The Welcome Committee of Butternut Creek (4 page)

Back before his leg was blown off, Sam had appreciated women. He liked how they smelled, flowery and sweet. He liked their soft roundness, which made him feel even tougher and stronger in comparison. As a marine, he loved the way their pink and pale blue and mint-green clothing floated and swirled like pastel butterflies around his drab camo or dress blues.

He appreciated their soft spirits, their generous gestures, their winks and smiles. He never had trouble attracting any of them.

So why did the sight of this woman hit Sam so hard? She didn’t look soft and sweet. She wore tailored black slacks and a crisply starched white shirt, buttoned almost to the top. The combination didn’t make her look anything like a butterfly. He doubted she’d ever swirl around him.

For whatever reason, his reaction to her hit him hard, like the kickback of a rocket launcher, with a shock that shook his world.

Red hair and, he guessed, green eyes. Since her beautifully rounded backside was all he could see, he didn’t know.

When she turned to pick up a file, she glanced at him and smiled absently before returning her attention to the patient.

Yeah, green eyes and dimples and long lashes and a slender, slightly tilted-up nose. Her smile seemed cursory, as if she’d barely noticed him while she concentrated on her other patient. Not a usual female reaction to him.

But even her perfunctory smile made him feel like a man for the first time in months. Probably because the greeting came from rounded lips on the more-than-pretty face that topped her great body. He guessed she thought the severe hairstyle made her look more professional, but it didn’t. The sleekness emphasized her cheekbones and eyes and skin, almost everything about her. He bet she dressed like that to look strong and in-charge, but a woman who looked like her could never hide behind a starched shirt.

For a moment he swayed on the crutches as he checked her out. How old was she? Thirty-something? She didn’t look like it, but there were a few—he didn’t know what to call them. Not wrinkles because they didn’t make her look old. Maybe brackets or creases? No, she had a couple of
grooves
around her eyes, and frown marks between her eyebrows that emphasized dark circles under her eyes. A year ago, he would’ve thought he was just the man to cheer her up, but his confidence had ebbed considerably since the injury. As much as he liked them, his interest in women had lessened, too, until now.

“Excuse me, Mr. Peterson.” Trixie stepped in front of him, grinning and fluttering her eyelashes at him.

He hated women’s reactions to him now. His looks had been inherited from the general and generations of military men going back centuries. He had nothing to do with his appearance, plus he didn’t really want anyone noticing him for any reason. Right now, he didn’t feel too good about himself and was hardly a great choice for anything, not even a date. He had more problems than he could handle himself, let alone burden anyone else with.

Unfortunately, the longer he allowed his hair to grow, the scruffier his whiskers, and the deeper his frown, the more women fell at his feet. Most of them didn’t mind the fact he was missing a limb and lost his balance more times than he could count, but
he
did. Most of the females wanted to rescue him, to take care of him, to fall in love. He didn’t want to be taken care of or rescued. Didn’t need to be fixed and refused to fall in love.

He didn’t want romance. He didn’t want a relationship. Right now, he didn’t even want to pick up a woman, not with the stump at the end of his leg guaranteed to scare her off. With that and the pain any kind of movement caused, celibacy seemed pretty much his only choice these days.

But still Trixie stood in front of him, smiling and winking and flipping her hair while he swayed on the crutches.

Willow Thomas sighed. Whenever a good-looking guy arrived in PT, Trixie lost every bit of her nearly invisible veneer of professionalism. More good-looking guys than Willow had thought came here: college kids with broken bones and high school football players with bad knees, all far too young for Willow. But this one looked about Willow’s age if she discounted the deep lines of pain and the snarl Trixie’s attention brought forth.

Flirting was like breathing for Trixie. Willow had counseled the young woman, attempted to explain, then finally lectured her on the difference between their clients in PT and possible dates for the weekend. Trixie’s efforts at professionalism lasted until the next good-looking guy entered the room. Now she was nearly drooling.

Even displaying depression and anger like most of the vets she worked with, the new patient was hot. Willow had to admit that. This patient—she glanced down at the schedule—Captain Samuel Daniel Peterson looked so fine, even Willow felt an instant attraction. Hard for any man to make her feel that way.

But she ignored it. She was a therapist who treated all patients the same: professionally.

“Captain,” she said as she approached him. “I’m Willow Thomas, one of the physical therapists here.” She reached her hand out. When he glared at it, she drew it back. “I’ll be doing an intake at your next appointment. Today Trixie, our PT aide, is going to check your range of movement and degree of strength to get a baseline.”

Willow smiled. He didn’t.

“Please let me know what I can do to help.”

He glanced up at her, making eye contact for a second. He had beautiful blue eyes, but they were red with broken veins. She knew well what that meant, had seen it often before. Seemed sad that this man should let himself go, drink so much it showed.

Then he dropped his gaze again, an admission that he really didn’t care where she went or what she did as long as she left him alone. So she did, but not before she glanced at his reflection in the mirror that covered the entire west wall. As she moved away, he’d again lifted his eyes and watched her.

T
hat evening, Adam looked out the kitchen window while he rinsed the plate off. He had a dishwasher that would take him days to fill, so he washed his one dish and a fork to use at the next meal.

Outside, Ouida watched her girls—Gretchen and the other one whose name he couldn’t remember. It was still light although the sun headed rapidly to the west. His evening chore completed, he walked outside to join them.

“How did your day go?” Ouida asked.

“Hospital visits went well. My car made it to Llano and back, which is always a relief.”

“Are you unpacked and completely moved in?”

There were still ten unpacked boxes in his study and huge piles of books that overflowed onto the chairs and formed heaps on every surface. “Pretty much,” he said.

The AME church a block away had evening services. Over the sounds of crickets and children playing, he could hear the music and harmonies: “Amazing Grace,” “Sweet House of Prayer,” and several that he couldn’t place but lifted his heart and calmed his soul.

Within five minutes, Gretchen had curled up on her mother’s lap and Carol—aah, yes, that was her name—yawned, struggling to keep hold on the chain of the swing.

“Okay, girls.” Ouida got to her feet and shifted Gretchen to her shoulder. “Let’s go home and get ready for bed.”

The three left through a gate in the fence, overgrown with the beautiful orange flowers that Ouida had identified as trumpet vines. Once their voices faded, Adam was left alone with the breeze and the succulent scent of a Texas evening floating on the sweet notes of a spiritual.

Sunday morning dawned warm and bright, the normal state for summer mornings in Texas. After a final read-through of his sermon, Adam ate breakfast and showered. While he shaved, he studied himself in the mirror. His hair touched his collar, and, he realized, he did look young, really young. Had he expected a few days in ministry would age him? Well, yes. Unrealistic but he still looked too young to preach, as young as Miss Birdie had proclaimed, eight years younger than his twenty-five years. Would growing a mustache help? Maybe a beard?

He shouldn’t start that today. Miss Birdie probably wouldn’t approve of facial hair. She wouldn’t consider her minister standing in the pulpit with a light stubble to be at all professional. Not a good impression for his first Sunday here. From the nearly bare closet, he pulled a suit—his only suit, a ministerial black that served as both his marrying and burying suit. Once dressed, he headed out. That walk across the parking lot was his last moment of peace for the rest of the day.

“Hear you’re not married.” Jesse Hardin leaned against the doorjamb of the minister’s church office with a mug in his hand, ready for a chat.

What single female relative did Jesse have he’d like to introduce Adam to?

“I’ve got a niece. Lives in Llano. Nice girl.”

“I’m sure she is. Thanks. I’m not looking at the moment.”

When Jesse nodded and started toward the chair in front of the desk, Adam said, “I’m going to wander through the building, greet anyone who comes in.” Ignoring Jesse’s obvious disappointment, Adam left.

With a smile and a firm handshake and feeling very ministerial, Adam greeted everyone as they entered the church. Several children waved and headed toward their Sunday school class.

“In a church this small, Pastor, we don’t have many kids,” Miss Birdie said. “Most of them come with their grandparents.” She gestured toward a hallway. “That used to be the elementary wing, classrooms filled with kids. Now they’re all in one class and we take turns leading it.” She headed off toward a classroom. “I’m teaching the children today.”

If they knew what was good for them, they’d behave.

At eleven, when he heard the playing of the chimes, Adam entered the church through the door between the study and the chancel area. About forty-five people gathered in groups of three to five, scattered through a sanctuary built to hold two hundred. Maggie sat next to an aisle. Some huddled in the back row with the intention, perhaps, of leaving early. Nearly every one of them had white or graying hair and wore glasses except the two girls sitting with Miss Birdie and a few kids with their grandparents. As he had been told but now realized, this was an old and dying church.

As the service began, Adam asked the congregation to stand for the first hymn, stated the page number, and nodded toward the organist. He expected they’d all start singing together. Didn’t happen. As Adam began in his wavering and consistently off-key tenor, he noticed everyone stared at him, mouths firmly closed. Behind him, Adam heard the voices of the three women in the choir. It was as if the four were a gospel music group, perhaps Adam and the Eves or the Pastor and the Pips. Somehow Adam, the most pitiful of vocalists, sang lead while the choir acted as backup. Fortunately, the organist played so loudly, no one could hear him anyway.

After communion and the reading of the scripture, Adam stood to preach. Within ten minutes, he noticed a restlessness in the congregation. Men checked their watches and women set their purses on their laps. Was the sermon that bad? He hadn’t thought so. He’d worked very hard at polishing up one of the favorites from his student church, but everyone seemed ready to leave. Not only ready, but determined. One child began sobbing until his grandmother handed him a cookie. A timer went off on someone’s watch.

Realizing he’d lost the congregation, Adam hurried to finish, dropping the last two points and heading fast and straight for the end. When he’d written it, he’d thought the words were such a clear, uplifting statement of shared convictions it would turn the entire church around, the triumph of faith calling the congregation to action.

Unfortunately, as soon as he said, “And in conclusion,” people put the hymnals in the racks, dropped their bulletins on the pews, and sat forward, ready to bolt. Adam stopped mid-​sentence, came down from the chancel, raised his hand, and pronounced the benediction. Even before he said “Amen,” people tumbled from the pews and rushed down the aisle and out.

Disappointment filled him. He’d hoped to meet more people, to get feedback on how he’d done, how much he’d inspired them, how they looked forward to a future together. Had his sermon been so terrible they all needed to leave without talking to him? He hurried toward the door at the back of the sanctuary with the hope of greeting someone, anyone, but only one person remained.

“You did a good job,” Howard said, his voice and expression filled with relief. The elder must feel vindicated that Adam hadn’t fallen down the chancel steps or dropped the offering. The fact that the minister he’d called could preach a passable sermon must take a lot of heat off him.

“But I should have warned you about something,” the elder continued. “We have to get out of church by eleven fifty or the Methodists will beat us to the Subway for lunch.”

Adam checked his watch. Noon.

Howard nodded. “There’s going to be a long line today.”

Seminary didn’t give students the most practical information. Why hadn’t they taught him the importance of getting out of church before the Methodists?

“Cut your sermon a few minutes and don’t sing so many verses of each hymn. Should take care of things.” Howard grabbed Adam’s hand and shook it. “You’ll have it down in no time.” He hurried off.

Adam had hospital calls to make but decided to pick up a sandwich at the Subway, to see what the place was like and meet the congregation.

“Pastor Adam?”

He glanced up from the sermon he’d been working on to see Miss Birdie striding through the door.

“Come on in,” he said although the invitation didn’t seem necessary as she was halfway across the office and followed by another woman he recognized from the previous day. He stood.

“Hello, Preacher.” She glared at him. “You know me. This is Mercedes Rivera.” She waved toward the other woman before she said, “They call us the Widows.”

They Call Us the Widows.
Sounded like a great name for a movie, a Western maybe.

Then he remembered:
WIDOWS
was the word written on the delivery form from the furniture store. He started to ask about that, but before he could, Miss Birdie spoke.

“Mercedes is the town librarian.” She motioned toward the attractive Latina again. “You need any information on anything or about anyone in town, she’s the one to call.”

“Birdie just finished her breakfast shift and I took a break from the library,” Mercedes explained. “She wanted to come see you.”

“I have a bone to pick with you,” Miss Birdie said.

Not a surprise. She’d probably picked a couple of carcassfuls of bones with quite a few ministers.

“Won’t you sit down?” he asked cordially.

Miss Birdie stretched her arm out and waved it around the room, where piles of books still filled every surface and boxes covered much of the floor.

“Sorry about the mess in here. I’m attempting to bring order to my books. Didn’t realize I had so many.”

“Well, you’d better hurry, because people are going to want to sit in these chairs,” Miss Birdie stated firmly.

“Bird means
she
wants to sit down now,” Mercedes explained in a whisper, as if Miss Birdie couldn’t hear.

With alacrity, Adam picked the stack of books from a chair and looked for a place to put them. Finding none, he placed them on the floor beside the chair, then cleared another for Mercedes. Both women sat. That completed, he hurried to sit—to hide—behind the desk. Didn’t actually hide, but he appreciated the separation provided by the broad surface and the tower of books between them.

“Pastor, we dropped in to welcome you on your first official day in the office.” Mercedes smiled at Adam, then flicked a nervous glance at her friend.

“Yes, and then I have a bone to pick with you,” Miss Birdie repeated.

He didn’t doubt that.

“I don’t want to coddle you. Mercedes thinks I should give you a little more time…”

“Yes, I do—” Mercedes began.

“But you have to know what people are saying.”

“Birdie feels it’s our duty to tell you what
she
says people are saying, although I believe we should give you a chance to settle in first before we make suggestions.”

Miss Birdie glared at the other woman. “Pastor, Mercedes and I’ve been friends for more than sixty years. Occasionally we don’t agree. I say strike while the iron is hot.”

For a moment, Adam smiled—inside—at the difference between the women. Mercedes looked a bit uncomfortable, a slight flush on her light brown skin, but attractive with her black hair, beginning to gray at the temples, pulled back into a neat French braid. In contrast, Miss Birdie’s short hair meant quick and easy preparation. Wash and comb. No fuss.

Mercedes wore a nice navy dress with matching pumps while Birdie wore a pink uniform. Aah, yes. Now Adam remembered. She was a waitress.

“In the first place,” Miss Birdie continued, “you don’t look like a minister at all, not in my opinion.”

“Her opinion counts for a lot here,” Mercedes said with an apologetic smile.

“You’re too tall, too young, your hair’s too long. You’re almost handsome, if you weren’t so skinny and didn’t have all that hair.” She leaned forward and fixed her eyes on him. “That means some of the younger women and a few of the widows might covet what isn’t theirs to claim. After all, you’re a man of God.”

She kept her eyes on Adam as if he planned to seduce the younger women right here, right now, and right in front of her. He didn’t know where to find any gullible young women and wouldn’t know how to seduce one if he could find her. Besides, he didn’t plan to start doing that, certainly not in front of the Widows.

But he knew Miss Birdie expected an answer.

“Thank you for the information.” Then he added, “I’ll get a haircut as soon as I can.” First, he needed a salary check because he had about twenty dollars in his billfold, which he planned to use for food and gas.

Miss Birdie’s glare told Adam he’d better do her bidding and soon.

Before he could explain the cash-flow problem, Mercedes said, “But you have a humble charm.” She warned her friend with a glance before facing the minister again. “We can work with you, help you. Bird—that’s what I call her—can steer you in the right direction.”

Whether Adam wanted to go that way or not.

“What we’re here about—”

“What
you
are here about.” Mercedes broke in.

“It’s those songs you chose for Sunday,” Birdie said before Mercedes could interrupt again. “Nobody knows them.” She pursed her lips before saying, “Did you notice no one was singing? We want the old favorites back.”

“Very nice sermon, Pastor,” Mercedes said. “One of the best we’ve had in years.”

Miss Birdie didn’t agree or disagree with her friend’s compliment. From their short acquaintance, he felt as if the pillar might believe no one should praise a young minister before she had him properly trained.

“All right,” Miss Birdie grudgingly conceded. “A nice sermon but terrible hymns. People have been telling me they don’t like those new ones.”

The church management professor at the seminary had told his class to be careful when the word
people
was used because that usually meant the speaker and a few others he or she’d been able to browbeat into agreeing. He smiled in an effort to look cooperative and appreciative.

“A nice smile,” Miss Birdie said. “But I don’t care about nice smiles at the moment. I expect results.”

“I wanted all parts of the service to fit a theme, the idea of a new beginning for the church. I chose the hymns for that reason.”

“A bunch of people mumbling or not singing at all can hardly add to any theme.” She fixed him with a glare that let Adam know she expected him to pay attention to her every word. “We like the familiar songs.”

“That’s a very good point. You know what I believe I’m going to like best about you, Miss Birdie? You always state your opinions so clearly.”

Mercedes said, “That’s true, but no one has ever complimented Bird on that before.”