To make the time go faster while she worked, she decided to make some personal intentions, short prayers she said almost daily asking God for special help. Heaven knew she needed divine intercession if she meant to enter the convent any time soon.
Please, God, help me become more practical. The next time I start wishing for frivolities, like those patent leather slippers in Miss Dryden’s dress shop window, help me to pray, instead, for the poor, that they may have food aplenty and warm blankets.
Finishing one section of floor, Cassandra scooted forward to begin buffing another.
And, please, when I stop by the convent later today, don’t let me stare at the good sisters and wonder what their heads look like shaved. To become a Bride of Christ, I’ll happily part with my hair. I promise, I will. And I’ll never mourn the loss.
Even as she made the vow, Cassandra cringed. Her thick sable hair was the only pretty thing about her, and of all the sacrifices she’d have to make to take holy orders, she dreaded having to shave her head the most.
And, please, Father, in Your immense goodness, help me not to get angry today. Bless my dear mama’s soul, but the Irish temper I got from her isn’t at all the thing for an aspiring nun.
A sudden noise interrupted Cassandra’s train of thought. She froze to listen and heard the outside door to the vestibule open and close. If it was someone coming in off the street who hadn’t thought to wipe his feet, she’d have his head.
Prepared for battle, she watched the closed double doors that separated the vestibule from the interior of the church. Nothing. Cocking an ear, she heard footsteps, followed by a crackle of paper and a muffled thump. The poor box? It sounded to her as if someone had just opened it. Probably just some good-hearted soul leaving a donation.
Unless, of course, it was a thief.
The thought made her pulse race. Where there was one thief, there could be a half dozen. What if it was an entire band, and they’d come to pilfer and vandalize St. Mary’s?
She made a quick sign of the cross, praying for courage. If a band of hooligans had entered the church, it would be up to her to protect the Holy Eucharist that Father Tully always kept in the tabernacle.
It was one of Cassandra’s favorite daydreams, to one day be required to sacrifice her life for the faith. Preferably in such a heart-wrenching fashion that everyone who heard of her courage would weep and cross themselves at the mention of her name. Saint Cassandra.
Ruffians storming into the sanctuary would be perfect, especially if they were determined to desecrate the sacrament. In true saintly fashion, she would drape herself over the tabernacle to protect its sacred contents, her body a bleeding shield. When Father Tully, the parish priest, found her afterward, she would be near death, and with her last breath, she’d whisper, “It is nothing, Father. Do not weep. I have given of myself for Jesus, and I die with a glad heart.”
She flung down her cleaning rag and pushed to her feet, determined to face her fate as bravely as Joan of Arc or Saint Catherine, who’d chosen a horrible death by torture to preserve her chastity. Well…neither of them had anything over Cassandra Zerek. She would die for God, and do so gladly.
All she needed was an opportunity.
Creeping toward the double doors, Cassandra steeled herself for the worst. Carefully turning the knob, she pushed the portal open a crack and peered into the vestibule. She glimpsed a man standing at the poor box, a very tall man in an expensive gray topcoat. Intent on counting out money to put in an envelope, he seemed unaware he was being watched.
Not a robber.
For a moment, Cassandra felt keen disappointment. But then, beneath the man’s smartly tipped, felt fedora hat, she saw neatly trimmed, tawny-colored hair. Only one man in Black Jack, Colorado, had hair that color.
Her heart kicked against her ribs. Luke Taggart. And he was right here in St. Mary’s? Cassandra couldn’t quite believe it. Oh, she’d seen him on the street plenty of times, but never from up this close.
He was the most important individual in Black Jack, barring none. The man owned nearly the whole town, including most of the producing gold mines. He even owned the mine where her papa and older brother, Ambrose, were employed. For the first time in Cassandra’s memory, her papa and brother had to work only six days a week, their shifts a mere ten hours long instead of the customary fourteen, and they still had enough money to buy food and pay the rent each month. As a result, Luke Taggart’s name was almost a prayer upon all the Zereks’ lips.
But few people in Black Jack shared her family’s high opinion of Mr. Taggart. He was rumored to be a harsh, godless man who engaged in all manner of wicked activities. Cassandra wasn’t quite sure what kinds of wicked activities, only that she’d heard her papa say Mr. Taggart consorted with “shabby women,” showing no preference for any particular one. In. Cassandra’s opinion, that was further proof of the man’s altruistic character, for he was extremely rich. If he chose, he could consort only with ladies as wealthy and well-dressed as he was.