City Girl (14 page)

“That does sound fun. Are you sure everyone is invited?”

She was treated to another nod. Huge eyes punctuated his words. “Pastor said. He was about to tell everyone they could stand, and then he reminded us.”

“So this has been planned for a while?”

“We always go. Every year. Mama says it's tramition or something like that.”

“Tradition?”

“Yeah. Tradition.”

The house was in sight now, as were Elly and the bike. The little girl was jumping off, however, and running to hug her mother, who stood on the front porch.

“I think Miss Sullivan spoils you,” Holly said as she wrapped her arms around her oldest child.

“She's so nice, Mama. Jonah and me like her so much.”

“Jonah and I. And your father and I like her too.”

“Mama,” Holly heard Jonah calling as he ran, “Reagan can come to the party, can't she? I asked her and told her about the pond.”

“Reagan,” Holly asked as soon as she was within earshot, “did you not hear the announcements these past weeks?”

“I guess not. The whole church is invited?”

“Yes. It's a wonderful time. We go every year. It starts at about two o'clock, and we often stay until dark.”

“This Saturday?”

Holly nodded, trying to gauge by Reagan's face whether she would attend. Holly would have been doing well to figure it out as Reagan was not certain herself. She had a meal with the Bennetts almost every week and saw the children daily, but other than a brief exchange about how the Bible reading was going, neither Holly nor Russell could gain an idea of what Reagan thought of the church family.

They shared little more conversation just then. Reagan gave Jonah a quick ride on the bike and then went home.

Once in her house, Reagan sat at her little table trying to figure out the yearning inside of her. She desperately wanted to attend the party and be with these people as she had the first morning when she hadn't needed to rush off for work. At the same time the idea terrified her, and she had no idea why.

Before walking back to the hotel, she sat for just a few minutes more, all the while telling herself she just wouldn't go. No one was forcing her, and she didn't have to!

“But I'm sure not going to show up without a cake or something,” she muttered as she hit the back door of the kitchen, knowing she would have to borrow a pan from Sally or go empty-handed. She was also sure that if anyone could have read her befuddled thoughts just then, they'd have committed her to an asylum.

Eight

I
T HADN
'
T BEEN EASY
,
BUT SHE HAD
done it. Still vacillating right up to the end, Reagan ended up having to ride her bike to the Rawlings Cattle Company—not a long journey, but made a good deal more challenging by the need to carry a frosted layer cake in one hand.

Reagan rode under the arch of the gateway at the head of the driveway, not letting herself do more than glance at the sign, and in no time at all the house and many wagons came into view. To Reagan's surprise, Cash Rawlings himself came down the driveway to meet her.

“Well, hello,” he said, managing to take the cake and catch and steady the bike all in one smooth movement.

“Welcome to the ranch,” he continued, as if people always arrived in just that manner.

“Thank you,” she said as she jumped down, still breathing hard. “I'm a little late.”

“Not at all. The games are just getting started. Thank you for bringing the cake, by the way.”

“Oh, you're welcome. I wasn't sure what to bring.”

“The cake is fine,” he said, not willing to tell her that this was not a potluck.

“Something sure smells good.”

“That's the beef we've got turning over the fire. It does smell good, doesn't it?”

“Spoken like a man who eats beef every day.”

Cash laughed. “It kind of goes with the job.”

“Where should I put my bike?” Reagan suddenly wanted to have her hands free.

“Why don't you put it there by the Bennetts' wagon? Then you can hop a ride home.”

Cash waited for Reagan to come back from propping it against the wheel. He kept the cake and escorted her up the drive.

“How did you know which wagon belonged to the Bennetts?” she asked.

Cash smiled. “I don't know.”

“How about the others?”

Having never given a moment's thought to this, Cash was nevertheless able to stop, look down the line, and name the owners of every wagon or buggy.

“Is it that you're a rancher or that I'm a city girl?”

“I don't know.” Cash was again at a loss. “Can you pick a woman out by just the color of her dress?”

“Of course. What does that prove?”

“Maybe nothing, but maybe it's about interests and not just about living out of the city. I can't say that I would know a woman if I caught sight only of her dress.”

Reagan looked up at her tall, redheaded host. She saw a kindness and a humility in him that she hadn't encountered very often. She was still thinking on it when the house, with many empty tables in front of it, came fully into view.

“Where is all the food?”

“Still in the kitchen.”

“How did you make it fit?”

“Well, most of it's still in pots or in the oven. And don't forget, the beef is on the spit out back.”

Reagan was not long in putting two and two together.

“This wasn't a potluck, was it?”

“No.”

“Were you going to tell me?”

“Certainly not! You might have taken your cake back.”

Reagan found herself laughing. She hadn't expected to. She was ready to be embarrassed about bringing food to a gathering when it was not needed, but suddenly that didn't matter.

“Hello,” a woman called from up near the house. “Did you make that cake? She didn't have to make a cake, Cash,” the woman said to him as though it was all his fault. “Land sakes alive! Give it to me now and go join the games. This one's going to make my cakes look terrible. Look at all that frosting.”

Reagan stood with her mouth open as the scrappy little woman had her say, took the cake, muttering the entire time, and disappeared inside the huge ranch house. She finally looked up to see her host smiling at her and remembered to shut her mouth.

“That was Katy,” Cash supplied. “She takes care of me.”

“Do you need someone to take care of you?”

“Constantly,” he said dryly. “Come on, Reagan. Let's join the party out back.”

“Is it me?” Reagan asked of Holly a few hours later, “or is everyone here extremely nice?”

Holly smiled. The two women were walking alone near the pond. People were milling everywhere, but no one else was a part of their conversation.

“That's a hard one to answer, Reagan,” Holly said, opting for complete honesty.

“Why is that?”

“Because I don't want to lead you to believe that we're perfect. We all have feet of clay.”

“Feet of clay?”

Holly was swiftly reminded of how Christians can fall into using clichés that aren't helpful to others.

“That saying comes from the book of Daniel in the Old Testament. The passage is talking about a statue that's made of fine gold and silver, but its feet are made partly of clay and partly of iron, so it's vulnerable in that area.

“I just now used the phrase since I'm afraid that your brief time with us has given you the wrong impression. Yes, people are nice—very nice—but that's only because of the work God has done in our hearts. We still sin, and sometimes we're not kind to each other, but most of the people here have made a personal commitment to God through His Son, and because of that, we're changed.”

Reagan nodded but didn't comment. The women continued to circle the pond, sometimes walking among the pecan trees that bordered two sides. Holly kept glancing at Reagan's face, and when she could read her expression, she had to ask the question in her heart.

“Have I said too much, Reagan?”

“No, but it takes a little getting used to.”

“What does?”

“People who call themselves Christians but are humble about it.”

“Reagan,” Holly said firmly, “I think it's time you tell me what kind of Christian you've known in the past.”

“I thought the usual kind,” Reagan admitted, “but you're smashing all those notions.”

“How am I doing that?”

“By admitting that you still sin. The Christians I've known made me feel as though I was the only sinner in the world. They never once talked about not being perfect.”

“And you knew better.”

Reagan stopped and stared at her. Holly stopped with her.

“They would carry their Bibles everywhere but not stop to give a coin to someone starving in the street! They went to church and talked with each other, but they only came near the rest of us when they were ready to preach a street sermon. I told myself that if that's what becoming perfect means, they could have it!”

“And well you should,” Holly shocked her by saying.

“You agree with me?”

“Of course I do. Clearly these people hadn't spent much time looking at the life of Jesus Christ. He went wherever He was needed. He was thronged by the sick and helpless. His own comfort was never foremost in His mind. He always looked for a way to teach. At times He preached, but often He healed the sick with just a word or two about who He was. He saw to the physical needs as well as confronting the spiritually sick time and again, but anyone who did call on Him, anyone who wanted to know the way of salvation, was never turned away. It's the same today. We can call on Jesus Christ, and He will save.”

“When did you call on Him, Holly? When did you believe all of this?”

“When I was a child. My parents believed in Christ, and one night when I was frightened by the dark, my father talked with me about God's being everywhere, whether it was dark or light. Then he said God wasn't in one place that he knew of, and I naturally wanted to know what he meant. My father was talking about my own heart. So that night he explained to me the way Christ died for me, and I believed.”

“The next race is starting!” The loud call came to everyone within earshot of the pond. “Line up behind the house, and we'll group off by ages.”

Holly glanced up and then back to Reagan.

“Do you want to keep talking about this, Reagan, or join the race?”

“Let's go watch the race,” Reagan said without hesitation, but then asked, “Is that okay?”

“It sure is, as long as you know where you can come with your questions.”

“I know, Holly.” Reagan put a hand on her arm. “Thank you.”

The women moved with the group toward the rear of the house, and for the moment, the subject was dropped.

“She rents from you?” Jerome Hill, one of the single men from church, clarified as he sat at a table with Russell and Cash.

Russell nodded. “Since the middle of January.”

“And how did she end up at our church? Has she said?”

“It wasn't by her design, I know that. She was walking through town on a Sunday morning and heard us singing.”

“And what does she think?”

Russell smiled. “Last I knew she was still trying to figure us out.”

“So you don't think she's a believer?”

“No, I don't. She's searching—Holly and I can see that— but I can't tell where she'll end up.”

Jerome nodded, his face not giving anything away, but Russell understood the questions. Theirs was a church unlike others in that they had a surplus of single, interested-in-marriage men. There was not one single young woman in the church, for the simple reason that nearly all who entered found themselves courted and married. This didn't happen all that often, but when it did, it gave the waiting men more hope that God might have a bride for them, one who shared their beliefs.