"Those things are best left to God," he said.
And there, he made his final mistake.
.
.
Whatever promises he might have made to her that night were negated by his last sentiment.
Never mind that he'd backhanded her with all the horrible gossip she'd had to endure- Isabella wasn't an oblivious woman, she knew how they all saw her.
Never mind that he near outright called her old and barren. No, never mind that.
It was his mention of God that burned his last bridge.
Isabella wanted nothing to do with the thief God who stole beautiful young men away to war and allowed them to be shot full of musket balls, their dear bodies mutilated and torn beyond recognition.
She wanted no part of a bloodthirsty God who would allow for such treasured young men to be buried in a barren, blood-soaked field far away from their loved ones, where neither their remains nor their memory could be tended to by the people they left behind.
She wanted nothing from Michael Newton's selfish God, who demanded blind obeisance in return for death of the faithful, and endless grief for those who loved them.
Momentarily considering how to word her response, Isabella noticed an absence of sound in the house, where previously Charles Swan was heard to be snoring.
She sighed, realizing she now had to keep her answer palatable to both men.
She could neither confess to finding Pastor Newton himself wholly undesirable, even though it was the truth, nor tell him what an irony it would be for her to marry a man of God, bitter cynic and blasphemer that she was.
Knowing her father engineered them to have this moment alone by pretending to have fallen asleep, and quite sure that he was now hanging on their every word, she also could not take the second option.
She could not now tell Pastor Newton that she would never marry while her father yet lived, because she couldn't burden her Pa with the knowledge that he held her back from what he imagined to be some semblance of happiness. It would have broken his heart.
Instead, she delayed. Playing the blushing maiden though she was in fact neither, Isabella hid her disdain so as not to upset and humiliate him.
"Oh! This is most unexpected!" she said, untruthfully. "Thank you for your offer, Pastor, I'm truly humbled and grateful that you'd consider me for wife." And though drawing it out was the last thing she wanted to do, she asked him, "May I think on it?"
Unseen inside the house, her father just shook his head sadly and sagged into his chair.
"Of course, Miss Swan, take all the time you need," the Pastor replied, just as untruthfully, hurt that she did not immediately seize the chance to become his bride. After all, what other prospects had she?
Isabella watched him ride away into the cool night with a heavy heart, knowing she was prolonging the inevitable disappointment he would soon suffer.
.
.
And so it was that Isabella and her father continued to attend church on Sundays, the uncomfortable silence extending between her and the two men, one hoping for her acceptance and the other dreading her refusal.
It had been three weeks since the proposal, and yet Isabella could never find the right moment in which to give the Pastor her answer.
He had shown nothing but patience, and though she often felt his eyes on her, he never approached nor pressured her.
Isabella thought his patience was borne of his calling. In fact, Michael Newton was no fool. He sensed her approaching rejection and was in no hurry to receive it.
The day she finally resolved the matter was a day like any other, or so it seemed in the morning when she began her walk.
She had no destination except to wander in the fresh air of the cool forest that grew around her home, and in truth, she never wandered far as it was densely overgrown, low ferns and giant firs all fighting for light under the misty, overcast canopy.
She loved the incredible smell of these woods; the mixture of green freshness and rain tinged with the mossy, decaying undergrowth, was somehow nostalgic, comforting. The forest was omniscient and ancient, and in it, she felt at peace.
As she walked on the outskirts of the forest with the usual Forks drizzle misting her face, she noticed the familiar silhouette of a man on a large chestnut horse as he rode slowly past her home and toward town.
She was quite sure he hadn't noticed her, and so felt free to openly run an inventory of his appearance, beginning with acknowledgement of the fact that his appeal to her had not lessened. In fact, her heart raced inexplicably, as though excited at seeing him again.
She noted that it did not race at the sight of Pastor Newton, nor had it shown any such flighty inclination toward anyone at all for a very, very long time.
She felt her hands tightening into fists at her sides and made herself relax them, flexing her fingers and willing them to do her bidding.
She followed the horseman's gently swaying movements with her eyes, the misted tails of his long leather coat fanned over the back of the saddle. His face was once more obscured by his beard and the wide brim of his worn-in hat, dew pearling from the rim.
He held the reins with pale, elegant hands, and looked to exert only subtle pressure on leading his horse.
His boots rested lightly in the stirrups and the absence of spurs on his heels signalled an understanding between a well-trained animal and his master.
Well-formed thighs lay casually over the horse's flanks, long legs flexing with the slow movement of the beast beneath him. The pitch and yaw of his swaying body was fluid as dancing and Isabella had never before thought that riding a horse could look so... provocative.
She stood rooted to the earth watching as he disappeared from view, and when he rode over a crest in the road and beyond the reach of her eyes, she finally allowed herself to rest against the trunk of a large pine until her heart calmed and her breath came easily.
Isabella walked home thoughtful and pensive, and resolved to ask her father again about the man on the horse, this time with conviction.
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A/N: Hello! Thank you for reading. Lack of review replies was brought to you by frantic writing of copious amounts of various fanfiction. Forgive me?