July Thunder by Rachel Lee

sense of balance the other way lately.”
    She nodded. “Maybe I have, too. It gets easy to let work and responsibilities substitute for life.”
    He’d never heard it put that way before, and he turned it over in his mind. “Yeah. Less painful.”
    â€œExactly.” She sighed quietly and nibbled on her strip of bacon. Sam was making huge inroads intothe mound of food she’d put in front of him. “It makes it easier not to think.”
    â€œIt sure does.” He was tempted to ask her what she didn’t want to think about but decided he didn’t know her well enough. If she wanted to, she could volunteer. “Used to be I loved to sit out on dark nights and just look up at the stars. I used to feel this, um, connection to something bigger.” He was almost embarrassed to say that. It was a part of himself he hadn’t exposed to anyone in a long time.
    But to his surprise, Mary simply nodded. “I know what you mean. I feel that way sometimes, when I’m walking alone in the woods and the breeze is whispering in the treetops. It’s like being in a cathedral.” Then her expression turned haunted. “It also gives me too much time to think.”
    He could identify with that. He gathered they were both running from a bit of depression. Well, hell, most of the world was, one way or the other. He didn’t pretend his problems were any worse than anyone else’s. He just didn’t plan to set himself up for another round.
    But as he left Mary’s house and headed home, he realized he’d found a kindred spirit in her. And that really disturbed him.

7
    â€œB rother Elijah,” Mrs. Beemis said, smiling too avidly, “you wouldn’t happen to be any relation to Sam Canfield, would you?”
    He’d only been at the church a few days, but already Elijah had pegged Mrs. Beemis as a gossip and potential troublemaker. She looked like a dear old lady, with gray hair, a surprisingly smooth and rosy face, and blue eyes that peered out from behind the requisite eyeglasses with rhinestones at the outer edges. Everybody’s grandmother.
    She was also entirely too eager to tell him about her fellow congregants. Properly handled, a minister would find a woman like her useful. But she had to be handled like nitroglycerin. Every church he’d ever pastored had had at least one Mrs. Beemis.
    It was Wednesday evening, after prayer service, and about fifty people were milling about in the tiny parish hall, sipping grape juice and soft drinks and eating cookies. Too many of them, thought Elijah,were able-bodied men who ought to be helping with the fire fighting. On the other hand, it was his official welcoming party, and many of them may have felt it necessary to be there.
    Mrs. Beemis was still waiting for an answer. The longer he delayed, the more likely she was to think he was hiding something. And Elijah had nothing to hide. He hadn’t done anything wrong.
    â€œYes, he’s my son, Mrs. Beemis.”
    â€œOh, my, how delightful! He’ll be joining our congregation, then?”
    It was not a harmless question. Elijah took a second to consider. “We all have to follow our own paths to the Lord.”
    â€œYes, of course we do.” Her eyes indicated that her curiosity hadn’t been quenched. It was entirely likely that in a half hour she would be phoning everyone she knew to suggest that a preacher who couldn’t raise his own son in the faith was one who ought to be watched.
    But he would be watched anyway. It was part of his job. Everything he said or did would be examined in minute detail by those with nothing better to do with their time. It was an unhappy fact of his life that he served at the pleasure of his congregation, which meant they pretty much dictated the way their religion was served to them.
    And he was getting just a little bit cynical, he realized, feeling as if he were preaching the Gospel according to