Authors: Judith Pella
Dismounting, he tied his horse to a post and followed her.
Zack knew a minister shouldn’t be so intently studying the lithe figure that walked slightly ahead of him. But he couldn’t help it. He was certain he had landed on his feet with this scheme. She was mighty pretty, with cornflower blue eyes, hair like bits of sunshine. Oh, was he partial to yellow-haired beauties!
And the way she blushed when she’d looked him over made him feel sure she had a favorable opinion of him, as well. Yes, this whole minister thing might not be so bad after all.
Whoa, boy! What are you thinking?
He reminded himself of what had happened the last time he had been dazzled by a woman. That was less than a month ago. How could he forget? Women, even a girl-woman like this one, were trouble. He’d be ten kinds of a fool to let himself be distracted. He was going to have enough problems convincing these people he was a man of God.
No women! he told himself firmly. Especially no farm girls whose daddies owned shotguns and would as likely shoot a preacher as he would a drifter for dallying with his daughter.
As they walked up to the house, the girl called, “Mama! Dad! We have a visitor!”
That brought the folks out to the porch. The father was a slightly built man, four or five inches shorter than Zack, though with a bit of a paunch in front. He looked to be in his forties, with thinning light hair, a pleasant enough face with a pale mustache that drooped over his mouth. The woman that came up behind him was shorter by far and a little on the plump side. She had brown hair, braided and coiled at the back of her head. She looked about forty and pretty in a matronly sort of way. They were dressed simply, like the farm folk they were.
“Dad, Mama, this is Reverend L ocklin,” the daughter said.
Calvin Newcomb grinned. His wife smiled.
“You’re finally here,” Newcomb said. “This is a grand day. Come on in.”
Just then another young woman appeared in the doorway. “What’s going on out here? L unch is getting cold,” she said in a somewhat impudent tone.
She was another pretty thing. Curly brown hair, green eyes. He could tell by the flash of those eyes and the tone of her voice that she was probably a spunky one. Zack peered over her shoulder into the house. How many more daughters did Calvin Newcomb have hiding in there?
“Maggie,” Mrs. Newcomb said, “mind your manners. This is the new minister.”
The girl named Maggie looked him over a sight more frankly than the other daughter had.
“Well,I’ll be!” she muttered.
Zack had no idea what she meant by that.
“And I best mind my manners, too,” Mr. Newcomb said. “I’m Calvin Newcomb, and this is my wife, Ada. And these are my daughters, Maggie”—he nodded toward the one in the doorway—“and Ellie.”
“I’m very happy to meet you all,” Zack said with formal politeness, just as he figured an Eastern-bred minister would talk.
“We also have two boys,” Mrs. Newcomb added. “Our Boyd is a few years younger than yourself, but he is out working at the lumber camp. During the season he is usually home only on weekends. Our youngest is Georgie, that is, George, who is fourteen, and he’s at school.”
“I’ll look forward to meeting them,” Zack said as they filed into the house.
He was greeted by a cozy home, simple but not poor. The Newcombs were obviously not wealthy, but they were comfortable. What he noticed most were the fragrant smells of fresh-baked bread and stew, or something tangy and meaty. He realized he was starved for decent food, and it had been a very long time since he’d had any home-cooked food.L uck was surely with him to have arrived in time for lunch—well, maybe more than luck, since he’d hurried along the last part of his journey in hopes of such good fortune.
Out of the corner of his eye he noted Mrs. Newcomb take Maggie aside and whisper something to her. Maggie seemed to balk at first; then with reluctance she turned and left the house.
“Maggie had an errand to run,” explained Mrs. Newcomb somewhat sheepishly.
Mr. Newcomb laughed. “I’ll wager you’ve sent her like our own Paul Revere to raise the hens into action.”
“Oh, Calvin, really! What will our guest think?” She pulled out a chair at the table. “Please have a seat, Reverend. And I hope you don’t mind, but I know the other church members will want to meet you. Just a few folks, nothing formal.”
“But Reverend L ocklin has no doubt been riding all morning,” Mr. Newcomb said, “and is tired.”
“I am anxious to meet everyone, as well,” Zack said.
“I’ve suggested they stop by the boardinghouse after lunch to meet you. Just for a few minutes.I know you need your rest.”
Zack laughed good-naturedly. “What else would I do for the rest of the afternoon?I certainly have no need of a nap.”
After lunch Mr. Newcomb hitched up the wagon and he, his wife, and daughter boarded. Zack followed on his horse. While the men had been outside preparing the transportation, the women had apparently taken a few moments to clean up. They were wearing different dresses, not Sunday best, but not work frocks, either. Down the road a short distance a woman stood on the side of the road waving. Newcomb stopped.
“Can I ride with you?” the new woman asked. She was about the same age as Mrs. Newcomb, a bit taller with a pleasant face and also obviously a farm wife.
Everyone scooted over on the wagon seat to make room.
Ada Newcomb said, “Reverend, this is Jane Donnelly, one of your congregation.”
“I am so pleased to meet you, Reverend!” the woman said with quiet sincerity.
“As amI, Mrs. Donnelly,” Zack replied.
He was warming easily to his role. He put on his best manners and speech, maybe not exactly Eastern quality, as no doubt the realL ocklin would have had, but he figured it was close enough for these farm folks. He’d learned fancy manners when he and a friend from England had once tried to pass themselves off as English nobility so they could live off of a rich San Francisco socialite for a couple of months.
He and the Newcombs proceeded a mile or so down the road until they came to what was obviously the center of Maintown, which consisted of a schoolhouse—where about twenty children were playing in the yard—a post office that also had a small store inside, and a few frame houses. Zack had ridden through this area earlier on his way to the Newcombs’ and had stopped at the post office to ask directions. Mr. Newcomb mentioned that the church met in the schoolhouse.
Mrs. Newcomb added, “We’ve been trying to raise money to build a separate church building but haven’t near enough yet. Our old minister, dear Pastor McFarland, was too aged to lend much energy to the project.”
Zack read in that oblique statement that a young, strapping fellow like himself ought to perform miracles in that project. Zack did not respond, merely appearing as if it had gone over his head. He’d be long gone before any building could be raised.
They stopped in front of one of the larger houses on the edge of the town center. There were three wagons parked there and two horses tied to a post. The welcoming committee, he supposed.
Maggie Newcomb was sitting on the front step but jumped up when they arrived. As they walked toward the house she spoke quietly to her mother but loud enough for Zack to hear. “This is the best I could do in the time you gave me.” Her tone was defensive. “Most of the men were gone, but this is for the women anyway.”
Ada Newcomb quickly shushed her daughter, noting that Zack could hear. Maggie shrugged. She didn’t seem much cowed by her mother’s scolding.
“The Copelands, who live here,” Mr. Newcomb was saying, “had to go out of town for a few days, but knowing you might arrive at any time, they said you should make yourself at home. The church ladies have fixed up your room.”
There were about a half dozen people in the entryway to greet them; only one was male.I ntroductions were made, but Zack hoped they didn’t expect him to get the names straight. The only one that stuck was the other man, Albert Stoddard, an older fellow in his fifties, probably one of the church elders. Then they led Zack upstairs. The women were chattering with excitement. One of them, who was a tiny thing, shorter than Mrs. Newcomb, swung open the door to one of several rooms that lined the hall. The sudden burst of light into the darker hallway indicated the room had a western exposure, for the sun was moving toward its descent.
He was greeted with a cozy room, not overly small.I t had a nice upholstered chair and footstool, a dresser and a washstand, a desk and a chair, and a huge four-poster bed. Zack had carried up his carpetbag, which he now tossed upon the bed.
This action was met with a chorus of gasps from the women.
Brow knit with confusion, he asked, “Is something wrong?”
“Oh . . . well . . . uh . . .” began the petite woman, who seemed, despite her diminutive stature, to be the leader of the group. “I’m sorry. We don’t mean to be rude, Reverend.” She gathered back her command of the situation as she spoke, and Zack had the feeling he was being scolded. “But we ladies wanted to make a special presentation to you.”
“I’m very touched,” he said, still confused.
He noted that Maggie had opened her mouth to speak, but her sister jabbed her in the ribs with an elbow, and the girl clamped her mouth shut.
“The ladies of the church,” said the woman—Zack still could not remember her name, but he was sure once he found out he would never forget again—“wanted to welcome you in a special way, so we all joined together to make you this quilt.” She motioned with a sweep of her tiny arm toward the bed.
Suddenly Zack realized his error and quickly snatched up the carpetbag. “How thoughtless of me!” he exclaimed, then perused the bedcover. “You made this . . . for me?” He shook his head with awe. “It is stunning! And, you may not believe this, but you should because I am the minister and I don’t lie, but blue is my favorite color.”
The women all fairly preened with his words. Feeling he was on a roll he went on, gushing so effusively even he began to wonder about his sincerity. “I have never seen such fine work. My mama used to make blankets like this, but never this fine. You must tell me which of you did what part. And please tell me your names again so I can truly remember.”
“This one is mine,” said the petite woman as she pointed to a design that had squares in the center and petal-like things in each corner. “I am Emma Jean Stoddard. That block,” she added, pointing to another, “was made by my daughter Sarah, who . . . well, couldn’t join us today.”
Zack was no expert, but he could tell the daughter’s block was one of the most intricate in the quilt.
The other ladies then pointed out theirs: Ada Newcomb, Jane Donnelly, Nessa Wallard, Florence Parker, and the only other young person in the group besides the Newcomb girls, Mabel Parker. Zack was rather surprised to note that the most intricate blocks were made by three of the daughters, not the older and presumably more experienced women. He also noted that one of the females had remained silent.
“Maggie, you didn’t show me yours,” Zack said.
“Oh, it’s nothing to speak of.” She waved vaguely toward the quilt. “That one.”
He wasn’t sure exactly which she had indicated, but he said, “It’s beautiful.”
“Well, it’s nice of you to say anyway.”
Zack gazed once more upon the quilt, and he was truly awed and touched. These people had certainly gone the extra mile to welcome him.
With real emotion that surprised even him, he said, “I am truly overwhelmed. I have been here only a few hours, and you have already made it feel like home to me.I thank you all very much!”
Before the group departed he was offered a dinner invitation from each family for the evenings during which the Copelands were out of town. He was also shown around Mrs. Copeland’s kitchen so that he could make himself at home in the morning. When his hostess returned she would prepare his meals. In the meantime, she had left several loaves of bread, eggs in the cooler, and a canister full of coffee beans.
After everyone departed, he went back upstairs to his room. This was better than any hotel he’d stayed in and even better than the rich estate in San Francisco he’d lived in while posing as an English lord. This was better because of its homey feel. He had never really felt comfortable in the mansion. He didn’t realize until he sank down into the upholstered chair that it had been far too many years since he’d known anything like a real home, like his mother’s house. He could enjoy this for a few months. But no more than that, he told himself, for it might start to make him feel too caged in.
He looked around and noted all the little touches the ladies had done for him. The porcelain wash pitcher and basin were almost new. The dresser scarves were quite fancy. There were even a few books on the shelf by the desk. Never had anyone been so thoughtful toward him. I t gave him a peculiar feeling he couldn’t quite describe.
And later that night after taking dinner with the Stoddard family, when he slipped beneath the bedcovers, under that fine quilt, the feeling returned. There was something about being warmed by a cover stitched with loving hands.
He was indeed a fortunate man.
But the contented sigh that rose to his lips was suddenly wiped away like a harsh wind yanking a tree up by its roots. The good feeling inside him became like a ball of lead as he remembered that the quilt had not been made for him at all but for a man who lay in an unmarked grave.
“I don’t see why I had to come!” Maggie said as she trooped up the walkway to the Copeland house.
“I’d feel brazen coming by myself,” Ellie replied.
“But Mama made the cookies and told you to come,” argued Maggie. “She said she’d heard Mabel was going and maybe some of the other girls.”
“For once don’t argue, Mags.”
“Personally, I think it is shocking for all the girls to come to a single man’s home unchaperoned!” Maggie did her best Grandma Newcomb impression.
Ellie rolled her eyes but said no more because they were at the door. She raised her hand to knock. I n a moment the door was opened by Reverend Locklin himself.