The Preacher's Bride (Brides of Simpson Creek) by Laurie Kingery

the other way around.
    She wasn’t about to say she held some affection for someone else, was she?
    “You can tell me anything, Faith, you know that.” His voice sounded a lot more steady than he felt.
    She looked over her shoulder for a long moment, studying him, then turned back to gaze out the window again.
    “I...I do not think you should court me,” she said. Then she added quickly, “Don’t get me wrong, I am more than happy to help you care for your father.”
    “Have I—have I done something to offend you, F—Miss Faith?” he said, retreating into formality when he really wanted to rush to her and apologize for anything he had done wrong.
    She whirled, looking as distressed as he felt. “No, of course not, Gil! To be honest, there’s nothing I’d like more than your calling on me this evening—or any other time, for that matter,” she assured him, wide-eyed, then looked away once again, as if fearing she’d said too much.
    “Then what could it possibly be, Faith?” he asked. “Please don’t be afraid to tell me.”
    “I think you should know that I...” Faith took another deep breath, as if the air had suddenly been sucked from the room. “I’m not a suitable lady for you, Gil.”
    He took an involuntary step toward her. “Why would you say such a thing? I think you’re eminently...suitable.” Such a cold, unfeeling word, suitable. It didn’t come close to expressing how right he felt she was. She was perfect for him. Wasn’t she?
    “No, no, I’m not,” she insisted. “I— This is hard for me to say, Gil, and I hope you will handle this information with discretion, for I’ve not told anyone else for good reason. It could...that is, I could well become an outcast, if it was known.”
    Gil felt a cold ball of dread in the pit of his stomach.
    “You may rely on my discretion, of course,” he said. “But if you’ve sinned in some way, you know as a Christian you need only to acknowledge your sin to God and pray for forgive—”
    “I don’t believe in God, Gil,” she said, interrupting him in a rush of words like water pouring through a breaking dam. “I have no faith. Ironic, isn’t it, considering my name?”
    He stood stock-still, unable to believe what he had just heard. “Y-you don’t...believe?” He had never heard such an admission. Even outlaws he had counseled in jail cells believed in the Almighty, even if they chose not to obey Him. “But why?” he asked at last.
    Faith turned to face him now, her eyes blazing. “Why?” she repeated. “You think you can explain it away?” she demanded. “You think you can give me some kind of easy reason that a loving God could allow my brother to die of a rattlesnake bite despite the prayers of your father and the whole town? Your father is a good man, a man of prayer. So if he couldn’t save my brother with his prayers, and the whole town’s prayers didn’t matter a hill of beans, it must be because there is no God. Or if there is,” she said, her voice breaking at last, like a piece of thin window glass finally pushed with enough force to splinter, “He doesn’t care about the people He supposedly created.”
    He’d imagined she been going to tell him she was a fallen woman. This was so much worse. Faith didn’t believe in the God he served. She was right—as a preacher, he couldn’t marry a woman who didn’t share his faith. But his disappointment that she could not be his was the least of it. Faith was wandering in darkness, lost!
    She had carried this grief, this secret, inside her for years, he realized. “Did you never tell your parents about your doubts?” he wondered aloud. “Surely they could—”
    She whirled on him. “Oh, they never stopped believing,” she snapped. “I didn’t want them to wash my mouth out with soap for admitting such a shameful thing, or put it down to a passing whim brought on by grief. And then,” she said, her voice growing bitter, “I found my father alone on his