Authors: Sharon Sala
Eulis ducked as she picked up his shoe and sock and flung them past his shoulder and out into the hall. He made it out of her room just as the door hit him in the backside. It sent him staggering even more, but he caught himself on the stair rail and then turned and glared at her closed door.
“I wish she hadn’t asked me no question. I knew I wouldn’t have the right answer,” he grumbled, then rubbed his hands on his face, trying to stimulate blood circulation.
He eyed the shoe that she’d thrown and knew that if he wanted it back, he would have to bend down to pick it up. He also knew that if he did, he’d spend the night on the floor in the hall.
“I reckon I’ll get it tomorrow,” Eulis said, and started down the back stairs, one shoe lighter than when he’d come up.
He made it all the way to his room, but when he turned around to sit down, missed the side of the bed and sat down on the floor.
“Tarnation.”
It was his last thought of the night as he rolled over on his side and fell asleep.
Upstairs, Letty was in a similar state of mind, but her fugue was not from drink, it was from the miasma of her life. As she scrubbed off the stink of her job, she began to imagine what it would be like not to have to put up with any more men ever again. And just like that, James Dupree’s image popped into her head.
Long after she’d crawled into bed she was still awake, thinking of a dark-eyed gambler who’d smiled at her and kissed her hand, until she finally drifted off to sleep.
But in different parts of the Kansas territory, other people’s lives were taking unexpected turns that would, ultimately, find them all with a need to travel to the place Letty called home.
Lizard Flats was about to experience a boom in population.
Reverend Randall Ward Howe was a sinner. He knew it. He accepted it. He even blamed God for it from time to time, claiming he was nothing more than he’d been born to be. It was true that Randall Howe did everything in extreme—from demanding the best cuts of meat to the richest of desserts. And it was also true that he was more than a little bit vain. His clothes were tailor-made, his hats imported from London, England. His shoes had a perennial shine, and the part in his hair was straight down the middle without a hair out of place.
Even though he was well over six feet tall, he was already what ladies would call stout. He accepted the fact that, with age, corpulence would follow. His father had run to fat. His mother had been Rubenesque in stature as well. Still, at forty-two, he carried himself well, in spite of a growing paunch.
But weight was the least of Randall’s sins. The one he fought most often—the one that least befitted his role in life—was the sin of lust. It was a sad and truthful fact, but Randall Ward Howe—Reverend of the United Brethren Church of Boston, Massachusetts—lusted after women.
It was also true that, as he moved from parish to parish, he left weeping widows in his wake. Lonely women who’d been easy game for the sweet-talking preacher. Women who’d let themselves be swayed by the power of his voice and the caress of his hands. And, because they were widows, he had gotten away with his indiscretions. They were the women who had been relegated to the sidelines of society because they no longer had a gentleman to accompany them. It had been easy to slide into the role of protector. It had been even easier to become their confidante. After that, bedding them had been simple. The trick was staying on the far side of a wedding ring.
For a while, the joys of being wooed overshadowed the widows’ hopes of being wed. But that phase never lasted. Eventually the gullible women would begin to see that their expectations did not coincide with the reverend’s intentions.
That was when the hoo-haw began.
It was also the signal for the Bishop of the United Brethren Churches to once again step in, sternly admonish Randall Howe for his sins, and discreetly move him to another city. To Randall’s credit, his shame always seemed sincere, and his promises to do better rang true. But there was a limit to everyone’s patience and Randall Howe knew that his appointment to the Boston church was his very last chance. In fact, he’d heard it on good authority that had it not been for the fear of public scandal, the bishop would have already stripped him of his collar and shown him the door. Yet he
was
in Boston, and he had no intentions of betraying God, or the bishop, or himself again.
But that was before Priscilla Greenspan, widowed daughter of Ambrose Tull, the United Brethren’s deacon, sallied into the church. One look at the petulant pout on her lips and he knew his restraint was going to be tried.
By normal standards in any society, Priscilla Greenspan would have been called a fine-looking woman. For Randall, who had been abstinent for more than three months, she was a goddess. One look at her burgeoning bosom and trim waist, and his body betrayed him. Only the fact that he was covered by the mantle of his pastoral robes saved him from public humiliation. He took a deep breath and gritted his teeth as he reminded himself it couldn’t matter how lovely she was. He was here to spread God’s word, not sow his seed in unhallowed ground. And then she smiled at him. The battle was lost before it began.
***
Priscilla lay in the jumble of covers with a frown between her forehead and her lips in a pout. This was the fifth time in as many weeks that she had agreed to a secret assignation with the reverend, but her patience was running thin. Granted she’d been swayed by his fine figure and pretty ways. And there was the fact that she’d been ripe to be had. A widow for more than two years now, her needs as a woman had been brimming to running over. Randall Howe had taken care of everything, including the brimming needs, and she’d loved it.
But now that Priscilla’s fire had been dampened, her thoughts were turning to the future—hers and Randall’s. The only problem was he’d never even said he loved her. She didn’t want to give him up, but playing loose to keep him wasn’t in her plan. Last night she’d decided all he needed was a nudge. So she’d agreed to meet him again, telling herself it was to be the last time without benefit of vows.
***
“Randall, darling, there is something I simply don’t understand.”
Randall smiled at her as he buttoned his shirt. All rumpled and pink-cheeked from their recent bedding, she was a picture to behold, but his mind was already moving toward tonight’s church council meeting. His conscience pricked as he thought about what he’d been doing, but only slightly. This time he’d convinced himself it was different. This woman was perfect for him. She hadn’t demanded a thing from him except more lovemaking. He’d been happy to oblige.
“What’s that, my dear?”
He reached for his pants.
“Why have you yet to speak of our future?”
At that moment he knew, as surely as he knew his own name, that his days at the United Brethren Church were numbered. He pasted on a sweet, sickly smile and tried to focus on something besides throwing up.
“My goodness, Priscilla, you take me by surprise. I was not expecting such forwardness from a woman of your stature.”
Priscilla heaved herself out of bed, unmindful of her naked state or the fact that her bosoms were swinging.
“Forward? We’ve made love, Randall… several times, in fact. I’ve risked my reputation to be with you.”
She threw herself into his arms, and it has to be said that for a moment, when her bare body pressed against him, Randall did consider the institution of marriage. But the thought left almost as quickly as it had come. All he could do now was placate her until he figured a way out of this mess.
He pressed a nervous kiss to her cheek and then helped her into her robe.
“I know, I know,” he said quickly. “And I appreciate your feelings. But you must give me time.”
Her pout tightened. “I never did like to wait, and Papa would tell you it’s true.”
The fact that she’d thrown her father’s name into the conversation had been no accident. It was a subtle reminder that her father was the deacon of his church. He stifled a curse and took her into his arms.
“My dear, it is with sorrow that I must leave you now. The church council meets tonight. I need to have time to gather my thoughts, both for it… and for the future.”
He watched as her face broke into a smile. He’d purposefully misled her into thinking that his future and hers were one and the same. His conscience pricked again, but not enough to make things right. A few minutes later he was in his buggy and leaving the small country inn with haste. Priscilla Greenspan had gotten herself there. She could get herself home. He had plans to make and they did not include the deacon’s daughter.
***
To say that Bishop Hale was surprised by Randall’s request to move on was putting it mildly. He still couldn’t reconcile himself with the man he knew, to the man standing before him now.
“Are you certain this is what you want?” Hale asked.
Randall nodded solemnly, clutching his bible close to his chest.
“As I told you before, I believe it to be a revelation from God, Himself that I am to turn to missionary work.”
The bishop frowned. “But to the Territories?”
Randall wore his most benevolent expression. “Where else is God’s word more needed?”
Bishop Hale felt like crying. All these years and it seems that he’d been misjudging this man terribly.
“Then the West it shall be! I’ll firm up your initial itinerary by the end of the week. In fact, this timing is most opportune. I’ve had a letter just last week from a friend. It seems there is a need for a man of the cloth in a place called Lizard Flats.”
Randall’s heart skipped a beat. Lizard Flats? Somehow he doubted that the amenities of civilized society had yet to reach that far, but he nodded in accord.
“And Randall, after the first month, you will be on your own as to where or how far you travel. As for monies, you understand there won’t be a lot. Our missionary budget is slim. You must count on donations for a goodly portion of your livelihood.”
At this point, Randall gave himself a mental pinch.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid
. He hadn’t thought of that. He’d been so set on escaping before everything fell down around his ears that he hadn’t taken into consideration his standard of living would suffer as well.
Then he sighed. It was, after all, no more than he deserved. “When I am in need, I’m certain that God will provide.”
It was the perfect answer. Bishop Hale beamed.
While Howe’s journey was about to begin, there was the story to be told of the people he was being sent to wed.
***
Alfonso Worthy was the banker of Lizard Flats. His rise to success had been hard-won. He was not a man given to flights of fancy, and yet, because of his adoration for Sophie Hollis he’d become something of a rake. For the first time in his life he’d fallen in love. Making money no longer gave him the satisfaction it once had.
He had long ago accepted that his physical appearance was less than admirable. He was small and skinny and his white-blonde hair had been thinning for years. He feared that openly courting the wealthy widow was out of the question, but his lust and love had overflowed, so he’d begun a rather unique method of gaining Mrs. Hollis’s attention.
Several times a week after all others were asleep, he would sneak out of the hotel where he resided and leave small gifts and letters, even poems of adoration and love upon her doorstep. It wasn’t gaining him any ground with her, but he was able to pour out his heart just the same.
In effect, he’d become Sophie Mae Hollis’s secret admirer.
Sophie Hollis squinted as she peered into the mirror. The faint, but permanent, frown lines between her eyes and across her forehead only deepened her resolve. By her reckoning, she was in full bloom—very full bloom. If she didn’t latch onto another husband within the next couple of years, it would be too late. By then, her looks would be gone and she’d have to spend the rest of her life without a man in her bed. For the lusty and lonely widow, it would be a fate worse than death. While some people refuse to accept certain truths about themselves, Sophie had long ago come to terms with the fact that she didn’t like to live alone. Yes, she was a well-to-do widow, but her life was empty without a man.
If Nardin Hollis hadn’t happened along twelve years ago and snatched her out of her own bed and into his own, Sophie suspected that her youthful bodily desires would have gotten the best of her. She would have mounted the first man who hadn’t smelled like manure, and ended up flat on her back being rode by every other man who did, like that disgusting Letty creature down at the White Dove Saloon.
With a heartfelt sigh, she pinched the soft, fleshy parts of her face and bit her lips to the point of pain. When she looked in the mirror again, the pink pout on her mouth and the rose flush on her cheeks sent the frown on her face into hiding. She reminded herself that all was not lost. For the past six months, small gifts of wildflower bouquets and pretty rocks—even a delicate little bird’s nest with three tiny blue feathers interwoven within the grass and twigs had been appearing on her doorstep. Then the letters began, sometimes just a message relating how fetching she had looked that day, or a bit of poetry that leaned toward love and romance while maintaining decorum. She’d been shocked, excited, and then downright curious to know who had become her secret admirer.
But six months had passed and the idea of being adored from afar wasn’t as enticing as it had once been. Sophie was tired of the secrets. She wanted a flesh and blood companion to grow old with—someone with whom she could share her fears, as well as her desires. But as hard as she’d tried, she couldn’t figure out who, of the unattached men in Lizard Flats, was eloquent enough to have penned the sweet missives.
She moved to the desk and opened a drawer, taking out a packet of envelopes then lifting the top one from the stack. She knew what was inside, but she wanted to read it again. Maybe this time she would see a hint of the writer’s identity in the lines.