Margaret Brownley (25 page)

“An office?” Wolf called back, not sure he’d heard right.

Wells grinned. “I’ve always wanted my own office. If we’re going to start over, we may as well start over right, don’t you think?”

Touching the brim of his hat, he rode away, leaving Wolf to stare after him. He had a job, an honest to goodness job that didn’t require him to hide.

If he had anything to say about it, the good preacher would have himself one mighty fine office. One grand enough for Solomon’s Temple.

The disappearance of Jacoby Barnes was the main topic of conversation in town for the next couple of days. It was the same wherever Lucy went. Clusters of people clogged Main Street, speculating as to his whereabouts.

Worse than the whispers was the undercurrent of suspicion.

No one liked Barnes and he’d argued at one time or another with pretty near everyone in town. Even the marshal’s wife, Jenny, got into a brawl with the editor when she first arrived in Rocky Creek. There was enough reason to think that maybe Barnes might not have vanished of his own accord.

Lucy tried not to speculate because the more she did, the more she worried that Wolf had a hand in Barnes’s disappearance. Instead she forced herself to concentrate on plastering her handwritten handbills all around town to solicit work as a photographer.

She stood hammering a sign on a post when Mrs. Hitchcock walked by, carrying a basket of recently purchased goods. The feathers on her hat waved back and forth like two exotic birds in a courting dance as she stopped to read the sign.

“Would you like to make an appointment?” Lucy asked. “It’s for a good cause. All the money will go toward building a new church.”

Mrs. Hitchcock’s mouth curled as if the very thought of having her photograph taken was distasteful. “It always depresses me to look at my old daguerreotypes and see how wonderful I once looked.” She sighed at the memory of lost youth. “I’ll think about . . . think about it.” She gave Lucy an apologetic smile before hurrying off.

“What about you, Mr. Appleby?” Lucy called. He sat in front of her father’s store, rocking back and forth. “A photograph for a donation to the church?”

Appleby spit out a wad of tobacco and ground down on his gums. “I ain’t lettin’ you take no pit-churs and that’s final.” He got up and started down the steps of the boardwalk on rickety legs, muttering all the way. “That’s all you think about. If I was drownin’ you’d tell me to hold on while you ran and got your camera.”

Lucy watched him go, then continued posting her handbills. Earning enough money with her photographs to rebuild the church was going to be harder than she thought. After she finished plastering one side of Main Street, she started on the other.

Timber Joe came running up the moment she reached the bank. He looked all hot and bothered. “Annabelle got my photograph and now she’s coming to town.”

Lucy squealed with delight. “She received your photograph already?” She couldn’t believe it. It was amazing how much faster mail was since the arrival of the railway. “That’s wonderful.”

“Wonderful?” He grimaced. “Did you hear what I said? She’s coming
here
. On Wednesday’s train.”

Lucy was confused. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“I guess so. But what if she doesn’t like what she sees?”

His sudden lack of self-confidence touched her. It was so unlike him. “She’ll love you, you’ll see. She obviously liked your photograph or she wouldn’t be coming.”

“I’m not talking about me. I’m talking about Rocky Creek.”

“Oh.” Lucy glanced up and down Main. The town did leave a lot to be desired. “Maybe we could—”

“What? Whitewash the buildings?” He shook his head. “There isn’t time.”

He was right. It would take weeks to do all the work that needed to be done. “Don’t worry,” she said, trying for a positive tone. “If she’s the right one for you, she won’t care what the town looks like.”

“She’ll care. I know she’ll care.” Timber Joe walked away, head down, and her heart went out to him.

Sighing, she turned to hang a handbill in front of the bank. Instead she leaned her head against a wooden post. It seemed like one problem after another kept popping up. Now Timber Joe’s future was on the line and she didn’t know how to help him.

Nineteen

When posing for a photograph, matrons in a family way should
wear dark and somber clothing for dignity’s sake. Jolly colors, low
necklines, and excessive decoration denote inferior character and
cast a shadow of suspicion upon the unborn child.

– M
ISS
G
ERTRUDE
H
ASSLEBRINK, 1878

O
n Sunday Lucy and Caleb followed a caravan of wagons and shays up the hill to where the church once stood.

“I still don’t see how we can have a church service without a building,” Caleb complained.

Earlier, Lucy had a similar conversation with her father, who chose to stay home. “It’s only temporary,” she said, hoping it was true.

Caleb yawned and Lucy slid him a look of sympathy. “You didn’t get much sleep last night.” It was after three a.m. when she heard him come home.

“Old Mrs. Brubaker was dying again,” he said. “Doc Myers put me in charge of her deathbed vigils. He said it would teach me bedside manners.”

Lucy laughed. “It’ll teach you patience, I’ll say that much.”

He grinned. “She’s okay. She’s just a lonely old lady.”

Her heart swelled with pride. She could never be as kind and understanding as Caleb. The thought depressed her but only because she feared she and her father would never be able to afford sending him to medical school. Not even selling her mother’s paintings would fetch enough to pay for his tuition, books, and lodging.

The smell of ashes permeated the air as they drew nearer to the church property.

Caleb wiggled his nose. “Smells awful. Do you know what happens when a body—”

“No,” she said abruptly. “And I don’t want to know.”

Caleb flashed his white, even teeth before growing serious again. “Have you seen Mr. Wolf?”

“Not recently. Why do you ask?”

“I heard some talk that maybe he’s responsible for Barnes’s disappearance.”

She tightened her hold on the reins. “That’s ridiculous. Who would say such a thing?”

“Jake for one. He still believes the wild man rumors and thinks Barnes had something to do with it.”

Lucy swallowed hard. “Why would he say that?”

“Wolf got shot because of the article Barnes printed. Jake says that’s reason enough to kill someone.”

“He’s wrong,” she said, her voice edged in misgiving.

Caleb frowned. “You don’t sound that certain.”

“I
am
certain,” she said a tad too quickly, and because his face reflected her own doubts, she added, “I am.”

She pulled up behind a long row of wagons and shays and set the hand brake. Ignoring the glares directed at her, she followed Caleb past the burned remains of the church to an area a short distance away where people were gathered in stoic silence.

A few chairs had been set up in a circle but these were reserved for the elderly or women in a family way. The members of the Rocky Creek Suffra-Quilters stood in a huddle, whispering among themselves.

Lucy spotted Redd and waved, but he was too busy watching Miss Hogg to notice.

Barrel stood next to his wife, Brenda. Her sister, Mary Lou, arrived with her husband, Jeff, manager of the local sawmill. Her neckline shockingly low given her “delicate condition” and the somber occasion, Mary Lou did Lucy a favor by grabbing the limelight.

It was only a momentary reprieve, for all too soon the accusatory glares returned to Lucy.

The treeless area offered no respite from the blazing hot June sun. Lucy wore her usual Sunday-best bib and tucker, but today the high collar and mutton sleeves were stifling. She wished she’d followed Mary Lou’s example and opted for less conventional wear. At the very least, she should have remembered to wear a hat.

Pastor Wells stood next to his wife, Sarah. He glanced at his pocket watch and turned to the crowd. “Welcome on this glorious day the Lord has made. Let’s begin today by saying a prayer for the safe return of Jacoby Barnes.”

Lucy tried to pray—she honestly did. Though she didn’t wish Mr. Barnes any harm, he was one of the most obstinate and stubborn men she’d ever met. God forgive her, but it was true.

Keeping her head low, she allowed her gaze to wander. It was clear by the restless feet all around her that few if any felt obligated to pray for the return of the missing man.

To make matters worse, she spotted that annoying Mr. Crankshaw watching her with his usual leer. It was enough to make her skin crawl.

“Amen.” Pastor Wells opened the Bible in his hand. “If you would now turn to Matthew—”

“We could do it a lot better if we had a church,” someone yelled.

Several others murmured in agreement. One woman’s glare shot daggers at Lucy. “My daughter planned to get married next week and now she can’t.”

Lucy tried to maintain a calm demeanor but when the complaints continued, she could no longer hold her tongue.

“It was an accident,” she cried, but the loud dissenting voices drowned her out. Obviously the townsfolk were more upset about the burning of the church than Barnes’s disappearance.

Looking remarkably composed considering the foul mood of the crowd, Pastor Wells lifted his arms. But it was the sound of a rifle shot that commanded attention.

All eyes turned to Timber Joe, who held his rifle aloft, finger on the trigger, ready to fire again if necessary. Timber Joe and his rifle had done more for the church than all the well-meaning ladies and their casseroles put together. Nothing could fill the offering plate faster than a man pointing a rifle. Though Pastor Wells disapproved of such methods, there were times like today when Timber Joe clearly saved the day.

The former Confederate soldier slipped the rifle over his shoulder and nodded to Pastor Wells. “It’s all yours, Preacher.”

Pastor Wells thanked Timber Joe and turned to the crowd. “The word
church
is mentioned in the Bible perhaps a hundred times,” he said, his strong deep voice droning on like a swarm of lazy bees. “It’s not a difficult word to find. What you
won’t
find is the word
church
used in reference to a building.”

Murmurs of surprise circled around him.

“There is good reason for that,” Pastor Wells continued. “For a church is not a building. A church is the people. That’s right. You. Me. Timber Joe, here. My beautiful wife, Sarah.” His gaze traveled over the crowd, addressing individuals by name, one by one.

“Caleb and Lucy Fairbanks. Mrs. Hitchcock. Marshal Armstrong and Jenny. And yes, even Jacoby Barnes, though he’s not with us today. We—all of us—are the church.”

Everyone fell silent as he spoke, and some even had the good grace to look remorseful.

Having made his point, Reverend Wells lowered his gaze to his Bible and began where he left off.

Fanning herself with her hand, Lucy glanced around.

A flock of birds took flight from the nearby woods and she caught a flash of black through the trees.
Shadow
. She squinted against the sun to make certain but she knew—knew in the very depth of her soul—what she saw. Her breath caught in her chest.

“I ask you to bow your heads once again in prayer,” Pastor Wells continued. “This time we’ll ask God’s help in keeping our church strong and making our hearts pure.”

While the preacher prayed aloud, she glanced at Mr. Crankshaw. His head was bowed and, as far as she could tell, his eyes were closed.

Taking her cue, and after checking to make sure no one else observed her, she slipped away, circling the long way around until she reached the woods, Jake’s suspicions very much on her mind.

“David?” she called in a hushed voice.

Hands grabbed her from behind and she cried out.

“Shh.” David spun her around in the circle of his arms, his handsome head bent so near she could feel his warm breath on her face.

The nearness of him made her heart pound.