Opal Read online

  He turned in at the middle drive and strode on up the walk that was lined with primroses and pansies, the only bright colors, as even the lawns were looking shabby because of the deep shade from the newly leafed-out trees. A squirrel chattered at him, flicking his tail and darting for the tree trunk. A robin sang for his mate somewhere in the tops of the trees.

  Jacob leaped the three stone steps and let the lion-headed knocker fall against the plate on the front door. The oval cut-glass pane housed two spiders with opposing webs woven down in the lower curve of the frame. When nothing happened he knocked again, this time clapping the chin of the lion’s head on the plate with some force.

  The door slowly opened, and the housekeeper stood back, motioning him to enter. ‘‘Mr. Dumfarthing will see you, but don’t wear him out with a long visit.’’

  ‘‘Of course not. Thank you, Mrs. Howard.’’ Jacob removed his hat as he stepped into the foyer, which was in desperate need of some lighting, by candles or gas, he wasn’t sure which.

  ‘‘Have you taken Mr. Dumfarthing out for an airing on the back verandah, as the doctor suggested? Or here on the front porch when the sun is warm?’’

  ‘‘He said he did not feel up to it.’’ She shut the door behind Jacob. ‘‘I can do nothing if he is not willing.’’

  ‘‘If it is as nice tomorrow as it is today, I will come by after church, and together we will just pick him up and move him outdoors.’’

  Was that a smile he saw hiding again after an oh-so-brief excursion into the light? ‘‘I brought some cookies, so would you be so kind as to bring up hot tea?’’

  ‘‘Of course.’’ She hid a snort behind her ever-present handkerchief. ‘‘Who was it this time?’’

  ‘‘Miss Witherspoon.’’ He almost added, ‘‘Miss Honey Wither-spoon,’’ but one should be proper, especially if one was the minister. ‘‘Chocolate?’’

  ‘‘Hmm.’’

  ‘‘Nuts?’’

  ‘‘No. I ate several to make sure.’’

  ‘‘You are most considerate.’’ She turned before he could be absolutely certain that smile had twinkled out, then led him back to the dining room, which had been turned into a temporary bedroom since Mr. Dumfarthing’s fall.

  ‘‘Reverend Chandler to see you.’’ She might well have been a herald in an old English court. Although she had left off the ‘‘sir.’’

  ‘‘Well, show him in without all the falderal.’’ The wizened man in the bed pushed himself up higher on his pillows. While his body was failing, his mind and his temper ran neck and neck toward the finish line.

  ‘‘Good to see you, Mr. Dumfarthing.’’ Jacob stepped to the side of the bed. ‘‘I hoped you might be up in a chair enjoying the sunshine on this fine May day.’’

  ‘‘I’ve told you to call me Evan.’’ The withered man pointed to a chair in the corner. ‘‘Drag that over here so I don’t get a crick in my neck looking up at you. Matilde gone for tea?’’

  Jacob had a hard time thinking of the dour woman who guarded the house as Matilde, but then, the two of these ancients had known each other for many years and through more secrets than he ever cared to know about. Even though his call on Mr. Dumfarthing had become a weekly event, they had yet to develop any feeling of friendship between them. He sat, they drank tea, discussed Mr. Dumfarthing’s view of the medical profession or the weather, and when the old man appeared to be falling asleep, Jacob would excuse himself and leave. His first action on leaving the gloom of the moldering house and its inhabitants would be to take a deep breath of fresh air and resist the urge to dance down the stone steps. His obligation was over for another week.

  Today he’d decided to do something different. He’d brought his Bible, and even if the old man huffed and puffed, he planned to read something. Possibly the Scriptures for the week.

  Chair in place, he sat himself and crossed one ankle over the opposite knee. ‘‘I could help you outside, you know.’’

  ‘‘If I wanted to go outside, I’d go outside.’’

  ‘‘Really? How would you get there?’’

  ‘‘I’d walk. Same as you.’’

  ‘‘Wonderful. I didn’t realize you’d been up and around.’’

  ‘‘Goes to show you don’t know everything. Now, why’d you come?’’

  Jacob kept his relaxed posture in spite of the zing to his midsection. ‘‘Because you belong to my congregation, and I try to visit all those who cannot make it to service.’’

  ‘‘What if I said don’t come any more?’’

  Jacob thought for a moment, sending a plea for wisdom upward. The Word promised wisdom in liberal doses to all who asked.

  ‘‘Ha. Cat got your tongue?’’

  ‘‘Being of the stubborn sort, I would most likely come anyway.’’ ‘‘Hoping to wear me down so I’ll leave more of my money to the church, eh?’’

  Leaning forward, Jacob looked the man straight in the eyes.

  ‘‘Mr. Dumfarthing, Evan, I want you to understand something and understand it well.’’ He spoke softly but enunciated most clearly. ‘‘I do not give a fig or a farthing how much you give or leave to the church. That is between you and God. I come to visit you because, when I took on this congregation, every member became part of my family, and I agreed to be the shepherd of that family. Visiting the sick and shut-ins is part of my job as shepherd, and I don’t ever want to stand before the Lord God and have to admit to failing my flock. I know I fail in untold ways, but I do what I can and count on God for the blessing.’’ And the increase of faith for all. But he kept that part to himself.

  Mr. Dumfarthing nodded, then nodded again. ‘‘Well said, young man. Guess I was just testing you. And you passed. Now let’s have our tea, and since you brought that book along, you might as well read me some. My eyes being not what they used to be, I don’t read much anymore.’’

  ‘‘Would you like me to read to you more often?’’

  ‘‘That would be fine, long as you don’t go pestering me to get out in the sun.’’

  ‘‘Agreed.’’ But you can’t stop me from praying for you, and one of those prayers is that you will get out in the sun and let God’s warmth flow through and heal you.

  They chatted on their usual topics while they finished their tea, and Jacob managed to keep from mentioning that the doctor might have wisdom on his side when prescribing sun and fresh air.

  ‘‘Thought I’d read the passages for this week and the ones I’ve based my sermon for tomorrow on, if you don’t mind.’’

  ‘‘As long as it isn’t Revelation, anything is fine by me.’’

  ‘‘I’ll keep that in mind.’’ Jacob flipped to the passages he’d struggled over. How much easier it would be to read a psalm or two or one of the miracles. Instead he turned to the words of Jesus in Matthew. ‘‘‘If thou bring thy gift to the altar, and there rememberest that thy brother hath ought against thee, leave there thy gift before the altar, and go thy way; first be reconciled to thy brother, and then come and offer thy gift.’’’

  Silence resounded in the room, bouncing off the long windows, riffling the sheers and blowing under and around the bed.

  ‘‘Did you read that on purpose?’’

  ‘‘What do you mean?’’

  ‘‘Come to preach at me, like?’’

  Jacob kept his finger in the place and set his foot back on the floor. The thud sounded loud in the stretching silence. ‘‘No, sir. As I said, I was reading the lesson and the Gospel for the day.’’

  ‘‘You don’t know about my brother?’’

  ‘‘No, sir. You’ve never told me.’’ While he’d heard many things, a few of them less than complimentary, about Mr. Dumfarthing, he’d not heard of a brother. Besides, he’d quickly learned that stories told by others tended toward exaggeration. He’d promised himself to believe only what the person under discussion told him and even then to take it with a grain or three of salt.

  ‘‘Young man, you don’t begin to know about forg
iveness.’’

  ‘‘I know that Christ died on the cross for our sins, for all the sins of mankind. Yours and mine included.’’

  ‘‘God’s forgiveness is far easier than man’s.’’

  ‘‘Christ paid the ultimate price.’’

  ‘‘I read the Scriptures. It says to forgive others as Christ has forgiven us. But what about when I didn’t forgive and now it’s too late?’’

  ‘‘It’s never too late.’’ Ah, if only he could believe those words himself.

  ‘‘He’s gone.’’

  ‘‘Dead?’’

  ‘‘Yes. And I was too stubborn to forgive him for what he done to me. Even when he asked.’’ Mr. Dumfarthing’s hands shook, as with the palsy. He raised them, then let them fall back to the coverlet. ‘‘And now I can’t forgive myself, either.’’

  ‘‘Christ says to lay our burdens on Him, to let Him carry them.’’

  ‘‘Do you honestly believe that?’’

  ‘‘Of course I believe it.’’ He could hear the sharp stab of his voice.

  ‘‘Ah, the believing is easy, the doing sometimes impossible.’’ Mr. Dumfarthing closed his eyes, the signal that Jacob should leave.

  Father God, how do I deal with this? What do I say to him? Jacob closed his eyes and swallowed, wishing for the ax and the wood. Instead of rising, he leaned forward and took Mr. Dumfarthing’s bony hand in his. ‘‘Mr. Dumfarthing, could we pray together?’’

  The old man reared up from his pillow, eyes wide. ‘‘I can’t pray like that . . . together out loud. I can’t.’’ He fell back. ‘‘Not for forgiveness. Not anymore.’’

  ‘‘Then God help us, because I can’t either.’’ Jacob’s throat felt as if it might shatter from the glass lodged within it, that his heart would leap out of his chest. Father, what have I done? This is not what I was taught in seminary.

  Forgive, forgive, forgive.

  The old man settled back into his pillows and swallowed himself back to normal. ‘‘You mean you want to pray for me? Say all those proper words that don’t mean a hill of corn?’’ He sighed. ‘‘I been prayed for by older and wiser men than you, son, and it never did no good.’’

  ‘‘No, sir. No proper words and pretty phrases. I’m asking you to pray for my struggle with this, and I’ll pray for yours. I’ve written a sermon that is just so much pap, and I feel that God has me by the scruff of my neck. I’d rather go anywhere than to church in the morning.’’

  If Jacob could have forced his shaking knees to work right, he’d have fled the room and the house and most likely the town. Whatever had possessed him to talk like that? Hands clasped, elbows on his knees, he let his head hang. Thou, O Lord, art the lifter of my head, my sword, buckler, and shield. I have to trust that this is all of thee.

  The silence no longer hung oppressing but as if waiting, listening, like a beloved mother.

  Words stuck in his throat. He, who should be able to pray in any circumstances, couldn’t say a word. His eyes burned, and his nose dripped on his thumb.

  ‘‘Lord God, help us. Amen.’’ Mr. Dumfarthing’s voice crackled and cracked.

  Even the curtains sighed in relief.

  Jacob dug his handkerchief from his back pocket and blew his nose. ‘‘Thank you.’’

  ‘‘You’ll come again soon?’’

  ‘‘Yes, sir.’’ He clasped Mr. Dumfarthing’s hand in both of his and shook it with all the gentleness of a mother’s touch. ‘‘Tomorrow, after church.’’

  ‘‘Good. I want a report on that service.’’

  By the time he got home Jacob felt as though he’d been run over by a fully loaded dray wagon with six up.

  CHAPTER THREE

  ‘‘Sweet mercy, I sure hope we didn’t kill him.’’

  ‘‘Still could.’’ Atticus nudged the man’s shoulder with his boot toe.

  Opal bent down to see for certain that the man’s chest was still rising and falling. The brushy mustache triggered a memory. Back those years before, on the train west, she’d leaned a bit close, checking to see if a mustached man was indeed breathing, and all sorts of a ruckus broke loose. She hadn’t even touched that man on the train, but now her icy hand clenched the branch she’d clouted this drifter with, keeping the weapon close beside her, just in case.

  Atticus rubbed the side of his head. ‘‘You came mighty close to killin’ me too.’’

  ‘‘Not funny. Besides, he’s not dead. He’s still breathing.’’ She stood and glanced to see if her friend had blood on the side of his head. None. ‘‘Anyway, I missed you by a mile.’’ She stopped at the look in his eyes, after his gaze had traveled down and then up again. Red flamed his cheeks.

  She glanced down at herself and clenched her eyes and teeth. Heat traveled up her body so fast she thought she could hear the steam from her wet garments whistle.

  Atticus turned his back. ‘‘Ah, you better get some clothes on.’’ His voice strangled on the simple words.

  ‘‘Oh, for . . .’’ Opal huffed a sound of disgust. ‘‘You keep an eye on him, then. I’m sure he’s not going to be too gracious when he wakes up.’’

  ‘‘Opal.’’ The misery in his voice calmed her now-racing heart.

  ‘‘Don’t worry, Atticus. Rand isn’t going to come after you with the shotgun and force you to marry me for this compromising situation we are in.’’ While she talked to calm him down, she fought the sleeves of a light blue shirt into place and, after buttoning it, pulled on her divided skirt of navy twill. Her wet drawers immediately soaked through her clothing, something else she ignored as she sat down on a log to pull on her boots. ‘‘I’ll just explain what happened and—’’ ‘‘Opal.’’

  ‘‘And tell him it’s all my fault.’’ She glanced over to see his neck beaming red like he’d been in the sun for hours or scrubbed his skin with raspberry juice. ‘‘And you came to my rescue like a gallant knight in shining armor.’’ She finished with a flourish. ‘‘You can look now. I’m decent again.’’

  ‘‘Opal!’’

  ‘‘Sorry.’’ Sometimes she just couldn’t resist teasing him. He fell for anything. She finger-combed her mud-riddled blond hair back and dug a plaid ribbon out of her pocket before braiding the still-soaking mass and tying it off. She flipped the braid over her shoulder, catching a eye. ‘‘Atticus, watch out!’’

  The man on the ground snagged an arm around Atticus’s knees and, with a twist of his shoulders, sent the younger man toppling.

  Opal grabbed her holster and gun belt off the tree limb where she’d hung it for safekeeping, jerked out her pistol, and with the ease of long hours of practice, fired a round that splintered a rock by the man’s side. Shards of stone sliced both his face and shirt.

  ‘‘You done kilt me!’’ His yelp could probably be heard clear to Medora. Clapping a hand on his upper arm, he bellowed, ‘‘You shot me. I’m bleedin’.’’

  ‘‘If I’d have shot you, you wouldn’t be screaming like that. Get up!’’

  Atticus picked himself up out of the water and slapped his hat on his thigh. ‘‘Low-down . . . Why didn’t you just shoot him?’’ He hauled the drifter up by one arm. ‘‘Hand me that rope off your saddle.’’

  Opal kept her gun in one hand and retrieved the rope with the other. ‘‘If you move, I’ll be glad to shoot you in the knee, so make your choice.’’

  ‘‘I’m bleedin’ bad.’’

  ‘‘No you ain’t. Little rock cuts never hurt nobody.’’ Atticus dropped the loop over the man’s shoulders and cinched it around his upper arms, then flipped a couple more loops and tied it off. ‘‘You want to take him into town, or should I?’’

  ‘‘What good will that do?’’ Opal holstered her gun, grateful that Rand had had his way over her carrying a firearm. Ruby’d had three fits from west over that decision.

  ‘‘What do you want to do with him?’’

  ‘‘Let him swing from that tree branch over there.’’

  ‘‘I din’t hurt nobody. You can’t
hang me!’’

  ‘‘Says who?’’ Opal arched an eyebrow and turned to gaze at the tree limb. ‘‘It’s just about the right height.’’ He thinks I mean to hang him by the neck. She kept back a chuckle with difficulty.

  Atticus gave the roped man a shove. ‘‘Get on over there.’’

  ‘‘Sure hate to waste a good rope on him. Maybe we better just shoot him and send the body down the river.’’

  Atticus appeared to stop and ponder before shaking his head.

  ‘‘Nah, bullets cost too much. Rope is better. Will leave a lesson for other varmints too.’’

  ‘‘I din’t do nothing!’’ Eyes wild as a roped mustang, the man stumbled and was saved from scraping his knees by the jerk Atticus applied to the rope.

  ‘‘Get on over there.’’

  Opal mounted Bay and took the end of the rope from Atticus. She flipped two twists around her saddle horn, as if roping a calf, and half-dragged the screeching man toward the tree. Once close enough, she unwound the rope and tossed the end over the stout tree limb, catching it as it looped down. She made two turns around the branch, then two around the saddle horn again.

  ‘‘Anything you want to say for yourself?’’

  ‘‘I got some gold in my pocket. Take that and let me loose.’’ Spit dribbled down the man’s chin.

  ‘‘You want his gold?’’

  ‘‘Nah, let the poor sucker who finds him empty his pockets.’’

  Atticus studied the trembling man. ‘‘Face it like a man.’’

  ‘‘No, please. For God’s sake, I . . .’’

  ‘‘You sure weren’t thinking of God when you were leering at me.’’ Opal backed Bay up enough to tighten the rope till the man stood on his tiptoes. ‘‘You got anything else you want to say?’’ Disgust made her wish, just for a fleeting instant, that she had shot him. Not to kill, mind you, shooting a deer was hard enough, but to teach him a permanent lesson. Pain was a real good teacher.