.
.
While Isabella wanted to be quick about leaving, her father's shuffling gait invariably got them to the church door after everybody else had gone.
Such was the case this Sunday, and she dreaded it, for Pastor Newton was nothing if not persistent.
.
.
As they neared the door, the Pastor's blue eyes met Isabella's with a smile. He held out his hand, no doubt meaning to capture hers with it.
Remembering the lingering kiss over her knuckles the last time she allowed him to lift her hand to his lips, she faltered.
In a flash of inspiration, Isabella took hold of her father's elbow and continued on, offering the Pastor Charles Swan's own gnarled hand instead.
Carefully arranging her features into a blank mask, she did not look up to see his reaction; she knew it would be one of confusion.
She was spared the unpleasant guilt by her father, who appeared happy to engage the Pastor on their behalf.
"A wonderful sermon as always, Pastor Newton," Charles Swan began, allowing his frail hand to be vigorously shaken.
As expected, the Pastor immediately launched into an in-depth examination of the inanity he had preached. Isabella allowed her attention to drift as she looked out of the church doorway, down the dirt road leading out of town, and into the densely forested Forks woodland.
And there, for the first time of many, she found herself looking at a certain man on a horse.
It was dark within the church, and the man was silhouetted in rare, bright sunshine as he rode in with the morning sun at his back.
For a few moments, Isabella admired the ethereal effect of the sun's shimmering aura around the man and his horse, but as he rode closer, she began to see some detail in the figures.
The big chestnut horse was loosely bridled, and its rider rode seated with a finesse that came only to those who spent their lives in the saddle.
He rocked fluidly in his seat, perfectly in sync with the movement of the graceful animal beneath him.
He wore a wide-brimmed hat pulled low over his brow so she could not see his features clearly, except for the tendrils of a magnificent beard swaying in the breeze over his worn, long leather coat.
He looked to be quite tall, and with the sun in her eyes his beard was rusty-brown, like the soil in Isabella's vegetable garden. She did not recall seeing him before and wondered where he'd ridden from.
With the leather of his long coat rubbed to a shine in places and his boots dusty from the road, he looked like a drifter. Intrigued, she looked on as he rode closer, silhouetted dramatically against the yellow radiance.
It was his circumspect demeanour which she found most interesting; he looked like he wanted to disappear into the background.
To Isabella, however, he couldn't have been more visible had he ridden into town in a royal carriage. Even the sun at his back seemed brighter than Forks normally allowed.
He was mysterious and fascinating, like one rough, black pebble in a riverbed of thousands of smooth ones. She wanted to pick up that pebble and rub her fingertips over it to uncover its shine.
In an existence as mundane as hers, anything standing apart from the ordinary caught her observant eye, and she now latched onto the enigmatic allure of this stranger, captivated by the puzzle he presented.
That beard, for a start: only old prospectors or Highwaymen wore beards so unkempt and untrimmed.
Certainly, all the younger men these days preferred a neatly styled moustache over such natural growth. This man looked neither old (he sat straight as an arrow and tall in his saddle, his body unbent by age), nor a bandit, though she supposed one could never know if he was secreting a rifle under that well-worn coat.
Was he hiding his face under that scruffy beard? This interesting proposition made Isabella's naturally curious mind thrum with possibilities.
Though one hand held the reins of the bridle in a loose grip, his other hand rested lightly on his thigh, calloused fingers relaxed and natural.
Tall and imposing, he was a dark presence on an otherwise bland backdrop of town, dirt roads, and never ending forest. He drew the iron in Bella's blood like a magnet, and she felt more fascination in this short moment than she had in all her recent years.
Her reverie was broken by an expectant silence, and she realized that the two men beside her were waiting on her answer to a question she had missed. She reluctantly tore her eyes away from the fascinating dilemma of the drifter.
"I'm sorry, Pastor; could you please repeat the question? I'm afraid I wasn't paying attention," Isabella admitted guiltily. She could feel her father becoming weary of standing so long in one place and tightened her grip to bolster him up.
"Why, I was just accepting your father's invitation to supper and awaiting your approval, trusting that my presence at your table would not interfere with your plans for the evening?" Pastor Newton's blue eyes were tentative as he awaited her reply. Isabella looked to her father, carefully hiding her disappointment and anger. So, it was back to this.
"Of course not, Pastor, what time shall we expect you?" It would have been foolish to oppose the idea, when everyone knew that she had no plans.
Not ever.
With the time agreed upon and the matter settled, Isabella led her father out into the sunshine, which only moments ago was full of promise and mystery, and was now mocking her with false hopes. Fittingly, they shuffled past the dusty little graveyard, its worn timber crosses reaching up like bent fingers jutting from the earth.
"Don't think I don't know what you're up to, my girl," murmured Charles Swan as they made their from the church and into the street, toward their little horse-drawn wagon.
Isabella stiffened. She helped her father climb up onto the bench and waited to be reprimanded.
Hearing no answer, Charles continued in a quiet tone. "Don't you think it's time you left an old man to his own devices? I'm perfectly capable of looking after myself, you know."
They both knew these words were a lie, but now she bristled with a different awkwardness. It was now painfully obvious Charles Swan was angling for her to wed Pastor Newton.
.
.
A/N: Thank you for reading.