Grounds to Believe by Shelley Bates Page B

dodged between two cars, her head down, clutching her Bible case as she had clutched the paperbacks in the bookstore.
    “Julia,” he called.
    The flock of old ladies spilled out the front door, chattering. Derrick was right behind them, craning his neck, looking for her. Behind him she caught a glimpse of Owen’s red-gold hair. What would they say if they caught her speaking to him? The evening air felt chilled and clammy on her cheeks.
    You’re thinking of yourself again. She stopped, gripping her Bible, as the thought came to her, almost as if a voice had spoken in her head. She was. She was reacting in exactly the same way she had before—with human instinct instead of godly compassion. Well, the still small voice had spoken. Cost what it may, she had to listen.
    Ross rose from his lazy position on the seat of the bike, and crossed the parking lot with the loose-hipped, rocking swagger that boots gave a cowboy. She leaned weakly on the rear fender of her car. He ought to know better than to walk like that. He ought to know that she couldn’t speak to an Outsider at Mission, in front of everybody. No matter what the Spirit told her, she was never going to live this down. Never.
    The old ladies had caught sight of them now. Alma Woods’s eyes were so big that a rim of white showed around her muddy irises. Her mouth opened to give the alarm as she grabbed Rebecca Quinn’s elbow.
    Ross closed the last few steps between them. “Hey. What’s the matter?” His leather jacket creaked.
    “Nothing,” she replied, her mouth dry. Blue jeans never looked like that on Derrick. “Wh—what are you doing here?”
    Alma had the attention of three of the others, now. Even Rebecca looked horrified as she tried to steer the fizzing little group away from Julia and over to their cars. Rebecca’s eyebrows lifted in a stark question: Are you all right? The whole crowd was looking their way now, people gawking over their shoulders as they hesitated beside their cars.
    “I just came over to say hello,” he said, leaning a hand on the roof of her car and cocking one hip as though he were prepared to stand there and discuss it for the rest of the night. “Is there something wrong with that?”
    “No, of course not, it’s just that—”
    “Julia, is there a problem?” Melchizedek called from the doorway.
    Ross braced a hip on the side of her car and crossed his arms. Beyond him, Melchizedek made his way over to her, followed by Derrick and Owen. Expressions of serious concern fought with disbelief. No one had ever made such a scene at Mission. Owen’s gaze searched hers, telegraphing the same message as Rebecca: Are you all right?
    “No,” she answered Melchizedek reluctantly. To the outside observer, Ross Malcolm hadn’t done anything wrong—just walked across a public parking lot to speak to her. To an insider, it was the most scandalous thing to happen in Hamilton Falls since Rita Ulstad had deserted her husband for the man renting their downstairs bedroom seven years before. How on earth was she to think about his pain and his soul when he could cause so much agitation with so little effort?
    Melchizedek lifted his chin and regarded Ross Malcolm, caution mingling with his sense of duty. He extended a hand. “Melchizedek,” he said, infusing the name with the authority of the law and the prophets.
    Owen moved forward to ally himself with the Shepherd, and shook Ross’s hand as well. The contrast between their conservatively cut suits and Ross’s denim and leather was so extreme that Julia felt the hysterical urge to giggle. She bit her lip and let Melchizedek take control of the situation.
    “Are you a…friend of Julia’s?” Melchizedek asked. His voice was calm, but his eyes conveyed his doubt.
    Ross leaned on Julia’s car, his big body separating Julia from her protectors, his casual stance somehow conveying possessiveness. “We’ve met.”
    Melchizedek and Owen glanced at each other, and Julia could