Page 8 of Turn That River Red

Ambrose drops his hands to his sides and gives me a faint smile. “Amen,” he repeats.

Then he crouches down beside my chair so he’s looking at me, almost, I think, in supplication. The warmth from his prayer is still there, lingering in places it probably shouldn’t.

“Did it help?” he asks.

I nod wordlessly. I’m not sure what I’ll say if I try to speak, and the last thing I want is for Reverend Gunner to suspect I’m feeling any of the things I’m currently feeling.

“Good. I’m glad.” Then he turns away from me, back to Reverend Gunner, who’s leaning back in his chair, watching us with his hands steepled. The spell snaps, and I’m a helpmeet again. I stand up and smooth my skirt, hands shaking.

“That’s what I do, Reverend Gunner. That’s the gift God gave me, and I think it can be an immense help to the people here.”

Reverend Gunner tilts his head. I know he’s considering Ambrose’s words, and I’m afraid he’s going to say no and send him away.

Ambrose grins. “I have two dogs, by the way, if that sways your decision at all.”

I bite back a laugh. My grief isn’t gone, but in those moments that Ambrose was touching me, it receded a little. And I think I believe him, about possessing God’s gift.

After all, isn’t Reverend Gunner always saying that those backwoods preachers are the closest to God, the ones who best know how to defeat the devil? I know he sees all that in Ambrose, just as I felt it while Ambrose was praying over me.

I felt it as much as I’ve ever felt God’s presence.

“Where are you staying?” Reverend Gunner asks Ambrose.

“Nowhere. It’s just me, my car, and my dogs,” Ambrose says easily. “But I do have a cell phone. I’ll give you the number.”

“You’re not at a motel?” I ask, genuinely surprised. Reverend Gunner gives me a dark look, reminding me to be silent. But Ambrose smiles gently.

“No,” he says. “Motels aren't necessary for me. I travel as our Savior did.” He winks. “Well, as he would have if he’d lived in the twenty-first century.”

“You’ll fit in well around here,” Reverend Gunner says. “And I can’t deny we need all the strength we can. The devil wants to destroy us. I think that’s something we can all agree on.” He stands up. “Mercy, show Pastor Echeverría?—”

“Ambrose.” Another sharkish grin.

“Yes, of course. Ambrose.” He gives a thin-lipped smile, barely hiding his discomfort. “Show Ambrose to one of the empty cabins. Then come right back here.” His eyes glitter darkly. “We need to make arrangements for tonight.”

My whole body suddenly feels like it’s been dropped in ice. I discovered Raul yesterday and already Reverend Gunner is asking me to perform my wifely duties? But I only nod and mutter, “Yes, sir,” knowing full well that I can’t give anything else away in front of Ambrose—in front of a stranger, even one Reverend Gunner approves of. The outside world doesn’t understand why Reverend Gunner requires a helpmeet. They don’t understand the stress he’s under.

Especially now, I suppose.

Reverend Gunner gives us both a dismissive wave, and I lead Ambrose out of the office and past Mrs. Harrison’s empty desk.Once we’re outside of the building, I spot two dogs tied up to one of the fenceposts, tails wagging as we approach.

“Max and Roxi,” Ambrose says, rubbing one of them between their ears. “My constant companions.”

We aren’t allowed pets on the campus, not permanently. Reverend Gunner says they distract from our work and that animals don’t have souls anyway. But I like these dogs, with their big friendly eyes and curled tails. When Ambrose unties them, one of them runs up to me and sniffs my hand.

“That’s Max,” Ambrose says with a smile.

“Hi, Max,” I whisper, my fingers sinking into his soft fur. It feels like a sin, petting him.

Just like it felt like a sin when Ambrose was praying over me.

I stand up, forcing myself to focus. I belong to Reverend Gunner. “It’ll be about a five-minute walk to get to the cabins,” I say, keeping my gaze lowered.

“That’s quite all right, Ms. Gunner.”

Ms. Gunner. The name slams straight through my chest. I curl my hands into fists.

“Please,” I say, even though I know I shouldn’t. “Call me Mercy.”

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