[Canadian West 05] - Beyond the Gathering Storm Page 8

  “Wha-at?” wailed Laray. “This sounds like ... like school.”

  “What’s your motive?” Henry continued, ignoring Laray’s exaggerated sighs. “Are you just out to ... to get your own pleasure, or do you have true respect for the other person?”

  Laray seemed to be thinking about it. “Okay,” he said at length. “I follow.”

  “Approach,” said Henry. “Have you gone about it in a proper, socially acceptable way?”

  Again Laray nodded. Rogers was leaning on an elbow, listening.

  “Response,” Henry went on. “If your advances are—or appear to be—unwelcome, then back off.”

  “What about ‘Faint heart never won fair lady’?” asked Rogers.

  Henry reached into his wastebasket, crumpled up a sheet of paper, and hurled it toward Rogers. “Come on,” he joked, “I’m not a psychologist. How do I know?” He stood and reached for his Stetson. “I’ll ask my mother next time I see her.” The three men laughed, and Henry said, “You’ve your orders—let’s get busy.”

  A busy and troubling day followed that little exchange. A farm accident meant a trip to the city hospital with an injured farmer. A domestic dispute had to be settled in a ramshackle cabin on the edge of town. Two young boys set a fire out behind an old, unused livery barn. A woman was bitten by a dog that was feared to be rabid. A rancher reported that some of his stock was missing. By the end of the day there was little time for small talk as the three officers busied themselves with lengthy reports, stomachs grumbling in complaint. Even Jessie’s food would be welcomed. And bed? Bed would look awfully good.

  Henry was very glad when Sunday arrived. It had been a busy, tiring week and emotionally exhausting. The unexpected encounter with the young woman whom he had met under such difficult circumstances almost five years previously had churned up a whole lot of feelings and questions he thought he’d finally gotten under control. Now he found himself watching for her as he walked the streets of the small town. He could not keep from closely studying every group of children he saw in the playground or in yards of homes. But he had not spotted Danny again. Nor his mother. It seemed ironic to be so close—yet so unable to help them as he yearned to do.

  He dressed for church wishing he’d purchased a civilian suit. After a shave he studied himself in the mirror. She gives a good haircut, he thought as he once again ran a hand over his hair. He backed away hurriedly, surprised at how near she was to his conscious thought.

  Vigorously he applied blackening to his already shining boots. Then he dusted off his Stetson and set out for a quick breakfast at Jessie’s. At least eggs were not spiced. He’d have eggs and toast and a cup of her strong coffee.

  After being served, he still had plenty of time, so he lingered over a second cup of coffee, the talk and banter swirling, mostly unnoticed, about him. He had not been in town long enough to be considered one of them. Folks still had to get a feel for this new lawman. See if he had a human streak. So most of the conversation was not meant for him. He was lucky, at this point, to get an occasional nod and a good-morning.

  After church he had no idea how he would spend the rest of the day. Church would take only a couple of hours. What he would do after that, he had no idea. He stared into his cup, and a feeling of intense loneliness suddenly engulfed him. He envied Rogers, who was bringing in his wife and young family in a few weeks, finally having found accommodation for them. No wonder Rogers was walking with a lighter step.

  Henry’s thoughts turned again to home. He hadn’t fully appreciated as a kid just how fortunate—how blessed—he’d been. Oh, he remembered the enormous change between the two households. From the trouble, bickering, and often outright fighting of his earliest memories, he had suddenly come into a family where he was loved. Loved and nurtured. And even shown respect as an individual. There had been no doubt in his mind from that time on as to “what he would be when he grew up.” He’d be a Mountie. Just like his father. He’d walk tall—and proud—and help people.

  He looked down at the uniform. He was still proud to be a Mountie. Still wore the uniform with dignity. But inside the scarlet tunic beat a human heart. One that longed for intimacy—not aloofness. One that yearned for a relationship, rather than only duty. He sighed deeply. Maybe for him that would never be. Maybe he would be one of the men “married to the Force.” He hoped not. His father and mother had been a living example of how good a marriage could be.

  He put down his cup and stood. It was time to walk the short distance to the little church. He needed that time in worship this morning. Even though the church family still held back, in awe of his position and uniform, they welcomed him with kindly smiles. He felt a comfort in the familiar hymns, a contentment in the familiar words of Scripture. A completeness somehow. It managed to bring balm to his soul. To put his world back into proper perspective.

  He felt his stride quicken. He was anxious to join with others in praise and worship.

  The church was small and the pews were almost full when he entered and removed his hat. An usher welcomed him and pointed out a place. He walked in as unobtrusively as possible, but he sensed heads turning.

  The service began, and he shared the hymnbook with the young lad beside him. The woman at the piano did a fine job of following the notes. His thoughts went to his mother. He had loved to watch her play. Had enjoyed the fluid motion of her slim hands just as much as he had enjoyed the music. It was always a marvel to him that fingers could move in such unison, yet individually, each seeking out the key that produced the note desired. He watched this woman’s hands now with similar awe at their skill.

  They sang three hymns in a row. By the end of the third his heart felt truly focused on God in worship. He had been lifted out of himself, his workaday world, his isolation. He felt part of the family of God.

  The preacher was young. Though not yet a deep theologian, he had some thought-provoking insights to share. Challenges for the congregation as they faced another week. Henry was sorry to hear the last amen ... now thrust back into the world to somehow fill in the hours of this long day.

  He was on the wide front steps of the church before he saw the boy. The child was swinging on the handrail, chatting excitedly with a small group of youngsters. Henry was about to move forward and speak to the boy himself when he heard a voice almost at his elbow. “Danny, careful—you 11 fall.”

  Danny scooted back onto the steps, but without a moment’s hesitation in his report—something about neighborhood puppies, and there were six of them, and he sure would like to have one, and ....

  Henry did not dare turn around. He was sure he would say or do something she wouldn’t like. She might even be suspicious of his attendance in church.

  A child ducked in front of him, and he was forced to halt midstep. He felt a brief nudge and heard a soft “Sorry.”

  He turned to reassure the person of no harm done and found himself looking directly into her violet eyes. He couldn’t speak. Did not offer a smile. She was so close. Almost in his arms again.

  “Sorry,” she said again, her voice not more than a whisper.

  Her face was flushed, and she seemed as uncomfortable as he was. He managed to nod. That was all.

  The brief encounter disturbed him. He didn’t stop to change from his dress uniform. He didn’t go back to Jessie’s for some of her Sunday special. Instead, he found himself heading out the dusty track that led from the town. He’d walk. It had been some days since he’d had a good walk. It was one more thing he missed about the North. He wished he had a dog to accompany him. At least then he’d have some companionship. Maybe one of those puppies ... He brushed the thought aside and set out briskly. Maybe with time and miles he’d be able to walk himself out of his doldrums.

  CHAPTER Nine

  Christine still wasn’t sure she was doing the right thing. Boyd had been home for three weeks. Three weeks of phone calls and rose bouquets. Three weeks of office flirtations and dinner invitations, which she more and more
reluctantly turned down. And now, here she was, finally having consented to a Saturday picnic in the park with some of his friends. She admitted to herself that she found him immensely attractive. She acknowledged that she felt a bit smug over the envy of the other girls in the office. But she also recognized the fact that she was still uncomfortable with finally giving in and going out with him.

  “Can’t wait to show you off,” he was saying, whipping the fast-moving automobile around a sharp turn, his eyes not on the road as much as on her face.

  Christine managed a smile in spite of her fluttering heart. She wasn’t sure how she would fit in with Boyd’s crowd. She knew little about them, but she did know they were not drawn from the group of young people from her church.

  He reached for her hand and steered down the road with one hand on the wheel. His speed had not slackened.

  Christine gave a bit of a squeeze and pulled her hand back, hoping he would return to proper driving.

  “You nervous?” he asked with an impish grin.

  She nodded, but she couldn’t help but laugh. He always managed to bring her out of herself.

  “Don’t be,” he said. “I’ve told them all about you.”

  She wondered just what he had said. It didn’t make her feel any more at ease.

  She grabbed for a handhold when Boyd cut the car sharply to the left and swung in under a grove of poplar trees. Feeling a bit shaky on her feet, she stepped from the car. She could see no one else around.

  “Where is everyone?” she asked as Boyd lifted out the picnic basket.

  “Actually,” he responded with another grin, “there isn’t anybody else. I just used that story to get you to come with me. I wanted you all to myself.”

  Her hands went to her face and her knees went weak. He watched her reaction closely, then howled with mirth. He reached over to give her arm a playful punch.

  “They’ll be here, little Miss Proper. Trudie is always late. She holds up everyone else. But it’s worth it. She’s a barrel of laughs.”

  Boyd spread out the blanket, tucked the picnic basket up against the trunk of a tree, and held out his hand. “Come. Want to see the river?”

  Christine allowed herself to be led down the bank. The river was a bit of a disappointment, not clear and sparkling like the streams of the North. Nor did it flow with the same energetic enthusiasm. Still, it was flowing water. She would like to have sat down on the bank and listened to its song.

  Boyd kept walking. “So what do you think of my old man?” he asked.

  Surprised at the question, she answered, “He’s ... he’s been a fine boss.” Beyond that she had given little thought to Mr. Kingsley.

  “Ol’ Bones’s had her eye on him for years.”

  Christine was very uncomfortable with his disrespectful familiarity with a woman old enough to be his mother.

  “I’ve never been much excited about the prospect of that sour old woman as a new mother,” he went on as if he’d picked up on her thoughts.

  “Miss Stout has been kind to me,” said Christine with stubborn loyalty.

  He turned and pulled her close—too close—and whispered in her ear, “Who wouldn’t be kind to you?”

  She pushed away as gently but as firmly as she could.

  “Okay. Okay,” he laughed. “I get the message. Promise I won’t go too fast.”

  A car horn from above them signaled the rest had arrived, and Boyd grabbed her hand to help her back up to the top. “Guess Trudie finally got her hair fluffed and her nails painted,” he laughed as they climbed the steep path.

  Five young people, laughing raucously, were scrambling out of a crowded auto—three fellows and two young women. Christine wondered which one was Trudie. She had picked her out even before Boyd made the introduction. She had flaming red hair that swirled about her lightly freckled face. Christine was not accustomed to such dramatic makeup and found the effect theatrical. But she soon realized that Trudie was indeed always on stage. From the moment she arrived, she had the group roaring with laughter. Her words and manner were rather flamboyant and loud, but her friends seemed to greatly enjoy her humor.

  A lanky youth with a wide grin and a shock of dark hair falling forward over his face seemed to be the redhead’s escort. They were about as different as rain and snow to Christine’s thinking. The boy rarely opened his mouth—except to cram it full of the contents of the various picnic baskets. She had never seen such a ravenous appetite, not even in her brother Henry when he was a teenager.

  Christine was uncomfortable eating without first thanking the Lord for the food. She managed to bow her head for a quick prayer before beginning her own sandwich, but the chatter around her had not slackened, and she found it difficult to concentrate.

  Even with everyone eating heartily, the talk and laughter still had not slowed down.

  “What happened to Maude?” asked Boyd around a chicken drumstick.

  “She has a toothache,” answered the young man in the blue-striped shirt. Christine thought his name was Jared.

  “Can you imagine that?” chirped Trudie, holding her jaw in mock sympathy. “A toothache keeping her home. I’d never let a little thing like a toothache keep me from a party.”

  “Speaking of a party—where are the drinks?” asked Stephen, a short fellow with eyeglasses.

  Boyd leaped to his feet and proceeded to his car and opened the trunk. “Help yourself,” he called, and everyone but Christine hurried over to do so.

  “What do you want, Christine?” he called to her. “Beer or wine?”

  “I ... no, thank you,” she stammered as several pairs of eyes turned to stare. She felt embarrassed—and terribly disappointed. She had thought Boyd would know she would not drink alcohol.

  “Christine’s father is a cop,” explained Boyd with a laugh, and all five broke into hilarious laughter. Christine did not understand the joke.

  “So what will you drink?” Boyd asked as he threw himself back down on the blanket beside her.

  “I’ll ... I’m fine,” she was quick to say.

  “Next time we’ll bring some soda pop,” said Trudie in an affected way that drew another laugh.

  “Lemonade,” someone else offered, and they laughed more loudly..

  “Hey, you guys, lay off,” warned Boyd, and the laughter subsided.

  Christine couldn’t help being thirsty. Had she been in the North, she would have gone to the stream for a refreshing drink. But the murky waters of the nearby river did not tempt her at all.

  The afternoon dragged by. They really didn’t do anything. Just lolled about on the blankets, talking and laughing and at times sounding a bit vulgar. A few times Boyd warned them off with a look or a word. They continued to drain the bottles, and the more they drank, the louder and coarser they became. Christine ached to go home.

  A rain cloud finally brought her release. They grabbed picnic baskets, blankets, and belongings and rushed to the cars. Christine breathed a prayer of thanks.

  “You didn’t have too much fun today, did you?” Boyd asked seriously on the drive home. He was driving much more slowly, both hands on the wheel. The rain continued to fall, the modern miracle of an outer windshield wiper keeping their vision clear.

  “I’m sorry,” said Christine honestly. “I guess I just don’t fit with your ... with your friends.”

  He nodded as though agreeing.

  Well, that’s the end of that, thought Christine, feeling a strange combination of sadness and relief.

  “I won’t ask you to do it again,” Boyd continued, and now he did take a hand off the steering wheel to reach out to her. “Come over here.” He smiled. “Please.”

  She slowly slid across the seat. He lifted an arm around her shoulders and pulled her closer yet.

  “Next time we’ll do something on our own.”

  Christine could not hide her surprise.

  “You name it,” he went on.

  She turned to him. “You mean it?”

  “�
��Course.”

  Suddenly the day seemed brighter again. He did not plan to stop asking her out. He wasn’t asking her to join his crowd. She could scarcely believe it.

  “So where will it be?” he asked.

  “I’ll have to think about it.”

  “Okay.” His arm tightened. “I’ll give you until we get home.”

  She laughed in delight. She could laugh now. She’d not been able to laugh at the crude jokes on the picnic blankets, but now she laughed out of sheer joy.

  They were soon pulling up in front of Christine’s boardinghouse. “You’re sure you have to go?” he asked her soberly.

  “I’m sure. I have some things I need to do before tomorrow.

  His arm tightened. “Have you thought about it?”

  “I have.”

  “And... ?” he prompted when she went no further.

  “How ... how long do I have to wait for this date?” she asked, surprised at herself.

  “An hour or two. Maybe less if you coax me.”

  She laughed again. “In that case—what about tomorrow morning?”

  “Tomorrow morning? That’s better than I dared hope.” His arm pulled her closer against his side. “So where do we get to go tomorrow morning?”

  “To church,” she answered without hesitation.

  “Church?”

  She could hear the shock in his tone. It brought her a deep disappointment.

  “You don’t have to—if you’d rather not,” she was quick to amend.

  To her surprise he reached out to encircle her in his arms. “No,” he said, sounding as if he had recovered. “A promise is a promise. Just ... fill me in. What am I to do ... and when?”

  True to his word, Boyd picked Christine up for church promptly at 9:45 the next morning. She could tell it was all very new to him. Very strange. She could feel him watching her closely to see how he should participate in the service. She smiled at him often and tried to make him feel at ease.