Detwiler, Iowa
Spring 1885
Len Montgomery stood and rubbed his aching lower back. He’d spent the night in a ladder-back chair, praying for Mrs. Warren’s healing. He allowed himself to gaze at the woman’s white face and blue lips. Another soul with the Lord.
At least she didn’t pass alone. She had him. Her children went out West years ago to seek their fortunes, leaving the poor widow without nearby family. He buttoned his waistcoat and grabbed his jacket from the chair’s finial. He’d best go and telegraph her son and then start making arrangements. His first funeral in his first pastorate.
A soft knock sounded at the door. “Mrs. Warren?”
He recognized that sweet, feminine voice from last Sunday. Too bad he couldn’t remember her name. He scurried to the front room.
There she stood, with a tendril of light brown hair escaping its pin, a streak of dirt across her nose, and a bouquet of daffodils in her hand. “Oh, I’m sorry Pastor Montgomery. I’ve come to bring Mrs. Warren these flowers from my garden. ‘When daffodils begin to peer, with heigh! the doxy over the dale, why, then comes in the sweet o’ the year.’”
“Pardon me?”
“Shakespeare. Daffodils bring in the best time of the year.” Her smile matched the cheeriness of the blooms.
He swallowed hard. Had she been close to the woman? Would the news cause her great upset? “I’ve been at her bedside all night. I’m afraid I have bad news.”
She wilted. “Oh, dear. She had a weak heart, but I prayed the Lord would spare her.”
“She shared her testimony with me a few hours ago. We can take comfort that she’s now in heaven.”
A tear glistened on the woman’s long eyelashes. If only he knew her name.
“I guess she won’t be needing the flowers.”
“You could put them in a pitcher. To decorate the place for those who come to visit.”
She wiped away the moisture from her eyes. “What a wonderful idea.” With an ease that told him she was familiar with the kitchen, she grabbed a piece of pottery, pumped some water in it, and arranged the flowers, bending one stem one way and another in a different direction.
Once she set the pot on the rough-hewn table, she adjusted her straw bonnet. “I’m glad I ran into you. There’s a letter waiting for you in the morning’s post.”
Why did she know that? Was she a busybody? “Thank you.”
“If I’d known I was going to run into you, I would have brought it.”
Aha, that’s who she was. The postmistress. But her name still eluded him. “There’s no rush.”
“It might be good news from home. You look like you’ve had a rough night. Perhaps it will cheer you up.”
He attempted to smooth back his always-wild hair. “Maybe.”
“Were you headed that way?”
“Yes, to the train station to send a telegram.”
“Then stop in. I’ll have it ready for you.” Just as she breezed in, she floated out, only the scent of fresh air lingering after her.
But what on earth was her name?
“Isn’t that just the worst news about Mrs. Warren?” Cora Thomas leaned on the post office counter worn smooth by years’ worth of the exchange of coins and letters and gossip.
Annabelle Lewis nodded, her golden curls bouncing in time. “She would have loved the flowers you brought.”
“Poor Pastor Montgomery. His hair stood up in every direction, and his waistcoat was buttoned wrong. I’m sure he didn’t sleep at all last night.”
“I think he’s about the most handsome man I’ve ever met.”
“’The Devil hath power to assume a pleasing shape.’”
Annabelle laughed. “You and your Shakespearean quotes. You’re going to meet a nice man one day and scare him away with them.”
If only they’d sent Max Murdoch running. “If a man can’t appreciate the Bard, I can’t appreciate him.”
“Hush.” Color rose in Annabelle’s winter-pale cheeks. “Here he comes now.”
Pastor Montgomery strode through the general store section of the building, dodging barrels of flour and sugar, almost dumping over several bolts of gingham. He towered over the shelves. In no time at all, he reached the postal counter. “Good afternoon, Miss …” He peered around, as if searching for something. His gaze stilled on the postmistress sign, and he squinted. “Miss Thomas.” Spoken as a sigh of relief.
Had he forgotten her name? She smoothed down her pink-striped day dress. “Pastor Montgomery. I suspect you’re here about the letter. I’ll have it for you in a moment.”
Annabelle giggled. She hadn’t outgrown her school-girl fantasies yet, though she should have long ago.
Cora turned to the wall of small cubbyholes behind her and drew out the envelope addressed to the pastor. Postmarked from Des Moines. Did he have family there? A sweetheart? But the scrawl across the front was strong and square. And it carried no scent of roses or violets. Written by a man. “Here you are, Pastor.”
He raised a single, light brown eyebrow. “Please, call me Len.”
Annabelle leaned toward him. “Wouldn’t that be too forward?”
“Not at all. We’re of similar age. I prefer it. Even though I’m new here, I’d like to feel part of the community. Not the unreachable, untouchable pastor.”
And at that, Cora saw him as a man, not just a man of God in a frock coat. And when he smiled a dimpled smile, the urge to giggle like Annabelle overtook her. She tamped it down. “Well, welcome to Detwiler. It’s not much as far as towns go, but it’s our home.” She held the letter to him, her hand shaking.
“It’s much bigger than the little one near the farm in Ohio where I grew up.”
Annabelle fluffed her dark skirt. “So then, this is like the big city to you?”
He laughed, rich and deep and full. Cora checked herself before she fell under his spell. Max had a laugh like that. It was almost too late before she caught the hard, sinister edge to it.
“Not exactly a big city, but a good place to begin my work as a pastor.”
“If you need anything, and I mean anything at all, don’t hesitate to ask.” Annabelle fluttered her eyelashes. Didn’t she realize she was making a fool of herself? “My father owns this store.”
“Oh yes.” He nodded. “And a very well stocked one, I must say.”
“And Cora’s father owns the hotel. They serve the best pie there.” Annabelle winked. Or did she have an eyelash in her eye?
Cora could almost see Annabelle’s mind formulating a plan to woo the new minister and have him to the altar before anyone else snatched him up.
He turned to Cora. “What a nice gesture to bring those flowers to Mrs. Warren.”
“I’m sorry I wasn’t in time.”
“Do you do that often? Bring flowers to the sick, I mean?”
“Other than Shakespeare, I love nothing more than a flower garden.”
His crooked grin disappeared. Had she said something wrong? Didn’t he like parishioners stepping in like that? Or did he think she should bring something more useful, like a meal?
“I hope your letter brings good news.” She nodded at the envelope in his hand.
“Thank you.” He tipped his Stetson hat and moved a few steps away before tearing open the seal. He scanned the page, a V appearing on his forehead. He smiled, frowned, smiled again, and then shook his head.
Annabelle leaned across the counter and whispered. “Who do you think it’s from?”
“It’s really none of our business.” With a swish of her skirt, she turned back to sorting the mail the train brought that day.
But she caught every word he muttered. “Oh dear. Oh my. He expects me to do what?”