Guide Me Home (28 page)

He treated her to another dose of his laughter. “As Midas.”

She didn't know who he meant, but he hadn't said no. That was good enough. She smiled and swung her arms, stirring her skirt with her palms. “You wanna know anything about me?”

“Only everything.”

She loved his answer. With a giggle, she caught his hand and drew him to a short bench tucked at the far wall of the barn. “Come over here an' ask me anything you want.” She perched on the bench and folded her hands in her lap.

He sat next to her—close, but not too close—and stretched out his legs. He crossed his ankles, folded his arms over the buttons of his coat, and rested his head against the barn wall. He acted like he meant to stay for a good long while, and that suited Cissy fine. “Tell me, Cissy, how old are you?”

Should she fib? No, because it would be too hard to remember what she'd said. “Fifteen. And a half.”

A grin pulled at the corners of his mouth. “Where do you live?”

He was turning her questions back on her. He hoped he wouldn't ask if she was rich, because she might have to lie after all. “West o' here about a mile.”

“So you don't live on the estate?”

Did he sound disappointed? She shook her head slowly, hoping her answer wouldn't upset him. “But I'm here every day, helpin' Mr. Temperance. That's the photographer. I'm his assistant.”

“How many hours do you work each day?”

“One o'clock to five o'clock Mondays through Saturdays an' two o'clock to five o'clock on Sundays. Plus a little time before an' after to help him set up an' take down his props.”

His eyebrows rose. “Every afternoon, huh? Are you ever here on the grounds when you aren't working? Say…early morning? Or late evening?”

She delivered mushrooms anytime. “Sometimes.” Her heart gave a hopeful thump. “Why do you ask?”

Nick held up his finger and shook it back and forth. “Huh-uh, Miss Cissy, I'm asking the questions now.”

She giggled and dipped her head, peeking at him out of the corner of her eye.

He grinned. “You're off work now, right?”

She nodded.

“So what are you doing next?”

She chewed her lip. She was supposed to go home. Mama would need her help with supper. Then with getting their tub filled for everybody's baths—Mama wanted them all clean and smelling good for the church service. Then with getting the little girls tucked into bed.

She held her hands outward. “Nothin'. You got somethin' in mind?”

He laughed again, and this time Cissy joined in.

Devlin

S
unday morning Devlin dressed in his best suit, borrowed a Bible from the small bookshelf in the hotel lobby, asked Junior to saddle Marey, and then set off for the Joppa Missionary Baptist Church. After spending Saturday afternoon stewing over the Minyard woman refusing to let him visit the cave on her property, he decided she told him no only because she didn't know him. Once she knew him and trusted him, surely she'd change her mind. And what better place than church to get to know and trust someone?

He tugged the tight celluloid collar. He sure hoped the Minyards were churchgoers. It seemed everyone else in the valley attended. Folks in wagons, on horseback—sometimes two and three riders per beast—and on foot traveled the dusty, winding road. Devlin fell in with the lot, nodding, smiling, acting as if he made this trek every week. The ones to whom Reb had introduced him nodded and offered weak smiles in return. Their hesitant acceptance gave him hope.

The church waited just ahead, a whitewashed clapboard structure standing sentry over a graveyard. Wagons crowded along the road in front of, behind, and on the far side of the church, but none parked near the headstones. Out of respect or in deference to some strange superstition? He probably shouldn't ask. Those who came on horseback were looping their horses' reins over wagon wheels or in bushes. Since Devlin didn't know who owned the wagons, he chose to tie Marey's reins to some scraggly looking shrubs at the far edge of the church grounds.

Two doors faced the road, but only the one on the right stood open, so he trailed others up the wooden steps into the sanctuary. A row of hooks high on the west wall already held a half-dozen hats. Devlin wanted to shuck his jacket—the windows were all closed tight, and it was already stuffy in the small room—but none of the other men wearing jackets removed theirs. So he slipped into the center of the last pew, where the open door allowed in a bit of a breeze.

He glanced around, hoping his face didn't reflect his dreary thoughts. He'd never seen a sadder place of worship. The church was clean, not a speck of dust or smudge anywhere, but where were the stained-glass windows, the tapestries, the murals? Plain painted walls, a painted rather than carpeted floor, simple pews lacking cushions or decorative embellishments, unlit lanterns hanging on wires from the ceiling, and a planked dais holding a simple wood podium offered nothing of beauty on which to feast his eyes.

Directly in his line of vision, the dented black pipe of a potbelly stove stretched to the ceiling. He scooted a bit to the right so he'd have a clear view of the podium. Then he shifted again to better see around the heads of people filling the benches. By the time a black-suited man stepped onto the dais, every pew, including the one he'd chosen, was full. And the stuffiness was nearly unbearable.

“Good mornin',” the man on the dais said. His strong, deep voice rumbled like thunder.

“Good mornin', Brother Neville,” those seated in the pews replied with equal enthusiasm.

Brother Neville unfastened his celluloid collar. “Brother Coats an' Brother Gentry, would you open the windows for us please an' let some o' our good fresh air come through? The ladies are already fannin', an' the singin' hasn't yet commenced.”

A light rumble of laughter rolled through the room, and Devlin smiled. The minister at the church in Lexington was never so informal, but Devlin liked the country preacher's relaxed approach.

“Shall we stand an' sing?” Brother Neville held his arms wide, his smile spreading from ear to ear. The entire congregation from youngest to oldest rose. Without warning and without piano or organ accompaniment, the preacher blasted, “Blessed assurance, Jesus is mine! O what a foretaste o' glory divine!”

Voices joined him, rousing in their rendition. The coursing breeze stirred feathers on women's hats, ruffled bows on little girls' hair, and lifted long strands of hair combed across men's domes, but no one seemed to mind. Devlin didn't know the words, and he couldn't locate a hymnal, so he couldn't sing, but he could listen and enjoy.

When they sang the chorus for the third time, Devlin hesitantly added his voice to theirs. “This is my story, this is my song, praising my Savior all the day long.”

“Oh, such a glorious sound, a choir o' God's children praisin' His name. Must sound like angels singin' to our Maker's ears.” Brother Neville patted the air. “Sit, sit, an' let's lift up the Lord's name through readin' of the Holy Scriptures.”

He flopped open the huge black Bible on the podium. “Readin' from Second Samuel, the twenty-second chapter, ‘And David spake unto the L
ORD
the words of this song in the day that the L
ORD
had delivered him out of the hand of all his enemies, and out of the hand of Saul: And he said, The L
ORD
is my rock, and my fortress, and my deliverer; The God of my rock; in him will I trust…' ”

All around him people were riffling pages in worn Bibles. The preacher's deep voice filled the room as he continued reading. He was halfway through the chapter before Devlin located the passage in his borrowed Bible. He scanned the verses until he caught up.

“ ‘For thou art my lamp, O L
ORD
: and the L
ORD
will lighten my darkness.' ” The preacher looked up and bounced a knowing grin across the parishioners. “Any of you ever been trapped in a place o' darkness?”

People nodded, Devlin included. Memories from his days in the cave swept in.

“Most people don't enjoy bein' in the dark. Well, unless they happen to be those who are tryin' to hide their deeds—then they want to embrace the shadows. But I can't say I'm lookin' at any people like that this mornin', amen?”

A chorus of “amens” rose.

The preacher nodded. “Yessir, folks with pure hearts, folks who try to do good—they find the darkness frightenin' an' unwelcome. So they don't knowingly enter a dark place unprepared. They take along a lantern or a candle.”

Or a torch, like Tolly.

“An' they battle back that darkness with light. Even the tiniest candle can hold back a whole roomful of darkness, amen?”

“Amen,” the people repeated.

The preacher stepped from behind the podium and paced the small dais, his feet thudding so hard the echo pounded in Devlin's chest. “Let me tell you, my brothers an' sisters, there's a different kind o' darkness than the kind that exists in cellars or closets or in the woods in the dead o' night. There's a darkness that lives in the center of men's souls. An' that darkness is the separation between man an' his Maker. Amen?”

Heartier “amens” rang.

He raised one fist in the air, his voice increasing in power. “The darkness of a man's soul can be lit by only one thing an' that thing is the person o' Jesus Christ! The Lord, brothers an' sisters, is the Lamp that casts a light on the wickedness of men's souls. He is the Lamp that frightens the devil an' his minions back to the depths of hades.”

“Amen! Amen!” The cries rose all across the sanctuary.

Devlin shivered.

“He is the Lamp that delivers lost souls unto the Light of eternal glory!” He leaped behind the podium again and flicked pages so quickly they became the blur of a hummingbird's wings. “John, chapter eight, verse twelve, ‘Then spake Jesus again unto them, saying, I am the light of the world: he that followeth me shall not walk in darkness, but shall have the light of life.' Did you hear me? The light of life!”

By the time he finished the verse, he was shouting. The windows rattled with the force of his voice, and Devlin's pulse pounded in his temple like beats on a bass drum. “If you're lost in darkness this mornin', dear brothers an' sisters, there is only one way to bring yourself into the light. By trustin' in the holy name o' Jesus. By askin' Him to forgive you of your sins.”

Once again he took up pacing, his footfalls echoing along with the pound of his thundered words. “All the dark stains that turn your soul as black as pitch will wash away in the precious blood o' Jesus. Then light—light like you've never experienced before—will shine bright on you an' in you an' through you, amen?”

Devlin gave a start as the loudest “amens” yet rang. Apparently none of them had ever stepped from the darkness of Mammoth Cave into the sunlight. Sometimes the light hurt.

“Are you trapped in darkness today? Then you come. Come to the Light while we sing. Stand! Stand an' sing!”

The congregation rose, the benches creaking and floorboards groaning.

Throwing his head back and opening his mouth wide, the preacher bellowed, “At the cross, at the cross where I first saw the light, and the burden of my heart rolled away…”

Devlin eased his way out of the pew. He sent a quick look toward the front of the church, where a smattering of people had gathered and the preacher stood in their midst, eyes closed and mouth moving but no longer singing. Something deep within him gave a tug in the preacher's direction, but the open door behind him was closer.

He headed into the churchyard and sucked in a deep breath of air that held the crisp tang of rain.

“Are you trapped in darkness today?”

The preacher's words pulled at him, urging him to return to the little place of worship and discover the Light. He looked skyward and shivered. Clouds, dark and billowing, rolled across the sky.

“Are you trapped in darkness today?”

He'd be caught in a dark storm if he didn't hurry back to his lodgings. He pushed aside the persistent tug, loosed Marey's reins, climbed into the saddle, and dug in his heels. “Hurry now, girl. Let's get out of here.”

Rebekah

Thunder rolled in the distance as the congregation of the Good Spring Chapel sang their end-of-service hymn. Little Nellie grabbed Rebekah's hand and looked up with wide, fear-filled eyes. Rebekah lifted her to her hip and finished singing with her sister's weight—a welcome weight—in her arms.