The Preacher's Bride (Brides of Simpson Creek) (13 page)

“But perhaps you should reconsider, Mr. Merriwell,” Faith said then. “The church is the center of Simpson Creek life. The easiest way to get to know its people is to converse with them at church. And Reverend Gil is a most eloquent speaker.”

Her defense of church attendance surprised Gil, but was that the only reason she came—for the sake of her social life, and because he was an eloquent speaker, as his father had been before him?

The man smiled slowly as if impressed by her suggestion. “Perhaps I will, then. You are probably right, Miss Faith.”

Had Faith already granted the upstart the right to use her first name, even with “Miss” in front of it, or was he just hoping Faith wouldn’t object?

“I’m sure of it,” Faith said. “And perhaps one of your first interviews should be with Reverend Chadwick here. He has a most interesting story to tell, having been accosted by Comanches only days ago. The fading cuts and scrapes on his face are a result of that dreadful encounter.”

Merriwell looked intrigued. “Is that right, Reverend? Fascinating. I would indeed like to speak to you. It would be most interesting to me.”

Gil wished Faith had not mentioned it. There was nothing he wanted less than to relive the event for Yancey Merriwell so this man could write his first newspaper column about it, spreading the tale to the farthest reaches of San Saba County—a tale that was only partly true. But of course Faith did not know the reason for his preference.

“Perhaps later,” Gil said stiffly. “Right now I need to check on my father. Good day to you, Mr. Merriwell.”

* * *

“I don’t believe your reverend likes me, Miss Faith,” Merriwell said when they were out of earshot.

His words startled Faith. “I—I’m sure you’re mistaken,” she said. “What would make you think such a thing? A preacher likes everyone.”

He chuckled. “Preachers are human, Miss Faith. They have likes and dislikes just as the rest of us mortals do. And it’s only a feeling I had about him. If you will allow me to be shockingly plain-spoken for such a new acquaintance, Miss Faith, I believe it’s because he’s interested in you.”

Despite the way his accent softened his words, what he said was so dismaying that Faith stopped stock-still, then turned to face her father’s new assistant.
Was Gil’s feeling for her it so obvious that even a stranger could sense it?

“You are entitled to your opinion, sir, of course, but I’ll say it again—you’re mistaken,” she said, staring straight ahead as she began walking again. She couldn’t decide how she felt about Merriwell’s remarks about Gil. Voicing such an opinion on such short acquaintance was brash of the man, possibly even impertinent, but he’d said it in such a charming, teasing way she found it hard to be offended.

“And why wouldn’t you want the preacher to be interested in you?” Merriwell asked. “Have you another beau, perhaps?” He stopped and clapped a hand over his mouth. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what possessed me to ask such a rude question. It’s none of my business, of course.”

No, it isn’t,
she thought, but somehow she felt compelled to answer. His admission to Gil that he was a nonbeliever like herself had stunned her. Perhaps this was a man she
should
be interested in because they shared the same philosophy.

“I like Reverend Gil—we call him that to differentiate him from his father, Reverend Chadwick—we are only friends. I helped care for his father after he was stricken by apoplexy recently. But he and I would not make a good match, for like yourself, Mr. Merriwell, I am a freethinker.”

Now it was the Georgian’s turn to appear startled.

“You don’t say, Miss Faith! Now, that is interesting that we hold that opinion in common,” he said. His eyes warmed.

Why had she made such an impulsive admission?

Merriwell leaned closer. “Perhaps there are other things we have in common, as well,” he said. “You are a most surprising lady, Miss Faith.”

“I should not have said what I did, sir, and I would beg you not mention it to anyone,” Faith said. “It is not anything I would want known, for it would hurt my parents immensely if they found out.”

He responded by taking her hand and placing it over his forearm. “I am the soul of discretion, if a nonbeliever may claim he has a soul. Rest assured, your secret is safe with me, Miss Faith. Our feelings are unshackled by the bondage of religion, but we must often keep them to ourselves for fear of public censure, must we not?”

His forwardness in touching her irritated her, as did his attempt to make it seem as if they were two against a world that would persecute them. She wanted to yank her arm away, but instead she gently disengaged herself. “You exaggerate the situation, Mr. Merriwell,” she said coolly. “I believe in being a moral person and keep my beliefs, or lack of them, to myself out of love for my parents and friends. Now, here we are at the mercantile,” she said, pointing at the sign over the door. “We should really go in and introduce you to Mrs. Patterson, its proprietress. She’s one of our best customers.”

As they waited politely to speak to Mrs. Patterson, who was helping a customer, she examined her mixed feelings about Merriwell.

Last night her father had beamed at him as if the Georgian was a newfound son. Even her mother seemed to find him fascinating as he told tales over the supper table of the gallant but defeated Old South. He’d been the son of a well-to-do owner and editor of a prominent newspaper there before Fort Sumter fell, he said, and had become a war correspondent with the intention of reporting the glorious Confederate victories. But after the South was beaten, he returned to find his father had died and the newspaper office had been reduced to charred timbers. To hear him tell it, there was no longer any way to publish an honest newspaper with the Federals still overrunning the state. After trying for three years to make a go of it in Atlanta, he had finally come west to recoup his fortune where the air was less thick with the stench of Yankees.

He hadn’t mentioned anything about his lack of faith in front of her parents, Faith remembered. How had he sensed it was safe to say it in front of her?

Well, she’d barely known the man twenty-four hours, and it was way too soon to say if Merriwell was a better man for her. Certainly there needed to be more reasons to like him than merely because he was a fellow nonbeliever. He was certainly charming and good-looking, if one was willing to ignore the feeling that he seemed to feel entitled
to her regard.

But a voice within her protested the very notion of giving away that place in her heart that Gil occupied, even though she’d never willingly given it to the preacher.

Chapter Thirteen

“M
r. Merriwell, I run the only mercantile in Simpson Creek. When the townsfolk need dry goods or what have you, where else are they going to go? Why would I need to do more advertising? I really only advertise now and then to support our local newspaper. I’m a widow, you see, and not wealthy,” Mrs. Patterson said, when Yancey tried to persuade her to buy a larger advertisement in the
Simpson Creek Chronicle.

“I understand, ma’am,” he responded smoothly, “but have you considered that by placing one item—any item you choose, ma’am, perhaps something that’s been slow to move off your shelves—at a special sale price, you encourage your customers to come in to buy that item while they may do so inexpensively. Once inside your door, they may well impulsively buy other things. The result is increased profit for you,” Yancey Merriwell concluded convincingly, giving the proprietress the full force of his winning smile.

“I don’t know...” Mrs. Patterson murmured, and glanced at Faith as if seeking direction.

Faith only smiled. Merriwell would need to make this sale entirely on his own, if he could.

“Mrs. Patterson, I admit I’m a newcomer,” Yancey admitted, “but I’m told Simpson Creek is growing. Some day you may not own the only mercantile. And when that day comes, you want to be sure that your store owns the loyalty of the townspeople of Simpson Creek. You can do that by regular advertising, which keeps your store prominent in the townspeople’s minds, and by constantly reminding them of merchandise you sell which they might need.”

“Another mercantile in Simpson Creek? Just let them try to open one!” Mrs. Patterson exclaimed, and promptly bought a large advertisement to be placed on the front page of the next edition, with yellow gingham fabric being featured as the sale item. What was more, she agreed to place an advertisement every week for the next two months, with a promise to buy more if Mr. Merriwell’s strategy worked.

“I do believe you could sell ice at the North Pole, Mr. Merriwell,” Faith remarked as they left the store, chagrinned because she had never been able to persuade the shopkeeper to buy more than the most minuscule advertisement on the back page. Her father would no doubt be even more pleased than ever with his new employee when he heard the news.

She watched for any sign of smugness, but Merriwell only looked pleased by the compliment. “Please, call me Yancey, Miss Faith,” he said. “I’m just trying to prove to your father he did the right thing by hiring me,” he said with a modest shrug of his shoulders.

Oh, he’s already persuaded of that,
Faith thought, remembering the way her father had beamed at the Georgian over supper last night. She admitted to herself that it hurt to think of the way her father and Merriwell had talked nonstop in the parlor last night after dinner, making plans for new features in the newspaper. Faith and her mother might as well have not even been present.

What was the real reason Yancey Merriwell had left Atlanta? If it was truly the Yankee occupation of Georgia, wouldn’t he have found it difficult to run his newspaper sooner?
Faith wished she dared ask. There was something about the Georgian that seemed too good to be true.

She supposed she should take Merriwell back to the newspaper office. Her father had planned to show his new employee how to run the press this afternoon, for Merriwell had claimed to use a different model back in Atlanta. Her father had always claimed his trusty old Washington press had certain crotchets its operator had to be aware of.

“Well, we’ve visited every business establishment in Simpson Creek,” she said brightly. “Perhaps you should return to the office now. I’ll go home and bring back the dinner that Mama’s doubtless got ready for you both.”

“Actually, Miss Faith, your father suggested I take you to dinner at the hotel when we were finished with our little tour,” Merriwell told her. “A treat to thank you for showing me around.”

The Georgian’s bland announcement rendered Faith speechless. She struggled to keep her features expressionless while inwardly, fury raged. After knowing him for such a brief time, her father was giving Merriwell encouragement to court his daughter? Wouldn’t that be a neat solution to worry about the future, if Merriwell became not only his future successor, but also his son-in-law?

Hadn’t her father been pleased, only days ago, when he was sure Gil was interested in her? Had he been so eager to have her off his hands that he didn’t care who the man was who did the taking?

“Why, hello, Faith!” a voice trilled in front of them. “I just heard from Mrs. Detwiler about your father’s new employee. This must be the man himself, eh?”

She should never be surprised at the speed at which Mrs. Detwiler managed to pass on the latest news. They had only run into the old woman minutes ago at the bank. And while she was not usually pleased to run into Polly Shackleford, this time she practically kissed the other woman’s cheeks in gratitude. She’d thought before that it would not be the right thing to sic Polly on Merriwell, but after what her father had done, it now seemed not only fair but just.

“It’s good to see you, Polly! Yes, this is Mr. Yancey Merriwell, late of Atlanta, Georgia, who has just become my father’s associate editor,” she said. “Mr. Yancey, Miss Polly Shackleford, the current president of the Simpson Creek Spinsters’ Club.”

The Georgian bowed low. “Miss Shackleford, it’s my pleasure to meet you. What organization did you say she was president of, Miss Faith?”

“The Simpson Creek Spinsters’ Club,” Faith repeated. “Why, this might be another good story for you, Mr. Merriwell! Polly, Mr. Merriwell was just about to take me to dinner at the hotel. You simply must come along and tell him all about our wonderful club.”

Polly blinked, probably surprised by Faith’s sudden effusiveness, but she didn’t waste time demurring politely. “Why, how nice of you to include me,” she gushed.

If he was disappointed he would not have his employer’s daughter all to himself, Merriwell was too much the gentleman to say so.

“I cannot imagine anything that would please me more than to have the company of not one but two pretty ladies while dining,” Merriwell said. “And I do indeed wish to hear all about this Spinsters’ Club you speak of, although I cannot imagine either of y’all belonging to a group by that name,” he said, the personification of gallantry. He offered each of them an arm and turned toward the hotel. “Shall we, ladies?”

Over the next hour Faith watched in amusement as Polly monopolized the conversation at their table in the hotel restaurant, telling Yancey Merriwell in minute detail about the founding of the Spinsters’ Club, every match made and all about the coming box social, making it sound like that while the Society for the Promotion of Marriage had not actually been Polly’s idea, she had been the driving force behind the continued success of the group. By the end of dinner, Yancey Merriwell’s eyes were glazing over, but Polly had secured his agreement to come to the box social, not only to cover it for the newspaper, but also as a participant. Faith could even find it in her to feel sorry for the Georgian, whose polite, courtly facade had begun to show signs of strain by the time dessert was offered.

Perhaps Polly had talked too much for Merriwell to want to flirt with
her
rather than herself, Faith thought, but by bringing Polly along, at least Faith had not had to sit alone with the Georgian and politely fend off his advances. She was still going to have a talk with her father, however, and make sure he understood in no uncertain terms how angry she was about him apparently giving his new employee his blessing to court her.

Now she couldn’t believe she had ever considered, even for a moment, that Yancey Merriwell might be a man to consider as a match. Gil was ten times the man Merriwell was, even if he did believe in a deity she could not. She longed to tell him about her father’s perfidy, but surely it wasn’t right to go running to Gil when she was hurt after they had agreed it wasn’t right for them to court?

No, she could stand on her own two feet and handle her hurt feelings herself, thank you very much, even if she did long to fly into Gil’s comforting embrace.

Faith’s anger simmered during supper, another mealtime which her father spent sharing newspapering anecdotes with Merriwell, when he was not boasting to Faith and his wife and daughter of Merriwell’s knack with the old Washington press.

“Mama, would you mind if I didn’t help you with the dishes tonight? I would like to talk to Papa for a few minutes—privately.”

Her father looked up, surprised. “Well...I
had
planned to discuss Yancey’s first editorial with him, and see what suggestions he might have for future articles...”

Her father’s hesitation only caused her smoldering anger to fan itself into crackling flames again. “This won’t take long, Papa,” she said, tight-lipped. She darted a glance across the pecanwood table at Merriwell. The Georgian looked distinctly uncomfortable. Did he know that she was furious? Good! At least the man had
some
perception to go along with his audacity.

“Robert, surely you could spare a few minutes for your daughter,” Lydia Bennett snapped, taking Faith completely by surprise. “You don’t mind, do you, Yancey?” her mother added in a kinder, but still firm, tone.

“Of course, Mrs. Bennett. It’s only proper that your family concerns come first. I’ll just go to my room and work on polishing the editorial, all right, Mr. Bennett? I won’t come out until I’m summoned.”

“Shall we go into the parlor, Faith?” her father asked, his face wary.

“Oh, why don’t we go for a walk instead?” she asked, going to pick up her paisley shawl from its hook by the door. She did not want to be anywhere where her mother or Merriwell might overhear their conversation, for she rather thought she would be raising her voice. Perhaps they should head for the creek. If she was lucky, no one else would be fishing there or splashing in its shallow depths.

“What’s this about, Faith?” her father asked when they stood looking down into the clear green water. A dragonfly flitted along the bank, skimmed along the surface of the water, then flew higher to avoid the gaping mouth of a bluegill that had jumped at it. Somewhere in the underbrush, a pair of crickets chirped.

Faith gathered her courage. She had never spoken to her father in anger, never even talked back to him since she’d been old enough to put her hair up.

“Papa, I—I’m sure you meant well,” she began, feeling her heart thudding within her, “but I will not be treated like a prize to be bestowed.”

“Whatever are you talking about?” Robert Bennett asked.

Apparently his puzzlement was honest, but she must not let that dissuade her from her chosen course, or it would only keep happening. “These are modern times, Papa, not the Middle Ages,” Faith said. “You must stop dangling me in front of your precious Yancey Merriwell like a reward for being a good employee.”

Her father took a step back. “You’re upset because I told Yancey he could take you to the hotel for dinner? I didn’t mean anything by it. I thought you liked Merriwell, and it would be an enjoyable outing. He seems like a decent fellow to me,” he protested. “But you can step out with him or not—it’s
your
choice.”

She felt her hands clench into fists at her side as she leaned forward, jabbing a finger at him. “Just a few days ago you were telling me you were certain Reverend Gil was sweet on me—what of that? You’ve known Merriwell for a couple of days, and what do you really know of him? Only what he’s told you, that’s what. I don’t know why, but I don’t trust him.”

Her father crossed his hands over his chest. “When did you develop this suspicious nature, Faith? I have no reason to think Merriwell is anything less than—”

“Perfect,” Faith finished for him, feeling tears welling up and stinging her eyes. “You’ve practically adopted him already! When will you start calling him ‘son’?”

“Faith!” her father cried. “What a thing to say! I never—”

“You might have asked me how I felt before having him ask me to have a meal with him.”

Her father had the grace to look ashamed. “I’m sorry you felt that way about it. If I made the wrong assumption, I’m—”

She interrupted him, a thing she had never done before. “Don’t worry, I managed to scotch any notion he might have that this was our first outing as a couple by inviting Polly Shackleford to come along.”

Her father rolled his eyes. “That’s enough punishment for any man to have to endure,” he said. “I’m lucky Merriwell hasn’t fled town already.”

She saw that her father thought she was ready to make a joke of it. “Oh, that would be too bad, wouldn’t it, if Merriwell suddenly disappeared? You’d be back to depending on your daughter
for assistance, wouldn’t you? A very poor second choice, I know!”

Tears flooded down her face now, unchecked—tears she’d been holding inside for far too long. “You never appreciated what was standing right in front of you, Papa—me! I may not be as perfect as Yancey Merriwell, but you could have at least tried to teach me,” she said bitterly. “You never even considered that
I
could follow in your footsteps, after Eddie died.”

Her father’s face went white. For a long time he said nothing, just stared down at his shoes. Then he swallowed hard. “Faith, I suppose I’m rather traditional in how I see a woman’s role in life. I thought you’d want what most women want, a husband and a family...”

“I do, Papa, I do. But until that man comes along—if he ever does—I could do something besides just helping Mama around the house, couldn’t I? Milly Brookfield ran a ranch, and Sarah helped her. Caroline Wallace was a schoolteacher, until she met Jack—”

“What of your friend Prissy? Far as I could see, she was just a useless flibbertigibett until she met Sheriff Bishop,” her father pointed out.

“But her father is wealthy, Papa, and even she wasn’t content to be merely a decoration around the house. She got Sarah to teach her how to cook, and she administers funds for the Society for the Deserving Poor now...”

“All right, you want to be more useful, I understand that, but newspapering is a man’s job. And I’ve already told you why I didn’t consider having you assist me—”