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only a handful of members would turn out for an evening service. Did he really want a decision to be made when the majority of the members had only heard the first candidate?
    Crockett resumed his chewing, though he barely tasted the buttery bread any longer. His mind was fully consumed with generating convincing arguments as to why he shouldn’t feel threatened or disheartened by the telegram.
    While he slurped his soup, he lectured himself about how God was in control, how he knew what was best. During the consumption of his third and fourth rolls, he imagined scenarios where waiting for a later date to speak would actually prove beneficial. Perhaps a member of considerable influence in the congregation was currently out of town. Maybe an afternoon service would require preaching over wailing babies who’d missed naps. Or maybe the Lord knew that a tree wasfixing to fall on the church roof at precisely 3:42 tomorrow afternoon, and keeping him away meant saving his life and the lives of dozens of church members.
    All right, so that last one was a bit farfetched. But stranger things had happened. Like a preacher being stolen from a train instead of watches and jewelry. Who would’ve believed that would happen?
    Crockett stood and carried his dishes to the washtub. As his bowl and utensils slid beneath the murky water, he cast a glance at the bolted door to his right. Washing the dishes himself might not do much to improve Miss Bessie’s hospitality, but perhaps the small kindness would ease her burden a little. Crockett added some warm water from the kettle on the back of the stove, rolled up his sleeves, and got to work—not only on his dishes but on the few others he found in the bottom of the tub.
    When he’d washed, dried, and stacked them on the counter, he hung up the damp towel and rolled down his sleeves. Then he covered the rolls he’d left on the table and collected his telegram. Scanning the kitchen to make sure he was leaving it as tidy as he’d found it, he placed two silver dollars beside the bread pan, where his hostess would be sure to find them, grabbed his hat, and headed for his room.
    His travel satchel sat waiting for him on the end of a too-short bed atop a brown patchwork quilt that needed mending. He ran his finger along a frayed square that had come unstitched on one side. Miss Bessie would have his hide for sure if he snagged a satchel buckle on that and tore it further.
    He hung his hat on the bedpost and moved the satchel from the bed to the small desk beneath the room’s single window. A plain lamp with a slightly sooty chimney jiggled when the bag hit the desk, and its low flame flickered. Crockett adjusted the wick to allow more light to fill the dim room, then unbuckled the satchel and extracted his Bible. A page of sermon notes fellfrom inside the front cover and fluttered to the floor. Crockett bent to retrieve it.
    That’s when the idea struck.
    An idea that would bless a particular young lady on her birthday while, at the same time, improving his chances at landing the Brenham job. An idea so perfect, it had to be inspired.
    Blowing out a deep breath in an attempt to calm his suddenly racing pulse, Crockett ordered his notes, took his Bible in hand, and began preaching in hushed tones to the lacy throw pillows on Miss Bessie’s bed.

9
    J oanna huffed out a breath and watched her disobedient hair flutter in the mirror. Why did she even bother? The coils never stayed where she put them. Why couldn’t she have lovely blond wisps like Holly Brewster? Her hair never pushed out of its pins or frizzed into an orange halo. Joanna had even overheard Holly complain to Becky Sue one time that it took her an hour to brush it out every night since it had grown past her hips. Joanna could barely keep hers long enough to reach the bottom of her shoulder blades. Any longer and the weight of it when piled atop her head induced headaches.
    Maybe she should give up trying to look like a lady and