Stealing the Preacher (24 page)

Crockett had kissed her. Well and truly kissed her. On purpose. Joanna fought down a giggle as she pictured the awkward tangle that must have resulted from Holly’s manufactured collision—the one Crockett had scrambled to escape. He hadn’t scrambled to escape
her
down by the river. No. He’d taken his time. And what a lovely time it had been.

She could still picture the intent look on his face as he bent his head and waited for her silent permission. His eyes had roamed her face as if he yearned for her, his mouth curving just enough to let her know she pleased him.
She
pleased him. Her—the shy little wallflower with the ungovernable hair and freckled skin; the woman no one ever looked at twice; the daughter of the man who’d kidnapped him. She pleased him.

And heavenly stars, how he pleased her.

Unable to resist the lure, Joanna turned her head to scan the
crowd for a glimpse of him. Just a peek, she promised herself. It wouldn’t be wise to let her father catch her mooning over the preacher. But when she finally caught sight of him horsing around with Jackson and Neill over by the greased pig enclosure, his smile was so bright, she couldn’t help staring. He was so handsome. And kind. And fun-loving. And . . . courting her!

Crockett must have sensed her attention, for he lifted his face. His gaze found hers, and a subtle change crept into his expression. His grin never dimmed, but somehow it deepened, became personal, private, between the two of them. She couldn’t have looked away had a herd of longhorns stampeded through the churchyard.

Then he winked and turned back to his brother, freeing her to look elsewhere. But what else could possibly capture her interest after that? Joanna dropped her attention to her lap and held the moment close to her breast, as if it were a kitten begging to be stroked and snuggled for a little longer before squirming away.

“I would’ve thought a smart gal like you would have better taste.”

Joanna jerked her head up at her father’s grumbled comment, her stomach clutching. He was staring at her just like he used to when she was a girl and he caught her doing something she oughtn’t have.

He’d never been one to throw out verbal accusations. He didn’t have to. All he had to do was stare at her until she recognized the error of her ways and confessed everything. Even now she could feel the truth about Crockett’s kiss creeping up her throat and knocking on the back of her teeth.

But then her daddy let out a ragged sigh and nodded his chin toward her plate while he pushed up to his feet. “Even I know to avoid Miz Maybelle’s corn pone, Jo.”

Air whooshed from her lungs, turning unspoken admissions into harmless giggles. “Somebody’s got to eat them, Daddy,” she
said, lifting one to her mouth. “It would be an embarrassment for her to take a full platter back home.”

“You got a bigger heart than I do.” He grunted and adjusted his suspenders, his attention briefly captured by something behind her and at an angle very much in line with where she’d last seen Crockett. Then he shook his head and gathered up his rifle from where it leaned against the hackberry’s trunk. “I’m gonna go check on Gamble, make sure he’s ready for the race.”

“All right.” Joanna smiled up at him, guilt pricking at her conscience for the relief she felt at his departure. “I’ll pack up our things.”

He waved a hand to let her know he’d heard, then ambled off toward the rope corral that had been strung in the trees behind the church for the horses. He muttered something under his breath as he strode past her, something that sounded an awful lot like
Archer
and
shooting
.

Not a good combination.

Abandoning the beets, carrots, and pone, Joanna went straight for the cake. Somehow a suspicious father armed with a gun seemed less threatening when chocolate was melting on her tongue.

Crockett made a point to keep his distance from Joanna during the afternoon activities. At least in body. In mind, well, that was a different matter. She constantly crept into his thoughts, despite his best efforts to concentrate on the discussions and people around him. Thankfully, once the games started, everyone’s attention turned to the children and their bumbling efforts to tackle the greased pig, leaving laughter to outrank conversation.

After little Joey Anderson successfully captured the pig, Neill took out his fiddle and played a set of sprightly songs that had
the crowd toe tappin’ and hand clappin’ in rhythm. Some of the kids even swung partners around in an impromptu dance full of elbows and knees that kept getting tangled together.

One fellow pulled a mouth harp from his pocket and took up a position next to Neill, and another grabbed a pair of spoons and added some percussion to the ensemble. The audience began throwing in whoops for musical emphasis and urged the musicians to a faster tempo by quickening the pace of their clapping.

Neill’s bow flew over the strings, his fingers moving to capture all the notes. Then all at once, the crescendo climaxed, and he stabbed his bow into the air with a final flourish. The crowd roared its approval. Neill bowed.

The kid had gotten better since the last time Crockett had heard him play.

Smiling to himself, Crockett hung back, allowing Neill to accept the appreciation that was his due without big brother hovering. Once the back slaps and handshakes concluded, however, and the crowd dispersed to witness the pie-baking contest, he made his way to his brother’s side.

“You sure you can’t stay longer?” Crockett asked, even though he knew the answer.

Neill placed his fiddle in the carrying case that lay open atop one of the emptied food tables and carefully fastened the lid. “Yep, but I imagine I’ll be back before long.”

“Oh?” Crockett raised a brow. “Why’s that?”

Neill slanted a sly look at his brother. “Well, with as hard as that blonde is working to draw your attention away from your boss’s redheaded daughter, I figure one of the two will end up leg-shacklin’ you before too long, which means I’ll be returnin’ for a wedding.” He paused to tuck his fiddle case under his arm, then leaned close. “My money’s on the redhead, by the way.”

Mine too,
Crockett thought, yet he hid his opinion behind a scowl of displeasure. “Mind your own business, pup,” he growled.

Neill laughed and clapped a hand on Crockett’s shoulder. “Now, where’s the fun in that?”

Incorrigible kid. Crockett cuffed him on the arm. “Yeah, well, someday some woman will run
you
around in circles, and we’ll see who’s laughing then.”

The two of them walked to the wagon that waited across the churchyard, close to the road. Neill set his fiddle in the back and turned to Crockett. “It was good to see you, Crock.”

“You too. Thanks for making the trip out here.”

Neill shrugged off his gratitude. “You know me. Always ready to use any excuse to escape the ranch for a few days.”

Crockett yanked him into an embrace. “Give everyone my love.” He pounded Neill on the back a time or two, then stepped back.

“Will do.” Neill climbed up onto the bench, gathered up the reins, and released the brake. “Take care, brother.”

Crockett nodded and watched the wagon roll away.

A gunshot cracked through the air. Crockett’s pulse skittered. He whipped his head around, instinctively searching out Joanna for the brief seconds it took his mind to recall the reason for the sound. The horse race. Crockett chuckled at himself and hurried to the edge of the designated course. He arrived just in time to see a blur of horses approaching the first turn. He glanced across the way and found Joanna with the Lazy R hands. She was bouncing up and down and shouting encouragement to her father. Her delight ignited his own.

Someone nudged his side as the horses thundered past. He scooted aside to allow whomever it was to pass, but the person pressed closer to him instead and even slipped a hand into the crook of his elbow.

“I’d say our picnic is a rousing success,” a warm feminine voice purred.

Crockett fought down the urge to yank his arm from Holly Brewster’s grasp. The woman had a tendency for boldness and far too creative a manner of reading meaning into situations where there was none, but she was still a lady and deserved his kindness. Digging deep, he found a polite grin for her.

“You organized a fine event, Miss Brewster.”

Was her thumb stroking the inside of his arm?

“After all the hours we put in together during the planning, Crockett, I think you know me well enough to call me Holly.” She smiled so sweetly at him it was hard to believe she was purposely being forward, yet the way she leaned into him made him blasted uncomfortable.

He patted her hand and gently disengaged it from his arm, subtly removing her hold on him without drawing any attention from the spectators crowded around them. “We wouldn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea, Miss Brewster,” he said, emphasizing the more formal name. “That’s how rumors get started.”

She pouted prettily, then glanced sideways at him. “If you think that’s best.” Her gaze drifted slowly downward from his face to his chest, dipped nearly to his waist, then gradually lifted again. “I’ll be careful to address you as Brother Archer when we’re around others.”

But not when we’re alone.
He wasn’t so naïve as to miss the message hanging unspoken between them.

And in that instant, he knew the time for polite consideration had passed. Like Joseph in the clutches of Potiphar’s wife, it was time to flee.

He muttered a brief “Pardon me” and without further explanation darted through the dispersing crowd, spotted Jackson giving a smaller boy a leg up into the hackberry tree that stood closest to the front of the church, and broke into a jog.

“What’s going on over here?” he asked, hoping the flimsy excuse of checking up on the boys would be viewed as reason enough for him to have scurried across the yard like a lizard who’d just had his rock overturned.

The younger boy paid Crockett no mind, immediately scrambling up to a higher branch. He planted his feet, grabbed the trunk for balance, and pushed to his feet. “They’re coming up to the halfway marker!” he shouted. “Three of ’em are bunched together at the front. The rest are falling behind.”

Excitement buzzed through the crowd as anticipation built to see who the leaders would be.

“I bet Robbins wins again,” one nearby man commented. “That new chestnut of his looked to be even faster than his gray.”

Another turned to Crockett. “You work out at the Lazy R, don’t ya, preacher? Ever seen that horse run?”

The magnificent image of Joanna bursting out of the barn on Gamble’s back came immediately to mind. “Yep. He’s got the speed for sure, but I’m not sure how he’ll hold up under Silas’s weight. Some of the other riders are much smaller. It might give them an advantage.”

“Not against Silas,” the first man said. “He races all out—like a bandit tryin’ to outrun the law.”

The men chuckled over the comparison. Crockett choked.

“You all right, Crock?” Jackson pounded his back until Crockett held up a hand to assure him he was fine.

“They’re comin’ round the bend!” came the announcement from the treetop.

Crockett welcomed the distraction. The top three horses pounded toward the churchyard, the largest starting to pull away.

“Yeehaw. Get ’em, Silas!”

Crockett grinned, recognizing Carl’s voice. Jasper and Frank were walking toward the finish line with Joanna in tow, her eyes alight. She glanced across the yard, her gaze finding his as
if she’d known precisely where he was all the time. A smile of pure joy beamed from her face, leaving Crockett helpless to do anything but smile in return.

At the last minute, she turned back to the race and applauded as her father plunged to victory two lengths ahead of the next horse. A loud cheer rose from the crowd. Silas’s arm shot into the air in triumph. Crockett added a hurrah to the chorus, then waited for the rush of congratulations to fade before joining the Lazy R crew gathered around their leader.

“Great race, Silas,” Crockett said, taking hold of Gamble’s bridle. “I’d be happy to cool him down for you while you celebrate.”

“Oh, I ain’t celebratin’ too much just yet, Parson.” Silas swung down from the saddle and handed Crockett the reins but didn’t release his own grip. “Not ’til I beat you in the shooting contest.” His eyes held something more than friendly challenge, and when Crockett tugged on the reins, Silas held on. A look passed between them—a look that Crockett suspected had little to do with horses or shooting.

The line between respecting Silas as an employer and the father of the woman he wished to court, and proving himself a man equally worthy of respect was growing thinner and more precarious by the minute.

Crockett made no move to tug the reins away, but neither did he release his own grip. “You don’t expect me to go easy on you, just because you’re my boss, do you?” He injected humor into his voice, though he was only half teasing.

“You do and I’ll fire you on the spot,” Silas growled. “I ain’t no charity case, boy. And I ain’t afraid of your best. Shoot to win, and I’ll still beat ya.”