The Whippoorwill Trilogy - Sharon Sala Page 0,84

clean body.

She thought of the preacher’s imminent arrival and picked up her soap and began to scrub. One thing would be certain. For the duration of his visit, her business would probably be nil. Which, when she thought about it, suited her just fine. It would be good to have her body to herself for a while.

Howe Low Can He Go?

Randall Howe was getting used to eating dust and jackrabbit. In fact, he considered it part of his penance for seducing a virgin and then running from the scene of his crime. The wagon master had assured him that they were only a day out of Lizard Flats now. His journey was coming to an end. After this, the destinations he chose would be his own. He thought of the wedding he was to perform and the sermon he was supposed to give in the makeshift church afterward. The thought made him ill. He wasn’t fit to bless the union of matrimony and he certainly wasn’t fit to speak the word of God.

At this point in his life, Randall Howe was a sorry sight indeed. He hadn’t slept the night through in days and couldn’t remember the last time he’d shaved. He kept seeing Charity Doone’s sweet face and knowing that he had ruined her life. But, he reminded himself, he had made many promises to God in return for forgiveness. Surely God had heard.

Then he sighed. God might forgive him, but Randall feared he would never forgive himself. There was a terrible weakness within him that he didn’t know how to fight. Prayer didn’t help. Promises didn’t work. Even fear for his own life had not been enough to stop him from tasting the sweetness of womanly wiles. And, no matter how far he traveled from Mehitable’s ranch, it would never be far enough for him to forget what he’d done.

His misery increased with each miserable jolt of the wagon wheels into the deep, hard ruts. And with each jolt, he repeated the solemn promise he’d made to God a few days earlier. No matter what, he would never partake of worldly things and wanton flesh again.

“We’ll make camp here for the night,” the wagon master announced.

Randall stirred, taking note of the creek and the stand of trees on the bank. This was good. He would bathe, maybe even shave. In the morning, he would put on fresh clothes. He would arrive in Lizard Flats as close to the man he’d been when he left Boston, or know the reason why. He owed it to himself, and to the people who awaited him there.

When morning came, Randall awoke with a new sense of purpose. Just the scraping of the dirt from his body and the whiskers from his face had given him a new sense of purpose. It had been a symbolic cleansing of his soul.

He’d learned his lesson. Yes, he had. No women. Not ever. Again.

It was coming on evening when they pulled into Lizard Flats. The wagon came in from the far end of town, stopping at the largest building in sight, which happened to be the White Dove Saloon. When Randall Howe saw the local whore standing on the porch beneath the sloped-down roof, his heart skipped a beat. The red satin dress was like a beacon of hope in a long, dark night and the cascading curls she’d pinned up off her neck begged to be taken down. At that point, every promise he’d made to himself—and to God—began to sink with the swiftly disappearing sun.

God give me strength.

When the feathers decorating the neckline of her dress suddenly fluttered with the evening breeze, he added an amendment to his previous prayer.

And then strike me blind.

But when his prayers were not immediately answered, he knew himself well enough to recognize the symptoms. Unless a miracle occurred, he was about to sin.

The streets were deserted save for a dog and a couple of kids running toward home before dark. The wagon master climbed down from his rig and began to unload Randall’s bags, but Randall hardly noticed. Framed by swinging doors and the lamplight from the hanging chandeliers in the room behind her, the woman was a sight to behold.

The lines in her face were softened by the shadows of dusk, and so Howe did not readily see them. Her body looked soft and welcome to a man who’d ridden a wagon seat until it felt as if his hip bones had come through his rump. And