Stealing the Preacher

  “Marry me, Jo?” The simple words were all he could manage.

  She nodded, shakily at first, then with growing vigor. “Yes, Crockett. Oh, yes!”

  In a flash he was on his feet, catching her as she sprang up from the sofa and into his arms. His mouth found her sweet lips, and triumph sang in his veins.

  She was his.

  Crockett’s arms tightened about her as he drew her close and buried his fingers into the curls at her nape, luxuriating in their softness as they spiraled around him. He broke away from her lips to feather kisses across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose, not wanting to miss a single freckle.

  “I never dreamed I could be so happy,” Joanna whispered, her breath warm against his chin.

  He was kissing a line past her ear when he felt her stiffen. Lifting his head, he forced his attention from the pale expanse of neck that he longed to explore and instead focused on her face. “What is it?”

  “Do you think Daddy will give his blessing?” Her fingers clasped his shirt. “I want to be your wife more than anything, Crockett. Truly I do. But the thought of defying my father to do so . . . it . . . well, I fear it would leave my heart in shreds.”

  “Shh.” He tucked her head beneath his chin and rubbed gentle circles over her back. “I would never make you choose between your father and me, darling. I know how much he means to you, and frankly, he’s rather grown on me, as well.”

  She tilted her head and locked on his gaze. He winked, and the smile that creased her face, though small, made his heart swell.

  “Silas and I came to an understanding a short time ago. He approves my suit.”

  The last of the tension leaked from Joanna’s body, and when she raised up on her toes, he met her halfway, sealing their commitment with a kiss so deep and joyful that when he finally brought it to a close, his breathing was ragged and his hands trembled as he struggled to release his hold on the woman who would soon be his wife.

  Later, as he hiked up the rutted drive to the Brewster homestead, Crockett replayed that moment in his mind. The way Joanna’s face brightened. The way she sought his kiss. The way she felt pressed up against his chest when her arms circled his waist. Such memories put a man in a right cheerful frame of mind, even when embarking on a distasteful task.

  Why, he actually found himself whistling as he trudged past the Brewsters’ corral and bending to pat the head of the old hound dog that trotted out from under the house to sniff his boots.

  “Leave the parson alone, Clancy.” A large man rumbled the order as he stepped down from the front porch. He thumbed his drooping suspenders back onto his shoulders in a well-practiced motion as he strode across the yard. “Go on, now. Git!”

  He kicked at the dog halfheartedly. Clancy evaded the strike with a quick stutter step and scampered off to investigate the mud by the water trough.

  “Parson.” Holly’s father offered his hand in greeting, though his expression remained rather closed. Crockett smiled anyway and clasped the man’s hand.

  “Alan. Good to see you, sir.”

  The two slowly made their way up to the house.

  “Your visit’s got my womenfolk all in a dither,” Alan complained. “Kicked me out of my own kitchen. Sent the boys to the barn as if this were some kind of special occasion. It’s not like you haven’t been here before with all those plannin’ meetings and such.” He halted at the porch steps and eyed Crockett with a wary glance. “Unless this call you’re payin’ tonight is different somehow.” His eyes narrowed even further. “Is it, Parson? Different?”

  Dread tickled his nape as he faced Holly’s father, but he strove to keep his voice steady with no hint of apology. “I’m not here to plan another church event, but I am here in an official capacity.”

  “What kind of official capacity?” Suspicion darkened the man’s features.

  Crockett met his stare without a blink. “I’m afraid it’s a private matter between Holly and me, but your concern does you credit, sir. In fact, I would welcome your supervision should you care to keep an eye on things.”

  “Plan on it.”

  Crockett nodded. Having Alan Brewster chaperone the visit might not be terribly comfortable with the grizzly-bear stare the man was aiming at him, but he’d rather suffer that discomfort than the type Holly dished out.

  “Sarah!” Mr. Brewster yelled up to the house. “Parson’s here!”

  Holly’s mother burst out of the door like a plump quail freshly flushed from her nest. “Well, for heaven’s sake, Alan. Quit your hollerin’ and show the man up here.”

  “He can find his own way,” Alan groused. “I’ll be out by the corral. Keepin’ an eye on . . . things.” He shot a meaningful glance at Crockett.

  Crockett stepped aside to let the man pass, feeling the heat of that glance between his shoulder blades as he climbed the steps to the front porch. Removing his hat, he dipped his chin to Sarah. “Ma’am.”

  “Brother Archer, we’re delighted to have you pay a call on us this evening.” The woman’s hands fluttered about like a pair of birds that couldn’t decide where to alight. “Holly could talk of nothing else all day.”

  “Mother,” a second feminine voice chided from just inside the door, “you’re going to embarrass him and me with talk like that.”

  Crockett crossed the threshold and found Holly standing just inside the door. A fading sunbeam fell through the westward facing window to dance upon her blond hair, making it glow like a golden halo. She smiled prettily and held out her hands to take his hat, but she waited for him to come to her, as if she knew the sunlight in that particular spot showed her beauty off to its best advantage and was loath to leave it.

  “We saved you some cobbler,” Holly said, finally abandoning her sunbeam to take his arm and lead him to a chair. “I’ll dish some up for you.”

  “Only if you ladies will join me.” Crockett aimed his smile at Sarah, but Holly was the one who answered.

  “Oh, Mother has some mending to attend to in the parlor. Don’t you, Mama?”

  “Ah . . . yes. That’s right. Mending. Big pile.”

  Crockett felt himself being maneuvered into a corner. Time for a quick dodge. “Well, in that case, why don’t you and I enjoy our dessert out on the porch, Miss Brewster?” He favored Holly with his most charming grin. Two could play this game. “The swing would make a cozy place for our talk—private yet still proper.”

  “That’s a wonderful idea, Parson,” Sarah gushed. “I’ll dish up the cobbler while you two get comfortable.”

  She shooed them out the front door, and Crockett escorted Holly to the wooden swing that turned out to be a bit narrower than he had originally thought. It didn’t help matters when Holly seated herself several inches away from the arm on her side, leaving barely enough room for him to sit without having his leg rub up against hers.

  Reminding himself of his reason for coming, he aimed an apologetic grin her way. “I’m sorry, Miss Brewster. Would you mind scooting over a bit? I don’t have quite enough room.”

  Her lips tightened in a disgruntled expression before quickly softening into a smile. “Of course.” She shifted a negligible amount. “Is that better?”

  “A little more please.”

  Something unpleasant flashed in her eyes, but she complied.

  “Thank you.”

  The cobbler arrived, saving Crockett from having to say anything more, and he welcomed the reprieve. He tucked into the dessert, the sweetness of the sugared blackberries helping to improve his mood. He scraped every last bit of the deep purple syrup from the inside of his bowl before finally setting the dish on the floor to his side. The reprieve was over.

  “You’re a fine cook, Miss Brewster. That cobbler was delicious.”

  Her cheeks pinkened at his compliment, her lashes lowering demurely. “Thank you. But please, Crockett”—her lashes lifted as she drew his given name across her tongue as if it were the dessert—“call me Holly.”

  “No, ma’am. I d
on’t think I will.”

  She blinked. “What?”

  “This is what I wanted to talk to you about, Miss Brewster.” Pressing his back against the swing arm, Crockett turned to face her more squarely as he tried desperately to ignore the jittery surging of his pulse. He needed to present a strong, confident front, not prove himself a bag of nerves. Clearing his throat, he forced himself to meet her gaze. “I’m concerned that you are playing a game that could lead you to serious harm.”

  “Why, I-I have no idea what you mean.” She put up a good front, but when her fingers started plucking at her skirt, he knew he’d unsettled her.

  “Miss Brewster, I’m not unaware of the special attention you’ve been paying to me. It is quite flattering, but I fear, not . . . appropriate.” Crockett spoke slowly, thinking over each word as he strove to find the proper balance of gentleness and reproof. “Restore in the spirit of meekness,” Scripture admonished. “I do not wish to injure your feelings; however, I must make my position clear. I will not be pursuing a courtship with you. My heart is already engaged elsewhere.”

  Deep lines marred the pale perfection of her brow. “But you’re here . . . now. Didn’t you come to see me?” Slowly the lines eased, replaced by the pout she had perfected.

  “I came as your minister, not as a beau.” Crockett leaned forward, willing her soul to heed his warning. “You are young and lovely, but some of your behavior of late has been shockingly forward. To tell the truth, it has made me quite uncomfortable. I worry that if you continue in this manner, other men might get the wrong idea and attempt to take advantage of you.”

  “But I’m not interested in any other men, Crockett. I’m interested in you.” She reached between them and placed her hand on his knee.

  Frowning, he took hold of her wrist and dropped her hand back onto her lap. “You see, Miss Brewster? This is exactly what I mean. I have told you that my heart belongs to another, yet you continue to press yourself upon me, despite my warnings. I really must insist that you stop.”

  Crockett stood, setting the swing in motion. “I’m sorry to have to be so frank, but you need to understand and accept that the only relationship I am interested in having with you is that of preacher and parishioner.”

  Holly stopped the swing’s motion with the sole of her shoe and launched to her feet. Her blue eyes crackled like a midday sky after the hiss of lightning. “Who is this woman who claims your heart? Someone you knew before?” Gone were the pretty pout and the languid lashes. Fire was all that remained when she jammed her fists onto her hips and stood toe-to-toe with him.

  “Her identity doesn’t matter. What matters is that you curb your forward behavior. It attracts the wrong kind of attention from the wrong kind of man and has no place in a Christian woman’s life. Hold yourself to a higher standard, Miss Brewster, and accept the truth that there will never be anything between us.”

  “You know what I think?” She poked him in the chest. “I think there is no other woman. I think you’re just frightened by what I make you feel. I tempt you, don’t I? I make you feel things you think a preacher ought not feel.”

  “Miss Brewster.” Crockett growled the warning, barely keeping his ire leashed. But Holly took no heed as she rushed on.

  “Passion is not evil, Crockett. It’s a gift from God. Haven’t you read Solomon’s Song? And what about Paul? Didn’t he say that marriage is the godly solution for those who burn for one another?”

  “Enough!”

  She jumped at his bark, but Crockett no longer cared about her comfort. The time for gentleness had passed. He longed to throw Joanna’s name into her arguments like a stick of dynamite and blow them all to bits. Holly would hear the news soon enough anyway. However, a shred of caution stayed his tongue. He’d be doing his love no favors if he dragged her into this ugliness.

  Instead he forced other words through his teeth, spitting out one at a time. “I am not now, nor will I ever be, interested in a relationship with you, Miss Brewster, and I’ll thank you to never speak of this again.”

  With that, he strode across the porch to the front door, opened it, and leaned inside to collect his hat from the hook on the wall. Slapping it on his head, he marched down the steps into the yard, his only goal to escape this place and the irrational woman who refused to take no for an answer.

  He didn’t miss the wail that pierced the evening air nor the slam of the door that echoed behind him, but neither did he turn to look. He wouldn’t have stopped at all had not a shadowy figure emerged from the barn.

  “I don’t know what your game is, Parson,” Alan Brewster murmured in a lethal voice not two feet away, “but if you hurt my little girl, the only preachin’ you’ll be doin’ is from six feet under. Understand?”

  Crockett nodded with a sharp downward thrust of his chin and without a word continued his march home.

  37

  The following evening found Crockett equally weary as he trudged home. Silas had taken it into his head to show Crockett the ins and outs of the ranch in excruciating detail—everything from riding the borders of the property to going over the account ledgers to discussing his plans for breeding and future expansion of the herd. Silas hadn’t stopped once all day, even discussing business through lunch and supper. Crockett feared his head would explode if he tried to squeeze one more piece of information between his ears.

  Silas had tried well to hide his desperation, but Crockett had felt it with every instruction he gave, every plan he shared. He was like a condemned man talking over the sound of sand rushing through his hourglass. When Crockett reminded him that Coleson had made no move to pursue an arrest after speaking with Jackson, Silas had just clasped his shoulder and told him that once he and Jo were married, he would be a partner in the Lazy R anyway, so there was nothing to lose in showing him the ropes now.

  Crockett grinned as he crossed the field to the churchyard. The man who’d hated preachers for forty years was not only welcoming one into the family but handing over the reins of his ranch. If anyone doubted the existence of God, they’d have only to witness Silas Robbins’s turnabout to be convinced. No other explanation would suffice.

  Thank you, Father, for your patient wooing, for never giving up on any of us. Keep working on Silas. Guard his newfound faith through whatever trials may arise, and help him to fully accept you as Lord. Give Jo and me wisdom as we walk alongside him and—

  A clanking noise from inside his rooms interrupted his prayer as he approached the rear of the church. Had a coon found its way inside? He hoped the little bandit hadn’t gotten into his books. Most were safely stored in his trunk, but he’d left a few sitting out on his table last night, including his Bible. He’d had to read all three epistles of John to calm down after his run-in with Holly. He’d gone to bed meditating on 1 John 4:11—“Beloved, if God so loved us, we ought also to love one another”—before he’d finally reclaimed enough peace to sleep. Some people were a trial to love, but with God’s help, he’d find a way.

  Having reached his door, he yanked it open and scanned the interior for signs of a furry intruder. The intruder he found, though, was neither furry nor likely to scamper away with a stomp of his foot or a wave of his hat.

  Crockett stiffened. “What are you doing in my house?”

  Holly Brewster smiled sweetly and held out a cup of coffee and a plate bearing some kind of wedge-shaped dessert. Crockett didn’t take the time to assess if it was pie or cake. All of his attention, and fury, were focused on the woman making herself at home in his personal sanctuary.

  “I came to apologize for that little misunderstanding we had last night and to bring you a peace offering.” She lifted the plate toward him again, but Crockett just scowled at her, not about to accept anything she offered. “Come on,” she cooed. “It’s my vanilla cream cake, guaranteed to bring a smile to even the grumpiest of faces.”

  “You need to leave. Now.” Crockett strode forward and swiped the plate from her hand. He dumped the dish, cake
and all, into the ribbon-covered basket sitting on his table.

  Finding a shawl that could only be hers draped across his bed, he snatched it up and tossed it at her, not caring if the coffee she held splattered the fine wool.

  “Do you have no care for your reputation?” He growled the question, barely restraining the shout clawing its way up his throat. “Or mine? You can’t be in my rooms.”

  She set the coffee cup aside and folded her shawl over her arm as if his reaction didn’t perturb her the slightest bit. “You’re overreacting, Crockett.”

  “It’s Brother Archer,” he ground out between clenched teeth. “I am your minister, not your beau.” He clasped her elbow, maintaining enough self-control to keep his grip only firm, not painful, while he encouraged her toward the door.

  She tried to yank her arm free from his grasp, her eyes finally widening in alarm, but he refused to release her.

  “How dare you treat me this way,” she sputtered. “You have no right!” She fought his hold yet was no match for his strength.

  “I not only have the right,” he said, grabbing the basket from the table as they passed, “I have the obligation as a Christian man to protect your virtue.” He reached the door that still hung ajar from when he’d entered and pushed it fully open with the toe of his boot. “You’re like a child who keeps wandering too close to the stove. You won’t heed my warnings, so my only choice is to put you out of the kitchen.”

  “A child?” Holly screeched. “Why, you condescending, manhandling barbarian! You think you’re so noble, but you’re nothing more than a bully. A bully!”

  With a swing of his arm, Crockett set her forcibly out of his home, thrust the basket at her, and then stepped back and closed the door in her disbelieving face.

  Something crashed against the wall. Probably a plate, by the sound of it. Crockett leaned his back against the door, some part of his brain wondering if the cake had still been on it when she threw it.