Her stunning green eyes shot back to him. “You’re a reverend?”
“I am.” He was accustomed to surprising people, especially since he no longer wore his suit or clerical collar, which, of course, was another of the grievances Bishop Hills had listed during their recent meeting. Shortly after arriving in the colonies, Abe had decided to shed the formal attire in favor of the corduroy trousers and flannel shirts the miners wore. Not only were the simple garments sturdier and warmer, but he felt as though the miners accepted him more readily as one of their own when he didn’t emphasize the differences in their status. If only Bishop Hills saw the benefit of the apparel.
“You don’t look like a reverend,” Miss Hart said.
“I didn’t know reverends were supposed to look a particular way.” He smiled with what he hoped was his most sincere, pastor-like smile.
She studied him openly. He was tempted to brush a hand over his hatless head and make sure his unruly locks were in place, but he resisted the urge. “Guess I always thought reverends were old and ugly. I’ve never met any who were young and handsome.”
Handsome?
Her gaze was direct and unabashedly curious, so much that he dropped his attention to his Bible.
She thought he was handsome. Part of him wanted to stand a little taller. At the same time, he was tempted to duck his head in embarrassment. After three years of living among miners, he was clearly out of practice at interacting with single young women.
And clearly, he was an oaf for focusing on himself at a time like this. What was wrong with him?
He shifted his attention to the lifeless woman on the bed. “May I read a few words of Scripture and pray with you? I know it won’t bring back . . . ” He paused, hoping she’d supply the woman’s name.
“Jane.”
He wasn’t accustomed to using a woman’s given name, but he couldn’t correct Miss Hart. Not in the wake of her loss. “Nothing I can say will bring back . . . Jane . . . but God’s Word and His presence can bring you comfort as you grieve.”
Miss Hart glanced at her friend’s pale face. Tears rapidly formed in her eyes and glistened. After a moment, she nodded.
Abe opened his Bible and read several verses. Then he prayed aloud for Miss Hart that Christ’s love would soothe her and be with her in the days to come.
“Finally, Lord, I pray you would bring along a husband for Miss Hart. She’s traveled here to the colony in search of a helpmate, and so we ask that you would direct her choices, give her wisdom, and make clear to her the right man. In the name of Jesus our Savior, amen.”
As he lifted his head, he was surprised to find Miss Hart staring at him. Framed by those dark lashes, her eyes were as wide and rich as the mountain forests. For a few seconds, he allowed himself to get lost there.
“My mum used to pray like that,” she said.
“Like what?”
“Like God is right here with us, listening.”
She was offering him the perfect opportunity to speak of God’s love. As a minister, he was always on the lookout for such openings. But somehow, today, around her, his brain was sluggish, and he couldn’t formulate a response.
“Do you really think God cares who I pick for a husband?” She tilted her head so that more locks of her thick hair fell loose and tumbled over her shoulder, making her look vulnerable, almost desperate.
A protective urge rose up within him. “He cares very much and will direct you if you let Him.” Sometimes grief led people to do things they normally wouldn’t consider, things they later regretted. He prayed this woman wouldn’t do anything rash in her sorrow.
“Pastor Abe?” A timid voice came from the doorway.
Abe started, guilt rushing through him, though he didn’t know why he should feel guilty. All he’d been doing was speaking words of comfort to this grieving woman. There was nothing wrong with that, was there?
A shabby miner stood in the doorway, holding a valise. With the hair falling into the man’s eyes and with his overgrown mustache and beard, Abe struggled to see past the scruffiness and identify him. His clothes were ragged and stained with mud and tobacco juice. And his body was as thin as a plank, the outline of his shoulder bones jutting through his coat.
“It’s me, Herman Cox. The nurse downstairs told me you were here.”
Abe sized up the newcomer again, this time noting the bloodshot eyes and the hollowness of his cheeks. This was Herman Cox? The robust miner from Richfield who’d married a native woman and recently had a baby? When his wife was having trouble with her labor, Herman had brought her down to Victoria for help. A young ship’s surgeon, Lord Colville, who had arrived with the Tynemouth brides, had been kind enough to help the couple when no one else had wanted anything to do with the native woman due to the smallpox scare.
“Good to see you, Herman.” Abe crossed to the man and reached out for a handshake, another mannerism for which Bishop Hills criticized him, labeling the greeting as too familiar.
Herman returned the clasp, but his grip was weak. A waft of the man’s body odor hit Abe, causing him to breathe through his mouth instead of his nose. During his circuit riding between camps, he’d grown accustomed to all manner of stench. But Herman was especially ripe, and the bag he carried was worse.
“I came to find Lord Colville. He was kind enough to help me once. Figured he could again, but the nurse said he ain’t in Victoria anymore.”
“That’s right. He and his bride left a couple of months ago.”
Herman’s shoulders slumped, and he moved his bag to his opposite hand as if the weight had suddenly become too much to bear.
“If your wife and child need attention, I’ll speak to one of the other doctors. I’ll do my best to convince them to offer assistance.” Now that the worst of the smallpox scare was over, surely Herman could bring his family into Victoria without causing any trouble.
“Rose didn’t make it.” Herman’s lips trembled as he spoke. “The smallpox took her.”
Genuine sorrow speared Abe’s heart. “I’m so sorry, Herman. So sorry. I know you loved Rose very much.”
Tears pooled in the man’s eyes, and he blinked rapidly, struggling to compose himself.
Abe didn’t approve of the way miners invited native women into their shanties, using and discarding them at will. So when Herman had asked him to officiate a wedding ceremony for him and Rose, Abe had been more than willing, especially because he’d witnessed Herman’s kindness and gentleness to the native woman.
“She’s got no family left,” Herman said through a wavering breath. “I tried to find them, but they’re all dead.”
Abe wasn’t surprised. Last year a smallpox epidemic had ravaged the tribes on Vancouver Island and had spread to the mainland, killing thousands upon thousands of Indians who seemed more susceptible to the disease than European immigrants did. Abe had recently learned how to administer vaccinations and had done his best to inoculate the natives living around Yale. But like many doctors and missionaries, his attempts to protect the Indians had come too late.
“Is there anything I can do?” Abe asked.
“Aye, Pastor.” Herman’s face contorted with heartache and desperation.
Abe’s chest squeezed with a need to ease the man’s burden.