A Lady Like Sarah (3 page)

"I don't reckon there's a man alive who would want me for his wife." She shrugged.
"Maybe when I'm eighty."

He surprised her with his laughter, a full-hearted resoÂnance both deep and rich, and more than anything, catching.

She grinned at him. What do you know?
She done
found a preacher with a sense of humor.

The smile died abruptly as he kneeled beside the lawman and carefully removed his bloodied shirt. Next, he pulled a knife out of his boot and lowered the blade into the bright orange flames.

She regarded him with suspicion. "Have you ever removed a bullet?"

"Never."

"Figures."

He glanced at her. "I suppose you have."

"I've removed my share," she said.

It was obvious by his dubious expression that he didn't believe her. As if she cared what he believed.

Knife in hand, he bowed his head and closed his eyes in prayer. "Dear heavenly Father, Almighty God, Creator of heaven and earth . . ."

On and on he went. Not one to sit still for long, she shifted her body impatiently.
If the marshal didn't die before the end of the prayer, that in itself would be a miracle.

"Oh, God, my strength and my salvation . . ."

Growing even more restless, Sarah opened her eyes, though she kept her head bent low. She thought about the simple prayers she'd uttered all those years ago—prayers to save her papa, prayers to save her ma.

All these years she'd blamed God for not answering them. Maybe she had only herself to blame for not using the right words.
Or for not addressing God with all those highfalutin' names.
Feeling guilty, she forced herself to concentrate on the preacher's every word.

"Amen."

She breathed a sigh of relief but said nothing.

Justin leaned over the lawman and gently lowered the knife. Owen squirmed and let out a bloodcurdling scream. The preacher fell back, the knife still in his hand.

She rolled her eyes. "You better let me do it," she said. Judging by his pinched white face, the preacher was about to faint and that's all they needed.

"You serious?" he
asked
"Can you really remove a bulÂlet?" He gave her a long, penetrating look. "This isn't a trick, is it? So you can get away?"

"Where's your faith?" she asked evenly.

The question clearly startled him. He stepped back as if punched in the face, a shadow of indecision on his forehead. "Why would you want to help a man who's holding you prisoner?"

"Owen, here, has three
young'uns
," she said. "And I don't aim to sit and watch you make orphans out of '
em
."

The preacher's expression softened. "That's mighty nice of you to be concerned about his welfare."

"I told you, I'm
doin
' it for his
young'uns
. No child deserves to be an orphan." Hoping he hadn't noticed the telltale bitterness that had crept unbidden into her voice, she watched him with a sinking feeling. She knew from his furÂrowed brow that he hadn't missed the rancor, but it was the softness in his eyes that told her he'd guessed from where it came.

Alarmed by the compassion she saw on his face and the way it made her feel all warm and soft
inside,
she lifted her chin in open defiance.

She was used to people whispering behind her back or staring at her with accusations. But never before had anyone treated her like she was a real person, maybe even a good perÂson, and she wasn't sure how to handle it.

"Don't go looking at me like that, you hear?" she said irritably.

"Like what?" he asked, sounding genuinely confused.

"Like I'm some sort of—" She glared at him. "We're
wastin
' time. If we don't get that bullet out soon, it'll be too late."

He reached into his pocket for the key to the handcuffs.

After the cuffs fell away, she rubbed the circulation back into her wrists before taking the knife from him.

She held the shiny dagger in a flame, turning the
staghorn
hilt slowly in her hand until the blade turned red. It was the sorriest looking knife she'd ever laid eyes on, the serrated cutÂting edge ill-equipped for the task at hand. Still, it was all she had to work with.

Waving the knife in the air to cool, she knelt by the marÂshal's side. "You better hold him down," she said.

She waited for the preacher to position himself opposite her. With one hand on Owen's uninjured shoulder and the other on his thighs, the preacher pressed down.

She pulled
off
a piece of the dark brown bark from a nearby willow and pushed it into the marshal's mouth. "Bite down hard," she said. "You hear?"

Owen stared up at her, his glazed eyes round, but said nothing.

"Alcohol would help," Sarah said.

"So would a doctor," the preacher replied.

As she attempted to dislodge the bullet, the marshal started to bleed profusely. Fortunately, the bullet wasn't embedded in bone. Not having any tongs in which to grab it, she tried to work the tip of the knife beneath the slug.

The marshal cried out and she drew back.

"Hold on," the preacher said, softly, repositioning his hands on the patient. "It'll soon be over."

He signaled his readiness with a nod of his head.

Taking a deep breath, she pushed the knife into the fleshy wound. She couldn't see anything for all the blood. The marÂshal squirmed and yelled whenever her knife touched bone, and it was only after he passed out that she was able to probe deeper.

Finding the bullet, she gently worked the tip of her knife under the lead and flipped it upward. The slug flew up and landed on the ground nearby.

She glanced up at the preacher, whose head was turned away. "You can look now," she said. "Have you got a clean rag?"

The preacher handed her a clean kerchief from his saddleÂbag, and she used it to press down on the open wound. "I need you to fetch me some tumbleweed." She pointed into the distance.

The preacher frowned.
"Tumbleweed?"

"A trick I learned from an old medicine man. You pour tumbleweed tea into the wound to prevent infection."

The preacher nodded and walked away. His step faltered as he glanced back over his shoulder and his eyes met hers. Apparently, he thought she was going to take off—and if she had the brain of a bird, she would.

"Stop
gawkin
' and hurry!" she called after him. "He's
gonna
bleed to death."

He returned moments later, carrying a ball of the thorny weed on the end of a long stick.

While she pressed on the wound to slow the bleeding, she told him how to brew two different types of tea, one for flushÂing out the wound and one for drinking.

Following her directions, he took two tin cups from the marshal's saddlebags and dropped pieces of tumbleweed into one and chunks of willow bark into the other, adding hot water to both.

After the tumbleweed brew had cooled, Sarah flushed the marshal's wound with it and tied a strip of fabric torn from one of the preacher's clean spare shirts around it.

Then she carefully spooned warm willow bark tea into the injured marshal's mouth. The bitter taste shocked him into consciousness, and he sputtered and groaned.

"This will help with the
swellin
' and fever," she explained. She shoved another spoonful into the marshal's mouth. His eyes grew round in protest, but he swallowed it,
then
gasped.

She handed the preacher the cup. "Make him drink some every hour or so."

The preacher glanced at the lawman with uncertainty, but he nodded and set the cup down. He walked with her to the fast-running stream and waited while she washed her hands. She felt grimy and longed to bathe. She glanced over her shoulder and found him watching her every move. Sighing, she dried her hands on her shirt and straightened. When they returned to camp, he pulled out the handcuffs, his face shadÂowed with regret.

He continued to stare at the metal bracelets in his hand, refusing to meet her gaze. "I'm sorry, Miss—" He caught himÂself. "I mean, Sarah . . . but I promised him . . ."

He looked so genuinely upset that she felt sorry for the man and didn't have the heart to fight him. Or maybe she simply didn't have the strength. The surgery had taken a lot out of her, and all she wanted to do was lie down and sleep. Sighing, she pressed her hands together and held them out to him. Without another word, he snapped on the cuffs.

He placed his hat on his head. "Sarah, this problem you have with the law . . . If you let me, I know I can help you. In fact, I'm sure of it."

She shrugged.
"There ain't nothin' that's a sure thing, '
cept
death and trouble."

"That's why we need God," he said.

She frowned but said nothing.
                    

"Anything you tell me will be held in strictest confiÂdence," he said gently.

She glared up at him. "I ain't
airin
' out my wash to you or anyone else."

He stared at her like he could see right through her, and she feared he could read her mind. She knew such a feat was impossible, of course, but she clamped down on any untoward musings, just the same.

"All right, Sarah. I can't force you to confide in me. I just want you to know that I'll do anything I can to help you, if you'll let me."

"If you want to help, then let me go." She held up her handcuffed wrists, but he made no move toward her.

Grimacing, she twisted her hands back and forth, but the metal cuffs held tight. First she was stuck with Marshal Owen, and now she had a preacher to contend with. If it wasn't chickÂens, it was feathers.

Plunking down on the ground, she laid her head against a tree and tried to look at the bright side. The preacher wasn't armed, except for that poor excuse for a knife, and he obviÂously had no stomach for violence. Getting away shouldn't be all that difficult, as long as she did it before the marshal regained his strength.

It was an encouraging thought, and despite her someÂwhat precarious predicament, her spirits rose. By
cracky
, that preacher would be
eatin
' out of her hand in no time, or she ain't
no
Prescott.

Justin finished making camp, stopping periodically to coax Marshal Owen into drinking more willow tea—no easy task. Out of curiosity, he tasted the brew himself, only to spit it out. If medicinal qualities were based on how bad a tonic tasted, then Sarah's willow bark tea would cure even the most serious of ailments.

A short distance away, Sarah slept in the shade, her flame red hair touched by the waning sunlight.

That Sarah—she was something, all right. She spoke her mind and didn't seem the least bit
fazed
by his profession. That was a switch. Most people, even hardened criminals, took to watching what they said whenever a preacher was in hearing range. At times he felt like he lived in a world sepaÂrate from everyone else. He seldom saw people except for when they were on their best behavior.

He wondered if what he saw of Sarah was her best.
Or her worst.

She was unlike any other woman he'd ever known. He could barely make out her dainty frame in the shapeless cotÂton shirt she wore and men's brown canvas pants, rolled at the cuffs to accommodate her womanly height.

With her bright red hair, her big blue eyes, and her genÂerous sprinkling of freckles, she wasn't what you could call beautiful, at least not in the conventional sense. But though she spoke with a toughness generally heard only in Boston's less desirable neighborhoods, something about her—a childÂlike earnestness, perhaps, a vulnerability she tried to hide— touched a part of him that had been mostly untouchable.

The question was
,
what had she done to warrant the attention of a U.S. Marshal?

Not that he was worried. He'd counseled his share of unlawful citizens, and he supposed—with God's help—he could handle the likes of the strange, unpredictable, yet oddly appealing, woman named Sarah. No last name.

Sarah woke with a start and glanced around. Already, the sun had started to set, bleeding like a wounded warrior across the pale blue sky. A welcome cool breeze whispered through the trees and ruffled the sun-scorched grass.

A short distance away, the preacher watered the horses and mule and led them to where the grass grew sweet and tall. He chatted to the animals, talking in that smooth, deep voice of his. He returned to camp carrying cans of tinned food.

She struggled to sit up, leaned her back against the tree and rested her cuffed hands on her lap. "Did I hear you call your horse Noah?" she asked.

The preacher nodded. "That's his name. Noah. I bought him on the rainiest day of the year. The streets of Boston were thick with mud and water, but Noah got me home safely."

"That name's in the Bible," she said simply. She rememÂbered her papa reading the story of Noah's ark to her all those years ago—before her childhood had been cruelly snatched away.

"Yes, Noah's in the Bible."

"I guess you could say that
ol
' Noah and
me
are
swingin
' from the same gate."

"I guess you could say that."

"What about the other?
The mule?"

"His name is Moses."

"Figures," she said, rolling her eyes.

The preacher studied her for a moment. "I'm not sure what the problem is with Moses. Sometimes when we're on the trail, he refuses to drink."

"Mules are smart," she said. "They're a whole lot smarter than horses. They won't drink if they're too hot.
Gives '
em
colic."

"Is that so?"

"You best wait till he cools down."

She watched the preacher dump an entire tin of beans into a hot iron skillet. She decided that she would have to play in his pasture first before she could win him over to her side so that he would let her go.