[Canadian West 05] - Beyond the Gathering Storm (8 page)

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Authors: Janette Oke

BOOK: [Canadian West 05] - Beyond the Gathering Storm
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Christine did pray about it. Honestly. On the one hand she realized how pleasant it would be to live in such an opulent home with so much room, along with the pleasure of spending time in the kitchen each night. She would be preparing meals for Mr. Kingsley and herself. Then Boyd when he returned home from school. She did not even consider Miss Stout as a dinner guest. As far as Christine was concerned, the woman deserved no more free suppers.
She wrote a letter to her parents telling them of Mr. Kingsley’s proposal. She included the fact that he had said she could bring her friend Miss Easton along with her.
That would be fun,
she told herself as she penned the words. Built-in companionship in the big house. They could work together in the big kitchen. Read books before the library fire. There was even a player piano in the drawing room.
But each time Christine’s enthusiasm began to grow, she felt an inner disquiet.
Abstain from all appearance of evil
came back to her mind as she sealed the envelope. And how would it change things at work? With diligence and care, she had finally earned her spot in the typing pool. She had now been accepted as skilled and hardworking, not “the boss’s favorite.” What if she moved into the boss’s house? Would she be shunned all over again? Christine was certain she did not want that.
But to refuse. How would he take her decision? Would he be miffed? Downright angry? Might he terminate her employment? Christine continued to pray and anxiously checked her mail until the response from her folks arrived.
“This is a most unusual circumstance,” her mother wrote. “We have talked about it at length and prayed about it many times. We have come to the conclusion that not knowing the man, nor the full implications of the situation, we must trust God to lead you to the right decision.”
This was little comfort to Christine. She appreciated her parents’ faith in her, but she wished they had made the decision for her. Mr. Kingsley was waiting for her decision. Boyd was soon due back from the university. She knew she had to decide one way or the other. But what was right? She had not brought it up with Jayne. She did not need the complication of pressure from another source. The week dragged by with Christine’s heart nearly stopping every time Mr. Kingsley’s office door opened. She knew she could not avoid the inevitable forever.
On Monday morning she slipped into her desk as uncertain as ever. Then she noticed Miss Stout grimly cleaning out Jayne’s station.
“What—where’s Jayne?” she asked.
“Foolish girl,” Miss Stout said with tight lips. “She went home for the weekend. Phoned in this morning to say she would not be coming back. She’s getting married to some ... some country yokel. Never even gave proper notice.”
Getting married
The words rang in Christine’s ears. Jayne getting married. So her young man had not taken up with Bessie—whoever she was—after all. Jayne would be so happy. Christine could not help but smile.
Then came the realization that Jayne would no longer be available to share the big house. There was no one else in the typing pool she had any interest in asking to share the unusual arrangement. That meant it had been decided for her. Now she must not put it off any longer. She had to talk with Mr. Kingsley. She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and picked up her steno pad. She didn’t expect to need it, but it was something to hang on to.
“Come,” called the gruff voice when she rapped on the door.
Christine steeled herself and entered. “Mr. Kingsley?”
He lifted his head. “Ahh,” he said, tossing aside his pencil. “You’ve finally finished praying.”
Christine nodded.
“Didn’t think God was ever going to answer,” he went on with a sly grin.
Christine did not share his amusement.
“Sit down,” he offered, waving toward a chair.
Christine did.
“I take it from your face that the answer is no.”
She nodded dumbly.
He seemed to think about that for some time before he pushed away from his desk and rocked back in his chair.
“Just out of curiosity,” he said, studying her face, “why wouldn’t He let you? I mean—I had no ulterior motive—except a few good meals. You’re young enough to be my daughter—surety He didn’t think I’d have designs on you. If I wanted another wife, there are lots of them out there. So why not?”
“He didn’t say—I mean ... perhaps He did ... in a way. I just couldn’t feel comfortable about it. I know that ... that your house is beautiful and your offer was out of kindness. But it ... it just didn’t feel ... right. I don’t think people would understand, and I didn’t want ... I couldn’t risk possibly damaging the name of my parents—or my God—just to get something better ... for me.”
He seemed to think about what she had said, weighing it carefully. He reached out to pick up his pencil and began to roll it between finger and thumb. “So ... you think my offer would be better for you.”
“Oh yes,” said Christine quickly. “You’ve such a beautiful home, and I could have cooked ... anything. Everything. It would have ...” But she stopped uncertainly. She did not want him to misunderstand. “I’m sorry,” she finally stammered.
“I’m not.” He began to tap the pencil. “I was afraid you scorned my offer. That you felt it insulting. That ... that riled me a bit. But now I see that ... well ... that you made your decision for another reason. I don’t share your views about God. But I can respect you for sticking to what you believe. I’m disappointed ... of course. But ...” He shrugged his massive shoulders and pulled his chair closer to his desk.
She knew she had just been dismissed.
“Miss Delaney,” he called after her when she was almost to the door. “Should you ever change your mind ...” He let the sentence drop. Christine gave a slight nod.
She had her hand on the doorknob when he called again. “And bring me in another pencil. This fool thing’s worn down to the quick.”
CHAPTER
Six
The location of the detachment had not been chosen because it was a large or prominent prairie town. Its claim to an RCMP office was its central position in the area that needed to be patrolled. Amid miles and miles of stark prairie and more miles of empty foothills sat this little town, directly in the middle. The distances no longer had to be covered on horseback—though Henry knew there would be days during the winter when he would long once more for a good dog team and a sled. Many roads, in the best of weather, posed difficulty even for the high-built Fords. He dreaded the winter storms and spring rains. But they’d have to deal with those when the times came. For the moment it was enough to face and manage what came up day by day.
He rubbed at the tension in the back of his neck. Though it had been a routine day—which to a police officer was always an advantage—he still had reports to write up. He was hungry, but the thought of food at the local café did not entice him. Everything they served was so highly spiced it made his stomach complain. Rogers, his fellow officer, joked, “If it didn’t taste like fire, it’d have no taste at all.” But it was either settling for café fare or the impossible task of rustling up something in his bachelor quarters.
He had been at his new posting in the South for three weeks. Three weeks. It didn’t sound long. Yet it felt like forever. It was so different from the North. He’d been watching and observing to catch the feel of the whole flow of life here from his two fellow officers. Even so, he felt he was constantly on the brink of making some major official faux pas. So far he had managed to cover his hesitancy and fear of going against what was culturally acceptable.
Canadian law was the law of the West. He would uphold the law as he had vowed and been trained to do. But the details—the things that swung on individual interpretation—were the issues that could stump him. The Force had a reputation to uphold. An image to protect. Henry was very conscious of that fact. He lived and breathed with the Force in mind.
He rubbed his neck with more vigor.
I’m not sure I was cut out for this
ran relentlessly through his mind. He silently noted,
I feel I’m walking on a beaver dam in spring floodwater. I’m not quite sure where to place my next step.
“Boy,” he admitted aloud, feeling the fringe at the back of his head. “I’ve got to get a haircut.”
Three weeks was too long to let the regulation cut go. But Henry had been so busy trying to figure out his new posting that he’d not had time to look up a barber.
He couldn’t remember seeing a striped pole in this little one-horse town. Well, there must be somebody who cuts hair. He looked at the young constable across the room, busily scratching out his daily report.
“Laray,” he asked. “Where does one get a haircut in this town?”
“Sam’s,” Laray answered without even looking up.
There was a stirring at the other desk in the room. Rogers repeated, “Sam’s.” Henry noticed the two officers exchange a look and a grin.
They are setting me up,
thought Henry. But he pretended to fall in with whatever their little scheme might be.
“He the best place in town?”
“Sam’s,” repeated Rogers. “Definitely.”
“Only place in town,” put in Laray with a chuckle.
“Wouldn’t matter though—if there were a dozen. Sam’s would still be the place to go,” said Rogers. Now both laughed.
Do these guys think I’m dumb or what?
thought Henry, but he only nodded and repeated, “Sam’s.”
With a final chuckle from his two companions, they all returned to their paper work. Suppose
Sam’s is about on par with Jessie’s Grill,
Henry mentally groused.
Tortured stomach
—
tortured hair.
He shrugged and went back to his reports. The sooner he finished, the sooner he could get to Jessie’s, down the spicy food, chase it with his mints for stomach acid, and head for bed. Tomorrow might be a totally nonroutine day. He needed sleep to handle whatever might come.
The three left the building together. Laray turned to lock the door behind them. “Going to Jessie’s?”
“Where else?” This from Rogers.
Laray laughed. “Yeah—where else?”
They fell into step.
“Did you find that little church you were asking about?” Henry knew the question was directed to him.
“I did.”
“So how’s it going?”
“Fine. You might want to join us.”
The other two men both laughed, and Laray said, “Not me. I was done with church when my pa wasn’t able to whip me anymore. ”
“What’s it like?” queried Rogers.
“Small. But friendly. I think I’ll like it. I’ve gone only once. Drew Sunday duty on the other two weekends.”
“I don’t mind Sunday duty,” put in Laray. “Often quieter on Sunday.”
“Except for the guys who party too much on Saturday night,” offered Rogers. “I get awfully tired of handling drunks and breaking up fights.”
Henry had thoughts of his own on the subject, but he kept them to himself. They walked the remainder of the way in silence. Even the smell of Jessie’s Grill was hot and spicy.
They were nodded to a table by Jessie. She came over herself, her grin revealing the missing tooth. Somehow in Jessie’s face it seemed to fit. She was ... well, she was rather rugged in appearance. Brassy red hair was pulled back from bony cheeks in a bedraggled hair ribbon. The bright red lipstick, applied somewhat carelessly, matched in tone the bright rouged spot on her sallow cheeks. Her strident voice seemed to match her looks.
Already, though, Henry had sensed that the people of the community had respect for Jessie. She’d had a tough go, but she wasn’t looking for favors or handouts. She worked day and night, but she was making it on her own. Henry knew there must have been a Mr. Jessie somewhere in the past, though the only evidence of him now was the handful of little Jessies he’d spotted here and there. He had not asked questions about the family but expected to learn more in time. His eyes searched her face as she stood by their table. He felt sorry for the woman and her obviously difficult circumstances.
“What you got cooking tonight, Jessie?” asked Laray goodnaturedly. There really wasn’t need for the food-spattered menus she pushed toward them. The regulars had each item already memorized.
“Special is beef stew ’n bakin’ powder biscuits,” she said. She turned her head away to cough.
The stew would be nothing like his mother’s, but Henry ordered it anyway.
“Make it two.”
“Three.”
While Jessie went to dish up, Henry stretched out his legs. “Either of you happen to know of a cheap place a fellow might rent? I might like to batch.”
“Batch? Man, I’d hate that,” said Laray. “I’d hate to eat my own cookin’.”
“I think I’d hate to eat your cookin’ too,” joked Rogers.
Henry had other thoughts. He didn’t mind cooking at all. Had almost enjoyed it while in the North, and he’d had precious little to cook with there. The nearby corner store here would make things much easier. Besides, he knew his own cooking would be much easier on his digestive system.

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