Page 27 of The Formation of Us
Thinking back, she’d assumed she would now hate the sound of the organ, but the vibrating pipes filled the church with such majesty, her lips parted on a sigh. Awestruck, Faith listened, captivated by the impassioned people around her lifting and blending their voices in song. The glorious music flooded her with a sense of rightness. They would come to church on Sunday mornings just like the other respectable residents of Fredonia. And someday, she might even have a husband who would love her, who would stand at the back of the church with their sons, waiting to escort her to their safe, love-filled home.
When the song ended, Faith sat in the pew with Cora on her lap, vowing she wouldn’t be weak like her mother, a woman condemned for her tawdry profession. Her mother had provided food and a dry place to sleep for Faith and the children, but precious little of her time. She’d dreamed of a better life, of marrying a man she loved, of giving her children a real home, but she’d spent thirty years as a prostitute and died in her brothel.
The sad truth was that Faith’s mother could have moved to a new town and kept her past a secret like Faith was doing. Men would have lined up to propose marriage to the unequaled beauty. But Rose had lacked the courage, or the desire, to change her life. And that’s why Faith hated her.
But she loved her for so many other reasons, it wrung her heart.
That conflict gnawed at Faith’s conscience each day of her life, feeding her anger, increasing her guilt. Some days she wanted to forget everything—the brothel, Jarvis, even her mother. Other days she ached for one of her mother’s hard, apologetic hugs.
Cora’s breathing slowed, and Faith held her close as the little girl fell asleep. They would build a good life here, she vowed. They would plant their dreams in this rich farming soil of upstate New York and nourish them with firm conviction, courage, and love. Here, in the ashes of her mother’s life, she would plant her dreams and they would bloom like fireweed.
Certainty swept through her, and the church no longer felt dim and airless. The space felt sacred, the pastor’s words inspiring and uplifting. Faith listened with her eyes closed and her heart open, drinking in the nourishing words she’d been so long denied.
When the service ended, her heart overflowed with hope as she followed the Graysons outside into the bright June sunshine. She wanted to linger in the Common, to deepen her acquaintance with the people who would become part of her garden, but an outraged shout from across the park drew everyone’s attention toward Main Street.
“That man’s stealing my horse!”
Before Faith could understand what was happening, Sheriff Grayson sprinted past her, jaw set, suit coat flapping as he raced across the small park, followed by his brothers and several other men.
The accused man leapt onto the horse and dug his spurred heels into its flanks. A collective gasp burst from the crowd as he wheeled the horse toward the sheriff and tried to run him down. Instead, the sheriff side-stepped the mare, reached up with one hand, and hauled the rider off the horse. The man hit the ground hard and rolled away from the rearing animal.
Faith held her breath, fearing those sharp hooves would crash down on the thief, or worse yet, slash the sheriff’s head and shoulders. But one of the sheriff’s brothers caught the reins and led the frightened horse away from the tussle.
As the man on the ground pushed to his knees, the sheriff planted his boot against the seat of thief’s pants and shoved him facedown on the grass. And before the man could push himself to his elbows, Sheriff Grayson pinned him to the ground with a knee to his back.
“Stay put, Covey.”
“Go to hell.”
The man called Covey struggled and cursed, but the sheriff braced one hand on the back of Covey’s head and pressed his face into the spring grass. “You’re under arrest,” he said.
With his free hand, the sheriff fumbled beneath his suit coat, but Covey surprised him, slamming his elbow into the sheriff’s ribs.
A husky man pushed through the crowd and headed toward the scuffle, and Faith willed him to hurry.
“Archer!” Another of the sheriff’s brothers stepped forward and blocked the man’s way. “Stay out of it.”
Faith gaped in disbelief. Covey was thrashing like a rabid dog, kicking his boot heels up and using his spurs like small knives. She couldn’t tell if he was hitting his mark, but the sheriff’s suit coat was ripped in several places and he’d lost his hold on the man.
Covey leapt to his feet and bolted into the crowd. Several women screamed as the sheriff tore after the thief.
Archer pushed forward, but the sheriff’s brother grabbed his arm and stopped him. “Duke will handle this.”
“Damn it, Boyd, unhand me!” Archer struggled against Boyd Grayson’s unrelenting grip. “That thief is getting away!”
The sheriff tackled Covey near the huge water fountain. Boyd grinned. “No, he’s not.”
The sheriff and Covey were so tangled up that Faith couldn’t tell who was winning the fight, but she was on Archer’s side; somebody needed to step in and lend a hand.
Covey reared up and slammed his elbow into the sheriff’s sore shoulder. The sheriff’s pain-filled grunt could be heard across the Common, but unbelievably, no one moved to help him. Faith’s jaw dropped. What was wrong with these people? Why on earth weren’t his brothers helping? There had to be forty men in the park, but they were just standing there watching while that horrid thief swung his elbows and fists like hammers.
With a low growl, the sheriff grabbed Covey’s wrist and wrenched the man’s arm behind his back. Covey cursed and struggled, but the sheriff out-muscled the horse thief and bound his hands with a pair of black suspenders he’d pulled from beneath his coat. Only then did Faith realize the sheriff was without his gun and handcuffs.
When he finally pulled the man to his feet, the sheriff was breathing hard and dripping sweat. Faith knew the extent of his shoulder injury and could imagine the wrenching pain he must be in. But he kept his jaw clenched and propelled the horse thief through the crowd. Nobody said a word until the sheriff pushed Covey inside the brick building on the corner of Temple Street.
“He’s taking him to jail,” Adam said, his face lit with excitement as he pointed to the building that Faith hoped to never visit. “Did you see the sheriff pull that man off that horse?”
She sure had seen it, and it scared her sideways. Even injured, the sheriff wasn’t a man to cross.
