Chapter 20 #3
He pushed up out of the chair. “Yes, I need to ask your father to find out if someone in the Unionist German league knows about steam engines. I thought of another idea while I was sitting out freezing last night.”
The preacher had already started with his sermon by the time Devon eased the door open and crept into the church, hat in hand. A few heads turned from the rear rows. A little boy facing backwards in the pew waved before his mother poked him and made him turn around.
The back seat was empty. True to her word, Morning Fawn sat next to her aunt in the family pew, second row from the front.
No Nick Moyer. That was the fox’s loss. The bench contained Thea, a balding fellow he’d seen before, Morning Fawn, her aunt, and a couple of others. But Morning Fawn was on the aisle end.
The corners of Devon’s mouth curved upward as he tapped his hat to his leg. What he should do was sit in the back and try to grab a couple of minutes with her on the way out. But that wouldn’t make an impression.
The wide-plank floor creaked beneath his muddy boots as he moved toward the front.
The kind-faced preacher raised an eyebrow but kept reading from the Bible about Samuel going to anoint David.
A lady in a bluebird bonnet shot him a scowl.
Two of the gossips from last week took to whispering. Had it only been a week?
Morning Fawn glanced over her shoulder, then turned halfway around, her straw hat almost swatting the man behind her who sat too far forward.
Her eyes lit, not with warmth, but something harder.
Her lips twitched. Maybe there was a momentary shadow of an almost-smile, but it was quickly vanquished and replaced by another look that made him feel as if he were a puppy dog begging for entrance at her back door.
He threw back his shoulders and proceeded. He would not beg.
On the other side of Mrs. LeBeau, Thea glared over at him when he reached the pew opening, her countenance as welcoming as a petrified tree. Her mother’s startled expression wasn’t any better. The balding man glanced around as if he had no clue of what to do.
A few murmurs rippled through the rows.
Devon nodded to the preacher, mouthed “Sorry, sir,” and stepped in, his boot brushing Morning Fawn’s hem. She rolled her eyes and turned back to the front. Ruffled up like some chicken in a barnyard, Mrs. LeBeau looked as if she didn’t know whether to peck or squawk.
He wedged himself into the too-small opening between Morning Fawn and the solid oak pew arm.
She snapped her skirts tight against her thigh, scooting no more than five or six inches toward her aunt, forcing him to choose between having his hip pressed against the wood or her.
For propriety’s sake, he chose the former.
Devon puffed his cheeks out in a slow exhale as he settled in. He might as well have sat down in a cactus patch.
The preacher adjusted his spectacles. “Now that we’re all seated, let us continue.” He picked up his Bible and began to read about David’s years on the run from King Saul.
Devon closed his eyes for a moment and willed the rope-tight tension from his muscles. He was here now, next to her. He’d better make it count.
As welcoming as a block of ice in sawdust, Morning Fawn sat forward, with her hands clasped around her knees, and stared at the preacher as if she hung on every word.
Devon leaned her way an inch and whispered, “I’m sorry about yesterday.”
Ice.
He dug his finger between his neck and his too-tight collar. Another few minutes of sweating, and he tried again. “I was stupid.”
She slung her hair back, almost whapping his nose with her hat, but her gaze remained fixed on the pulpit.
Mrs. LeBeau scorched him with glare that said her husband would hear of this.
So be it. Devon pressed his lips together and tried to listen to the sermon. He didn’t dare rest against the back of the pew lest he nod off.
If he didn’t do something before the end of the service, Morning Fawn would be faster than Mr. Franklin’s Thoroughbred exiting the church. His shoulder brushed hers. He dug out his heart and mouthed a statement a scratch above silence. “I was jealous.”
Slowly, she tilted her face, her gaze meeting his before she peered down her nose at him, as if she were at a livestock auction giving him a good lookover to see if he were worthy of consideration. “You look as if you haven’t slept.”
He couldn’t tell the truth, but he didn’t want to out and out lie. “I was helping Dr. Schramm.”
She snorted.
In front of them, a lady dressed in full mourning scooted forward as if to escape their whispers.
He leaned toward Morning Fawn, lips close to her ear, and inhaled the scent of rose in her hair. “Dr. Schramm, not Miss Schramm.”
“Miss Schramm now? It’s none of my concern what you do in Alleyton. I had my own evening with Mr. Moyer.”
The mere mention of the name clenched his jaw. He settled back and folded his arms.
The preacher talked about David as king. How he’d loved the Lord, followed the Lord, and yet had fallen so badly in the case of Bathsheba and Uriah.
Good message, but Devon was ready for a hymn. The room grew warm. His eyes drifted closed.
Morning Fawn elbowed him, and he jerked awake.
She narrowed her eyes at him. “You better listen. You might learn something about women and being led astray.”
He shot her a glance and moved within the shadow of her hat, his lips close to her hair. “I’m sitting next to the only woman who has any hope of distracting me.” The words were out of his mouth before he could think better of it.
She swung her face toward him, her nose almost colliding with his chin before he pulled his head back.
“Shhh.” Her aunt jabbed a finger in his direction.
His eyepatch scratched against his heated cheek.
Morning Fawn scooted away a couple of inches before refocusing her gaze on the preacher.
Devon leaned forward, elbows on knees, and listened. King David repented. Prostrated himself, begging the Lord’s forgiveness. It was later after this that the Lord called David a man after his own heart.
Forgiveness. The balm of complete forgiveness.
The weight of the past sank onto Devon’s shoulders.
How could the Lord give him such a gift if he himself wasn’t willing to accept it?
His sin had been nothing like King David’s.
He had simply failed to be at his wife’s side when she needed him most. His shoulders drooped.
His presence might not have saved Isabelle or their newborn child, but at least she would not have gone through the agony alone.
And here he was feeling like he was seventeen again in the presence of this impetuous, determined, fiery-tempered woman who was nothing like Isabelle.
The last song came. They stood, and Devon opened the hymnal to share with Morning Fawn, his heart heavy.
The left half of the book hung in the air until her hand slowly came up to hold the other side. She flicked a glance his way, questions in her eyes.
He nudged his pinky to hers beneath the hardcover of the hymnal. His sore heart thirsted for a drop of affection. She shuffled her finger out of reach but held the hymnal firm.
The pianist plunked the last note, and the preacher pronounced the benediction.
Devon latched onto Morning Fawn’s arm and stepped into the aisle, drawing her toward the exit. His only hope for a couple of minutes of private conversation was to get her out that door before her aunt could catch her.
“Excuse us.” He shouldered his way past the lady with the little boy and the other congregants. The sanctuary buzzed behind him. He and Morning Fawn would be the talk of the town by dinner.
Morning Fawn shook free of his hold as they pattered down the steps. “Here I thought I was the only one who knew how to create a scandal during a church service. Do you plan to steal a horse too?”
Clouds covered the sun. Patches of mud pock-marked the churchyard as they moved away from the building.
“You’re the expert on that.” The corners of his mouth edged upward. “I want to speak with you before your aunt swoops in.” Touching her elbow, he steered her away from the waiting carriages.
She lifted her skirts. “Thea’s the one you should be talking to. I’m sure she’d love to share with you about the lovely evening we had last night.”
Gravel rumbled in Devon’s craw and his belly. “Dallying with that man is like sticking your head in a fox’s mouth.”
She halted. “Maybe I’d consider your advice if you weren’t so busy with the doctor’s daughter.”
They didn’t have time to fight. Mrs. LeBeau stood at the top of the stairs trying to escape the preacher’s hand clasp.
He pivoted, front and center, his boot toes to the edge of Morning Fawn’s skirt. “What did I tell you in there, Miss Trouble? You’re the girl. The only girl who has my head in a spin.”
Her breath caught. Those hazel irises locked on to him. Beautiful eyes. His heartbeat drummed in his ears.
“Is that so?” The breeze lifted the brim on her straw hat and flopped the ends of the blue checkered ribbon that encircled the crown against her hair. “I’d like to hear where you’ve been all night.”
“Helping Dr. Schramm. It had nothing to do with Frieda.”
“Hmmm. Who won the game?”
“What game?”
“The card game you supposedly stayed up all night playing.” She swung into motion, stomping ahead.
How was he supposed to answer that? Give her an excuse such as Dr. Schramm didn’t want his daughter knowing he gambled, so Devon was covering for him?
He’d never earn Morning Fawn’s trust if he kept lying to her, but the truth wasn’t an option.
He caught up to her. “It’s a secret. We’re helping a friend of Dr. Schramm’s who is in bad shape. It’s not my secret to tell.”
“Sounds pretty fishy to me.” She quirked her mouth to the side.
Mrs. LeBeau barreled toward them, reticule whapping against her leg.
“I’ve got to go.” He flicked the blue hat ribbon away from her face. An idea popped into his head. “I’ll send a note through Lucy.”
“A note?” Her eyes widened.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Mrs. LeBeau bustled up.
He hurried off without reply. Writing to Morning Fawn? Where had that idea come from? On the way to the Schramms this morning, he’d come up with almost half a dozen reasons why he should distance himself from her. And here he was throwing logic out the window. He had to be insane.