Saints and Sinners (A Classic Romance)

Saints and Sinners

A Classic Romance

by

Mallory Rush

aka

Olivia Rupprecht

Bestselling, Award-winning Author

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ISBN: 978-1-61417-282-6

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Chapter 1

The final strains of organ music blended with the heavy beat of rock and roll. Outside the nondenominational Peace Church's open doors, Rev. Matthew Peters shook the last hand in line. He smiled into Maude's weathered face before she darted a glance across the street and harrumphed at Billy Joel's preference of laughing with sinners over crying with saints.

"The choir did a fine job this morning, Maude," he said kindly. Matt wondered what old Maude would think about preachers breaking commandments. He had just lied. "If everyone sang with as much enthusiasm as you do, we'd be heard clear across Iowa."

'"Make a joyful noise unto the Lord,' the Good Book says, and I surely do my best, Reverend Matthew."

If that was her best, he'd hate to hear her worst. It was noise all right, and he could only hope the congregation took his bowed head as prayerful. His sides still hurt from holding in a belly laugh while Maude warbled the postlude.

"Our best is all any of us can do, Maude. We all stumble." He cocked his ear to pick up the last of the rock lyrics which coincided with the bang of a screen door. "Saints and sinners alike." Matthew chuckled.

"You never sit in judgment, Reverend. Maybe that's why you make us feel like you're one of us, not one of those archangels that're flying so high they can't pass for mortal."

"Believe me, I'm as mortal as the next ma—" The word was cut short by what he saw across the street. "Man," he finished, clearing his throat.

The pleasure he felt in watching the woman put down a box on the front porch, then stretch, causing her halter to rise, left no doubt of his being a man. Even a preacher could appreciate God's craftsmanship in the form of long legs in short cutoffs, a pretty face, and judging from the swish of her ponytail, a generous length of hair the color of sunshine.

With difficulty he forced his attention back to Maude. She'd followed his gaze and pursed her lips.

"That woman ought to be arrested for indecent exposure, prancing around in next to nothing."

"It's warm outside." Warm? It seemed closer to a scorcher as he glanced at the woman once more and watched as she arched her neck and pressed a can against it. The can moved lower, lower, until she rolled it over her cleavage, apparently unaware she was being observed, much less discussed. Matthew's white cotton clergy robes began to feel more like a wool blanket on a sticky summer night.

"Why don't you go over and welcome her to the community, Maude? Maybe invite her to next Sunday's pot luck lunch? You are head of the visitation committee."

"Sorry, Reverend. I have a family reunion and eggs waiting to be... deviled." Her aged lips twitched into a grin.

Matthew laughed good-naturedly while he suppressed an inner sigh. A quick surge of empathy came fast on the heels of the enjoyment he'd taken in the woman's feminine curves. He'd heard the rumors, of course. News travels fast in rural small towns like Hayes, Iowa. Especially when it involves an attractive single woman who was reportedly divorced not once, but twice. With her last name being different from that of her two children, what else could it be? And the children were far too old for her not to have had them when she was little more than a child herself.

He wondered if she had any idea the local gossip mill had dubbed her an undesirable before she'd unloaded the first box.

After bidding Maude a good week and a "God be with you," Matt paused at the church doors. He could walk a couple of blocks to his empty parsonage and heat up some leftovers. Or accept one of the standing invitations to Sunday dinner. Or go to the local restaurant and join any number of people who would unceasingly smile, delineate their woes, apologize for not making it to church, or clean up their conversation as if he were too removed from everyday life to hear a curse word without flinching.

Or he could do the right thing.

Shutting the doors but leaving them unlocked, Matthew proceeded across the street, his robes fluttering against his legs with the dry wisp of a mid-September breeze.

"'Afternoon, neighbor," he called when she turned for the front door. A second's awareness passed between them, and he identified the look she gave him. It said, I'll pretend I didn't notice you were coming over if you'll pretend I didn't see you, and please spare me a church visit, preacher man. He waved anyway and said, "Welcome to Hayes!"

"Er... thanks."
Damn.
Just what she needed.
More
nosy questions and an invitation to church from the pulpit pounder himself.

Delilah eyed him warily while he took the few steps up to the porch. She'd seen how he walked across the street—with purpose, a sort of energetic stride. And now he was smiling. A big, open, sincere smile that wasn't quite right, because it was kind of sexy, too, and everyone knew ministers were not sexy. They were genital-less. Like parents.

"Matthew Peters." He extended his hand.

"Delilah Sampson." She hesitated, then grasped his hand. Warm. Strong. Large. Pleasant. But most of all... warm.

"Let's see, you go by Dee, right?"

"How did you know?" She took her hand back quickly, not liking the familiarity small towns bred.

"Your landlord told me. Mrs. Davis is a church member. Nice lady."

"Hmmm. Yes." Dee had to agree. By the time she'd found the neat-as-a-pin cottage two days before, she was desperate. In Las Vegas you plunked down a deposit and moved in. In Hayes strangers seemed to be suspect, judging from all the personal questions that she was asked. Here the fitness of a renter was based on reputation rather than cash. Not that that was something a minister could relate to, what with being untouched by the world's uglier side.