Read Online Whippoorwill by Sharon Sala - Free Book Online

her knees in prayer when she heard the buggy. It had to be Hetty. She always drove as if she was in a constant race with herself. Her pulse accelerated as she jumped to her feet and dashed to the window. This was the third time in as many days that Hetty had gone to town to meet the train, and each time she’d come home alone. She peeked through the curtains, her expression fixed, her lower lip caught between the edges of her teeth.
    Please God, let this be the day. Please let the preacher be here .
    At the age of twenty-three, Charity needed some answers to the dilemmas overruling her life. Hetty had been after her for more than five years to pick a man and get married. But somehow the thought had seemed foreign. Hetty had followed her own inclinations rather than those of society. No one had forced her into something she didn’t want. Charity couldn’t see why she had to be the one to make all the sacrifices. There were things that she wanted to do. Places she wanted to see. And marrying some rancher who cared more for his cows than he did her wasn’t high on her list of importance.
    And then there was the dream. She’d had it a total of seventeen times now—of standing naked before God in a pale white light and pledging her life to him always. At least she thought it was God to whom she kept making the promises. In her dream, the man was tall and strong and cloaked in the light shining down upon her, and she’d wept with joy as he reached out his hand. In the dream she kept feeling his fingers against her palm, and every time she would get to the point of seeing his face, the dream would end. But Charity had deduced that was because no one on earth had looked upon the face of God.
    Her fervor to follow the dream was about to begin as she gazed out upon the man getting out of the buggy. Her pulse kicked. The preacher was finally here!
    She needed guidance and answers, and who better suited than a man of God? She held her breath, waiting, willing him to turn around. When he did, she exhaled on a sigh. His countenance was glorious, just as she had expected it to be.
    She dashed to the mirror and fussed with her hair, poking loose ends into place and pinching her cheeks until they were a deep, rosy pink. Smoothing her hands down the front of her dress, she stepped into the hall and made her way to the drawing room at the front of the house. Already she could hear Hetty’s loud, booming voice and winced, hoping the preacher would not be put off by her sister’s strange ways. A few moments later, she entered the room, pausing in the doorway and allowing herself a final moment to collect her thoughts.
    But then Hetty turned around and Charity’s thoughts were no longer her own.
    “Here’s Charity now,” she said. “Reverend Howe, this here’s my sister, Charity Doone.”
    Charity curtsied. “Reverend Howe, it is an honor, I’m sure.”
    To say Randall was stunned would be putting it mildly. He kept staring from Hetty, to Charity, and back again.
    When he could speak, the best he could say was, “You don’t look anything alike.”
    Hetty snorted. Charity blushed. At four inches over five feet tall, and with her baby doll face and womanly shape, she was the antithesis of Mehitable Doone.
    “Same sire, different dams,” Hetty said.
    It took Randall a moment to decipher the animal references to their parentage. Finally he deduced that they’d had the same father, but different mothers.
    “It’s a pleasure to be here. I hope I can be of some service,” Randall said.
    Impulsively, Charity reached for his hand. “Oh yes, Reverend, you certainly can! I have been suffering these many months now, puzzling to discern the message God has been sending me. I know you will have the answers I need.”
    Randall nodded, trying to concentrate on something beside the softness of her skin and the length of her lashes.
    “It has been difficult trying to live with all this confusion. I long to soothe the ravages of my soul,”