Chapter 4: Sunday Hymns
The Montana morning bit sharper than usual, hinting at the winter lurking just over the horizon. Diana smoothed the unfamiliar emerald velvet of her skirt – one of Martha’s bolts transformed by a frantic evening of stitching – feeling the rich softness against her work-roughened hands. It felt extravagant. Foolish. Necessary. Peanut watched her from the braided rug, head tilted as if questioning this sudden plumage. "Church, Peanut," she murmured, securing a simple hat over her pinned-up auburn curls. "Can't be mucking stalls in my Sunday best." Though honestly, mucking stalls felt simpler than facing the town, and him, after the raw intimacy of the piano bench. The memory of their shared melody, the warmth of Solomon’s shoulder against hers, the distracting coffee disaster… it all tangled in her stomach like brambles.
The walk to town was brisk, the wind tugging at her skirts and carrying the distant clang of the church bell. Cedar Ridge's whitewashed church stood sentinel, its steeple piercing the pale sky. Inside, the air shifted – hushed, thick with the beeswax scent of polished pews and the murmur of congregants. Sunlight streamed through the tall stained-glass windows, painting fractured jewels of red, blue, and gold across the worn wooden floor and the bowed heads of ranchers, shopkeepers, and their families.
Diana slipped into a pew near the back, acutely aware of the rustle her velvet made. Maisie Henderson, two rows up, turned and gave a small, knowing nod and a wink. Diana felt her cheeks warm and focused intently on smoothing her skirt. She kept her gaze firmly on the simple wooden cross at the front, her fingers tracing the worn leather cover of the hymnbook.
Then she felt it. A shift in the air. A quieting. Boot heels on the plank floor, deliberate and steady. She didn't need to look up to know Solomon Jarvis had entered. He moved down the center aisle, his sheriff’s star catching the colored light, casting a brief, sharp glint. He took a seat near the front, on the side aisle, his back mostly to her. He removed his hat, revealing dark hair neatly combed. The clean line of his shoulders under his Sunday coat seemed broader, more defined here in the quiet sanctity. He settled, a picture of calm authority.
The service began. Prayers, readings, the droning voice of Pastor Higgins. Diana tried to focus, but her awareness remained tethered to that figure several rows ahead. The subtle tilt of his head as he listened, the way his large hand rested on the back of the pew in front of him. She recalled those same hands, scarred and capable, coaxing a simple, beautiful tune from the piano keys. The memory was so vivid it stole her breath.
Then came the hymns. The organ wheezed to life. The congregation rose. Diana opened her book, finding the page automatically. "Amazing Grace..." The familiar melody swelled. She opened her mouth, her voice joining the others, soft and clear. Singing was easier than speaking, a refuge. She let the words and the communal sound wash over her, a momentary balm.
Her gaze drifted, inevitably, towards the front. Solomon stood tall, singing. Not with gusto, but with a quiet, resonant baritone that somehow cut through the general murmur. He turned slightly, perhaps to see the organist, perhaps… His piercing blue eyes swept across the congregation. They found hers.
Time didn't stop. It tightened. The hymn continued, the organ droned, people sang. But the space between their pews seemed to contract. Diana’s voice faltered for a single beat. His eyes held hers, unwavering. There was no smile, but an intensity, a recognition deeper than mere acknowledgment. It was the echo of the Moonlight Sonata in the quiet cabin, the shared surprise of creating harmony together on the narrow bench. It was the unspoken thing that had simmered since his hand steadied her onto the wagon. All of it crackled in that shared glance across rows of bowed heads and upturned hymnbooks.
He didn't look away. Neither did she. The hymn washed around them – "...was blind, but now I see..." – feeling suddenly, profoundly personal. Diana saw the slight flex in his jaw, the way his knuckles tightened on the back of the pew. His gaze wasn't just seeing her; it was remembering. The warmth of his shoulder. The scent of leather and sun. The tentative dance of their fingers on the ivory.
The verse ended. The congregation drew breath for the next. Solomon’s gaze lingered a heartbeat longer, a silent continuation of the conversation started days ago. Then, slowly, deliberately, he turned back towards the front. Diana lowered her eyes to her hymnbook, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. The printed words blurred. All she could see was the imprint of his blue eyes, the unspoken longing mirrored there – not just hers, but his. The hymn resumed, "...through many dangers, toils and snares...", its melancholy beauty resonating with the sudden, precarious vulnerability blooming inside her.
The service ended in a rustle of skirts and the scrape of pews. Diana kept her head down, fumbling with her gloves, gathering her small purse. She needed air, space. The warmth from Solomon’s gaze still felt tangible on her skin. She joined the stream of people flowing towards the doors, nodding politely, murmuring greetings, all while feeling detached, enclosed in the fragile bubble of that shared moment.
Stepping onto the sun-washed porch, she took a deep breath of the crisp air. The familiar scents of horses, dust, and pine were a relief after the enclosed beeswax and hymnbooks. She scanned the milling crowd, the wagons and horses hitched along the street. No sign of him yet. Maybe he’d lingered inside, talking to the pastor or parishioners.
"Diana! That color becomes you, honey! Martha would be pleased."
Maisie appeared at her elbow, beaming. "Saw you admiring the view during the hymns." Her eyes twinkled with unsubtle mischief.
Diana felt another blush rise. "The stained glass is lovely, Maisie."
"Oh, it is, dear. It certainly is." Maisie patted her arm. "Sheriff Jarvis seemed particularly taken with it today too. Unusual for him to turn around so much. Must have been the new window pane." She chuckled. "See you Tuesday for the eggs? Try not to let distractions ruin the stew this time." With a final knowing look, Maisie bustled off towards her husband.
Diana fought the urge to fan her face. Distractions. The word echoed. She turned to descend the steps, needing to start the walk back to the solitude of the ranch, to process the unexpected depth of that silent exchange.
He was at the bottom of the steps. Leaning against the hitching post where his bay gelding stood patiently. Not mounted. Not hurrying away. Waiting. His hat was back on, shading his eyes, but Diana felt the full weight of his attention as she approached. The chatter of departing townsfolk faded into background noise.
He pushed off the post as she reached the bottom step. "Miss Kerr."
"Sheriff." Her voice came out steadier than she felt.
He fell into step beside her as she turned towards the road leading out of town. Not too close, but near enough that she caught the faint, clean scent of shaving soap mixed with leather. They walked in silence for a moment, the crunch of gravel under their boots the only sound. The vast Montana sky arched overhead, impossibly blue.
"Fine singing today," he said finally, his voice low, conversational. "You have a real nice voice."
"Thank you," Diana managed. "As do you. I didn't know..." She trailed off, unsure how to finish. I didn't know you sang. I didn't know a hymn could feel like that.
He glanced down at her. "My mother insisted. Said the good Lord deserved harmony, even from us." A faint echo of his wry amusement from the piano surfaced. "She'd be horrified by the accordion phase, but the hymns... she approved."
Diana smiled faintly, picturing it. "My mother felt the same. About singing. And the piano."
Another few steps. The town fell away behind them, replaced by open prairie stretching towards the distant mountains. The silence wasn't awkward, exactly. It was heavy. Charged with everything unsaid since the piano bench.
Solomon stopped walking. Diana stopped too, turning to face him. He looked out over the land, his profile sharp against the sky. "That tune the other day," he said, not looking at her. "The one we played. Been stuck in my head." He paused, then turned his head, his blue eyes meeting hers fully. The intensity was back, unshielded now by distance or congregation. "Couldn't quite place it for the sermon. Too busy thinking about how it felt... playing it alongside you."
The words landed softly, but with the force of a physical touch. Diana’s breath hitched. He wasn't just acknowledging the moment; he was naming it. He was stepping towards the deep parts Maisie had warned about.
The wind ruffled the velvet of her skirt and lifted a stray curl at his temple. He held her gaze, waiting. The empty road stretched ahead, the ranch a distant speck. The echo of the hymn still seemed to hang in the air between them, harmonizing with the memory of their piano duet and the promise crackling in the quiet Montana morning. Solomon didn't push. He just stood there, his blue eyes steady on hers, offering the space for her answer. The silence spoke volumes, louder than any hymn.
The silence stretched, taut as a fiddle string before it snaps. Diana watched a muscle feather along Solomon’s jawline, stark against his clean-shaven skin. His blue eyes held hers, unblinking, waiting for something she wasn’t sure she could give voice to.
"It felt..." she began, the words catching like burrs, "...unexpected." She forced a breath, tasting dust and distant pine. "Playing together."
A slow nod. "Yeah." His gaze didn't waver. "Unexpected fits." He shifted his weight, the leather of his gun belt creaking softly. "Didn’t figure a proper Southern lady for a Beethoven enthusiast. Or spontaneous duets."
Her laugh surprised them both, a short, breathy sound. "Proper Southern ladies have hidden depths, Sheriff." She met his eyes again, the tension easing fractionally. "Especially ones trying to run Montana ranches. Moonlight Sonata feels... familiar. Like home, before."
"Before," he echoed, understanding flickering in his eyes. He gestured loosely down the road. "Shall we? That wind’s got teeth." He fell back into step beside her, their boots crunching in unison on the hard-packed earth.
They walked, the vastness pressing in, yet the space between them felt charged, humming. Diana focused on the rhythmic sway of her skirt, the scratch of the velvet waistband against her ribs. Peanut would be waiting, probably sulking by the empty food bowl. The ordinary thought anchored her.
"So," Solomon ventured after another stretch of quiet, his tone deliberately light, "Martha finally wore you down on the velvet, I see. Looks like something snatched off a theatre curtain." He glanced sideways, a genuine smile softening the intensity of moments before.
Diana touched the fabric self-consciously. "She insisted. Said church demanded ‘suitable adornment’. Nearly blinded myself threading needles past midnight." She wrinkled her nose. "Feels ridiculous hauling water later."
"Adornment achieved," he conceded, amusement warming his voice. "Green suits you. Like those stubborn sagebrush patches clinging to the rocks." He paused, nudging a small stone with his boot. "Though hauling water in it might be a touch ambitious."
Another shared laugh, easier this time. Diana relaxed minutely. They passed a cluster of skeletal cottonwoods, their bare branches rattling in the wind. "Your mother," she prompted, remembering his earlier comment. "Accordion phase?"
Solomon groaned softly, the sound rich with remembered embarrassment. "Lasted one excruciating week. Drove Pa clean out to the bunkhouse. Ma finally hid it ‘for repairs’ and miraculously, it never got fixed." He shook his head. "Piano was her passion. Said it civilized us Jarvis boys. Mostly just convinced us to sneak out faster."
Diana smiled, picturing a younger, rebellious Solomon. "Mine used to say music smoothed the rough edges of the world." A flicker of old sorrow passed over her face, quickly masked. She nodded towards the distant outline of her cabin roof just becoming visible. "Nearly home. Peanut’s likely plotting revenge for my absence."
Solomon slowed his pace slightly, matching hers. The playful ease settled back into something quieter, more serious. "Diana." Her name sounded deliberate coming from him. "That tune... 'A Walk in A Minor'. Haven't played it for anyone since..." He trailed off, looking out at the rolling hills. "Since before the war. Felt right, playing it with you."
The raw honesty of it stole her breath. It wasn’t just attraction; it was a vulnerability offered, a piece of his past laid bare. Her fingers tightened on her purse strap. The ranch gate stood fifty yards ahead, a familiar landmark.
"It felt right," she admitted softly, the words almost lost to the wind. "Playing it together." She stopped at the gate, turning to face him fully. The late morning sun caught the flecks of green in her hazel eyes. "Thank you. For walking me back."
Solomon removed his hat, holding it loosely at his side. The wind ruffled his dark hair. His gaze held hers, blue and steady. "My pleasure, Miss Kerr." He hesitated, then gestured towards the cabin. "Best get inside before Peanut executes his plan." There was no pressure in his words, just a quiet acknowledgment.
Diana unlatched the gate, the familiar squeak breaking the stillness. She stepped through, then turned back. He stood there, hat in hand, watching her. The space between them felt wider now, the road stretching back towards town behind him. "Good day, Sheriff Jarvis."
He settled his hat back on his head, dipping the brim slightly. "Good day, Miss Kerr." He didn't move immediately. "Until Tuesday?"
Maisie's egg delivery. Diana nodded. "Tuesday." She turned and walked the path to her porch, the crunch of gravel under her boots loud in her ears. She didn't look back, but felt the weight of his gaze until she reached the steps. Only then, pulling her key from her purse, did she dare a glance over her shoulder.
Solomon had turned. He was walking back down the road, his figure already diminishing against the vast Montana backdrop, shoulders squared, stride long and unhurried. Diana unlocked her door, the familiar scent of woodsmoke and dried herbs greeting her. A sharp yip came from inside. Peanut. She closed the door, leaning against the rough wood, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against the quiet thud of Solomon's retreating footsteps still echoing in her mind.
She closed the door, leaning against the rough wood, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against the quiet thud of Solomon's retreating footsteps still echoing in her mind. Peanut circled her legs, whining softly, his wet nose nudging her hand. The familiar scent of woodsmoke and dried rosemary did little to settle the strange fluttering in her chest. "Alright, Peanut," she murmured, pushing off the door. "Starving, are we?" Her voice sounded thin in the sudden quiet.
She moved mechanically, feeding the eager dog, the mundane task a welcome anchor. The green velvet, Maisie’s handiwork and Solomon’s compliment, suddenly felt heavy, constricting, an unwelcome reminder of the intense, unspoken things humming between them on the walk home. His quiet admission about the piano piece – since before the war – resonated deeper than any hymn. With quick, almost impatient movements, she unbuttoned the dress. The rich fabric slid off her shoulders, pooling on the braided rug. Peanut sniffed it suspiciously.
Diana sighed, picking it up. She smoothed the velvet meticulously, folding it with care Martha would approve of. It deserved better than being tossed aside after stirring such turmoil. She carried it to her bedroom, laying it flat on the simple quilt covering her narrow bed. The large cedar chest sat at the foot, a dark, silent presence she hadn’t truly confronted since arriving. Dust motes danced in the late morning light slanting through the window. Taking a deep breath, Diana knelt before it. The brass latch was cool under her fingers. She lifted it.
The heavy lid opened with a groan of aged wood and leather hinges, releasing a complex scent trapped for years: dry cedar, faint lavender from long-gone sachets, and the ghostly whisper of magnolia blossoms from a life buried under the ashes of war. Inside, packed with methodical care by Martha lay fragments of the past.
She saw them immediately: two bolts of fabric. One, a vibrant green calico sprigged with tiny yellow flowers; the other, a pure sunshine yellow, cheerful and bold. Practical lengths meant for everyday dresses, a world away from velvet. Neatly folded beside them were two quilts – one a complex star pattern in faded blues and creams, the other a simpler nine-patch in earthy browns and greens, both radiating generations of careful stitching.
Diana’s fingers brushed something crisp and gathered. Kitchen curtains. Yellow. They matched the calico bolt perfectly. She pictured them fluttering at the window above the sink, catching the Montana sun. Three ceramic flower vases nestled beside them, their glazes muted but sturdy. A simple glass wind chime, its metal tubes wrapped in protective paper, promised soft music on the porch. She set these items aside carefully.
A thick stack of papers tied with faded blue ribbon caught her eye. Pulling it out, she saw spidery German script covering the top page. Marthas handwriting. Tucked beside the German was a slip of paper in her neat, looping English: Apfelkuchen (Apple Cake). Page after page revealed recipes, meticulously translated on the side. Sauerbraten. Lebkuchen. Memories flooded her: flour-dusted hands, the warm, spicy scent of gingerbread filling her childhood kitchen.
On the opposite side of the chest, something was carefully swaddled in a thick fold of ivory linen. Diana carefully unwrapped the protective layers. Nestled within the tablecloth lay the unmistakable curve of a china teapot. Its ivory base was smooth, cool to the touch.
With reverent care, Diana began to unwind the soft padding from around its companions. One by one, five delicate teacups emerged. Each bore the same intricate pattern: tiny, perfect blue flowers – forget-me-nots? – trailing around the rim and across the smooth curve. The sixth cup was nestled securely within the pot itself. The tray lay flat at the very bottom, the same elegant blue design gracing its center.
A delicate flower pattern in blue. Diana held one cup in her palm, its fragility stark against her ranch-roughened hands it recalled her mother's set of china tea set . The blue flowers blurred. Memories of her youth came flooding back, visceral and sharp. Not of war, but of before. Sunday afternoons on the wide veranda back in Georgia. The delicate clink of china as her mother poured. The scent of steeped tea leaves mingling with honeysuckle. Her father’s low chuckle. The weightless feeling of safety, of belonging, embodied in this impossibly thin porcelain. A wave of homesickness, sharp and sudden, tightened her throat. She traced a blue flower with her fingertip, the smooth glaze a ghost of a touch long gone. Peanut laid his head on her knee, sensing the shift in her stillness. Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the windowpane, a reminder of the vast, demanding land beyond the fragile haven of her cabin and the ghosts whispering from the blue-flowered china.