John Dyer carried his portable organ into Augusta Tabor’s parlor. He turned to Amy, his expression very sober. “Now I want you to remember, you play only hymns on this. It’s sacred. Besides, if you play anything very fast, it’ll fall apart.”
Amy’s carefully built wall fell apart and she threw her head back and laughed. Touching her eyes, she said, “You know, you’re almost human. I may even enjoy this.”
He set up the organ, saying, “Daniel will be preaching tonight. I’ll be praying. Tomorrow we’ll switch roles.”
She shrugged as she leaned over and brushed her fingers across the keys of the organ. Sitting down on the stool, she said, “Show me how to run this thing. I’ve never seen such a contraption.”
Augusta whisked into the room, saying, “Parson, you two men might just as well have your dinners here. A couple more won’t make a difference around the table.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Father Dyer said carefully, “but I doubt Daniel will eat before preaching.”
Augusta’s face lengthened, and she said softly, “Well then, you just tell him to stay for a bite afterwards.”
After several false starts, Amy finally hit the rhythm of pumping and playing. Father Dyer placed the hymnbook in front of her. She shook her head, saying, “Just tell me what and then start singing.”
“You know them that well?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know what you call it, but I can play it if you can sing it.”
After dinner Amy came back to the organ. She began playing through everything she could remember. Later she opened the hymnal Father Dyer left. When the shadows nearly hid the book, Augusta came with a lamp.
As she played, Amy discovered the music was releasing a flood of memories. Lost in the mood of the music, Amy began singing as she played. “God moves in a mysterious way His wonders to perform…. Behind a frowning providence, He hides a smiling face.”
She was still singing her way through the book when Augusta came with more lamps. Now she saw the people quietly filing into the parlor.
When John Dyer stopped beside her, Amy looked up. Her heart sank. This was revival. The room was packed. Daniel was there. For one brief moment their eyes met. In the next minute she knew he had forgotten her.
When the last prayer had been heard and the final hymn sung, she fled upstairs. Burying her face in her pillow, she wondered miserably how she could endure the two weeks.
Rolling over, she addressed the ceiling. “It will be a happy day when people will not have to be wrung to pieces, pounded to mash—all in the name of God.”
One thought remained about Daniel. It’s the first time I’ve heard him, standing up in front of people, giving out just like Father.
This was a new Daniel. She reviewed the feeling of wonder she felt as he spoke. Strange it seemed, to hear those old thoughts come out in a new way—not stern, not scorching, but strong, with complete conviction.
Daniel believed what he said. For a moment she wanted to ask him to say it again.
Amy settled against her pillow, recalling the expression on Daniel’s face, the sight of his strong hands holding that black Bible. Yesterday his hand had brushed against her cheek. She touched her face, but she was thinking about all she had heard him say.
Daniel had snatched at her unwilling attention when he said, “God is the author of love. His greatest expression of love has been given through Jesus Christ. Both God and man, both human and divine, Jesus Christ died because of love. But you will never know His love until you stretch out your accepting hand.”
Did it seem to strike a gong within her simply because it was Daniel speaking? This Daniel, the youth from Central City, was no awkward miner. Amy marveled at the differences. Something about those firm lips and steady eyes set her heart to trembling.
Amy moved restlessly on her bed and thought about the music she had played: “Just as I am, without one plea, but that Thy blood was shed for me…waiting not …”
Amy sat up on her bed and frowned. For the first time in all the years she had heard the music, she was filled with wonder. Daniel, what has happened? You’re not the same, not timid. I sense a sureness I didn’t see before.
“Amy.” The tap and the voice came at the same time. Augusta pushed the door open. “Everyone has gone. Won’t you come down and have something to eat with Father and Daniel—” She paused, and Amy saw her eyebrows arch toward her hairline. She had guessed. Amy’s refusal died instantly.
Getting off the bed, she said, “Yes, I’ll come. I’m very tired, but I do need to tell Father Dyer I won’t be here tomorrow night.”
She followed Augusta downstairs. The house was quiet except for the murmur of voices from the dining room. The two men were facing each other across the table. The kerosene lamp cast a puddle of light that neatly enclosed them. Amy hesitated; deeply conscious of being an outsider, she slowly walked into the room.
Augusta bustled into the kitchen while Amy waited beside the table. She saw the two had shoved the pie and the plate of meat and bread off to one side. With arms folded on the table and noses within inches of each other, they were deep in conversation.
Augusta came back carrying the coffeepot and more plates. She said, “Now you men, just start in on that food. I know you’re both hungry. Besides, if we get a word in edgewise, it’ll be when your mouths are full.”
Both men looked at Amy and got to their feet. Glancing at each other both began to speak at once, and Father Dyer said, “Oh, pardon!”
And Daniel muttered, “Of course you know Amy.” He pulled out a chair for her, still avoiding her eyes.
When Augusta over-filled the coffee mug, her sharp exclamation caught their attention. Father Dyer reached for the mug. “That’s all right, I don’t like cream.”
Augusta cut the pie, and the awkward silence stretched. Impatiently Amy said, “Go on with your conversation, I’ve only come for the pie and to remind you both that I won’t be here to play tomorrow.”
“Possibly, could you play before your practice?” Father Dyer asked wistfully. “I can’t do much more than thump on that thing.” Daniel watched her. The lamplight made his dark eyes darker still, increasing her discomfort.
Finally, with a sigh, she said, “I suppose I could stay long enough to get things started.” She finished her pie.
Daniel was still pushing the meat around on his plate. “No wonder you are thin!” she said impatiently. “But then did any man alone ever eat properly?”
The words were coming out all wrong. In the silence she searched for something to say. Finally Father Dyer rescued them. “Daniel was telling me about some of the people he’s met at California Gulch.” She looked at Daniel. So he was living at California Gulch now. He really did take Chivington’s circuit.
Dyer added, “He’s thinking the area is going to boom within the next few years. I hear the gold’s peaked.”
“No matter what,” Daniel said slowly, “there’re people living heedlessly. I can’t get away from the urgency I feel to warn—”
Augusta leaned forward, asking breathlessly, “Then you think the Second Coming will be soon?”
Daniel threw her a sharp glance. “I haven’t spent too much time thinking that way. I’m more concerned with life rising up and giving these people a swift smack.”
She settled back with a frown. “But this is the age of reason. We can perfect ourselves, and that’s important. But, in addition, don’t you believe a God of love will make certain everyone goes to heaven?”
Daniel was frowning. “There’s nothing to support that idea in the Holy Scriptures. If that is so, there’re a lot of people who’ve misunderstood the Lord. Some of us are mighty convinced you live life God’s way or live with the consequences.”
“Hellfire and brimstone,” Amy murmured.
“Can’t get away from that part either,” Father Dyer said soberly. He pointed his fork at her, “Don’t forget, young lady, some things can’t be ignored out of existence. Justice doesn’t make sense if the Author of justice looks the other way to keep from offending His creation.” He paused and then slowly added, “There’s not a one of us who wouldn’t choose a different occupation if hellfire and brimstone weren’t in God’s Word. But we can’t avoid it. We’ve got to live God’s way.”
“What’s God’s way?” All eyes shifted toward Augusta’s small voice.
The silence lasted long enough for all to hear the measured gonging of the grandfather clock. Father Dyer’s voice was tired, heavy. “It’s all there in the Bible. First you accept the atonement for sin, Jesus’ death. Then you read the Word, day by day. You’ll stack up a lifetime of knowing what God wants. In the days when the Word wasn’t available, you’d have listened to a preacher say, ‘Get down on your knees and beg God’s forgiveness for ignoring what He’s said through the mouth of some poor donkey or written on the wall of a palace.’ It’s a better idea to settle down before the Lord with Book in hand and start taking instruction.” There was a slight grin on his face. “Seems that’s better by far.”
Amy looked at Daniel. When he met her eyes, she asked. “Is that what you did?”
He nodded with a smile. “It was your advice.” He continued to look at her and Amy knew they were sharing the memory of that time.
The next morning Amy was still pondering Father Dyer’s fragmented statements. Could it be his way of warning her?
A storm had blown through Buckskin Joe last night. Amy had felt the cold and heard the wind. This morning, as she left the boardinghouse and turned down the street toward the post office, she discovered a dusting of snow on the ground. The wind was biting through her shawl.
“Please, ma’am.” Amy looked up into the woman’s face and blinked. The stranger was the color of Augusta’s good coffee with cream. She was shivering in a thin shawl.
Her lips trembled with cold as she tried to speak. “Could you point me the way of the Tabors’ boardinghouse?”
Amy turned to point. “Just right there, the two-story building. Are you looking for someone? Mrs. Tabor is probably busy right now.”
The woman hesitated, sighed and said, “I’m looking for work. Spent my last dime getting up here on the stage, thinking I’d get a job over at the other boardinghouse.”
Amy said, “You’re cold. I’ll walk back with you and find Mrs. Tabor. I don’t know that she’s been looking for help, but she certainly needs some.”
As they hurried down the street, the woman continued bitterly. “Right sad when the sisters can’t look out for each other.”
“Sisters?” They were inside the parlor now, and Amy led the way through the long dining room toward the kitchen. “You’re related to someone there?” she asked curiously as she pushed the door open.
The woman shook her head and her face split in a grin, revealing even white teeth. “You call us soiled doves; we call each other sisters.”
Augusta was wiping her hands as she came toward them. Amy explained. “I found—”
She gestured and the woman said, “I’m Crystal Thomas. I had a promise of a job, but now it’s fallen through. Amelia—that’s the madame—I’ve known her for ten, fifteen years, thereabouts. She’s had to go back on her word. Said she’d give me a job. Now times are bad.” She paused, pondered a moment and continued. “When I told her I wanted to get out of the business, she promised to help. Seems I can’t get work in Denver, and I thought—”
Augusta’s nose was twitching. “What kind of work are you looking for?”
“Kitchen. I keep a neat, clean place. Cook good and won’t mind working.”
Augusta straightened up. “Well, I don’t know—”
“Oh, ma’am,” Crystal said, “I see yer question. I’m clean. Never had the problem.”
Curious about the woman, Amy continued to study her. She looked from her sad eyes to her trim figure. Her clothes were shabby but clean. “Augusta, you’ve said you need help. Why can’t you try her, at least until H.A.W. gets back from Denver next week.” Augusta nodded. The two women were still talking as Amy hurried out of the house.
The icy blast of wind struck her, sending Amy shivering deeper into her shawl as she hurried toward the post office. Recalling the conversation, something caught Amy’s attention. Silverheels. She called her Amelia; that’s my middle name. Strange coincidence.