Opal Read online

  He blinked to clear his eyes before opening the door. ‘‘Yes?’’

  ‘‘I hate to bother you. . . .’’ Matilde paused and half shrugged. ‘‘Mr. Dumfarthing would like to see you.’’

  ‘‘Is he all right?’’ Immediate thoughts of deathbed confessions raced through Jacob’s mind. Please, Lord . . .

  ‘‘I think he had a bit of a spell this evening. Scared me somewhat, you know.’’

  ‘‘Of course. Come in while I get my coat.’’ Jacob stepped back. ‘‘Forgive my poor manners.’’

  ‘‘No. I think I’ll start on back. You can outwalk me by a country mile.’’ She turned to leave. ‘‘You’ll come right away?’’

  ‘‘Yes. I just need to put out the lamp.’’ Jacob left the door open, and before the smoke from the kerosene lamp dissipated, he was out the door. His prayers accompanied the rhythm of his stride. Please, Lord, let this not be the end but rather a beginning. Please, Lord, I need your wisdom. Please, Father God.

  He passed Matilde before she reached her gate.

  ‘‘You go right on in. He’s in bed.’’ She paused with a hand to her chest. ‘‘Got to get my breath again.’’

  ‘‘No rush. You needn’t hurry now.’’ Jacob patted her shoulder, all the while his thoughts on Please, Lord. He leaped up the steps to the front door and made his way down the hall to the dining room turned bedroom. Mr. Dumfarthing lay with his eyes closed, the flickering candle by the bedside casting deep shadows in his closed eyes and highlighting the prominent nose, hawklike due to the weight the man had lost with his illness. Jacob had seen pictures of the man when he was younger, a very imposing figure with a large girth due to rich living—a far cry from the wizened creature that awaited him.

  ‘‘Mr. Dumfarthing?’’

  ‘‘I thought we agreed you would call me Evan.’’

  Jacob breathed a sigh of relief. Appearances could indeed be deceiving. ‘‘Yes. You called, Evan?’’

  ‘‘I did. And thank you for coming.’’

  ‘‘You’re most welcome.’’

  ‘‘Don’t go looming like that. Take a seat. I’m not dying, at least I don’t think yet.’’

  ‘‘I’m glad to hear that. And don’t you dare make mention of the church, meaning me, looking toward your money.’’

  A slight cackle brought on a coughing bout. ‘‘Caught me out, did you? So if I offered you something, you’d turn it down?’’

  ‘‘If you mean for me personally—I’d turn it down. For the church? That I would consider. I need to be a good steward, you know.’’

  ‘‘Don’t burn your bridges, and all that?’’

  ‘‘Correct.’’

  ‘‘The church has many needs.’’

  ‘‘Yes.’’ Jacob set a chair close by the bed. ‘‘It does. But how can I help you this evening?’’ He heard Mrs. Howard walking down the hall. She would feel obligated to offer him coffee or tea and be offended if he turned her down. He sat, then leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

  ‘‘I didn’t hold truck with the former pastor, you know.’’

  ‘‘I heard mention of that, but I learned long ago to not believe too much in gossip.’’

  ‘‘Obsequious, that’s what he was.’’

  Jacob leaned against the back of his chair. ‘‘I’m sure he did his best.’’

  ‘‘Ha. His best to get money out of me.’’

  ‘‘ ‘God loveth a cheerful giver.’ ’’ Jacob fought to keep a straight face.

  One eye opened halfway. ‘‘Don’t you go all pious on me.’’

  ‘‘I have no intention of it.’’ Two could play this game. ‘‘Just doing my job as the pastor of Valley Bible Church.’’

  ‘‘Is that your tongue bulging that cheek?’’

  Jacob shrugged and leaned forward again. ‘‘What is it you need?’’ He wanted to reach out and cover the thin fingers that plucked at the quilt edge.

  ‘‘I need to know one thing.’’

  Jacob waited, as did the silence.

  ‘‘If I die tonight, will I go to heaven?’’ Both eyes opened, and the hand stilled.

  ‘‘Do you believe Jesus Christ is the son of the living God?’’

  ‘‘I do.’’

  ‘‘Do you believe He died for your sins, as well as the sins of the whole world?’’

  ‘‘I do.’’

  ‘‘Have you asked Him to forgive your sins?’’

  ‘‘I have.’’

  ‘‘Then, yes, if you were to die this instant you would join Him in paradise.’’

  ‘‘You say that with certainty.’’

  ‘‘Because that is what the Bible says.’’

  The old man nodded, slowly and with care. ‘‘Thank you. Just thought I’d better make certain.’’

  ‘‘Are you planning on dying tonight?’’

  ‘‘Nope, nor tomorrow night either. But with my ticker, one never knows.’’

  ‘‘Seems to me you are healthier than I’ve ever seen you.’’

  ‘‘As I said, just wanted to make certain.’’

  ‘‘Would you like me to read you the promises?’’

  Evan reached over and rang the bell that sat on the nightstand.

  Mrs. Howard must have been waiting right outside the door. ‘‘Sir?’’

  ‘‘Why didn’t you just come in instead of trying to hear through the wood? Can we have some tea?’’

  ‘‘Of course.’’ She glanced at Jacob, caught his slight smile, and left the room with a satisfied nod. ‘‘I’ll be back in two shakes of a rabbit’s tail.’’

  ‘‘She was fretting about me.’’

  ‘‘She cares for you.’’

  Dumfarthing pointed to a Bible on the long narrow table in front of the drape-covered window. ‘‘Read from that one and mark the places.’’

  Jacob did as asked, sipped his tea, ate the cookies, and slipped out when Evan Dumfarthing began to snore.

  Mrs. Howard walked him to the door. ‘‘Thank you for coming.’’

  ‘‘Tell him I prayed for him and will continue to do so. And tell him he can pray for me when he gets bored.’’

  Her chuckle followed him out into the night.

  Dancing, leaping, and clicking his heels seemed an appropriate mode of making his way home, but he let his heart do it all for him. This was why he went into the ministry. That others could know, absolutely know, where they stood in eternal life.

  Just before going inside his own house, he raised his voice beyond conversation. ‘‘Thank you, Father. Thank you!’’

  Miss Honey Witherspoon might well have been waiting around the corner, her meeting with him the next morning was so fortuitous. He smiled politely, greeting her with perfect manners, rigidly offered.

  ‘‘Mama said that if I should happen to see you, I was to invite you for coffee.’’ She twirled her parasol over one shoulder.

  ‘‘I . . . ah . . .’’ He sighed in resignation. He had no excuses, none that could be dredged up without sounding like exactly that. ‘‘Thank your mother for me. I’ll put my letters in the box and come right along.’’

  ‘‘Oh, I shall walk with you, then, as I must do the same.’’ Her smile and fluttering eyelashes looked to have been well practiced but did nothing to accomplish their intended purpose.

  He could hear his heart slam the door as he sighed. Should he offer his arm or would that only encourage her? How could he be polite and not show undue interest?

  When he escaped the Witherspoon home half an hour later, the earliest he could manage, he longed for the woodpile. Surely there must be some young man in the neighboring hamlets that would love to be the recipient of this mother and daughter’s adoring machinations. At the moment he knew of none. What was a man to do? This situation should have been covered in seminary. Escaping Mamas’ Clutches 101. Surely he was not the only young minister to encounter this predicament.

  That week two of his congregants stopped him on the street to thank him for his Sunday sermon. If onl
y he could put his own struggles out of his heart and get some sleep, he’d have been more able to rejoice with them.

  If only there were some way for him to make amends.

  By Saturday he’d given up on finding inspiration for a new sermon and decided to use his notes from the previous week. Unless the Holy Spirit took over again. The stacks of split wood had grown too. Perhaps he should go into the business of providing split wood instead of spiritual counsel for the members of his congregation.

  The lower attendance at church the next morning could be attributed to the thunder and pouring rain, but he wondered. Had some folks found his message offensive? Had he probed too deeply? Yet it was amazing how the sermon he’d written for last week was the ideal follow-up for him to preach this week. God surely had planned that well.

  Standing at the front door after the service, he shook hands with all who exited the church. ‘‘Thank you, Pastor,’’ one of the women said with an extra shake of his hand. ‘‘One of these days you and I got to talk about what you said last Sunday.’’ She leaned closer, tears glistening in her eyes. ‘‘And it’s all good.’’

  ‘‘I’ll look forward to that.’’ She’d never know how much her tears meant. Thank you, Father.

  One by one the remaining congregants took his outstretched hand as he thanked them for coming and gave them a ‘‘God bless you.’’ Some looked him in the eye and thanked him; others, with downcast eyes, mumbled a greeting and hurried out the door.

  The storm had passed, leaving the world washed new, the air so fresh as to be intoxicating as he made his way to visit with Evan Dumfarthing again. This was indeed the day that the Lord had made.

  That night while he sat reading, he heard a knock on the door. When he opened it, a young woman stood on the porch, her hands locked on the shoulders of a young boy.

  Jacob blinked once and then again. ‘‘Melody?’’ Surely the wraith before him wasn’t her. Surely he was sleepwalking or dreaming or something.

  ‘‘Yes.’’

  He stepped back. ‘‘Please, won’t you come in? You won’t believe . . .’’

  ‘‘Jacob, I cannot stay.’’ She covered her mouth with her hand to cough, a deep cough that shook her so severely the boy turned to look up at her. Was that a streak of blood on her chin?

  ‘‘You all right, Mama?’’

  ‘‘Yes, Joel.’’ She pushed him slightly forward. ‘‘I’m sorry, Jacob, but I have nowhere else to turn. I want you to meet your son, Joel.’’

  ‘‘My son? Surely you . . .’’ But he took one look into her painwracked eyes and knew she wasn’t fooling.

  ‘‘You must have him now. I’m very ill, and I cannot—’’ She coughed again. She pushed the boy forward. ‘‘Good-bye, son. Be good for your papa.’’ With a blood-stained handkerchief covering her mouth, she turned and ran.

  Jacob stared at the boy, who in turn stared back at him for a heart-stopping moment before they both jumped to follow her.

  ‘‘Mama!’’

  ‘‘Melody, wait!’’ Jacob leaped from the porch. ‘‘Stay right there,’’ he ordered the boy and ran down the walk. But he was not in time to stop the buggy from being pulled westward by galloping horses. ‘‘Melody!’’ His cry echoed from the valley sides.

  CHAPTER SIX

  ‘‘Miss Torvald, would it be too much to ask for you to pay attention?’’

  Opal jerked back to the schoolroom. She blinked a couple of times. ‘‘Ah, ah sure.’’

  Snickers from the other pupils in the room told her she’d not made quite the right answer. Even Mr. Finch ducked to hide his smirk. Emily Robertson, who shared her desk, nudged her with her foot.

  ‘‘Say sorry,’’ she hissed in a whisper.

  ‘‘Sorry, sir.’’ Opal sat up straighter and plastered a smile on her face, a smile that never made it farther than her skin. No, maybe a smile wasn’t the best idea. She sobered up and kept herself from glancing back out the window. Outside where the birds were singing, the sun shone warm and golden, the breeze would cool her neck, and she could ride Bay out across the breaks, searching out the hiding cattle, fishing the pools and rifts of the river. Anything would be better than staying here.

  If she had anything to say about it, this would be her last year in school. Especially with this joke of a teacher. Out of his hearing, they often referred to him as Flinch. She knew more than he did about the really important things, like riding, roping, ranching, hunting, fishing, and if she had her way, she’d take on horses to train for others. Rand had recognized early on that she had a way with horses, and with all that Linc had to teach her, she figured she could make a good living as a horse trainer. Someday.

  Now if she could only convince Ruby.

  She carefully kept at least one ear on what was happening in the classroom. Embarrassment bit like a mosquito, itching for a long time after. If only Mrs. Hegland had continued teaching. Opal had loved school then. But their former teacher, the first in the area, had married a carpenter named Carl Hegland, and they had a little girl and another baby under the apron.

  Opal had overheard that phrase and thought it especially appropriate when womenfolk tried to talk without letting on what was really going on. What did they think? Kids were blind or deaf? Of course, she’d overheard it down at the barn when one of the hands made a comment about Ruby, then ducked away when he saw Opal standing there.

  Opal felt another nudge on her ankle, enough to bring her back to the warm and airless schoolroom. Her mind would just not stay corralled this day. She’d rope it and drag it squalling back, like a calf being drug in for branding, but before she knew it, it would be gallivanting off and she’d have to start all over again. Lucky Atticus. He was out in the fields. Sure he was working hard, but at least he could move.

  She knew if she wiggled again, old Finch would stare at her with what he thought a glare and she thought a joke. Keeping from laughing at times was as hard as sitting still. When she was waiting near the deer trail down to the river, she could sit still as a rabbit froze under a bush when an eagle flies over. The deer never knew she was there. But here?

  She stretched her head to the side to pull a crick out of her neck. Surely it must be about recess time. The seat seemed sunk permanently into her rear. A sigh brought another nudge. How could Emily sit so perfectly still? Opal glanced over. Emily had a different book propped behind the history text she was supposed to be reading.

  Mr. Fitch droned on like a fat bumblebee over a bed of marigolds. Only he wasn’t fat. He was skinny like a . . . let’s see—she needed a simile or a metaphor. Opal found her chalk and scribbled a sentence on her slate. Skinny like Cat got when nursing her babies—simile. Rail thin—metaphor but a cliché.

  ‘‘Miss Torvald?’’

  She looked up. ‘‘Yes, sir?’’

  ‘‘You are to be listening. You will be tested on this lecture material tomorrow.’’

  ‘‘Yes, sir. I was just working on our English lesson. I find metaphor and simile most fascinating, don’t you?’’

  ‘‘Oh, well, I see. But we are in history now, and I’d rather you paid attention to this.’’

  ‘‘Sorry, sir. Of course I will.’’ In a pig’s eye. And that’s a cliché too. She knew she could look innocent if she made some kind of effort. For that look she received another ankle nudge. This time she nudged back.

  By the time school was dismissed Opal felt as if she’d been dragged by a runaway cow. ‘‘You want to ride with me as far as the turnoff?’’ she asked Virginia.

  ‘‘Sure.’’ Virginia glanced at her sisters. ‘‘Beats riding dumb Blaze.’’ The Robertson girls had two horses on which they took turns riding double. Blaze was both hammer-headed and hammer-footed. Even his walk was a trial. And since they usually slow-jogged homeward, the two who suffered through riding him were ready for anything else. But horses were expensive, and Mr. Robertson said they were lucky to have horses to ride at all and they should quit complaining. Blaze did fine pulling the
sleigh in the winter.

  After letting Virginia off at their lane and riding on home, Opal dismounted at the corral and dropped Bay’s reins to the ground. She set her saddle over the rack braced on the wall and took off the bridle, freeing her horse to graze. She hung up her bridle and headed for the house and something to eat. Amazing how hungry one could get in a boring classroom and after a strenuous ride home.

  They should have stopped to catch some fish for supper.

  ‘‘How did your day go?’’ Ruby asked when Opal came through the door.

  ‘‘Fine.’’

  ‘‘Really?’’

  ‘‘No, not really, but how did you know?’’

  ‘‘Your ‘fine’ wasn’t.’’ Ruby set a flatiron back on the stove.

  ‘‘There are fresh ginger cookies in the jar, and the buttermilk should be cool in the springhouse by now. Help yourself.’’ She attached the handle to a hot iron and returned to the ironing board. ‘‘Days like this I sure miss Daisy doing the ironing.’’ Daisy, who had married Charlie, was one of the ‘‘girls’’ from Dove House whom Ruby had agreed to care for when her dying father asked. Charlie had been the bartender.

  ‘‘Where’s Per?’’

  ‘‘Still asleep. He didn’t want to take a nap.’’

  ‘‘About as much as I wanted to sit in that stifling classroom and listen to a dull teacher. Why they ever hired him is beyond me.’’ Opal chomped into a cookie and, shaking her head, headed out the back door.

  The springhouse was snugged up against the hill behind the house. Water trickled into a wooden trough and out a hollow wooden pipe at the other end to wend its way to the creek again. A peeper frog greeted the squeak of the opening door, and Opal paused to let her eyes adjust to the room lit only by the open door. Jugs of milk and cream sat in the cool water, and baskets of eggs lined the shelf above. Haunches of smoked meat hung from the low rafters, while clay crocks of salted sausage and pickles stood against the thick stone-and-mortar walls. No cooler place could be found during the hot summer days unless one floated under a wide-branched tree on the river.