The reverend scowls—he’s not a man used to being contradicted. “God took my beloved Mary because he has a purpose in mind for you. Our Heavenly Father, and myself—all of us—want what’s best for you. God has cultivated within me a miraculous affection for your spirited ways and comely eyes. He wants you to find the right man to marry. That man is standing before you this very moment.”

My jaw drops open. This is even worse than Jefferson’s proposal, and Jefferson had the excuse of no experience. A miraculous affection?

Finally, I find words: “Oh, hell no.”

He steps closer, looms over me. “I know you . . . carry on . . . with Jefferson. Under the wagon at night.”

I hold my ground. “What?”

“But I forgive you, my Gomer. I am your Hosea, and I will redeem you. Surely you see how unsuitable Jefferson—”

“What about Jefferson?”

“I don’t wish to allude to his parentage, as that is something over which he has no control.”

I lean forward so that I’m right in his face. “If you don’t wish to allude, then you’d better stop talking.”

He retreats a step. “I’m neither impugning his good qualities nor denigrating his character.”

“You are! You are definitely impugning and denigrating.”

He holds up his Bible with both hands, like it’s a shield. “Let me start over again. What I’m trying to say is, Leah, it’s not our place to question God’s will, and it is clearly God’s will that the two of us become man and wife.”

It’s a testament to my fine character that I don’t smash that Bible right into his nose. “You wouldn’t know God’s will if it tipped its hat and said howdy. My answer to you now is no and will always be no.” I turn to walk away but pause. “Because you’ve been grieving, I’m going to forget you said anything to me tonight. But I don’t want you to bring it up again. Ever.”

I stomp back to the wagons hard enough to shake the ground.

Widow Joyner is repacking a trunk with clean clothes when I return. She looks up as I approach, and her expectant smile instantly disappears. “What happened?”

“The reverend and I had a theological disagreement that ended in a permanent schism.”

“So . . . no congratulations are in order?”

In answer, I lift the toolbox and slam it onto the wagon. I have too much to do to let that preacher waste any more of my time.

Jefferson is returning from the meadow where he’s been keeping an eye on the oxen. “Hey, Lee, will you—”

“I don’t want to talk right now.” I grab the grease bucket and crawl under the wagon to check the wheels.

Men. And their no-good, fool-headed proposals.

Chapter Thirty