Free The Preacher's Daughter by Cheryl St.john Page A

walking with Benjamin rejuvenated her immediately.
    Lorabeth thanked her and turned to him. “If you want to send the boys up, I’ll get a shawl from my room.”
    Several minutes later, man and horse stood silhouetted by the moon, both handsome, both restless. Benjamin said something to the animal, patted its neck.
    “Where to?” she asked.
    “We don’t necessarily need a destination, but if you’d like a plan, we’ll walk to the park.”
    “The park? Lovely!”
    Lorabeth wrapped her shawl around her shoulders and appreciated that he didn’t seem inclined to walk slowly on her behalf. Darkness had settled over the city, and the moon was a mere sliver of silver in the sky. A train whistle blew, a melancholy sound that reminded her of all the places she’d never been and all the things she wanted to do.
    “Where did you attend university?” she asked.
    “Chicago.”
    “Is it exciting, the big city?”
    “It’s bigger…all hustle and bustle like the train station.”
    She took a jelly bean from her pocket and extended it to him. He shook his head, so she placed it on her tongue where the sweet flavor melted. “Did you visit museums and the theater?”
    He nodded. A gas lamp cast his face into interesting shadows. “Sometimes.”
    “I read about Chicago in the Florence Herald. Dr.
    Chaney subscribes to that and the Newton Kansan, and sometimes he leaves them for us to use in the kitchen.
    I don’t read them when I’m supposed to be working, of course. I wait until bedtime. And in the morning I return them to the rubbish bin.”
    “I’m sure Caleb doesn’t mind you reading the newspapers.”
    “I asked his permission.”
    Of course she had. Her interest made it sound as though she’d never read a newspaper until recently.
    “Doesn’t your father read the newspaper?”
    “Oh, no. It’s not edifying.”
    He’d sat through a good many of her father’s Sunday sermons, but had never heard Reverend Holdridge express concern about people spoiling their minds with current events.
    She glanced at Ben with a new look of concern. “Do you think less of me for reading a worldly publication?”
    As though it mattered what he thought of her. “No.
    I read the news myself. Would your father disapprove of me reading it?”
    “I couldn’t say. He requires more discipline of him self and of his children than of others.”
    Benjamin didn’t think it was undisciplined to read the newspaper, but he didn’t want to speak against her father or his convictions, so he said nothing.
    They reached Broadway and neared the entrance to the darkened park. There had been gas lamps along the street, but in the one square block between Broadway and Seventh, there were only dark brick walkways, hedges and fading flowers lit by the moon.
    “It’s so dark,” she said, her voice almost a whisper.
    “Are you afraid of the dark?”
    “I don’t think so.”
    “We don’t have to go into the park, we can walk around the outside…or we can head back.”
    “No. No, I want to go in.” She took a forward step, but halted. “I want to, but it’s a little frightening.”
    “Let’s head back—”
    “No.” She extended her arm. “Just hold my hand, will you?”
    Touching her was a liberty he didn’t feel he should take. The time they’d spent together already was too much.
    His pulse thumped guiltily.
    She was waiting. She would feel safe with him holding her hand, how ironic was that? This young innocent preacher’s daughter trusted him to keep her safe. She was the most naive person he’d ever known. He wouldn’t be the one to spoil that.
    “Let’s turn back,” he said abruptly, and turned away from her.
    She walked to his side, and he headed back the way they’d come.
    “I’m sorry,” she said, staying beside him. “I shouldn’t have—”
    “It’s okay. Forget it.”
    The easy conversation they’d shared was behind, and it was okay, because he should never have let his guard down in the first place.