Whippoorwill by Sharon Sala Page B

in her late thirties. Put off by her appearance, as well as her manly attire, it was all he could do not to stare.
    “Yes, I’m Reverend Howe.”
    “Welcome to Feeney.”
    She extended her hand to him as one man would have to another. There was something commanding about her presence. He took it without hesitation.
    “Name’s Mehitable Doone. I own the biggest spread in these parts. You’ll be stayin’ at my house until you’re ready to leave.”
    Randall beamed. At last a semblance of normalcy had returned to his life. He tipped his hat.
    “I appreciate your kindness… and that of your husband,” he said.
    “Ain’t got one,” Mehitable announced, and yanked his bag from his hand. “Follow me. I’ll show you the church on the way out of town.”
    Stunned that he’d allowed a woman to carry his bag, he began to run along behind, trying to catch up and rectify his social faux pas.
    “Uh, I say, Mrs… uh, Miss…”
    “Hellsfire, preacher. Just call me Hetty, ever’one does.”
    He flushed. “Well then, Hetty… about the church.”
    She pointed off to her left. “There it be.”
    He looked. His steps slowed and then he stopped.
    “Where?” he asked.
    “There,” she said, pointing to a vacant space between a saloon and a livery stable. “We’ll be settin’ up some benches.”
    “You mean I’m to speak without… uh… you mean there isn’t a real…”
    Mehitable snorted. “Oh hell no, there ain’t no church. The town ain’t but five years old.” Then she added. “But everyone is fired up about your comin’ and all. You’ll probably draw a good crowd.”
    Randall took a deep breath, reminding himself that of course things would be different out here. It wasn’t that he minded preaching outdoors, in fact, now that he thought about it, it seemed fitting. He would be like Moses who’d wandered in the wilderness before bringing his children to God. And the mention of a crowd didn’t hurt. Randall liked to preach to a crowd almost as much as he liked lifting women’s skirts.
    “That’s fine, just fine,” he said, then resumed his sprint to catch up with his hostess.
    Their ride to the ranch was long, but without fault, and for the first time since leaving Boston, Randall began to have hope. He glanced up at the sky. It was cloudless. That meant no rain. He glanced at the woman beside him. Her eyes were still squinting against the glare of the sun, and the hair hanging out from beneath her hat was whipping wildly about her face as the buggy sped along the road.
    “Have you lived here long?” Randall asked.
    “Born here,” she said, and flicked her whip across the backs of her team, spurring them on to greater speed.
    Randall tightened his grip on the seat to keep from being pitched out and searched for another vein of conversation that might not play out as fast.
    “So, your family was here before the town of Feeney, right?”
    She looked at him then as she might have a simpleton; with pity and patience. “Yeah, that would figure now, wouldn’t it?”
    He flushed. Damnable woman. If he’d met more like her in his past, he wouldn’t be where he was now.
    “So when do we get to your ranch?”
    She tightened her grip on the reins and pointed with her chin. “We been on it ever since we left town and we’d still be on it if we kept drivin’ ’til tomorrow.”
    Randall’s eyes widened as he looked at his hostess with renewed respect.
    “You own the town of Feeney?”
    “In a manner of speakin’.”
    “Then was it you who requested the presence of a minister here?”
    She threw back her head and laughed and Randall had a fleeting impression of a horse whinnying. Added to that, he wasn’t sure, but he might have just been insulted.
    “If not you, then who?” he asked.
    “My sister. She thinks she wants to be a nun.”
    It was all he could do not to gawk. “But I’m not Catholic.”
    Hetty shrugged. “It don’t hardly matter. Neither is she.”
    ***
    Charity Doone was on