The Parson's Christmas Gift (20 page)

Z
ane moved to follow her, until he heard Hank tumbling from his horse. Zane went to his side but kept an eye out for Sam, who’d already made his way up the front steps of the church.

“C’mon, Baines,” Zane said, nudging him with his boot. Hank didn’t move.

It took several failed attempts before he managed to pull Hank to his feet. Together they wobbled to the church. The main street of Walten had never seemed so long. Finally they were met by a puff of warm air and Doc’s helping hands.

Zane stomped snow from his boots before stepping into the welcoming heat of the sanctuary. His shoulder throbbed, and the ache in his ribs made it hard to breathe. Even more painful was the feeling he’d abandoned Journey. Would she ever trust him again? But how could he have done anything but bring Hank to town?

After Hank’s warning shot had ricocheted off a tree to skim Zane’s forehead, Hank had collapsed under the fever and ache of the grippe. Leaving him would have meant certain death out there in the snow. Journey wanted him dead, but he had brought Baines to town for help. Had he destroyed any trust Journey might have had for him? Had he taken mercy too far?

Sam knelt at Abby’s side, brushing her long hair back from her damp face. Doc Ferris held Miss Rose’s head up, coaxing something steamy into her cracked lips.
Jesus, be with all these things going round in my head. Help us, each one, to focus on the task at hand, and give us wisdom to know just what that should be at any given time.

“Sit down, Zane,” Doc called over to him. “You look like you’ve been ridden hard and put away wet yourself. I’ll check your arm and that wrap on your ribs in a minute.”

He obeyed, finding a spot in the corner and struggling with the buttons on his coat.

The room was an odd balance of quiet and chaos. The heavy steps of tired workers echoed across the floors. An underlying drone of raspy breathing filled the room. Strange how a church that seemed plenty large every Sunday morning when he stood before all those peering eyes could shrink so much. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back.

Doc Ferris roused him. He darted up, cradling his side when he felt a stitch.

“Hold on there,” Doc said. “You slipped off a bit. You’re entitled.” He frowned, looking at the welt Zane felt above his eye. “Trouble on the trail?”

“You might say that.”

“I might say this looks like a bullet nicked you.” Doc’s eyes concentrated on the slice on his forehead, but the rest of his expression demanded an explanation.

“I ran into Baines in the little piney. He fired off a shot and I took heed, but he wasn’t himself. I could see he was feverish, not thinking real clear. But then, I’m not exactly his favorite person these days, as it is. Sam came up from behind to get the pistol away, but Hank shot again. I ducked and slipped on a patch of snow, but the bullet ricocheted off a branch and creased me.”

“Did you lose consciousness?”

“No. Things got a little blurry there for a minute, but I didn’t pass out.”

Doc stood and turned back to a pile of bandages behind him. “You’re fortunate. It’ll be sore, but no stitches. Take off that shirt and I’ll check those ribs. They’ll need to be rebound after that fall, I’d expect.”

Zane looked at all the ladies shuffling to feed broth to the patients who were awake. “Here?”

“I doubt you’ll garner much notice.” Zane could hear the tired smile in his voice. “Come on, now. I haven’t got all day.”

Zane eased his shirt off, and the undershirt beneath that, as his ears grew warm. In no time, Doc had the binding loosened off. He winced as the doctor prodded his tender side but convinced him it felt much better than it had a week and a half ago.

“I’m going to wrap you again, just the same,” Doc said. “There’s no sense in being hasty.”

“Where’s Hank?”

Doc nodded to a cot on the far side where Hank lay with his head toward the front door. “He’s been quiet ever since you brought him in.”

“Good. Has Journey come back?”

“Zane?” A low voice from the back of the room interrupted them.

“Miss Rose?” He stood, pulling his flannel shirt around his shoulders, and moved over to her bed. Sam sat on the floor nearby, his head leaning on Abby’s shoulder, their hands entwined. Both slept.

“Zane? Are you there?” Miss Rose looked as though she were trying to sit up on the cot and failing.

“I’m right here. Settle back and tell me what you need, and I’ll get it. You rest.”

“Journey? Where’s Journey?” she asked, lying back.

He glanced at Doc, who shook his head and continued gathering his supplies. Zane pulled the blanket up under Miss Rose’s chin.

“She stepped out for a while to clear her head some. Sam and I, we brought Hank in. He’s sick, too.”

“And Journey?”

“I haven’t seen her since,” he said. “She wasn’t happy to see Hank and not pleased with me for bringing him here. She said I should have let him die out there.”

“And maybe you should have, Lord forgive me,” Miss Rose said, her voice sounding much like his grandmother’s had, but she had smoked cigars. Zane tilted her head to give her some water.

“I know,” she said, rolling her eyes a little at him.

He leaned back. “I didn’t say anything.”

She coughed and her face scrunched up, making her wrinkles even more pronounced than usual. “You’ve been my pastor…long enough. I know what you’d say.”

He grinned as she closed her eyes again. For a moment he thought she’d fallen asleep. But she slid her hand over his and squirmed under her blankets.

“Go after her, Zane. Look out for her. She needs you.”

“What about you?” He brushed wiry gray wisps from her face.

“I need to know you’re both fine and looking out for each other. The Lord has something in store for you both, Zane. Don’t be afraid of it. I don’t know when she’ll be ready for you. But let yourself be ready for her if the Lord allows it.”

He stood, finding her blue eyes focused on him. “I’ll find her. We’ll help her through this, whatever happens. Don’t worry. Just rest.” He moved to get his coat and hat.

Her fragile voice followed him over the growing din of the room. The light through the windows slanted, casting a reddish tone over the golden wood of the sanctuary walls. It lit Miss Rose’s face.

“Go on,” she said. “Like I told Journey, I’ll be here a while yet.”

He pulled his shirt closed and fumbled through the buttons, managing to slide most of them through by the second try, even with his fingers moving stiffly from their sling. He grabbed his coat.

“Preacher?” A quiet drawl caught his attention, and he turned to see Hank’s foggy eyes focused on him.

Anger flared within him, to his surprise, but he went to the man’s side.
Lord,
he thought,
give me the right words to say—and keep me from thrashing him myself.

He pulled a chair up to the low cot. Hank’s breath came in shallow gasps that didn’t rustle the blanket over him.

Where was Journey? He shifted in his seat. The sun would soon set. His knee bounced and he looked toward the door. But he sensed the Spirit wanted him here.

A low voice called his attention back to the bed.

“I would suppose,” Hank said, “that you’re happy to see me here. Rather fitting, right?” His eyes remained closed, as if he hadn’t the energy to open them.

“Fitting, no. Believe me, Baines, I take no pleasure in you being here.” He rocked in his seat.
Where was Journey?

“You don’t find the least satisfaction in my illness?” Shallow breaths interrupted his speech. “After I lied, tried to cheat your town, and am married to the woman you’re in love with?”

“Don’t forget our little meeting in Virginia City, Hank. And I care for her, but I’m not
in love with
Journey.”

“So you say. And I’m to believe you forgive me for all that? No one has that capacity to forgive.”

The flames that took Sarah came to mind. The rescue he should have been able to make. “I’ve had to forgive things a lot worse than anything you’ve done. But what I do isn’t what matters here.”
Maybe Journey had only gone back to Miss Rose’s to think things through.

Hank licked his lips. “I didn’t intend for things to turn out this way. My ma took me to church when I was a boy. I know about God.”

Zane glanced at his pocket watch and leaned close to Hank’s pasty face. He sure looked worse than the other patients. Where was Doc? “But do you know His Son?”

The dark eyes widened. “It’s too late to feed me that line, Preacher. I always meant to get my life together, to make things right. It never seemed the proper time, though.”

Doc Ferris came over and placed his hand on Hank’s head. Then he dug Hank’s hand from under the covers and checked his wrist against his pocket watch.

“Anything I can get you?” he asked. Hank shook his head.

Zane cleared his throat and looked at the doctor.

Doc nodded him over to the dim corner before answering. “He’s not going to make it, Zane. He’s too hot and drying out. His pulse is weak and out of beat, and there’s nothing more I can do. If we had more quinine, maybe. But I think he was too far gone when you found him. Sounds like pneumonia has settled in his lungs.”

Rubbing a hand over his face, Zane looked back over at the patient. “Hard to figure how a man gets to the place where he is.”

He let his gaze wander around the sanctuary. “I was heading out to Miss Rose’s, figured Journey might have gone that way. But if you think he hasn’t got long, maybe I’ll sit with him a bit, try to talk to him again.”

Doc nodded. “I know you’d rather be with her. But you won’t have another chance at Hank, unless I miss my guess. I’ll say a prayer for him.”

“Throw one in for me, too, Doc,” he said. “I’m afraid my compassion’s about to run out.”

He patted the doctor’s stooped shoulder and moved back to the seat by the bed where Hank lay.

J
ourney slipped into the church entry without a sound, pausing at the door to the sanctuary. Her breath clouded before her, but she felt warmed by the shame that burned her face. Why did she always make everything worse by her actions?

She rested her forehead on the rough door frame, then pushed the door open. Lanterns had been lit but not enough of them to conquer the growing darkness. Most patients seemed to be resting, with workers waiting to attend any need that might arise. The room was quiet, and only Doc Ferris seemed to notice her. Still, she couldn’t force herself through the door.

She spotted Zane’s broad back, sitting next to a cot by the wall. He blocked the view of the patient, but she could tell from the size of the feet hanging off the edge that it was a man. And she could well guess which man, even before she heard him.

“You still here, Preacher?”

“Thought maybe you’d like to talk some more.” She heard Zane’s low reply.

“There’s nothing more to say. You think I don’t know how this is going to end? You expect me to come blithering to the Lord’s feet, begging Him to take me now, when I know I can’t do a thing to earn my keep?”

“It’s not about ‘earning’ anything, Hank,” Zane said.

Did he really think he was dying? Or was this some unexpected trouble that he planned to turn to his advantage?

“That sounds very well, but that’s not the way life works,” Hank said.

“No, but that’s how God works. There’s still time for a change, if you want it.”

Could he change? Journey wondered. Could God forgive someone like Hank? Would He?

“The only thing I want, Preacher, is to be left to myself.”

She caught a glimpse of Hank’s face, which held a grayish cast in the waning light, as Zane shifted and lowered his head.

“Let me sit awhile and pray for you. I won’t say a word. But just in case you change your mind—”

“Suit yourself, Preacher. I expect you have a job to do.” He chuckled, but it came out in a gasp. “At times like this, I’d imagine you’d rather have found another line of work.”

She watched Zane raise his head and detected a grin from the dimple on his cheek. The thought must have crossed his mind. He stood and walked over behind the pulpit, pulling out a worn Bible and returning to his seat. He opened the book over his knee with one hand. She watched his lips move silently in profile.

Hank shifted, turning to draw in more air. He seemed to have trouble with that. Would the same happen to Miss Rose and Abby as the illness lingered?

“One thing, Preacher.”

“Yes?” Zane held the Bible closed with his finger marking the place.

“Tell Journey…” She leaned forward to catch every raspy word. “Tell Journey I’m sorry. She’s a wonderful woman, kind and full of life. At least, she was before I changed that in her. She deserved someone good.” Hank’s dry cough interrupted him.

She slipped a step back with surprise. Her mother had been a prostitute. She’d grown up in a saloon and taken up with Hank before she’d married him at seventeen. Even now, with the mess she’d made of her life, she’d never thought it wasn’t all she deserved.

“It’s not about deserving. God forgives us in spite of what we deserve. That’s what I’m trying to tell you,” Zane said.

“Too late for me. I won’t come groveling to the Lord this way. But Maura…maybe Maura. Journey deserves someone like you, Preacher.”

Zane slid his chair forward, but Hank waved him off with a finger that barely moved. “I believe I’ll sleep for a while now. You’ll be sure and tell her what I said?”

She didn’t stay long enough to hear Zane’s response. She couldn’t face him, not now.

Shutting the door without a sound, she left the church. The cold fresh air would clear her head. The last thin rays of sunset clung to the snow-sculpted hills and peaks.

Did Zane truly believe Hank could be forgiven? She wanted to scream her denial of the thought. But what if there was hope for someone like Hank? For someone like her?

She stepped down to the ground and headed for the shed, where she’d left the horse. She needed to feel the cold on her face, needed to breathe in the open air, away from town. She needed to think. She needed—

But all thoughts flew from her mind as hands clamped around her waist and over her mouth, stifling her scream. Then light burst behind her eyes, and darkness fell.