A Lady Like Sarah (6 page)

He offered her a strip of dried meat and hard tack bread, and she sat down and ate with great relish. Her hearty appetite and the way she devoured whatever he placed in front of her would be deemed scandalous by Boston standards. He wonÂdered what Sarah would think of the dainty portions and timid eating habits of Boston's female population. The thought amused him.

On the ground nearby, Owen slept, his chest rising and falling visibly with each labored breath.

Sarah watched the marshal from beneath a furrowed brow. "He
don't
sound so good," she said.

Justin leaned against a tree, his arms crossed in front. "I figure there must be a reason why you didn't get away," he said. He expected a reaction and she didn't disappoint him.

She glanced up quickly, her face etched in confusion. "You ain't
thinkin
' that bog was some sort
of.
. .
you know?"

"Divine intervention?"

She shrugged. "
Somethin
'
like
that."

"Can you think of a better explanation?" he asked.

"Yeah, I can. It was dark. I couldn't see farther than a blindfolded hog. So I decided to wait till
mornin
'. I got off my horse and took a tumble. It was my own stupid fault."

"And you're not even willing to consider the possibility that maybe this is all part of a plan? That God has something up His divine sleeve?"

"No one makes plans for me, you hear?" The sharp tone of her voice was at odds with the uncertainty in her voice. As if to explain the discrepancy, she added, "Not without my say-so."

"Maybe He brought you back for Owen," Justin said.

"If God wanted to help Owen, I reckon He would have sent a doctor."

Later, as they prepared to hit the trail again, Justin checked his saddle. As far as he could determine, the extra burden of Owen's weight didn't create any problems for his horse.

He rubbed the gelding's forehead. "What do you say, Noah? Was that or was that not divine intervention?"

It was hot and humid that afternoon, and Sarah felt utterly miserable. Her canteen was
empty,
her mouth dry as cotton, and her head felt like someone was hammering inside, trying to get out. She was beginning to think they would never reach the town of Stonewell.

She coaxed Blizzard to go faster until she reached the preacher's side. Owen was slumped over, his head bopping with each jolting step.

"How's he
doin
'?"

"Not too good," the preacher replied. "I only hope we reach Stonewell in time."

"If we don't rest our horses, we ain't
gonna
make it to the next stump."

He frowned in protest but nodded in agreement. "Looks like some trees about a mile ahead."

They rode side by side in silence for several moments.

She stole a glance at the preacher's profile. He looked tired but no less determined. Moisture glistened on his sun- darkened skin. For no good reason, she felt a sense of guilt for causing him so much trouble.

"Don't you go
thinkin
' I'm not grateful for what you've done for me," she said.

He turned to look at her, his face shadowed by his hat.

She took a deep breath and continued. "I've been buzzards' bait twice, and both times you saved my carcass." She stared at the trail ahead. "I ain't used to people being nice to me."

"Maybe you don't give them a chance to be nice to you."

Her eyes locked with his. "The last time I gave someone a chance to be nice, he held me up at gunpoint. Stole all my money, he did."

"I won't steal anything from you, Sarah."

Something in his voice touched her and made it harder to fight the battle inside. Part of her wanted to trust him, but to do so would only add to his own burdens without relieving any of hers. Still, she was tempted—and it practically scared the life out of her.

"Let me help you," he beseeched her in
a soft,
clear voice.

She tossed her head and lifted her
chin.
"I can tote my own skillet, and don't think I can't." With that she snapped the reins, forcing Blizzard to pull ahead.

Later, as she sat around the campfire, the marshal asleep nearby, the preacher settled next to her. "Sarah . . . Everyone can use a friend, and I want to be yours. But I can't help you if you don't tell me what kind of trouble you're in. Why were you handcuffed to the marshal? What crime have you been accused of? What is it about Texas . . . specifically, Rocky Creek, that has you running scared? Come on, Sarah. I can't be your friend if you don't trust me."

She stared at the blazing hot fire. She'd never had a friend. Never knew anyone she could trust except her brothers. Her first instinct was to push him away as she had done earlier, but the cautionary voice inside didn't have a chance next to his gentle and persuasive voice. Maybe it was the harrowing night spent in that bog or just plain exhaustion, but she could no longer fight the friendship he offered her.

She watched him through lowered lashes. "That old marÂshal . . . Owens . . . was
escortin
' me back to Texas."

The preacher nodded.
"To jail."

"No." She lifted her head and searched his face, studying every nuance for signs of censure. She was about to find out just what kind of friend he was.
"To the gallows."

Justin turned gray, his eyes round as two pie plates. His shock radiated outward until even the very fire seemed to dim in the aftermath of her revelation. "
But.
. . but you're a woman!" he said, horror written all over his face.

She gave him a curious look. "Don't they hang women in Boston?'

"Maybe a hundred years ago," he said.
"But not anymore."

For several moments the only sounds that could be heard was Owen's labored breathing and a chorus of noisy crickets in the nearby grass.

She studied his face and wondered if it had been a mistake to trust him. From earliest childhood, she'd been taught by her brothers to reveal nothing and admit to even less, and that advice had served her well through the years.

But it was hard to resist this preacher, whose soft-spoken words and kind demeanor lulled her into believing she could trust him. She only hoped she wouldn't live to regret confidÂing in him.

"The g-gallows—" he muttered as if he still couldn't believe it. His voice sounded like gravel rattling in an old wooden bucket. "I knew you were in trouble, Sarah,
but.
. . never did I imagine anything so . . . like this."

Sensing no reproach, she allowed herself to breathe. "You still want to be my friend?" It was more of a plea than a request.

"I said I did, and I mean it. But this . . . this is too serious to handle by
yourself
. Let me talk to the authorities. I'm a man of God. They'll listen to me."

She pursed her lips. She could only imagine the look on her brothers' faces upon hearing that a preacher offered to put in a good word for her. "Have you ever talked anyone out of a
hangin
' before?"

The question seemed to surprise him.
"Uh
. . .
no
. But that doesn't mean I can't." He thought for a moment. "
First.
. . first, I have to know . . ." He rubbed his chin as if he dreaded even having to ask the question. "What did you do?"

"I ain't done nothin'.
Except that golden rule stuff.
You
know the one 'bout
dishin
' out the same medicine that other folks dish out to you."

Sarah had hoped this would set the preacher's mind at rest, but the worry lines on his forehead only deepened.

"Since you're still very much alive, I'm assuming you didn't kill anyone?"

"Never killed anyone in my life, but I sure have been tempted."

He frowned. "Did you steal?"

This question was a bit trickier. "Never stole a thing that wasn't mine," she replied, after a while.

"You
can't steal what's yours."

"Really?"
Now, if that
ain
'f
the bird's twitter.
She wondered if her brothers knew about that one. "Well, then, I'm as innocent as a newborn babe."

The ridge between his eyebrows grew another notch deeper. "I seriously doubt that. Tell me, why do they want to hang you? And I want the truth, Sarah."

"The truth?"

"You
know,
the facts as they really happened, with no embellishments or omissions."

"There ain't much to tell," she said. "My brothers and I were
ridin
' out of town—"

"Would that be Rocky Creek?" he asked.

She nodded. "Like I was saying, we were hitting the grit when I spotted this stray dog hung up on a fence. If I hadn't stopped to help it, the dog would have been wolf bait sure as shoo tin'. The next thing I knew, the marshal was on top of me and I was
eatin
' dirt."

He looked perplexed. "I don't understand. The marshal arrested you for helping a dog?"

She bit down on her lower lip.
"The dog ain't got nothin' to do with it,"
she said. "It was because my brothers stopped a stage."

"Why did they do that? Stop a stage?"

She stared at him in disbelief. Even a preacher couldn't be
that
dense, even if he was from Boston. "It's the easiest way to rob it," she said, matter-of-factly.

His eyes widened in astonishment before he caught himÂself. She had to give him credit; he was obviously trying not to pass judgment. But if the swollen veins in his neck were an indication, his efforts to remain impartial didn't come easy.

"So . . .
so how
did you get
away?" he asked, his voice strained.

"I didn't. Not until after they tried me in mustang court," she said, using the Texas phrase for mock justice. "The old
pros'cutor
blamed me and my brothers for things we ain't done."

His face brightened. "Are you saying you don't rob stages?"

"Oh, we rob them all right. But we ain't killed
no one
like he said we did."

A muscle flickered at his jaw, but whether in relief or disÂapproval, she couldn't say. "So how
did
y
ou
escape?"

"My brothers finally showed up and
blowed
a hole in the wall of the jailhouse.
You
never saw such a mess in all your born days. But don't you go
worryin
' none, you hear? No one got hurt or
anythin
'."

"That should go in your favor," he said slowly. "And when the town marshal hears how you saved Owen . . . how you took care of his bullet wound, he's bound to take your side."

She frowned. "I'd sooner have a rattler in my bedroll." Hating what she saw in his eyes, she protested, "Don't look at me like that. Wells Fargo deserves to be robbed. They took our papa away."

His gaze softened. "How?" he asked. "What happened to your father?"

Words rushed from her. She told him how the bank had threatened to take her parents' farm away following tough times. "Papa pleaded with the bank president, and they got into an argument. Next day, the president was dead with a knife in his back. They strung Papa up before they found the real culprit. By then, it was too late."

He shook his head in disbelief. "I'm so sorry, Sarah. How old were you when this happened?"

"Six," she said.

His voice soft with sympathy, he asked, "What about your mother?"

She took a deep breath. "She died six months later. Some say she died of a broken heart." She lifted her eyes to his. "Now do you see why my brothers rob stages? Wells Fargo took everything from us."

For the longest while, he didn't speak. Finally, he said, "I'll
do everything possible to help." He sounded oddly distant and so unlike himself.

"What does that mean,
everythin'P
" She studied his proÂfile. "Does that mean you'll let me go?"

His face was without expression as if an inner door had closed, creating a barrier between them. "If I let you go, you'll live a life on the run. Is that what you want? Don't you think it would be better to face your accusers and demand a fair and just trial?"

She considered his suggestion for all of a second.
"Fair and just?
If the last trial was any
ind'cation
, I
druther
take my chances runnin'."

"And spend the rest of your life looking over your shoulÂder? Facing your accusers is better. I know it is." After a moment, he added, "Maybe we can get your sentence comÂmuted to prison time."

She wrinkled her nose. "I ain't
sittin
' in
no
prison
makin
' horsehair saddles for something I ain't done."

He tilted his head toward her. "Maybe you won't have to. You're a woman, and that's bound to work in your favor."

She gave him a sidelong glance. "It's never worked in my favor before."

"Really?"
His gaze traveled the length of her. "Maybe they'd be less inclined to hang you if you . . .
uh
. . . dressed
more . . .
you know, like other
women . . .
if you emphasized the fact that you're a—a . . . lady."