(Disclaimers with Part 1)

"Fateful Hours" Part 3 by HawkMoth

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The wail of the sirens grew ominously closer, then faded off in a different direction as there was a loud knock at the front door. They heard Devlin answer the summons, and a moment later he ushered three lawmen into the parlor. Two of them fell back into position on either side of the doorway, holding stun rifles barrel-up at the ready.

A furtive glance told Mal that they weren't the ones he had talked to in the street outside the cafe. But the one in the lead--

"Sorry to intrude when you've got guests, Pastor," he said, not sounding all that apologetic, "but this is a bad business."

Mal recognized him as the tall bearded officer he and Zoe had seen in the park before all hell had broken loose. He was pretty sure they hadn't gotten close enough for the man to recollect his face, but couldn't remember clearly enough if he'd been one of the group who'd chased after them. Some of what had happened was still a blur in his mind, and it was unsettling. He concentrated on keeping his outward appearance composed.

"Not at all, Sheriff Owens," Devlin answered readily. "We heard the commotion--I take it there was some trouble at the rally?"

"Way too much of it," he replied, letting his gaze fall appraisingly on the two visitors. "Someone didn't want young Langston to attend, and spooked a whole lot of innocent citizens in the process."

"Oh, my," Book interjected with pious alarm and sincerity. "Was anyone hurt?"

The sheriff turned to him, one hand resting with confident ease on the butt of his holstered weapon. "There were a few casualties," he said tightly.

"Could we be of any help?" Mal piped up, aiming for the same concerned tone. "Bring some comfort to the injured?"

"The only comfort those folks need is for us to be apprehending the ones that caused them harm," Owens declared with some heat, regarding him shrewdly.

Mal dredged up a nervous, placid smile, keenly aware that Book was not pleased with him either.

The lawman relaxed slightly. "Your offer is a kindly one," he allowed, "but we'll take care of our own."

"Brother Joshua meant no offense," Book said quickly, with a veiled look at Mal. "It's our charitable duty to offer aid to those in need."

It was all Mal could do to keep his hand from straying up to where the collar had suddenly become even more chafing.

"And it's my duty to keep the peace in this town," Owens replied, "which includes keeping off-worlders uninvolved unless absolutely necessary." Turning his back dismissively on them both, he addressed Pastor Devlin. "Are your guests just passing through?"

Mal glanced sideways at Book, who raised one hand in a small gesture of patience.

Devlin seemed unfazed by the sheriff's attitude. "Shepherd Book and Brother Joshua are on their way to Covington Abbey on Greenleaf," he said, and Mal was impressed by how smoothly the churchman told a lie. "The Shepherd and I are old friends, and so they came by for a visit while their ship is on a brief stopover here."

"I see. And they were both here with you when the attack on the rally took place?"

"Yes."

"Did you see any strangers around, or anyone acting in a suspicious manner, at all today?"

Mal felt lightheaded again, and realized he was holding his breath as Devlin continued to lie on their behalf.

"No, nothing out of the ordinary."

The sheriff nodded slowly, weighing the pastor's answers. He glanced at his deputies, then back at Book and Mal, his face betraying nothing. "Not feeling too well, Brother Joshua?" he asked abruptly. "You look somewhat peaked."

The sudden question caught Mal by surprise. "I--what?" He felt a rush of chagrin heat up his face.

"It's his first time on an extended space flight," Book spoke up hastily. "It's been hard for him to adjust, hasn't it, Brother?"

Mal bowed his head, cursing inwardly. "Yes, Shepherd," he replied meekly. "I'll be glad once we get to Greenleaf."

Owens considered him a moment longer, then turned back to Devlin. "I'd like to speak to Mrs. Mallory, Pastor."

"She was with us earlier, Sheriff, but it's visiting day--she took donations down to the free clinic." He clutched his hands together nervously. "I wish now I hadn't let her go--I hope she doesn't run into any trouble along the way."

Owens shrugged impassively. "My boys know her well enough--I'm sure she'll be all right, though I wouldn't expect her back too soon. Things will get a mite restrictive if we don't find who we're looking for." He strode back to the doorway where his deputies waited, then turned and announced, "I'm going to have to ask you gentleman to all remain on church grounds until further notice. And I'll be leaving Constable Harris here on guard, Pastor. It's for you own protection, and I can't be letting any fugitives try to seek sanctuary with you."

Devlin paled, looking outraged. "Sheriff, I must protest--"

"You can take it up with Magistrate Langston when all this is over, Pastor," he suggested with another shrug and a grim smile. "I have my orders."

Ignoring the angry pulse of blood in his ears, Mal shot a glance at Book, who was already on his feet, hurrying defensively to his friend's side. "Sheriff--our ship's scheduled to lift off shortly," he objected with just enough anxiousness.

Owens shook his head. "I wouldn't worry about that, Shepherd," he said. "All ships in the port have most likely been placed under land-lock by now. But we'll try to keep you apprized when that situation changes." He gave them all an officious nod. "Good day, gentleman." He walked out, the one deputy following.

Constable Harris shifted his gun and bowed his head respectfully. "I'll be patrolling the grounds, Pastor. You holler if you need me."

He went out. Devlin stood with his hands clenched at his sides, while Book gave him a grateful tap on the back. "It could have gone worse," he noted softly.

Mal levered himself up with care, holding on to the chair back, not quite ready to trust his leg. "And what the hell happens if he decides to check out that story of yours, Pastor?" he asked vehemently. "What if Mrs. Mallory can't get word back to us about Zoe?"

Book turned on him, eyes blazing. "Any message the sheriff sends to Covington Abbey will be dealt with expediently. And just be grateful, son, that he didn't ask the name of the ship we supposedly have passage on."

His knuckles were turning white where they gripped the chair. "That name you saddled me with," he said incredulously. "It's some kinda code!"

Devlin, folded his hands together and smiled at him with serene bemusement. "It means 'Yahweh is salvation,' and our brothers at Covington will help provide it if necessary. For now, Captain Reynolds, I counsel patience."

If Book hadn't given him such a look of sorry expectation, Mal would have told the pastor exactly what he could do with his advice. "You're both gorram crazy," he muttered, sinking back down on the chair, trying to ignore the way his leg was throbbing. He looked at the pastor wearily. "You two got a past--but why are you helping me and the rest of mine, when it could get you into all kinds of trouble?"

Devlin's round, pleasant face registered dismay at the question. "Because," he answered unequivocally, "it's the right thing to do."

******

The right thing included giving his guests a chance to freshen up, and serving them a light but nourishing meal of soup and bread. Mal got his first good look at the general layout of their sanctuary when they sat down to table on the porch which wrapped its way around the front and one side of the rectory. Steps led down from the rear into a large walled garden.

When Book and Devlin bent their heads to say grace, Mal sat stiff and unyielding until he saw Constable Harris eyeing them as he walked by. He had no choice but to emulate the two genuine clergymen, folding his hands and bowing his head in the same prayerful attitude.

"'Trust in the Lord with all your heart,' " Book intoned somberly, "'and lean not on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge Him and He shall direct your paths.' "

"Amen," said Devlin.

Mal carefully watched Harris disappear around the back of the house. "Sure as hell would like to direct my path off this world," he muttered before realizing how ungrateful that sounded. "No offense, Pastor," he said quickly, avoiding Book's rebuking stare. "I do thank you for your help and hospitality."

"You're welcome, son," Devlin answered with a solemn nod.

They ate in silence, and Mal started feeling a whole lot better with some food inside him, though it didn't do much to relieve the fretfulness that had plagued him since he'd woken up. He knew Zoe and the others were perfectly capable of taking care of themselves without him, but being unable to do anything for them was making him tetchy and miserable.

He dropped his spoon and nearly bolted out of his chair when they heard a comm signal buzzing from inside the house. Devlin hurried to answer it, while Mal and Book waited anxiously.

"That was Mrs. Mallory," he reported on his return, patting Mal on the back encouragingly before he sat down again. "She's being detained at the clinic. They've really cracked down on letting people out in the streets without good reason. But she saw Zoe safely to your ship, Captain,"

Book smiled while Mal let out a huge sigh of relief. "And the rest of my crew?"

"Zoe was able to let Mrs. Mallory know that everyone was on board, except for...Miss Serra, I believe she said."

"Don't worry, Mal," Book said softly, seeing his look of consternation. "I'm sure Inara is perfectly safe at the Guild House."

"Yeah," Mal agreed, wiping a shaky hand across his brow. As long as they all stayed put and just waited this mess out--Zoe would do what was best, keep 'em from getting any foolish ideas. Not that patience was his crew's strong suit, either. He truly had to wonder if they got that from him. "We can send a wave back to Zoe, have her contact Inara if she ain't already done so--"

Devlin was shaking his head. "I'm afraid not, son. Mrs. Mallory was only able to get through--and very briefly at that--thanks to our friends at the clinic. All other lines of communication have been restricted until further notice. Only the official channels are being kept open."

"Qu tamade!" Mal slammed a fist against the table. That was the last thing he needed to hear.

"Zhuzui," Book shot at him. "We might have expected as much."

Pastor Devlin started to clear the table. "I am truly sorry," he said as he stood up. "I know it's hard to be out of touch with your people, and there's no telling how long we'll have to wait for other news."

He came around the table and stopped by Mal's side. "Therefore, as Jacob labored for Rachel, I'll set the two of you to work to earn your keep. It should help pass the time more quickly. And we need to get you strengthened up, young man," he said with a kind smile. "I suspect you'd prefer being useful out in the garden, rather than stuck with the dishes."

So within minutes, Mal found himself seated on a stone bench at the back of the house, under the overhanging porch roof, shelling peas. He may have been presenting a very industrious picture to the constable making his rounds, but he surely wasn't feeling any kind of useful. The task was just as excruciatingly dull as it had been in his childhood--peel and shuck, peel and shuck...

The peas belong in the bowl, Malcolm, not in the dirt.

There'll be plenty of time for riding when you've finished with that, son.

With a start he came back to himself, guiltily checking the ground by his feet for any wayward peas. He smiled ruefully at his own foolishness. Lily and Momma had always known when his full attention hadn't been on his kitchen chores, that he'd rather have been out on the prairie seeing to the cattle and horses.

Something about the tranquillity of the garden had taken him back--the pleasure of being surrounded by green, growing things, the security of the stone walls, the warm sun and fresh air...but the memories were costly ones. He'd chosen a life out in the black--he wasn't meant to live joyfully in the world ever again. As often as he craved a little peace in the rough-and-tumble life they lived on Serenity, he knew he'd be a whole lot crazier if he had it all the time.

Devlin appeared at the kitchen door, and Mal got up to bring him the bowl of shelled peas. It took him a moment to coordinate his steps, and he almost stumbled just as Constable Harris came around the corner.

"Guess I don't quite have my land-legs back yet," he said with an embarrassed grin when the man gave him a sharp inquisitive look. The pastor stood by anxiously.

"Yeah," the constable replied, shrugging disinterestedly before he moved on. He had more important things to mind than inept young clerics.

Mal let out a sigh of relief and handed the bowl to Devlin without a word. The pastor brought it inside, then returned with a damp towel for Mal to clean his hands, and another task. "How are you at figures, Brother?"

So Mal resumed his seat on the bench, doing some of Mrs. Mallory's paperwork.

There were no further signs of the troubled situation out in the town--no alarms, no aircraft--except for the continued presence of Constable Harris, and the occasional sound of armed men passing by, or the sight of folks loitering nervously in front of their homes in the tiny street that paralleled the rear wall of the church property. The peacefulness of the garden endured, and Mal grew increasingly restless as the afternoon wore on.

Book and the pastor had emerged from the kitchen, and kept busy tending to a small stand of young fruit trees, and weeding the vegetables. Every so often, when the constable was out of sight, Devlin would duck back into the house to see if the communications blackout had been lifted. But each time he would return with his shoulders slumped, lips set in disappointment as he shook his head at Mal and Book in turn.

Occasionally, as the hours slowly passed, Book would call for Brother Joshua to lend him a hand at one chore or another, giving Mal the excuse to walk about and test his leg. It was okay as long as he didn't put much weight on it, but it was a strain not to favor it too noticeably and arouse any further suspicion.

He was vexed by the fact that it still hurt, that he still having trouble walking, and blamed it on the gorram waiting and rutting uselessness of their situation. If things were different--if they had been in a real mess, out on a dangerous job, fighting for their lives or running like hell to save their skins, he'd have been working past the disabling pain and fatigue without a thought. A good gun battle would have seen him right in no time at all.

***

Part Four