Back Roads to Bliss (Saskatchewan Saga Book #6): A Novel (31 page)

“Ask around, find a way to go out there, I suppose. Say, tell me—do they need any help here?” Allison was more than a little anxious now about the entire escapade (which made the elopement with Stephen Lusk seem like a romp), worried about her money running out, feeling very alone, very vulnerable, most unsure.

“Perhaps. You can always ask.” The departing girl cast a skeptical look at Allison’s clothes, fresh from the trunk and wrinkled but obviously well made, of excellent material, and stylish, insofar as she knew.

Allison took the remainder of the day to walk around, acquainting herself with the town, finding the energy exhilarating, captivated by the lack of fripperies and foofaraw, recognizing signs of
certain small luxuries, catching a glimpse of the seriousness, and the excitement, of the homesteading of the West.

“You might inquire at the Creamery,” the desk clerk at the hotel offered in response to her inquiry regarding Bliss. “No doubt someone has to bring the cream from Bliss farms to town regularly, perhaps daily, now that it’s getting warm.”

It was a good suggestion, and Allison, early the following day, did just that, making her way to the Creamery and asking if a delivery was due from Bliss.

“Yes, ma’am,” a tall, rawboned man nodded. “Probably before noon.”

“May I wait?” Allison asked, and who could refuse the big-eyed, anxious-browed young woman anything?

“Of course. And you may sit in the office, if you wish,” the man offered. “In fact, I’ll tell you when the wagon from Bliss arrives.”

The man was as good as his word. Amid the clashing of unloading full cans and the loading of empties, he gave a jerk of the head and pointed with his nose toward a particular wagon being drawn up to the loading ramp.

Having waited three hours, Allison had lost all sense of propriety. Approaching the middle-aged man, she blurted, “Sir—I understand you are from Bliss, and I wonder if you can help me.”

Angus Morrison—for it was he—turned his rugged, worn but still handsome face toward Allison and saw, with a father’s eye, the taut grip of the hands as they clasped each other, the tense lines of the young, pretty face, and said gently, “Aye, lass. Tell me how I can help.”

“I need,” Allison said, ready to break down and weep now that the crucial moment had come, “I need to locate some . . . some friends of mine.”

“An’ are they livin’ in Bliss?” Angus asked.

“I
think
so,” the girl answered him.

“And what’s the name?”

“Abraham. David and Georgina Abraham.”

The Scotsman shook his head slowly, and Allison’s heart plummeted. To have come so far . . . to have felt so
led
.

“Wait a minute; I’m remembering—”

“Oh, please—”

“Would they be churchgoers, d’ye think?”

Allison, actually knowing David not at all and Georgina just a little, nodded without a moment’s hesitation. If there was one thing she was certain of from her short acquaintance with Georgie, it was that she was a church attender. If at all possible, Georgie would be in church. And she would have married a man of the same persuasion.

“I’m sure of it!” she said a trifle breathlessly.

“Well, then,” the man said, “I think you may be in luck. There was a new young couple in church last Sunday. Seems as if I heard someone call him David. I was watching out for our pastor—he’s still getting acquainted, learning names, and a’ that. This other lad, the one I haven’t met yet, is young, tall, big—”

“Oh, I’m sure it must be David! Well, you see, sir, I need transportation out there; I have a standing invitation to join them, and I need . . . I need—”

No further explanation was necessary. Angus Morrison introduced himself, learned the young woman’s name, disposed of his load of cream, and drove her to the hotel to pick up her baggage.

Sitting on the high wagon seat, a heady experience for the gently bred English girl who was more acquainted with surreys and carriages, phaetons and hansoms, landaus and barouches, Allison was giddy with more than the elevation.

“Can it be,” she asked tremulously, “that I’m really on my way to . . . Bliss?”

Angus, who himself had experienced the feeling—a mix of anticipation, unbelief, and satisfaction—said, “I found it so, m’self.”

H
aving settled very nicely into the new parsonage and finding it comfortable and even attractive—picturesque to his eastern eyes, huddling as it did, low, whitewashed, a small gem in a green setting—the newly arrived pastor felt he was favored of God. He had been prepared to sacrifice, to suffer, to die if need be, for the sake of the “work.” This piece of the wilderness wasn’t as “wild” as his imagination had supposed. And its people were not the world’s offscourings but men and women of spirit, determination, purpose. Having dared all, they were committed to making a go of it, however rugged that might be.

Ben Brown was immersed in study at the parsonage’s round oak table, his books spread out before him, his hair in disarray from running his hands through it from time to time, when the first visitor of the day arrived. Rather reluctantly leaving his studies and the train of thought for next week’s sermon, he went to the door.

“Good morning, Brother Brown.”

It was . . .
who is it?
Still new to the district and the church and determined to be a good pastor, perhaps a superior one, Ben Brown realized he’d have to do better in regard to remembering his congregation. His classes had emphasized the importance of knowing every member personally in order to be a true shepherd of the flock. The face of the woman peering up at him seemed familiar, but for the life of him he couldn’t remember the name.

Struggling with his memory and sweating a little because of it, with the seconds ticking away while she waited, expectant, for his greeting, he did the best he could. “Good morning!” he responded in a too-hearty tone.

She was onto him; he could tell that. Her features took on a pinched, scornful look. This was not going well!

His options flickered through his mind: Make a guess? Ask her name? Apologize?

“Well,” she said in a flat tone, obviously disappointed in him, recognizing and pointing out, without spoken words, his dereliction of duty, “I’ve brought you something from the garden—cucumbers, tomatoes, squash.”

Ben Brown silenced a groan. Where, oh where, would he put the stuff? Never fond of squash, this green variety seemed rampant in Bliss gardens, and heaps and piles of it were arriving daily. He didn’t know how to prepare it, and moreover, he did very little cooking, as hot as it was these summer days and receiving as many supper invitations as he did. The district, enthralled with the new pastor, had opened their hearts and tables . . . and gardens . . . to him without stint. And while he appreciated and responded to the love and the tables, he was having difficulty with the gardens.

“That’s very kind of you, I’m sure,” he said now, as enthusiastically as he could, adding lamely, as she seemed to wait and the silence lengthened, “Will you come in—”

The face was not only critical now but frosty. “Come in? That would be a most
improper
thing to do! Never let it be said that Thelma Bell didn’t know her place!”

“I’m sorry,” the harried pastor said, relieved to know her name now but wondering what was so improper about it and supposing young men shouldn’t extend hospitality to middle-aged women. Why hadn’t the class on ministerial protocol covered situations such as this! Better still, why didn’t he have a wife to be the “helpmeet” a pastor obviously needed! Ben Brown, to date a contented bachelor, was finding his single blessedness far from being a blessing.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated before the disapproval on her prim face. “I certainly didn’t mean any insult. I wasn’t suggesting anything, er, unacceptable.”

Perhaps she believed him; perhaps she decided to put him out of his misery. Most likely she had accomplished what she had in mind: establishing her pure motives, lest it seem odd that she should show up on the pastor’s doorstep with an excuse as flimsy as vegetables. Thelma Bell was a virtuous woman! And definitely not searching for a husband! Not by any means; let no one think it!

Whatever the reason, it seemed Thelma’s heart softened toward him, and in spite of her age and recent widowhood, or perhaps because of it, she did an about-face. It was fine to be straightlaced, but it should only be carried so far.

“I can see you meant no harm,” she said in a conciliatory tone. “So . . .”

With horror Ben Brown realized she was, indeed, going to come inside. What could he do but step back and allow her to precede him into the parsonage?

“We’ll leave the door ajar,” Thelma Bell said judiciously, “and that should silence criticism. I just want to see for myself that you’re getting along all right. After all,” she said playfully, “you are the church’s responsibility, you know. And let it never be said that Thelma Bell didn’t do her share of carrying the load.”

Who was she! The wife of an elder? Chairwoman of a committee designated to see to his well-being?

At least he knew her name. “Will you have a seat, Mrs. Bell—”

“Widow Bell,” she said, with a sigh of the proper magnitude. “But that was six months ago.” Her tone managed to convey the fact that she was fully recovered from her loss. “Now where would you like me to put—”

The inevitable had happened; her gaze had gone directly to the box overflowing with a vast supply of squash.

“I declare!” she muttered. “Why in the world didn’t you say so!”

If Ben found it difficult to know what to say before, he was stricken dumb now. His mouth, he was sure, must be opening and closing like a fish’s.

With a “Hmmmph!” she gathered up her offering and stumped out of the house.

“Maybe,” he called after her desperately, “it could be canned.”

“You don’t can squash,
Reverend!
”

Ben Brown watched miserably from the doorway as Widow Bell flung her rejected vegetables into the buggy and followed them, as stiff as a poker if such a thing were possible when climbing into a tipping buggy.

After casting one dark look at the innocent box of squash, he returned to his studies.

Perhaps, he thought, in view of the many visitors he was receiving and the numerous invitations they extended, he should change his message to something other than Paul’s warmly expressed desire to visit the Romans: “For I long to see you . . . that I may be comforted together with you by the mutual faith both of you and me” (Rom. 1:11a, 12). It had seemed an apt and timely thought as he and his congregation got to know one another.

But, he admitted now, the good people of Bliss needed no goad toward friendliness, no prompting toward hospitality; their invitations had been abundant.

That some of their interest in him was due to his state of bachelorhood he hadn’t as yet suspicioned. “Unto the pure all things are pure” (Titus 1:15), another worthy statement by the
apostle Paul, was true for Ben Brown and his innocence where the threatened female onset was concerned.

Innocent he may have been, but he was not stupid. And so, when another knock came and he opened the door and looked down into the upturned faces of two young women, understanding filtered through, though he scorned to give it much attention and certainly no permission.

At first there was silence—one girl was looking at him expectantly; the other wouldn’t meet his eye. Ben took a deep breath, about to plunge into greeting unknown personages once again and doing it with diplomacy and tact, if possible. Thank goodness there didn’t seem to be any squash in sight.

“Good morning,” he said, supposing it was acceptable, if inadequate.

It was obvious the older of the two, a young woman, wasn’t about to speak. Her face, in fact, looked mutinous. The other girl, younger and still childlike and shapeless, piped up, “We’re the Dinwoody sisters—she’s Eliza and I’m Victoria.”

Ah, yes, the Dinwoody sisters. Daughters of Elder Adonijah Dinwoody. Standing expectantly on his doorstep. After the way Thelma Bell had so recently pointed out the poor taste of a female entering his male quarters unattended, Ben hesitated, not quite certain how to proceed.

The dreaded silence followed. Ben shifted his weight, cleared his throat, feeling his youth and his lack of experience keenly.

“Liza,” Victoria hissed, nudging Eliza, who ignored her, having turned her attention to some distant bird on the wing across the yard. She followed its progress as though truly interested in its plan and purpose.

Victoria squirmed, turned red, and finally burst out with an invitation. “Papa . . . that is, Mama wants to know if you’ll come for supper tonight.”

She looked hopefully at him while Eliza, chin lifted, stared after a disappeared sparrow. But the stumbled words had revealed the true situation, the true source of the invitation: the Elder himself.

In the few weeks Ben Brown had been in Bliss, Brother Dinwoody had managed numerous innocent comments concerning the attributes of his daughter Eliza, of
marriageable age
. Now here she was, on display and the bearer of
his
invitation. And obviously not happy about it.