The Preacher's Bride (Brides of Simpson Creek) (18 page)

She tried again when he said nothing else. “Gil, did you...know her?”

“Dovie Maxwell? No,” he said, “I’d never met her before last night.”

She was startled by the extent of the suffering in his eyes. “Doctor Nolan says you...you comforted her,” Faith said.

Gil nodded. “She died a believer,” he said. “She went to Heaven, I’m sure of it. Thank God.”

“Then why...” She couldn’t ask him why he was so upset. Surely he viewed that as some sort of victory in the midst of tragedy. “Can we— Would you like to get out of the buggy and sit with me underneath the tree?”

Something flickered in his eyes, and his gaze became shuttered, distant. “Perhaps we should stay as we are,” he said. “You should ride back to town, Faith. Your parents will worry about you. You shouldn’t be out here alone.” He turned away.

I’m not alone, I’m with you,
she wanted to say.
What had happened to the smiling man who had spoken of miracles last night?

“You have to tell me what’s wrong,” she insisted, when he said nothing else. “As awful as it is, there’s something more bothering you than that poor woman’s death.”

He moved to descend from the buggy. “All right, I’ll tell you, but then you must ride back.”

She dismounted and tied the gelding’s reins to the back of the buggy, then stood in front of him. Gil made no move to sit down, but he faced her at least.

“I should have told you about it long before this,” Gil said, his eyes on his shoes, “so you wouldn’t think so highly of me. But I haven’t told anyone, not even Papa. If the congregation knew...well, I’m sure they would appoint another preacher,” he said, and lifted his eyes to hers.

“Knew what, Gil? What could you possibly have done?” Faith realized this conversation was similar to the one when she had confessed her lack of belief to him. But surely nothing Gil Chadwick could have done was as bad as what she had told him.

“What happened to Dovie—the girl at the saloon,” he began, his voice thick and hoarse with emotion, “happened to my wife. She died in a saloon, too.”

His wife?
But how could that be? Gil had fought in the war, then went to a seminary before coming to Simpson Creek. He’d never made mention of a wife, let alone a wife with such a scandalous background. A preacher would never ally himself with such a woman.

Any more than he would marry a nonbeliever,
a voice inside her whispered.

“I fell in love with a girl while I was at seminary at Independence,” Gil finally continued. “Suellen wasn’t at her...place of business when I met her, so I didn’t suspect what she was. I was already head over heels in love when I found out she worked at a saloon. I’d already done more with her than a man should do unless he’s married to a woman,” he admitted. A tear trickled down his cheek.

“Then she told me she was...with child. Naturally, I wanted to do the right thing, not only because it was right but because I loved her. I married her. I was only months away from graduating, and I told her we’d go far from there and no one would ever know about her past. I knew she didn’t believe in God...in anything but herself really. I told myself my example would rub off on her, and she’d learn to be a good preacher’s wife.”

Faith just stood there, unable to think of anything to say.

“I rented some rooms—a humble place, but it was decent and safe, and I promised her we’d be leaving town soon. I gave her as much money as I had for food and clothing. But I guess she missed the excitement, the baubles men would buy her, the attention they paid her. Guess she figured she’d better get what she could before...before the baby started showing. She’d sneak off to the saloon to work in the afternoons, then sneak back to our lodgings before I got home.”

In one of the tree limbs overhead, a catbird called.

“Go on,” Faith said.

“One day she wasn’t there when I got there. I sat down and waited, thinking maybe she’d gone out to buy something for our meal and was late getting back. I waited for hours... Then one of the girls from the saloon came and told me there’d been a gun battle at the saloon, and Suellen had been caught in the crossfire. She was wounded and not expected to live.

“I didn’t believe what the girl said,” he said. “Not till I saw Suellen. She breathed her last breath an hour after I arrived, despite all the desperate praying I did, all the promises I made to God... And our unborn child died with her.” He was weeping again, silent sobs that shook his shoulders.

Faith gathered him in her arms, and he did not resist.

Chapter Eighteen

H
e had to let go of Faith, he had to, he told himself, but he felt like a drowning man holding on to the only thing that kept him from being swept under.

But at last he had no more tears left, and he pulled away from her, knowing she’d been sobbing, too.

Her eyes were like wet emeralds.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “What a weak man I must seem, weeping on your shoulder like that.”

She shook her head. “I don’t know who made it a rule that men should not cry, but it’s a foolish rule. I think those tears have been held inside you a long time. They needed to be released.”

He tore his eyes away from her. Faith was right. Other than a few tears once he’d regained the privacy of his lodgings after arranging for Suellen’s funeral, he’d not allowed himself to fully mourn her. He couldn’t very well tell the dean of students what had happened.

“Thank you, Faith,” he murmured. She hadn’t condemned him for becoming involved with such a woman, or even expressed disapproval that he’d had a secret marriage.

She took hold of his hand, forcing him to look at her. “I’m sorry for what happened back then, Gil. But you did the right, honorable thing by Suellen. You loved her, you married her and you planned to provide a good home for her and the baby. It wasn’t your fault that she was killed.”

He shook his head. “Maybe not. But I involved myself with her, a woman who was not a believer, knowing it was wrong. Even if she hadn’t been killed, it wouldn’t have worked in the end. Sooner or later she would have grown tired of my profession and the responsibilities that go with it, the high standards expected of a preacher’s wife, and she would have grown to resent me.”

She waited as if she knew worse was coming.

“Don’t you see? I can’t do it again.”

She stared wordlessly at him, her eyes enormous in her pale face.

“When I watched Dovie die last night, it took me back to that time...when I sat at Suellen’s bedside,” he said. “And I realized I’d let myself fall in love with you—despite what I said, despite knowing you weren’t a believer. Despite what had happened before when I...loved someone who had no faith.”

He saw a tear slide down her cheek then, and sadness rose in him, that he should be the cause of that tear, and the others, and perhaps more to come. He only wanted to bring her happiness.

He looked deeply into her eyes. “Faith, I love you. I want to court you and marry you. But I can’t keep fooling myself that it would be right for us to continue as we have been when you’re not a believer. You tried to tell me as much before.”

She took a step toward him, holding out a hand. “Gil, I—I
want
to believe... I want to...to share that with you. But...what if I let myself trust God...and He lets me down again?”

She was thinking about her brother, he knew. He wished he had some easy answer to give her, some answer that his theological training had given him. But he didn’t.

“Believing is a leap of faith,” he told her.

“That’s what Mama said about love, too,” she murmured.

“Very true, because God created love. But don’t believe in Him just because of me. You have to believe for your own sake.”

Faith whirled away, fists clenched, as if she couldn’t listen anymore. “I have to think...”

When she thought, she would probably come to the conclusion that after what he’d done, he had no right to tell anyone what to believe. That he was a fraud, a hypocrite.

Please, Lord, teach her about the grace You offer. The forgiveness. I’ll do whatever I must to become a completely honest man, not one who keeps secrets, but let Faith see Your love.

“Yes, think. Maybe you should confide in another believer you can trust. And pray, Faith. Even if you don’t know if He’s there. He is and he’ll listen, I promise you.”

“I—I’ll do that,” she said.

“You should go back now,” he said gently, when she didn’t move.

“Are you coming?”

“In a few minutes. I expect they’ll be wanting me to say a few words over Dovie.”

There would be no grand laying to rest for the saloon girl, no more than there had been for Suellen. The little amount of cash Gil could lay hands on then had made sure his wife at least had a coffin, rather than merely a shroud. The Fund for the Deserving Poor that the Spinsters’ Club sponsored would probably provide a coffin for Dovie. But there would be no one to properly mourn her. He wondered if George Detwiler knew of any next of kin who should be notified.

Meanwhile Dovie’s killer ran loose, probably heading for new territory where he could assume a new identity, his violent tendencies unknown. Thinking of this, Gil clucked to the horse and turned him in a circle, heading back for town, always keeping Faith in sight on her rented gelding. It was highly unlikely that Merriwell was hiding out anywhere close by, but he wouldn’t take any chances with Faith’s safety. And there were always Comanches to watch out for, too.

* * *

Makes Healing waited until he was invited to sit next to Panther Claw Scars in front of his fire. The two men were born in the same summer, but Panther Claw Scars was the chief, and so worthy of respect even from the medicine man, for had he not been marked on the face by a panther and lived to tell about it?

“Your son’s leg heals well?” the chief inquired, passing his pipe to the medicine man. He nodded toward Runs Like a Deer, who sat among a group of other boys nearby. They played the Comanche game called Button in which one boy held a button made from a knot of rawhide, then strove to confuse the watching boys as to which hand the button was held in by shifting it from hand to hand and making distracting gestures while the watching boys beat time on little drums or leather parfleches.

Makes Healing nodded. The boy’s crutch lay close to his hand, but Runs Like a Deer relied on it less and less. “His bones knit fast.”

“It will not be many summers before he makes his vision quest,” Panther Claw Scars remarked, after taking a puff from his pipe and passing it to the medicine man.

“Yes, and then he will leave the games of boys and join the young braves,” Makes Healing said. He pointed with the pipe where the young warriors sat at their fire, laughing, talking and smoking tobacco in rolled-up corn shucks.

“Will he choose to follow the peaceful path your moccasins have made, or will he lead the young braves? Already he rides his pony with more skill than any of the other boys.”

It was true. On horseback he wasn’t slowed by the healing leg, and he rode with verve and daring. “Who can know these things at this time?” Makes Healing said. “His vision quest will reveal this when it is time.”

The chief nodded agreement, then narrowed his eyes as one of the louder young braves stood up and began boasting in front of his friends. They could not hear what his boast concerned from where they sat, but they could guess—he bragged of his prowess on raids, which would earn him much respect and his choice of wives from among the people.

“Has Black Coyote Heart said anything more of a disrespectful nature to you?” the chief asked, keeping his gaze fixed on the young warrior and not on his medicine man.

Makes Healing’s jaw set as he remembered the scornful remarks Black Coyote Heart had made after Makes Healing had persuaded the chief to release the white holy man without so much as a disfiguring scar, much less torture. Black Coyote Heart felt he’d been robbed of sport by having to escort the holy man back to the white man’s road, but Makes Healing had threatened him with a curse if so much as a hair on the head of the white man was harmed. While the young man feared the curse enough to let the white man go relatively unscathed, he’d made scornful remarks within Makes Healing’s hearing whenever possible—until he was reprimanded by the chief.

The worst of the remarks was the younger man’s assertion that his insistence on releasing the white holy man proved that Makes Healing had lost the life force that made a Comanche warrior a man to be feared on the plains, and was fit only for the old men’s smoking lodge. Makes Healing had always preferred the path of peace, hunting buffalo and practicing the healing skills, over making war on the whites or other Indians such as the Kiowa, but surely this was an undeserved insult. He had pointed out that the young holy man deserved to be released for his bravery in trying to bring Makes Healing’s son back to the camp when he had been injured, but the arrogant young brave didn’t care.

“No, he has made no more scornful remarks,” Makes Healing told his chief. “But he is restless, and he makes the other young men restless, too. It is not enough for him to hunt game and steal cattle. He wants to go on raids among the white men, to steal horses and take scalps and capture white women to keep or sell to the Comancheros. He wants to be made war chief.” There had been no new war chief named since Makes Healing’s older brother had been killed in a battle with the bluecoats.

“What do you think should be done?” Panther Claw Scars asked.

Makes Healing hesitated. He realized that the chief was according him respect by asking him his advice—he could have made a decision on his own. He did not want Black Coyote Heart’s actions to bring the bluecoats down on them, yet a Comanche who did not raid and count coups was a pitiful creature, worthy of derision.

“I will go on and seek a vision from the Great Spirit,” he said at last. “It will make our path clear. I will leave at dawn tomorrow.”

* * *

Dovie’s burial service was held at dusk Sunday evening. Faith attended, and was the only other one beside George Detwiler, Sheriff Bishop and his wife, and both Chadwick men.

“‘I am the Resurrection and the Life,’”
Gil read aloud from his open Bible.
“‘He that believeth in Me, though he were dead, yet shall he live. And whosever liveth and believeth in me, shall never die.’
Dovie had only moments to live for Jesus, but I’m as sure as I’m standing here that she’s in Heaven today because she believed His promise, just as Lazarus did.”

The service didn’t last long. Soon the unvarnished pine coffin was lowered into the ground and Sheriff Bishop and George began shoveling the dirt over it.

“Thank you for coming, Miss Faith,” Gil said. It was all he said aloud to her, but his eyes were eloquent before he turned away. Old Reverend Chadwick patted her shoulder, then said his thanks in the slurred, hesitant voice he’d had since the stroke.

She walked out of the churchyard for home after that, not wanting to torture herself being near Gil. It was up to her not to tempt him to abandon his resolve, she told herself. Yet she could not resist a final look back at him. As if he felt the weight of her gaze, he looked up and their eyes met. She could not be sure, but she thought the corners of his mouth turned upward ever so slightly.

Her parents were sitting in the parlor when she returned. Her father looked up from the Lampasas newspaper. He and the editors of neighboring newspapers exchanged publications, and each was free to borrow from the other, as long as each gave proper attribution to the writer.

“Busy day tomorrow, Faith,” her father said.

“Yes, Papa.” In all the turmoil, she’d forgotten tomorrow was printing day. “I’ll be ready to distribute the newspapers as usual.”

“Good. Then come back and see if you can write out an account of the events at the saloon Saturday night.”

Her mother looked up, startled. “Robert, is that wise? Surely the death of a saloon girl is not a subject a young lady should even know about, much less write about,” she said.

“Horsefeathers, Lydia. Thanks to my apparent misjudgment, a poor woman is dead and I’m without the assistant I thought would be so perfect. Faith’s expressed her eagerness before to try to help. I’ll put my byline on it this time, if you think it best because of the subject matter, but I’m going to give our daughter a chance to prove herself. I know I can trust her not to sensationalize the account. I suppose I should check to see if Sheriff Bishop’s going to need wanted posters for that scoundrel Merriwell, too.”

Faith’s heart lifted. “Thanks, Papa! I’ll be happy to help you. I’m sure I’ll need you to edit and proofread it, but I promise you, I’ll get better with practice.”

“Good. Now, mind you, this is just till you marry your young preacher, Faith. I’m sure he’ll be able to keep you plenty busy after that,” he said with a chuckle.

Faith hoped her parents did not see her wince. In time they would notice that she and Reverend Gil were no longer keeping company, and she hoped she wouldn’t be asked about it. She didn’t want to add lying to her other shortcomings.

She was thrilled and encouraged that her father was willing to try making her a more important part of his newspaper business at least. Maybe in time she would convince him of her capability, so when time went on and she did not marry, he would eventually turn the newspaper over to her with confidence.

Yet when she lay in her bed that night, it wasn’t excitement over her enlarging role with the
Simpson Creek Chronicle
that kept her awake. It was the words Gil had read from the Bible, and his firm assertion that the saloon girl had gone to Heaven.

Gil had told her to pray, and that believing in God was a leap of faith.

“Lord, are You out there?” she whispered into the darkness. “I wish I could see some sign of You to prove You’re there. How can I be sure You hear me?”

No sound reached her ears but the hoot of an owl wafting through her open window, and the gentle rasp of her father’s snores from down the hall.

Gil had also urged her to confide in someone. She wasn’t sure if he’d said it because he thought someone else could help her because he hadn’t been able to, or because he just didn’t want the temptation of being near her when she asked question, but she found herself eager to do as he’d suggested. But whom should she talk to?

She wasn’t willing to take the chance with her mother. If she was upset and disillusioned to hear her daughter had been living a lie ever since Eddie’s death, Faith could irreparably damage her relationship with her. It was too much to risk.

Then who? Reverend Chadwick would be willing to listen, but he couldn’t speak well enough to answer any question she might have. And going to see him would entail seeing Gil. He might think it was just a ploy to be around him.