From the altar of his country church, Matthew had promised God to go to the darkest, most desperate place on earth. There were Mohammedans in the desert, witch doctors in deepest Africa, and idolaters in the Orient. Surely God wanted him in one of those places. And that was what he’d thought, until family matters alerted him to another place darker and more desperate than anywhere else.
Joplin.
Finding a gap in the parade of vehicles, Matthew jogged across the street and continued toward his apartment behind the flower shop. Grandpa Cook would be leaving in a few hours, now that Matthew was settled in, but Matthew could tell he was loath to go. Grandpa Cook had already watched Joplin destroy his son, and he had misgivings about leaving a member of the next generation. Truth be told, Matthew had half a mind to go back home with him. What if he hadn’t heard God clearly? He’d thought he was supposed to come to Joplin, but he’d also thought he was supposed to intervene with that Calista York.
He’d wanted to warn Miss York that the House of Lords was no place for a lady, but instead he’d learned that she was looking to join their godless endeavors. He had to stop her. He had to stop her and the other pampered, rich people profiting from selling women. He had to interfere with the businesses that traded the miners’ wages for whiskey instead of vittles. But if he was going to accomplish anything, he had to toughen up.
If he couldn’t stand up to a thoughtless woman like Miss York, how was he going to preach in this town? He might not have another chance to set her straight, but he should be better prepared when he ran into her kind.
On the other hand, the battle-weary miner stumbling down the road needed his help more than the likes of Miss York. Matthew paused as the miner passed him on sore joints, barely able to keep the bottle from slipping from his hand and breaking on the sidewalk.
Out here was where Matthew needed to be, but not just out here on the street. He needed to be in the ore fields. That was where the spiritually hungry were. In the two days since he’d arrived in town, he’d learned that the well-off denizens of Joplin weren’t looking for help. Like Miss York, they’d found that crime did pay, and they were willing to sell their souls for the sparkle of gold that the dirt-covered miners could bring them.
Matthew opened the door to Trochet’s Flowers and was surrounded by the smell of . . . well, he couldn’t name all these flowers, but they sure smelled pretty, and there were more colors than he’d known existed. He waved at Mr. Trochet as he passed through the shop toward the back. The tall, narrow back door stuck at the corner. With an extra shove, Matthew got it open and stepped into Mr. Trochet’s garden. This courtyard connected the shop to the greenhouse, and tucked between the two buildings was a small gardener’s cabin, where Mr. Trochet’s father had spent his last years. Now that the senior Mr. Trochet had passed on, the flower-seller had been pleased to have a young preacher lease the cabin. Matthew, in turn, was pleased to have a spot of green amid the brick walls and piles of gray chat that littered the mine fields.
Matthew went into the one-room cabin and dropped his hat on the wooden table, his eyes alighting on the faded hydrangea in the vase. That would have to be remedied immediately. Besides keeping a live bloom, the cabin didn’t require any maintenance. Matthew hadn’t used the little stove yet, but the kitchen table was adequate for meeting with people if they were willing to ignore the rumpled bed in the corner. If only Mr. Trochet would get his father’s things out of the wardrobe. Matthew felt like he was imposing every time he pushed the aged outfits aside to reach for his own clothes.
He tossed the wilted bloom into the bin and picked up a pair of shears on his way to the garden to await his grandfather’s return. The best part of his new little home was this spot of green. Although just a few hours of train travel away, this city seemed far removed from the forests of his Ozark Mountains. He couldn’t amble undiscovered for hours. He couldn’t lose himself in leafy branches. But at least he’d found a spot where green things grew, even if it was in the shadow of the Keystone Hotel.
He walked the paving stones through the rosebushes and the lilies and knelt at the hydrangea. This one was blue. He snipped the stem and stood.
“If you keep at that, you’re going to put Mr. Trochet out of business.” Isaiah Cook could be a formidable man, but Matthew only knew him as his grandfather.
“Mr. Trochet’s father always kept a live bloom in that vase for his wife,” Matthew replied. “Just because they’re both gone is no reason to let the tradition die.”
“It’s no wonder you were always your grandma’s favorite.”
Matthew brushed his hand over the petals and let them tickle his palm. “She’s the reason I’m here,” he said.
Grandpa popped his cane against his leg. “You can’t bring her back. Or your uncle, either,” he said, “but you have a purpose. It’s a good purpose. And you aren’t going it alone.”
“I know.”
“All of us back home are praying for you. It’s not going to be easy, starting new in a place like this, but you’ll do fine. You have your grandma’s determination and spunk.
