High Plains Promise (Love on the High Plains Book 2) (4 page)

Wesley tried not to grind his teeth. He should be thankful Samantha was in a good mood. They seemed to get rarer as time went by. He glanced at Melissa and was pleased to see his little angel smiling into her oatmeal.

All in all, the weekend went better than Wesley had expected. He met the new pastor, Reverend Cody Williams. The man was young for his position, being only twenty-four, and had a wide, white-toothed smile and a friendly demeanor. Wesley hoped they could be friends. Since his best buddy, Jesse, the fourth member of their group growing up, had moved away, he'd missed having a male friend his own age.

By Saturday night, it was clear Samantha's good mood was holding, and when she slipped into bed beside him and cuddled up, he took her in his arms. She was his wife. This was the only part of their marriage that actually worked, and he refused to deny himself the pleasure. And despite everything, Samantha was still damned good in bed.

Sunday he took Melissa to church and listened to Cody preach his first sermon. It was powerful, moving. The man was a gifted speaker, but Wesley noticed how his eyes kept being drawn away from the rows of wooden pews with their long scarlet cushions upwards to the choir loft of the church, where Kristina sat on the organ bench with her back to the congregation. So the new preacher was interested in Kristina, was he? Good. It spoke well of his character, because although Kristina was a lively and vivacious woman, she wasn't particularly pretty. Wesley lingered in the pew with Melissa, not wanting to wade into the throng of people trying to shake hands with Cody. The preacher was something of a local celebrity. A lot of people stopped in this little town, wanting a bite to eat when the train stopped. A few came for the night on various errands. No one moved here. Not since Lydia opened her café the same year Dylan Brody came to be sheriff. They were the last newcomers, with five years each under their belts.

Sunlight illuminated the rows of stained glass windows, which lined the two long exterior walls along the sides of the building. The illustrations of Biblical scenes turned to irregularly shaped patches of color on the dark wood of the floors and lighter wood of the pews. Light like hope.
Too bad I have none left
. Overhead, the whitewashed ceiling contrasted with row after row of exposed support beams in the same finish as the floor. To the left of the altar with its long communion rail and plain box of a pulpit was a door leading to a storage room. To the right another door leading to an office. That was the church. Simple but lovely, the center of life in their little town. And now a new pastor would be presiding over it, one who might at least provide some respite for Wesley from the hell of his existence.

Lydia approached beside him.

“Hello, Mr. Fulton,” she said, her eyes crinkling a bit in the corners as she smiled. He smiled back. Black-haired, dark-eyed Lydia Carré was an anomaly around this town, being half French, half Italian. The plump, pretty woman was effusively friendly and well liked. Cody wondered how old she was… certainly over thirty, but not by much he'd wager.

“Miss Carré.” He nodded.

“How are you two today?”

Melissa looked up from the paper she was coloring and gave the chef a shy glance. Lydia patted the girl's silky hair and her own expression turned wistful. Wesley wondered why she'd never married.

Another woman approached, and this time Melissa abandoned her paper with a joyous squeal and pounced.

“Oof,” Rebecca grunted softly as she gathered the child up for a tight hug. “Wesley. Lydia.” The two women smiled at each other. It was no surprise they were close friends. Both spinsters over thirty, both entrepreneurs, they had a lot in common. Plus they were just nice. Wesley liked them both. He considered Lydia a friend, and of course Rebecca had been his unofficial big sister his whole life. He shook hands with each of them, contrasting their mature beauty. Unlike Lydia's dark, Mediterranean exoticness, Becky epitomized the pale Germanic loveliness typical of this town. Her features were small and delicately shaped and she exuded an air of graceful acceptance. Nothing ruffled Rebecca Spencer. She was utterly serene. It was no wonder his daughter, with all the turmoil in her everyday life, was drawn to the lovely woman's soothing presence. Lydia, with her effusive hand gestures and bubbly nature, intimidated the nervous child and received a tepid reception.

James Heitschmidt, arm in arm with his daughter, came towards them. Kristina greeted her long-time friend with a warm hug, but there was wariness in her expression when she met Wesley's eyes. He regarded her familiar features. Though Kristina was no great beauty, her heavily freckled face with its short, upturned nose was not horrible to look at. And she did have quite a lovely smile. She released him and her eyes were drawn to the doorway, where Cody was shaking hands with the snobby Jackson family. Ilse, their adult daughter, was eyeing the handsome minister with a predatory expression. Ilse thought all the attractive, unmarried men in town belonged to her. This attitude irritated a great many people. Wesley, for his part, had never been in her crosshairs, tied as he'd been to Allison from the beginning, for which he'd been grateful. He had no interest in that snippy little cat.
Of course, you didn't do much better
, he acknowledged ruefully.

“Wesley, would you and Melissa like to come for lunch this afternoon?” Kristina offered.

After eating his wife's unpalatable cooking all weekend, Wesley was unable to say no. He accepted with a grateful smile, noting that she had turned to look at the pastor again, as though unable to stop herself. His grin broadened. It was about time Kristina noticed a man, and received his attention in return. Even from this distance, Cody's blue eyes burned a bit as they alighted on his friend, and she blushed and looked away. Interesting. Turning, he saw Rebecca deep in a quiet conversation with Kristina's father James. The bluff, blond haired shopkeeper seemed to be instructing the woman on how to figure profits.

By this time, the crowd had thinned considerably. Rebecca's parents called to her from outside and she faltered mid-word, blushing furiously to the roots of her golden hair.

“Thank you, James,” she said softly. Wesley was struck by how unusual it was for her to use his first name. Even he and Kristina and Allison got funny looks for refusing to say Mr. and Miss to each other, though they'd been friends their whole lives and couldn't have done it if they'd tried.

“Of course, Rebecca,” James said. He reached out and clasped her slender shoulder – it might have been because both her hands were filled with Wesley's daughter, but something about his gaze on her blushing face suggested otherwise – and then released her. “I'll stop by tomorrow and help you get that counter constructed.”

She nodded. Wesley knew she was turning her sewing business from a home-based to a more professional one, by setting up a little shop in the abandoned building next to the jail. She had cleaned up the cobwebby interior with the help of her younger sister and all their friends, Wesley included, a couple of Saturdays ago, and had been setting up the interior with dress forms and hanging bars ever since. The last item was a long counter for her cash register, which had been ordered from Kansas City, but required assembly. James, who had constructed his own a couple of years back, had offered to help.

Rebecca set Melissa on the floor and left, but tossed a backward glance at the group, her cheeks turning slightly pink. Wesley wondered what that was all about.

And then his attention was diverted back to the conversation. Lydia shook everyone's hand and headed out. The Heitschmidts and their lunch guests trailed after her.

“See you later, Reverend,” James said. Kristina took the young pastor's hand and gave him a confused look, in which attraction blended with irritation. He held her fingers a little too long. There was no mixture of feelings in Cody's eyes. He gazed at the organist with unflinching admiration. Wesley wondered if he even realized how much of his interest he was broadcasting.

Now it was Kristina who was blushing. Wesley grinned. It was about time his friend was struck by Cupid's arrow. She needed it. At last, Cody released her and she hurried down the steps and out into the blustery street.

Wesley shook Cody's hand and gave him a warning glance with an arched eyebrow, silently promising bad things to anyone who hurt his friend. Cody returned his gaze without flinching.
Good
.

Then Wesley joined his friends and they walked quickly down the street. Though the sun shone, the temperature was more winter than fall. He carried Melissa, so her tiny, mincing steps would not slow them down.

The Heitschmidt house was the most German-looking residence in town. It was gleaming white, decorated with strips of wood in a contrasting golden color. No gingerbread or other frilly adornments. The interior was the same, sturdy, attractive pieces, but no unnecessary accents. Kristina had always liked things plain and simple, just like her mother before her. No fuss. No clutter. This made her unusual, as most women were fantastically devoted to crocheted doilies and other bric-a-brac. But Kristina refused to succumb to the pressure of popular opinion. Her own home was decorated only with well made, serviceable pieces: sofa and armchairs, lacquered tables, and a rocking chair. Heavy green drapes shaded the window.

Wesley took a seat on one of the armchairs and James perched in the other. Kristina hurried into the kitchen to put the finishing touches on the lunch. Melissa trailed after her.

“So, Wes, what do you think of the new pastor?” James asked, and the sharpness in his tone told Wesley that his daughter's interest in the young man had not gone unnoticed.

“I've only talked to him a bit, but he seems decent enough. I don't have any reservations about him so far.”

“I think he's a good fellow,” James said.

“Yes, I agree,” Wesley replied. “Just what we need. But he won't stay single for long.”

“He won't,” James agreed. “I hope Kristina doesn't get hurt.”

“Encourage her to be open to him,” Wesley said. “He's just as interested in her.”

“That's hard for me,” James replied, his expression sad.

“I know. I can only imagine. But isn't it best for her?”

James nodded and let the oblique conversation drop, and a few minutes later Kristina stuck her head into the room and called them to lunch.

“Good morning,” Rebecca said softly, smiling her serene smile at her favorite gentleman. She was pleased he had come to help her construct a counter for her new shop. Her stomach fluttered, but she strived not to let her inner thoughts show on her face. There was no point.

“Miss Spencer.” James nodded, giving her a wry half-smile.

“I really do appreciate your help,” she said, though his formality had her wondering.

“Any time.”

He set his tool kit on the floor and shrugged off his coat. Becky noted with pride that, despite being a mature man, he handled the heavy wooden box and its cumbersome contents with ease. Years of hefting the cans, barrels, and other oddments he sold in his shop, had left him strong. He gifted her with a grin, which dimpled his cheeks and set his freckles rolling into the creases around his eyes, before going to work on the crate containing the pieces of medium-sized pine block that would eventually form the basis of her business. It struck Rebecca how incongruous the tall, muscular blond man looked, surrounded as he was by racks of ready-made dresses, shelves of fabric and lace, and little tables littered with sample books. The walls, instead of being adorned with wainscoting or wallpaper, were hung with a soft periwinkle fabric that contrasted cheerfully with the pale pine floors. Rebecca really loved her shop. It was everything a lady might want when selecting new clothes. But she also really loved James being there. Over the years since his first wife's passing, they'd become close friends. If only… Rebecca sighed. There was no hope James would ever care for her in that way, so she would be better off to simply enjoy having a handsome man care for her and help her when she needed it.

Two weeks passed very much like normal. Some days were good, and Wesley walked down the street to the bank without concern. Other days, he treaded lightly around his wife and hoped not to set her off. He was mostly successful; that is, until two Thursdays later. His mother came over for an unannounced visit, and her usual grumpy comments about the sloppy housekeeping and substandard food sent Samantha into a flurry of furious despair. After Mrs. Fulton left, the younger woman attacked her husband and daughter in a vicious torrent of curses and vile insults. Then she started hitting. Once again, Wesley gathered up his daughter and fled, this time finding the café open and Reverend Williams inside, sipping tea and looking thoughtful. The promising courtship between the young pastor and Kristina Heitschmidt seemed to have fizzled, which made Wesley heartily sad… when he had presence of mind enough to think of problems other than his own.

The two men sat together in glum silence, saying nothing but gulping hot beverages and munching toasted sandwiches while Melissa chattered on.

At last, Melissa fell silent when a large sugar cookie arrived at the table for her. Cody finally decided to speak.

“Wes, what am I doing wrong with the choir? Everything else is going so well. Why won't the choir do what I ask?”

Wesley knew what Cody meant, and he knew the answer. He hoped the pastor was willing to hear it. “We're too used to Kristina,” he told him bluntly. “And to be honest, she's a better director than you. If you want the choir to do well again, give it back to her.”

Cody blinked a couple of times. “Is it really appropriate for a woman to be teaching men that way?”

“Teaching? Cody, all she does is wave her arms around. It's not indecent. And she's really good at it. She's had training. I'd suggest you let her do it. You'll never get the results she does. Your gifts are in other areas.”

“I've never known a town like this, for letting women take on unusual roles,” Cody commented, his eyebrows low.

“We're a small community. Everyone is allowed to do what needs to be done. We don't have enough people to only delegate tasks to the men when there are willing, talented women to do some of them. I'll say it again. If you want a good choir, let Kristina lead it. And if you want to fit in here, don't try to change things that work.”

Cody nodded. “That's good advice. Thank you for your honesty. Everyone else I've asked has talked about giving people time to adjust. That didn't feel quite right.”

“Because it isn't. You will need to give people time to adjust, but they'll only do it if you focus on what truly needs to be done.”

Cody sighed. “You're right. Could you… tell me some more about Miss Heitschmidt? I seem to have gotten onto her bad side, and I don't even know what I've done. It's pretty important for the music leader and the pastor to get along.”

Wesley had an opinion about that, too, but he wasn't about to butt in. “I think you should talk to her, not me. She's a reasonable woman for the most part, but she has a German temper. Just let her say what's on her mind and don't argue with her about it. I think that will help a lot.”

Cody considered and his face took on a look Wesley recognized; the bewildered emotion of someone more than halfway in love and not sure what to do about it. If Kristina didn't let that temper of hers take over, she still had a chance.

Then a more pressing issue occurred to Wesley. He glanced at his daughter, who was focused intensely on the table, where she was using the crumbs of sugar cookie to create a tiny row. “Um, Pastor…” he said in an undertone. Melissa showed no sign of having heard his soft comment.

“Cody, please, Wes,” the pastor replied full-voiced.

Wesley touched his fingertip to his lips and indicated his daughter with a sideways move of his head. The pastor dipped his chin in acknowledgement. “Cody then. I… um… I'm having some trouble with um… with my marriage.” He hated admitting it out loud, even in a near-whisper, but the situation was beyond him and getting worse. There seemed to be no solution.

“Well, I'm sorry to hear that,” Cody said softly, though he didn't sound in the least surprised. Gossip and small towns went hand in hand after all. “I don't know what advice I could possibly give you, though.”

“No one does,” Wesley replied. “But I would appreciate some prayer.”

“Now that I can manage,” Cody replied. “I promise to pray for a solution. I really do think God wants marriages to be happy.” And then the young man's blue eyes went misty and far away, and Wesley knew he was imagining what a happy marriage would be like, preferably with a sweet, freckle-faced musician.

As lunch was over, the men parted company soon afterwards and Wesley headed home. Once again, Samantha had left. He suspected she went to her lover when she wanted revenge on Wesley, but honestly, he didn't care. When she was in that mood, anything was better than having her around. It felt like surrender, but such was the reality of his life.

She didn't return home the entire weekend, which was the longest she'd ever been gone. He was tempted to look for her, but feared what he might find. Besides, life was so much quieter without her in it. So Wesley did nothing, though he wrestled constantly with a combination of relief and guilt. On Monday morning, there was still no sign of Samantha, which presented Wesley with a problem. What should he do with Melissa while he was at work? His mother was not an option. She'd told him, in no uncertain terms, that the daughter of `that stupid slut' would never be her responsibility. This left him only one possibility. He set up some paper and pencils in the corner of his office and kept her there.

She colored happily throughout the morning, and they ate lunch at the café. They were just settling comfortably into an afternoon of the same, when the bell above the bank door jangled and Sheriff Brody clomped in, his boots making a terrible clatter on the floorboards. He made a beeline for the open door of Wesley's office, and the grim expression on his face made Wes's stomach clench.

“Mr. Fulton, I'm afraid I have very bad news for you.”

“What is it?” Wesley asked, his voice barely above a whisper. His stomach dropped to somewhere around the vicinity of his knees.

“It's about your wife.”

The swooping sensation turned to a queasy churning.
Oh Lord, what has that woman done now? Assaulted someone?
He wouldn't put it past her. “What about her? What happened?”

The sheriff's broad shoulders sagged and his mouth followed the downward curve of his salt and pepper moustache, into a grief-stricken frown.

A sensation of trembling, icy fear took hold of Wesley.
Something
worse
than an assault. Did she accidentally kill someone?
He remembered the time she'd waved a knife at him, during an argument while she was cooking.

“She…” Brody stopped, swallowed, and tried again. “She fell through the ice on the river.”

Wesley's brain rejected the comment, it was so far from what he'd imagined. “The ice on the river is too thin to stand on. Why would she have been there?”

“I have no idea why,” Brody replied, “but the fact is that she was.”

“Is she all right?” Wesley shot from his chair and circled the desk to stand in front of the sheriff.

“Wes,” Brody said, his heavy hand wrapping around Wesley's shoulder, “she's dead. It looks like she's been there a while. Maybe since yesterday morning.”

A buzzing sound began in Wesley's ears.
Dead. Samantha's dead. How could she be dead
? It wasn't possible. She was young, and while her wits were scattered, her body was healthy.
Dead. Drowned. A violent, painful end to a painful life.
Wesley's stomach wrapped itself in a painful knot.

“Excuse me,” he muttered, before hurrying through the bank to the water closet. He barely made it.

When his fit of retching finally ended, he staggered back through the spacious lobby of the bank to his office. Sheriff Brody was there, but this time so was Allison, clutching Melissa.

“Wes,” was all she said as she threw herself against him. His arms came around her and his daughter and he trembled violently.

“Wesley,” Brody said in a grim voice, “I'm terribly sorry. But I have to ask you a few questions.”

He numbly looked up at the Sheriff's face, not really taking in what he was seeing.

“Sheriff,” Allison said gently, “he's in shock. You don't think he had anything to do with…”

“Of course not. That's not what I meant. I just need to know what I should do with the body.”

“Bring her home,” Wesley told him firmly. “Bring her home. That's where she belongs.” His voice broke.

The sheriff nodded and walked out.

Wesley was close to losing control. “Come on, honey,” Allison said. “You need to get out of here.”

He scooped Melissa onto his hip, took Allison's offered arm and let her lead him away. She called out to the clerk at the service counter, saying Wesley would not be back for a while.

Later, he could never remember the details of that walk; whether the wind blew, whether sun or clouds dominated the sky, whether it was cold or pleasant. His only memories were Allison's arms around his waist and Melissa's around his neck.

They entered the front door as the Sheriff's deputy was leaving.

“Where is she?” Wesley asked. For some reason, it seemed vital that he see Samantha
now
. The stairway was not wide enough to accommodate two adults side by side, so he carried Melissa up alone, Allison trailing behind him.

In the guest bedroom at the front of the house, Samantha had been laid out on the sunny yellow quilt, her hands folded on her bosom, her eyes closed. But her skin was ugly and grey.

The buzzing in Wesley's head intensified and spots floated across his field of vision. Bit by bit, the implications of this event began to dawn on him. No more violent outbursts. No more wild mood swings. No more pitying glances from his wife's lovers. He was free. For a moment, a sensation of relief passed over him. Life without Samantha would be so much easier… wouldn't it?

But wait, who would take care of Melissa when he was at work? And without Samantha's admittedly unappealing cooking, what would they eat? Sandwiches and oatmeal would not hold them indefinitely. And what kind of man felt relief over the death of his wife? What was wrong with him?

An arm crossed his field of vision. Allison had removed a handkerchief from the bureau drawer and spread it over Samantha's discolored face. It didn't move.

“She's not breathing,” he said stupidly.
Of course she's not breathing, idiot. She's dead!

Overwhelmed, Wesley sank into a chair in the corner of the room, clutched Melissa to his chest, and burst into ragged sobs.

A soft hand came to rest on his shoulder.

“Wes, Wesley…” Allison wanted his attention, but he was unable to give it. Grief and guilt had bowled him under. This was his fault. He knew Samantha shouldn't be left. He knew she was unstable. He'd failed her, failed to protect, honor, or cherish her. He'd failed as a husband, and he was about to fail as a father, too.

“I'm going to get some help. Wait for me.” The sound of Allison's footsteps grew softer as she retreated down the hallway. Wait for her? As if he were able to do anything else. How long he sat clutching his daughter and choking on bitter sobs, he had no idea. It felt like an eternity. But then there were people in the room. Cody grasped his shoulder. He turned and met the preacher's eyes, but no words passed between them. Wesley felt fragile, far too fragile to utter a word. Allison trailed her delicate fingertips over his back and he knew what he needed.