Stealing the Preacher (14 page)

“I think Holly’s taken a fancy to the new preacher, Sarah.” Etta Ward elbowed Mrs. Brewster and favored her with a matchmaker’s smile.

“Heaven help us all,” Mrs. Grimley muttered, turning her back on the scene.

Joanna amened the sentiment wholeheartedly.

“I’d steer clear of that Brewster gal if I were you.” Jackson gave Crockett a man-to-man look as he handed the parson another nail.

Crockett hammered it into the new step he held in place while fighting to keep a smile from his face. “Oh? Why’s that?”

Ever since the women left that afternoon, Jackson had been filling him in on all the pertinent details of the families that had been represented. Which ones came from farms versus ranches. How many young’uns they had. The names of their husbands. He’d efficiently rattled off the facts as the two of them repaired the church steps, but this latest comment seemed more personal.

“She acts real sweet and all, as long as things are going her way. But the minute you cross her, she turns meaner than a swarm of fire ants.”

Crockett wondered what experience had led the boy to that conclusion, but he knew better than to ask. “I appreciate the warning,” he said, reaching for another nail. “However, we need to be careful not to say anything unkind about her when she’s not here to defend herself. All right?”

Jackson frowned and looked as if he wanted to argue, but eventually he nodded, and they resumed their work.

Yet thoughts of Holly, now resurrected, stubbornly refused
to die. The young lady was certainly pretty. And even though he could tell she’d been exaggerating the tale of her cleaning exploits, the fact that she’d done it to impress him was rather gratifying. What man wouldn’t enjoy the overt attentions of a beautiful woman? And while he could easily imagine her turning her lips out in a pout or storming off in a huff if she didn’t get her wish, he could hardly picture her turning venomous. Maybe it would seem so to a boy, but it wouldn’t be more than an irritant to a man.

Crockett drove in the last nail and straightened, visions of another young woman entering his mind, one who’d conversed with him on these very steps. Joanna’s quietly intent nature contrasted sharply with Holly’s vibrancy. While Miss Brewster’s flirtation stroked his ego, the spiritual maturity Miss Robbins exhibited commanded his admiration and respect. Of course, to be fair, the ten minutes he’d spent in Miss Brewster’s company this afternoon offered scant opportunity to form more than a surface opinion. A masculine smile tugged at Crockett’s lips. He had to admit, though, his opinion of her surface was quite favorable.

“You want me to start sandin’ the steps?” Jackson’s question broke Crockett free from the dueling female images wreaking havoc on his concentration.

He cleared his throat. “Yes. They’ll need a coat of paint, too, but it will be a while before I can make a trip to Deanville to pick some up.”

“You gonna get enough to do the whole buildin’?” Jackson asked, assessing the peeling white clapboard with a critical eye.

“It sure needs it, doesn’t it?” Crockett tipped his hat back, braced his right foot on the edge of one of the steps, and leaned his forearm across his thigh as he examined the neglect.

Jackson mirrored his stance from the opposite side. “Yep. But I ain’t never painted a building afore. And if we gotta wait
for you to get done at the Lazy R every day, it’d take us a right long time.”

“I’ve got an idea about that.”

Jackson stared at him expectantly, but Crockett said no more—partly to pique the kid’s curiosity, and partly because he wasn’t sure he could pull it off.

But if he could, he just might succeed at taking the first major step toward bringing the community together, and—even better—the first major step in bringing Silas Robbins into the fold.

16

S
unday arrived, and with it came an abundance of nervous energy that Joanna could not dispel. Unable to sleep, she’d risen before dawn and dispatched all her chores in record time. She’d even fussed over her appearance longer than usual, wrestling her unruly hair into a soft chignon and trying on both of her Sunday-worthy dresses so many times it was a wonder the shine hadn’t worn off the brass buttons. Despite her lengthy attire deliberations, though, when she checked the mantel clock in the parlor, the hands hadn’t progressed nearly as far as she had hoped. Services weren’t scheduled to start for another hour.

A tiny moan escaped her lips. She couldn’t stay here and wait. She’d go crazy.

Joanna entered the kitchen, thinking to check on the roast she’d put in the oven. But what was there to check? She’d already done everything that could be done ahead of time. The roast, onions, carrots, and potatoes were baking. The spinach greens were washed and ready for boiling. Bread baked yesterday waited in the pie safe, and the hard-boiled eggs to top the spinach were
already peeled and sitting in a covered bowl on the counter. So what was she to do?

Her gloves and Bible beckoned to her from where they lay on the table. It had been about this time last Sunday when she’d decided to walk down to the church. Of course, that was before services were officially being held. Yet even then, Crockett had been there. He was probably there now, strolling up and down the center aisle, making sure everything was ready for his inaugural service, perhaps going over his sermon a final time. Was he nervous?

He always seemed so calm and in control, but he had no way of knowing if his presence would be readily accepted.
She
had no way of knowing. Starting the church back up had been
her
dream. What if the community failed to embrace the idea of a new minister? What if no one came?

Joanna’s eyes rolled at her melodramatic thoughts. Of course they’d come—out of curiosity, if nothing else. After all, the ladies had shown up to help with the cleaning. They wouldn’t expend such an effort if they didn’t plan to attend. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to offer Crockett some moral support, a friendly face to soothe away any anxiety he might be feeling.

She wouldn’t mind the chance to be alone with him again, either.

And wasn’t
that
an improper thought to be having on a Sunday morning.

Blowing out a breath, Joanna shoved her hands into her best pair of gloves, grabbed up her Bible, and resolved to purify her motives before she reached the church.

Never one to enjoy stringent lectures, even mental ones instigated by herself, Joanna delighted in discovering a familiar figure a few paces ahead of her when she joined the main road. She quickened her step to catch him.

“Jackson Spivey. Don’t you look dapper, all cleaned up,” she
said by way of greeting as she pulled abreast of the young man. He slowed his step and kicked at a tuft of grass at the side of the road.

“Yeah, well, I ain’t been to church since my ma left,” he said, a dull red rising up his neck, “but I remember she always made me wash behind my ears afore we came. So I figured I ought to scrub real good today.”

A soft smile tugged at Joanna’s mouth. It seemed Crockett’s presence was already working miracles. The boy’s damp hair had been combed into submission and he sported a clean shirt, though the sleeves hung past his wrists. He’d probably borrowed it from his father. Tenderness welled inside her for the young man so eager to please his new mentor.

“I think you look quite fine.”

Jackson’s face jerked toward hers. “You do?”

The vulnerability he usually tried to hide flashed to the surface for a moment, and Joanna couldn’t help but offer the reassurance he so obviously craved. “Yes, I do.”

“Fine enough for me to escort you to services?” Just that fast, all hint of self-doubt fled from his expression, leaving only adolescent male swagger in its wake.

Even so, Joanna couldn’t ignore the plea for acceptance that lurked behind the cocksure words. “I’d be happy to accept your escort,” she said, “as a friend.” She gave special emphasis to the word
friend
and breathed easier when Jackson nodded in understanding.

He offered her his arm, and Joanna slipped her fingers into the crook of his elbow.

“If you’re gonna walk with me, Jo, you gotta pick up the pace.” Once he had hold of her, Jackson lengthened his stride, nearly dragging her in his hurry. “Crock promised I could ring the bell if I got there early enough. We can’t be late.”

Joanna stifled a chuckle and quickened her steps. It seemed
escorting her to services wasn’t quite as big a coup as ringing the church bell.

“God loves us all individually,” Crockett pronounced as he strode across the dais, making eye contact with imaginary church members seated in the pews, “and he has blessed each of us with talents and spiritual gifts as unique as the shape of a face or the sound of a voice. Yet it is not God’s will that we exist solely as individuals. He desires us to be in community with him and with each other. For it is only when individual members unite as a single body under Christ that the fullness of his love can be demonstrated to the world. It was for this unity that Jesus himself prayed in John’s gospel, chapter seventeen.”

Crockett paced back to the pulpit and his notes, uncertainty stealing his voice as he moved into the next section of the sermon, the part that had kept him up until midnight last night writing and rewriting. Praying over and worrying over. He wanted to call the community together, to bind them, to challenge them. But what if he alienated them or offended them? Would his ministry be over before it began?

He shifted his papers and cleared his throat. He couldn’t remember ever being this unsure over a lesson. Ever. Since the time he was a boy, confidence in his calling had always been the foundation that gave him the courage to speak with boldness, more concerned with the message God wanted him to impart than pleasing itching ears. So why was that foundation shaking?

Grant me wisdom to speak what you want spoken, Lord, and nothing more.

Glancing over his notes a final time, Crockett inhaled a cleansing breath, released it, and continued where he had left off.

“For too long, this community has consisted of individuals. Individuals drawn together by geography, or perhaps friendship,
or even family. But it has not been united as fully as God desires. It has not been one body under Christ. Today we can change that. Today God has brought us together in a way that pleases him, as the text we read a moment ago from 1 Corinthians 12 attests.

“We don’t simply meet together in this building because it is a convenient place to worship. We meet in order to rejoice together and mourn together. To uplift and encourage one another. To gain strength from the strong and humility from the weak. To experience the artistry of the Master Weaver who brings all of our individual gifts together to create a tapestry more beautiful than any one person can achieve alone. A tapestry that proclaims God’s glory to every eye that beholds it. A tapestry that is incomplete without you . . .”

His gaze crossed from a pew halfway back on the left to the second one from the front on the right. “Or you . . . or . . .” His gaze slid toward the back of the sanctuary and collided with Joanna, standing silently in the doorway. “You. . . .” Crockett’s voice tapered off.

For a moment, all he could do was stare. Her rapt attention, the tiny smile that brought into relief the freckles dusting her cheekbones, the way the light passed through the doorway behind her to set her hair ablaze beneath the prim straw bonnet she wore. Yet it was her inner light that captured him most. The serenity of her features. The glow in her blue eyes. This was a woman of authentic spirituality. No wonder the Master Weaver had chosen her to be the central thread to anchor his new tapestry.

Crockett had no idea how long he stood there gawking. It would have been longer, he was sure, had Jackson not bounded past her and down the aisle, severing the connection that had held him enthralled.

“I’m ready to ring the bell, Crock. Is it time?”

Joanna dipped her head, further releasing him.

“Not yet. Ah . . .” He coughed a bit and dug in his vest pocket for his timepiece as he stepped off the dais and strode down the aisle. “Here,” he said, handing the watch to Jackson. “At a quarter ’til the hour, you can ring the call to worship.”