Page 40 of My Secret Santa Dallas

The reverend laughed. “That is very true. I’d like to see you back at the church if you have an hour to spare. There is something important I needed to speak to you about, something your father charged me to speak to you about if you did return.”

Before he replied, Dallas turned to me and then returned to the priest. “I don’t think this is the right time, Reverend. Maybe another time?”

“You don’t need to defer for my sake,” I told him gently. “I am all right. We can go with him. He said it was important.”

Dallas didn’t look comforted, but he turned to the man of the cloth and replied, “Well, the lady has spoken.”

“Lovely,” Reverend Clark smiled. “I hope you remember the way to the church.”

“I do,” Dallas nodded and put the truck in gear.

It didn’t take us long to get to the church, which looked simplified, constructed with a hipped roof and red clay bricks. It did have two awe-inspiring spires at the front and a belfry to the side. I kept my eyes forward when we passed the black iron fencing encircling the graves stretching out the back.

Inside, the altar, pews, furnishings, and communion rail were plain wood, but the window behind the altar held some stunning stained-glass art of Madonna and her child, the wise men blessing baby Jesus, and, in the middle, an effigy of the Lord on the cross.

“Wow,” I whispered.

The priest, who had driven behind us, entered later enough not to hear my awe-inspired whisper. Reverend Clark circled the pews and looked at the glass before turning to Dallas. “From what I hear, you were in California.”

“I was,” he replied.

Clark rounded a pew and tapped a part of the edge. “This is where you and your family would sit Sunday mornings. Halfway through the sermon, you’d fall fast asleep only to wake up by communion.”

I smothered a laugh at the visuals: chubby Dallas sipping wine, or did they give kids grape juice instead? I didn’t know anymore— and wasn’t that a shame for a Southern girl?

“Come with me for a moment,” the reverend indicated a room behind us, probably his office, and I shot a look at Dallas, silently asking him if I should go with them. I was happy to wait in the main room while they had privacy.

He jerked his head to the room, telling me to come with them, so I did. His office was decent-sized but plain. A row of hooks was on the walls with rosaries dangling from them, and a framed painting of a cottage on the seaside was on the wall. While we took seats, the reverend went to a cupboard and pulled out a box. It looked like an old shoebox.

What was that?

“I know you don’t know this, but your father didn’t hate you for leaving,” Reverend Clark said. “Yes, he was upset, unsure, and hurt that you’d left the way you did. He told me he would have much preferred if you’d met with him and told him your frustrations about the ranch, but with the years going by and your cards, he came to accept your decision.”

Clark nudged the box. “He wrote to you, and these are the letters he asked me to keep in case you returned.”

Cautiously, Dallas flicked the top over and inside, packed full of letters stacked on each other and tied down with twine. At best guess, there were about fifty letters in the box, and I bit my lip; he’d have a long time reading those.

“I—” Dallas swallowed. “I didn’t think he’d do something like this.”

“Your father loved you dearly,” Reverend Clark replied. “I can show you where their graves are as well.”

I expected him to decline, but Dallas nodded after skimming his fingers over the letters and closing the box. “I’d like that, thanks.”

We left the room with Dallas resting the letters on a pew before exiting the church's side door and crossing to the cemetery near the building. Neatly trimmed graves were only indicated by a plaque on the ground and decorative flowers planted here and there. My phone buzzedin my pocket as Dallas knelt at one of the two. Slipping it out, I returned to the church.

Wentworth flashed on the screen, and instantly, my good mood disappeared.

I swiped it open. “What do you want?”

“Hello, dear sister, good to hear from you too,” Wentworth said, his smarmy voice irritating me. “How are you doing in the wilderness?”

“What do you want?” I echoed.

“Nothing but to catch up,” he said.

“Bullshit,” I replied. “You never call me to catch up. You only contact me when you want to learn what contract I am heading on and try to sabotage or poach the client.” My eyes flickered to the stained glass. “I probably shouldn’t curse in church.”

“You’re in church?” Wentworth sounded scandalized. “What the hell are those hillbillies doing to you? Are they domesticating you, dear sister?”

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