Stealing the Preacher (16 page)

Joanna’s heart fell. She’d been hoping Crockett would dine at the Lazy R. Did Holly have to beat her at this, too? Apparently so, judging by the triumphant smile the blond beauty shot her when Crockett wasn’t looking.

“That’ll be fine,” he said, his attention more focused on the door than on the woman before him. But even that was small comfort in light of the knowledge that Holly Brewster would have him all to herself this afternoon. “Now, if you’ll excuse me?”

Holly beamed at him, successfully drawing his notice once again. Then, like the Red Sea of old, she and Becky Sue parted to let Crockett pass through on dry land.

He hadn’t even realized she’d been standing behind him.

“It’s too bad Brother Archer had to dash off before you had a chance to speak with him, Joanna.” Holly sashayed back toward the pulpit, waving the edges of her royal blue skirt like a jay showing off its wings. No, not a jay. With that predatory gleam in her eyes, she was definitely a hawk. A hawk marking her territory and fluttering her wings to keep another female from chasing after her mate of choice.

Well, she could flutter and glare all she wanted. Joanna wasn’t about to scurry away like a frightened mouse. “That’s all right,” she said. “I can speak with him at breakfast tomorrow.”

For a fleeting moment, Holly’s mouth twisted into a grimace. It didn’t last long before being smoothed away, but Joanna experienced a little thrill of satisfaction, nonetheless. It felt good to score a point.

“If it has anything to do with the church picnic, you can ask me. Brother Archer put me in charge of the event.” Her brows lifted slightly, as if checking off a point in her own score column.

“I see.” Joanna hated to ask the girl for any favors, but helping Crockett was worth more than her pride. And so was her father. “I
had
intended to volunteer my services for the painting day. Perhaps I could assist with some of the games or sporting contests?”

“Definitely not the sporting contests,” Holly barked, then immediately softened her tone. “Your father is sure to enter those. He always does. How would it look if Silas Robbins’s daughter was in charge of laying out the racecourse or placing the targets? If he were to win, some disgruntled contestant might cry foul. I’m sure you would never do anything to grant your father an unfair advantage, but we don’t want there to be even a hint of impropriety. Why, it could reflect poorly on Brother Archer, and I know you wouldn’t want that.”

“Of course not, but—”

“And I’ve already decided on committee members for the food and baking events.”

“What about the greased pig for the kids?” Joanna couldn’t imagine the always pristine Holly wanting anything at all to do with that event. “I could—”

“No.” Holly shook her head. “I’ve already decided that Jackson should be in charge of that. You know how the parson dotes on him. I’m sure he’d want the boy to be involved.”

Jackson
would
be a good choice, Joanna thought sourly, and naming him to the committee was just the kind of action that could endear Holly to Crockett. Which no doubt was the girl’s
motivation for suggesting it. But that left Joanna without a way to participate.

“How about the paint?” Becky Sue spoke up for the first time, darting a quick glance at Holly before continuing. “You know, since she and her mother were always painting those pictures, she’d probably know what kind of paint to buy.”

“Any ninny would know what kind of paint to buy,” Holly huffed.

“But if she were in charge of the paint, she’d have to travel to Deanville to pick it up and would probably be gone most of the day . . .”

“And that would free Brother Archer up to help me with any last-minute details. Excellent idea, Becky Sue.”

The brunette grinned like a puppy that had just been rewarded with a scrap of jerky.

“I’d be happy to take charge of the paint.” Joanna hurried to claim the responsibility before Holly changed her mind. Any opportunity to help was better than none.

Besides, it’d been ages since her father had let her travel to Deanville. Maybe if she made the trip soon enough, she could pick out some fabric for a new dress and actually have time to make it up before the picnic. Something pretty. Something to catch a certain gentleman’s eye before the blond hawk of doom swooped down and sunk her talons into him.

18

R
ain pounded Silas’s shoulders as he pulled Marauder to a halt under a large oak. The branches above him did blessed little to ease the downpour, but it was more cover than the man in the flats below him had. Out in the open, his new hand’s only protection was a borrowed yellow pommel slicker and a hat that had been pulverized too long to adequately hold its shape.

The others had had the good sense to come in an hour ago and were drying out by the stove in the bunkhouse. Silas had hunkered down with them for a while, too—until Frank’s bellyaching wore on his nerves—but the house was no better, what with Jo’s fretful glances and pestering questions about Crockett Archer’s whereabouts. Silas’s only chance for peace was to head back out into the storm and find him.

He’d expected to find the preacher man holed up in one of the line shacks or limping back after being thrown from his horse. He hadn’t expected to find the man knee-deep in mud trying to wrestle a cow out of a washed-out gulley.

A frown tugged on Silas’s mouth as he nudged Marauder
down the hill to lend a hand. What made the man work so hard for one cow? A cow that wasn’t even his?

Over the last three weeks, Silas had worked Archer hard—gave him the worst jobs, demanded he stay late, knowing full well the fella needed every spare minute he could wrangle to plan his silly church-painting shindig. He’d seen the dark circles under the parson’s eyes, noted the drag in his step, but still he’d pushed—practically dared the sermonizer to quit.

Not only did the preacher man not quit, he worked harder than any of the other hands.

Frank and Carl were lazy cusses who only did what was required of them, but they’d run with Silas in the early days, so turning them out would be like turning out family. Jasper was capable enough to run things on the ranch, should the need ever arise, but he shied from the responsibility of the place. His loyalty was to Silas, not the ranch.

Archer, on the other hand, worked the ranch as if he were personally vested in the outcome. He worked it like an owner. Like Silas himself. No job was beneath him, because all had to be done. He never complained. Always completed his tasks. And if he saw something that needed doing, he did it, whether it was his assignment or not. Which probably explained why he was out in this downpour instead of inside, where anyone with half a brain would be.

Silas reached the gulley and quickly unstrapped the lariat from his pommel. With ease of practice, he lengthened the noose, twirled it a couple times to get a feel for how it would fly in the rain, and let it sail over the cow’s head. Archer’s hand flew to his sidearm as his face came around. Silas raised a hand in greeting, knowing any words would get lost in the deluge. Archer released his weapon and returned the wave. Silas wrapped the end of the rope around the saddle horn, patted Marauder’s neck, and then dismounted and strode to the edge of the wash.

Archer slogged over to meet him, the mud sucking at his boots. “Her forelegs are stuck,” he yelled to be heard above the storm. “I was afraid she’d strangle if I roped her neck. I’ve been trying to dig her out, but the mud is so soft, it slides right back in.”

“I’ll work the head, you work the legs,” Silas shouted. “Maybe we can get her out together.”

Archer nodded.

After twenty minutes of pushing and pulling, digging and squirming, and three armloads of twigs, branches, and leaves to add stability to the mud, the bawling cow finally managed to crawl out.

Silas removed the rope from her neck, mounted Marauder, and herded the heifer back to the group of strays that were huddled front-to-end beneath a stand of pines a short distance away. Once he was sure the ornery thing didn’t intend to wander toward the gulley again, he turned his horse and headed back to meet up with Archer. Only the man wasn’t on his horse. He was sitting on the edge of the wash, hunched over with his head against his knees.

A pang ricocheted off Silas’s conscience. The man had given all he had on that final push, practically lifting the stupid beast onto his shoulder as he strained to free her legs. Silas hated to admit it, but without the parson, he probably would’ve lost that beeve. He never thought the day would come when he’d feel beholden to a preacher man or, worse, actually respect one.

With a grunt, he swung down out of the saddle and carved his way through the rain and mud until his feet stood boot tip to boot tip with his new man. He waited for Archer’s head to tip up and then held out his hand. The parson’s gaze moved from his hand to his face, and something in Archer’s eyes gave Silas the impression that he recognized he was being offered more than just a hand up.

Archer’s stare held his without wavering, and when his hand clasped Silas’s, the grip was strong and sure. And as he hauled the parson to his feet, a burning need flared to life in Silas’s gut—a need to understand what drove this man. What compelled a rancher who co-owned a family spread to work for another man just so he could preach in a small country church in the middle of nowhere?

Joanna paced back to the kitchen window for what must have been the hundredth time in the last twenty minutes. Crockett should have come home with the rest of the hands hours ago, but he hadn’t. Was he hurt? Had his horse broken a leg in a mud hole? No one could work in this rain. She couldn’t even see past the edge of the porch.

Her daddy had rolled his eyes at her worrying, but he’d eventually gone out to look for Crockett. As always, Silas Robbins knew exactly where each of his men would be working, and he’d promised to drag the parson back within the hour. Only that hour had become two. Now she had two men to fret over.

Joanna’s nails dug into her palms as she strained to see through the downpour. It was barely three in the afternoon, but it was dark as night out there. The cascading rain drowned out all other sounds, so she couldn’t depend upon hearing the horses when they returned. All she could do was stare into the torrent and hope to spy the shadowy outlines of Crockett and her father.

Bring them home safely, Lord. Please. Bring both of them home.

She’d already made coffee and laid out towels and blankets—had even fetched two sets of dry clothes from her father’s room, knowing all of Crockett’s spares were back at the parsonage.
She turned away from the window long enough to retrieve a pair of earthenware mugs from the cabinet, then resumed her vigil.

The sheets of rain were so thick she could barely make out the barn, but she probed the darkness anyway, desperate for a sign of . . . There! Movement. Definitely movement. Joanna pressed her palm to the glass and angled her face so she could see farther to the east. Lightning flashed overhead, followed immediately by a loud clap of thunder. But the noise didn’t matter, for in those brief seconds of light, the mustard yellow of the men’s slickers signaled her like a beacon.

Needing to get closer to them, she bolted out to the porch to watch their progress. Jasper must have been keeping an eye out, as well, for the bunkhouse door slammed open and his stiff-legged, poncho-covered form darted out into the yard and met them at the barn entrance. The men dismounted and handed their reins to Jasper. When they turned, Joanna waved to them in large sweeping motions, hoping they’d see her through the rain. She moved as close to the edge of the covered porch as she dared and cupped her hands around her mouth.

“Come to the house!” she shouted when Crockett started trudging toward the building Jasper had just vacated.

The parson lifted his head and stopped but made no move to change direction.

“Don’t make me come out there to get you!”

Crockett would probably accuse her of taking on the bossy big-sister role again, but there was nothing sisterly about the concern she felt for him. And if he turned away from her again, he would see just how bossy she could be. She had no qualms about going after him. Her father’s men wouldn’t take care of him the way she would, and she aimed to see that he suffered no ill effects from this day’s work. The poor man had to be drenched to the skin. He’d easily catch his death if not properly tended.

Thankfully, her father saved her from having to chase the
man down. He came alongside Crockett and said something while jerking his head toward the house. After that, Crockett followed him, and soon the two men joined her on the porch.

Her father hung his hat and slicker on a peg and bent to kiss Joanna’s cheek. His whiskery face was cold against hers. Crockett had been out twice as long. He must be nearly frozen.

“You got coffee going, Jo?” Her father asked as he made use of the bootjack.

“Yes, and there’s plenty of hot water for washing.” She wanted to hug his neck but knew he wouldn’t want to get her wet, so instead she took charge of his boots once he had them off and stood them up against the wall.