Free Fallen Angels by Patricia Hickman Page A

coming out of her eyes—sharp blades. She lifted her face, and smoothed her hair. “Where's the washtub, Mrs. Whittington?”
    “Reverend, have another helping of bread.” Mr. Honeysack joined Jeb in the kitchen of the parsonage. “Now, Horace Mills—that's the banker—he's got a wagon that's old, but he'll sell it to you and let you pay it off as you go—don't want to owe him too much, though, if you catch my meaning. See if he'll throw in his mule and I'll guarantee you'll have some wheels that will get you where you want to go around Nazareth. When the deputy sheriff comes around again, we'll put him on the trail of those outlaws that stole your track. In the meantime, you can have a means of visiting the folks around town that go to Church in the Dell. Our last preacher, he was a visiting fool. Never took a lot of stock in much else, though, like bringing in new people. Course we don't get many new folks, not like in Hot Springs. He seemed satisfied with things as is. But that suits us fine here in Nazareth. Now, this being Tuesday, you reckon you'll be settled in enough to preach us a good one on Sunday?”
    The fried chicken tasted like the first time Jeb had ever tasted it. He took another bite of bread. It collapsed, almost as airy as cotton candy from the Texarkana Fall Carnival. “Sunday?”
    “We been without good preaching for going on a year. That's why, when you showed up early, we was past ecstatic.”
    “Early?”
    “We wasn't expecting you for months. When Evelene showed up at the church building this morning to check for storm damage and found you all safe inside, she ran and told all of us about it. We'd like to have a big picnic, if that's all right with you. Maybe Sunday after your preaching, we'll have us a dinner on the grounds. More fried chicken than you've ever seen.”
    “We'll aim for Sunday, then.” Jeb thought about the mule and Wagon, about how far he might travel before the Church in the Dell posse caught up with him.
    Evelene drove Angel to her place. The two of them returned with a box that rattled with bottles and lotions. Petticoat netting draped from one side over Evelene's arm.
    Three women in a matron's circle poured well water over Angel's head. Jeb could only see the crown of her head through the fried-chicken-stuffed female bodies. They lifted her and wrapped her in a blanket while the sun warmed them just outside of the shaded spire of the church. Evelene pulled the flouncy dress over Angel's head while the other two combed her hair out and helped her slip into stockings and a pair of leather shoes.
    Angel looked up and saw Jeb, his smugness evident. She lifted her forearm and smelled the borrowed toilet water—essence of lilacs and honeysuckle. All at once, her hair was auburn silk, her nose and cheeks rubbed to a sheen. She pulled away from Evelene and twirled. The skirt billowed and for a moment in time, in the sun, Angel's name fit her.
    ”Now, I left you all plenty to eat. Then there's the pantry full of everything you need to get you started. I feel awful about you all getting robbed just as you was pulling into town.” Mrs. Honeysack had shown up just before sundown with an evening meal. “This pot of beans will probably last you more than a day or two. It's full of ham. That corn on the cob's right out of a field just outside of town and they grow the best corn around. Sweet as nectar. Sweet and good by itself if you run low on butter or salt.”
    Jeb thanked Freda Honeysack for the eleventh time. “We thank you for your generosity, ma'am. Your pie is good eats. We had that this afternoon.”
    “You know when my husband, Will, read your letters to all of us, you sounded a bit, well, formal, in your writing. But now that I meet you, why I'd say you're just like anybody you'd meet. Not that there's anything wrong with it, but it's really a good thing. But you just never know. Some people are quite different in person than they are when they write. I guess