Chapter 3
CHAPTER 3
M ore slicked up than he’d been since he was a young boy and his grandmother had taken a scrub brush to his skin, early Sunday morning, Hank stood outside the white, steepled church. He wore his best shirt, leather vest, and trousers, pressed as well as a bachelor could wield an iron, and had swapped his comfortable Stetson for a bowler. But as a gust of wind tipped the hat forward, he found himself regretting the decision and quickly straightened it back in place.
Hank watched the congregation—particularly ladies on the younger end of the age spectrum—parade by. Filled with anticipation, he had a hard time standing still and only nodding or saying “howdy” to folks.
Today, he’d initially planned to observe and perhaps single out some pretty females on which to set his sights. But as more people strolled past, mostly in families, couples, or men individually and in cowboy groups, some of Hank’s enthusiasm began to ebb. So far, no suitable candidates passed him, or if they did, he couldn’t tell if they were available.
This is going to be harder than I thought.
Finally, the church bell rang, and Hank moved toward the entrance. The two sets of ministers and their wives flanked the steps. The elder Nortons—Reverend and Mrs. Norton—stood on the left, and their son—Reverend Joshua and his bride, Delia Norton—on the right.
Not yet having met the bride, Hank angled himself in that direction to become acquainted. Maybe the younger Mrs. Norton would have some friends she could introduce him to. But then he got an eyeful of her fancy, sunset-colored dress—a contrast to her mother-in-law’s plain white shirtwaist and blue skirt—and he figured any friend she had might be beyond his touch.
The closer he came to the couple, the slower grew his steps and the more certain he became that Delia Norton was far too elegant for the type of woman he had in mind. Although, in the world of wealth he’d been raised in, such a woman would have his grandfather’s approval. If I hadn’t walked away from my family’s business, I could have afforded a lady like her.
But he couldn’t be sorry for that decision, because he lived as a free man, not one subjected to his grandfather’s tyrannous whims and rules.
Hank stepped into the short line of people waiting to be greeted by the younger Nortons. He’d met Reverend Joshua a few times when he’d previously attended church. But his visits were before the minister married, when his fiancé and her father lived in Crenshaw while their new mansion in Sweetwater Springs was being built.
When his turn came, Hank doffed his hat and offered a hand to the lady, inhaling the sweet scent of her perfume. “I’m Hank Canfield, ma’am.”
“Mr. Canfield, I don’t believe we’ve met before,” Mrs. Norton said with a Southern accent. “Tell me where you live.”
Hank twisted to gesture behind him toward the mountain road. “Up there a ways at Three Bend Lake.”
Her brow wrinkled. “Three Bend Lake?”
“It’s sparsely settled and a bit far for most Sunday visits, which is why you haven’t yet seen me. But I plan to make the effort this summer.”
“Wonderful.” Her smile and the warmth in her tone seemed genuine.
He wished they were alone so he could drop a hint in her ear about his search for a wife. But he didn’t want any busybody to overhear and spread his business around town.
So, with a smile, Hank stepped beyond the lady and held out a hand to Reverend Joshua. After an exchange of “Good morning” greetings, he moved on and trotted up the steps and into the church. The pews were mostly filled—a far cry from some of the services he’d attended in the past. Sweetwater Springs was growing, and he supposed Reverend Joshua was a draw for newcomers to attend services, what with his tales of Uganda in Africa. Not that the elder minister wasn’t a fine preacher, too.
But Reverend Joshua had a way of transporting his listeners to a foreign land. Not just the differences of heat and grass huts and scanty clothes, or the exotic animals—frankly, he’d rather take on a grizzly than a lion—but also describing their heathenish rules and rituals. Made a man grateful to be a modern American.
Other stories of Reverend Joshua’s showed that beneath all the differences between the two countries, people were the same the world over—they loved their families, struggled to keep them fed, mourned their departed, bickered, fought, and came together.
Regardless of content, Reverend Joshua’s sermons were never dull.
After church, once outside, Hank started to head in the direction of a dark-haired lady standing alone, who looked like the perfect candidate—not too old, not too young, pretty in her own way, stocky, but possessing a curved figure, a decent dress and hat, which made her seem not too poor or too rich. But then a man joined her, and she smiled and took his arm.
Hank sighed and turned away, his gaze scanning the ebbing crowd, to no avail. Finally, he gave up and decided to seek assistance, heading over toward the elder Mrs. Norton.
The petite minister’s wife chatted with a worn-out looking woman with a babe in arms, several children clinging to her skirts, and an older boy holding the hands of two girls not much younger than him.
Mrs. Norton wore her white hair pulled back in a tight bun. Her clothes used to be as shabby as those of the woman she spoke with. Since the return of her son from Africa, she’d been wearing new, although still simple, outfits provided by Reverend Joshua.
Politely, Hank waited until the two finished their conversation, and the woman and children headed toward a rickety wagon that pulled up nearby.
Mrs. Norton turned to bestow her gentle smile on him, crinkling the wrinkles of her skin. “Mr. Canfield, I’m delighted you could make it this Sunday.”
Hank doffed his bowler. “Always a pleasure, Mrs. Norton.” He hesitated, not sure how to form his request.
She tilted her head like a bird, with the same inquiring expression of a curious, blue-eyed sparrow.
“Well, I…um…I’ve decided it’s time to find a wife. But, you see, I’m not acquainted with many people in town.”
“So, you don’t know who’s available,” she finished for him. “A not uncommon problem for our gentlemen. I’m afraid, Sweetwater Springs, as in most small, western towns, is notoriously short of unmarried ladies. That’s why some men resorted to mail-order-brides.” She gestured toward a cluster of women, some holding babies, who chattered away. “Those matches, thank the Good Lord, turned out well. But that’s such a risky way to choose a life companion, wouldn’t you agree?”
The very thought of marrying an unknown bride turned him cold. “I’m not so brave.” Or foolhardy.
Mrs. Norton patted his arm. “Then let’s make do with any of the ladies who are still here.” She scanned the remaining crowd. “Oh, my. I wish I’d known of your search earlier. I’d have introduced you to Miss Taylor, our new dressmaker. But she’s already left.” Her gaze rested on a solitary figure, her sex hidden beneath the men’s clothing she wore. “Of course, there’s always Sheriff Granger.”
As if in response, the lawwoman flicked a cool glance their way, the watchful expression in her gray eyes softening when she saw Mrs. Norton. With a slight smile, she nodded.
Oh, no! Ooohhh, no! “With all due respect to Sheriff Granger…” Hank stuttered. “I mean, I’m a law-abiding man, and all…it’s just that….”
Although, Mrs. Norton’s smile was innocent, her eyes twinkled. “Oh, that’s right, the sheriff must live in town. That wouldn’t do at all for you, would it?”
Hank began to suspect Mrs. Norton might have quite a sense of humor, something he never associated with ministers’ wives. Or if they possessed one, any hint of levity would soon be stomped out by the seriousness of their role. Or by those who took those roles seriously and placed judgmental fetters on the wives of clergy.
Not that Reverend Norton, for all his austere appearance, would ever impose such restrictions on his wife. Even the most thickheaded man—and Hank fancied he wasn’t that bad—could see the quiet but deep love abiding between the two and their joint commitment to the needs of their congregation.
“Now, Mrs. Buckland, whom I was talking to while you waited, is a widow.” Mrs. Norton pursed her lips. “Would you be willing to take on five children?”
Never having dreamed of a woman with children, he sputtered on an answer, feeling guilty his first response was no! “Can’t rightly say. Maybe I could wrap my mind and heart around one…two. Maybe. Guess, that would depend on how much I wanted their mama.” He thought back to the lady who looked run-down from the five she had. Birthing more babies might be the death of her. He shook his head. “Think I’ll pass on Mrs. Buckland, ma’am.”
She nodded briskly. “Perhaps it’s just as well. Mrs. Buckland is living with her brother, who is a widower with two daughters. They need each other.”
Hank let out a sigh, relieved to be off the hook of guilt.
Mrs. Norton waved toward the large grassy area between the schoolhouse and the church, shaded by an enormous oak, where people liked to mingle and eat after the church service. “I’d think we’d best join those picnicking and see if I can single out any ladies for your attentions. There’s usually food to spare for our bachelors.”
Suddenly, Hank’s energy drained, and the idea of scrounging a meal and eating among a bunch of strangers didn’t appeal. “Think I’d best be off, ma’am. I need to stop at the mercantile before it closes. But I’ll be back next week.”
Her eyes showed understanding. “Until Sunday, then, Mr. Canfield.”
He tried not to show his deflated spirits. I hope I have better luck then.