Resurrection by Linda Lael Miller Read Free Book Online Page B

sit, especially from some of those for whom the Lord had provided especially well, and Emmeline, being light-headed and weak in the knees, shared in the sentiment.
    The Reverend cleared his throat, then loosened his string tie with one hooked finger. His small eyes gleamed withconviction and purpose beneath his great beetle brows, and he fixed his gaze on Emmeline.
    “Today’s sermon,” he announced, seeming to address Emmeline and Emmeline alone, “is rooted in the thirty-first chapter of Proverbs.” He paused, a good man intent on his business, and then went on in a voice like thunder to demand, “Who can find a virtuous woman? Who?”
    He made the feat sound downright impossible.
    At Emmeline’s elbow, Gil Hartwell chuckled, and there were whispers, shufflings, and shiftings in all the crowded pews.
    Emmeline seethed in silence, engaged in a stare-down with the Reverend and determined, on pain of death, to prevail. The way the pastor and everyone else in town were behaving, Emmeline thought ruefully, any objective observer would have thought she had personally clipped Samson’s locks or asked for the Baptist’s head on a platter. Nobody had noticed, it seemed, that she had done nothing wrong.
    Relentlessly, the sermon boomed on, like a runaway freight train on a downhill track. While Emmeline’s name was not mentioned, only an idiot could have failed to see that every word was said for her benefit, in the plain hope of steering her ship wide of the shoals of sin.
    She was so indignant by the end that she had made up her mind not to stay after for fellowship, even though that was the part of Sunday services she enjoyed most. There were limits even to Emmeline’s strength, and after that sermon, she needed some time to herself.
    Reverend Bickham said another prayer, and then there were more hymns. Emmeline sang by rote and stole occasional glances at Gil, of whom she was painfully aware. The heat intensified, but rolls of thunder could be heard now and then in the distance, and once in a while a flash of heat lightningglowed at the windows. When rain began to patter lightly on the roof, the stifling air cooled a little, and so did Emmeline’s temper.
    “There is one announcement before we close in prayer,” Reverend Bickham said. Emmeline had the whimsical thought that he might cap off his rousing discourse against carnal sin by condemning her to wear a scarlet letter from that day forward. “I have received word that there will be a traveling evangelist coming our way soon. I hope you will all attend.”
    Emmeline sighed. Practically everyone for fifty miles around would turn out, simply because those gypsy preachers, with their tents and platforms and ringing voices, put on such a marvelous show. Folks took wagons and food, parlor chairs and blankets, and stayed for the duration of the spectacle, listening in spellbound delight to rancorous sermons about the wages of sin and the glories of salvation, singing along with the dearly familiar hymns, getting themselves saved and resaved, just for the sheer excitement of it all.
    Emmeline didn’t blame them, and in fact would have shared their enthusiasm at most any other time. Entertainments were few and far between on the plains of the Montana Territory, and most everywhere else in the West.
    “Today’s fellowship will be held inside the church building,” the Reverend finished, “on account of that rain we’ve been praying for has finally arrived. Shout hallelujah, brothers and sisters!”
    While the brothers and sisters were shouting hallelujah, Emmeline shoved past Gil Hartwell and marched herself down the aisle and the outside steps, paying no heed whatsoever to the soft, warm rain wetting her dress and spoiling her bonnet. Anger and humiliation propelled her across the yard, through the gate, and straight down the middle of the street,puddles and the mud Montanans call “gumbo” notwithstanding.
    Gil caught up to her just as she was turning in to the