Stealing the Preacher

  “What I want is your butt in the saddle.” Silas’s hands clenched into fists, but he kept them at his sides as he marched up to where the lawman lounged against the doorframe. “An innocent man’s gonna be lynched unless you put a stop to it.”

  “And who’s the poor soul I’m supposed to save?” Coleman straightened a bit at Silas’s approach but gave no indication he intended to follow him to the churchyard.

  “The parson.”

  “Archer?” Laughter sputtered out of the lawman. Silas’s right hand twitched. He ached to shut the man up with a quick jab to the mouth.

  Coleson pushed his hat back on his forehead. “I guess I’m supposed to believe he stepped on the wrong toes in one of his sermons, huh? Come on, Robbins. I expected better of you. At least come up with a tale that’s remotely believable.”

  Silas was debating the merits of forcibly installing the man on his horse when Jackson pushed past Coleson, his face whiter than milk on snow.

  “Who’s got Crock?”

  “Alan Brewster.” Silas focused on the boy, letting the marshal fade from his vision entirely. “He’s got it in his head that the parson attacked Holly.”

  Color surged back to Jackson’s cheeks. “Crock would never hurt a woman. Never!” The kid stomped over to Silas’s side, then hopped from one foot to the next as if he couldn’t quite contain his outrage. “Holly Brewster’s been chasing after him for weeks, always throwin’ herself in his path and makin’ eyes at him in church. I kept telling him he needed to set her straight, but you know Crock. He’s too nice. Every time he tried to discourage her, she doubled her efforts. She must’ve cornered him, pushed him so far that he stopped worryin’ about her feelings and finally told her flat out to leave him be. That woulda made her madder than spit.”

  “Well, right now the only thing standing between Archer and a stretched neck is Jo and my promise to fetch a lawman to sort things out.” Silas glared at Coleson. “So, you comin’?”

  The marshal glared back, holding his answer hostage.

  “I am.” Jackson shoved his foot into Gamble’s stirrup and reached for the saddle horn.

  “Watch that arm, boy.” Worried Jackson would damage his still-healing wound, Silas hurried over to give him a leg up. “You sure you’re ready to ride?”

  “Crock’s the best friend I got. I’m goin’.” Jackson’s mulish expression as he settled into the saddle kept Silas from arguing. He nodded instead and swung up behind the boy.

  Coleson approached the pair and laid a staying hand on Jackson’s leg. “You really believe Archer’s in trouble, son?”

  “Yes, sir, Marshal.” Jackson glanced over his shoulder at Silas, then turned back to Coleson. “I know you think he used to rob them stagecoaches, and maybe he did way back when. But that don’t make no never mind to me. I’ve known Mr. Robbins for near half my life, and I trust him.”

  “Even after he shot you?”

  “On accident—how many times do I have to tell you?” Jackson corrected, his defense a salve on Silas’s conscience. “And yes, I still trust him.”

  Coleson’s gaze narrowed as it slid from the kid to Silas. “Maybe I’d trust him, too, if he stopped hiding his past.”

  “Come with me now, and I’ll tell you everything you want to know.” The words surprised Silas as much as the lawman, but something inside clicked into place with the saying of them. He’d vowed to let God have his way with him, but that couldn’t happen if he was still holding on to the sins of his past, could it? Time to put the old to rest and take up the new.

  After they saw to Archer.

  “I plan to hold you to that, Robbins,” the marshal said as he strode toward his horse.

  Silas maintained his stoic mask despite the rapid thump in his chest. He’d face what he had to face when the time came, but for now what mattered was keeping his promise to his little girl.

  Touching his heels to Gamble’s flanks, he set off for the church, praying he’d find Archer still breathing when he got there.

  Joanna’s arms ached and had begun to shake, but she refused to lower her rifle, despite the fact that Alan Brewster was no longer paying her any mind. It was the only thing she could do for Crockett, and she had to do something. She couldn’t tend his wounds, couldn’t hold him, couldn’t even get that foul rope off his neck. All she could do was watch, pray, and keep her rifle trained on the man who threatened his life.

  She spared a quick glance toward the road. Where are you, Daddy? Had the marshal moved on? What would happen if he wasn’t there? Would they be able to stop Mr. Brewster without the law to intervene?

  A bead of sweat rolled down her spine, slowing over each bump of her backbone. Joanna felt each rise and fall of the droplet as if time had slowed. And when the trail ended at the small of her back, she couldn’t escape the morbid sensation that Crockett’s time had reached its end, as well.

  “This is taking too long,” Alan Brewster grumbled. He stopped his agitated pacing and strode over to Crockett. “I shouldn’t have sent Buck after Holly. She’s been through enough tonight without being forced to see this scum again. I say we just take care of business now and spare her the ugliness.”

  “No!” Joanna jumped from Sunflower’s back and raced toward the men. She raised her rifle like a club, fully prepared to swing it at Mr. Brewster’s head, but he turned, and with a mighty sweep of his arm, knocked the weapon out of her hands. She cried out in surprise and despair, staggering slightly from the blow, while the second man dashed over to collect the rifle.

  “Jo!” Crockett jerked against his bonds, fighting to get free. But his struggles only served to upset his horse. His body stretched dangerously backward, the rope pulling taut as his mount skittered forward.

  “I’m fine, Crockett,” Joanna rushed to assure him. She attempted to dodge Holly’s father in order to get to the horse, but he grabbed her about the waist and set her aside.

  “Not so fast, girlie. You ain’t getting near my prisoner.”

  “Then get your man to control that horse,” Joanna demanded.

  “Walt?” Mr. Brewster didn’t even have the decency to glance at Crockett’s predicament, so intent was he on glaring her into submission.

  “I got him, Alan.” The man reclaimed the reins and backed the horse up a step, then two. Finally, Crockett sat at a normal angle, and Joanna breathed easier.

  “Please, Mr. Brewster.” Joanna grabbed his sleeve in supplication. “Undo the rope. Marshal Coleson will make sure justice is done when he arrives. There’s no reason to risk an accident taking Crockett’s life in the meantime.”

  Holly’s father shook off her hold. “You know, a decent woman would have more compassion for the female who’d been hurt instead of pleading for the release of her attacker.”

  Joanna’s spine stiffened. She straightened to her full height and stared the man directly in the eyes. “A decent woman stands by the man she loves no matter what vile lies are used to condemn him.”

  “Are you calling my Holly a liar?”

  Joanna said nothing. She just stared back at him, letting her certainty do the talking for her.

  “Why, you . . .” He raised his hand, his intent clear.

  Joanna braced herself but never took her eyes from his.

  “Lay a hand on that woman, and you’ll be the one I cart off to jail tonight, mister. No questions asked.”

  Marshal Coleson. Joanna spun to face the lawman, not surprised to see two guns trained on Mr. Brewster, the second belonging to her father. What did surprise her was the blond beauty peering over the marshal’s shoulder from the back of his horse, and the truly horrified expression marring her usually lovely features.

  “Papa! What are you doing?”

  40

  Alan Brewster lowered his hand, and the wildness rising to a fever pitch inside Crockett subsided.

  “Holly?” Alan stepped away from Joanna and took a step toward his daughter.

  Joanna took advantage of his distraction and
ran to Crockett. She grabbed hold of his leg and laid her cheek against the bend of his knee. Crockett’s eyes slid closed as he absorbed the feel of her, wishing his hands were free to caress her face and stroke her glorious hair.

  “Are you all right?” he managed through a tight throat, the rope keeping him from bending his chin enough to see more than the top of her head. “He didn’t hurt you, did he?” Crockett hated the helplessness of his position. He could deal with the bonds and the noose and the stupidly skittish horse when he was the only one in danger, but when Brewster turned on Joanna, he’d nearly gone out of his mind.

  She raised her head and leaned back enough to allow him to see her eyes glittering in the lantern light. “I’m fine as long as you are alive and well.”

  “I love you, Joanna. No matter what happens, know that.”

  A fierce look swept over her face, much like the expression she’d worn when she confronted Alan Brewster with nothing but her faith in his innocence—a faith that made him want to shout in triumph and kiss her senseless all at the same time. “The only thing that’s going to happen, Crockett Archer, is you getting out of that awful rope and off this horse so you can marry me like you promised. You got that?”

  A grin pulled against his split lip, but Crockett welcomed the prick of pain. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “This your daughter, mister?” Coleson called out, drawing Crockett’s attention as the marshal gave Holly an arm down from her perch behind him. “We found her walking along the road with some fella named Buck. She seemed surprised to hear what was transpirin’ down here at the church. Asked if she could ride with me the rest of the way.”

  Holly slid to the ground and rushed to her father. She had changed her dress and repaired her hair, and Crockett prayed her improved appearance would play in his favor.

  “Papa, this is wrong,” she murmured, her voice quiet after the booming tones of Marshal Coleson, but it still managed to carry through the night air. She cast a guilty glance toward Crockett, and then her gaze fell on Joanna and her eyes widened before shooting a look back at Crockett’s face. She bit her lip and turned back to her father. “Let him go, Papa.”

  “But he hurt you, darlin’. I can’t let him get away with that.” The tender way he spoke did nothing to dim the hostility in his stance. “Either the marshal takes him in or I mete out the justice myself, but I ain’t leavin’ here tonight without making sure he pays for what he done to you.”

  “He did hurt me,” Holly began, and Joanna stiffened beside Crockett.

  “Easy,” he whispered. “Give her a chance to do what’s right.” He’d seen the way Holly looked at Joanna. She knew now—knew that Joanna was the woman he’d spoken about, knew that he’d told the truth about being promised to another.

  “He hurt me,” Holly said, her gaze dropping to the ground, “but not in the way you think. He only hurt my pride.”

  “But your dress,” Alan sputtered. “Your hair. The dirt and leaves. I know what I saw when you came home, and the damage was to more than your pride, girl. Don’t let this lawman intimidate you and keep you from speaking the truth.”

  Holly’s head snapped up. “When have I ever let a man intimidate me?”

  Crockett nearly choked on the sudden urge to laugh.

  “Are you sayin’ you lied to me, girl?” Brewster growled, grabbing onto Holly’s arm.

  “I never lied,” she shot back. “I just let you draw your own conclusions.”

  Brewster shoved his daughter away and clasped his hands behind his back, as if afraid of what they might do if he didn’t rein them in. “Land sakes, girl! I nearly killed a man, and you’re tellin’ me it was all some kind of game?” He strode toward Crockett, muttering under his breath.

  Holly followed on his heels. “I never asked you to hang him, Papa. I just wanted you to make him leave.”

  “Why?” Brewster spun to face her. “Because he chose to court Joanna Robbins instead of you?”

  Holly drew up short, her eyes going wide. “What?”

  “Don’t think I haven’t heard you and your mama scheming. I knew you were anglin’ after the parson, but I never believed any child of mine could be so spiteful as to mar a good man’s reputation just because she didn’t get what she wanted from him. You’re a spoiled, deceitful girl, Holly, and I’m ashamed of ya.” Brewster turned his back on her, pulled a hunting knife from the leather sheath at his waist, and reached behind Crockett to slice the ropes binding his wrists.

  Crockett’s arms sprang apart, and hundreds of needle-sharp pricks stabbed into his hands as blood began to flow back into his palms and fingers. Without giving his flesh time to recover, he reached to his neck, grasped the rope chaffing the underside of his jaw, and flung it over his head. In the next instant he was off the saddle—clutching Joanna to his chest and wiping the tears of relief from her cheeks while trying to keep his own from falling.

  Her arms wrapped around his middle and drew his bruised body up against her softness. “Thank you, God,” she whispered. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”

  His heart echoed her sentiment while his face buried itself in her hair. Inhaling deeply, he exulted in the clean, sunshiny scent of her. He was going to live. Live to be a husband, a father. To love Joanna for however many days the Lord granted them together.

  So lost was he in the woman in his arms, that when another feminine voice clamored, he startled.

  “Papa! How can you say such horrible things?” Genuine shock and hurt laced Holly’s voice. Crockett lifted his head and winced when Brewster yanked his arm away from his daughter’s attempted touch. “I never once uttered anything untrue,” she insisted. “It was you who drew the wrong conclusion, your rage that put Brother Archer’s head in that noose.”

  Brewster’s shoulders slumped, and his hand trembled as he rubbed it over his face. “It’s true that I let my rage spin out of control, and when I think of what almost happened, it turns my stomach. I can only pray that God and the parson will forgive me.”

  Holly stood straighter, a smile brightening her face. But when her father saw that smile, he stiffened.

  “I got a scare today, Holly. A scare that will keep me from making a mistake like this again. What have you learned?”

  She blinked and tipped her head sideways, as if trying to puzzle out her father’s meaning.

  “You’re not innocent of wrongdoing,” Alan said, his voice heavy, tired. “It was you who instigated these events with your manipulations and deceitful ways.”

  Her brow scrunched, and she opened her mouth as if to protest, but he cut her off. “You don’t have to lie with your tongue to be deceitful. Satan himself tried to tempt Christ with the truth of Scripture twisted to his own purposes.”

  “Are you comparing me to . . . to Satan?” Holly reared back as if he’d struck her.

  Crockett’s heart stirred with compassion, and he thought to intervene, but Joanna squeezed his hand. “Easy,” she whispered, echoing his earlier words to her. “Give him a chance. He knows her better than we do.”

  Crockett smiled down at the beautiful woman looking at him with wise blue-gray eyes and squeezed her hand in return. “You’re going to make me a fine wife, Miss Robbins.”

  She favored him with the wink he would have given her if his left eye hadn’t swollen nearly shut. “I vow to do my best, Mr. Archer.”

  He wanted nothing more than to tug her close again, but Alan Brewster had turned his back on Holly in order to face them.

  “I owe you an apology, Parson.” Brewster lifted his chin and met Crockett’s stare head on.

  Crockett nodded quickly and without reservation. Then he held his hand out to the older man. Brewster hesitated a moment, then shook it with a firm grip.

  “I promise you that I’ll be taking the girl firmly in hand after this. And I’ll be havin’ a talk with her mother, as well.” The man didn’t wait for a response, just barked at Holly to get herself on his horse and marched back toward the church where his mount
waited.

  Walt collected the lanterns without uttering a word, and Holly scampered after her father, keeping her attention glued to the ground in front of her.

  Once they rode out, Joanna sagged against Crockett’s side. “Praise God that’s over,” she sighed. Maintaining her grip on his hand, she swung around to regard him more fully. Her eyes scanned his face, and her lips pursed in displeasure at what she saw. “Those cuts are going to need some attention.”

  “You volunteering for the job?” He did his best to waggle his brows in a rakish manner, and was thoroughly enjoying the bloom of her smile when Jackson came running up from across the churchyard.

  “Crock! Crock, come quick.” The boy waved his good arm in frantic motions above his head. “The marshal’s arrestin’ Silas!”

  41

  What?” Joanna’s already frayed emotions shredded like a piece of antique lace being dragged across a thistle patch.

  This can’t be happening. Not now. It had to be some kind of mistake.

  She looked past Jackson to her father. His hands were outstretched, wrist-over-wrist before him while Marshal Coleson secured them with a strip of leather, as if her father were a horse to be hobbled.

  “Wait!” She lurched forward, her legs nothing but trembling sticks as she fumbled over the ground separating her from her father. “Stop!”

  Crockett was at her side in an instant, his warm hand gripping her elbow, supporting her, strengthening her, as his steady gait propelled her securely across the remaining distance. Jackson fell into step behind them.

  “What are you doing?” Joanna wrenched her arm away from Crockett’s hold when they reached the men and threw herself at the marshal. She shoved against his shoulder, hard, forcing him to stumble backward a step. “You can’t arrest him. Jackson’s shooting was an accident.”

  Marshal Coleson stoically regained his footing and regarded her with a cool gaze. “I’m not arresting him for the shooting.”