120 Mph (3 page)

To make it far worse than it should be,
the older woman spoke out, “Christian needs a good woman in his life.”

“Excuse me?” Sara rushed at the aged
face, dragged away from the slightly painful memories of which couldn’t be
changed.

“A good woman.” The old woman nodded.
“Someone just like you, perhaps.”

Dear Lord! She’d nearly made it sound as
if saying so would make it so. A lie, if ever heard.

Sara wasn’t minister’s wife quality. She
was more the . . . Well, she didn’t have any particular qualities any man of greater
quality wanted. As far as she knew, she was untouchable and undesirable.

“Yes, um, I am sure he does,” she said
flatly.

A woman in that man’s life could have
certainly done more good than harm and would’ve been able to show him the ropes
on how to behave when a stranger accidently bumps into him, and how to have used
polite generosity as part of those lessons learned. As well, how not to make a
stranger so afraid for her very life the moment he opens his mouth, that she
was now shaking in her shoes.

“But I am not that woman,” Sara declared
firmly. She even shook her head to deny it as such.

A simple smile came her way. “No? Well,
just this once, I do believe that darling man knows what he wants, whether you want
to believe it or not. In all good conscience I can tell you he’s been wrong
once or twice. . .” Her pinched lips then confirmed there might have been a
witnessed occasion when he was. “—But not this time. He was looking at you as
if there was no one else.”

Sara could not believe she was having
this particular conversation with another, moreover, a stranger to discuss the
needs of one who was out of earshot. Yet her curiosity had been piqued, and
that warranted further explanations as to why a man just met on the front lawn
during a yard sale was interested in her, and not someone more
worthy
.

As well, why Christian Mohr had the
intention to come to her home at eight o’clock tomorrow evening when he was not
properly invited to do so.

Without pause the woman added, “My dear,
Our Heavenly Father works in rather mysterious, unexplainable ways. If
He
intended the two of you were to find each other, you would have. And that
He
did this right on my front lawn, of all places, was a sign from above.” She
quickly turned on her heels and walked away, having said the last word, drawn back
to her knitting.

“Would and did?” Sara questioned under
her breath. “As if.”

She gave one last look at the old woman
who sat down in a rocker equally as old as the woman. One last look made to
catch the smile on the old woman’s face and the twinkle in her wizened eyes.

From it, it was all Sara could do to
make her feet move forward, toward her car and with bowl in hand.

Once inside her convertible, she set the
bowl directly on the floor mat. The bowl might only have a minuscule crack the
naked eye would have missed if not looking for, but as was said, she didn’t own
the bowl. Christian Mohr did.

Reverend
Christian Mohr.

In addition, he had very blatantly
stated on a scrap of paper he had every intention of coming to her place to
retrieve said bowl, and he would expect it to be in the condition bought as.

A crack could easily destroy the whole
bowl if not properly taken care of. But if he was one of those guys who simply
had to preach to her . . . ?

Well, he damn well better expect a
slammed door in his face. Sara being polite enough to actually invite him
inside her apartment was not about to happen. She was not going to let any
Man
of the Cloth
come near to her, as this one likely desired too. She would
take the bowl directly to him. And if she could not find Mr. Mohr right away,
she would just leave it as an offering on his church steps. She sure as Hell
would not be walking inside his church.

Sara hadn’t confirmed his religion from
the old woman. Their small town of only thirty-five hundred people had three
very different denominations—Lutheran, Catholic, and Presbyterian; three very
different church buildings to hold those three very different denominations,
and the buildings listed in consecutive order as showy, old, and the third a
near shack. If Mr. Mohr, Father Mohr, or whatever a
Man of the Cloth
desired to call himself these days, was a Catholic priest, at least Sara’s sins
could be forgiven right away. She wouldn’t have to wait until Judgment Day to
gain forgiveness.

A Man of the Cloth should be able to give
Sara absolution before the end of the day, at the very latest tomorrow night;
say, around eight o’clock—as the slip of paper had read.

Somehow, she could not check her smile.
Reverend, priest, or simply
Man of the cloth
, there wasn’t much Mr. Mohr
could do about what she’d done eight years prior. Sara had hid her secret well.
And no one ever would be able to find it if she played her cards right and did not
tempt fate’s hand for the second time.

Chapter
Four

Christian Mohr turned the page of his
bible, but his heart was not in the Scripture, any more than his actions had
not been in the deeds. He set aside the worn book and slanted his head toward
the window. It was raining. A few hours ago it had been a truly stunning
afternoon with the promise of an even better tomorrow.

October was his favorite time of
year—until lately, that is. Now the cold rain mocked his calling and had him
second-guessing what he was still doing with his time in Preacher’s Bend. Rain
always mocked a man of his demons set at heart.

Christian was fully aware he had demons
inside the heart. He wouldn’t say otherwise. They came during time of weakness,
and they never left his body—or his thoughts—until gained their pound of flesh
from his soul. Every waking minute he could remember her face, feel the touch
of her skin, smell the scent of her rose water perfume, as if it was only
yesterday he’d held her in his arms and kissed her lips, still very much in
love.

His frown came quick. Love was never
what it had been. Yesterday was gone. Today it had been sunny. Tonight, the
rain came, washing away the path of a man’s footsteps; washing away any past
mistakes.

The moment he’d turned around and faced Ms.
Ruby he’d felt his day as if a gift from God. He knew damn well she’d
accidentally bumped into him. And what did he do for her apology? He’d turned
into a man not worthy of life. He made the poor woman afraid of him.

The only thing to do with such a
magnanimous mistake and to make up for any fear he’d caused was to buy the
bowl. He knew it had caught Ms. Ruby’s interest, as well her eye. That small
piece of the past would now give him reasonable excuse to see her again. And he
surely wanted to see her again. As a man, he had his reasons. As a minister,
his reasons were a little clouded.

Sara Ruby. Just the name brought
incredible shame to his soul. Why he let slip off the tongue that he was
following her, was beyond mere thought. He hadn’t been. A lousy one-liner that
burst into flames the moment it came out of his mouth.

Nevertheless, Christian had been
following her—in a way. Ms. Ruby had done a supposedly terrible injustice to
the men in this town.  Not an injustice to him, per say, though he certainly a
man. Yet, to single-handedly close the only male entertainment in Preacher’s
Bend was to have single-handedly pissed off all the men desiring that entertainment.
Not quite Christian’s cup of tea—but who was he to judge what other men found
entertaining. He’d meant only to protect a rather vulnerable woman, until she
could better protect herself.

He never meant to terrify her. The look
in her eyes when he refused to take her hand had spoken volumes of her fears.

She was hiding something from all others.
Christian knew exactly what that was. He was no Saint. He had his own sins to bear.

As his gaze drifted away from the window
and his thoughts slowly pulled from the past, he knew that for Sara Ruby to be
able to defend her body from her enemies was closer to never, than it sooner to
nearer. She was a sinner of the worst kind. Gorgeous, thin, quite brilliant in
her field, and truly determined to get her way—at all cost—she had no clue what
was good for her. Nor was she at all concerned who her enemies were.

In fact, the woman was incredibly naïve—albeit
beautiful—in the eyes of man.

Problem was she had no real fear to
check the naivety.

This made her even more dangerous for
Christian to deal with and protect.

He pushed away from the table and made
his way to his small kitchen. A tiny space, not more than ten feet by six, but
served him well enough, he set a firm hand to his refrigerator door. A hasty
pull on the handle found access to the beer he’d placed inside the humming
appliance. He would have called the monstrosity an energy guzzler, but it was
the only thing he’d paid for all on his own. The rest of his appliances came
from elders of the community who felt sorry for him over the years.

Shoot! There was nothing to feel sorry
for. He liked living simple. He liked sparse furnishings and old appliances
that ate the soul out of a huge electric company. It brought him closer to God.
Well, as close as God would allow Christian to come—for now.

Right now, the Almighty and Christian
were at a crossroad. God wanted Christian to do his will, chose the right path,
which he had been—
was doing
. And Christian wanted God to grant him peace
from his thoughts; let him chose his own path. They were not exactly seeing
eye-to-eye for the moment. Any peace he’d wanted hadn’t come his way and he was
damn sick of holding his breath for it to happen.

The one can of beer was all he took out
of a near empty refrigerator. There were more inside of it, but this one
sufficed to the task.

He went back to the desk, set the beer
can on top of the clutter he’d already spent hours working on, and sat down in
his worn chair. Christian then stared at the can, resting his chin on folded
knuckles, his elbows propped on the desk.

A beer can did him no harm, but he
wasn’t taking any chances with it being nearer him. He leaned forward,
readjusted its position at a full arm’s length away, and waited for God to
strike him dead.

Nothing happened.

Then how was it a lousy beer can could mock
him as much as the rain was? Drawing his thoughts away from the can, Christian
leaned to his left, opened the bottom drawer of his desk, and pulled out the bound
journal. Every Friday night its pages gained an entry from his hand.

This was expected tradition, and who was
he to break with tradition when spared most all else trouble. Every Reverend
who had ever stepped foot inside this humble town, good or bad, was to write
his life story inside this particular book. They called it the Book of Secrets,
for it surely held all those of the men before him, and those who would come
after Christian when it was time to move on. All the sordid thoughts, the
trials and tribulations, even the unanswered prayers were scripted within the
leather-bound book. A written confessional of every sin imaginable was on its yellowed
pages. Due to its age, that was a whole lot of sin scripted out from mortal
man.

With the beer can placed beside his worn
Bible, tonight’s entry into the journal would be considerably long. Christian’s
life was a mess right now. The worse it got, the more words he would put to pen.

He gathered his breath, picked up his
pen, and started to write. Pencil would have been better. However, using a
pencil would’ve been far too easy to erase one’s mistakes—physically, and
literally. The point of the book was to confess one’s mistakes, not erase them as
easily as fog on hot summer day.

Confession was one thing. Visible
reminding and easy access was the golden rule of this process. It might be
called the Book of Secrets, but Christian was not yet ready to share all of
his.

The sentences flowed from his brain to
yellowed paper bounded by time and craft. This was the easy part. The hard part
would be able to finish at least three full pages . . . without any of the
words containing beer, Bible, God . . . or Sara Ruby.

Last Friday night, these were the only
things his journal entry contained: God, Bible, beer and Sara Ruby. And not
necessarily in that order, or to the same degree of the other; and his very
reason for such a crappy sermon on Sunday morning, and a truly flowery lecture
from the church elders late Sunday afternoon.

According to those who live in
Preacher’s Bend, who came to church on a regular basis, discounting the
hypocritical Easter/Christmas attendees, Christian was not to have told his
flock they were all going to burn in Hell. He’d meant it to come out in a good
way—an entirely different way than said. The sins of man forgiven by the
Creator, and all that . . .

They’d taken it as another, however.

Every single member of his church
thought he or she was told they were physically going to Hell by what Christian
stated with conviction upon the pulpit. Some of them were headed its way, oddly
enough. Christian could do nothing on his own to save the souls of those
particular folks. They’d made their beds and would have to lie in those beds
come Judgment Day, same as everyone else. He’d only meant to scare them a
little; perhaps have taught a few, not a lot, a rather valuable lesson on
pointing an accusing finger at the wrong individual. He firmly believed a man
should never raise his finger unless to point it at a mirror.

As was said, they’d taken his sermon
truly out of context.

Good Lord! His ears were still ringing
from Harriet Thorn’s livid ranting on why he dared say what he had, and then put
thought to get away with it. He was supposed to follow the Scripture . . . word
for word. He thought he had.

Apparently, he’d not followed it according
to an incredibly angry woman who threatened no more goodies brought over until
he gave her something she can actually leave her pew smiling about. Perhaps
Harriet Thorn should have behaved in her younger years, and would then have had
something to smile about. Yet that was between God and Harriet, not Christian
and a threat to have his apple pie taken away if ever he pissed her off.

According to the laws of a man’s
punishment, surely not befitting the crime in any sense of the word, Harriet
had openly informed him he’d done exactly this. He pissed her off.

Christian smiled by remembrance alone.

A damn funny sentence heard, coming from
an old woman. He pissed her off.

Harriet was an incredible cook. One of
the best this county had ever seen. She baked until blue in the face, and a pie
once a month for the Reverend of Grace Lutheran Church was something he actually
looked forward too. More often than not, he was willing to accommodate the old
bat’s wishes if it meant his cupboards stocked.

Not this time, however. No. Sunday
morning, around nine a.m. to be precise, Reverend Christian Mohr made Mrs. Harriet
Thorn so mad she threatened abandonment of his supplied larder on a permanent
basis.

Perhaps if he’d had a commanding
presence in his life while growing up, he would’ve noticed the threat for what
it was. An empty stomach with constant complaint was hard to deal with while
trying in vain to get any work accomplished.

However, Christian was not going to grovel
or cave in to Harriet’s demands, and he was not going to retract his sermon
next Sunday morning either. Though his lesson learned, he hadn’t chanced
starving to death and had done his grocery shopping on the way home from Church
today. His freezer was now stock-plied with MSG loaded, no nutritional value
whatsoever, microwave dinners—all thirty-one of them; one for each night’s
meal, unless he could finagle a home-cooked supper out of a kind-hearted soul
who felt sorry for him.

He might be able to spout out a
demanding performance upon the pulpit, but Christian could not cook a damn
thing to save his own skin. Besides, how in Heaven’s Bells did Harriet think he
could even do such a thing? Retract a sermon. He hadn’t made those words up.
They’d been right in front of his face, dead center to left within his
Bible—same as hers.

Those words clearly stated that unless
you checked your anger at the door, God was going to do it for you.

How clearer could that have been to the
old woman?

This was the only reason he even stopped
at Harriet’s yard sale. He went there to apologize, and to put a firm hand
down, and then show her exactly where he’d gotten the idea.

She, in turn, made him a deal he simply
could not refuse, and proceeded to give him a sound piece of advice he dared
not refuse, as well. Harriet had made it a point to hold out the punishment for
a full week. Hence, the bare refrigerator and a man’s growling stomach at the
worst possible time.

She’d told him that if he wanted to
point out Scripture, when she could damn well read it herself, he had better
buy something off her tables before getting back into his car to head home.

He did. He then gave that something to
Sara. He surely did not want a bowl from days gone by, or from the house of an
angry woman. A man had his pride to consider.

Christian’s head so stuck in the past
last Sunday morning, he knew quite well he’d went on and on over trivial
matters upon the pulpit. With his three worst demons staring him in the face
right at this very moment, this past was catching up to his heels yet again. He
never put much thought to it that a man’s sins could overtake all else, but he’d
been proven wrong—in spades . . . a whole seven dollars and fifty cents wrong.

A man’s past never truly releases its
firm grasp from the soul, unless that soul is fulfilled by something far better.

Christian’s past was so empty and so
unfulfilled he didn’t dare close his eyes and expect a miracle to come his way,
or for anything to change. He was . . . what he was. A thirty-two-year old man,
widowed, and filled with sin beyond any confessional capabilities a tiny
leather-bound journal could hold.

Pen in hand, he went back to the task of
writing, while listening to the soothing sound rain made when falling on the earth.
A man’s heart was easily settled by the sound of the rain. Christian’s heart,
however, had been broken in two the day Beale died. There was no more settling
to be done. No more settling he even wanted done.