A Clean Slate (Kansas Crossroads Book 4)

  A Clean Slate

  Kansas Crossroads #4

  by Amelia C. Adams

  ***

  Dedicated to everyone who wishes they had a clean slate—all things are possible through the Lord.

  ***

  I’d like to thank my beta readers for their sharp eyes and encouragement: Bobbie Sue, Cindy, Cissie, Kristi, Kristen, Lachele, Nancy, Penny, and Tracy. You are the best!

  I’d also like to thank the members of my street team: Bobbie Sue, Carol Ann, Cindy, Cissie, Eileen, Jean, Kristen, Melissa, Penny, Tina, Terri, and Tracy. You do a lot for me—I really appreciate it!

  ***

  Table of Contents:

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Sneak Peek

  Chapter One

  Topeka, Kansas

  1875

  Olivia Markham scowled at herself in the mirror as she adjusted her hat. Back home in New York, she’d considered going to church much the same as going to a social event—a chance to see friends and hear the latest gossip. She might even catch the eye of a handsome young man and spend a pleasant ten minutes chatting before they went their separate ways.

  Today, she was going because Adam Brody, her boss and the owner of the Brody Hotel, had invited all his employees to attend, and she wanted to make an effort to please him. She’d certainly gotten off to a difficult start in Kansas—that tends to happen when you travel across the country with the express intention of marrying a man who is about to be married to someone else. Thank goodness Adam—er, Mr. Brody—had been forgiving and agreed to let her work at the hotel until she decided what she wanted to do with her life. At this point, her plans consisted of finding a very wealthy man to marry. She had no idea where one of those might be found in this barely civilized community, however, and Mr. Brody’s marriage was a done deal.

  She tilted her head from side to side and fluffed the little curls above her ears. That would have to do—she had no idea what the ladies of Topeka wore to the white clapboard church building a few streets over. She’d never passed by when church was being held to observe the fashions. Deciding to err on the side of caution, she’d chosen a pink sprigged muslin, fearing that her more elegant fabrics might be too much for this humble community. She herself might be too much.

  “You look very nice,” Abigail said from behind her. She wore a simple blue frock, and her blonde hair had been brushed until it gleamed in the sunlight that streamed through their attic window. It stood in stark contrast to the dark chestnut shades of Olivia’s hair, and made Abigail look like a Valentine cupid or a Christmas angel rather than a waitress in a hotel. “We’d best be on our way if we’re going to be on time.”

  Olivia bit back a retort. With church at this early hour, they’d return to the hotel in time for the first Sunday train, all of which necessitated rushing here and rushing there. She hated being rushed. “Perfection takes time,” her mother always said, and Olivia was of the opinion that everything in life should be perfect. Instead of speaking, she picked up her reticule and followed Abigail down the stairs.

  Tom and Harriet White stood near the front entrance. Tom was on crutches and probably would be for a while yet, so he and Harriet would stay behind from church and keep an eye on the hotel while everyone else was gone. Olivia envied him for a moment—not his injury, and certainly not his pain, but the legitimate excuse not to go. It was almost guaranteed that there would be no good-looking single men in the congregation, and it was sure to be a wasted hour. She sighed—the sacrifices that went along with pleasing your boss.

  Moments later, Olivia climbed into the back of Mr. Brody’s wagon with Miss Hampton, Abigail, and Rachel, while Mr. Brody and his wife, Elizabeth, took seats up front. Elizabeth’s mother, Agatha, preferred to stay behind and watch the baby. Unlike Tom, however, Olivia didn’t envy Agatha one bit. She detested babies, and would rather sit through a dozen sermons than tend one of those squalling, squirming things. She arranged her skirts modestly and tried to pretend that she wasn’t jouncing along a dirt road on a hard wooden seat.

  When they entered the church, Olivia immediately knew that her choice of dress had been the right one. These women almost looked like they’d walked out of their kitchens and straight into the chapel. There was no silk anywhere to be seen, and the skirts weren’t nearly as flounced as those she would have worn if given the choice. Her hat might be a little much for this occasion, though. She’d have to look at her wardrobe and evaluate it yet again.

  “Good morning, Miss Markham.”

  She startled at the voice, not realizing anyone was standing nearby. “Oh, good morning, Pastor Osbourne,” she said, looking up at the tall man. Gracious, he had to be over six feet, and in his dark suit, he certainly was imposing. “It’s a lovely day, isn’t it?”

  He nodded his blond head. “It is indeed. And I’m glad to see you here. I’ve wanted to become better acquainted with the residents of the Brody Hotel for some time now.”

  “The others are much more fascinating than I am. They all have such interesting stories to tell—I’m sure I’m rather bland by comparison.” As soon as she’d spoken, Olivia wanted to clap her hand over her mouth. Had she really just said something flirtatious to the pastor? The words themselves were innocent enough, but she knew the effect she had on men when she looked at them through her eyelashes and tossed her head. Heat crept up the back of her neck. She’d done it without a second thought, and now she was as humiliated as she’d ever been in her life.

  Thankfully, the pastor didn’t seem to notice. “One evening this week, I’ll stop by after supper and we’ll have a visit. I’m sure you’re all very fascinating, and I look forward to learning more about each of you.” He nodded and moved on to the next parishioner, shaking hands and offering greetings. Olivia found the bench where the others from the hotel were seated and lowered herself into her spot, letting out a sigh. Modern New York behavior just wouldn’t do out here on the edges of civilization.

  Eager to distract herself from the embarrassing mistake she’d made a moment before, Olivia looked around and noticed that the choir loft was nearly full. It was unusual for a town this size to have so many singers. As the services began and the choir was introduced, however, Olivia realized that she’d been far too generous in thinking of them as “singers.” They sounded like cats on a fence at midnight. When the congregation was invited to join in on the last verse, Olivia was more than glad to do so. She sang loudly, trying to drown out the sound of the choir in her ears. She’d heard Jeanette mention there was a world-class opera singer in town. Perhaps she’d pay this woman a visit and discover what culture might exist out here in this dusty place.

  ***

  Pastor Robert Osbourne looked down over his congregation and once again felt the weight of his responsibilities pressing down on his shoulders. Every time he preached, he begged the Lord for the right words, for the stories and insights and teachings that would help him reach the ears of his listeners. There were so many temptations around them at every turn—the gold mines, gambling, drinking, women—that it often felt like an impossible task.

  He reminded himself, as he did every week, that his job was merel
y to be the messenger, and that the ultimate decision remained with the individual. He could not lead a man to heaven who did not want to go there. Yet, even knowing the truth of this, he ached whenever he saw someone turn away from the Lord and go off into their own darkness. He could call after them, but he could not choose the path of their feet for them.

  His eyes rested on Olivia Markham. She had caught his attention from the moment he first met her at the hotel. There was something about her, a vulnerability that resided beneath her prideful exterior. Here was a soul looking for answers, yearning to hear the truth of the word of God. Now if only he could deliver it in the way she most needed to hear it.

  The opening hymn was nearly over when he noticed a beautiful voice rising above the rest. His eyes darted around, trying to find the source. It certainly wasn’t coming from the choir loft. Those dear people tried their best every week, but not one of them had this kind of talent. As his eyes swept row by row, they fell on Miss Markham, and he realized she was the one. Her talent seemed effortless, pure, natural, and he resolved to speak with her right away. Music was something his church badly needed, and if she would consent to joining his choir, he knew the congregation would be blessed for it.

  The song came to an end much too quickly. As Robert stepped up to the pulpit and placed his notes in front of him, he felt a wave of peace descend over him, washing away his anxiety and his doubt. God was good. He blessed Robert with this peace every time he rose to speak, allowing him to concentrate on choosing the best words and reaching out with his heart and not just his voice. He would think about the curious Miss Markham later. Right now, he had a sermon to deliver.

  “Good morning,” he said, glancing around the room. There were a few more in attendance than usual—this was good. Hopefully, that meant fewer in the saloon later on. “I’m very glad you’ve all chosen to attend church today. Your presence lifts my spirits more than I can say. Our text for this week’s sermon is taken from—”

  A shout from the back of the chapel made him stop in midsentence. A hatless, scruffy-looking man wearing patched clothing rose from his bench, yelling, “Hold it right there, Preacher. Just hold it right there.”

  Robert opened his mouth, then closed it again. No one had ever interrupted a church service before—he had no idea what he should say in response. “May I help you?” he said at last.

  “I sure hope so, because if you can’t, there’ll be consequences.” The man walked up the aisle as he spoke, and in his hand was a pistol.

  Robert had often asked the men of his congregation to leave their firearms at home and to cease bringing them into the Lord’s house. Many of them had spoken with him and said they were honoring his request. Because of that, Robert was reasonably sure that this gun now being pointed at him was the only one in the building, wielded by a man who was clearly angry. “What can I do for you?” he asked, hoping it was something he could deliver.

  “You can answer me a question, Preacher.” The man spat out the word like it was mud in his mouth. “You can tell me why it is that you think God is so kind and loving and merciful when all He does is cause pain and misery.”

  Robert closed his eyes for a brief moment, offering a silent prayer. This was the question he was asked most often, and the one he found the hardest to answer. Asking a nonbeliever to have faith was one of the trickiest things for a pastor to do. Faith isn’t born in an instant—it’s planted and then cultivated and nurtured over many years. Understanding the things of the spirit was also a long process.

  “Tell me about your misery,” he said in reply. “What brings you here today?”

  “It’s my wife,” the man said, advancing up the aisle. “She’s dying, and no amount of praying has made her better. You talk about how God hears and answers prayers—she’s a God-fearing woman, but she’s still dying. Explain that, Preacher. Explain how wicked men live long and healthy lives, and my good woman is dying in anguish.” He held his gun a little higher. It was now aimed at Robert’s chest.

  Robert was sure he had never seen this man before, and yet, it sounded as though he’d been to at least a few of Robert’s sermons. Why couldn’t he remember his name or his face? If he could make that personal connection, it might help, but nothing was coming to mind. “Sir, I will spend all the time you like discussing this, but I’d prefer not to have a gun so close to the women and children in this room. If you’ll come with me into my office, my time is yours for as long as you’d like it.”

  The man chortled. “Oh, that’s what you want, is it? No, I rather like this arrangement. You have all the incentives in the world to talk to me right here.” He made a sweeping gesture with his arm. “Look at this little girl in her sweet bonnet. You wouldn’t want anything to happen to her, would ya, Preacher? So spit it out! Tell me—why is my wife dying? Why hasn’t God heard her prayers?” He took several more steps forward, coming closer and closer to the pulpit.

  Oddly enough, Robert wasn’t afraid for himself. The peace that had descended upon him when he rose to speak hadn’t left, but he was fearful for the members of his congregation. The little girl who had been singled out a moment before was now in tears, although silent ones, and her mother held her close. Who knew what this man would actually do?

  “Your wife sounds like a wonderful woman,” Robert said at last, looking for any way to calm the gunman down. If he were to start reciting everything He knew about the nature of God, it would only fall on deaf and angry ears. He would bear a personal testimony of his own dealings with God, but he wouldn’t attempt it until he was sure the man was listening.

  “She is,” the man replied. “There’s no finer woman alive than Molly Cannell.”

  Ah. A glimmer of hope—he now knew the man’s name. “And you love her very much, Mr. Cannell.”

  “I do. And she believes that God does, too. But if He’s so sweet and loving, why is she dying?”

  “God’s love is infinite and eternal, Mr. Cannell. We can’t measure His love for us by the trials we do or do not face—the Master never said that following Him was a guarantee of an easy life. What He promised was to give us peace.” He edged his way around the pulpit as he spoke, hoping that removing the barriers between himself and this man would serve as a gesture of goodwill.

  Mr. Cannell swore, and Robert tried not to flinch. He hated profanity of any sort, but when it was spoken here, in the Lord’s house, it was so much worse, like directly addressing God with that sort of language. “What kind of peace comes from writhing in pain morning, noon, and night? I’ve had every doctor in town look at her. I’ve even had some crazy faith-healer lady come over to take a peek, and not one of them has given me any answers. You’ve got five minutes, Preacher—five minutes to convince me not to blow your head off. If this god of yours really exists, maybe He’ll tell you what to say, or maybe He’ll suddenly zap this gun out of my hand. That’d be something, wouldn’t it?” He laughed at his own joke.

  Robert took a deep breath. What could he say that would possibly be convincing enough?

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Miss Markham rise and creep toward the end of her pew. He had no idea what she was doing, and he couldn’t beg her to sit down without calling attention to her. Why wasn’t she sitting quietly, like everyone else? “Mr. Cannell,” he began, hoping to distract the man from whatever Miss Markham was attempting, “I can’t pretend to know all the answers, but I can tell you this. I’ve lived a thousand different lifetimes in a few short years, and it was God who led me to where I am today.” He kept his eyes trained on Mr. Cannell, hoping to form any sort of connection. “I have seen miracles in my own life. I’ve seen them in the lives of others. I’ve seen good people die, and I don’t know why. But I’ve also seen their families receive strength from on high to deal with the loss. God is real, Mr. Cannell. He’s very real.”

  Miss Markham had crept down the aisle by this point. Robert saw her whisper something to the little girl in the bonnet, who nodded and untied the strings hold
ing her hat in place. Clutching the bonnet in her hands, Miss Markham continued on her way toward the front of the chapel. Why was she coming closer? She should be trying to leave the building, not inserting herself into the middle of this.

  Nearly holding his breath now, Robert kept talking. “I wish I could somehow open up my heart and let you see what’s inside, Mr. Cannell. No amount of discussion or verbalizing can properly convey to you what I feel. I have nothing but—”

  He paused, startled, as Miss Markham stepped up behind Mr. Cannell. She had stretched the bonnet between her hands, and now, she brought it up and over his head from behind, holding it to his throat. A tight yank backwards took his breath, and he dropped the gun. It clattered on the floor, and one of the men nearby grabbed it and held it on Mr. Cannell.

  Once the gunman was disarmed, Miss Markham loosened her grip on the bonnet, and Mr. Cannell gasped for air, rubbing his throat.

  “I’ll go for the marshal,” called a man in the back of the chapel, and as he opened the door to slip out, a shaft of sunlight filled the building. The bright light in the gloom enabled Robert to speak again.

  “Mr. Grant, please escort Mr. Cannell to that empty pew,” he said, gesturing to the corner of the room. Mr. Grant nodded, and he was joined by two other men from the congregation who took up guard stances nearby.

  Robert glanced around the chapel. He had a number of choices at this point. He could excuse the congregation to return to their homes, or he could give the sermon he’d prepared. Instead, another thought entered his mind, and he took the pulpit again.

  As he looked out across the men, women, and children who trusted him for their spiritual nourishment week after week, he believed he knew what he should say. He was also very mindful of the man sitting under guard in the corner, glaring.

  “Brothers and sisters in the gospel, I’m reminded of the greatest gift we have from God, and that is His love. He has given us life, surely, and everything we are, but what makes life sweetest is love. He watches over us as tenderly as a shepherd watches over his flocks—in fact, I seem to recall a scripture saying something about that.” He allowed a note of levity to enter his voice, hoping to dispel some of the tension in the room. “We cannot come to know all of God’s mysteries by railing against them or being angry because of them. As we earnestly seek to align ourselves with God, then and only then can we begin to see the purposes behind the things that transpire in our lives, and at the root of it all, we will discover God’s love.”