The Preacher's Wife. Cheryl St.John
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looked like an embroidery hoop. Before long, she set down her handiwork, and the four of them bowed their heads.
Josie wished she could hear their prayer. She wondered what their needs were. Perhaps they were all prayers of thanksgiving for their health and family. She let the curtain drop back into place. She had as much to be thankful for as the Iversons. She was healthy. Between inheritances from her father and her late husband, she owned a house, half of a newspaper, and had a generous monthly income. God provided her daily needs plus a whole lot more.
“Thank You, Lord, that You meet all my needs,” she said with heartfelt gratitude.
Her thoughts traveled to the Hart family, to those lovely young ladies and the loss and hardships they’d suffered. That day their eyes had spoken of their grief more clearly than any words could have. Reverend Hart possessed a quiet strength. She sensed purpose and dignity in his movements and his words. Something about him kindled suppressed emotions deep inside her. His wife must have been a special person. What a shame those girls wouldn’t have their mother as they grew up.
As she rinsed her cup and dried the kettle, she prayed for the Hart family, asking God to comfort them and give them strength and peace.
The house had grown dark, so she lit an oil lamp and carried it to the washroom behind the kitchen, where she bathed and changed into her nightclothes before climbing the stairs to her room.
Since Bram’s death, she’d chosen to sleep in a different bedroom than the one she’d shared with him. She’d felt thoroughly alone, and had been compelled to make changes. Margaretta had thrown a conniption when Josie had given all of his belongings to the Lydia Closet at church.
“Bram’s barely cold in his grave, and you’re erasing him from your life,” she’d accused in a hurt tone.
It had been six months after Bram’s death, and Josie had been at a place where she needed to do something to move on. She didn’t want to grow old and lonely without making an effort to have a fulfilling life. At the time, Josie had known it would be a waste of breath to share her feelings with Margaretta. “I miss him, too, but someone might as well have use of perfectly good clothing,” she’d told her.
“You might afford my son the dignity of preserving his memory.”
“I’ve kept his watch and wedding ring and his Bible,” she replied. “I have the entire house by which to remember him.”
“No doubt you’ll change that now, too.” The woman had taken several items of clothing from the stacks and turned her back on Josie.
It was her house, Josie had thought all along. She could do with it as she pleased. But she liked it fine just the way it was. She’d selected the furnishings and the decor, so of course it suited her.
No, there was only one thing wrong with the house…. Only one thing that she would change if she had the power. It was painfully, glaringly empty.
After Sam sorted through the contents of the wagon to find the things his daughters needed for the night, he brought in the copper tub, heated water and sat with Henry in the parlor while the girls helped each other bathe.
“I’m thinking I need to spend another night with the wagon,” he told the other man. “I’m too tired to haul more water for a bath, so I’ll get one in town tomorrow.”
“You need a solid rest before you push on to Colorado,” Henry told him.
Sam agreed with a nod. “I want to hear about your church. About the people. You probably have a list of things you need done. I suppose there are visits to make.”
“As one of your first duties, I’d appreciate it if you could call on the Widow Harper. Each spring a few of the men till and plant a garden for her. She’s not a sociable woman, doesn’t join the other ladies in their activities or come to any gatherings except Sunday-morning service. I think I’m the only one who ever goes to visit her, and it’s been a while.”
“After my chores in town are accomplished tomorrow, and I’ve had a bath and haircut, I’ll be glad to call on her. Shall I take my daughters with me?”
“You do as you’re led,” Henry replied. “But if you’re concerned they might be underfoot here, don’t give it another thought. I won’t mind their company. In fact, they might give Josie a break as my companion. She’s probably seen enough of this house and my face.”
“I’ll give them the option,” Sam decided. “They have their studies, and I don’t want them to have fallen behind in their schooling by the time we reach Colorado.”
“They seem like bright young ladies,” Henry observed. “I’m sure that won’t be a problem.”
“Carrie always helped them with their schoolwork.” Sam glanced at the dying embers in the fireplace. “I’m seeing now just how much she did.” He looked up. “Have you ever lost someone, Reverend?”
“My Rosemary died in childbirth fifteen years ago,” Henry replied. “The baby lived only a few hours. A boy, it was. David.”
Fifteen years ago, yet sorrow still tinged his voice when he spoke their names. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Death doesn’t take away the impact they made on our lives or their importance to God.” Henry waited until Sam met his eyes. “To be gone from here is to be present in glory. It doesn’t feel like it now, but I assure you each day will get a little easier. Each week will add more distance from the pain.”
Sam trusted the man’s wisdom, but he wished there was a more immediate answer. It was up to him to raise three daughters and make up for the loss of their mother.
“I’ll see to emptying the tub now and make sure the girls are settled for the night.”
Henry got to his feet.
Sam reached out to steady him. “I’ll bank the fire. Go on to your bed now.”
“You’re going to do fine, Sam. Just fine.”
Nothing felt as though that would be the case, but Sam had to believe it anyway. Would he always feel as though he was enduring one difficult day after another? He didn’t know what to do about it—except pray the reverend was right.
Chapter Three
Josie loved Mondays. On Mondays she had a fresh slate ahead of her, a palette of days that held endless possibilities. A whole new week in which to accomplish as many things as would fit. And this week was even more exciting because there would be tasks aplenty in looking after the interim preacher and his daughters.
She lit the oven, heated water and set full pitchers and towels outside each bedroom door. While coffee boiled, she fried bacon and mixed batter for flapjacks.
When she checked back, Reverend Martin hadn’t picked up his water, so she tapped on the door.
“I’m awake, Josie. C’mon in.”
He was lying propped on his pillows. “How are you feeling this morning?” she asked.
“Weak as a baby, and tired of it to be sure.”
She placed a towel across his lap, prepared his razor and stirred shaving powder into froth with the brush. She handed him the mirror. “I don’t mind shaving you.”
She’d performed the task many times when he couldn’t bear to move.
“I feel like I’ve taken a step backward.”
“Not at all. Your color is good. That wound is healed, and you’re eating well. You’re just a little tired.”
“Hand me the razor, Josie. Your optimism inspires me to push forward.”
She handed him the straightedge. “How would you like your eggs?”
“Any way you turn them out will set just fine with me.”
“I’ll