A Wife Worth Waiting For

Table of Contents

Cover Page

Excerpt

About the Author

Title Page

Epigraph

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Dear Reader

Copyright

“I was wondering if you would like to go on a picnic with me?”

Bolton had asked the question of both mother and son, but his eyes were expectantly fixed on Clarice. He waited, one, two, three painful beats of his heart.

Clarice glanced at her son, who looked happily back at her, then turned to Bolton and smiled. “We’d love to.”

It took every ounce of his willpower not to jump for joy. He closed his eyes briefly in thanks, then got a hold of himself.

She had said yes to a picnic, nothing more. But it was a start, wasn’t it? It was progress in the right direction. Now what? Where to from here? How could he get Clarice to look at him as more than a mentor to her son and pastor to the church?

One step at a time.

ARLENE JAMES

“Camp meetings, mission work, and the church where my parents and grandparents were prominent members permeate my Oklahoma childhood memories. It was a golden time which sustains me yet. However, only as a young, widowed mother did I truly begin growing in my personal relationship with the Lord. Through adversity, He blessed me in countless ways, one of which is a second marriage so loving and romantic it still feels like courtship!”

The author of over forty novels, Arlene James now resides outside of Dallas, Texas, with her husband. As she sends her youngest child off to college, Arlene says, “The rewards of motherhood have indeed been extraordinary for me. Yet I’ve looked forward to this new stage of my life.” Her need to write is greater than ever, a fact that frankly amazes her as she’s been at it since the eighth grade!

A Wife Worth Waiting For

Arlene James

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Are not two sparrows sold for a farthing? And one of them shall not fall on the ground without your Father. But the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Fear ye not therefore, ye are of more value than many sparrows.

—Matthew 10:29-31

Chapter One

It was a summons, plain and simple. Bolton chuckled and looked again at the folded sheet of stationery, very white against the green blotter on his desk. The shaky slashes of black ink revealed a bold hand infirmed by age and illness, but the wording was that of a self-assured despot. The Reverend Bolton Charles would please present himself at Revere House the following morning at the hour of eleven to discuss a matter of grave importance. His promptness was appreciated—and taken for granted. He would go, of course. Those of his profession could not afford to look askance at the manner in which a need for aid was presented, however high-handed the presentation. The only question in his mind was what he could do for Wallis Revere. Revere had made it plain in the past that Bolton’s “interference” was not wanted. Bolton couldn’t help wondering what had happened to change that. As Bolton considered the possibilities, he sobered.

Wallis Revere was seventy-three years old, his birthday falling sometime in February. Bolton knew this because, as a minister, it was his practice to mark the birthdays of each and every one of his church members, whether they participated in the function of the church or not, and Wallis Revere did not. Actually, Carol, the reverend’s late wife, had started the practice, and it was one of her many projects that he had struggled to continue during the two years and four months since her death.

Two years, four months, one week and two days. He could quickly figure the hours and minutes, as well, if he would allow himself the luxury of maudlin reflection. But he would not. Carol was gone. His own life went on. God’s ways were often mysterious, and his own faith was such that he needed no other explanation for the single most devastating event of his life. His wife had died of cancer. He missed her horribly, and yet what he missed most these days was having someone beside him, someone sharing his life, not Carol herself precisely, but someone. Someone to love—he wanted someone to love. A woman. He was man enough, human enough, to admit that he wanted, needed a woman, his own woman. God had designed men and women to want and need and love one another. He never ceased to marvel at that fact. Mysterious ways, he reminded himself, and resolutely turned his thoughts back to work.

Revere was elderly, ailing from some sort of degenerative bone disease, and stubbornly reclusive. He had not welcomed the three previous calls that Bolton had dutifully paid him. In fact, Revere had been barely civil on those past occasions, dismissing the minister quite firmly in the end. Nevertheless, he had continued his generous monthly monetary contributions to the church’s treasury—and now it appeared that the old boy was ready to extract his money’s worth from the minister whose comfortable salary he helped to provide. It was, of course, the very sort of thing that Bolton Charles was paid to do. Visit the infirm and elderly, render aid to the needy, comfort, advise, counsel, exhort, pray…organize, oversee, encourage, teach, preach, intercede, introduce, support, defend…The list was endless, but they were all duties, each and every one, for which he was called much more than hired, and for that reason he would clear his schedule and appear at Revere House at precisely eleven the next morning. He would have gone even if Revere previously had tossed him out on his backside, revoked his church membership and demanded a refund of his tithes. Bolton’s reasons were simple. He was a man of God, a minister, sworn to aid the needy in body and soul in the name of his Lord. He considered that no greater calling existed, and he was thankful beyond words that it was his own. But that moved him no closer to divining Wallis Revere’s problem.

Might not the old boy have developed a concern for his soul? The dying often did, and it certainly was not beyond the realm of possibility that the man was dying. Bolton hoped it was not so. A minister’s job was inexorably coiled up with death, and while his personal belief in heaven was firm, dealing with death and dying and its aftermath for the living was a decidedly unpleasant business. But one he did well, especially after his own personal experience in that area. He had never truly understood the matter of comfort for the bereaved or how to give it until Carol had left him. He wondered who, if anyone, would grieve Wallis Revere.

By eleven the next morning, he had satisfied himself somewhat on that question. A discreet conversation with his secretary, Cora Beemis, had elicited the nearly forgotten intelligence that the Revere family consisted of Wallis, a young grandson and a daughter-in-law, the widow of Revere’s son and only child, who had died some years previously in a riding accident. Neither the daughter-in-law nor the grandson were members of the congregation, which, coupled with Revere’s stubborn reclusiveness, explained why Bolton knew little of them. He was relieved, however, just to know that they existed. It was the thought of them that occupied his mind as he turned his conservative four-door sedan through the brick columns flanking the broad drive of the Revere estate.

Estate was the only word for the Revere place. It was nestled, as much as a three-story Georgianstyle colonnaded house with various outbuildings could be nestled, in a gentle, shady hollow on the northern edge of the Duncan city limits. The site itself was atypical of this section of Oklahoma, which tended to consist of rolling fields spliced with low, eroded, red-orange cliffs sparsely scattered with spindly post oak, willow and mesquite. The only significant tree growth seemed to be restricted to the areas surrounding the creeks, lakes and ponds that dotted this south central portion of the state. But Wallis Revere had found—or created—a cool, leafy vale all his own, as cool, anyway, as an Oklahoma morning in a new June could get. The radio had reported only minutes earlier that the temperature was eighty-four degrees and climbing. It would break ninety before the day was done, and soon summer would be upon them with a vengeance.

Bolton parked the car in a shady spot on the circular drive and lowered the window several inches before getting out. The place was quiet except for the rustle of leaves and the gentle chirping of unseen birds. A fat blond cat with a single ear and a patchwork of scars on one flank ambled up the brick walk with dignified unconcern. Bolton followed it to the door, feeling absurdly as if he ought to speak.

“Nice day for a stroll, isn’t it?”

The cat twitched its single ear as if in dismissal and hopped up onto the doorstep, twisting itself sinuously around the base of a big clay pot containing a small tree and a lot of drooping ivy. Bolton stepped up behind the cat and pressed the doorbell button. Almost instantly the paneled door opened and a plump, smiling Mexican woman appeared. She was wearing a simple shirtwaist dress, a pristine white apron and clunky black shoes. Her hairline was streaked with gray, but the long ponytail draped over one shoulder was black as ink. Her slender black eyebrows went up.

“Preacher?” she asked in heavily accented English.

Bolton nodded. “Reverend Charles. And you are?”

“Teresa.”

“Nice to meet you, Teresa.”

She giggled and beckoned with a plump, chapped hand for him to follow. “Mister Wallis is in the study,” she informed him, leading him across the foyer and down a long, dark hall flanking the stairwell. She opened a door and stepped aside.

Bolton gave her a truncated bow and a smile. “Thank you, Teresa.”

Wallis Revere was seated in his wheelchair before a cold fireplace. “Close the door,” he ordered summarily.

Bolton complied. So much for the niceties of polite greetings and small talk. He walked farther into the room and let his gaze take in the old man glaring up at him with piercing eyes. Revere seemed not to have changed so much as a cell. His hair, though white, was lushly thick and meticulously groomed. His long, narrow face was scored and sunken, yet somehow vital, despite the pallor of his skin, the razor thinness of his nose and the weight of bushy white brows that seemed drawn together in a permanent scowl. Perhaps that face owed its vitality to his mouth, which was wide and full-lipped. Yes, the mouth—and the eyes, which were as bright and vibrant a green as any emerald.

Bolton took in the burgundy cardigan, the soft gray shirt and the carefully knotted tie, the starched creases of charcoal slacks, coordinated argyles and black wingtips and decided that death was not yet knocking at this particular door. Relieved, he allowed himself to relax and give rein to his curiosity. “How can I help you, Wallis?”

Revere leaned back in his chair. He was a tall, thin man with big feet and hands, now gnarled and weak but still commanding. He seemed to be trying to satisfy himself on some private point, then having done so, nodded. “Sit down, Reverend. I don’t like to ask favors of anyone I have to look up to.”

Bolton tried not to show his surprise as he crossed to a comfortable leather wing chair and folded himself into it. Favors? Since when did Wallis Revere ever ask favors of anyone? Bolton folded his hands and leaned forward, indicating his willingness to listen.

Wallis Revere grimaced. “What I wouldn’t give for arms and legs that work, as they’re supposed to,” he said, then lifted his chin. “I have a job for a man, a real man, not some nambypamby afraid of his own shadow. Mind you, I don’t want a bully, but I need a man of strong character and deep conviction. I think you’re that man.”

Bolton couldn’t have contained his surprise this time if he’d tried. “Well, thank you.”

Revere lifted a gnarled hand dismissively. “I’ve met a good many ministers in my day. Some are sensitive to the point of being effeminate and so other-worldly, they’re of no use in this one. I judge you the exception, and that’s why I’ve asked you here.”

Bolton waited, sure more was to come.

Wallis Revere smiled in a smug, self-satisfied manner and got down to it. “I have an eight-year-old grandson, soon to be nine. His father got himself killed over five years ago. Pulled a damn fool stunt on a horse and got his neck broke. In all the time since, there have been just his mother and I, for all the good I am to him. He needs the company and influence of a whole man, someone strong but respectful, someone who knows his duty and doesn’t shirk it.”

Why, the old crank was looking for a surrogate father for the boy! Bolton lifted both slender, coffee black brows, torn between amusement and offense. Clearly Revere thought him man enough for the job, but Bolton suspected Revere considered him “manageable” as well. Perhaps it was time to disabuse the old boy. “I think playing dad to a boy I’ve never even met is stretching the description of my ‘duties’ pretty thin. I’m a minister, not a foster parent.”

Revere screwed up his face in an expression of impatience. “Exactly so. You’re a minister, and I am one of your flock. You won’t refuse a call for help from one of your own. I know you better than that. Besides, the boy needs you. No one’s asking you to adopt him. Just spend time with him, let him see how you handle yourself. Now, is that too much to ask?”

Bolton frowned. It was a lot to ask, but too much? Well, he supposed that depended on what he was dealing with here. Any grandson of Wallis Revere’s was bound to be a snotty little prince—unless, of course, the good Lord had seen fit to tweak old Wallis’s pride. It was just possible the boy was somehow a disappointment to the old man. Perhaps he lacked the natural arrogance of a Revere. Maybe he was too “other-worldly” for his grandfather’s tastes. And maybe it was something else altogether. Maybe the kid just needed someone to toss a ball around with him. Bolton crossed his legs and pinched the crease of his navy slacks just above the knee, thinking. Finally he looked up. “I’ll have to meet the boy before I can make a decision,” he stated evenly.

Wallis nodded and rolled his chair backward. Reaching around the end of the fireplace, he pressed a buzzer bar fastened to the wall. Half a minute later, Teresa opened the door.

“Do you want me, Mister Wallis?”

“Bring Trent in right away.”

The woman nodded and hurriedly left them. During her absence, Wallis condescended to make small talk, commenting on the weather and the state of the economy before turning the conversation back to his grandson. The boy had just finished second grade, was an exceptional reader and a whiz at math. He was learning to play the piano and roller skate. He wrestled and held the title in his league’s weight class. Revere’s pride in the boy was evident in the careless manner in which he revealed all this. Bolton didn’t know what to expect. When the door opened a second time, he sat forward, blatantly curious.

A little boy with light brown hair and his grandfather’s vibrant green eyes walked into the room. He was your average kid, dressed in bluejean shorts with neatly rolled cuffs and an oversize T-shirt bearing the logo of a professional basketball team. He wore a wristwatch and expensive high-top athletic shoes with black socks. His thick, straight, light brown hair had been cut in a modishly conservative style: very, very short in back, considerably longer on the top and sides. It showed signs of having once been parted but now fell forward in a thatch of bangs that covered one eyebrow. He was taller and bigger than average, more physically mature in some ways than any other eight-year-olds Bolton had known. Otherwise, he was just an average kid. His face was yet too round to display any significant bone structure. His fingernails were too short, as if they’d been bitten back. He had a nasty scrape just below one knee. Wallis beckoned to him.

“Come here, Trent, and meet Reverend Charles.”

The boy walked forward without hesitation and offered the reverend a noticeably grimy hand. Bolton swamped it with his own, pleasantly surprised by the strength in the boy’s grip. “How do you do, sir?”

“Very well, thank you. And you, Trent? I have the feeling we took you away from something interesting.”

The boy nodded engagingly. He was a very self-possessed sort and rather solemn. “I was checking my traps,” he revealed.

Wallis chuckled. “We’ve a skunk somewhere hereabouts, and I’ve given orders that it’s to be shot at first opportunity. Trent disagrees with my solution to the problem. He thinks he can trap the critter and make a friend of it.”

Bolton disciplined a smile. “Aside from the obvious problem,” he said, addressing Trent, “have you considered the possibility that the skunk could carry rabies?”

The boy’s chin went up a fraction of an inch. “I wasn’t going to let it bite me,” he said, very matter-of-fact.

Bolton regrouped quickly. “Of course not. I was thinking more of the other animals a rabid skunk could infect, like that old battle-scarred cat I met outside.”

“General,” the boy murmured, obviously thinking.

“I beg your pardon?”

Trent looked mildly confused for a moment. “Oh. His name is General. General Tom.”

“I like that,” Bolton said. “It suits him.”

“He’s not a very nice old cat,” Trent said. “If you pet him, he’ll hang his claws in you. But I like him anyway.”

“He kind of makes you respect him, doesn’t he?” Bolton commented.

The boy looked at him consideringly. He was forming an opinion. Bolton believed it would be a favorable one. Apparently, so did Wallis, and that was what seemed to matter to the old man. “You can get back to your traps now, Trent,” Wallis said dismissively.

His high-handedness suddenly irritated Bolton immensely. Before he could stop himself, he caught hold of the boy’s hands. “Not just yet. I’d like to ask you a few questions, Trent.”

The boy tensed but did not object. “What?”

“What are your favorite things to do?”

Trent shrugged. “Video games. Reading. Movies. Cartoons. I like to draw sometimes.”

All solitary amusements. “Who’s your very best friend?” Bolton asked.

Again the boy seemed confused. He thought a long time, then slid a wary glance toward his grandfather. “Denny Carter, I guess.” The old man scowled. Trent rushed on. “He’s older than me but not bigger, and he’s the only one who can beat me wrestling.”

“You like him, do you?” Bolton pressed.

Trent held his gaze for a long moment. “Like General Tom,” he said finally.

“You respect him, then,” Bolton mused. “And does he like you?”

Trent’s gaze wavered. He fortified it. “He likes being able to beat me.”

Bolton wondered what the answer would be if he asked Trent if he let Denny Carter beat him at wrestling. He glimpsed something unsettling behind that calm gaze, as if the boy was terrified that he would ask that very question. Bolton took pity on him and clapped his hand over his shoulder, putting on a smile of satisfaction. “Anybody would like you, Trent,” he said. “I certainly do.”

The kid’s relief was palpable, though not evident. “Thank you. It was very nice meeting you, sir.”

“It was very nice meeting you, too, Trent.” Bolton put his hand on the boy’s back, turned him toward the door and gave him a little shove. He fled with all the enthusiasm of every kid escaping the confusing presence of adults. When he was gone, Bolton looked at Revere. The old man was frowning, but he quickly smiled. Bolton doubted Wallis Revere had the least concern over his grandson’s lamentable lack of friends his own age, not that it mattered. “He’s a fine boy,” Bolton said. “I’ll like spending time with him.”

Triumph infused the old man with an almost physical power. “Wonderful. I’ll have my daughter-in-law bring him around tomorrow for a getacquainted session.”

Daughter-in-law. Trent’s mother. Bolton cocked his head. “I trust she approves of this arrangement.”

The old man dismissed that concern with a wave of his hand. “Why shouldn’t she?”

Bolton bit his tongue. High-handed was an understatement where Wallis Revere was concerned. He got to his feet, aware that his temper had been stirred and unwilling to allow it free rein. “I’m afraid I won’t be available until about four o’clock,” he said firmly. “I’ll expect them then.”

Revere nodded. “Four o’clock it is.” He extended his hand, neck craned at what seemed an uncomfortable angle.

Bolton took it, careful to keep his grip light. He knew without a doubt that he wasn’t about to hear an expression of Revere’s gratitude. That old despot didn’t know the meaning of the word. But it didn’t matter. Whatever he did, and he wasn’t at all certain now what that would be, it would be for the boy’s sake, regardless of the grandfather’s intent. He would make his decision after speaking with the boy’s mother and not before. As he saw it, the boy’s mother was the authority on the boy’s welfare and his duty was to the boy rather than the old man. That thought gave Bolton immense satisfaction, and he didn’t bother to chastise himself for enjoying it while he shook the old man’s trembling hand.

Bolton let himself out after voicing the opinion that Teresa had been bothered enough for one morning. His stomach was telling him that it was almost lunch time, and as he got into his car he decided that he would pick up a bite to eat on his way back to the church. He usually ate carry-in with Cora, but Cora was lunching with her daughter and grandchildren that day, so it would be a solitary meal, as so many of his meals were.

He paused a moment at the gates of the Revere estate, pondering this new situation. He’d been called upon in many ways over the years, but he’d never been asked to play surrogate father. It was ironic in a way. He’d expected to be enjoying the real thing by now. Yet, for some reason, God had seen fit to deny him that privilege—not that it was too late by any means. He was only thirty-seven, and he had always intended to marry again; during those final weeks before the cancer had taken her, Carol had insisted that he must. The problem was that he just hadn’t found the right woman yet. He had thought for a short time last summer that he was on the right track, but the young lady in question had developed interests in another area. He smiled as he thought about the Gilleys. How he envied Wyatt his family, twin boys and a lovely wife already big with another of Wyatt’s children. It was a good thing he also liked Wyatt Gilley immensely or their relationship could be strained.

As it was, he counted the Gilleys among his closest friends. Wyatt was a bit rough around the edges, but that was one of the things Bolton liked best about him. Wyatt was honest. He didn’t put his “Sunday face” on just because the preacher was around. In fact, Bolton doubted Wyatt even had a “Sunday face.” That made it very easy to relax around the man. Wyatt was good for him.

Maybe, if it came about, this arrangement with Trent Revere would be a good thing for him, too. He was a busy man, but he was also a lonely man in many ways. Trent was likely to liven things up a bit. What that boy needed most was somebody to play with him, somebody who would let him be a kid just for the sheer joy of it, somebody who could make him feel safe and protected and carefree. Unless Bolton’s judgment was skewed, the boy needed him. Maybe they needed each other. The kid seemed as lonely as he was. It occurred to him for the first time to wonder what Trent’s mother was like. Wallis had hardly mentioned her, and neither had Trent, though he hadn’t really had any opportunity. Bolton wondered briefly how it was that he had never met the woman. It was odd that she had never attended the services at his church. Perhaps she was of a different religious persuasion. If so, would she object to his spending time with her son? He suddenly hoped that was not the case. He liked that little boy. He was rather surprised to find how much he was looking forward to their first outing.