“He drinks far too much,” Lila nodded, wondered. “And I speak with no judgment. Merely, too much whiskey can’t possibly be beneficial for someone in his condition.”
“Too much whiskey for anybody.” Bronx laughed, but softly. Out of concern for the sleeping Malina to be sure, Lila knew, but also because the gentle flickers of the fire and the falling shadows reminded him of the ending of the busyness of day. “I don’t suppose we can teach him new tricks. Likely, he wishes to enjoy all the earthly pleasures he can in the time he has left.”
Lila’s eyes filled again, “He has so much good about him. I wish the Lord hadn’t...sent such a scourge upon his body. And the biting cold here can’t be helpful at all.”
She poured a cup of hot coffee and handed it to Bronx. “Shall we sit? Sometimes, I wish I could offer our guests a dignified settee.”
He joined her on a hard pew close to the fire. “Doc talks of Denver and, uh...” Bronx’s neck tightened. “Doc...gave me the opportunity to leave here.”
Lila’s heart plummeted even though she told it not to. Why should Bronx stay? “Really? When?”
“Soon,” was all he said, and his face closed.
Ah, secrets. More secrets.
“How about you, Lila?” His eyes opened, but with honesty shining, this time. Oh, Emmett had taught her to read people, although...Lila gulped. She’d not entirely ever read her husband. “You staying on for good?”
She raised her hand to her mouth, left him and quickly strewed quilts and pillows on two separate pews, took as long as she dared before seeming rude. Finally, she faced him, and felt the warmth of him to her toes.
“I don’t quite know what you mean, Bronx.”
“I mean, how much more did—does Emmett expect you do to? Here at Gethsemane.” Like an opera conductor, Bronx snapped his arms in several directions as if codas and allegros were all he cared about. “You got the place finished. You feed the hungry, you take in the sick. You explore the scriptures in the way you claimed he said is proper for a woman. Seems you might be done with Gethsemane by now, is all I’m saying.”
Was he asking...insinuating...suggesting he wanted her to leave with him? Could she? Would she?
Might the trembles of her heart be the start of love? Just thinking the word pounded through her veins.
“I meant no disrespect, Lila.”
His face bore the sweetness of a naughty child, but oh, he was a handsome man. She could hardly breathe.
“I know. I’ll get more coffee.” She needed time to think, to respond. The tin cups were hot against her hand despite the handles. Bronx didn’t apologize for prying, either, nor did she want him to. After all, they had determined to be friends. More important, they had kissed. So that meant more than friends. Yes, they had kissed…and her heart pittered with all its might one more time. Knees shaking, she sat next to him on the pew, again, remembered last night in his arms—and wondered if he did, too.
The cup at her lip reminded her of his mouth there. But he hadn’t actually asked her to leave. Confusion swamped her shoulders so deep she almost spilled.
“Bronx, I can’t just up and leave, to begin with. Emmett wanted me to keep Gethsemane up and running. For those in need. Until...some fellow preacher can set things back in motion.”
“Set things back in motion?” He glowered. “Seems things run pretty smooth under your watch.”
The sip burned her lips. “I am but a woman. I can’t serve communion, or perform funeral rites. Or weddings. Why, Emmett once married...a couple no one else would touch.”
He flushed.
“Yes, a plumed lady. But she didn’t want a marriage of respectability. She fell in love with what Miss Frieda would call, ‘the dregs’.” And how lucky they had been.
“Are there no other preachers in Leadville?”
She shook her head. “None have appeared so inclined in two years. And I cast no judgment or critique. I know full well how busy a pastor keeps in his own congregation.” She breathed out slow before her breath hitched again at Bronx’s presence. “I suppose I had hopes Gethsemane might inspire a young seminarian needing a flock.”
“No other places like this? That tend the needy?”
“I can’t care about that. All I know is what Emmett wanted.”
“But what do you want?”
Bronx’s gaze was so soft, so inviting. His question so apt, and the time spent with him was nice…so nice. Simple as that, her blood raced again. Against the hard pew, she begged her shoulders to relax, her spine to unbend. She wasn’t greedy, was she? To want her own life back...to break the rules?
“I wanted to teach.” She leaned just a smidge closer, to speak softer in his ear without touching him. An old regret pricked, too. Last summer, one of Miss Frieda’s lodgers had explained an opening at the Ninth Street School, and begged Lila to consider. But she’d agonized too long over Emmett’s permission. She shivered at the sad memory, the lost opportunity. Another dead dream.
And Bronx noticed. “You cold?” He snuggled the blanket around her.