Read Online Stealing the Preacher by Karen Witemeyer - Free Book Online Page B

simply wear it in a thick plait behind her neck. Heaven knew it would be easier to manage. But somehow the thought of giving up on arranging her hair felt like giving up on her chances of finding a husband. She was only turning twenty-one today. Surely that didn’t qualify her for old-maid status yet.
    Stiffening her spine, Joanna shoved another pin into the fluffy knot at her nape. Then, almost as if her mother were in the room, Joanna heard the echo of a tender voice soothing long-ago tears.

    “A woman’s hair is her glory, Joanna. And yours is truly glorious.”
    Joanna closed her eyes and recalled the feel of her mother drawing a brush through her thick tresses as the two of them sat on her bed.
    “It’s vibrant like a sunrise. Untamed like the most beautiful landscape. It reminds me of your father—wild, yet full of love. Your hair is a gift from God, Joanna. Don’t despise it because it is different. See the beauty in his gift.”
    She opened her eyes and stared hard into the mirror. Her mother had taught her to examine the world through an artist’s eye, to find splendor in a landscape where others saw only dirt and rocks. Under her mother’s skilled tutelage, Joanna had learned to turn a dry creek bed into a beacon of hope through the stroke of her brush, portraying what could be instead of what was. Yet when she looked upon her reflection, her training proved ineffectual.
    “’Tis a gift, Joanna.” She scowled at the woman in the mirror. “To scorn it would be to dishonor the Giver.”
    So she looked again. Past the recalcitrant curls. Past the inadequate length. Past even the unnamable color that existed somewhere between ginger and cinnamon. She allowed her vision to blur slightly so that no details distracted. A minute passed. Then another. Until she realized her perspective had shifted. She saw not her own bright tresses, but the darker, russet tones of her father’s hair. And not his alone, for her mind also recalled the light brown curls of her mother. The hair her father had always loved to touch, to twist around his finger when the two of them snuggled together on the settee during quiet evenings. Mama would lean her head against his shoulder, while Daddy wrapped his arm around her.
    Joanna blinked, her gaze reluctant to focus on the present. I see the gift now, God. Thank you.

    Wiping the sentimentality from the corner of her eyes, Joanna gave a little sniff and turned away from her mirror. She smoothed the wrinkles from her Sunday-best dress—a periwinkle polished muslin with indigo trim—and collected her Bible from the small table beside her bed.
    She might not yet have a preacher, but she had a Lord who deserved her worship, and though her father and his men had made themselves scarce the minute breakfast ended, she intended to start her twenty-first year with a positive outlook. There’d be no quiet Bible reading in the parlor for her this Sunday. No, it was time to wake up the old chapel with hymns and brush the dust from the pews.
    Joanna arranged her favorite straw bonnet upon her head, the one decorated with clusters of periwinkle blooms that made her eyes look more blue than gray, then tied the ribbons beneath her chin and tugged her mother’s gloves over her hands.
    Today she was going to church.

    By the time Joanna neared the chapel, the sunny sky and quiet morning had restored her good humor. She hadn’t encountered a single soul on the walk over, even with taking the road instead of the shortcut through the field. But she didn’t mind the solitude. In fact, she welcomed it. She’d never been good at making idle chitchat. She much preferred to be alone with her thoughts. No one around to try to impress. No one to interrupt her musings. No one to hear should a song suddenly rise to her lips.
    Grinning to herself, Joanna put voice to the hymn that had been running through her head since she left the house. “‘For the beauty of the earth, for the glory of the skies.’”