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

she had revealed her dreadful secret, would he try to pressure her into believing? She could not imagine Gil Chadwick acting like that, but wasn’t it his responsibility to try to convert the nonbelievers in their midst?
    He seemed surprised by the question. “Why? Because you have many admirable qualities, of course—compassion and dedication being only two of them.”
    She still felt wary. “What—what would it be like, our friendship?” she asked.
    He considered the question. “Well, friends spend time together, enjoying experiences and sharing their thoughts, do they not?” he said.
    He did not wish to shun her. Faith’s heart surged with the realization that Gil found admirable qualities in her and thought her worthy of friendship. But she must not be selfish, she told herself. She could not take very much of his time.
    “All right,” she said, “but it must not appear as courting. You must be seen as available to any lady who would make you the proper Christian wife.”
    “Faith, why don’t you let me and the Lord sort that out?” he suggested. “When He thinks it’s the right time, He’ll show me the woman to marry. Meanwhile, I want to assure you that what you tell me stays with me.”
    She wasn’t sure what to make of his reply, but she needed to be alone so she could ponder this conversation, to examine it from every angle.
    “All right, I accept,” she said. Then, before he could respond, she added, “I...I have to go,” and quickly ran out the back door.
    * * *
    He wasn’t getting anything done. After the second time Gil left the front of the church sanctuary to go stand at the front door on the chance that he might catch a glimpse of Faith out on some errand, he returned to the parsonage and told Maude Harkey, who was caring for his father that day, that he was leaving for a couple of hours.
    “Paying some calls?” she asked.
    “No, I thought perhaps I’d get an early start on next Sunday’s sermon,” he said. “Sometimes a change of scenery helps.” And he would do that, after he spent a good deal of time in prayer about Faith. He’d already lain awake for hours last night, seeking guidance on how best to help Faith believe again.
    “Give me five minutes and I’ll make you a sandwich to take with you, Reverend Gil,” Maude said. “My father always said a man prays best when his stomach isn’t growling.”
    He smiled. “Your father was a wise man.”
    * * *
    The intense hue of April’s bluebonnets was faded now that May had come, but it had been replaced by a carpet of gold and red—gaillardia, Mexican hat, Indian blanket, coreopsis.
    “‘Not even Solomon in all his glory was arrayed like one of these,’” he quoted aloud from Scripture. They were even prettier than the Bible’s “lilies of the field,” he reckoned. He’d learned the names of the flowers at his mother’s knee, watching as she arranged bouquets for the table in a chipped crockery vase.
    The bay gelding that the livery kept for his use flicked his ears at Gil’s voice as he picked his way up the trail that wound into the hills. It had narrowed shortly after the horse had left the road and by this point was little more than a deer track at this point.
    His eyes caught a flash of movement to his right as a golden eagle dropped like a stone, talons outstretched to catch a young jackrabbit nibbling on a bit of clover. But luck was with the jackrabbit that day, and he sensed his danger, bounding into a cleft in a limestone outcropping just in time to frustrate the predator of his meal. The eagle screamed in frustration.
    I will put thee in the cleft of the rock and cover thee with My hand, it said in Exodus. But how could he help Faith see the Lord was her Rock, too?
    In the shadow cast by the rock outcropping, Gil spotted a cluster of older mesquite trees. The place promised shade and peace, the ideal place to pray. He dismounted, dropping the gelding’s reins to the ground. Well-trained, the horse