A Lady in Defiance (36 page)

Chaffing under Rebecca’s gentle, but honest, scrutiny, Naomi
rubbed her neck and sat down on the bed. Why were she and Mr. McIntyre as
compatible as oil and water? Naomi wondered if she was afraid of making friends
with him because it stepped on the relationship she’d had with John. Or was
Rebecca right and she just thought she was too good to share the love of God
with such an accomplished sinner? Was it all of the above or was there
something else here entirely? 

“Look, Naomi,” Rebecca moved to sit beside her on the bed,
“God loves Mr. McIntyre just like he loves the rest of us. Showing him some
compassion, some kindness doesn’t make you unfaithful to John.” Rebecca draped
her arm over Naomi’s shoulders. “And it doesn’t mean you approve of Mr.
McIntyre’s lifestyle. He is lost and I think he is hurting, but I also think
God is moving in his life; otherwise he wouldn’t be shutting down the saloon.”
She hugged her sister for encouragement then squeezed her shoulder
affectionately. “Pray about it…about him.”

After Rebecca left, Naomi sat on the bed a long while
pondering her sister’s sage advice and wondering just why it was that she had
such turmoil in her heart. She knelt right there beside the bed and prayed for
clarity. By and by what came through was that she did owe Mr. McIntyre an
apology. Oh, she had to wrestle with God over that. After all, she argued, it
was Mr. McIntyre who employed the prostitutes like Mollie, supplied the liquor
to the customers, and then paraded the girls in front of them. But it was also
true that Mollie and her customer had made their own choices.

As a sinner, Mr. McIntyre was just as in need of seeing the
extended hand of Jesus as the Flowers or anyone else in this town. Salvation,
the Lord reminded her, was not about giving a man what he deserved. It was
about the grace of God. She had availed herself of that grace many times. Why
was Mr. McIntyre less worthy?

He wasn’t, she acknowledged. And she determined to apologize
at the earliest opportunity, though her stomach felt queasy at the thought.
Seeking forgiveness had never been Naomi’s strength and she doubted he would be
gracious.

But there was still something between her and God. Left
unspoken but there and hiding, like a secret sitting at the bottom of a dark
pond. Finally, in a painful moment of surrender, she dredged it up.

It was her wayward heart.

God, how can I have even the slightest feelings for Mr.
McIntyre when my husband has been gone so short a time?  Please guard my
heart from him. I am...drawn to him and it grieves me. I can’t love him−not
him. Especially not him. Oh, Lord, she begged, especially not him...

I know that Satan is just using him somehow to divert my
attention from you. I’m grieving and I’m lonely, that’s all.

Naomi grabbed on to the idea as if it were a lifeline.
Satan
is just toying with my heart because I am vulnerable. That’s it; she was sure
of it.
The idea, accepted as fact, helped her regain some focus.
Mr.
McIntyre is a lost soul in need of salvation, just like Mollie, just like
anyone in this town who doesn’t know you. Use me to reach him, Lord, but help
me keep my heart out of it.

Much to Naomi’s dismay, a Scripture leaped to mind:
If I
speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am only a
resounding gong or a clanging cymbal.

The message was clear; guarding her heart would prevent God
from using her. It was all or nothing.

Father, Your word says you are a husband to the husbandless.
Please help me keep my eyes, and my heart, focused on you and I’ll do the best
I can to show Mr. McIntyre Jesus in me. Just don’t let me fall...please don’t
let me fall
.

~~~

Sunday morning, the cobbled-together little family gathered
for their makeshift church service. Naomi stood at the serving counter and
poured cups full of coffee as Ian and Emilio pulled chairs together near the
dining room’s fireplace. Hannah gingerly tucked a sleeping baby into his crib,
picked up a cup of the fragrant coffee and took a seat next to her boy. Lately,
Ian had been playing a more active part in leading the discussion and they were
all impressed at his knowledge of the scriptures. The more they studied,
though, the more they agreed on how much of a blessing a true pastor would be.

Naomi settled in between her sisters and laid her Bible in
her lap. As Ian was about to lead them in prayer, the front door slowly
squeaked open and the Flowers furtively drifted in like lost snowflakes. Overjoyed
to see them, Naomi had to force what felt like a huge grin from her face so as
not to embarrass their guests.

By way of explanation to the pleasantly shocked little
congregation, Lily told them, “Ever since you got here, things have started
changing for us. Rose is out of our hair. Dais−er, Mollie’s got Jesus.”
She and Iris and Jasmine crept closer, clutching their coats. “We’re rich women
now with a future in front of us. Even Mr. McIntyre is different.” She shrugged
in surrender. “We started thinking maybe there could be something to your Jesus
stories.”

“Besides,” Iris kicked in lightheartedly, “Dais−er,
Mollie has been buggin’ the stuffin’ out of us to come one Sunday.”

Laughing, and caught somewhere between shock and awe, the
group stood. Daisy picked up her Bible and walked over to her friends. “I read
something this morning and it made me think of you. From Psalms,” she flipped
to Psalm 126 and read with joy in her voice:

“
Our mouths were filled with laughter, our tongues with
songs of joy. Then it was said among the nations, “‘the Lord has done great
things for them.
’” She smiled up at her friends. “Great things, indeed.”

Chapter
32

Naomi tossed a log onto the fire, shoved it further in with
the poker then sat down to absorb some of the heat. She had been warned
repeatedly about the winters in Defiance, but the cold only bothered her when
she stopped to think about it. Compared to everything they had been through
thus far, the mean temperatures were only an annoyance, one that would not get
the better of her. There were too many other things to occupy her mind.

Laughter from the kitchen interrupted her thoughts and she reexamined
the stunning fact that they had just shared a church service with four former
prostitutes. Prostitutes who were now helping fix Sunday dinner. If she and her
sisters had stayed in Cary, in their nice comfortable little world, none of
this would have happened. Naomi found it mind-boggling and quite humbling what
God could do if you let him. That was the trick, though, you had to let him.
Like now, for example. She could sit here, watching the pine burn down to
coals, or she could put one foot in front of the other and go see Mr. McIntyre.

Naomi trekked quickly down the empty boardwalk, feeling a
little bit nervous and a little bit nauseas. She wasn’t actually sure if the
Iron Horse itself was closed yet, but she assumed it was not open for business
on Sundays. She needed to see him and offer this apology, but the gap between
thinking about a thing and actually doing it was like stepping off a cliff.
There was a moment of no return and she was in the middle of it.

One foot in front of the other
, she told herself.

The “closed” sign was hanging in the door. Tentatively, she
tried the knob. It turned freely and she entered the saloon. The quiet was
tomb-like and astonishing, like that morning she had come to find the doctor.
She listened for a moment and heard the rustle of paper coming from Mr.
McIntyre’s office. Taking a deep breath, she approached his door. It was cracked
and she could see his right shoulder moving as if he was writing.

Gently, she rapped on the door then hesitantly pushed it
open. When he saw her, he jumped to his feet obviously out of shock as much as
etiquette. “Mrs. Miller, what a pleasant surprise.” She fidgeted nervously and
didn’t answer right away. She noticed he was dressed simply, wearing only a
white silk shirt and brown pants, no fancy vest today, no perfectly tailored
jacket, nor had he shaved. He was the most casual looking she’d seen yet. Admittedly,
she found him more appealing, less pretentious, this way. “May I take your
coat?” he asked.

“No, no thank you,” she muttered, looking around the office.

Mr. McIntyre cocked his head to one side, a perplexed
expression on his face. “Is everything all right? You seem rather nervous?”

Rather
wasn’t the word for it. His stare making her chafe, she darted glances
at him. “We just finished with church. Lily, Jasmine and Iris came. It was
nice.”

“Yes, they told me they were going today.” He motioned to the
chair beside her as he sat down again. She did sit but on the edge of the chair
so she could sprint for the door if the need arose.

“I had some very harsh words for you when Mollie was beaten.”
She looked down at her hands in her lap and forced herself to keep talking. “I
blamed you for what happened to her.”

“To some extent I was to blame.”

“But not completely, yet I chose to make you the target of my
anger. I saw Mollie too much as an innocent victim and she wasn’t. The man who
did that to her I’ve hardly given any thought.”

Acknowledging that she was meandering around the point, she
swallowed, and looked him in the eye. “Look, it’s the hardest thing in the
world for me to apologize to someone. I suppose I’m not good at admitting when
I’m wrong.” She tried to read his face, but he hadn’t moved a muscle. “I’ve let
anger keep me from reaching out to you as a Christian should. I’m sorry for
that.” When he didn’t offer a comment or change in his expression, she tried to
explain further. “You should be just as welcome at our table as Mollie or the
Flowers or anyone else in this town. I just find it more difficult to deal with
you.”

His eyebrows rose and he leaned slightly forward. “Why do you
think that is?” He sounded honestly baffled by her observation.

His dark brown eyes boring into her, she looked away and
fidgeted absently with her thumbnail. “I suppose it’s mostly that my husband
hasn’t been gone long and I, I don’t know, you’re so different from him. You’re
so full of bravado and selfishness and he was such a good man−”

“And it’s unfair that he’s dead and I’m alive.”

“No, that’s not what I meant.” Her retort was curt and she
breathed to find her focus again. “I think I just need to care about you the
way you are and−”

“Care about me,” he mocked with a single raised brow.

“In a
Christian
way. You’re not making this any
easier.”

“I’m not sure what
this
is.”

“I just wanted to tell you that I’m sorry I’m so hard on
you,” she fumed, the pitch of her voice rising. “It just frustrates me to see
the way you treat people and the way you’re squandering your life away in this
place. You’re a born leader, you’re smart, you’re tough, you’re handsome but
you don’t care about anyone but yourself.”

A crooked smile worked its way across his lips. “I think I
heard a few back-handed compliments in there somewhere.”

Embarrassed, she stood up with a sigh and he stood with her.
Well, this had gone exactly as she knew it would. The man didn’t know how to be
gracious. Still, she had to say her piece.

“If you were staying away because of the things I’ve said,”
she looked all around the room, anywhere but at him, “then don’t, please. I
told you once that we felt God led us here. I fear that when it comes to you
I’ve been a poor witness.” Finally, she did look at him again. Wetting her
lips, she finished. “I’d like to start over. Obviously there is
some
good in you based on your recent actions.” He smiled smugly at that, but she
kept on explaining. “It’s not up to me to pick and choose who I deign to share
the gospel with. It shouldn’t be like that...” His smile broadened, but there
was no warmth in it. It made her feel stupid, as if she was missing something
obvious. “Why are you looking at me that way?”

“Do you feel better? Have you eased your conscience?” he
asked, rapping his knuckles on his desk.

Naomi’s spine stiffened. “I don’t understand.”

“Your coming here today. You’ve confessed your sin of
arrogance at not wanting to associate with a reprobate such as myself, but
you’re just going through the motions−like taking food to a sick man or
visiting a lonely shut-in. It is the right thing to do but your heart is not in
it. You don’t really have any compassion for me. Or forgiveness.”

“I didn’t hear you ask for it,” she shot back, unwilling to
be chastised by the likes of him.

“I shouldn’t have to, not if you truly understand the god you
say you represent. Are you familiar with the scripture, ‘
If I speak in the
tongues of men and of angels, but have not love I am only a resounding gong or
a clanging cymbal’
?” Naomi felt her stomach roll and she swallowed
nervously. “I’ll take that look as a yes,” he dead-panned. “You can forgive
prostitutes, your little sisters’ indiscretion, Grady O’Banion, even God for
taking your husband, but you can’t find it in your heart to forgive me.”