Opal Read online

  ‘‘Opal, no matter how hard you try, you just can’t be one of the men. You’re female, and that puts you in a different place.’’

  ‘‘I can outshoot most of them, rope and ride as well as any, and put in as long a day as anyone we know.’’ She wasn’t boasting, just stating facts. She’d worked harder than anyone could know to learn the ranching skills that were needed. ‘‘And I’m better at breaking horses too, thanks to Linc.’’ Linc, short for Lincoln, and his Souix Indian wife, Little Squirrel, had ridden up one day and asked if Rand had work for them. Hard workers both, everyone was glad they’d come.

  ‘‘All that is true, but what are we going to do with that drifter?’’

  ‘‘Dig a hole and bury the skunk.’’

  ‘‘Opal, this is no joke.’’

  ‘‘Hogtie him and throw him in one of the freight cars going west? Tell someone to let him loose on the other end of Montana?’’ She banged her fist on the top rail of the corral. ‘‘He made me so mad I could have shot him right then and sent his body floating down the river.’’

  ‘‘Killing a man is far different than killing a deer.’’

  ‘‘Yeah, in this case the deer is nicer.’’

  Rand sighed. ‘‘Well, I’ll take a couple of the guys along, and we’ll go let him loose. About all we can do is threaten that we’ll come after him if he talks around here. Go on up to the house and get some food we can put in a sack. That will take away one reason for him to go on into town.’’

  ‘‘I’d really like my rope back.’’

  Rand gave her a look that made her hang her head. She had a feeling she hadn’t heard the last of this yet.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  We s t e r n Pennsylvania

  Sunday morning arrived, and his stomach hadn’t bothered to take a rest.

  Jacob looked out over his woodpiles to the maple and beech grove that angled up the hill. He’d heard a coyote singing during the night, along with an owl that kept the rodent population under control in the small meadow off to the west of his plot. Usually Sunday morning wore a mantle of peace, and he looked forward to the service with joy. Jacob Chandler loved and honored his calling—until this last week. How could he preach on this text when he failed to live it? Why hadn’t he just chosen an alternate text?

  Because God told me not to. That’s why. But that didn’t make it any easier.

  Memories of Melody’s eyes seemed to sour the cream in his coffee. He tossed the dregs against one of the unsplit butts and rose to return to the house. It wasn’t as if he’d never tried to plead her forgiveness, but when he’d gone to her father’s house, the man had met him with clenched fists and threats. Melody had left home, and it was all his fault. And no, he’d never find out where she’d gone, so leave well enough alone and don’t show his face around there again.

  He’d gone intending to ask for her hand in marriage.

  ‘‘So, Father, how does this Scripture apply when there is no way to rectify the wrong?’’ he asked as he lathered up his cheeks. ‘‘You know that I tried to ask her forgiveness for taking advantage of her that night.’’ He stroked down one cheek with the razor. ‘‘But did I do my very best?’’ His shoulders slumped. ‘‘I thought this was all behind me. I asked your forgiveness, and I know that you forgave me. What else could I have done?’’ He finished shaving and wiped the leftover dabs of foam from face and neck, then cleaned his razor and hung it from a hook beside the mirror.

  You just put it out of your mind and called it good all these years. The accusing voice had a note of authority.

  At least I tried to. He remembered the dreams he’d had for a long time and that had reappeared the past two nights.

  Father, is this prompting from you, or is the enemy trying a frontal attack? Jacob well understood that Satan knew and used Scripture also. And his favorite ploy was to render Christians ineffective through worry or fear—or reliving past sins.

  Still ruminating on the internal debate, he took his hat from the row of pegs by the front door, brushed any lint off the shoulders of his black suit coat, and clenching his Bible with sermon notes close to his chest, started for church. Not since the first time he’d preached had he felt so apprehensive about a sermon.

  The organist was warming up her fingers on the keys, children and adults alike gathering for Sunday school, when he entered the white clapboard church by way of the outside door to his office. He had about ten minutes until the brief opening worship, after which those in the pews would scatter for their classes. At least he wouldn’t be leading the Bible study for the adults today. He’d finally found someone to take over that duty. However, that left him with more time to think, or rather to stew.

  If only he had someone to talk this over with. But while there were several families he’d drawn close to, he didn’t know how he could ever admit to such a sin without destroying their trust in him. He knew of no one who could counsel him except the Lord God himself.

  The organ notes drew him into the sanctuary as everyone stood to sing the opening hymn, ‘‘Onward, Christian Soldiers.’’ The stained-glass window of the Shepherd with His flock threw rich colors on the polished floor. He made his way to the front and smiled at his own flock while they found their seats again, the rustle of clothing, papers, and mothers shushing their broods dear and familiar sounds.

  ‘‘Good morning.’’

  ‘‘Good morning.’’

  The halfhearted return widened his smile. ‘‘Surely you can do better than that on this glorious May morning. Good morning.’’

  Bobby Englbrecht in the front row shouted his answer, and the Peabody twins giggled into their Sunday gloves. Mr. Jensen shook his head, while most of the people just raised their voices or at least took part this time.

  ‘‘That’s better. This is the day that the Lord has made.’’

  ‘‘Let us rejoice and be glad in it.’’

  ‘‘Yes, indeed, let us do that. Now, how many memorized their Bible verses for this week?’’

  Hands went up all around the room.

  ‘‘My mama thaid I got them all,’’ Timothy Garrison, still missing his two front teeth, proudly announced from his usual place in the center aisle, right side, second pew. Any moment now his cowlick would stand straight up, no matter how much water his mama had applied.

  Jacob noticed such things and loved his flock all the more for their efforts. Before he came, things had been much more serious, or so he’d been told. ‘‘On your honor now, all who have done their memory work, please stand.’’ Miss Witherspoon could have been plying a fan, her smile was so coy. Old Mrs. Hackenbacker thumped her cane, then leaned on it. She’d confided to him one day that her mind seemed to work better now that she’d joined the memory brigade.

  ‘‘Let’s say it all together now. Romans 8:28: ‘And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are called according to his purpose.’ Romans 8:28.

  ‘‘And the Christian’s bar of soap?’’

  A hand shot in the air. ‘‘First John 1:9.’’

  ‘‘All right, all together. ‘If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.’ ‘‘And the Beatitudes in Matthew. ‘Blessed are the poor in spirit. . . .’’’ Several people sat down while the rest stumbled their way through. ‘‘We’ll keep working on that one.’’ He led the group in applause for those who’d accomplished their memory work, another thing that hadn’t been done before he arrived. ‘‘Let us pray.’’ He waited out the settling noises while everyone sat down.

  ‘‘Heavenly Father, we thank thee for this glorious morning and for bringing us all together again to study thy Word and to worship thee. Make us a people with grateful hearts, for thou hast given us so much. We ask thy blessing on our worship today. In Christ’s holy name, amen.’’

  As he dismissed the children for Sunday school four-year-old Linnie Springer stopped in front of him. ‘‘I thanked God t
hat our mama cat had kittens. I could bring you one when they can see.’’

  He stooped down to her level. ‘‘Guess we’ll wait and see how they do, all right?’’ The week before someone had tried to give him a puppy. That had been a real temptation, but so far he’d declined. Often he’d thought of having a pet, especially when the winter wind howled around the eaves of his house. A dog slumbering on the hearth had real appeal, but housebreaking a dog or a cat had never been one of his favorite things.

  He watched the children file out the back and down to the basement while the adults came to sit in the front pews. Harland Hammerskold stopped to answer a question, giving Jacob a chance to slip out the side door before the class could begin and before he was asked a theological question, which Harland was famous for doing.

  ‘‘Good morning, Pastor.’’

  Had Mrs. Witherspoon been waiting for him? He kept a smile in place because of hours of practice. ‘‘And how are you this fine day?’’

  ‘‘Fine, fine. I thought I’d catch you quick and invite you over for dinner. I’m making my famous Hog Maw today, or rather, Honey is, and I know how you enjoy that.’’

  ‘‘You make the very best Hog Maw, but I’m sorry to say I must decline. I have another engagement.’’ Thank you, Lord, for Mr.Dumfarthing. ‘‘And now if you’ll excuse me, I must finish preparing for my sermon.’’

  Often the brief walk he took during the Sunday school hour was just what he needed for all the pieces to fall into place, no matter how many weekday and Saturday hours had already gone into the preparation. He needed a story for today, and the only one he could think of was his own. His stomach felt like the tangle of knots in a fly-fishing line when miscast. The tangle only tightened as the time for his sermon drew near.

  When he stood behind the carved wooden pulpit and looked out over the expectant faces, he threw himself on God’s mercy and began with the ancient words, ‘‘‘Let the words of my mouth, and the meditation of my heart, be acceptable in thy sight, O Lord, my strength, and my redeemer.’ Amen.’’ He withdrew his notes from his Bible as he waited for the congregation to settle.

  ‘‘I know you’ve already heard the Scripture passages for the day, but I’d like to read them again. Mark 11:25: ‘And when ye stand praying, forgive, if ye have ought against any: that your Father also which is in heaven may forgive you your trespasses.’ And Matthew 5:23: ‘Therefore 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. . . .’’’

  When he finished, he paused, trying to gather his thoughts, sending pleas for help heavenward. ‘‘Some texts are easier to preach on than others.’’ He glanced at his notes. They might as well have been written in Chinese for all the good they were doing him. He looked out across the congregation, some serious faces, some bored, old Grandpa Peabody nodding off already, others nodding encouragement. ‘‘Ought against any,’’ he repeated, then studied his hands. Finding no inspiration there, he sucked in a deep breath, sighed it out, and started again. ‘‘We think of Jesus as our loving Savior and friend, just as we sang only a few minutes ago—‘What a Friend We Have in Jesus.’ And we do. But Jesus spoke some hard sayings, some confusing sayings, and this is one.

  ‘‘Perhaps it is more so to me, since I have been reminded so forcefully of a situation in my own life where, after wounding a friend of mine, I sought to ask for forgiveness and that person had disappeared. I never was able to make it right. Yes, I tried, but did I try hard enough? Did God forgive me? Yes, I believe he did, because the Bible says’’—he held up his worn leather-bound book—‘‘right here that if we confess our sins, God ‘is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.’ I believe that.

  ‘‘So then, what do I do with the words ‘ought against any’? Do I leave my gift at the altar as Scripture says and go search for this person? How do I do that? There’s another verse, found in our Lord’s prayer. ‘Forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors.’ Does that mean that unless I forgive others, God will not forgive me? Yes, it does. Matthew 6:15 says, ‘But if ye forgive not men their trespasses, neither will your Father forgive your trespasses.’ ‘‘As I said, these Scriptures are heavy and confusing and burdensome. Let me ask of you—is there someone you have not forgiven, someone you’ve been bearing a grudge against for a short time or a long time because, after all, it was their fault and not yours? ‘Ought against any.’’’

  Another silence stretched. Boots scraped against the floor as someone shifted in his seat. ‘‘We are told to never let a root of bitterness grow, and yet family members or friends might not speak to one another for years.

  ‘‘We know Scripture says, ‘Be reconciled to thy brother.’ But we say, ‘But, Lord, they do the same thing over and over.’’’ Jacob nodded. ‘‘So then what? We go back to the Bible, which teaches us how to live. Peter asked the same question, and Jesus answered, ‘I say not unto thee until seven times, but, until seventy times seven.’ That’s a whole lot of forgiving.’’ Jacob looked out at his people. Some were no longer looking at him. Some were nodding. A scowl or two creased other faces. ‘‘I pray that God will give each and every one of us the grace to be ‘doers of the word, and not hearers only.’ Amen.’’

  He stepped from behind the pulpit and raised his hands for the benediction. ‘‘The Lord bless us and keep us. The Lord look upon us with favor and grant us His peace. Amen.’’

  A moment of silence followed, then he nodded to the organist. ‘‘Our closing hymn is number 315. ‘Abide With Me’.’’

  That was the shortest sermon he’d ever preached.

  Perhaps he’d keep his notes for another time, since they hadn’t been used today. During the final stanza he made his way down the aisle to the front doors where he shook hands with everyone who didn’t slip out the side doors. Some did. Was that an acknowledgment of guilt or just that they were in a hurry?

  All the way to Mr. Dumfarthing’s house he castigated himself for being too hard on his people, for using his own life as a poor example, for failing his Lord so miserably for so long. To his surprise, Mr. Dumfarthing was sitting in a rocker on the front porch, a robe spread over his knees and a shawl tucked around his bent shoulders.

  ‘‘You look mighty down in the mouth, young man,’’ Mr. Dumfarthing said after the exchange of greetings. ‘‘Matilde will have dinner ready in a few minutes.’’ He smoothed the robe with fingers knobbed and bent by arthritis. ‘‘I hear you gave ’em what for.’’

  ‘‘You heard already?’’ Jacob looked up from studying his clasped hands, elbows resting on bent knees. He’d loosened his tie on the walk over and slung his suit coat over his shoulder so he could roll back his shirt sleeves.

  ‘‘Oh yes. Things get around right fast here in the valley.’’

  ‘‘I just read the Scriptures.’’ And declared my struggle with it. If I can’t get it right, how can I expect anyone else to?

  ‘‘That’s what’s different about you, son.’’

  ‘‘What?’’

  ‘‘You admit you’re as human as the rest of us.’’

  Jacob snorted. ‘‘Was there ever any doubt?’’

  ‘‘Dinner is served.’’ Matilde pushed open the screen door. ‘‘I could bring it out here.’’

  ‘‘No. We’ll eat in the dining room since you have it all set up.’’ Mr. Dumfarthing held out a hand. ‘‘Could you give an old man an assist?’’

  ‘‘Speaking of changes, the other day you about bit my head off, and today you are out here enjoying the sunshine.’’ Jacob held on to Mr. Dumfarthing’s arm while he got his balance. ‘‘I can carry you, you know.’’

  ‘‘I might be old, but I’m not an invalid.’’ The snap had returned to his voice.

  Taking as much of Mr. Dumfarthing’s weight as possible without actually lifting him, Jacob assisted him back into the house and down the hal
l to the dining room. The drapes had been pulled back off the windows, and the table that had been pushed back against the wall to make room for the bed was now set, and the candles lit.

  After a fine dinner and enjoyable conversation, Jacob thanked his host and whistled his way down the walk. On the way home he pondered the change in the old man. All he could come up with was that it must be the grace of God. All those times he’d performed his perfunctory visit, counting the moments until he could politely leave, and today it had been like talking with his grandfather, a man now gone on to his reward.

  His being in the ministry was thanks to his grandfather’s prayers and the money he’d invested in Jacob’s schooling.

  What a glorious day it was. Perhaps he’d use some of this lovely weather to set out the tomato and pepper plants he’d started on the windowsills. Surely the danger of frost was past, and if it got cold again he’d cover the tender seedlings.

  Later that evening after planting a small garden and eating a supper of the leftovers Matilde sent home with him, he sat reading the weekly newspaper with a refill of tea in the mug beside his chair. But his mind kept returning to his sermon. If only I could remember all that I said. That was the advantage of writing out his sermons. He had the notes for later. But not today. He leaned back and let his eyes close. ‘‘Ought against any.’’ His mind drifted back those seven, nearly eight, years ago when he was about to be graduated from high school. When he’d been so in love with Melody Fisher that he thought of little else but her. Even when he was milking the cows in the morning before leaving for school or helping his father build the new machine shed in the afternoons, he’d thought of her. They’d been hammering shingles on the roof when he nearly slid off because he wasn’t paying close attention. He could feel the heat of the hammer handle in his hand, hear the tap, bang, bang it took for his father to drive the nails home.

  The tapping continued as he roused himself to reach for his now cooled tea. Was someone at the door? He heaved himself to his feet. ‘‘Coming.’’