Paxton and the Gypsy Blade by Kerry Newcomb Page A

waited in silence while Tom climbed out of the wagon and hitched the horses.
    Tom walked around to the back of the wagon and grabbed the boys’ clothes. “Plenty of food, fresh air, and exercise,” he said, trying to sound friendly but knowing he failed.
    Lewis cleared his throat and, back stiff, stood in the middle of the steps. “And you, Thomas? How are you on this Lord’s day?”
    â€œHot and thirsty, Mr. Lewis.”
    â€œAh, yes.” The preacher coughed nervously, but wasn’t to be deterred from expressing his concern for Tom’s spiritual welfare. “We see so little of you, Thomas,” he went on. “How long has it been?”
    Tom glanced quickly to make sure the boys were inside the house, then swung his attention back to Lewis. “It’s been months and you know it,” he replied.
    Lewis slowly shook his head. “Thomas,” he said, his tone simultaneously sorrowful and chiding. “Don’t you realize how unfortunate it is when one of Brand-borough’s leading citizens never attends services?”
    â€œI attended services six months ago,” Tom said tightly. “Funeral services.”
    If Lewis recognized the dangerous undercurrents in Tom’s voice, he chose to ignore them. “The Lord understands your pain, my boy. What He doesn’t understand is why you’ve abandoned His divine mercy.”
    The hard lines of Tom’s face and the dull fire glowing in his eye betrayed his bitterness. “Maybe if the Lord had been around when Jenny was busy dying,” he snapped, “He would understand!”
    The preacher flinched as if Tom had struck him. “I was just trying to be of some help,” he said, shocked by the sentiment and vehemence of Tom’s outburst. “If you only knew what a comfort God can be, even now—”
    â€œIf God wants to comfort me, let him come do so Himself,” Tom interrupted. “Mr. Lewis, you’ve got nothing more to say that interests me, so if you don’t mind, I think I’ll wish you good day.”
    Lewis’s knuckles were as pale as his face, and his hands trembled as he gripped his Bible. Without answering, he turned and walked away.
    Tom watched with relief as Lewis retreated down the road. He’d had no wish to confront the man, and knew he meant well. The problem was that preachers always had the same advice, no matter what the tragedy: simply chalk everything up to God’s will and go on. Go on, no matter how crippled. But Tom wasn’t built that way. He’d been hurt, and he needed time to lick his wounds.
    â€œFeel any better?” a deep voice said from the open door.
    Tom looked up and saw his father on the porch. At fifty-one, Jason Behan Paxton was a few inches shorter than his son and still solid as a log. His gray hair grew as thick as a young man’s. Dark and deep-set under his black beetling brows, his eyes were able to pierce the hearts and souls of those to whom he spoke. Tom’s thoughts and emotions had always been an open book to his father. As a boy and now as a man, Tom found it impossible to keep a secret from him. Up the steps and past his father, Tom hurried into the house. “I thought you were with the boys,” he said, pausing to toss his hat on a rack set just inside the door.
    â€œI was with the boys, but found your conversation with Reverend Lewis more interesting.” Jase pulled the mahogany-paneled door closed as he followed Tom inside. “Don’t you think you were a little hard on him?”
    â€œReverend Lewis is a fatuous, self-righteous fool,” Tom snapped. “Whether or not I go to church is no concern of his.”
    â€œBut it is. Fatuous or not, he is concerned,” Jase chided, placing a calming hand on his son’s shoulder. “Look. I know how irritating he can be. Lord knows I’ve wanted to tell him a thing or two myself at times. But he had nothing