The Preacher's Wife

His name registered immediately. “Of course! Come in.”

He turned and summoned the girls, the fringe of his jacket swaying as he gestured. The girls she assumed were his daughters were wearing clean but wrinkled clothing, and their hair was neatly tucked beneath stiff-brimmed bonnets.

He handed her his hat, still warm from his head, and she laid it on the hall table before ushering the little troupe into the study. “The interim preacher is here,” she said.

Samuel strode forward and shook the elder man’s hand. His size and his sun-darkened face and hands made the reverend seem even sicklier in comparison. “Pleased to meet you, sir. These are my daughters. Elisabeth.”

Elisabeth was the tallest and oldest, with blue eyes and a full face. Her weary smile was hesitant.

“Abigail.” The middle daughter had hair a paler blond than the other two, blue eyes, a narrow face and a prominent chin.

“And Anna.” The youngest of the trio possessed wide hazel eyes and a charming smattering of freckles.

A look of confusion wrinkled Reverend Martin’s brow. “Josie, didn’t the letters say that Samuel was traveling with his wife and family?”

Josie had recalled the same thing. Before she could answer, Samuel Hart said, “My wife died on the way.”

The snapping fire was the only sound for a moment.

Anna slipped her hand into Abigail’s and the three girls huddled closer, their expressions somber, the pain of their loss evident.

“I’m deeply sorry,” Reverend Martin said.

Samuel nodded curtly, the subject apparently closed.

“This is Josephine Randolph.” The reverend indicated Josie with a nod. “God sent her to me. She cooks, takes care of the house, does my laundry—she even handled my bills and mail while I was laid up.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, ma’am.”

It was inappropriate that she should notice his well-defined cheekbones or his recently shaved, firm, square chin, but she had. Even his deep, rich voice arrested her attention. But his eyes…she’d never seen so much suffering in a person’s eyes, and the sight carved a confusing ache inside her chest.

Samuel turned his gaze to look pointedly at his daughters.

One at a time, they said, “Pleased to meet you.”

Glad for the distraction, she said, “You’ve arrived just in time for dinner. I trust you’re hungry. Would you like to help me make biscuits?”

“I would,” Abigail said with a bright smile.

Watching his daughters’ hesitation and discomfort pained Sam. He hoped the pretty young woman’s friendly welcome made this day a trifle easier than the rest. The past weeks had been grueling, both physically and emotionally. “All of you will help Mrs. Randolph,” he called after them.

Over her shoulder, Anna cast him a wide-eyed glance, her expression so much like his late wife’s that it made his breath hitch in his chest.

Reverend Martin indicated the settee. “Have a seat.”

Sam brought his attention to their meeting and to the minister for whom he would temporarily be substituting. He was probably about ten years older than Sam.

Taking the offered seat, Sam was glad they’d stopped outside town to wash up and put on clean clothing. The man’s home was plain, but tastefully furnished and spotlessly clean.

“I understand you had a setback in your recovery,” Sam began.

“I was busted up pretty bad,” Henry answered with a nod. “Collarbone was the most painful. Couldn’t do anything for myself. My leg was on the mend, but then I got an infection. The doc told me he considered taking it off, but he and Josie came up with a plan for medicine and poultices. The other women took turns staying with her, but she was here day and night through the worst of it. She’s a praying woman, that Josie. Has God’s ear, too, she does. I can walk on my leg now, but it’s almighty weak.” He grimaced in exasperation. “Like the rest of me. Kind of lost my gumption.”

“That’s why the Alliance sent me,” Sam assured him. “I’ll be here to help you with your duties for the next several weeks.”

The First Christian Alliance had offered Sam a church in Colorado. It had always been his dream to travel westward, so he’d leaped at the prospect. At the time, it had seemed like a glorious opportunity. This assignment was a chance he hadn’t been willing to miss, so they’d sold their home and packed their belongings.

Meanwhile, they learned of this small congregation in Nebraska that needed someone to fill in while their regular minister recuperated. Sam had set out filled with so much hope and expectancy. He’d embraced the physical challenges of the trip with the enthusiasm of a man running toward his dream. Crossing wide-open country and testing his skills with a wagon and team and rifle was an unparalleled prospect for adventure.

How naive he’d been. He’d walked his unprepared family right into danger, and he’d been unable to protect them.

“I’m sorry about your wife.” Henry’s tone held sympathy, his kind expression an opening to talk.

Sam hadn’t voiced the burden on his heart. He had to be strong and push on. He’d started this, and he couldn’t let his children down. He would see this through.

He looked into the other man’s eyes and swallowed hard. The weight that had been pressing on Sam’s chest sent out a new arrow of pain, and he was weary of holding himself together. “My wife and daughters were thrown from our wagon as we were crossing a river last April. My wife drowned.”

My wife drowned. Simple words that didn’t begin to explain the ghastly choice he’d been forced to make. It didn’t reflect the horror of watching Carrie being washed downstream in a muddy torrent, or of his frantic haste to rescue his daughters and search for his wife.

He couldn’t close his eyes at night without remembering the echoing gunfire that had drawn him to where one of the men stood in the shallows. He never woke up without seeing his wife limp and pale, her hair snagged in tree roots. More than anything, he wanted to remember her the way she’d been, but it was her pale, lifeless image that tortured him.

“The wagon righted itself and the team pulled it on across,” he said. “Didn’t even lose a bag of flour or a wooden bucket.” The irony was eating a hole in his gut.

Mrs. Kennedy and another woman had laid out his wife in her finest Sunday dress, a blue one with tiny sprigs of white flowers and lace cuffs. With his heart an aching cavity in his chest, Sam had removed her wedding ring and given it to Elisabeth.

He’d second-guessed himself hundreds of times over the past days and nights, questioned his wisdom in bringing his family west, doubted his choices the day Carrie had died. Elisabeth had been six feet away; Carrie had been twenty or more. He’d shouted for the other men to find Carrie while he rescued his daughters.

What if he’d let the others get the girls and he’d ridden along the bank while he’d still been able to locate her? What if he’d let Abigail cling to that branch until one of the others got to her and had instead taken those precious minutes to find his wife?

The constant examination was pointless. His head told him that regret wouldn’t change anything, but the thoughts plagued him all the same. His lofty plans mocked him.

His children were motherless and he was a widower. If he hadn’t wanted to come west they would still be living in their comfortable house in Philadelphia. The girls would be in school now and Carrie would be singing as she prepared for their evening meal. He would come home from an ordinary day of planning sermons and kiss her on the cheek. She would smell like fresh-baked bread and lilac water….

The pain was paralyzing. He’d left part of himself behind that day, and he had taken away enough guilt and remorse to sink him the next time he tried to cross a river.

“The next time it rained,” he told Henry, “Anna was terrified. Each river we crossed, I had to hold her on the horse with me and wait out her cries, begging me to turn back.” His hand trembled visibly as he opened his palm and raked it down his face. “Abigail has nightmares, and she’s only ten. Elisabeth is withdrawn. I don’t how I’m going to raise them without my wife, and I have no one to blame but myself.”

“You didn’t kill your wife, Samuel.”

He composed himself to say firmly, “It was my choices that took her away from her safe home.” His voice shook with anger, and he steadied it by clearing his throat so he could go on. “I’ve had a lot of time to think back, and I never asked her if she wanted this. She just went along with the move because it was what I wanted. My dream led her to that river and my selfishness pushed her in. Because of my hasty judgment, she died.”

Henry adjusted his weight with a grimace, then asked, “Did you love your wife, Samuel?”

A hoarse declaration burned his throat. “Yes.”

“You didn’t intentionally put her at risk. Sometimes circumstances are out of our control. You did the best you could. You’re answering the call of God on your life, are you not?”

“I thought so. I truly did. But if I am, why did this happen?” Unable to sit, Sam got up, paced to a window and gazed, unseeing. “They dug a hole for her, out there on the prairie. I wrapped her in our wedding quilt. She loved that quilt. And we buried her there, where wagon wheels would roll over and hide the spot.”