The Matrimony Plan. Christine Johnson

He now knew what that reason was.

      Reinvigorated, Gabriel strode past the church to the park.

      This whole business began in the woods behind the parsonage. Criminals, Coughlin had said. Gabriel now knew what the man meant. Something was going on near that broken-down fence, and he intended to find out what.

      The route to Baker’s Field took Felicity past the park and the parsonage with its hedge of furiously blooming bridal’s veil. If she could get to the barn first, she could ask for Robert’s assistance before Sally and Eloise claimed his time.

      She hurried past the cramped fields of Einer Coughlin, the last farmhouse before Baker’s Field. Though she couldn’t spot Robert in the field, a motorcar was parked near the barn. It looked like Blake’s, meaning Robert had to be there.

      If she cut across Coughlin’s hayfield, she’d save precious minutes, but the man was the meanest farmer in town. Everyone blamed it on his wife’s untimely death and son’s running away, but Felicity sympathized with the wife and son. He’d likely driven them to their rash actions. Shiftless and stingy, Mr. Coughlin grew hay on the richest farmland in the township.

      She hated walking by Coughlin’s land. Sometimes he’d yell at passersby. Occasionally he’d threaten them. She hurried past the ramshackle house surrounded by garbage and broken equipment. It was an eyesore and a disgrace and so close to the parsonage, too. Poor Gabriel.

      Poor Gabriel? What was she thinking? She had set her cap on Robert Blevins, not Gabriel Meeks.

      With a shudder, she scurried by the Coughlin place, head down. Just a few yards more, she thought. Then a pitiful whining made her stop. That came from a dog, and judging by its plaintive cry, it was hurt. Was the animal caught in one of the rusting buggies or plows near the house? If so, Coughlin would shoot it out of spite.

      A horrible yelp set her in motion. She had to save the poor thing before it was too late, but where was it? At first, the cries seemed to come from near the house, but as she went farther into the newly reaped field, she realized the animal was behind the house, toward the river.

      When she rounded the decaying wagon, she saw. Mr. Coughlin, rifle slung over his shoulder, dragging poor Slinky toward the river on a rope.

      “Stop,” she cried, racing toward them.

      The dog struggled against the rope with all his might, but Mr. Coughlin didn’t let go. With a jerk, the knot tightened around Slinky’s neck.

      “Stop. You’ll strangle him.”

      Coughlin kept walking.

      The wet earth sucked the ivory satin pumps off her feet. She yanked the shoes out of the mud and tried again, but two steps later, the shoes came off again. It was no use. She grabbed the shoes and ran in her stocking feet. The hay stubble stabbed her soles, but she had to save Slinky.

      “Stop. Stop.” She waved the shoes, but Coughlin didn’t hear her.

      He steamed onward, slowed only by Slinky’s desperate resistance. The black-and-white dog snapped and nipped at the rope, but Coughlin yanked harder.

      “Stop that,” she cried. “You’re hurting him.” She threw a shoe past the man’s head.

      That stopped him. He squinted in her direction while Slinky tried desperately to rub the rope off his neck.

      “Mr. Coughlin,” she panted, “don’t do it.”

      Coughlin raised the rifle. “Yer on my land.”

      “P-please.” She could barely get the word out. He wouldn’t shoot her, would he? “You have no right.”

      “I have every right. This mutt has et his last chicken. Now get off my land.”

      Slinky jumped joyfully against her pale yellow gown, planting muddy paw prints on the delicate chiffon. Coughlin yanked the dog back with a harsh jerk.

      “No,” Felicity cried with frustration. How could she stop Coughlin? How could she prevent this murder? She looked around for help and spotted the broken fence ten feet back. “In case you haven’t noticed, we’re standing on parsonage property.”

      His eyes narrowed as he followed her line of sight and then he dragged Slinky back over the fence line. “Now I’m on my land. Git.”

      Not without Slinky. But Coughlin would never let the dog go. He operated on the eye-for-an-eye system. Somehow she had to convince him to turn the dog over to her.

      Heart hammering in her ears, she said, “I can stand here if I want. My father gave this land to the church.”

      “Yer choice.” Coughlin pointed his rifle at Slinky.

      “No,” she cried. “Don’t. I’ll pay you for the chicken.”

      “You got money?”

      “No, but my father does.”

      “And what about the next’un and the next?” He aimed.

      “You can’t kill him,” she cried. “Everyone would hear. There’d be an outcry.”

      “Don’t care what no one thinks.” He cocked the gun.

      Felicity wildly searched for a way to stop him. “Even your son Benjamin?”

      The rifle barrel dipped.

      “I knew Ben,” she said in a hurry, “and he’d never want you to kill an innocent animal.”

      “Ain’t innocent.” His aim steadied. “Besides, what do I care what Ben thinks when he done run oft?”

      Felicity scrambled for a better reason. “What if someone owns the dog? They could insist you pay them for their loss.”

      “This here’s a stray. You know it an’ I know it.”

      “B-but he deserves to live. He only needs to be trained.

      Why, it’s no different than a child. Without proper training, a child goes wild. Slinky can be trained. I know it.”

      Coughlin stared her in the eye. “You planning to take him on?”

      Felicity swallowed. Mother would never allow it. She claimed the smell of them made her sick, and that was one point even Daddy couldn’t fight. No pets. Yet Slinky looked at her with such desperation, the little white eyebrows lifted, one ear cocked and one flopped over. She couldn’t bear to see him get shot.

      “Didn’t think so.” He raised the gun again. Slinky cowered, whining.

      “No! I—I—I’ll take him.”

      “Where? Your daddy don’t keep no pets. He sure ain’t gonna want this chicken-stealing varmint.” Coughlin aimed.

      Felicity squeezed her eyes shut against the tears and gave one last plea. “Any dog can be saved with a little love.”

      “She’s right,” said a calm, clear and very familiar voice.

      Felicity opened her eyes to see Gabriel standing between herself and Coughlin. He was dressed as plainly as yesterday afternoon, his shirtsleeves rolled to the elbow, revealing strong, capable forearms.

      “Gabriel,” she breathed, and then realizing that was disrespectful said, “Pastor.”

      Coughlin waved him away. “This is none of your business, Rev’rend.”

      But Gabriel didn’t back down. “Ms. Kensington is correct. Love will cure many faults. It might even save a chicken-stealing varmint.”

      Felicity almost laughed at those rough words coming from his educated tongue. Yes, educated. His diction was as fine as any orator. In that moment, she saw him anew. He might dress a little too informally, but he had a generous heart. Even if he wasn’t husband material, he was a good and decent man.

      “You feel that way,” spat Coughlin, “then you take’im.”