Kerri Mountain - The Parson's Christmas Gift

The wagon lurched to the right and climbed steeply, bringing a large two-story ranch house into view. Journey breathed in the dry air, glad for the break in Abby’s too-friendly curiosity. She had to stay alert. If something so minute as a tint in her voice could connect her back to Georgia, she wouldn’t be safe even through Christmas.

She examined the ranch. A sturdy barn with an empty corral faced the broad porch of the home, with about thirty yards of grass-pocked dust between. The bluff they’d crossed boxed around one edge of the property, but the view beyond scooped across the wide valley. Sage and scrub brush were the only thriving plants she could see across the landscape. The property was secluded from the casual traveler but not closed off.

A pounding hammer echoed and drew her attention to a broad-shouldered figure on the roof.

“That’s Zane—Reverend Thompson. He’d said he was going to see about patching some leaks for Miss Rose,” Abby said. “The last time Zane visited, it rained, and he said he had to move three times when water started dripping down his back. Each time Miss Rose just pulled out another pot to catch it.”

Journey knew what it was like to have to make do with what you had. She watched the man kneeling along the roof, sleeves rolled back over deeply tanned arms, shirt clinging between his shoulder blades despite the cool day. His dark brown hair glistened in the midmorning sun.

“You know him well?” She licked her dry lips.

“Oh, Zane and Sam grew up together. Their families came west together. I knew Zane long before he became our pastor. They say a prophet isn’t honored in his hometown, but somehow Zane has made it work. He’s a wonderful pastor, a true man of God. And of course those gray eyes of his don’t hurt him, either.” Abby patted her knee with a light laugh. “You’ll get to hear him tomorrow.” Journey forced another smile.

Tomorrow? She’d be long gone by then. She didn’t need any pastor to make her see her guilt. She knew it well enough already.

“Journey? Is everything all right?”

She nodded, swallowing hard. Everything would be perfect—just as soon as Walten and all of its fine and overly welcoming citizens were miles of trail dust behind her.

Everything moved so fast—too fast. Abby’s chattering wearied her. She couldn’t keep up. Journey rubbed her aching temples.

The wagon rolled to a stop beside the porch. “Hello, the house!” Abby called, climbing down over the wheel. Journey did the same and stood close to it.

“Thought I heard a wagon,” a deep baritone answered. Reverend Thompson.

She watched Abby dig a sandwich out of the picnic basket and hand it to him as he stepped down the ladder and drank a dipper full of water. “We’ve come to share a lunch with Miss Rose.”

“And this is?”

Journey felt his gaze as he unwrapped his sandwich. With a deep breath to steady her shaking, she tilted her head up to introduce herself. “Journey. Journey Smith.”

“Now there’s an unusual name. Pleased to meet you, ma’am. I imagine Abby’s introduced me already.” She stared at the hand he held out for a moment before shaking it. He smiled, crinkling his eyes at the corners and revealing a wide row of straight teeth and a cleft in his cheek. A shock of dark brown hair ruffled off his forehead, and a small thatch tufted at the back, making him look more like an unruly schoolboy than a minister. His square jaw proved more convincing, though his lips curved into a smile that seemed etched onto his face and had a depth she doubted lessened in many circumstances. “I’m Reverend Thompson to most folks, plain Zane to Abby. What brings you all this way?”

“Journey’s new to the area, looking to settle in for a while. I thought maybe we could work something out with Miss Rose. She’s been talking about hiring some help around here.”

“That so?” Zane bit into the sandwich and nodded once slowly as he chewed, as if considering the idea. He swallowed. “Could work fine for you both. Miss Rose is inside. I’m sure she’ll be glad to talk with you.”

He gazed directly at her, his gray eyes alight in the sun. “So how’d you come by a name like that?”

Breath caught in her throat, choking her. One of the few questions Abby hadn’t thought to ask.

“It’s a family name.”

His eyebrow tilted in a question, one she couldn’t read. “Well, that’s nice,” he said. “I—We’ll look forward to having you in our town.”

Had they all assumed she’d decided? She wasn’t staying here. She couldn’t. She scanned the landscape again. Could she?

The young pastor continued. Before she could force a sound from her dry throat, his attention spread to both of them. “I expect we’ll see you tomorrow at church. Hope everything works out for you, Miss Smith.”

“Reverend Thompson.”

“Please, feel free to call me Zane,” he said, seeming not to notice her wavering voice. He grinned, glancing up to the roof. Sunshine burnished the planes of his face a deep bronze. “If you’ll excuse me, ladies, I have a few more boards to replace. I’ll leave you to your visit. Thanks, Abby,” he added, waving the sandwich. He snatched another bite as he headed up the ladder.

Journey watched him climb to the roof before following Abby.

An elderly woman with white-gray hair opened the door before they could knock. Her round blue eyes lit with a warm smile for Abby, and with a question for Journey.

“Who do we have here? Come on in, and bring your friend. My, but I haven’t seen you in a spell,” she said. “What’s brought you ladies out today? Come in, come in.”

Warm sunlight streamed in two wide windows on either side of the far wall, making the room bright and airy with a view of the distant mountains. A few delicate vases sat on shelves below them. Two daguerreotypes stood on a high shelf, shrouded with a layer of fine dust. Otherwise the room held little adornment beyond the ornate couch and a simple wooden rocker.

The fireplace in the middle of the house glowed with faint embers. On either side, a doorway opened. One led to the kitchen and Journey guessed the other led to Miss Rose’s bedroom. Simple in design and decoration, it was so unlike the garish and cluttered rooms she’d lived in up until now. She liked it, quiet and unobtrusive.

They followed the tiny figure into the kitchen. Freshly baked bread steamed through cloths on the sideboard. The scent filled the room to the farthest corners.

“I was about to slice some bread for lunch,” the woman said. Journey noted her slow, sure step and the steady voice.

Abby rested the basket she carried on the table. “Then we’re just in time, Miss Rose. I’ve brought some chicken sandwiches for all of us. Zane already took one, and there’s plenty more.”

Miss Rose sat, then slid out a chair and nodded Journey into it. “I’m assuming your friend has a name you just haven’t got around to sharing.”

Abby’s light laugh held none of the nervousness Journey felt. “This is Miss Smith. She wandered into town this morning, looking for work and a warm roof to sleep under. Journey, this is Mrs. Rose Bishop.”

Journey forced her hand forward in greeting. Something about the woman reminded her of the ladies who would pass by the saloon on Sundays, all fine and proper. Except that this woman seemed to possess a kindness, a fairness—confidence born of something more than money and position. She tried to hold her fingers and voice steady. “Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Bishop. Please, call me Journey.”

“Only if you’ll call me Miss Rose,” she said, getting up to set a kettle to heat. “Everybody does. Make yourselves at home, and I’ll get the settings.”