The Forgiving Hour (13 page)

“It’s good to see you, Mr. Kreizenbeck,” she said, stepping around the desk to offer him her hand.

“And you, Mrs. Porter. Sorry. It’s Ms. Conway, isn’t it?” His fingers closed around hers, warm and firm. “But let’s make it simple for both of us. Call me Maury.”

“And I’m Claire.” She motioned toward the chair beside her desk. “Won’t you sit down?”

“Thanks.” He released her hand. “I won’t keep you long. I wasn’t even sure I’d catch you in. But I was in the area and thought I’d take a chance.”

She could only assume that Dakota had told John where she worked and that John had told his father.

When they were both seated, Maury Kreizenbeck said, “I’m here about Mike. I mean, Dakota. Can’t quite get used to the name change for him either.”

Claire folded her hands on top of her desk and waited for him to continue.

“John told me Dakota’s having a bit of trouble at school. I thought maybe I could be of some help.”

A part of her bristled at the implication that she couldn’t handle her own son. Another part felt a rush of relief.

Maury leaned forward. “It isn’t my intention to interfere, Claire, but I’ve always been fond of your boy. He was like one of our own. We’ve missed having him over to the house.” He drew a deep breath. “I know things have been difficult for you both these past few years. They always are in a divorce.”

There was a wealth of kindness in the tone of his voice as well as in the expression on his face, and a lump formed in Claire’s throat in response to it.

“God knows what you’re feeling, Claire. He’d like to help you.”

She watched him through a veil of unshed tears.

“Do you believe that?”

Abruptly, she swiveled her chair, turning her back to him. She opened a drawer in the credenza and yanked a tissue from the box.

Did she believe God knew what she was feeling? She supposed so. She couldn’t quite deny the existence of a Supreme Being, although sometimes she would like to. But of what importance was she to Him or Him to her? If He wanted to help her, why didn’t He?

No, God might be in His heaven, but Claire Conway was stuck here on earth with a son who was angry at the world, a stack of unpaid bills, a fifteen-year-old car that was threatening to give up the ghost, and a bed as empty as her heart.

“Claire …”

She dabbed at her eyes, blew her nose, took a deep breath, and faced Maury again.

“May I pray for you?” he asked.

“Now?
“ She shook her head, then glanced toward the outer office to see if Nancy was anywhere nearby. “I don’t think that would be appropriate. Not here.”

His expression told her he disagreed, but he let it drop. “John tells me Dakota is grounded and the reason why. But my wife and I were hoping you would allow him to come to church with us this Sunday. John can pick him up and bring him home again. You have my word that they won’t go anywhere else.”

She remembered how Dave had hated his son going to church. And maybe religion
was
just a crutch for people with no backbone, as he’d said. But recalling his objection was enough to help make up her mind.

“I suppose it might be good for him,” she replied at last. “Dakota always enjoyed going to church when he was younger.”

Maury’s gaze was unwavering, seeming to say,
It would be good for you too. Why not join him?

“I really must get back to work.” She stood. “I appreciate your concern for Dakota. Really, I do. Have John tell Dakota what time he’ll need to be ready on Sunday morning. He knows where we live.”

There was no possible way Maury Kreizenbeck could misinterpret his dismissal, but he appeared to take no offense. In fact, his smile as he rose from his chair seemed warmer than ever.

He offered his hand to her again. “If you need someone to talk to, give Gloria or me a call. Anytime at all.”

“Thank you. I will,” she answered, knowing full well that she wouldn’t.

The Rough Riders Bar and Grill was as noisy and raucous as its name implied.

Seated at a high, round table, Sara twisted on her barstool and looked toward the dance floor through the blue veil of cigarette smoke. An attractive singer, with straight black hair that reached to her thighs, crooned “Sweet Dreams.” Couples were slow dancing, most of them holding each other close, each woman’s head resting on her partner’s shoulders.

It had been a long time since Sara had danced like that. She missed it more than she wanted to admit. Listening to the lyrics of one of her mother’s favorite country “sad songs” didn’t help matters any.

Melanie Slade jabbed her in the arm with an index finger. “Find your smile, Sara. You’re scaring off every good-looking guy in the joint. You’ll never meet anybody with that morose expression on your face.”

“I’m not sure I want to meet any of them. Bars never seemed like a good place to find a guy.”

“Then why’d you agree to come?”

Because I couldn’t stand another evening alone in my apartment.
Sara released a sigh, shaking her head in reply.

“I should have called my brother. He’d have —” Melanie’s words were cut short when she was bumped from behind, causing her to spill her drink across the table.

“Scuse me, miss,” the tall cowboy said as he tugged his black Stetson’s brim and offered a grin.

Melanie’s eyes widened as she looked over her shoulder. Whatever sharp retort had been on the tip of her tongue was forgotten. “That’s okay. No harm done.” She returned his smile, obviously captivated.

“I’d be obliged if you’d let me buy you another drink.” His gaze swung to Sara. “You too miss.”

She nodded without comment.

He moved to stand between Melanie’s and Sara’s barstools. “Haven’t seen the two of you here before, and believe me, I’d remember two attractive girls like you.”

“It’s our first time,” Melanie answered. “Quite the crowd. Is it always like this?”

“Usually. Sometimes it gets
real
noisy and rowdy, but you get used to it.”

“Noisier than this?” Melanie gave a throaty laugh, flirting with her eyes, then pointed at Sara. “That’s Sara and I’m Melanie.”

“Glad to meet you, Melanie and Sara. My name’s Bernard Willis. But the last fella who called me Bernard got punched in the nose, so my friends call me Jet.” He turned his hundred-watt smile on Sara. “Care to dance?”

“I’d better not. My country swing’s a bit rusty. Maybe you should ask —”

“No problem. Just follow my lead.” Jet gently but firmly took hold of her arm and drew her to her feet. Glancing at Melanie, he said, “I’ll bring her back.” Then he led the way to the dance floor, holding Sara’s hand in his.

With expertise, Jet guided her around the dance floor in time to the music. It was surprising how quickly the steps came back to her, and before long, she was enjoying herself as she hadn’t in ages.

Maybe it hadn’t been such a bad idea to come tonight.

For the next hour, Jet danced with both Sara and Melanie, although his obvious preference was for Sara. She had to admit she was flattered by his attentions. It felt good to be noticed and complimented.

Between dances, she learned that Jet was a professional rodeo cowboy. She’d suspected as much; she’d known enough of them in her barrel-racing years that she could usually spot one at fifty paces. Jet told her he was from a small town in Wyoming. “A wide patch in the road,” was how he described it. He had two younger sisters, and he would be twenty-seven on his next birthday, a month from now. She enjoyed his easy smile and his infectious laughter.

Sara thought she could learn to like him a lot.

Closing time loomed, and the two of them were on the dance floor again. The band was playing another slow song. Jet held Sara close as they moved in time to the music.

Midway through the song, he whispered in her ear, “How about I give you a lift home? It’d be a shame to let the evening end this soon. I want to be with you.”

She leaned away from him, tipping back her head so she could look him in the eyes. The lust in his gaze confirmed the meaning of his suggestion. She hadn’t misunderstood him.

And why was she surprised? He was a man, after all.

She stopped dancing and pulled away from him. Not bothering to give him a reply, she turned and walked to the table where Melanie was visiting with the waitress.

“I’m leaving,” she said as she grabbed her purse.

“Leaving? But —”

“I’ll see you Monday.”

“But —”

“Hey!” Jet had followed her off the dance floor. “What’s wrong?”

Sara ignored him.

“Look at me.” He grabbed hold of her arm.

Despite herself, she did as he demanded.

He must have seen her loathing — of herself or of him, she wasn’t sure which. His eyes narrowed as he said, “So, are you frigid or something?”

For a heartbeat, she couldn’t speak. She felt as if he’d slapped her. She longed to do the same to him.

“Good night,
Bernard
.” She yanked free of his grasp.

She didn’t look behind her as she hurried out of the Rough Riders Bar and Grill, hoping with every step that he wasn’t following her. Once inside her car, she locked the door and leaned her forehead against the steering wheel. She didn’t know if she wanted to scream or cry. Maybe both.

Was it just her luck? Or were all men creeps?

FOURTEEN

Dakota was unusually nervous as he walked into the teens’ class at John’s church the next Sunday. A lot had happened to him in the three years since he’d last been here. His parents had divorced. His dad had skipped town. They’d had to sell their house, and the car had been repossessed. Everything in his life was different — and so was he. He wasn’t sure what the others would think of him. He still believed he wasn’t good enough to be here.

He tried to look cool and unaffected as he sauntered into the upstairs room. If he didn’t pull it off, no one let on that they noticed. Several of the kids recognized him and made a point of welcoming him back, asking how he’d been.

After a few minutes, John tapped him on the shoulder. “Hey, Dakota. I want you to meet Henry Forester. He’s the youth pastor here at Sunrise Fellowship.”

Dakota turned, but he didn’t find the man he expected.

Henry Forester looked nothing like a pastor to him. Pastors, he recalled from when he used to attend church, were gray-haired and bearded. They looked like kindly old grandparents.

Pastor Henry, on the other hand, wasn’t much older than most of the kids in the room. Maybe twenty-three, twenty-four, tops. He had hair the color of ink, worn in a short, spiky fashion, and he was clean-shaven. He was about the same height as Dakota, Jimmy Stewart — thin, and moved in a loose, disjointed manner.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dakota.”

Church is for sissies, boy.
His father’s condemnation made Dakota mentally cringe.

But the pastor’s handshake was firm, and the look in his eyes declared there was nothing sissified about him. Dakota sensed that Pastor Henry was rock solid and strong in every way that counted.

“We hope you’ll join us often.”

“Thanks,” Dakota answered. “I just might.”

Pastor Henry released his hand, then swept his gaze over the other teenagers in the room and said, “Let’s get started, shall we?”

Folding chairs were pulled into a circle, and everyone took a seat.

“Anybody have a prayer request?” The pastor once again looked at each kid, slowly this time, silently encouraging each one of them to open up.

“Yeah, I do.”

“Go ahead, Rick.”

Dakota listened as the boy, a stranger to him, shared about his aunt who’d been diagnosed with terminal cancer. “She knows the Lord, so she’s pretty much at peace about dying. But Uncle Lou’s havin’ a rough time with it. He’s started drinking again. Mom says he’s feeling helpless and angry and is just striking out. She says he needs lots of prayer to see him through this.”

Dakota understood that sort of anger. He’d struck out plenty.

Next, a girl asked for prayer about her biology class, saying she feared she was going to flunk because she wouldn’t accept the theory of evolution as fact. Her teacher frequently belittled her in front of the other students. She said she didn’t mind that so much, but she was planning to go into veterinary medicine, so she needed good science grades.

Did God really care about grades in a biology class?

More petitions, both big and small, followed.

Finally, when no one volunteered another request, Pastor Henry leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs. With hands folded and head bowed, he began to pray in that soft, soothing voice of his. “Father God, we’re so glad to be here with You this morning, to know You’re here in our midst because You promised to be …”

Dakota didn’t so much hear the words as feel them.
Father God …

God, the Father. A Father who loved him. A Father who would never leave him. Was God really like that? Years ago, Dakota had believed it, but he’d been a little kid back then.

He opened his eyes and glanced across the circle at the pastor. It was clear this man believed with all his heart that God was his heavenly Father, that he experienced no doubt about having the ear of God as he prayed.