one she’d worn to the burial. When she wrapped her shoulders in her brown woolen shawl and pulled on her brown and yellow print bonnet, she snatched the vegetable basket from the shelf by the back door. Without another glance at Lucas, she went out.
The root cellar was to the right of the garden. If he was watching now, when his mind cleared Lucas would remember that she had turned in the opposite direction. Honor prayed he wouldn’t notice. Walking, then running, toward the wooded area behind the house, she discarded the basket as she fled.
The cool October air smelled of nuts and pinecones. The wind murmured through the bare branches of the trees, tossing the soft curls around her face. Below her bonnet, her long auburn hair blew every which way.
Honor darted a fearful glance behind her. Nothing moved. She slowed her pace, tying the ends of her knit shawl in a knot. The soft garment did little to shield her from the slicing breeze, but it was better than no covering at all.
By the time Honor reached the turnoff that led into town, her breath was coming in deep gasps. She knew better than to stay on the road. If Uncle Lucas had a shred of wits about him, he would look for her there first. Besides, she couldn’t take the chance of being spotted. Travelers moved along the road all the time. Her best bet, she decided, was to follow a line of trees.
Darkness had painted the sky a grayish-black by the time she arrived in Falling Rock. The bare trees looked like skeletons in the dim light of three street lamps. It was late enough that all proper folk were off the streets. The only men and women in public now would be those inside the Silver Nugget Saloon on the corner—or those standing outside that establishment. Honor skirted around and behind the saloon, making her way toward the church. Her aunt had told her that the building was kept open day and night. She would be safe there.
Honor hoped that by now Lucas would have passed out. Her best chance for escape hinged on his not coming after her until morning—and on her not being seen by anyone else. There were plenty of men around who thought like Lucas, and a young woman of barely nineteen years would be a quick target for them. Her aunt had cautioned her that such men were always out there.
As soon as she entered the church, Honor found a pew toward the middle of the chapel, and stretched out on it. Anyone who came in would not be likely to see her. She couldn’t afford to fall asleep, but it was nice to rest her bones.
A sudden growl of hunger rumbled from her belly, loud enough to be heard if a stranger stood nearby. Yet her cravings went beyond her need for food. Peering at the dim outline of the pulpit at the front of the small church, she longed for a home, a place in the world. She also wished for someone who would love her unconditionally—the way her aunt had, before she died. Beyond that, Honor dreamed of never having to see Lucas again. If she’d known how to pray, she would have asked God to grant her requests.
Honor pressed her back against the hard wooden pew, wondering if the minister she had met that morning had a wife and children. She scarcely remembered her own parents. They had died of a fever before Honor reached the age of three. Her aunt Harriet, who lived in Colorado, had taken her in four years before she married Lucas. Were it not so, Honor might have spent her growing-up years in an orphanage. Although sometimes she wondered if that would not have been better than living in a house with the likes of Lucas Scythe.
Sitting up, Honor rubbed the palms of her hands across the oak pew and felt the strong yet rough texture of the wood. Her aunt had taken her to church every Sunday—until Lucas put a stop to it.
Harriet Scythe had been a churchgoing woman and a member of the choir, too. Lucas must have known how leaving the church would injure her, but then, hurting others appeared to give him a great deal of pleasure.
Her aunt had once told Honor that the folks at church had thought Lucas was a decent man before they married. Honor had wondered if he’d only pretended to be good and kind. Maybe he’d thought Aunt Harriet had money, since she’d inherited the cabin and the family farm. In any case, he’d managed to fritter away what little she once had, drinking and gambling at the saloon in town.
Aunt Harriet had never complained about anything. But her bruised arms and swollen, red eyes had told Honor all she needed to know.
As Honor sat in the church, remembering, her eyes grew heavy. She yawned, and stretched out again on the pew. Despite herself, a few minutes later, she was asleep.
A sound woke her just before daylight. She jerked, finding herself half on, half off the pew. Pulling herself back onto the wooden bench again, she stiffened and became still. She held her breath.
Had someone entered? Was it Lucas? Honor coiled into a tight ball. The church was silent once more. A few minutes later, she slept again.
Something brushed her face. Honor was instantly awake. She sat up, looking around. A soft thump sounded, and she turned in time to see a white cat disappearing behind a stairway leading to the choir loft. Honor sighed in relief. It wasn’t Lucas.
Aunt Harriet would say she should pray if she hoped to survive this terrible ordeal. But if there really was a God, He seemed far away to Honor. She was on her own in getting out of this trouble. Since she would not go back to the cabin, not ever, and she couldn’t remain in Falling Rock, Colorado, Honor had to get away. Yet where would she go? And who would take her in?
Tears gathered at the corners of her eyes, but before they could fall, Honor sniffed. There didn’t appear to be a safe place in the world where she could rest her head, but she refused to cry. She had to think.
She needed a job, but employment choices for a young woman were few. She didn’t have enough skills to become a schoolteacher, and she wouldn’t become a saloon girl. So what did that leave? Nothing that she could think of.
A bookshelf, attached to the back of the pew in front of her, held two hymnals, one new and one old and worn. Honor took the new songbook in both her hands. The brown cover smelled fresh. She opened to the first page. In the pale light of early morning, she squinted at the dedication.
This hymnal is given to the Glory of God in memory of my dear wife, Selma, the love of my life.
Honor ran her fingers down the smooth, white page, studying the inscription. Were there really men in the world who could love a woman the way this nameless husband seemed to have loved his wife? Men were good at pretending. Lucas had taught her that. She put the hymnal back on the shelf and turned to gaze out the windows.
The morning sun still hid beyond the horizon, but the eastern sky was bright. A golden light edged the hills at the end of the street and it glinted on a collection plate in the center of a table directly under a window.
Would there be money in that plate?
Of course not. What pastor worth his salt would leave money in an unlocked church? That would be like opening the door to every outlaw for miles around. Still, what if money was left there? And what if she took some?
Honor hated to even consider the thought. Her aunt would have said that such musings were sinful. Yet Honor remembered her aunt also telling her that the collection money went to pay for the pastor’s keep and to help the poor and needy. Well, who needed money more than Honor?
The right thing to do would be to wait until the preacher came in for the day and ask him for financial help. But if she waited, she could miss the early morning stage out of town.
Biting her lip, she deliberated. Thieves deserved to go to hell. Sinful thoughts came from the devil. Lucas never allowed Aunt Harriet to pray openly or study the Good Book, but she’d managed to
