A Lady Like Sarah (27 page)

Justin cleared his voice, lowered his head, and hastily began, "Dear heavenly Father . . ."

Sarah called him long-winded, but today called for as much wind as he could muster. God didn't need to hear his prayer as much as the townsfolk did. Judging by what little he knew of the town, there was a lot to pray for.

"Amen," he said at last and a sigh of relief circled the room. Anyone who so much as shifted in his chair found himÂself staring down the barrel of the gunman's rifle.

Timber Joe glanced around the room and,
apparendy
satÂisfied, nodded. "It's all yours, preacher."

Justin opened his Bible to Exodus 20:8 and read the verse aloud. '"Remember the
sabbath
day, to keep it holy.'"

While he read, Jake's customers sat attentively. If anyone so much as scratched his nose, Timber Joe's rifle swung into action.

After a while, Justin closed the Bible. "How many of you consider yourselves honest?"

Hands shot up all around the room. A homemade faro cheating device fell to the floor, but no one moved to pick it up.

"I see we didn't need Timber Joe's help with that one," Justin said with a wry smile.

A few brave souls laughed, but most remained stoic, bodÂies rigid, ready to escape at the first opportunity.

Justin continued, "So what we have here is a room full of honest people stealing a day that belongs to God." It felt good to be preaching again. Never did he preach to a more attentive audience, thanks to Timber Joe, and he made the most of it.

Dead silence followed his sermon. Justin pulled off his hat. "God gives freely, and it's now our chance to give freely back. The church is in dire need of windows and pews. And I'm sure there are many in this town in need of your kind generosity."

He passed his hat to the nearest person, a skinny man with a sweeping mustache and bobbing Adam's apple. The man stared down into the crown,
then
passed it to the man next to him. "I ain't got
no
money."

Timber Joe was on him in a flash, rifle leveled at the man's throat. "Look again, Moe."

Moe started to argue,
then
apparently thought better of it. He reached into the pocket of his pants and produced a shiny gold coin. With more prodding from Timber Joe, he reached over and dropped it into the empty crown.

By the time Justin's hat made its way back to him, it was overflowing. He gave the benediction. In Boston, people knew to leave following the blessing, but here no one made a move. All eyes watched Timber Joe.

Taking the hint, Joe slipped the rifle strap over his shoulÂder. No other invitation was needed. Every patron jumped up and made a mad dash for the door, knocking over tables and chairs in their haste to escape.

Timber Joe nodded in satisfaction and tugged on the beak of his gray kepi hat. "You sure do know how to empty a saloon," he drawled. "We could have used you in the war."

Justin grinned. "You think my sermon was that good, huh?"

Timber Joe nodded. "I'd say it was good enough to torÂture a whole roomful of Yankee prisoners."

Justin's smile died.

Timber Joe slapped him on the back. "You might conÂsider hiring me permanently. That way, it won't matter if you preach good or bad. They'll listen either way."

"I prefer to use more gentle persuasion," Justin said as tactfully as he could. Not wanting to sound ungrateful, Justin thanked him.

"My pleasure."
Timber Joe touched the visor of his cap in a salute. "Let me know if you change your mind." He limped out of the saloon, leaving only Justin and Jake, the bar's proÂprietor, behind.

Jake spit a yellow stream into a tarnished brass spittoon. He then wiped the bar down with a dirty rag, watching Justin with a disapproving frown. A heavy-set man with squinty eyes, a pointed chin and drooping mustache, he clearly did not appreciate Justin's turning his saloon into a place of worship.

"The man's crazy," the bartender muttered. "The war did
somethin
' to his brain. He acts like he's still
fightin
' them Yankees."

"I guess we're all fighting our own private wars," Justin said.

He stared down at his overflowing hat. He still didn't believe how much money he'd collected. Not even Christmas services in Boston commanded so much generosity. Nor, for that matter, had he ever known a more attentive audience. As much as he hated to admit it, there was something to be said for Timber Joe's unorthodox methods.

Justin stuffed his pockets with the collection, placed his hat on his head, thanked Jake for his hospitality, and walked outside.

He was greeted by the same old man on his rocking chair. "You're still alive."

"Yeah," Justin said. "I guess I am."

"Hank Applegate's the name." Squinting beneath the brim of his old leather hat, he clamped down on his jaw, letting his toothless gums grind against each other. "That was some
preachin
' job you did, young man."

Justin tipped his hat. "Much obliged." Justin eyed the saloon across the street. If he cut his sermon down, he could probably empty the remaining six saloons by suppertime.

Applegate studied him from watery eyes. "Don't go
judgin
' this here town too harshly."

Justin looked the man square in the face. "I'm not here to judge. That's God's job."

"Reckon I know
judgin
' when I
sees
it. You're
askin
' yourÂself what kind of town neglects its
church?
"

Justin rubbed his chin and felt a pang of guilt. "I'm afraid the thought did cross my mind," he admitted.

Applegate gave a sage nod. "The folks around here have had some mighty tough times. Kind of makes you lose faith, you know what I mean? We lost a bunch of boys in the war. Cattle ranches went bankrupt after an outbreak of Texas fever. Entire families were wiped out by a smallpox epidemic. A tornado ripped through here three years ago. Then there was the flood year before last. Water swept down Main Street like nobody's
bus'ness
. Before that, there was all that Indian trouble."

Justin didn't know what to say. People in Boston had problems, of course, but their problems seemed mild comÂpared to what this little town had gone through.

He gazed up and down the street, seeing things in a difÂferent light. Instead of saloons, he saw buildings where hurtÂing people went to drown their sorrows. He was reminded of his own careless youth following the death of his sisters.

All at once, he knew why God had sent him to that town. Who better to lead the way out of the darkness than someone who had traveled that very same route?

What he didn't know was how to go about restoring the town's faith.

"I'm not judging the town," Justin said again, and this time he meant it.

"Well if you ain't now, you will be." Applegate rocked his chair and it squeaked beneath his weight. "Day after tomorrow, Rocky Creek is
gonna
hang a woman."

Justin stared at
him. "A . . .
A woman, did you say?"

Applegate nodded and ground his gums together. "Don't look so shocked, Reverend. Some say the woman's only
gittin
' what's
comin
' to her. She's a member of the Prescott gang, and—"

Justin didn't wait to hear the rest.

A
t
first Justin thought someone had made a mistake. The woman's face was hidden in the shadows, but he could see the ruffled hem of her skirt. It wasn't Sarah!

With a sense of relief, he moved closer to the tiny jail cell, thinking that whoever she was, she could probably use some spiritual counseling.

He squinted to get a better look. The narrow band of light that streamed through the square cut high in the gray stone wall failed to reach the cot.

"Hello," he called softly. "My name is Reverend Wells."

The shadow on the cot moved. "Justin?"

His heart skipped a beat. "Sarah!"

Battling yards of ruffles and lace, Sarah jumped to her feet, rushed across the tiny cell, and grabbed hold of the iron bars. Under normal circumstances, he would have laughed at the feminine fussiness that weighed her down. Today he could only gaze at her, absorbing every detail of the face he had dreamed about since the day they parted.

He reached through the bars to grab hold of her hands, and they both started talking at once.

"I
—"

He fell silent, and for the longest while, he could only gaze at her. "I never thought I'd see you again," he whispered at last, his voice hoarse.

"I missed you so much."

Suddenly, neither one of them could get their words out fast enough.

"I couldn't stop thinking about you," he said.

"I
ain't hardly
slept."

"I should never have let you go."

"How did you know I was here?"

"It's a small town," he replied. "News travels fast."

"Knowing you, you probably think this is some sort of divine intervention," she said.

"Interruption," he said, correcting her out of habit. RealÂizing his error, he laughed.

She laughed too. "I've been
practicin
' my words.
Tryin
' to talk like a lady."

She wore a pretty blue frock the very same color as her eyes. The dress swept around her in gentle folds, the fabric whispering each time she moved. He noticed now that she still wore her red boots. The sight of scuffed toes beneath the ruffles of her dress made him smile.

"You've always been a lady to me," he said, aching with a need to hold her in his arms. Even her hair was different, falling gracefully down her back in silken strands of gleamÂing red curls. He lifted his hand to her cheek. "You're so beautiful."

"And you're so handsome," she whispered back, pressing both her hands against his.

"Are . . .
are you all right?"

"I've seen better days." She searched his face. "Elizabeth?" He could see the pain it caused her to say the baby's name. "Did you . . . find her a good family?"

He shook his head. "Not yet. My landlady is taking care of her. Wait till you see her. She smiled at me."

"Oh!" Tears sprang to her eyes. "I wish I could—"

"You will," he said. "You will."

She dropped her hands to her side and shook her head. "It's bad, Justin. It's really, really bad."

He pulled his hand away. "I don't understand. How did you get here? I thought you were in Fort Smith with your brothers. I thought you were safe."

A shadow clouded her face. "They ain't in Fort Smith. I don't know what happened to them. I'm really worried."

"But this still doesn't explain how you got here."

"I turned myself in."

"What?" He gaped at her. Sarah was impulsive, but never did he imagine she would do something so foolhardy. "
Why.
. . why would you do that?"

"I couldn't stand
bein
' away from you. And you said that no one would hang a lady."

He moaned and slapped his forehead. "This is
all my
fault."

"Don't go
thinkin
' that, you hear? That fool marshal's to blame, not you." She pinched the fabric of her skirt and held it out. "I'm all gussied up. Even put on
three
petticoats. But that don't make no difference to the marshal. I'm
tellin
' you, the man don't know dung from honey."

"Sarah, if anything happens to you—" Never did he think they would actually
hang
a woman. Such a thing would not happen in Boston, but Texas was a horse of a different breed, one that he obviously knew nothing about.

"Don't go
blamin
' yourself, you hear? It's my own fool fault that I'm in this mess. I didn't read the signs right."

"Signs?
What signs?"

Ignoring his question, she continued. "I'm trying to put my trust in God, just like you said I should."

He nodded his head. "That's good, Sarah."

She looked at him long and hard. "No matter what hapÂpens, it was worth
seein
' your face again." Her voice broke.
"Do . . .
do you think I can see Elizabeth before
they
. . . ?"

"I'll bring her,
but.
. .
they aren't going to—" He couldn't bring himself to say it. He pressed his forehead against an iron bar. "Remember, you said you were going to put your trust in God."

"I'm
tryin
'—I really am. I don't know if even He can save me." Her voice faltered. "I don't know if anyone can. The marshal's plumb got his heart set on
tyin
' a bow around my neck.
Said I killed his brother-in-law."