High Plains Promise

Chapter 1-2

As soon as they ducked out of sight, Wesley turned. James was still staring at the door of the Spencers' house.

“Shall we go?” Wesley asked.

James shook his head a couple of times, as though trying to clear his mind. “Yes, let's,” he said at last, and the two men headed back down Main street, past the commercial center, which consisted of red brick buildings of varying heights—the mercantile, the bank with the telegraph office up front, and the Occidental Hotel.

At last, they came to the church. Unlike its neighbors, it was made of weathered white boards, and boasted an oversized steeple with an ostentatious brass bell. The sound of the bellowing pipe organ could be heard in the street. Wesley grinned wanly. Sounds like Kristina is practicing for Sunday.

To the south of the church, a narrow brick path led past a wind-blighted tree to a tiny, one-room structure. James unlocked the door of the vicarage and the stench of a building that had been unoccupied for several years assaulted the two men.

“Whew, that's ripe,” Wesley commented. Smells too much like home. Wouldn't wish that on anyone else.

“Open up the windows,” James suggested, stepping over the threshold and making a sharp right turn into the sitting area, where he yanked the first glass pane up to reveal the opening beneath. “I know it's cold, but that wind will take care of the stink in short order.”

Shivering, Wesley turned left and scooted past a small, round table so he could comply. Within minutes the room had turned freezing but undeniably smelled fresher.

James handed Wesley a broom and he worked on warming himself up by sweeping all the dust and cobwebs from the floors and out onto the stoop, where the breeze carried them away.

James, meanwhile, poked at the pot-bellied stove in the corner, making sure it was vented correctly.

Good plan, Wes thought as he paused in the center of the room, wondering what to do next. Since the new pastor is coming from Texas, he'll need that source of warmth immediately.

“Wes, take a look at the bed frame and mattress, would you, while I examine the sofa?” James ordered.

Obediently, Wesley approached the bed and swept off the fabric sheet that served as a cover. The bare mattress, while a bit worn, did not contain any holes or tears. He sat down, pleased that only a small amount of dust billowed up. Not bad, considering it's been unused for so long. Looks like that twice-yearly cleaning did the trick. He jiggled on the bed, but the frame did not move. “Seems solid enough,” he called to his companion.

“Same here,” James replied. “I might almost think the Lord had a hand in keeping this place. Reverend Williams must have a special purpose in this town.”

“Let's hope,” Wesley agreed. “What about linens? This bed looks mighty uninviting, all bare like this.”

“The Ladies' Altar Guild will bring sheets, blankets, and towels tomorrow evening. That way, they'll still be nice and fresh when he arrives in the morning.”

“Sounds good. And for food?”

“Allison and Kristina are going to stock the cupboards in the next day or two.”

Wesley nodded. “Sounds like things are about set. I sure hope Reverend Williams likes it here. We haven't had a pastor in so long…” Suddenly Wesley realized how bad that sounded. “Not that you've done a bad job, I mean… sorry.”

“Don't worry, Wes,” James replied. “No offense taken. I'm no pastor. I don't have time to devote to the ministry. I'm glad to fill in, but I know the difference. I'm glad Reverend Williams is coming too.”

The men returned to examining the vicarage for livability. Crouching on the floor, Wesley verified there were no mouse holes visible in the baseboards. Provided the new pastor doesn't have fancy tastes, the little house should be serviceable and comfortable.

“Well, the walls still look solid,” James announced. “What about the floor?”

“Smooth as glass. No signs of warping,” Wesley replied, running one hand over a shiny, no longer dusty board.

Task completed, they parted ways at the door with a handshake and James headed south, down the street towards his home.

The church had fallen silent, indicating Kristina had finished practicing and left. Silence hung heavy over the little town, broken only by the endless, whispering wind. No people walked down the broad brick road. No conversation rang from open windows.

Dusk deepened, casting long shadows of trees and buildings over the red brick streets. Wesley turned north and walked to the familiar house he'd visited over and over in his childhood. Every time he visited the Spencer home, he felt a pang of sorrow, no less diminished for the four years that had passed since the death of all his dreams.

He knocked on the door.

Allison opened it, looking lovely and as desirable as ever. It's hell to look at her, he thought, wincing as though the vision of her robust, blond loveliness hurt his eyes. Hurts my heart, more like. In some ways, this is worse than the confrontation with Samantha.

All he could think, every time he saw Allison, was how different his life would be now if he hadn't been so noble with her. If I took her there, on the floor of that farmhouse, she would have been the one who conceived my baby. My daughter could have had a stable, loving mother, an adoring aunt and lovely grandparents. This should have been Melissa's family.

“Wesley,” Allison said. She tried to sound cool and collected, but a hint of something in her voice betrayed sorrow that equaled his.

It's always there. I betrayed her. Her trust in me is not what it once was, and deservedly so. Regret chewed on his insides. I hurt us both for such a stupid reason.

Without a word, she ushered him into the parlor. She didn't sit, and so he also remained standing. Their eyes met, and Allison flinched. She turned away.

To keep from staring like a lovesick puppy, he scanned the familiar room with its high-backed sofa, upholstered in black, the two wood and blue velvet armchairs, and the pot-bellied stove in the corner of a room encircled with golden tongue-and-groove paneling. Once, I considered this room more mine than the gracious two-story gingerbread I used to share with my mother. In the wake of yet another brutal fight with his wife, this lovely and well-appointed room made the squalor of his own living conditions seem even uglier by comparison.

“Have you eaten?” she asked.

“No,” he replied.

“Would you like some dinner? I think we have some leftovers. Melissa ate well, and since Dad's away on the Wichita run, we have an extra seat at the table.”

“No thank you,” he declined. “I need to head home, I suppose.”

Allison seemed poised on the verge of saying something, but then she bowed her head and left in silence. Wesley sank onto one of the armchairs, exhausted. He rested his elbows on his knees and his forehead in his hands.

“Are you sad, Daddy?” a childish voice chirped in his ear. He looked up, meeting his daughter's beautiful dark eyes.

“Not sad,” he lied, “just tired and hungry.”

“They had chicken and potatoes. Do you want some?”

Wesley's mouth watered at the thought of all the Spencer women's delicious cooking. No. I can't play house here and pretend. I won't be guilty of Samantha's accusations.

Inhaling deeply, he took in the scent of butter and meat and bit his lip hard against dual burning in his eyes and throat. It's so unfair. I committed one sin. One. And I've more than paid for it, his hungry stomach argued, tempted by the promise of a satisfying meal.

No. I refuse to confirm Samantha's accusations by making her suspicions true in the smallest way.

“Let's go home, princess,” he said.

Worry flashed in her eyes, beyond her meager years.

How can such a tiny, innocent child know such stress? He scooped her into his arms. “Goodbye, ladies, and thank you,” he called as he walked out into the blustery street. Deep dusk had fallen, and the temperature had dropped even further. Wesley cuddled Melissa close, protecting her from the cold as he hurried through the streets.

In the fiery evening light, long shadows cast by the buildings hung ominously overhead, crowding him. He shivered and walked even faster. His long legs ate up the blocks until at last, he reached his home. Opening the door silently, he crept inside, cursing himself for his cowardice. This is my home, damn it, and I haven't done anything wrong, so why am I sneaking in like a guilty adolescent?

He set Melissa on the floor. She clung close to his side. Hand in hand, they walked through the dark, silent house. The echoing of their footsteps on the reverberating wood floor lent weight to the growing notion they were alone. A quick check of the first floor confirmed it. Wesley walked Melissa up the stairs to her bedroom, the only well-kept space in the house.

Her low bed with its pink quilt waited invitingly in one corner, hemmed in by a white bureau and a dark rocking chair. Wesley pulled a pink nightgown out of the top drawer of the bureau and gently dressed his daughter for bed. Then he settled in the rocking chair. His belly cramped with hunger, but he would not forgo this time with Melissa.

He folded his big hands around her tiny ones and prayed with her, not a memorized, rhyming prayer, just an honest conversation with God about the day, and then he sang her a lullaby. Glancing down, he saw her eyes closed. He kissed her forehead and tucked her into bed. As he stood to leave, her arms snaked around his neck in a tight hug.

“I love you, Daddy,” she murmured. “Everything will be all right.”

Wesley's eyes burned. “I love you too, Melissa,” he told her, kissing her cheek.

Her arms relaxed, falling to her sides.

He hurried back down the stairs to the kitchen, where he began to rummage for food. His wife's haphazard kitchen system had him baffled as usual. Eventually, he found a loaf of bread in a lower cabinet. It must have been there for ages, as thick blue and white mold covered the entire surface. Trying not to gag, he tossed it into the backyard.

A more extensive search of the kitchen revealed the fresh bread she had purchased that day, wrapped in a tea towel below the kitchen sink. The icebox held sliced meat, some of it not rotten, and some cheese from which the mold could be cut off. For this, I gave up roast chicken with potatoes, he lamented with a sigh.

Shaking his head, Wesley consumed his unpalatable supper and cleaned his own teeth, trying without success to remove the taste of the overly ripe cheese. Then he went to bed. Wherever Samantha is tonight, I hope she stays there. I'm not in the mood to see her.

Allison sat in a straight-backed wooden chair in front of her vanity, running an ivory-handled brush through her golden hair. She'd just bathed—a Friday night ritual—and now she wanted her hair to dry before going to bed. Can't let it dry against the pillow or it will be a rat's nest tomorrow. The mundane thought helped chase away the shadows of grief that always threatened to overtake her quiet moments.

A knock sounded at her door.

“Who is it?” she called.

“Becky,” her sister replied.

“C'mon in,” she said.

Rebecca entered the room, dressed in a loose white nightgown, with a tan dressing gown belted around her tiny waist.

In some ways we look so much alike, Allison reflected. Same blond hair. Same blue eyes, but that's where the common features end. Though over a decade older than me, Becky is a head shorter, and slender where I'm robust. She looks almost fairy-like, all but her mysterious, emotion-concealing half-smile. So different from aggressive cheer—though both façades conceal feelings we have reason to protect. Can't let people get too close. That way leads to heartbreak.