early age that he wanted to spend the rest of his days with her.

Looking back, he realized now how unorthodox her behavior really had been. Shocking, even. She thought nothing of hiking up her skirts or soiling her clothing or barreling headlong into danger.

She thought only of adventure. What boy wouldn’t fall in love with her?

But he was a man now. A man who desperately wanted to fulfill the Great Commission that Christ had given him. And when it came time for him to stand before God Almighty, what would he say?

That he had given up his calling so he could marry a woman whose everyday behavior bordered on the scandalous? Whose secrets were so shocking that the church would revoke their offer if and when they found out?

And what would he do for a living? He’d spent all his adult years preparing to be a pastor. How would he provide for Essie if he couldn’t preach? Especially when that’s all he wanted to do. He had a burning desire to serve God. The thought of not preaching was simply not to be borne.

Pulling Rosebud to a stop in front of the Spreckelmeyer house, Ewing stared at the two-story Georgian, shaded by giant pecan trees on a spacious lot and surrounded by a white picket fence. He’d banged in and out of that house more times than he could count. The Spreckelmeyers had been more than tolerant of him over the years and had acted as surrogate parents in many ways.

He sighed. A proposal of marriage was almost as binding as speaking the actual vows. What would the Spreckelmeyers think of him if he withdrew his offer? What if word got out? Would the elders decide that any man who broke his word was unworthy of pastoring a church?

If they did, he’d have to tell them the truth about Essie. And he did not want to do that. The risk of those men telling their wives and those wives telling others was too great.

Lord, help me,
he prayed. Because as he swung off of his horse and tied her to a rail, he knew that the only thing he could do was to take back his offer of marriage. And it would very likely ruin lifelong friendships that he treasured.

‘‘It’s Ewing,’’ Mother said, returning to the kitchen after answering the door. ‘‘He’s in the parlor, waiting for you.’’

Essie slowly removed the apron from around her waist. It was all well and good for her to give up her wants and needs to the Lord. It was something totally different to refuse Ewing his.

She re-pinned a loose piece of hair. How on earth would she tell him she couldn’t marry him? Especially after he’d extended her such grace?

He’d be so hurt. And she knew all too well what that particular kind of hurt and rejection felt like.

Yet she also knew that if she tried not to hurt him, she’d end up hurting him even more. So she’d have to tell him the truth.

Still, she couldn’t admit he had been the means to an end for her.

Though, he had.

She couldn’t say the Lord had called her to give marriage up as a sacrifice to Him. Though, He had.

She couldn’t say she wasn’t in love with him. Though, she wasn’t.

So what could she say? That he was asking her to pretend to be something she was not?

She shook her head. No. There was nothing. No easy, pat answer she could offer without injury.

Give me the words, Lord
.

He stopped his pacing when she entered. He’d dressed more casually today in a pair of wool trousers and a navy hand-knit pullover sweater that suited him quite nicely.

‘‘Hello,’’ she said.

‘‘Hello.’’ He crushed the hat in his hands. ‘‘You look lovely.’’

She smiled. She’d been filling lamps in the kitchen and wore an ordinary black serge skirt and white shirtwaist. But she could see he meant his words and they warmed her.

‘‘Thank you.’’

‘‘We need to talk,’’ he prompted.

‘‘Yes. Yes, we do. Won’t you sit down?’’

He joined her on the settee and must have read the distress in her

‘‘What is it?’’ he asked. ‘‘What has happened?’’

‘‘Ewing, I’m so sorry, but I’m afraid I won’t be able to marry you.’’

His face registered shock. ‘‘You won’t?’’

‘‘It’s nothing you’ve done,’’ she quickly assured him. ‘‘Nothing at all. You have been . . . wonderful to me.’’ She swallowed. ‘‘I just do not have the kind of feelings for you that a bride should have for her groom.’’

‘‘You don’t?’’

She slipped her hand between his clasped ones. ‘‘You are truly one of my dearest and most beloved friends and I treasure you beyond belief, but . . .’’

‘‘But. . . ?’’

‘‘But,’’ she said, taking a deep breath, ‘‘I don’t think I would make a very good preacher’s wife. I’m too, too . . .’’

‘‘Impulsive?’’

‘‘Yes. And outdoorsy. And independent. I’m afraid my impetuousness would provide the gossip mill with so much material that it could hurt the church. And you. And your work. I really don’t want to do that.’’

They sat in silence, the fire in the hearth crackling. The sounds of Mother’s puttering in the kitchen now and again reached them.

He opened his palm, entwining their fingers together. ‘‘Do you love me, Essie?’’

‘‘Yes, of course. But I don’t believe I’m
in
love with you. And there’s . . . well, there’s a difference.’’

‘‘Yes,’’ he whispered, ‘‘there is definitely a difference.’’

She squeezed his fingers.

He lifted their interlocked hands, resting his lips upon her knobby knuckles. ‘‘You are an amazing woman.’’

‘‘Oh, Ewing.’’

‘‘Can I make a confession?’’ he asked.

Blinking, she nodded.

‘‘I think you are right.’’

She sucked in her breath. ‘‘You do?’’

‘‘Yes.’’ He rubbed his cheek with their clasped hands, his closely

Courting Trouble shaven whiskers like the mildest of sandpaper against her fingers.

‘‘Yes, I do. And I would hate to see you have to suppress your vivaciousness. It wouldn’t be right.’’

‘‘You aren’t angry with me, then?’’

‘‘Not at all.’’ Kissing her knuckles one more time, he swallowed, then relinquished his hold.

She walked him to the door. ‘‘We can still be friends?’’

‘‘Of course,’’ he said, tugging on his gloves. ‘‘I would consider it an honor.’’

But as she watched him stride down the sidewalk and swing up onto Rosebud, she knew that the relationship they’d shared since childhood would forever be altered.

————

Journal in hand, Essie knocked softly on Papa’s door.

‘‘Come in.’’

She slipped in, then closed the door behind her but did not advance.

Twilight streamed in from the big bay window, casting shadows about the room. An assortment of rugs covered the polished wooden floor, and a fur skin provided warmth for Papa’s feet. Gilt-backed books lined rows upon rows of shelves without glass or coverings of any kind so Papa could remove his books without key and lock. The uppermost shelves had been designed for easy retrieval of his volumes with an outstretched arm.

The fire had recently been stoked, combating the end-of-the-day chill brought on by the setting sun and tingeing the air with smoke.

Papa’s eyes displayed deep circles beneath them. Putting his pen back in its holder, he indicated a chair.

‘‘Am I disturbing you?’’ she asked. ‘‘I can return later.’’

‘‘No, it’s almost time for supper anyway. What’s on your mind?’’

Smoothing her skirts beneath her, she sat and addressed the subject she’d not yet broached with him. ‘‘I, um, have a business proposition for you.’’