Whippoorwill (7 page)

He flushed. “Well then, Hetty… about the church.”

She pointed off to her left. “There it be.”

He looked. His steps slowed and then he stopped.

“Where?” he asked.

“There,” she said, pointing to a vacant space between a saloon and a livery stable. “We’ll be settin’ up some benches.”

“You mean I’m to speak without… uh… you mean there isn’t a real…”

Mehitable snorted. “Oh hell no, there ain’t no church. The town ain’t but five years old.” Then she added. “But everyone is fired up about your comin’ and all. You’ll probably draw a good crowd.”

Randall took a deep breath, reminding himself that of course things would be different out here. It wasn’t that he minded preaching outdoors, in fact, now that he thought about it, it seemed fitting. He would be like Moses who’d wandered in the wilderness before bringing his children to God. And the mention of a crowd didn’t hurt. Randall liked to preach to a crowd almost as much as he liked lifting women’s skirts.

“That’s fine, just fine,” he said, then resumed his sprint to catch up with his hostess.

Their ride to the ranch was long, but without fault, and for the first time since leaving Boston, Randall began to have hope. He glanced up at the sky. It was cloudless. That meant no rain. He glanced at the woman beside him. Her eyes were still squinting against the glare of the sun, and the hair hanging out from beneath her hat was whipping wildly about her face as the buggy sped along the road.

“Have you lived here long?” Randall asked.

“Born here,” she said, and flicked her whip across the backs of her team, spurring them on to greater speed.

Randall tightened his grip on the seat to keep from being pitched out and searched for another vein of conversation that might not play out as fast.

“So, your family was here before the town of Feeney, right?”

She looked at him then as she might have a simpleton; with pity and patience. “Yeah, that would figure now, wouldn’t it?”

He flushed. Damnable woman. If he’d met more like her in his past, he wouldn’t be where he was now.

“So when do we get to your ranch?”

She tightened her grip on the reins and pointed with her chin. “We been on it ever since we left town and we’d still be on it if we kept drivin’ ’til tomorrow.”

Randall’s eyes widened as he looked at his hostess with renewed respect.

“You own the town of Feeney?”

“In a manner of speakin’.”

“Then was it you who requested the presence of a minister here?”

She threw back her head and laughed and Randall had a fleeting impression of a horse whinnying. Added to that, he wasn’t sure, but he might have just been insulted.

“If not you, then who?” he asked.

“My sister. She thinks she wants to be a nun.”

It was all he could do not to gawk. “But I’m not Catholic.”

Hetty shrugged. “It don’t hardly matter. Neither is she.”

***

Charity Doone was on her knees in prayer when she heard the buggy. It had to be Hetty. She always drove as if she was in a constant race with herself. Her pulse accelerated as she jumped to her feet and dashed to the window. This was the third time in as many days that Hetty had gone to town to meet the train, and each time she’d come home alone. She peeked through the curtains, her expression fixed, her lower lip caught between the edges of her teeth.

Please God, let this be the day. Please let the preacher be here
.

At the age of twenty-three, Charity needed some answers to the dilemmas overruling her life. Hetty had been after her for more than five years to pick a man and get married. But somehow the thought had seemed foreign. Hetty had followed her own inclinations rather than those of society. No one had forced her into something she didn’t want. Charity couldn’t see why she had to be the one to make all the sacrifices. There were things that she wanted to do. Places she wanted to see. And marrying some rancher who cared more for his cows than he did her wasn’t high on her list of importance.

And then there was the dream. She’d had it a total of seventeen times now—of standing naked before God in a pale white light and pledging her life to him always. At least she thought it was God to whom she kept making the promises. In her dream, the man was tall and strong and cloaked in the light shining down upon her, and she’d wept with joy as he reached out his hand. In the dream she kept feeling his fingers against her palm, and every time she would get to the point of seeing his face, the dream would end. But Charity had deduced that was because no one on earth had looked upon the face of God.

Her fervor to follow the dream was about to begin as she gazed out upon the man getting out of the buggy. Her pulse kicked. The preacher was finally here!

She needed guidance and answers, and who better suited than a man of God? She held her breath, waiting, willing him to turn around. When he did, she exhaled on a sigh. His countenance was glorious, just as she had expected it to be.

She dashed to the mirror and fussed with her hair, poking loose ends into place and pinching her cheeks until they were a deep, rosy pink. Smoothing her hands down the front of her dress, she stepped into the hall and made her way to the drawing room at the front of the house. Already she could hear Hetty’s loud, booming voice and winced, hoping the preacher would not be put off by her sister’s strange ways. A few moments later, she entered the room, pausing in the doorway and allowing herself a final moment to collect her thoughts.

But then Hetty turned around and Charity’s thoughts were no longer her own.

“Here’s Charity now,” she said. “Reverend Howe, this here’s my sister, Charity Doone.”

Charity curtsied. “Reverend Howe, it is an honor, I’m sure.”

To say Randall was stunned would be putting it mildly. He kept staring from Hetty, to Charity, and back again.

When he could speak, the best he could say was, “You don’t look anything alike.”

Hetty snorted. Charity blushed. At four inches over five feet tall, and with her baby doll face and womanly shape, she was the antithesis of Mehitable Doone.

“Same sire, different dams,” Hetty said.

It took Randall a moment to decipher the animal references to their parentage. Finally he deduced that they’d had the same father, but different mothers.

“It’s a pleasure to be here. I hope I can be of some service,” Randall said.

Impulsively, Charity reached for his hand. “Oh yes, Reverend, you certainly can! I have been suffering these many months now, puzzling to discern the message God has been sending me. I know you will have the answers I need.”

Randall nodded, trying to concentrate on something beside the softness of her skin and the length of her lashes.

“It has been difficult trying to live with all this confusion. I long to soothe the ravages of my soul,” she murmured, blessing him with a bashful smile.

He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.
Ravages of her soul, indeed.
If this fine figure of a woman became a nun, it would be the greatest waste of femininity ever known to man.

He patted her hand and then took a step back, hoping to maintain a proper distance between them. Yet even after she’d moved away, he could still feel her touch—hear her voice—even smell the scent of verbena on her person. She was woman personified. But a nun? He thought not and cleared his throat.

“Sometimes we misinterpret God’s messages.”

Hetty laughed out loud. “That’s what I been a’tellin’ her all along. I ain’t never heard tell of anyone becoming a nun after dreaming they was naked.”

Randall’s mouth dropped.

Charity glared at her sister, the flush high on her face. “You hush now, Sister. I won’t be made fun of.”

“Is this true?” Randall asked.

Charity shrugged. “Only in a manner of speaking.”

“You dreamed you were naked?”

Her lower lip jutted, not enough for a pout, just enough to show her disapproval. “Well… yes.”

“And this was the sign that said you must be a nun?”

“It’s a bit more involved than that,” Charity said.

Randall smiled benevolently because he couldn’t think of a single comment that wouldn’t be misconstrued.

“You know,” he said. “It’s been a long trip. If you would be so kind as to show me to my room, I’d like to rest before my sermon.”

“Shore,” Hetty said. “Charity, you show him the way. I got things to do.”

Charity smiled, pleased she would have the preacher all to herself. She could explain about her dream. Then he would understand.

Randall grabbed his bag and started to follow the want-a-be nun when he remembered something he’d been going to ask.

“Oh Hetty, I forgot to ask you something.”

She was already buckling on a gun and holster and swapping hats.

“Like what?” she asked.

“What time did you schedule my sermon?”

“Ask Charity, she’s the one who’s in charge of all that. All I did was promise to pick you up at the station. You and Sister Bare Ass there are on your own.”

She strode out the door, ignoring Charity’s indignant glare and leaving the unlikely duo alone. Randall licked his lips and then turned.

“My sermon,” he prompted. “What time?”

Charity beamed. “Why, you’re giving it tonight, under a full moon.”

***

The benches were full to overflowing as Randall gazed out across his new congregation. He would have been disappointed to know that they’d come out of curiosity, more than a desire to be saved. Life was difficult enough out here without worrying about a few measly sins. A couple of torches had been stuck into the ground on either side of his pulpit. Their fires burned hot, sending sparks and smoke spiraling up into the night sky. A lantern hung on a nail outside the livery, its flame weak—the wick in need of a trim. Lights from the bar next door spilled out of dirty windows and onto the ground.

After the dusty ride from the train station to the ranch, Randall had brought his bag back into town so that he could change into clean clothes before the sermon. He had wanted to appear as fresh and dust-free as possible. But now he stood silently in the midst of the smoke and flames, his clerical robes billowing out about his feet and his bible held close to his chest.

More than one person in the congregation took note of his holy appearance and commented upon it to a neighbor. But none were as taken as Charity Doone. She sat loose-lipped and silent, staring up at the man who would help seal her fate. Transfixed by his demeanor, she watched as he stepped up to the pulpit. When he opened the bible, she took a deep breath. Then his magnificent voice spilled out across the gathering like water over a damn, cleansing lost souls and healing weary bodies. She shivered where she sat.

“
Judge not, lest ye also be judged
,” he began.

Within moments, Charity was motionless. Her gaze darted from his lips, to the Good Book, to the breadth of his shoulders beneath his robes. Her thighs began to quiver. Her heart began to pound. When he shouted, “
Praise the Lord
,” she broke out into a sweat. Something was happening to her. Something she didn’t understand.

He moved away from the pulpit and stepped into the aisle, pausing less than a yard from where Charity sat. Anxious not to miss a nuance of this wonderful night, she tilted her head for a better view and within seconds, she started to shake.

Silhouetted against the back light from the torch, Randall Howe looked as if he was on fire. And in that moment he became the figure from her dream—the man surrounded by a bright, burning light—the man who had reached out to her. It was all she could do to sit still.

She never knew when the sermon ended, but her mind was racing. She’d been given a sign. It just wasn’t what she’d expected. So, it hadn’t been God in her dream after all. It had been the preacher. She sighed, reminding herself that wasn’t so far off. Randall Howe was God’s representative. She’d just misunderstood.

She kept remembering her dream, but this time there would be no mistaking the path she must take. By the time the last buggy had pulled off into the night, Charity was wound as tight as a top. To add to the turmoil in her soul, it started to rain.

Randall was beside himself with glee. In spite of its inauspicious beginning, his first sermon on his missionary trail had been a resounding success. The collection money was jingling in his pockets and his fervor was at an all-time high. If only his colleagues could know this sensation, there would be an exodus of preachers out of the cities and into the wilderness. And then he felt the raindrops upon his face and turned with quick concern.

“Miss Doone, it’s starting to rain. I fear it would not be wise to journey back to your ranch tonight. Is there a hotel nearby?”

Still speechless by her revelation, she pointed toward a building across the street. There was no name on the front, only a sign in the window.

ROOMS

“Our horse and buggy are already in the livery. Under the circumstances, I think it would be wise it we stayed in town.”

Charity’s fingers knotted. This was it! She’d been right!

“Will your sister worry if we don’t come home?”

Charity tried not to giggle. “No. She would expect us to stay. After all, she owns the hotel as well.”

Randall thought of his bag in the back of the buggy. It should be safe in the livery for the night.

The sky belched fire. The rumble of thunder put them in flight. They ran, but not soon enough. By the time they gained entrance into the hotel, they were drenched.

The desk was vacant. Only a single lantern burned nearby.

“Oh no, there’s nobody on duty. What shall we do?” Randall asked.

Charity slipped behind the desk and pulled keys to adjoining rooms out of their slots.

“The last man who worked here died. People just choose a room and leave their dollar on the desk when they leave.”

Randall shook his head in disbelief. Despite the lack of amenities, this lawless country had some intriguing ways.

“Here,” Charity said, handing Randall the lantern. “You lead the way. I’ll follow with the keys.”

He did as she asked. Only after they started up the stairs did he realize that he was about to spend the night in an empty hotel with an unattended female. A loud crack of thunder, followed by bright-white shaft of lightning broke the darkness on the staircase.