Stealing the Preacher

  Silas Robbins had more depth to him than he liked to let on. Crockett clutched his hands behind his back and rocked onto the balls of his feet as new thoughts took shape in his mind. A man who loved his wife and daughter with such fervor would love the Lord with similar ferocity. If he ever gave his heart in that direction.

  An hour later, Crockett steered the wagon around a particularly ominous-looking mud puddle as he and Joanna slowly made their way to Deanville. The sun had broken through the clouds to warm the air, but the road remained decidedly soggy in places. He’d looked forward to this outing too much to risk being mired to a halt.

  He glanced over to the woman at his side, all buttoned up in her Sunday gloves and bonnet. Entrancing was the word that came to mind. If it was possible for a face to sparkle, hers did as she drank in the scenery. He imagined her cataloguing the rise and fall of the land, the position of the trees, the way the yellowed grass bent with the breeze. Is this what she painted in the barn loft?

  Silas had left strict instructions naming the makeshift studio off limits. Even he never ventured into his daughter’s sanctuary. That was where she could express herself through her art without fear of censure, where she could truly be free. And where, Crockett assumed, she felt closest to her mother.

  “Do you paint landscapes, as well?” he asked, hoping she’d open the door just a bit and let him peek inside those secret places.

  She turned toward him and smiled. “A few, though I find myself more drawn to human subjects.” Her eyes traced the lines of his face for a moment, and Crockett found himself wondering what she saw. Did she simply perceive angles and shadows, or did she truly see him?

  “My mother tutored me in the style of the Hudson River School,” she said, aiming her attention back toward the road, “the style she fell in love with after viewing a Thomas Cole exhibit as a young girl. The paintings idealized nature in such a way that it built a craving within her to someday explore the untamed wilderness in the West.”

  “Is that how she met your father?”

  Joanna peeked at him from beneath the brim of her bonnet. The look would have been coquettish had it not been for the fact that her features were alight with little-girl eagerness. He sensed he was about to be regaled with a well-loved Robbins family tale.

  “She was considered quite a spinster back in New York,” Joanna began. “Not handsome enough to catch a society beau but too educated to attract the average working man. So she dedicated herself to teaching. Art mostly, though she also gave instruction in music. Each year she rewarded her top students with a trip to Frederic Edwin Church’s latest exhibit. He was her favorite contemporary artist, you see.”

  She mentioned the man’s name almost reverently, so Crockett quickly nodded in response, as if he comprehended the significance. He hadn’t a clue who the fellow was, of course, but Joanna didn’t need to know that.

  “Church would travel to far-off exotic places and then return to New York in the winter to paint. Mama longed to follow in his footsteps. She knew, as a woman, she’d never cultivate the type of investors who would allow her to travel to South America as he had, but she’d gained a small inheritance from her father’s estate and saved every spare penny of her earnings, hoping that one day she’d be able to take her own wilderness excursion.”

  “What made her finally leave home?”

  “A painting, naturally.” Joanna winked at him. Crockett was so charmed to be on the receiving end of the gesture for once that he nearly laughed aloud.

  “Twilight in the Wilderness,” Joanna said, as if that explained everything. “Church had captured a rugged landscape of tree-covered mountains embracing a quiet river, all beneath a darkening sky swept with clouds still colored with the lingering pink of a sunset that had just passed. Once she saw that painting, Mama knew she had to go west—had to capture her own piece of the wilderness before civilization swallowed her for the rest of her days.

  “So she finished out her school term, packed her sketchbook and supplies, and set out to find her wilderness.”

  “And found your father instead.” Although a young outlaw like Silas Robbins was bound to be wilderness enough for anyone.

  “Yep.” Another sideways peek from under her bonnet. “He held up her stage.”

  Crockett did laugh then. It was too perfect.

  “She’d been traveling for several months and had made it as far west as Texas when her funds ran out. The stage was to take her to Galveston, where she planned to board a ship for home. When Daddy and the boys held it up, she handed over her few valuables without a quibble. But when one of the men—Frank, I think—took the satchel that held her sketchbook, she fought like a wildcat to get it back.

  “Jasper tried to restrain her while Frank dumped the contents of the bag. They all thought she had a hidden stash of jewels or something. Daddy was the one who first took hold of the sketchbook. He opened it and gazed upon her work. He told me later, that was the moment he fell in love with her—said any woman who could see such beauty in an unforgiving land had to have a pure soul. And Mama said that when the outlaw leader returned her sketchbook to her, his blue eyes glowed above his mask with an admiration she’d never seen in any man back east. It was as if he’d seen her heart when he looked at her sketches, and that glimpse made her beautiful in his eyes.”

  Joanna turned to look at him then, a wistful smile curving her lips. Crockett’s gut clenched. He didn’t have to see her sketchbook. She was already beautiful in his eyes.

  Clearing his throat, Crockett adjusted his grip on the reins and adjusted his thoughts in a less dangerous direction. “So did he abduct her?”

  Joanna laughed, a light, airy sound that wrapped itself around his heart. “Of course not. He did follow her, though. And that evening, he risked his life by coming to town to court her. Mama recognized him immediately but was too enamored to turn him away. They took a table in a dark corner of the café and talked for hours. When he learned she was set to leave in the morning, Daddy proposed that night.”

  “And she agreed?” Crockett couldn’t quite keep the incredulity out of his voice.

  “Not at first. She was worried about the difference in their ages. She was four years older than him, you see, and she worried that such a young, spirited man would grow weary of her as she aged. But Daddy convinced her that once his loyalty was given, nothing could sway him. So she agreed. But she gave a condition—he had to stop his thievery.”

  Crockett did some quick figuring. “But you told me he’s been a rancher for the last sixteen years, so he must not have stopped robbing stages until after you were born.”

  “That’s correct. Unfortunately. It was the only spot of contention between them in the early years. Daddy had promised to go straight as soon as he had enough money to buy a ranch and provide a home for her. He and his gang had always played it safe by stealing only enough to provide for their immediate needs, so he hadn’t stored up much of a cache. They never pulled heists large enough to draw significant attention from the authorities. And they never harmed anyone.” Joanna gave special emphasis to this last point.

  “My mother continued to plead with him to stop, insisting she didn’t need a large house or fancy things. He could hire on at a ranch somewhere or take a job at a mill or a mine. But Daddy refused to work for anyone other than himself, so he continued with his gang until he’d saved up the money to buy a ranch of his own.”

  Her description of her father’s exploits sounded eerily familiar. Crockett frowned as he looked ahead to the outskirts of Deanville. Hadn’t Marshal Coleson said much the same thing when he’d questioned him about his abduction?

  “Oh, you don’t need to frown, Crockett.” Joanna gave his shoulder a playful nudge, clearly misinterpreting his concern. “Mama and I got him on the straight and narrow soon enough.”

  “What role did you play?” he asked, not wanting her to guess his thoughts about the marshal.

  A light blush pinkened her cheeks. “Well, ac
cording to Mama, I captured Daddy’s heart the moment I was born. Whenever he was home, he’d tote me around with him—teaching me how to ride, showing me animal tracks, and carving me wooden toys. I adored him, having no inkling of the secret life he lived. All I knew was that he was my father and he loved me.

  “Then one day, he and his gang held up a coach heading for Bremond. When he opened the door to demand the passengers’ valuables, he found a woman traveling with her daughter. The little girl was about my age, with red hair and freckles. When she saw him, she screamed in terror and nearly tore her mother’s skirts in a desperate bid to get away from him. Daddy slammed the door closed and rode away without taking a single penny from anyone that day, or any day after. He told me later that all he could see that day was my face on that little girl. My terror. Of him. And he couldn’t bear it.”

  Crockett absorbed her words. “Your father might be a stubborn man,” he said after a moment, “but he loves fiercely and has proven capable of radical change. Your story gives me hope for our other endeavor.”

  “Do you think so?” Her eager face shone up at him as if he had just given her a handful of gold.

  Crockett nodded, and her answering smile was glorious.

  As he steered the team toward the general store, Crockett couldn’t help but wonder what stories Joanna would someday tell her own children about how she met their father. Would it be a rousing adventure tale to rival her parents’ story, or would it be an ordinary account of a gentle romance that developed over time? Somehow the latter just didn’t seem to fit.

  Crockett set the brake, climbed down, and turned to assist Joanna. His hands clasped her waist, and an unbidden image of Silas dandling a grandchild on each knee filled his mind—children who were begging to hear the tale of how Grandpa stole their daddy from a train as a birthday present for their mama.

  He jerked his hands away from Joanna’s waist as if she’d burned him. Slow down, Crock, he warned himself. Admitting his attraction to Joanna was one thing. Imagining their future children was quite another.

  “Let’s . . . uh . . . let’s go find that paint.” Crockett took Joanna’s arm and quickly steered her toward the boardwalk before the quizzical look on her face had time to become an actual question.

  20

  Selecting the paint didn’t take long, and when Crockett offered to cart the canisters out to the wagon, Joanna urged him to get out and explore the town afterward, thereby granting her some time for personal shopping.

  “It’s so rare that I get the chance to wander through the store myself,” she explained when he offered to wait. “I usually just give Jasper a list and have him pick up the necessary items when he comes into town, but since I’m here, I’d love the chance to linger over the pretty ribbons and sweet-smelling soaps.”

  Surely that would scare him off. What man wanted to be caught up in a cloud of perfumed soaps and toilet water?

  “I’ll just stroll down to the livery for a bit,” Crockett said, his easy agreement rankling a bit, despite the fact that he was doing exactly what she wanted.

  Botheration. Why did her feelings always have to be in such a jumble whenever he was around?

  “When you’re finished,” he continued, “we can have lunch.”

  Joanna forced her mind back to the task at hand. Fabric. “That would be lovely.” She smiled and shooed him toward the door. “I’ll come find you when I’m finished here.”

  “I’ll keep an eye out for you.” He winked and dipped his head to her before taking the last of the paint outside.

  She hovered by the window, waiting until he’d situated the paint cans in the wagon bed and started making his way down the street toward the livery. Then she made a beeline for the fabric display along the back wall.

  Dean’s Store didn’t boast a very wide selection, and most of it was simple calico, but Joanna eagerly fingered every bolt of cloth, imagining what each might look like done up into a dress. The golden brown material dotted with tiny maroon roses might work well with her coloring, but it was too subdued, too safe. For once, she wanted to stand out instead of blending into the background. A hard enough task when Holly Brewster was prancing around. It’d be even worse now that the woman had actually set her cap for Crockett. Joanna sighed as she considered the choices before her. All the tans and dark greens weren’t going to help much.

  Taking the gold calico in hand, she reached for a bolt of deep russet, thinking it might be close enough in color to the rose pattern to make a pairing, but when she tugged it loose, she discovered a length of blushing pink polished muslin hiding underneath. Joanna sucked in a breath, the russet bolt falling from her hand to thud against the table.

  She carefully extracted the pink fabric from the bottom of the pile. The sheen of it caught the light, drawing a sigh from her as she stroked her hand along its length. It had probably been left over from last spring; the color was far too pastel to be fashionable this time of year, but Joanna didn’t care. In fact, the lighter color suited her purposes precisely. Even better, it would pair well with the chocolate brown underskirt her mother used to wear with her lemon polonaise. The pale yellow hue had always turned Joanna’s complexion rather sallow, so she’d never remade the gown, but the underskirt was a different story. It would add an elegant touch to the cheery pink muslin. Not to mention saving her a great deal of time in the sewing.

  Joanna gathered the bolt into her arms and turned to walk to the counter, only to find a woman blocking her path. The lady’s hair was pulled back into a rather severe knot, her charcoal dress clean but nondescript. Yet it was her assessing stare that stirred Joanna’s unease.

  “I seen you with him.” The accusation lacked heat and was almost conversational in nature, but Joanna still did a quick scan of the store to make sure she had a clear path to the exit should a mad dash become necessary.

  “Who?” she asked, drawing the fabric bolt closer to her chest.

  “The parson. Archer.”

  “Yes. He works for my father and was kind enough to drive me to town.” Joanna pasted on a grin and retreated a step, thinking to make her escape down another aisle.

  “He’s a good man.” The woman blushed slightly and fidgeted with the cuff of her sleeve as her gaze slid to the floor. “If ya ain’t in too big a hurry, I’d be pleased to have the two of ya lunch with me at the boardinghouse. Archer knows where. Just tell ’im Bessie said come.”

  Joanna halted her retreat, touched by the awkward invitation. This woman was no threat. She was simply uncomfortable around strangers, a trait Joanna understood all too well. What must it have cost her to initiate the conversation? It was obvious she held Crockett in high esteem—which proved her a woman of good sense.

  “How kind of you, Bessie. We’d be delighted to join you for lunch. I’m Joanna.” She extended her hand.

  Bessie nodded but barely touched her fingers to Joanna’s. As if she’d suffered through all the socializing she could manage, Bessie spun around without further word and left Joanna alone with her new dress fabric.

  “Care for some more greens, Parson?” Bessie held the bowl out to him, and Crockett accepted it, still in a daze over actually having the woman seated at the table with him. The presence of another female apparently made socializing a less threatening endeavor.

  “Thank you, ma’am.” He placed a small spoonful on his plate and passed the bowl on to Joanna. “I’ll take another one of your yeast rolls, too, if you don’t mind.”

  The woman couldn’t have blushed more prettily if he had named her the fairest maiden in the land.

  “I remembered how much you liked ’em,” she said as she reached for the towel-covered basket.

  “They are truly a piece of heaven, Miss Bessie.” As he reached under the towel to claim a roll, Crockett winked playfully at her. But he regretted his unthinking gesture when his hostess nearly toppled out of her chair from the shock of it.

  Thankfully, Joanna quickly attempted to smooth things over. “You mu
st meet a lot of interesting people, running a boardinghouse. Do you enjoy it?”

  “Not particularly.”

  Crockett ducked his chin and fixed his attention firmly upon his plate, intending to shrink from the conversation so that Miss Bessie could regain her footing.

  “It must be hard work,” Joanna said, impressing him with how quickly and sensitively she adjusted to Bessie’s blunt response.

  “It ain’t the work. I been tendin’ house since I was old enough to wrangle a broom.” She shifted in her chair, and her thumb tapped restlessly against the tabletop. “It’s havin’ strangers showin’ up uninvited and expecting me to wait on ’em hand and foot that puts me in a foul mood.”

  Crockett stuffed the roll in his mouth before she could catch him grinning. He could certainly attest to the truth of that statement.

  “If it were up to me, I wouldn’t take on boarders at all.” Bessie leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms with a huff.

  “Why do you do it, then?” Joanna’s voice held no censure, only curiosity. It didn’t surprise him at all when Miss Bessie’s arms relaxed. Joanna’s calm manner invited openness. Though not the social whirlwind that Holly Brewster was, she had a way of reaching out to those society missed, those most in need of compassion and a listening ear.

  “It was my brother Albert’s idea. All because of that wife of his. She wanted him to sell this place, our parents’ house, so that she and Bertie could move into a nicer one themselves up in Caldwell. He assured me I’d be given a room of my own—a room off the kitchen, I’m sure, so I can do all the cookin’ and cleanin’. Heaven knows that’s what I end up doin’ every time I go for a visit. At least here I can keep my independence and don’t have to put up with Francine’s hostility.”