A Woman Named Damaris (13 page)

“Do you like him?” Miss Dover asked, turning their thoughts to the Bible David again.

Damaris was still a bit uneasy expressing her thoughts and feelings, but Miss Dover continued to draw her out little by little.

“I—I guess so,” Damaris answered slowly.

“Oh, I love him!” Miss Dover exclaimed. “He was so—so full of life—of feeling—of—of love,” she said, using her plump hand to express the depth of her emotions.

Damaris looked up from her sewing with eyes wide with wonder.

“You don’t feel that?” asked Miss Dover, noticing the girl’s surprise.

Damaris wished to agree. She even nodded her head slightly. But then she dared to say, in almost a whisper, “He did some pretty bad things.”

Miss Dover smiled. “Ah, yes. He did. He certainly did. But he was so repentant. So deeply troubled by his sin. He cried out to God with such remorse.”

Damaris held her sewing needle still a moment as she contemplated Miss Dover’s comment.

“That is what really counts,” said Miss Dover. “Not all the foolish mistakes we make, though we should certainly seek the will of God before we make a move—not after—so that we need not make such terrible mistakes in the first place; but if we do make mistakes, then we must be remorseful. Repentant. We must ask for forgiveness. God will forgive if we confess our sin.”

Damaris had never heard such strange talk.

“Before you go, I will give you some verses to read. The Psalms show us so much about David. About the way he prayed for forgiveness. And how God forgave him. Why, even in the New Testament, there are verses where God talks about ‘my David’ just as though David had never committed a sin in his entire life. Isn’t that amazing?”

Damaris nodded, but she wasn’t sure as to what she was agreeing.

“And Jonathan. My, I love Jonathan. I think I would have named my son David Jonathan. Or Jonathan David—I was never quite sure. Well, for a king’s son—a young prince—Jonathan was the most unselfish, the most unspoiled young man. My! I admire Jonathan.”

The bell jangled and a young man stepped slowly into the room. When Miss Dover saw who it was, she rose quickly from her chair, a smile flooding her face.

“Gil!” she exclaimed, pleasure softening her voice. “Oh, Gil, it’s so good to see you. Why, I thought you must have been storm-bound in that valley of yours. Haven’t seen you for months and months.”

The young man chuckled. “Truth is, I spent part of the winter down south. I was roundin’ up a few more head of good stock. The offer came up unexpectedly, so there wasn’t an opportunity to let you know I’d be gone.”

“Then you are forgiven,” said Miss Dover, drawing closer to the young man. “I feared that you had just forgotten me.”

“Now, Miss Dover,” said the voice with the slight drawl, “you know right well I’d never be doin’ that.”

Then the talk took a more serious tone.

“How have you been?” asked Miss Dover with real concern. “Did you find the stock you wanted?”

“I did. Could hardly wait to get them back here on my own spread. Got some new spring calves already. Prettiest little things you ever saw.”

“Oh, Gil, it’s so good to see you. And I’m so relieved to know you’re well. Please come in so we can catch up a bit.”

Damaris was noticing something different about Miss Dover’s conversation with the young man. A warmth, an intimacy.

“Have you met Damaris?” asked Miss Dover suddenly. “No, of course you haven’t,” she quickly added. “She came in the fall. She’s been working for me.”

Damaris dreaded introductions, especially to men. She always felt so awkward.

“Damaris Withers, this is Gilwyn Lewis. He owns a ranch back in the hills. But he does manage to get to town now and then,” Miss Dovers teased.

Damaris looked up long enough to nod her head and mumble, “Pleased to meet you.” Then she quickly lowered her eyes again.

She wasn’t sure what she had seen. Just a tall, rugged young man with longish, slightly curling brown hair—and sharp blue eyes that in one brief glance seemed to pierce clear through to her soul.

Damaris felt uncomfortable, and the color rose in her cheeks. She turned slightly, to put her back to the gentleman, and thrust her needle into her work so quickly that she pricked her finger.

“Can you stay for coffee?” Miss Dover was asking. “I’d love to hear about your winter.”

“I’d like that,” agreed the young man as he tossed his dusty, weathered Stetson into the corner and moved forward.

“Damaris, would you like to join us?” asked Miss Dover.

Damaris knew she would never be able to move from her chair in the presence of this stranger. She wasn’t even sure she would be able to speak. She started to shake her head. That much she could manage. She was surprised to hear her own voice say, “I don’t have long. I think I’d better finish this patch.”

Miss Dover accepted her decision without further comment.

Damaris could hear the rattle of coffee cups, an occasional laugh, and the drone of conversation, but she could not make out any of the words.

She finished her patch as quickly as she could and stood to brush the threads from her skirts. She would run on back to Mrs. Stacy’s in plenty of time to help with the evening meal.

As she moved to the door, intending to leave as quickly and quietly as she could, she remembered Miss Dover’s promise about the verses in Psalms. She was eager to read them. Perhaps they would help her understand David’s story better. But there was no opportunity to get them now. Damaris would never have interrupted the conversation beyond the dividing door. She would just have to wait for the references until another time.

Damaris was just wrapping her shawl around her shoulders when Miss Dover came into the room.

“I thought I heard you leaving,” she said. “I haven’t given you the scriptures. Here, I’ve written them down. I may think of more later, but this will give you a start.”

Damaris murmured her thanks and turned to go, but Miss Dover put a hand lightly on her arm. “What do you think of Gil?” she whispered.

Damaris didn’t have an answer ready.

Miss Dover seemed not to mind. Perhaps she hadn’t really expected one. A warm gleam lighted her eyes. “I’ll tell you about him sometime,” she promised. “He’s—he’s my David Jonathan.”

Chapter Thirteen

Confusion

Damaris hurried to carry in the wood and water, for Mrs. Stacy was already working in the big kitchen preparing the evening meal. Damaris knew all of the boarders by name—though she never called them by such except when speaking with Mrs. Stacy. Damaris served them, as quietly and efficiently as she could, then moved on, careful not to be involved in any type of conversation.

For the most part, she did not mind the job, but on one occasion she was more than thankful that the sheriff was a live-in at the boardinghouse. Most town drinkers knew that Sheriff Gordon took his meals at Mrs. Stacy’s. Damaris had often smelled whiskey as men entered the dining room and took their places. It never failed to make her quake and wish to flee the room. But she gradually had come to realize not all men drank until their money was totally gone. Unlike her pa, these men with whiskey on their breath still had enough to pay for their supper, and often tucked even more money back into their pockets. And never did they drink so much as to be troublesome—except one time. Damaris recalled that evening as she did her chores.

No matter how hard she tried to dismiss it from her memory, it always came back.

Damaris had smelled whiskey the minute the fellow entered. He was a stranger, so perhaps he didn’t know that the sheriff was sitting at the corner table facing the door, right where he always sat.

“Look after the gentleman over there,” Mrs. Stacy said, nodding toward the stranger.

Damaris trembled. She had been taught to be obedient, so she moved forward as bidden, but her whole body tensed to meet whatever assault might greet her.

At first the man seemed quiet, and Damaris hoped that he’d had enough to drink to already make him drowsy and in a stupor.

“Can I help you?” she asked, unable to bring herself to add “sir,” as she had been taught.

He mumbled something in reply without looking up.

“Can I help you?” Damaris asked a little louder.

“Wha-a?” he asked with a slurred voice. Then he lifted his head and stared at Damaris.

Damaris felt her body lean back, but her feet did not move.

“Would you like—?” she began, but the man grasped her wrist with his dirty hand.

“Yeah—I’d like—” he sneered.

Before he finished his sentence, the sheriff was standing beside Damaris, his shiny badge flashing conspicuously on his leather vest.

“Mister,” Damaris heard the sheriff say in a cold, menacing voice she had never heard him use before, “I don’t think ya really want to eat here tonight.”

Each word was slow and deliberate. The sheriff’s eyes drilled into the red eyes of the man at the table, pinning him to the spot.

The grip on Damaris’s hand gradually relaxed and the man drew back his hand.

“Weren’t meanin’ no harm,” the man grumbled. “Fella can’t even have any fun.” But he did not argue further.

He stumbled from the room, and the sheriff returned to his table. Damaris shifted uncomfortably, feeling that all eyes were upon her. More than her wrist was stinging from the assault.

“Here’s my plate. I’m done,” said the sheriff. “Why don’t ya start washin’ up.”

Damaris reached for the sheriff’s plate and took the opportunity to flee the room. When she reached the kitchen she placed the plate on the worktable and leaned her head against the coolness of the windowpane. She wished she never had to serve tables again.

At last her quaking lessened enough for her to pick up the plate and move toward the dishpan of hot water. The sheriff had eaten only half of his meal. Damaris knew his eating habits well enough to know that he always cleaned his plate, then wiped up the last particles with a swab of bread. She was puzzled, but she would rather try to forget the incident than understand it. Damaris tried to dismiss it, but she could not help but think of it each time a new man came to the dining room.

———

The thought of a new man brought her mind back to the present. As she went about her serving duties she recalled the young man she had just met at Miss Dover’s. What were his drinking habits? Would he be draining a bottle at the local saloon and then coming to Mrs. Stacy’s for supper?

Then she thought of Miss Dover’s shining eyes and whispered words, “He is my ‘David Jonathan.’” What had she meant by the remark? David Jonathan was the name she said she had picked for a son. Did Miss Dover mean that the young man was her son? No, that was unthinkable. She had said, “If I had ever had a son I would have called him David Jonathan.” Miss Dover had never had opportunity to use the name.

What did she mean? Was the young man like a son to her? Damaris decided that was probably the case. With that thought came some relief. Damaris felt quite confident that Miss Dover would expect a son of hers to control his drinking—even if he did come to town with money in his pocket.

Then Damaris recalled how uneasy the young man’s piercing blue eyes had made her feel, and she hoped he would make no appearance at all.

The meal began as usual. All of the regulars took their seats, and Damaris and Mrs. Stacy were both kept busy caring for them. Two farmers also joined the group. Damaris had seen them on a few occasions before.

Damaris hurried to the kitchen with a stack of dirty plates. When she returned with a tray of saskatoon pie, she saw that another guest had entered the room.

Mrs. Stacy stepped back and reached out her hand to Damaris.

“I’ll take that pie,” she said. “You get a plate of supper for Gil.” Then she added, loudly enough for everyone to hear, “An’ heap it high. That boy’s got a real appetite.”

Everyone in the room joined in the laughter.

Damaris spun on her heel and headed back to the kitchen. There was no way she was ready to look into those blue eyes again. Her hand trembled as she sliced off roast beef and piled mashed potatoes on a clean plate. She spooned the gravy over the whole thing, added some creamed carrots, and took a deep breath to steel herself for carrying the plate into the dining room.

The man was still the center of conversation. He hadn’t even made his way to a table yet. Damaris moved to where there was an empty chair, set the plate down, and turned away. That was easy. She hadn’t needed to say one word—or even look at him.

“More coffee, Damaris,” instructed Mrs. Stacy, and Damaris hurried to the kitchen for the large pot.

Her hand shook as she poured. She hoped she would not embarrass herself by spilling it. Making her way around the tables, she carefully refilled cup after cup.

“Could I have a cup, too, please,” a soft yet husky voice requested. Damaris recognized it as belonging to Miss Dover’s Gil.

She moved closer to reach for his cup. As she poured the hot liquid, she could feel his eyes upon her, but she refused to meet his gaze.

“I thought you worked for Miss Dover,” he said softly.

“I do,” said Damaris with no further explanation. She replaced the full cup on the table and moved on, relieved that she still had not had to meet his eyes.

She returned to the kitchen and placed the nearly empty pot back on the stove. Her body trembled slightly, but she could not understand why. What had he done to frighten her so?

Then a new thought came to her. She had stood near his chair as she had poured the coffee and had smelled no liquor at all.

———

The next morning as Damaris sorted a new batch of yard goods at the store, she heard the sound of squeaking door hinges and footsteps crossing the floor. She lifted her head and turned to help the customer who had entered. Her breath caught in her throat, and she stopped stock-still when she saw who it was.

Her slight movement drew his attention, and Gil turned to her, a smile already on his face. Upon recognizing her his smile was quickly replaced by a look of confusion. Then a slow grin began to turn up the corners of his mouth and cause those deep blue eyes to twinkle.