Dark River Road Read Online Free Page A

Baptist church he’d founded. It wasn’t overt segregation, but a definite divide. A few years before, Reverend Hale had come to replace the retiring pastor, and he was the kind of shouting preacher that always made Chantry feel jumpy and anxious for the sermon to be over.
    Strains of the organ playing Old Rugged Cross seeped from the double doors just as he reached the sidewalk in front of the church. He made it up the shallow stone steps right before one of the deacons shut the doors.
    “Sorry,” he muttered when the man frowned, and pushed past him into the chapel. It was crowded as always. Wooden pews sprouted old ladies in hats, young girls whispering, and men looking bored and pious. Ceiling fans slowly stirred the air conditioning under a vaulted ceiling. Mama sat near the front, her back straight, staring straight ahead at the choir arranged behind the padded pastor’s chair. Mikey sat beside her, a Bible story coloring book and crayons in his lap.
    He slid in beside them and got an appraising look from Mama that made him wish he’d taken time to put on a clean white shirt with his Levi’s. She wanted him to wear a suit, but didn’t complain as long as he was clean and his hair combed out of his eyes.
    After the singing, Reverend Hale got warmed up by reading passages of doom and death from Revelation, then he launched into an hour long rant about the wickedness of sinners and the eternal punishment that awaited them. Sins of the heart, the flesh, even thoughts, bought a ticket to Hell. According to the good reverend, everyone in church that day stood in imminent danger of feeling the hot breath of sulphur and brimstone after death.
    Chantry thought about the Catahoula Cur and her pups, wondered what he could do to get enough milk into the runt. Maybe he could buy some milk and feed it. Or say another prayer.
    It occurred to him that maybe he’d been in the wrong place to pray. Maybe prayer would work better if he tried it here in church where God was supposed to be sitting every Sunday. It’d always seemed unlikely that God could be in every church in the world at the same time, but the reverend said God worked in mysterious ways so maybe it was possible. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut and prayed that God would keep the pup from dying. Then he prayed that God would let him keep it. Last, he started to pray that God would do something about Rainey, then decided that was too much to ask. All at once, anyway. He’d better just stick to praying for the pup.
    He opened his eyes, and first thing he saw was Cinda Sheridan sitting across the aisle to his left. Light gleamed on her pale blonde hair, loose strands stirring a little as she slowly fanned her face with a folded church bulletin. Fascinated, he watched her lips move in silent words as she read from a book in her lap. Maybe it was the Bible. Maybe it was a book about Hobbits. Cinda never seemed to care much about what people thought. Probably because her grandfather was Bert Quinton. Looking at Cinda made Chantry feel things he didn’t know how to explain. All hot and churning inside sometimes, cold as ice at others. Confused. Tight.
    He’d dreamed about her before, crazy dreams that had to do with soft pink skin and green eyes, images of her in tight white shorts and a halter top, playing volleyball on her front lawn when he went with Dempsey to deliver mulch for their flower beds. She had small, high breasts that nearly fell out of her top when she leaped up to hit the volleyball, laughing with her head all thrown back and lips parted. He’d just stood and stared, both in the dream and reality. But after the dream, he’d woke up to a heavy ache and messed up sheets. And he was sure he was going to Hell for even remembering that dream in church.
    Mama nudged him, and he looked down as Mikey sagged against his side, falling asleep as easily as if at home. He did that a lot lately. Mama worried he had something the matter with his heart. He’d heard