The Preacher's Bride (Brides of Simpson Creek) (5 page)

“No one could blame you for feeling that way, Mrs. Henderson,” he said. “In time, perhaps, you will be able to remember your husband’s better qualities, the good times...” He wondered if the brutality the dead man had exhibited had erased all that from her memory. Surely there had been a time when Henderson had cherished his wife?

She shrugged. “Maybe someday,” she said. “But right now his body’s at the undertaker’s, waitin’ to be buried. Might you have some time to say some words over him tomorrow? I’ll have to borrow some widow’s weeds, too, I expect, just to be proper.”

There was a defiant glint in her eyes that hinted she secretly wanted to put on her Sunday best and celebrate her unexpected freedom.

“I’ll be happy to say some words at the graveside,” he assured her. “And again, I expect folks will understand if you choose not to wear mourning very long. It’s only natural that you’re experiencing a lot of conflicting feelings, Mrs. Henderson, under the circumstances.”

“I don’t know how I’m going to pay for his buryin’, Reverend,” she said bitterly. “I’ve been taking in washing, but... He left me with next to nothing, you know.”

Gil did know about her financial situation from conversations with his father. The church’s Fund for the Deserving Poor had been helping the mother and son keep food on the table even before this. “Don’t give it another thought, Mrs. Henderson. I’m sure the church can help you with that. Would you like me to have a word with the undertaker?”

She rose, gathering her dignity around her like a shawl with many rips and holes in it. “I’d be much obliged, Reverend. Thank you for coming—and not judging me.”

“The Lord understands what you’re feeling, too, Mrs. Henderson,” he assured her.

He was conducting his first wedding on Saturday, and tomorrow he would conduct his first funeral, Gil mused as he walked back down High Street from the Hendersons’ house. How he wished he could get advice from his father on what to say over a grave when the widow felt—understandably—more reprieved than bereaved. He could tell his father, but his father could only stare back at him, his eyes full of answers he couldn’t express. He would have to pray for wisdom and trust that the right words would come to his mouth.

He wondered what Faith would say. Of course he couldn’t divulge what Daisy Henderson had confided in him, but like most of the town, she’d known about Henderson’s brutal character.

He wondered if his father had confided the things he knew about the townspeople to Gil’s mother, secure in the knowledge that his wife wouldn’t gossip. Had his mother had insights about people that she’d shared with his father? His mother had been gone for years, but he remembered her as a very wise lady. Surely his father had shared his concerns with her. Being a pastor would be a lonely business, indeed, without a helpmate.

Not for the first time, Gil thought about how much he needed a wife himself. Immediately Faith’s face appeared in his mind.
Is she the one, Lord, or is it just my wishful thinking? I want to act according to Your will. I don’t want to make a mistake again, like I did before, a mistake that could make me unfit to serve You.

But the image of Faith continued to burn itself across his brain. He could imagine telling her all about what had happened today, and all his days. About his doubts and his fears. He would never need to fear that she would be indiscreet with what he confided to her. The words of the Book of Proverbs came to him: “The heart of her husband doth safely trust in her.”

Faith Chadwick. It had a good ring to it.

Chapter Five

F
aith was peeling potatoes at the kitchen sink when Gil returned to the parsonage from the undertaker’s.

“Is everything all right?” Faith asked, after reporting that his father was dozing again. “I mean...if it’s all right for me to ask, that is?” she added quickly.

There was certainly no reason not to tell her the news, even if he couldn’t tell her all of it.

After he told her about the death of Mrs. Henderson’s husband, Faith’s lovely green eyes were troubled. “That poor woman, and poor Billy Joe,” she murmured. “Perhaps in time she’ll see it as a blessing in disguise...”

He didn’t tell her that Mrs. Henderson already did. “The burial will be tomorrow morning,” he said.

Faith looked thoughtful. “There probably won’t be any other people there, will there? Caroline will be with your father tomorrow, but I could stay here during the funeral, so she could attend—she and Billy Joe were close, you know, because she was his teacher. It would be a comfort to him. And I’ll tell the spinsters and others about it, so they’ll come, too, and Mrs. Henderson won’t feel alone...”

He was touched by the way her compassion immediately moved her to help in a practical way. “That would be very kind.”

“And perhaps you could take her some of the food the townspeople have brought by for you and your father? They’ve brought more, even after I put away the bounty of this morning. I found this on the doorstep while you were gone,” she said, pointing to another already-plucked chicken, a cake and a pie. “It’s more than any two people could eat all week, especially when one of them isn’t up to taking solid food yet. Which reminds me, Dr. Walker stopped by and said we could try giving him some soft food very slowly at supper tonight.”

“Sure, I can take Mrs. Henderson some of the food,” Gil said. “It’s good that you thought of it. And you don’t have to prepare supper—I can see to it,” he said. “It’s all right if you want to go home.” He could remember his mother being just such an energetic individual, with the members of the congregation being as much her concern as his father’s.

“It’s already cooking,” she said, lifting the lid of a pot on the stove and a savory aroma filled the air. Unless his nose misled him, beef stew simmered within. “Besides, I want to be here when the reverend first tries swallowing soft food. I think he should try applesauce to begin with—Dr. Walker said to make sure it was watered down at first, so it was more like a thick liquid than solid food—until we’re sure he can swallow well.”

So that his father wouldn’t choke.
Gil sighed. His father was going to have to learn to eat all over again, as if he were a baby. Gil said a quick prayer for patience, both for his father and himself—and one of thankfulness for Faith’s nursing ability.

“I thought once you came home, we could get him up in the wheelchair for a little while,” Faith went on. “The doctor says the more he’s up, the better, but he won’t be able to tolerate being out of bed very long at first.”

“All right, let’s try it now,” he said, gesturing in the direction of his father’s room. Minutes later, when they had lifted the frail old man into the wheelchair and wheeled him out into the sunshine-lit parlor, the look in his father’s eyes was all the reward any son could have asked.

Later that evening, Gil told his father the whole story about Henderson’s death, including the parts he couldn’t tell Faith. His father listened attentively, and Gil found it helpful to speak his thoughts aloud, even though his father couldn’t advise him.

“Mrs. Henderson and her son need our prayers as well as any help we can give them, Papa,” he said. “But of course you knew that as soon as I told you what had happened.”

His father nodded.

Gil sighed. “Papa, I can’t help thinking how sad it must be to live one’s life, and have the person who should be closest to you only feel relief that you’re gone,” he murmured. “I’d like to think someone would miss me when I die.”

His father nodded again, and jerked a shaky finger at the daguerreotype portrait of him and his wife which sat on the top of a bookcase.

“I know you miss Mama,” Gil said. “I miss her, too.”

His father then pointed at the thin gold band he wore, the ring that had once been his wife’s, but now fit his thin, gnarled finger. Then he pointed directly at Gil. He mumbled something unintelligible, then looked exasperated at himself.

Was he asking Gil what Gil thought he was asking?
“Are you saying I need a wife, Papa?”

The old man nodded emphatically and repeatedly, then turned his left palm upward while shrugging the same shoulder, as if he was asking what Gil thought.

Gil was pleased that he had judged correctly, and that his father had guessed what had been so much on his mind of late. “Yes, I’ve been doing some thinking about that very thing, Papa,” he said, grinning. “Did you have anyone in mind?”

His father shrugged, but there was a distinct gleam in his eyes.

Gil knew his father probably wouldn’t have told him, even before his stroke. He’d always encouraged Gil to make his own decisions—with the Lord’s direction, of course.
If only he’d always included prayer in his decision making...

“You’re not being much help, Papa,” he said, letting his father see that he was teasing. But then he gathered himself to ask a daring question. “What do you think of Faith Bennett?” He found himself holding his breath as he waited for the answer.

His father’s gaze went to the ceiling, as if to indicate he was thinking about it. Then he looked back at Gil, held out the hand that hadn’t been affected by the stroke and pointed his thumb up.

He approved!
Gil felt a surge of encouragement. “So you think that’s a good idea, Papa?” he asked in confirmation.

His father took hold of the hand he couldn’t move with his good hand, and held up the hands, clasped together.

Gil didn’t have to guess at the message—
Pray about it.

* * *

“Cup,”
Faith repeated patiently, sitting by the preacher’s bedside and pointing to the object he had been drinking tea from, with her help, a little while ago.

“K—kkkk—” he repeated, managing the hard consonant but not the rest of the word. “K-k-kkk,” he said again, then fisted his left hand and pounded it in the mattress, his face furrowing in frustration.

“You’re doing better, Reverend,” Faith assured him. “Remember, only days ago you couldn’t say even that much. If you keep working on it, I just know your speech will come back in time. Perhaps you’ll even be preaching to us again one day.”

He gave a skeptical snort, then a look which said, plain as day,
I don’t believe it, but you’re sweet to try to make me think so.

Faith couldn’t help chuckling aloud. “They say when you’re feeling ornery it’s a sign of recovery,” she said, and he flashed his crooked smile.

She heard the door open, and a moment later Caroline appeared. “Your son conducted a very comforting graveside service, Reverend,” she said as she entered the room. “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, I suppose.”

Pride twinkled from the old man’s eyes, but he made a gesture that showed he wanted to hear more.

“Mrs. Henderson and Billy Joe are doing as well as could be expected,” Caroline went on. “I think it helped her to have others there to support her, thanks to Faith getting the word out.”

Reverend Chadwick reached a gnarled hand out and patted Faith’s arm, clearly commending her.

“It was the least I could do,” Faith assured him, warmed by his regard.

“Gil’s escorting Mrs. Henderson and Billy Joe back home, but he said to tell you both he’d be back soon,” Caroline said. “Thanks for making it possible for me to attend, Faith. I know Billy Joe appreciated it. You can go home, now that I’m back. You must have other things to do. Unless you wanted to see Reverend Gil?” she added, when Faith remained seated.

“Oh...oh, no, I didn’t...guess I was woolgathering,” she said, hoping Caroline hadn’t noticed the heat she felt blooming in her cheeks. She didn’t want the bride-to-be, or anyone else, to guess she had any special feeling for Gil Chadwick—a feeling she must continue to conceal.

“Yes, of course,” she said, jumping to her feet. “I
have
neglected my chores at home lately... Now, be sure to go slow when you give the reverend his dinner—maybe some more applesauce and the mashed beans, with sips of water in between. And you’ll need to exercise his limbs this afternoon, and have Gil get him up in his wheelchair—”

Caroline waved a hand. “You went over all that this morning,” she reminded Faith, chuckling. “I can handle this. Now shoo!”

Faith hastened home, forcing herself not to look down the street when she left the parsonage to see if Gil was coming.

* * *

By the time Saturday arrived, Gil’s father’s condition had improved so much that he was spending much of the day out of bed and in his wheelchair. Even though he still couldn’t speak intelligibly, and his right hand remained useless in his lap, he seemed in all other ways much improved, so much so that Dr. Walker agreed with Gil that his father could come to the wedding.

“Just for the ceremony and an hour or so at the reception afterward, but I’ll be there, and I’ll have his nurse for the day take him home sooner if I judge he’s getting too tired,” the doctor told Gil. “Even happy events can be fatiguing, of course.”

“You hear that, Papa? You can go, but don’t you dare try to get up and dance with the bride,” Gil said, grinning at his father.

His father pointed at himself. “G-g-good,” he said. The word was slurred and indistinct, but recognizable nonetheless.

Gil whooped with triumph and swooped his arms around his father in an exuberant hug. “You’re saying you’ll be good? Oh, Papa, God is good, too!”

* * *

Anyone passing through Simpson Creek Saturday afternoon must have thought it a ghost town, for everyone was at the church. George Detwiler had even closed the saloon for the day.

The wedding procession had to be delayed while the entire congregation, including the bride and groom, greeted Reverend Chadwick in his wheelchair, but no one seemed to mind. Now, as Sarah began playing the “Wedding March,” Louisa Wheeler parked the old preacher next to her by the last pew and slid in next to Faith, who was sitting with her parents.

“Don’t they look wonderful?” Louisa whispered, indicating the bride and groom standing in front of Gil at the front of the church, flanked by Jack Collier’s twin daughters.

Faith nodded, watching with misty eyes. There was no doubt the rancher who had finally won the schoolmarm’s heart was a very good-looking fellow. But a shaft of sunlight had found its way through a golden portion of the stained-glass cross window behind the preacher, and it illuminated Gil’s light brown hair as if he wore a halo.

Gil Chadwick was not for her, she reminded herself once again, but there was no harm in looking, was there?

She hadn’t realized she had sighed aloud until Louisa, misreading her reason for sighing, leaned over and whispered, “They must be so happy...the twins just adore Caroline, you know.”

Faith just nodded again, not wanting to miss any more of Gil’s resonant voice saying the old, traditional words of the marriage vows.

* * *

“I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss your bride.”

Gil took the opportunity to take a deep breath while the bride and groom kissed and everyone applauded. It was done. He had married his first couple, and had not stammered as he led the couple in the recital of their vows. His hands hadn’t shaken, despite his nervousness. He’d managed not to drop the ring, even though Jack Collier’s hands trembled when he’d handed it to him. He’d spoken about the wedding feast at Cana at which Jesus performed his first miracle, and had kept his sermon eloquent but to the point.

He looked over the heads of the new couple and the congregation to where his father sat in his wheelchair, and was gratified to see the old man beaming proudly at him, as if to say, “Well done.”

Then the attendees rose to their feet as the new husband and wife began their march back up the aisle as the music swelled again.

Next to his father, he spotted Louisa, his father’s nurse for the day, and then his gaze landed on Faith, sitting on Louisa’s other side, heart-stoppingly lovely in a dress the color of bluebonnets, and he looked no further.

He could have sworn she’d been looking at him until a second before his eyes had found her, but it was just as well that she no longer did. This way, he could feast on the sight of her as she watched the new husband and wife pass by.

Did she have any idea how pretty she was? His pulse quickened at the thought of spending time with her at the wedding reception. Now that it seemed clear his father was on the mend, Gil planned to make it clear to her and anyone who cared to notice that he was interested in her. Faith—what a perfect name for a future preacher’s wife!

* * *

“Did you notice how Reverend Gil was looking at you just a moment ago?” Faith’s mother remarked as they waited to congratulate the bridal couple. “I believe he’s sweet on you, dear.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’re imagining things, Mama,” Faith told her mother, hoping no one had heard her. Sometimes Lydia Bennett’s voice carried more than she meant it to, for she was slightly hard of hearing and didn’t realize how loudly she spoke.

“Time will tell,” her father said. “About time our young preacher found a wife and settled down. I don’t reckon he could do any better than our daughter.”

It was rare to hear her father express approval of her, yet his words made Faith wince inwardly.
Just about anyone would be better for him than me.

Once in the social hall where the wedding reception was to be held, her parents drifted toward other older couples they were friends with and Faith joined a cluster of Spinsters’ Club ladies.

“How are you doing out on the ranch with your husband off on that cattle drive? I’m sure you must miss him dreadfully,” Faith said to Milly Brookfield, whose baby son, Nicholas, was being handed from lady to lady, much to his delight and theirs. Clearly he’d inherited much of his British father’s charm.