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Miss Opal Makes a Match: A Miss Opal Story Book 1

By Amy K Rognlie

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Chapter One
1907, Belton, Texas
As close as she could reckon, Opal Wilson had been talking to the Lord pretty near every day of her eighty-one years. And when He spoke, she listened.
Though the sun had just barely grazed the horizon, Opal found her sister in the kitchen already, whipping up a batch of fluffy biscuits. Armilda wasn’t much for shirking, as their Papa always said.
Opal watched her sister from the doorway. Armilda’s hair, unlike her own, still had streaks of rich black threaded here and there through the silver, and its soft waves fit its owner’s personality. Really, neither of them were getting any younger, but until God saw fit to call them home to heaven, there was work to be done here in their own little corner of Texas.
Opal thumped the water bucket down onto the chair. “We’ve got to do something about the preacher, Armilda.”
Her sister nodded. “And fast. Do you have any ideas?”
“Yes, ma’am! I’ve been praying on it a good while. See this newspaper right here?”
********
1907, near Marble Falls, Texas
Lyna Marshall yanked her valise off of the bed and took one last glance around her room. Though small, she would miss it. She still couldn’t believe she had agreed to this. Leave her ranch and her family for three whole months? To care for a couple of elderly women whom she didn’t know? She’d never been away from home before.
When she had first seen the advertisement in the Austin Statesman and Tribune, she had thought it was too good to be true.
Wanted: Single woman to care for elderly sisters in their home. Three months. Must be Christian, age 18-24, able to play the piano. Bonus for good singing voice. Room and board plus $250 per month. Please respond to Miss Opal Wilson, Belton, Texas.

She fit all of the criteria … but still. What if the sisters were too ill for her to care for them? She was used to hard work, but she didn’t know much about tending to the sick. And what if they wanted her to cook? Pa and Jacob had gotten used to her limited skills, but cooking for others would be different. She grimaced.
But she couldn’t pass up the money. Two hundred and fifty dollars a month! Pa and Jacob could get along without her for three months for that kind of money. She would be able to pay off the last of the debt on the ranch, and then Pa wouldn’t have to work so hard—and maybe she would be free to see what God had planned for her life.
She knew He had a plan. She had sensed it even as a small child while saying her prayers at night or listening to Pa’s deep voice reading from the family Bible. And as she grew older, she heard His voice calling to her during those long, quiet hours riding the range with Jacob—perceived His creativity in the grandeur of the rolling prairie and the never-fading verdant green of the live oak trees. Often, she rode by herself to the ridge that overlooked their neighbor’s land. From her vantage point, the never-ending fields of cotton were like a blanket of snow in summer. White unto harvest.
So maybe she would become a missionary to deepest, darkest Africa, like … like David Livingstone, the brave Scottish doctor.
She would travel for miles and miles across barren prairielands and treacherous mountains, braving dust storms and tornados and bandits until she reached California. Then she would board a rickety old ship and set sail for Africa, with only her Bible and one small trunk, full of all of her worldly possessions. Of course, she would probably be shipwrecked on the way because that always happened to the poor missionaries whom she had read about. But a dashing, dark-haired sailor would rush to her rescue and then—
“Lyna!” her brother hollered from downstairs.
“I’m coming!” Ready or not, her adventure had begun. “Be thou my vision,” she murmured.
********
Rev. Andrew Marek drummed his fingers on the wagon seat. He had never thought of himself as an impatient person, but he only had so many hours in a day. And waiting here outside the Wilson’s house in the heat for an hour was not helping. Miss Opal was probably wondering why he had not come inside to wait, but truth be told, he didn’t want to be around Margaret any more than he had to at this point.
He hated feeling this way, but he was in over his head. That’s just all there was to it. Pastoring a circuit of four small churches was difficult to begin with, but now he had Margaret to deal with. At least she was leaving today and wouldn’t return to Texas until almost time for their wedding—three months from now. He gulped. He was getting married to Margaret. In three months.
He pictured her large, doe-like eyes, her trim figure, and her golden-blonde hair. Any man with eyes in his head would take a second look at his fiancée. But—
She poked her head out the front door. “I’m almost ready, Andrew dear.”
He fidgeted on the wagon seat as she disappeared back into the house. It was already 1:45. What could be taking so long, for crying out loud?
Patience. He was always preaching to others about having patience. He blew out a breath. Clearly, he wasn’t following his own advice today. But he’d already hefted three large trunks and two bags into the wagon, not to mention the dratted bassoon in its enormous case. She was leaving on the 3:05 train, and it was at least an hour drive into Temple.
And he was supposed to be picking up some relative of the Wilson sisters while he was at the train station. A niece, maybe? He couldn’t remember what Miss Opal had said, but he fervently hoped that she was a quiet woman. He couldn’t take much more chatter.
Twenty minutes later, Margaret finally emerged in a fancy purple gown, dressed as if she were headed to a personal audience with President Roosevelt instead of a dusty five-day train journey across the country. In August.
“I can’t believe I’m heading back to Boston just in time for the debutante balls.” She clutched his sleeve. “I wish you were going with me, Andrew.”
Not on your life, darlin’.
He nodded to Miss Opal and Miss Armilda, who were standing on the porch, waving off their guest.
“Three months will go by quickly, no doubt,” he said, not looking at her. He clucked to the horses, and they were on their way. Finally.
What was wrong with him? He would soon be married to a beautiful woman from one of Boston’s leading families, and yet he felt as though he were willingly walking to the gallows. Did all men feel this way before their weddings?
She raised her finely-tweezed eyebrows. “You don’t sound very happy about it.”
That was astute. And the first time she had noticed his feelings for the whole three weeks she had been here.
“Just a lot on my mind, Margaret.” He patted her gloved hand. “I’m sure you’ll be busy with preparations and the time will fly by. You’ll be back before you know it.”
She cocked her head to the side like his dog did when he was trying to understand the human words. “In three months,” she repeated.
He nodded wearily. Hadn’t they already established that about ten times? He wished he could drum up some of the feelings he’d had for her a year or two ago. But something had changed. The feelings had faded away. He could see that now.
Margaret sighed and pulled her hand away to straighten her hat.
Andrew glanced at it out of the corner of his eye. A ridiculous thing, covered in flowers and … fake birds. Why would a woman wear something like that?
She scooted closer to him. “Andrew, dear—”
The whiny tone in her voice made him grit his teeth. He knew what was coming next.
“I know we’ve discussed this before, darling, but why can’t you move back to Boston? You could be a pastor of a large church there, and wouldn’t have to work yourself into exhaustion like you are now, in this dusty, God-forsaken—” She apparently had a rare flash of good sense and stopped midsentence, only to forge ahead again. “We could have a lovely home near the waterfront, and my father—”
“I’m not going back to Boston, Margaret.”
If she thought he was going to subject himself to her father again, she was wrong. And besides, Texas was home now.
She stuck her rouged lip out. “Well. Maybe you’ll change your mind while I’m gone. If you loved me, you’d move back to Boston.” The whiny voice again.
Resisting the urge to tell her that if she loved him, she wouldn’t ask him to, he shrugged. He would not feel guilty. God had called him to this place and these people, and her pouting wasn’t going to change that. Nothing he said made her understand.
“We’re almost to the train station, Margaret. Let’s not argue anymore.” He turned the horses from the lane to the main road. “Please send me a telegram when you arrive home, so I know you’re there safely.”

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