Love on the Range. Jessica Nelson

filled out his earth-stained Levi’s with muscular strength, and how his plaid shirt stretched tight against his broad shoulders. She was unaccustomed to noticing men in such a physical way, but at that moment she’d had trouble removing her gaze.

       What would have happened if she’d leaned forward and kissed him?

       The thought brought a stinging blush to her cheeks. She wasn’t so bold. A woman simply didn’t kiss just anyone, especially a man known for such a small time. Most important of all, it was Striker who she longed to forge a relationship with, not some taciturn cowboy.

       The truck jolted over an uneven piece of land, bringing her attention back to Trevor’s profile. “Why don’t you believe in God?”

       He shot her a glare. “I don’t believe in a God who lets people live in a world like this.”

       She rolled her eyes. “I’m not even going to ask what’s wrong with it because I’m sure you’ll have a whole list of doldrums to recite. Nevertheless, you should consider the good things.”

       “It’s not that easy, Gracelyn. You can’t just simplify pain and suffering.”

       “I’m not. I am not trying to, at least.” She cocked her head. “You have a good life, Trevor, in a place you love. And yet you’re bitter?” She was fishing, she knew, but it was in her nature to probe. He awakened something within, and she found herself longing to discover more of him.

       Trevor parked his truck next to Uncle Lou’s wagon, then turned to Gracie, eyes blazing. Her curiosity withered beneath his hard gaze.

       “‘God is so good,’” he mocked. “What do you, socialite of Boston, know about pain? I could tell you stories that would shock you. You’re lighthearted and completely unaware of the suffering around you. We don’t believe in God around here for good reasons.” Trevor struck the wheel with the palm of his hand. The sound ricocheted in the truck like a gunshot. “What do you know about a drunken father who beats his kid unconscious every night for smiling the wrong way, mothers who prostitute themselves and then spend the money on whiskey and opiates. Do you know why Mary doesn’t go to church? They won’t let her in because she’s part Paiute. That’s some God you serve.”

       Gracie pressed herself back against the passenger door, a faint tremor working through her stomach. No wonder Trevor hardly smiled. He was obviously a man tormented.

       She frowned. She didn’t like his implication that she was a shallow child incapable of empathy, ignorant of evil. She was torn between defensive anger and deep sorrow.

       As he glared at her, the scar on his brow stark white against his skin, perception filled her. She straightened from the door and leaned toward him.

       “You do believe in God,” she said slowly. “You just hate Him.”

       A shocked expression crossed his grim features, then a look of dawning knowledge.

       There was silence as he looked away from her. “You’re right,” he said, voice low.

       Gracie wanted to say more, but he looked so defeated. Gone was the strong presence she had been attracted to in his kitchen. In its place sat a lonely, desolate man. A man who had lived in darkness for far too long. She gently placed her palm on his shoulder.

       “Get out.”

       “But I—”

       “Now.”

       She opened her door and slid out quickly. Autumn sliced through her, and she wrapped her arms tightly against her ribs. The menacing intensity vibrating through his voice made her lungs feel squished within her rib cage. She’d barely made it to the front porch before his truck squealed, digging up dirt as it turned and bounced across the land, not headed toward his house, but somewhere else.

       For a moment she held perfectly still, a deep pain spreading through her, immobilizing her. Would she ever say anything right? She drew a full breath, released it, then turned and went inside.

       Mary stood in the hall, forehead puckered. “What’s wrong with Trevor?”

       “We were talking about God,” Gracie murmured.

       Her brow smoothed. “That explains it, it does. He doesn’t like the mention of Him.”

       Gracie followed Mary into the dining room. “You’ve known Trevor a long time.”

       “Since I was a wee babe.” Mary ran a dust rag over the rich-hued furniture. “His mama and mine shared a profession together, and he watched out for me. He’s a good man, he is, just can’t accept that God loves. He can’t put it together in his head because of his upbringing, I expect.”

       “His upbringing?”

       “Our mothers were prostitutes.”

       “Oh.” Gracie winced. Trevor had been speaking from his own experiences. “What about your fathers?”

       “Mine just wanted his whiskey. Don’t look so sad, Gracie. Bad things happen in life. So do good. It’s the way things work out.”

       “It’s not right, Mary. I wish there was something I could do to change things. You don’t seem bitter.”

       “God’s helped me forgive.”

       “You’re a Christian, then?” The heaviness in Gracie’s chest lifted a little. “Trevor said churches here don’t accept you.”

       “Some churches, unfortunately, are very prejudiced, but I do meet with a few Christian neighbors every other Sunday for our own version of a church service. There’s no local church close by so we do our best.”

       “But you don’t pray at meals.”

       Mary sighed. “Not out loud, no.”

       They walked upstairs, and Gracie felt her depression dissipating. Church! She bounced after Mary into the bedroom, forcing thoughts of Trevor and the life he’d endured to the back of her heart.

       Mary wiped the window and Gracie wrinkled her nose at the stench of vinegar.

       “I’d love to meet some of the neighbors.”

       “You can come.” Mary smiled gently. “But please, leave me be so I can finish cleaning.”

       “I’ll help.”

       “Absolutely not. This is my job. Maybe you need a rest?”

       “I suppose.” Gracie shrugged and left the bedroom. Despite the excitement tumbling through her at the prospect of attending church, thoughts of Trevor would not leave. Perhaps she had been hasty in her judgments of the people here. Perhaps she was not as modern, not as accepting, as she’d once thought.