Margaret Brownley (24 page)

Confused, she tilted her head. “My old boss—” She blinked away the last fog of sleep. “Disappeared?”

He nodded. “The door to his office was open and there was blood on a paperweight. Sounds like foul play to me and I think Marshal Armstrong agrees.”

Foul play? Caleb was beginning to sound like a dime novel. “But . . . but who would want to harm him?”

“I don’t know,” Caleb said. “The marshal’s questioning everyone in town. Even questioned Pa.” He tossed a nod in Extra’s direction. “Can’t let the cat starve, now, can we?”

As if to concur, Extra let out a loud meow.

Lucy lay back and gazed at the ceiling. Barnes disappeared? But why? “Maybe he left of his own accord,” she said.

“Maybe the blood wasn’t human.”

“It was human all right,” Caleb said. “Doc Myers had me mix it with gum-water so we could view it under the microscope.”

She rested her hand on her forehead, trying to think. “Maybe . . . maybe he banged his head and has . . . what do you call it when you can’t remember anything?”

“Amnesia,” Caleb said.

“That would explain the blood.”

Caleb shrugged. “Maybe. Marshal Armstrong took some men out to look for him. Sure hope the same thing doesn’t happen to him that happened to Mr. Weatherbee, whatever that was.”

Suddenly something occurred to her, a thought so horrifying that for a moment she forgot to breathe. A muffled cry escaped her.

“What’s wrong?” Caleb asked.

“Nothing.” She sat up and swung her feet to the floor. “Get out so I can get dressed.” He made no motion to move and she threw a pillow at him.

He ducked. “Okay, okay.” He swooped the cat up with one arm. “Let’s get you some milk.” He headed for the door and glanced back at her. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Positive. Now go.” She threw another pillow at him and he quickly left the room, closing the door behind him.

One of the men I’m looking for has a scar
. She paced about the room. Without a second thought she’d told David that Barnes fit that description. Now Barnes had mysteriously disappeared.

Recalling their conversation, she shivered. Arms crossed, she ran her hands along her cold flesh. No, no, it can’t be true. David wouldn’t harm Barnes. He wouldn’t harm anyone. Not the man who had saved her life and whose kisses made her melt in his arms.

Still, what did she really know about him? Was it only just a coincidence that the man David was looking for had vanished?
Oh, God, please let it be a coincidence
.

She shook her head against her rampaging thoughts. Here she goes again, jumping to all the wrong conclusions. According to Caleb, no one knew what happened to Barnes. The editor would undoubtedly show up with a perfectly rational explanation.

As much as she wanted to think that was true, her worrisome thoughts persisted.

Dressed, she walked to the kitchen to put on the kettle for tea. The cat sat in a circle of sunshine licking itself and paid her no heed.

Three unopened letters were on the counter, all addressed to her. She quickly ripped the first letter open and read it. It was from the
Galveston County Daily News
and it read:

Dear Miss Fairbanks,

Our newspaper has a reputation for achieving the highest journalistic standards. Photography is for amusement purposes only. As such, we fear that photographs would hinder our reporters and distract and, indeed, even trivialize the reporting of serious news.

Thank you . . .

The letters from the
Kansas City Evening Star
and
St. Louis Dispatch
were similar in tone and content. She crumbled all three letters into balls and tossed them into the wastepaper basket.

The kettle whistled and she turned off the flame. “
Amusement
purposes. Ha! Shows you what little they know.”

She still hadn’t heard from
The New York Times
or
Boston Globe
, but she didn’t hold out much hope of either one of them hiring her.
So what now, God? What now?

Wolf walked around the charred square of land. It was all that was left of the church. Far as he could tell there wasn’t any other church for a good many miles around. For that reason, the loss to the town had to be that much greater, which only added to his guilt.

“Kind of reminds me of Solomon’s Temple,” came a voice from behind him.

Wolf spun around. He’d been so wrapped up in his thoughts he hadn’t noticed he had company. He immediately recognized the man as the preacher, though he’d only caught a glimpse of the man at Sunday morning’s worship service. Today he was dressed in black trousers and white shirt.

“Except for its destruction, the Rocky Creek Church bore no resemblance to the temple as described in the Old Testament.”

“Ah, a man who knows his Bible.” The preacher held out his right arm. “Name’s Reverend Wells.”

No one had ever before shaken Wolf’s hand. He hesitated before taking the offered hand in his own. “David Wolf.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Wolf.” The preacher laid a small wooden cross on the ashes and stepped back.

Something in the kind way the preacher regarded him made Wolf feel uncomfortable. He wasn’t used to being looked at like . . . like he was a real person.

First Lucy and now Reverend Wells. What were the chances of finding two such open-minded people in the same town?

“Don’t look so distressed,” the preacher said. “God was apparently tired of us patching up the old place. He wanted us to start over.” He stared down the hill at the town below. “Not a bad idea, starting over. That’s what I did when I left Boston to come to Rocky Creek. It’s the best thing that ever happened to me.”

Wolf followed his gaze. The town seemed so much smaller than he remembered. So did the mission. So did everything, even the river. Everything seemed smaller than when he was a child except, perhaps, his regrets. Had he not run away from the mission at the age of ten, his life wouldn’t have taken such a devastating turn.

“Sometimes it’s not possible to start over,” Wolf said.

Reverend Wells regarded him from beneath the brim of his black felt hat. “The Bible is filled with people who failed and started over. Abraham, Moses, David, Paul. The key is that when you start over, it must be with God. That’s what baptism is all about. Starting over with God.”

Wolf’s jaw tightened.
You have no idea what it’s like to spend your life as an outsider. To be caught between two worlds . . . not to know where you belong. Who your parents were
.

“Maybe we should change the name of the church,” the preacher continued.

“Why?” Wolf asked, his voice taut. It didn’t seem right to arbitrarily change a name. Names weren’t just labels that could be changed at will. A name designated identity. That’s why he hated the name the missionaries had slapped on him like he was nothing more than a jar of jelly. He wanted his own name, his rightful name. The name he was born with. Not knowing it was a thorn in his side.

“Jesus changed the name of his disciples to show that he had big plans for them,” Reverend Wells said. “I think he also has big plans for our church.” He looked Wolf over. “The Bible says God will one day give each of us a new name known only to us. That’s because he has big plans for us too.”

Plans? That’s what a name was to God? Not a heritage, but a destiny? A calling? Wolf didn’t know what to think about that.

“It looks like God
meant
for us to start over,” Wells continued. He rubbed his hands together as if relishing the idea.

“God didn’t burn down the church. I did,” Wolf said quietly. It didn’t seem right to let the preacher think something that wasn’t true.

Reverend Wells’s eyebrows rose. For several moments silence stretched between them. The sound of a distant train whistle broke the quiet.

“I trust you had a good reason,” the preacher said at last.

“It was an accident.” Wolf studied the man. “There was a rumor that I was a wild man terrorizing people.”

“Yes, I read about you in the paper,” Wells said. “I must say you look better in person. So how did you burn down the church?”

“I was shot and needed a place to recover. That’s what I was doing there.” He made no mention of Lucy—the last thing he wanted was for her to be blamed for what happened. “A lantern was knocked over—”

Wells laughed. “Sorry. For a moment there I thought you were going to blame the mishap on a cow.” He was obviously referring to the Great Chicago Fire that was reportedly started by a bovine.

“No cow, just hymnals falling off the shelf.”

“What a pity. A cow has a nicer ring to it, don’t you think?” He shrugged. “Hymnals—I guess God couldn’t be any clearer.”

Wolf had never met anyone like the preacher. What Wolf considered a disaster, Wells saw as God’s plan. It was a whole new way of looking at things, and Wolf didn’t know what to think.

“I’ll do whatever I can to help rebuild.” He hadn’t planned on staying in Rocky Creek more than a couple of days but he had to make this right. “I’m a cabinetmaker by trade but I know how to draw up plans. Just tell me what you want.”

Reverend Wells rubbed his chin. “Can you draw up a church with a separate classroom?”

“I can do that,” Wolf said.

“What about a library?”

A library and a classroom? What kind of church was this? “It will take a lot more lumber.”

Wells nodded as if the matter was settled. “This should be interesting. All the other buildings in town have four walls and a roof. I don’t imagine you need plans to build a box. How soon can you have the plans ready?”

Wolf frowned.
That’s it?
No interrogation? No asking for references? True, the preacher wasn’t from around these parts. But that didn’t explain why he so willingly accepted help from a near stranger.

“You do know that I’m part Indian?”

Reverend Wells looked him straight in the eye. “Does that have some sort of bearing on the design of the church?” he asked. “You aren’t going to give us a pointed tepee roof, are you?”

“No, no, nothing like that. It’s just that some folks might object.”

“They might,” Reverend Wells said in a somber voice.

“Doesn’t that worry you?”

“If you’re asking if intolerance worries me . . .” The preacher gazed into the distance. “Prejudice is just a quick way to form an opinion about someone without going to all the bother of getting to know him.” He gestured toward the town. “When I first came to Rocky Creek, folks judged me by the way I dressed and talked, and they didn’t want to give me the time of day. If I wasn’t a preacher I’d have probably ended up with a backside full of lead.” He laid a hand on Wolf’s shoulder for a moment. “The way I see it, drawing up plans for the church is a good way for people to get to know you.”

The preacher made it sound so simple, and it was anything but. Most people took one look at a half-breed and didn’t bother taking another. It wasn’t just an opinion people formed at first sight, but a declaration of war. It was a fact of life that he had to live with. The preacher, now, that was a different story. He could get himself in a whole lot of hot water if he didn’t watch out.

“I don’t want to cause you any more trouble than I already have,” Wolf said, and he meant it. He liked the preacher. He couldn’t imagine Reverend Wells punishing a child for failing to memorize scripture or misquoting a verse.

Reverend Wells pushed a piece of charred wood with his foot. “If you expect trouble, there’s plenty of people here who will give it to you. Personally, I prefer God’s way, which is to expect the best in people. So do we have a deal?”

“You’re hiring me just like that?”

“You said you were a cabinetmaker. Are you any good at what you do?”

“Yes, I’m very good. Excellent, in fact.”

The preacher nodded. “That’s all I need to know. For as a man thinketh in his heart, so is he.” After a moment he added, “Proverbs twenty-three seven.”

Wolf had the feeling they were no longer talking about cabinetmaking, but before he could think of anything to say, Reverend Wells tipped his hat in farewell.

“If you’ll excuse me, I’m on the way to visit Mrs. Brubaker. She’s taken to her deathbed again.” With a nod the preacher walked toward a horse picketed in the shade of a distant tree. “What about an office?” he called to Wolf after mounting.