The Trouble with Patience Read Free

more, “you are not aware of this, but I’m writing a collection of devotionals to help people. I have always faithfully read the Scripture and take its heeding to heart, and . . . and, well, I want to extend grace wherever it is needed.” She stopped for a deep breath. “In fact, the one I wrote just this morning deals with regret, and remembering how the soldier felt after gambling for Jesus’s robe, how he was looking for grace. Perhaps you have a few regrets . . .”
    His eyes glazed over and she wasn’t even sure he was listening. He drank coffee, shuffled papers, finally stood and went over to the stove, refilled his mug, and returned to the desk. “Well, Miss Patience Cavanaugh , I don’t know about grace, but there’s one virtue you clearly forget to extol—humility.” As he set his down, the two mugs banged together, nearly spilling the coffee into her lap.
    Shocked, she sat up straight, squaring her shoulders. She took a sip, and it made her cough and sputter. She put the cup down on the desk and pushed it away, then covered her mouth with her handkerchief to keep from choking. The coffee was the worst-tasting brew she’d ever drunk. Who knows how long that’ s been sitting on the stove? she thought with a grimace.
    â€œI take it you don’t want a coffee refill,” he said with a grin. She shook her head and glared at him above her handkerchief.
    Far worse than the coffee was the attitude of this man. She was not going to sit here and listen to his belittling comments.
    She pushed her chair back, rose, and moved slowly toward the front door with her head held high.
    Shorty’s voice followed her. “You seem mighty humble to me, lady.”

    Patience went straight to her kitchen and began peeling and chopping potatoes and carrots with far more vigor than necessary. She was angry at that cocky marshal and his even cockier prisoner. They had no right to mock her, when all she was trying to do was . . . what? She truly did want to help people—that’s why she was attempting to make this broken-down old boardinghouse into something thriving once more, why she put her best into cooking lunches for the town’s residents, why she was diligently doing her devotional writing . . . Wasn’t it?
    Her granny had told her once that people should take the specks out of their own eyes before accusing others of faults. Patience put down her chopping knife with a sigh. Today she’d probably wound up only embarrassing herself, alienating the marshal, and providing some humor for that poor Shorty.
    She picked up the knife with another sigh to finish the stew for lunch. She’d totally forgotten she’d been planning to go to the post office when she’d heard the confrontation. But , she reminded herself, I only just opened the boardinghouse a short time ago . Perhaps when word got out about it being available again, newcomers would inquire for a room. She prayed it would be so. And, Lord, I do want to show grace and humility. Teach me, please.

    Jedediah propped his feet up on his desk, leaned back in the worn leather chair he’d inherited from his predecessor, and took another swallow of the thick black liquid the lady had ungraciously complained about. Well, she hadn’tactually said anything, but she didn’t have to, what with all her choking and sputtering. He couldn’t help but grin as he put his mug down and looked over at his prisoner, finally quiet and asleep on the cell’s cot. He’d hold Shorty till the end of the week when the circuit judge made his rounds and pronounced a sentence.
    Jedediah shook his head with another grin. What a lamebrained thing to do in broad daylight—in the middle of town, no less—and right across from the marshal’s office. But he knew folks like Shorty liked taking risks. In fact, he probably thrived on it. What amused him most was this