Stealing the Preacher (22 page)

“Well, let’s get going, then . . . old man.” Without batting an eye, Neill slapped the flat side of the disc against Crockett’s rump and raced past.

Jackson guffawed.

Holly gasped.

Crockett grinned and gave chase.

23

C
ome on, Jo.” Silas rapped his knuckles twice against his daughter’s door. “You’re the one who wanted me to go to this shindig. At this rate, it’s gonna be half over afore we get there.”

Dressed in overalls and an old flannel work shirt for painting duty, Silas stalked down the hall to the kitchen and snatched up the knapsack that held the clean trousers and fancy shirt Jo had pressed for him that morning. He swung the strap over his shoulder just as a door creaked open down the hall.

“It’s about ti—”

The vision walking toward him stole his speech as well as every thought in his head save one—his little girl had grown into a full-blown woman right under his nose.

Ah, Martha. Can you see her, darlin’? You’d be so proud.

The fancy pink dress Jo wore swished when she walked. A matching blush stained her cheeks, and she refused to lift her gaze from the floor as she entered the kitchen.

Silas swallowed the lump that had swollen in his throat. “Jo.” His quiet rasp of her name rumbled almost too low to be heard.
Nevertheless, she lifted her face, her teeth catching the edge of her bottom lip. “You’re the spittin’ image of your mama in that dress. She looked just like you do on the day I met her. All frilly and lacy and more beautiful than a woman had a right to look.” He stepped closer and ran a light finger down the edge of her sleeve. “It’s a good thing I’m takin’ my rifle for the sport shooting later. I’ll need it to run off all the young men.”

“Don’t be silly, Daddy. You know Jackson’s the only young man to ever pay me any attention, and he’s too young. Save your bullets for your targets.” Jo tapped the bib on his overalls and moved past him to drape a piece of cheesecloth over the large bowl of potato salad sitting on the table.

Silas frowned. It was true that no young man had ever paid court to her. ’Course she’d never hinted at harboring feelings for any of them, neither. So who was the dress for? Because one thing was for certain—she hadn’t gotten this gussied up just for a picnic. They had picnics every Fourth of July, and never once had she donned such a fancy getup. Was she trying to attract a beau? His fingers curled into a fist around the strap of his knapsack.

He had known the day would come when some fella would strike her fancy. He just hadn’t expected it to be
now.
Watching her graceful movements as she packed plates and flatware into a crate, a sense of inevitability prompted a bittersweet ache in his chest. He wanted her to be happy, to find a love like he had found with her mother. But there was no way he was gonna stand by and let some sweet-talkin’ cowhand make off with his Jo before the fella proved his worth to Silas’s satisfaction.

So who was he?

The only new man around these parts was . . .

The parson? Absolutely not!

If Jasper and the boys hadn’t already ridden down to the churchyard with Gamble in tow, Silas would have leapt on the beast’s back and raced in the opposite direction.

How could his daughter . . .
his
daughter . . . fancy a preacher man? He never should have brought Crockett Archer to his ranch. He shoulda left him on that train where he belonged. He should fire him tomorrow. Send him packing.

“Everything’s ready, Daddy.” Jo turned that sweet smile of hers on him, and Silas bit back a groan. “Would you carry this crate out to the wagon? I’ll get the potato salad.”

Not daring to open his mouth for fear of what might come out, Silas gave a brisk nod and snatched up the crate of dishes. His jerky motion rattled the crockery, and he had to remind himself to be gentle—with more than just the dishes.

Once outside, he inhaled a calming breath, settled the crate in the wagon bed alongside the two small kegs of cider he’d loaded earlier, and tossed his knapsack on top of the pile. Jo met him near the front of the wagon, hope shining in her eyes. A hope that made him want to snarl like a trapped cougar.

Careful not to let her see his inner turmoil, he took the salad from her, tucked it into the crook of one arm, and gave her a hand up with the other. After she gained her seat and arranged her skirts, he returned the bowl and scrambled up beside her.

They didn’t speak much during the short drive, but when they pulled up to the churchyard and that scoundrel of a parson moved to greet them, the pleasure on Jo’s face spoke loud enough to ring his ears.

“Miss Robbins.” Crockett Archer couldn’t take his eyes off her. The bounder. He practically ran up to the wagon, so eager was he to get his hands on Jo and assist her to the ground. His grip on her waist didn’t linger long enough to be improper, but his fingers took their sweet time disengaging. “You look lovely, Joanna,” the man said so low Silas doubted anyone but he and Jo heard it.

Silas stared a hole in the parson’s head until the fella finally remembered someone besides Jo existed. Tempted to upend Jo’s potato salad on the man’s head when he finally looked back to
the wagon, Silas restrained the impulse and contented himself with a glare that would melt iron.

Archer blinked, then smiled up at him as if he hadn’t just been scorched. “Silas! So glad you could come. I understand you’re the man to beat when it comes to target shooting.”

“You needin’ some lessons, Preacher?” He was more than willing to do some teaching. Especially if Archer was the target.

“No, sir.” The parson’s smile widened, but determination glittered in his eyes. “I’m needing some competition.”

“Ha!” Silas surprised himself with the shout of laughter. “If you think you can beat me, preacher man, you best save some room after lunch for the humble pie you’ll be eating.”

“You’re probably right, but it will be interesting to see, won’t it?” Challenge radiated from Archer as he reached up to the wagon seat and took hold of the potato salad.

Silas tried to glare him down, but the man didn’t even flinch. He simply turned and offered Jo his arm before leading her over to the food tables.

Dratted sermonizer.

The crazy thing was, if Archer were just a cowhand, Silas would probably favor a match between him and Jo. The man worked hard, lived up to his word, and refused to be intimidated, even by Silas. He was the kind of man who would be a good provider, a good protector, and if he truly loved his girl, a good husband.

But how could he trust his daughter’s future happiness to a preacher? To the type of man who knew how to trick the world into believing his holy façade while wielding a cruel rod of tyranny behind closed doors? His gut told him Archer was different, that he would never strike down a woman or a child, but the vision of little Andy Murdoch, broken and battered, flashed an unforgettable warning in his mind.

His gut had been wrong before.

It seemed the entire community had turned out for the church painting and picnic. Joanna was amazed at how quickly the men had the exterior white-washed. Jackson and some of the older boys even scrambled up the hackberry trees and onto the roof in order to paint the steeple.

She had brought an apron and planned to carry water around to the workers, but Holly commandeered the bucket and ladle from her before she could move past the food tables, insisting that she and Becky Sue had been assigned that task. Holly even went so far as to suggest that Joanna should round up the younger children for a game of hide-and-seek or other entertainment.

“Their mothers so rarely get a chance to sit and visit without having to worry about the little ones getting into mischief,” Holly had said. “Just think what a boon it would be to have you tend them for an hour or so.”

Then she and Becky Sue had sauntered over to the men. Holly inserted herself between Crockett and his brother Neill, sidling close as Crockett gratefully accepted the refreshment she offered. She turned to Neill next, and the man must have made some teasing comment, for she threw her head back and tittered a laugh that grated worse than fingernails on a schoolroom blackboard.

Holly loitered and lingered while Becky Sue dashed from one thirsty man to the next, and when she finally moved on, she made a point to arch a superior brow in Joanna’s direction before approaching the next gentleman.

The vile woman. She’d done everything in her power to keep Joanna away from Crockett while insinuating herself into the very position Joanna coveted. And all Crockett did was smile at her. Stupid man.

Yet despite her raging jealousy, Joanna had recognized the
truth in Holly’s earlier statement. The young mothers really could be blessed by having someone else tend their children for a while. Deciding it would be better to focus her energies in a positive direction instead of sitting around brooding over missed opportunities, Joanna spent an hour organizing footraces, a pinecone toss, and a game of leapfrog for the boys and hopscotch for the girls.

When the church bell finally rang, the signal for everyone to gather in the yard for lunch, the children whooped and scampered back to their mothers. Joanna lagged behind, savoring the quiet of the uninhabited field, and steeling herself for more of Holly’s machinations.

She arrived in time to hear Crockett’s prayer of thanksgiving for the food and for all the neighbors who had worked so hard that morning. She halted on the fringe of the crowd to bow her head, but not before catching a glimpse of her father across the way, head uncovered, eyes respectfully closed. Her heart swelled in her chest.

I have so much to be thankful for, Lord. Forgive me for forgetting that there are more important things at work here than my own desires.

The men had all washed up and changed into their picnic attire behind the church’s shuttered windows. The painting done, now their only concern lay in piling their plates as high as possible with the feast Mrs. Brewster had organized.

Crockett stood in the center of it all, smiling and chatting. Bowing to the ladies. Clasping men on the arm. Ruffling a boy’s hair as he dodged between the adult legs to get closer to the food. His face gradually turned in her direction, and she lifted a hand to wave, her lips curving upward in anticipation. But Mrs. Grimley snagged his attention by pushing a plate into his hands and steering him over to the food.

The woman could be a force of nature when set to a task,
so Joanna knew Crockett had no choice but to follow. Yet that knowledge did little to keep the disappointment at bay.

Focus on what’s important, Joanna.

Squaring her shoulders, she sought out her father and his men. They’d spread out the blankets she’d packed under one of the hackberry trees near the back of the chapel. Thinking to make sure they had everything they needed before claiming a plate for herself, she skirted the edge of the crowd, pressing as close to the building as she dared without brushing up against the wet paint.

She had just come even with one of the shuttered windows, when Becky Sue’s distinctive nasal voice echoed from within the church.

“The parson
kissed
you? However did you manage that?”

Shock stopped Joanna midstep.

“I just created the opportunity for him to do exactly what he’s been wanting to do for the last several days.”

Holly Brewster? Crockett kissed Holly Brewster?
No. It had to be some kind of mistake. He wouldn’t. Would he? Joanna’s palms pressed against her stomach as she fought to find a breath.

“We’ve grown quite close, Crockett and I.”

The sound of his given name on Holly’s lips bruised Joanna’s sore heart.

“We spent long hours talking in the evenings on my mama’s porch, and not always about picnic business—if you know what I mean.”

“But how did you get him to kiss you?” Becky Sue pressed. “Here. At the picnic.”

Holly’s voice grew quiet and conspiratorial. Joanna had to strain to hear. “While the men changed out of their work clothes, I snuck around to the back of the church and waited for him to show up. I figured he would drop his painting clothes off in his living quarters before rejoining the group over by the food.
He’s the tidy sort, you know.” She imparted this last bit as if she were a relative or sweetheart, someone intimately acquainted with the nuances of his preferences and personality. It made Joanna want to scream. Or sob. Or yank Holly’s shiny blond hair out by the fistful.

“Well, just as I suspected,” Holly continued, “he came around the corner and disappeared into his room. I ran up to the door and met him as he came out. Finding me there, he wrapped his arms around me, and his lips caressed my forehead. He couldn’t risk anything more since someone could have come by, but it was enough to assure me that his feelings are indeed engaged.”

“His feelings are indeed engaged.”
The words echoed in Joanna’s mind like a death knoll.

Biting back a wounded cry, Joanna spun around and sprinted back the way she had come. She couldn’t let her father see the tears streaking her cheeks. She couldn’t let anyone see. Plunging back into the field where she’d romped so cheerfully with the children, she headed for the one place she could hide.