If Peter was horrified by Brigit’s appearance—and her aroma—he didn’t show it as he stood and bowed slightly to her. He’s probably too genteel, Brigit thought. There was no way that he couldn’t notice how disheveled she was.
She stole a look at her father. From the expression on his face, she knew that she looked as terrible as she feared. His left eyebrow was arched almost up to his hairline, a sure sign that he was dismayed at what he was seeing. She’d seen that often enough growing up to know it as a danger signal.
“Brigit,” he began in his warning voice, but Peter interrupted him.
“You look as if you’ve been enjoying this wonderful spring afternoon that the Lord has provided us,” the young minister said, his eyes alight with laughter. “We should take advantage of all of them without worrying about the winter that is always lurking around the corner.”
Milo Farnsworth stepped from the shadowed corner of the room. “Brigit Streeter, sometimes I think you are more horse than woman.” He smiled, a frosty action that touched only his lips, not his eyes. “How fortunate your father is that he has you as a daughter. Why, you are as strong and capable as any son. Didn’t I see you last week plowing the field north of here?”
A quick retort sprang to her lips, but her father gripped her arm tightly. She didn’t dare look at the minister for fear of what she might read in his expression.
These were not simple, innocent words. Mr. Farnsworth’s sentences hurt. Like a vengeful hornet, he had found the most painful—the most effective—target for his sting.
Her father’s fingers dug in a bit more, and this time she knew it wasn’t done to keep her from lashing out at Mr. Farnsworth. No, the words had struck a spot in his heart that still ached with loss. Plus there was something else, something that even Mr. Farnsworth couldn’t know.
Albert Streeter couldn’t farm without his daughter.
They had never spoken about it, but she knew from the way he sank into his chair at the end of the day. He wasn’t sick—she could tell that. He was simply tired. The farm he had was too big for him to run by himself.
So the two of them had done it together, father and daughter; and it had been a good partnership. Now it was, in her father’s eyes, time for her to move into a marriage home.
He could sell off part of the farm, but she knew he’d never stop farming. He’d …
Her thoughts were abruptly ended when Reverend Collins turned to her and said, “She looks wonderfully capable to me. Any man would be fortunate indeed to have her grace his home.”
The look on Mr. Farnsworth’s face made up for any hurt that she was feeling. His cheeks were flushed, and for the first time in her life, Brigit saw him at a loss for words.
He started to speak, stopped, started again, stopped again.
Her father’s fingers relaxed their hold, and he spoke behind her. “I am always proud of Brigit. Always.”
Mr. Farnsworth harrumphed. “Of course, of course. She is an—”
Brigit had to suppress the smile that twitched around her lips as he struggled for the proper way to describe her. She could tell that he wanted to say more, but social correctness kept him from doing so.
She turned to look again at Reverend Collins and was surprised to see him watching her, almost as if he were studying her. He smiled. “No, there’d be no mistaking you for someone’s son.”
If she’d thought the day couldn’t get worse, she hadn’t figured on him saying that. The blood rose right from the tips of her dusty toes to her cheeks.
Oh, she hated blushing. Just hated it. She didn’t turn pink or blush gently. No, her whole face flooded into a bright red. Why on earth had God ever thought it would be a good idea to make her face turn crimson whenever she was embarrassed? Couldn’t He just have given her a brightly colored flag to wave or a sign to hold—“I am mortified”—or perhaps a trumpet to blare?
Reverend Collins smiled at her, and the world collapsed into a space that was just big enough for the two of them.
This was not real, a little portion of her brain told her. It wasn’t possible to fall in love this quickly.
There were other people in the room. She could hear their voices indistinctly. Mr. Groves said something vague and left.
Mr. Farnsworth stood off to the side uneasily, as if not being at all accustomed to being in that position. He said a few words, something about a piano, and Reverend Collins turned to him and nodded.
“Friday evening? Why, thank you. I do enjoy good music, and from what you’ve told me, your wife is quite an accomplished pianist. I’m looking forward to getting to know you and your family better.”
If he had thrown a knife right into her heart, it couldn’t have caused more pain. The Farnsworth house was the grandest one in Archer Falls. The windows that overlooked the fertile valley were draped in snowy white organza. The dishes—she had seen the dishes—were blue and white patterned china. She’d never seen cups as delicate as these. Her father once described the Farnsworth china as “thin as a hurried promise.”
She looked down at her stained dress and sighed, which reminded her that the Farnsworths undoubtedly smelled better.
But then, she thought, they’d never had the joy of riding Fulton full-bore along a young shelterbelt, nor known the satisfaction of seeing wheat that they’d planted themselves from tiny seeds sprout up in sun-warmed earth.
She summoned a smile from the depths of her soul and tried to stand tall and proud. What was done was done, and she couldn’t do much to change that, now could she?
“It’s been wonderful seeing you both,” she said, imagining herself in front of a grandly sweeping staircase, “and I do hope you both drop in again to visit.”
She put her hand on her father’s shoulder, and as she did, she noticed a piece of straw dangling from her cuff. Of course it wasn’t a small bit. It was at least four inches long and caught the late afternoon sunlight so that it glowed golden.
The men noticed at the same time. There was no way to ignore it, so she did the next best thing.
She held her arm up and admired the straw as it reflected the rays. “Look at this. God gives some of us gold in coins. For the rest of us, He grows it in our fields.”
Her father’s lips clamped shut, but she knew it wasn’t because he was offended by her audacity. Quite the contrary, he was probably trying to control his amusement.
Mr. Farnsworth gaped at her, obviously astonished at her words.
Reverend Collins, however, smiled broadly and chortled. “Amen, Miss Streeter! Amen!”
Mr. Farnsworth glanced uncertainly at the minister and joined in the laughter. “Ha ha. Good one, Brigit. Gold in the fields. Ha ha.” He harrumphed loudly. “On that cheerful note, I will take my leave. Reverend Collins, it is indeed a joy to have you with us in Archer Falls. Streeter, we’ll talk more this week about putting some paint on the schoolroom walls.”
Some people could simply leave a room, Brigit thought, but not Mr. Farnsworth. He took a good five minutes to finally get across the room and out the door.
“Farnsworth is a good man,” her father told the minister. “A good man.”
“I can tell he is,” Reverend Collins agreed. “He certainly has the heart of a stalwart citizen. If I hadn’t already been inclined to come to Archer Falls, he would have swayed me in this direction.”
“We are glad you chose us.” Her father winced a bit as he leaned back into his chair, and he rubbed his leg. “Brigit, would you walk the reverend to his wagon? I’d do it, but this charley horse has got the better of me.”
“I’m sorry to hear about your leg, but I’d certainly enjoy Brigit’s company,” Reverend Collins said, touching her hand.
People had touched Brigit’s hand before, many times. But the action had never had this effect. She had to remind herself to breathe as they walked out of the house and toward his wagon.
She was very aware of how the sun sat just so on the cottonwood trees. How Fulton whinnied softly to her from his stall. How the mourning doves cooed a forthcoming rain that the sky didn’t yet show.
And how very tall and handsome Peter Collins was.
“It’s quite lovely out here,” he said. “This has a beauty of its own. The sky is incredibly blue. You know, in St. Paul I didn’t get to see but patches of the sky. The buildings got in the way.”
She looked at him, startled. Most of the city people who came to Archer Falls saw only empty prairie, barren and in need of more buildings, more trees, more things.
“In Dakota,” he continued, apparently unaware of how much his words had surprised her, “the sky goes on forever. I am awed by what our God has done.”
“He’s done a good job.” Her voice sounded small and tiny.
Reverend Collins glanced at her, and his lips curled into a grin. “Yes, He has. He has made many wondrous creations, I’m finding.”
That furious blush started its crawl up her neck, and she quickly changed the subject. “I hope life in Archer Falls is to your liking.”
“Oh, it is. As I said in church on Sunday, Archer Falls is exactly what I’ve been looking for.”
“It isn’t too … backward?”
He reached down and picked a just-blossomed daisy. “Backward?” He studied the flower thoughtfully. “Not at all. Oh, the buildings aren’t as grand as those in St. Paul, and the stores don’t have the variety of wares, and there’s no opera house, but none of those matter. What’s important is the people. And the land.”
“I’m glad to have you with us,” Brigit said. Then she added hastily, “We’ve been in need of a minister for a long time. As it is, the men of the community have been trading off the sermon duties, and while my father’s sermons are intelligent and thought-provoking, I can’t say that’s true of the other men’s sermons.”
“Does Mr. Farnsworth preach?” he asked.
“Oh, yes. He does.” She thought she should stop with that short answer.
He continued, “And how are Mr. Farnsworth’s sermons?”
“Loud.”
The word popped out before she could stop it, and they both laughed.
“You know, Brigit,” he said, “there’s a lot of work ahead of us, building a church.”
“Yes, there is.”
“Can I ask you something? I don’t want to rush you but …”
Oh, this is great, she thought wryly. He’s going to ask me to sew altar cloths or polish candlesticks or something, when my talent would be more in laying the floorboards.
“I don’t know if I can help you much,” she admitted. It was better to get it out in the open, in case he hadn’t figured out that she was sadly lacking in the finer feminine skills. “It’s not my forte.”
Reverend Collins seemed surprised. “Not your forte? What do you mean?”
“You want me to do something with the church, right? Embroidering pew cushions or hanging drapes?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he studied first her face and then the daisy. “Well, that would be helpful, but that’s not what I had in mind.”
She groaned silently. This wasn’t sounding at all good. “Reverend Collins, I—”
He shook his head. “Let me finish. First of all, I like you—quite a bit. Would you be willing to let me visit you?”
“Of course,” she said. “Our door is always open. Or almost always open. Except when it’s closed.”
Oh, stop babbling like that, she scolded herself. Not only have you made a splendid impression on him with your first meeting, but you’ve also undoubtedly cemented his opinion of you with today.
“I want to visit you,” he began, and then he paused and took a deep breath. “I want to visit-you-because-I’d-like-to-get-to-know-you-better.” The last words came out in one long whoosh of breath.
He handed her the flower, and to her amazement, he flushed a deep crimson.
If there had been any doubt at all, it vanished with that simple act.
“I’d be honored to have you visit,” she said, aware that she’d never smiled as broadly and as joyfully before.
Peter got into his wagon, and as he drove away, he realized he was singing. This wasn’t something he often did, for although God had given him many talents, singing wasn’t one of them.
He warbled—shakily—the last line of the morning’s hymn, and a flock of quail flew out of a cluster of brush by the road.
At least he thought they were quail.
She’s the one, isn’t she, God?
Life was good. God was good. The future stretched ahead like this road that seemed to head toward the horizon, a golden thread in the afternoon sunlight, a golden thread with no knots, no snarls, no—
Oh no!
He sat upright so suddenly that the horse whinnied a question.
He clicked in encouragement, and the horse continued down the road, but his afternoon had taken on a less glorious glow.
He’d forgotten about the evening of piano music at the Farnsworth house on the coming Friday. It wasn’t that he didn’t think he’d enjoy the recital—quite the opposite—but for some reason he didn’t relish the evening.
Maybe it would be all right, he tried to console himself. Maybe it would be just a simple evening of good music in a lovely house.
In the interim, he had something wonderful to look forward to. Odd that Brigit hadn’t mentioned it to him.
Brigit watched as Reverend Collins’s wagon got smaller and smaller until it was part of the horizon. She hugged herself with delight, thinking of what he’d said.
She tried not to think about the upcoming evening at the Farnsworth house, though. The fact of the matter was that comparing Farnsworths to Streeters was like comparing silk to homespun.
“You must have found a lot to talk about,” her father said when she came inside. He was grinning. “Even Milo Farnsworth doesn’t take that long to leave.”
The dear was trying so hard not to ask her what the minister had said to her.
“We visited about the community and the church.”
“Yes?” His curiosity was ill reined, and Brigit didn’t keep him in suspense.
“Yes. He also asked if he could come to visit.”
Her father frowned. “Well, of course he can visit. Maybe he wants some information from me about the materials of worship that we have, or—”
She smiled broadly as the realization struck him.
“He isn’t coming to see me, is he?”
“He could be.”
“Or not.”
Brigit stood in the fading summer light, watching hope play across her father’s face.
She tried to refuse to let the nasty little voice in, the one that reminded her how unsuitable she was for the minister. He really should be married to someone like Mary Rose, the voice nagged, someone who is well versed in the social graces.
Someone not like you.
“I’m glad,” he said at last. “Very glad.”
He was smiling a bit more than she was comfortable with. She didn’t try to figure it out. Her father was having some very strange moments lately.
She patted his hand. “He’s a nice fellow, Papa.”
He nodded and stood up. “I’d better check to make sure that chicken wire is still good. Groves brought over some of his newest hatchlings.”
She grinned happily. Baby chicks! She loved them. Maybe Mary Rose could come over later and they could play with them. She loved the sensation of their little chick feet on her hands when she held them.
“You don’t mind, do you?” he asked as he ambled toward the front door. “I meant to ask you, but just like old Groves’s rooster, it flew out of my mind.”
He stepped outside and almost immediately popped his head back in. “I did tell you that I invited Reverend Collins for supper, didn’t I?”