Stealing the Preacher

  Jackson had begged to be included on the witness list, but Mr. Gillman, the attorney, had been afraid the marshal would bring up the shooting incident if Jackson took the stand, and that wouldn’t do Silas any favors.

  The door to the judge’s chambers cracked open, and Joanna squeezed Crockett’s hand. He stroked the pad of his thumb over her knuckles and shifted closer to her on the wooden gallery pew, his own nerves on edge.

  The judge, a surprisingly short, slender man with a balding pate, strode into the courtroom. He seemed to grow in stature, however, as he ascended to the bench, and when he pounded his gavel, all chatter died. With no more than a flick of the wrist, the man had taken command of the room.

  Crockett and Joanna rose to their feet along with the rest of the crowd, but the judge quickly waved them all back down. Gillman had assured him that Judge Wicker was a fair man who didn’t stand on ceremony, and it appeared that at least the latter half of that assessment was true. Crockett prayed the first half proved accurate, as well.

  “Silas Robbins.” The judge’s voice echoed through the crowded room with an impressive boom. Mr. Gillman stood and urged Silas to do the same. The judge shuffled some papers around on his desk as he continued. “You are charged with an ambiguous number of robberies.” He looked up and pierced Coleson with a glare of displeasure. “Apparently the good marshal, here, was unclear as to how many crimes to actually charge you with.”

  “That’s my fault, Your Honor,” Silas said, ignoring the lawyer at his side who was muttering furiously at him to be quiet. “When I made my confession, I couldn’t recall the exact number of stagecoaches. Probably around twenty or so. I only robbed three trains, though. Four if you count the time I abducted the parson.” He jabbed his finger over his shoulder.

  Crockett raised his hand and waved at the judge.

  “What are you doing?” Joanna hissed.

  Crockett bent toward her and whispered out of the side of his mouth. “Trying to show there are no hard feelings over that incident.”

  The judge raised a brow at Crockett and turned back to Coleson. “I don’t see kidnapping listed among the crimes.”

  “That’s because the parson refuses to press charges.” The marshal folded his arms across his chest, and Crockett had no doubt the lawman’s glare would’ve scorched him if he had actually glanced in his direction. “’Course, I hear he’s marryin’ up with the defendant’s daughter, so that might have something to do with it.”

  “The parson’s matrimonial prospects are not the concern of this court, Marshal. I’ll thank you to keep your suppositions to yourself so that we may progress in an orderly manner. Do I make myself clear?”

  Coleson scuffed the sole of his left boot against the oak floorboards. “Yes, sir.”

  The judge redirected his attention to Silas. “Now, Robbins, since you have been so forthcoming about the events for which you are charged, and since I have a statement from Mr. Coleson indicating that you have confessed to the crimes in question, may I assume that you are entering a guilty plea?”

  Silas straightened his posture and lifted his chin in a way that reminded Crockett of Joanna when she was determined to see something through. “Yes, Your Honor.”

  Joanna whimpered softly, and Crockett wrapped his arm around her, wishing he could do more to protect her heart from this emotional pummeling.

  “An honest criminal,” Judge Wicker remarked. “That’s a rarity in my line of work. Refreshing.” He made a note on one of the papers in front of him, then gestured to Mr. Gillman. “Before I pronounce sentence, do you have any witnesses who wish to offer testimony on Mr. Robbins’s behalf?”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” the lawyer replied.

  “Very well. Call your first witness.”

  “I call Silas Robbins.”

  After giving his oath to tell the truth, Silas took the stand.

  Mr. Gillman strode up to Silas, then turned slightly to include the audience as well as the judge in his questioning. “Mr. Robbins. How many years have passed since the last time you stole something? A material possession of any value.”

  Silas cleared his throat. “Sixteen years.”

  The lawyer paced before the judge’s bench, hands behind his back. “And after sixteen years of lawful living, what prodded you to suddenly confess these past wrongs?”

  “Got tired of carryin’ the past around with me while dodgin’ God and my conscience. Finally stopped dodging and realized it was time to come clean. I couldn’t be God’s man otherwise.”

  Mr. Gillman smiled. “I see. So not only have you been a law-abiding citizen for the past sixteen years, but you have also recently become a man of religious conviction. Admirable, indeed. No further questions.”

  “You may be excused, Mr. Robbins.” Judge Wicker directed Silas back to his seat. “Call your next witness.”

  Gillman turned to face the gallery. “I call Mrs. Idabelle Grimley.”

  A shuffle echoed behind Crockett as Mrs. Grimley made her way forward, clutching her handbag nervously before her. Her gaze found his as she passed his row, and Crockett nodded encouragement to her.

  At Mr. Gillman’s prompting, she told the court about the time Silas had shown up on her family’s doorstep with two of his men in tow offering to cut hay after her husband had been laid up with a broken leg. Mr. Robbins hadn’t accepted a thing in payment beyond the cherry pie she forced him to take home in thanks.

  Two other church members took the stand following Mrs. Grimley, each painting a picture of Silas as a hardworking rancher who kept mostly to himself but who could always be counted on to help his neighbor in time of crisis. When the attorney turned toward the crowd to call the fourth witness, however, Judge Wicker interrupted him.

  “You’ve made your point, Gillman. Robbins has been a model citizen and a decent neighbor to these folks.” He waved his hand impatiently, as if trying to erase names from an invisible blackboard. “I think we can dispense with the rest of the witnesses if they all have a similar testimony.”

  “Yes, Your Honor.” Gillman took his seat.

  Judge Wicker turned to Coleson. “You have any refuting witnesses?”

  The marshal slowly gained his feet. “Uh . . . no, Your Honor. But the man’s confessed,” he hurried to add, “so that should tell you all you need to know.”

  The judge frowned. “Did you not wire area lawmen to see if there were witnesses willing to testify regarding Mr. Robbins’s crimes?”

  “I did. But of the two men who came forward, neither could identify him. Robbins always wore a bandana over his face, you see. And with all the years that’ve passed . . . well . . . the witnesses weren’t willing to swear on a Bible that he was the man who’d robbed them.”

  Judge Wicker glared his displeasure at the marshal until the man finally took his seat. “This is highly irregular,” the judge grumbled. “A confession of decades-old crimes from a criminal with no accusers.” He set aside his papers and let out a heavy sigh.

  Joanna tensed. Crockett rubbed her arm, his own chest growing tight.

  “Mr. Robbins,” the judge intoned, his scowl locking on Silas as Joanna’s father pushed his chair back and rose to accept his sentence. “You present me an unusual dilemma. You have pled guilty to the charge of robbery. Therefore, I must assign a sentence appropriate to the crimes for which you have confessed. Usually a minimum of five years.”

  “No,” Joanna whispered, her quiet anguish a shout in Crockett’s ear.

  “However,” the judge continued, “I find myself asking what, exactly, that five years in prison would be expected to accomplish.

  “Incarceration serves a twofold purpose. First, it is a punishment for crimes committed against society and a deterrent against future illicit behavior. But second, and I believe most crucial, incarceration provides an opportunity for reformation of the criminal character. That is why we have libraries and chaplains in our prisons, why we teach our inmates a marketable trade. We want them to reenter society
changed and prepared to contribute in a positive manner.”

  Judge Wicker paused for breath, then pointed a stubby finger directly at Silas.

  “You, sir,” he declared, a note of accusation ringing in his voice, “have already reformed.”

  44

  Joanna blinked. Had she heard correctly? Had the judge just accused her father of being too rehabilitated? She shared a brief glance with Crockett, but he appeared equally perplexed. He rubbed her arm again, though, and the simple touch buoyed her. She didn’t know how she would have survived this day without him by her side, always ready with a smile or a gentle reassuring touch.

  Her father stood so straight and tall, his shoulders squared as he listened to the judge’s pronouncement. He’d stood the same way at her mother’s funeral, as if braced for a blow he couldn’t defend against.

  “Since you have already renounced your criminal ways and have been an exemplary citizen for the past sixteen years, I am reluctant to enforce prison time.”

  Joanna’s heart hiccupped in her chest. She grabbed Crockett’s knee. Please, Lord. Please.

  “However,” the judge continued, his expression grave, “there is the element of punishment that must be addressed. In such cases, I would normally insist that you make restitution to those you have wronged. Yet it seems we have no victims on which to confer such compensation. Hence my dilemma. I cannot let a guilty man go free with no consequences for his actions. Nor will my conscience allow me to sentence to prison a man who has already proven himself reformed.

  “That leaves me with only one recourse. Therefore, it is the ruling of this court that you, Silas Robbins, will make restitution to the community at large in lieu of individual victims. Instead of time served in prison, your five years will be probated on the condition that during each of those five years, ten percent of all income, whether personal or the product of the Lazy R ranch, be donated to local charitable or civic organizations approved by the court. The court will appoint a business manager to oversee your finances during this period and to keep an accounting of all earnings and expenditures. Do you agree to abide by these conditions?”

  “Yes, sir.” Her father gave a shaky nod. “I do.”

  “Then the ruling stands. This court is adjourned.” Judge Wicker pounded his gavel, rose from the bench, and strode to his chambers.

  Applause reverberated through the room along with a handful of hearty cheers, but it was nothing more than a buzz in Joanna’s ears. All of her attention focused on her father and her need to get to him. Now.

  She tried to squeeze past Jackson and Miss Bessie to get to the aisle, but they were too busy celebrating—Jackson with loud hollers and Bessie with timid claps as she backed up to avoid being impaled with a flying elbow or jerking knee. Crockett must have sensed Joanna’s growing desperation, for when she turned his direction to look for an escape route, he seized her about the waist and hoisted her over the barrier separating the court from the gallery. With a wink, he shooed her toward her father.

  Loving him for knowing her so well, she blew him a kiss, then pivoted and threw herself into her father’s arms, not caring that he was occupied with a handshake from Mr. Gillman at the time.

  “Oh, Daddy! You’re free.” Free from the past. Free from prison. Free to be the man God always intended him to be.

  His arms tightened around her, and he dropped a kiss on her head. “That I am, darlin’. That I am.”

  Joanna pulled slightly away, her gaze drinking in his beloved face. He smiled, and the light in his eyes shone brighter than she’d ever seen it. A laugh of pure joy bubbled out of her, and her father’s rich chuckle joined it on its journey to the rafters.

  “Hey, Parson!” Her father loosened his hold on her in order to include Crockett in their circle. “I need you to do me a favor.”

  “What’s that, Si?”

  This time her father was the one to wink. “Find me some water.”

  Joanna was slow to understand, but when the Deanville preacher stepped up and pounded her daddy on the back, saying he knew just the place to do the deed, comprehension dawned. Joanna’s stomach swirled in jittery delight as her former minister led the way down the aisle, his pulpit voice ringing out in song.

  “Shall we gather at the river,

  Where bright angel feet have trod,

  With its crystal tide forever

  Flowing by the throne of God?”

  The man gestured to the crowd to follow them, and soon an entire throng was singing and laughing on their way down to the town creek. Joanna grinned through the tears pooling in her eyes and added her trembling voice to the mix as she allowed herself to be herded along with the rest.

  “Yes, we’ll gather at the river,

  The beautiful, the beautiful river,

  Gather with the saints at the river,

  That flows by the throne of God.”

  The longer she sang, the stronger her voice became. Crockett grabbed her hand, his deep baritone blending with her alto as they escorted her father to a tree-shaded area out behind the schoolhouse.

  The Deanville preacher stepped aside once they arrived at the swimming hole, giving the three of them some privacy as he led the congregants in another hymn.

  “What can wash away my sin?

  Nothing but the blood of Jesus.

  What can make me whole again?

  Nothing but the blood of Jesus . . .”

  The singing continued, but Joanna’s voice faltered. The reality of the moment pierced too deeply.

  “Archer?” Her father shrugged out of his suit coat, and then paused and regarded Crockett with an intense gaze. “Son, would you do the honors?”

  “Nothing would make me happier, sir.” Crockett clapped him on the shoulder, then quickly divested himself of boots, coat, and tie and waded into the water.

  Joanna collected the discarded clothing and held it tight to her breast, as if doing so would enhance her connection to the two men she loved more than life.

  Can you see this, Mama? Your prayers are being answered.

  The men ventured away from the bank until they were waist-deep in the creek. The crowd hushed. Crockett asked her father for his confession, and when her daddy claimed Jesus as his Lord, Joanna couldn’t hold the tears back any longer. Tiny sobs of long-awaited joy shook her shoulders as Crockett buried her daddy in the water and brought him back up a new man in Christ.

  And as the crowd shouted their amens and burst into a rousing rendition of “Let Every Heart Rejoice and Sing,” Joanna could have sworn she heard her mother’s clear soprano joining in the praise.

  Epilogue

  Crockett stood before his congregation three months after that triumphant day, a pile of ravaged nerves. Knots twisted his stomach and tiny pinpricks needled his neck as he gazed over the heads of the crowd, a condition that hadn’t beset him since his first day in the pulpit. But then, he wasn’t in the pulpit today. His mentor, Amos Ralston, had that distinction. After all, a man couldn’t perform his own wedding ceremony.

  Jackson waved at him from the back of the sanctuary, sporting his new duds. Silas had offered the kid an official position at the Lazy R along with a set of clothes and an assigned horse to ride while on duty, and Jackson had been strutting around the ranch ever since, his pride nearly busting the buttons off his store-bought shirt. He still showed up early at the church every Sunday to ring the bell, and that was where he stood now—manning the pull rope in order to set the church bell to ringing the instant Brother Ralston pronounced Crockett and Joanna husband and wife.

  Husband and wife. Crockett swallowed hard.

  “If you tug on your collar one more time, Crock, the thing’s gonna pop clean off.”

  Crockett glared at his big brother. “You know, Trav,” he muttered out of the side of his mouth, “Jackson volunteered to stand up with me. It’s not too late to switch you out.”

  “Yes it is.” Travis chuckled softly and nodded toward the back of the church. “Your bride??
?s coming.”

  Crockett’s pulse leapt at the telltale squeak of hinges. The gap in the door widened. Silas, wearing the new suit coat Joanna had bought him for the trial all those months ago, stepped through the entrance and held his arm out to his daughter somewhere behind him.

  Straining to see past his soon-to-be father-in-law, Crockett stretched his neck only to have his breath catch in his throat.

  Joanna glided through the doorway, resplendent in a dark green gown dripping in ivory lace. Her glorious red curls hung loose past her shoulders with a halo of golden wildflowers and streams of ivory ribbon as adornment. Her chin dipped in demure shyness, she was halfway down the aisle before she raised her lashes and met his gaze.

  When she did, Crockett felt the impact clear through his chest. Soon this beautiful woman would be his. His helpmeet, his partner, his wife. The love glowing in her blue-gray eyes banished his nerves, and his heart swelled with pride.

  His attention never leaving her face, he stepped forward and accepted her hand from Silas. Her gloved fingers curved around his and his pulse thrummed. Her pixie face, delicate within the mass of those burnished curls, blushed at the intensity of his stare. Reeling in his desire, he winked at her to break the tension, then grinned like an idiot when she smiled at him.

  As Crockett turned to face the minister, he caught Travis rolling his eyes at his smitten behavior. But then a gurgling noise from the front row transformed his brother’s mocking expression into one of indulgent adoration as his six-week-old son, Joseph, flailed his arms in happy, jerky motions from where he lay cradled in Meredith’s lap.

  Yep, the Archer men were soft as cornmeal mush when it came to their women. Apparently their children, too. Even Jim, the most stoic of the bunch, hinted at a smile when his Cassie snuggled close as the minister began addressing the congregation. Maybe Neill would be different when his turn came around, but as Crockett hugged Joanna’s arm into his side, he sure hoped not.