glanced up at the pastor. A look of understanding flashed between them. So he had guessed she was making this up and was trying to help her. Now what? How could she involve Joshua and Sally? “Well…each student will have a chance to suggest a name for the cat—” she felt her way, forming the idea as she spoke.
“Ah, a contest.” The proclamation bore the hint of a suggestion.
A contest. An excellent idea. “Yes. The class will choose which name they like best.” She shot the pastor a grateful look. He inclined his head slightly and she glanced down. Sally had inched closer, and there was a definite glint in Joshua’s eyes. So the boy liked to compete. “And the student who suggests the chosen name will…win a prize.” What prize? She stopped, completely out of inspiration. That still did not require the children’s help.
“And you need Joshua and Sally to help you with the prize?” Reverend Calvert’s deep voice was soft, encouraging.
“Yes…” Now what? She took a breath and shoved aside her dilemma. She would think of something by the time they reached the schoolhouse. She stared at the tree beside the reverend. Ah! A smile curved her lips, widened as the idea took hold. “The prize will be a basket of hickory nuts from the tree behind the school. And I need someone to gather the nuts for me.” She shot the reverend a triumphant look, then glanced from Joshua to Sally. “Will you collect the nuts for me?”
The little girl looked at her brother, followed his lead and nodded.
“It sounds like an interesting day for the children, Miss Wright.”
She glanced up. The reverend smiled and mouthed “Thank you.” Her stomach fluttered. He really did have a charming smile. She gave him a polite nod and held her free hand out to Sally. “Come along, then. We must hurry so you children can gather the nuts before the other children come. The prize must be a secret.” She halted, tipped her head to the side and gave them a solemn look. “You can keep a secret?”
They nodded again, their brown eyes serious, their blond curls bright in the sunlight.
“Lovely!” She smiled and moved forward, Sally’s small hand in hers, Joshua on her other side, and the Reverend Calvert’s gaze fastened on them. The awareness of it tingled between her shoulder blades until they turned the corner onto Oak Street. A frown wrinkled her brow. Twice now she had seen the pastor with his children. Where was their mother?
* * *
“It was a pleasure meeting you, gentlemen.” Matthew shook hands with the church elders and watched them file out through the small storage room at the back of the church. They seemed to be men of strong faith, eager to do all they could to make the church flourish. He was looking forward to working with them.
He scanned the interior of the small church, admired the craftsmanship in the paneled pew boxes and the white plastered walls. He moved to the pulpit, the strike of his bootheels against the wood floor echoing in the silence. The wood was satin-smooth beneath his hands. He brushed his fingers across the leather cover of the Bible that rested there, closed his eyes and quieted his thoughts. A sense of waiting, of expectation hovered in the stillness.
“Almighty God, be with me, I pray. Lead and guide me to green pastures by the paths of Your choosing that I might feed Your flock according to Thy will. Amen.”
He opened his eyes and pictured the church full of people. Would Miss Wright be one of them? He frowned and stepped out from behind the pulpit. He was becoming too concerned with Miss Wright; it was time to get acquainted with the village.
He stretched out his arms and touched the end of each pew as he walked down the center aisle, then crossed the small vestibule and stepped out onto the wide stoop. Warmth from the October sun chased the chill of the closed building from him. Did someone come early on Sunday morning to open the doors and let in the warmth?
Across the street stood an impressive, three-story building with the name Sheffield House carved into a sign attached to the fascia board of the porch roof. Passengers were alighting from a long, roofed wagon at the edge of the road that bore the legend Totten’s Trolley.
He exchanged a friendly nod with the driver, then jogged diagonally across the street and trotted up three steps to a wide, wooden walkway that ran in front of a block of stores standing shoulder to shoulder, like an army at attention.
He doffed his hat to a woman coming out of a millinery store, skirted around two men debating the virtues of a pair of boots in a shoemaker’s window next to Barley’s Grocery and entered the Cargrave Mercantile.
Smells mingled on the air and tantalized his nose, leather, coffee and molasses prominent among them. He stepped out of the doorway and blinked his eyes to adjust to the dim indoors. The hum of conversation stopped, resumed in lower tones. He glanced left, skimmed his gaze over the long wood counter adorned with various wood and tin boxes, a coffee mill and at the far end a scale and cashbox.
He gave a polite nod in answer to the frankly curious gazes of the proprietor and the customers, then swept his gaze across the wood stove and the displays of tools along the back wall. On the right side of the store was the dry goods section and the object of his search. A glass-fronted nest of pigeonhole mailboxes constituted the post office. He stepped to the narrow, waist-high opening in the center of the boxes. A stout, gray-haired man, suspenders forming an X across the back of his white shirt, sat on a stool sorting through a pile of mail on a high table with a safe beneath it.
“Excuse me—”
The man turned, squinted at him through a pair of wire-rimmed glasses perched on the end of his nose, then slid off his stool and came to stand in front of the small shelf on the other side of the window. “What can I do for you, stranger?”
Matthew smiled. “I’ve come to introduce myself, and see about getting a mailbox. I’m Matthew Calvert, pastor of Pinewood Church.” The conversations in the store stopped. There was a soft rustling sound as people turned to look at him.
The postmaster nodded. “Heard you’d arrived. Figured you’d be along. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Pastor Calvert.”
“And I, yours, Mr… .”
“Hubble. Zarius Hubble.” The man stretched out his hand and tapped the glass of one of the small cubicles. “This is the church mailbox. Lest you have an objection, I’ll put your mail in here. Save you having to rent a box.”
“Thank you, Mr. Hubble. That will be fine.”
The postmaster nodded, then fixed a stern gaze on him. “I can’t do that for others with you who will be getting mail, mind you. Your missus or such will need their own box.”
“That won’t be necessary.” Matthew turned and almost collided with a small group of people standing behind him. The short, thin man closest to him held out his hand.
“I’m Allan Cargrave. I own this establishment, along with my brother Henry. You met him this morning. I’ve been looking forward to your coming, Pastor Calvert. We all have.”
Matthew took his hand in a firm clasp. “Then our goal has been the same, Mr. Cargrave. I’m pleased to meet you.” He smiled and turned to the others.
* * *
Willa glanced at her lunch basket, now half-full of hickory nuts, going out the door in Trudy Hoffman’s hand and smiled. The impromptu contest had proved
