she needed in prayer and she turned her thoughts toward God in a burst of faith. God, my first concern is protecting Dorrie. And I need Your wisdom to do that. But I also need to rest in Your strength as I face Colby each day. Help me be faithful to what You’ve called me to do.
Calm returned to her soul for the first time in many hours. God had always been faithful and loving as she struggled with her many doubts and fears. It was as if He patiently held out His arms, welcoming her after each bout of uncertainty.
She wanted to save that cross. It was only a piece of wood but was a monument to her—a sweet reminder of all the times she’d turned to God for help and received more than she asked or dreamed.
Once Dorrie was sleeping she could leave. “Alex, listen for Dorrie while I run over to the church.”
Each Sunday she accompanied Father on the piano as he led the song service so she often ran over to practice on the church piano. Only this time her interest wasn’t in music.
As she stepped into the dim interior she breathed in the acrid smell of the fire still clinging to the air, but it failed to rob her of the peace and tranquility she felt in this place. She moved slowly up the center aisle pausing to wipe her fingers along the top of one of the wooden pews. She checked her fingertips, saw a trace of dust. She’d tried to keep the place clean after the fire even though it wasn’t used for services. Somehow it seemed sacrilegious to let dust accumulate. Besides not only did she pray and play the piano here, Father still came over to study and pray.
She arrived at the front. The pulpit had been taken to the meeting place so nothing obstructed her view of the cross or the blackened wall. Raw wood had been nailed over the bottom where the fire had broken through. She climbed the three steps to the platform, her heels thudding on the wood, and stood in front of the cross. The foot had been burned off completely and much of what remained was blackened by smoke or charred by the fire.
Her vision blurred. She couldn’t explain it in words but she felt the cross surviving the flames was a visible lesson of a spiritual truth—that Jesus’s death had spared them all from the flames of judgment.
She scrubbed at her eyes. This was a lesson she wanted to share even as much as she wanted to preserve the cross that had such significance in her life.
She slid her fingers along the wood, carefully going with the grain to avoid slivers. It fit tightly to the wall. She wouldn’t be able to simply lift it off.
If she could only see how it was secured but the evening light had faded to a gentle dove-gray.
“Figuring to steal it?”
She jerked back and caught her finger against a rough patch as she spun around to see who spoke. A sliver dug into her flesh. “Ouch.” She squeezed her finger to stop the pain.
Colby stood before her, a grin splitting his face.
She scowled. “It’s you. I should have guessed.” It would be too much by far to think he’d wandered down the street and found some place miles away to hang out. She gritted her teeth but not before the barest moan escaped.
He shifted his amused gaze to her hands and sobered. “Are you hurt?” He grabbed her finger and bent over to examine it.
Heat scalded her throat and cheeks at his touch. A thousand dreams and wishes blossomed like flowers after a rain. She knew she should protest and pull away but she stood as immobile as a slab of clay.
He turned her finger gently toward the last bit of light from the west-facing windows. He probed the site with a light touch then yanked out the sliver.
She gasped yet welcomed the sudden pain. The flowers withered and died and saneness returned. There were no dreams, no wishes with this man.
He pressed the site, ending the pain as quickly as it came. Then he squeezed the tip of her finger. “A little blood flow will wash away the dirt.” Two drops of blood plopped to the oiled wood of the floor. She’d have to scrub it off later.
He watched her finger a heartbeat longer. “I think I got it all but you best wash it thoroughly when you get home.” When he released her hand she couldn’t seem to move. She stared at her arm suspended between them, felt the heat from her cheeks spread to her hairline and scald the roots of her hair. She yanked her arm to her waist. Her heart throbbed where the sliver had been.
He leaned back, his head bare.
At least he had the decency to remove his hat in God’s house. She realized her thoughts were uncharitable but found perverse strength in them.
“So what were you doing?” he asked.
“Looking.”
“Don’t get slivers by looking.”
“So I touched it.” She had no intention of telling this man anything more than that. “What are you doing here?”
He chuckled. “I was enjoying a quiet evening.” He sounded vaguely regretful, as if her presence had spoiled his solitude.
“Maybe you could enjoy it somewhere else. Don’t you have friends you can stay with or something?”
“You suggesting I go to the saloon?” His quiet words challenged her. “I seem to remember a time when you begged me to stay away from that sort of company.”
“That was a long time ago. Things have changed.”
“I’m glad you admit it. Because—” he leaned close “—I’ve changed. Didn’t you promise to pray for me? Did you do it? Or decide I was a lost cause?” His nose was only inches from hers. “Perhaps you prayed I would never return.”
She refused to step back and let him intimidate her. Instead she drew herself up tall and tipped her chin. “I did pray for you. At first.”
He nodded. “Then you decided to give up on me?”
She narrowed her eyes. “Then I prayed you’d never come back and embarrass Dorrie with your sinful ways.”
He straightened and stepped back.
Even in the fading light she glimpsed what she could only take for as hurt. She almost regretted her honest words then he grinned and she didn’t regret them one bit. The man was far too blasé about life. Just as he was about responsibilities and friendships.
Not even to herself would she admit it was one of the things she had enjoyed about him—his ability to smile through troubles, laugh at adversity and enjoy life.
“Sorry to disappoint you.” He shifted to stare past her. “What would the good people of the church say if they knew you tried to steal the cross? Do you suppose your father would be embarrassed?”
“This is ridiculous. It’s a burned piece of wood. Aren’t you planning to burn it tomorrow?”
“So what were you doing?”
He wasn’t about to leave the topic alone. But neither was she prepared to share her emotional attachment to the cross. It would make sense to no one else. They would see only how it was burned, damaged beyond repair. Mrs. Percy was right. It should be destroyed. But a flurry of regrets swamped her at the thought.
“Something
