Forgive me, Lord. I got so caught up in my own plans that I forgot to seek yours.
A few ladies started to rise. Malachi held up both hands. “Wait!” Everyone froze at his urgent tone. “Please. Be seated. There’s one more crucial detail to see to before we depart.” He twisted to the right and met Brother’s Garrett’s eye. “The most important detail. Parson?”
Mal stepped down from the dais, clearing the stage for the preacher.
“Thank you, Mr. Shaw.” Brother Garrett approached the pulpit, set his well-worn Bible on the stand, and turned his compassionate gaze upon his parishioners. “I understand the need for brevity as lives hang in the balance, but as I listened to the unholy challenge you ladies have been forced to face, I couldn’t help but be reminded of a passage from Psalm 18, one I pray will bring you hope as you battle your enemy.” He fingered the ribbon marker on his Bible and opened the book to a place near the center.
“‘I will love thee, O Lord, my strength. The Lord is my rock, and my fortress, and my deliverer; my God, my strength, in whom I will trust, my buckler, and the horn of my salvation, and my high tower.
“‘I will call upon the Lord, who is worthy to be praised: so shall I be saved from mine enemies. The sorrows of death compassed me, and the floods of ungodly men made me afraid. . . . In my distress I called upon the Lord, and cried unto my God: he heard my voice out of his temple, and my cry came before him, even into his ears. . . .
“‘He delivered me from my strong enemy, and from them which hated me, for they were too strong for me. They prevented me in the day of my calamity: but the Lord was my stay.’”
Silence hung suspended in the room. Women bowed their heads. Several closed their eyes. A few even nodded a silent amen. But the gentle minister wasn’t finished.
“You are not alone in this struggle, brothers and sisters.” The parson’s attention zeroed in on Malachi. Mal felt the look go through him like a dart, piercing his soul.
How did he know? How had the man guessed that even while Mal actively solicited help from the ladies, he still felt alone? Alone in his efforts to save the town. To save Emma. Alone, like he’d been his entire life. Battling against those who expected him to fail. Battling his own fears that he’d prove them right.
“You have an ally who wields more power than any human foe. One who will stand beside you, or better yet, lead the charge as you face your enemy. Join me, beloved, as we call upon the Lord, as we cry unto our God.”
Mal bowed his head and bared his soul.
“Almighty God,” the parson intoned, “we beseech thee today for help in defeating our enemy. We cannot succeed without thy guidance, without thy strength. You parted the sea to rescue thy people. You made the sun stand still. You closed the mouths of lions. And best of all, you resurrected Jesus Christ from the dead, defeating the evil one for eternity. Thou art a God who saves.
“We ask thee to save thy people again today. To protect Miss Chandler from the one who holds her captive. To guard the life of young Ned, and to plant seeds of goodness in his soul so that he won’t repeat his father’s mistakes. To watch over the ladies as they leave their homes and to guide the men who defend them.
“Lord, only you know the wisest course. I pray that thou wilt give Mr. Shaw discernment, so this situation might be resolved without bloodshed. Thou hast taught that all things are possible to him that believeth. We believe in thee. Show us the way, and lead thy people to victory. In the holy name of thy Son and our Savior, Jesus Christ, amen.”
Mal’s head remained bowed, his heart aching and raw. All I care about is getting Emma back safely. If finding the gold is not the best plan, show me the right one. And if I try to step wrong, throw a boulder in my path. I’m liable to miss a more subtle sign.
When Mal glanced up, all the ladies were looking at him, their gazes expectant. Mal nodded to the preacher as the man collected his Bible and stepped down, then took up the vacated position on the dais.
“Well, until the Lord shows us a better way,” he announced, “we’re gonna stick to the plan we got. Ladies, start packin’. Harper’s Station needs to be a ghost town by this afternoon.”
35
Four hours later, covered with sweat and soot, Malachi leaned over the water trough at the station-house corral, cupped his hands, and sloshed water over his head. He repeated the action, this time taking a moment to rub the grime off his face and neck. Yanking his shirttail out of his waistband, he ran the marginally clean section of cotton across his brow.
His hand slowed as he ran the fabric over his eyes, his cheeks, and then the length of his jaw. His chin dropped, and his hand closed around his shirttail, wanting to ball it into a fist.