Mel's Arc

Chapter 23 of 36

Six days out, Mel had a dressed barn, a gown, and benches. She had no one to say the words. The valley pastor had already refused her, because the Caldwells funded his church. Without someone to lead the vows, the wedding was just two people standing in a decorated room. Ted found her staring at the empty spot where the pastor should stand. "Every church in the valley answers to them," she said. "We built everything else. We can't build a preacher." Ted set down his hammer. "Then we find one who owes them nothing." They rode out that afternoon, past the edge of Caldwell reach, asking farmhouses and crossroads. Two men said no before Mel finished asking. A third shut his door. By dusk they had nothing but tired horses. The next morning a stranger came up the lane on foot. He was old, round, with a white beard and a worn suit. He carried a red Bible under one arm and smiled like he already knew her. "You're the girl marrying in a barn," he said. "Word travels. Reverend Gabriel Cross." Mel didn't trust the smile. "The Caldwells fund the churches here," she said. "They'll lean on you the way they leaned on the last man." Cross laughed, a real laugh from the belly. "I have no church for them to buy. I ride between valleys. I marry folks the settled preachers won't." He looked at the dressed barn doors, the garlands, the roses. "I married a couple in a hayfield once. This is a palace next to that." Ted stepped up beside her. "They cut our supplier two valleys over. Their arm is long." "Their arm reaches money," Cross said. "I don't take theirs. Never have." He held out the Bible like proof. "I'll say your vows, son. No one pays me but the couple, and I marry for free." Mel searched his face for the catch. She had learned to expect one. But the man just waited, patient, hat in hand. She thought of the pastor who'd turned his back, of every door slammed the day before. Here was one that stayed open. "Six days," she said. "Can you stay?" "I've slept in worse than a finished barn," Cross said. They walked him inside. He ran a hand along a scrap-wood bench, tested it with his weight, nodded. He stood where the couple would stand and looked down the rows of empty seats. "Right here," he said. "You'll stand right here." Mel let out a breath she'd held for weeks. She had the gown, the benches, the barn. Now she had the man to seal the vows. The wedding would happen. Nothing the Caldwells owned could stop the words from being said. Then she looked at the long rows of benches, every one of them empty. She had someone to marry them. She still didn't know if a single guest would dare fill a seat.