Stealing the Preacher (27 page)

“You know, Archer,” a gruff voice rasped behind them, making Joanna jump, “I don’t reckon the boss’s mood would improve much if he were to come home and find you dallyin’ with his daughter.”

Crockett squeezed Joanna’s hand before slowly pivoting to face Frank.

The older man dropped Sunflower’s reins, his right hand moving to hover above his holster. “Can’t say I like it much, either, seein’ as how Jo’s practically my niece.” His steely stare moved to Joanna and examined her from head to toe, assuring himself she was unharmed.

“I’d never take sinful advantage of a woman, Frank,” Crockett ground out, his jaw clenching as he strove to keep a lid on his temper. He took a step closer to his accuser. “Especially not one whom I respect and care for as much as Joanna.”

Frank’s bow-legged stride closed the remaining distance between them. His eyes latched onto Crockett’s, his palm resting on the butt of his pistol. “You telling me you got honorable intentions toward our gal?”

Crockett gave a clipped nod. “Yes, sir, I am—I do.”

Instantly the man’s face cleared, and the old grump actually smiled. “Hot diggity!” He cackled and slapped his thigh with his empty gun hand. “I knew it! Wait’ll I tell the boys. Jasper’s gonna owe me twenty bucks.”

“Frank?” Joanna slid around Crockett’s side, her fingers trailing down his arm until her slender hand nestled into his palm. “I don’t understand.” She tipped her face up to Crockett, puzzlement evident in the lines upon her brow.

He shrugged slightly, then closed his hand around hers and stroked his thumb over her knuckles.

“I ain’t so old I can’t remember what it’s like to be young. I ain’t blind, neither. I seen the way you look at her across the supper table when you think no one’s watching.” Frank jabbed his bony elbow into Crockett’s ribs. “Why do ya think I waited so long to follow ya in here? Didja think Sunflower and I were out in the yard shootin’ the breeze? Ha!”

Truth be told, after finding Joanna, he hadn’t thought of anything but how best to comfort and reassure her. Now his little pixie was blushing up a storm and doing her best to hide her face behind his shoulder. It was all he could do not to grin.

“You mind keeping this information under your hat for a bit, Frank?” If the old buzzard went squawkin’ to Silas about his and Joanna’s courtship, her father would have him hog-tied and thrown off the Lazy R before he could blink. It wouldn’t keep him away from Joanna, of course. Crockett had meant what he’d said about hanging around no matter what. However, Silas was at a crossroads. The fewer distractions he had to deal with, the better. “We’d like Silas to hear about it from us. When the time is right.”

“All right,” Frank grumbled, his usual grim demeanor reasserting itself. “But don’t take your sweet time about it. I ain’t met the man yet who can pull the wool over Si’s eyes for long. In fact, it wouldn’t surprise me if he already suspects something’s afoot. Ever since the picnic, he’s had a peculiar look about him when he watches you work—like he can’t decide if he should keep you around or send ya packin’.” Frank socked him in the arm. “Might be a good idea to stay upwind of him when we go huntin’ tomorrow.”

The man cackled at his own witticism, then finally moved on, leading Sunflower to her stall near the back wall.

“You’re going hunting tomorrow?” Joanna’s soft question pulled him away from the complications mushrooming in his mind.

“Your father grumbled something about putting my rifle skills to use for the Lazy R before I take another afternoon for myself.” Crockett winked. “If you ask me, though, I think he just wants to see if I can hit a moving target.”

A teasing smile lit up Joanna’s face. “Can you?”

“I’ve been known to take down a squirrel midleap between trees.” The Archer ranch had crawled with the little rodents. As kids, he and Travis used to have contests to see who could bag the most—until Jim threatened to quit cooking if they didn’t start giving him some variety. Of course, Jim wouldn’t be the one cooking this time. Crockett grinned at Joanna. “I think I can manage to bring something home to your table.”

It was her turn to wink as she slipped from his hold and headed back toward the loft ladder. “I’ll look forward to it.”

29

S
ilas veered west through a stand of post oaks, separating himself from the rest of the hunting party. He knew these game trails as well as the Tonkawa Indians who roamed the area a hundred years ago had, and frankly, he wasn’t in the mood for company. The conversation he’d had with Jo yesterday had replayed over and over in his mind during the course of the night, robbing him of sleep and leaving his temper dangerously ragged. Worst of all, it’d made things awkward between him and Jo.

He hadn’t been able to look his girl in the eye this morning, not after running out on her like some kind of coward yesterday. He hated himself for that. She was his baby girl. His Jo. And he couldn’t look at her.

Not without seeing her mother and recalling the promise Martha had extracted from her.

All those years they were together, she’d never harped at him about God. She had invited him to services once in a while and insisted on praying before meals, but she’d never nagged him about it. Probably ’cause she knew it wouldn’t do any good.

Had she really prayed for him every day? Fought some kind
of unseen battle for his soul that he’d never even been aware of? Apparently she’d passed the duty on to Jo, leaving their girl to take up the fight. A fight that drained her so much, she’d felt she had to call in reinforcements.

Archer.

Silas spat at the ground as he trudged deeper into the woods. What kind of man let his womenfolk fight his battles? So what if he’d known nothing about it. He did now. And that meant he had to make some changes. What exactly those changes were supposed to entail he hadn’t quite figured out. Tightening his grip on his rifle, Silas squinted up at the sky.

“Why do you care about an old reprobate like me?” The harsh whisper rasped in his throat. “Did you tangle me up with a God-fearin’ woman just to lure me in? ’Cause I ain’t biting. It don’t make no sense for you to go to such lengths to lasso my soul when you wouldn’t lift a finger to stop one of your own sermonizers from caning Andy to death. So you can just quit chasin’ me.”

I love you too much to give up on you.

The words had been Joanna’s yesterday. Yet the voice ringing in his head now sounded nothing like his little girl and everything like the roar of rushing waters.

Silas gritted his teeth and halted in the shade of a hickory tree—away from the early morning sun forcing its warmth onto the earth. Silas didn’t want to be warm. He wanted the numbness the cold offered. A numbness that would keep him from thinking, keep him from feeling.

A rustle to his right brought his senses to alert.

Finally. A distraction.

Moving deliberately, so as not to make a noise that would give away his position, Silas shifted his rifle into a ready position and stole a careful glance around the hickory’s trunk. About two hundred yards downhill and to the south, a white-tailed deer stepped out from the trees to nose the grass of a tiny clearing.
Sunlight glinted off the buck’s rack. The beast was strong. Mature. And easy pickin’s.

A smile of triumph curved Silas’s lips. The others were safely to the north—too far away to poach his find. He’d be the one with the first kill of the day. And judging by the size of the specimen in front of him, he’d be bringing in the best of the day, as well.

Silas eased into a secure stance and took aim. Drawing a line up from the buck’s front leg, he sighted the center of the chest. A lung shot. He’d take no chances on the head or spine. Anything less than an instant kill would send the deer bounding into the trees, never to be found. No, this was his chance to prove his marksmanship. To prove his self-sufficiency. To regain the control Jo had shattered in him yesterday.

A tiny sound echoed somewhere downhill from him, between his position and the buck. Some varmint with bad timing, blast it all. The buck lifted his head and blinked, poised to leap away, but Silas wouldn’t allow it. Without a second thought, he squeezed the trigger.

But it wasn’t the buck that fell.

A slender figure had emerged from the brush fifty yards downwind at the same moment Silas’s rifle cracked its shot. The buck bounded away. The figure crumpled.

No!
Silas’s mind screamed the word his constricted throat couldn’t voice. How . . . ? Where had he . . . ? It wasn’t possible. All of the men were farther north.

But it wasn’t a man.

Acid churned in his stomach as the truth dawned in horrifying clarity. “No. Please, God. No!” Leaping forward, Silas sprinted down the hill, stumbling over tree roots, slipping on sandy soil. Thick shrub branches tore at his face and hands. He shoved them aside.

He forced his way through the last bramble and fell to his
knees beside Jackson Spivey’s writhing form. The boy was belly down, moaning, trying to reach behind his shoulder to the place where blood oozed from a bullet-sized hole. A bullet Silas had put there.

“Easy, Jackson.” Silas snatched the bandana from his neck, wadded it, and pressed it hard against the boy’s wound.

Jackson cried out, the sound lacerating Silas’s soul.

“Don’t worry, son. I’m gonna get you out of here. You’re gonna be fine.” He
had
to be fine. Silas couldn’t be responsible for another boy’s death.

Holding the dressing in place, Silas rolled him over. A whimper echoed in the air between them, but Silas wasn’t sure if it emanated from Jackson or himself.

Muddy streaks marred the kid’s face, where tears had coursed over his cheeks. His breaths came in shallow little pants as he struggled to keep a brave front. “It hurts, Mr. Robbins.”

“I know, boy. But you’re tough. You’ll pull through.” Maybe if he said it enough times, one of them would start to believe it.

Silas searched Jackson’s chest for an exit wound. He found none. Biting back an oath, he scanned the hillside for any sign of his men.
Where are they?
They should have headed his way after hearing his gunshot—if for no other reason than to see what type of game he’d bagged.

His grip tightened on Jackson, remorse hitting him so hard, his head spun. He squeezed his eyes shut and gathered his wits. Regret wasn’t going to get the boy home. A strong back was. Silas slid his hunting knife from the sheath at his waist and yanked the tail of his shirt free from his trousers. Slicing the flannel with the blade, he tugged and tore until he had a strip long enough to wrap around Jackson’s chest. Trying not to jostle the boy too much, he wrestled the bandage until it securely bound the dressing to the wound.

When he finished, Jackson’s eyes had closed. The fight seemed
to be draining from him along with his blood. Silas swallowed the growing lump in his throat. He couldn’t let another minute pass without saying what needed to be said.

“I’m sorry, Jackson.” He hugged the boy gently to his chest and squinted away the moisture pooling near his lashes. “So sorry.”

“It ain’t your fault.” Jackson’s eyes cracked open a slit. “Jo fussed at me ’bout not hunting without permission. I was . . . too stubborn to listen. Guess . . . she was right, huh?” He tried to chuckle, but the weak sound turned into a cough.

Silas winced.

He’d been too stubborn to listen, too. What if she was right again? What if God really did care?

Jackson’s head lolled to the side as the boy lost consciousness. His face ashen, his body limp, he was knockin’ on death’s door.

Silas lifted his face to heaven. “I know you and I ain’t seen eye to eye for quite some time, and I know I’m to blame for this predicament. But if you could see your way to intervening on the boy’s behalf, I’d take it as a personal favor.”

The sky didn’t open. No angelic chorus started singing. No beam of heavenly light fell across Jackson’s face. The kid just lay there as broken as before.

Fine. He’d handle it by himself. It’d been crazy to think God would listen to him anyway. Maybe he listened to people like Jo and Martha, but to bitter old outlaws with blood on their hands? Not likely.

“All right, kid,” he grunted as he shifted to take Jackson’s weight. “Let’s get you out of here.” He collected the fallen rifles and hoisted the boy over his right shoulder like a gangly sack of potatoes. Using the rifles as if they were a cane, Silas levered himself up to a standing position and quickly braced his legs. Once he had Jackson’s weight distributed evenly, he set off for the trail using the arm with the rifles to shield the boy from the worst of the brush as he pushed them through.

A pair of shots echoed some distance to the north, drawing a scowl from Silas. If the men were off chasing their own game, there’d be no one to help him with Jackson. The kid would never make it.

“Why won’t you do something?” Silas groaned beneath his labored breath. He would have shouted his frustration to the sky, but he had no energy to spare. The vegetation thinned as he neared the edge of the gulley. He struggled to put one foot in front of the other, the ground beneath him growing increasingly steep.

His boot slipped. He tightened his one-arm hold on Jackson and leaned into the hill, digging his toes into the sandy soil. Silas rammed the rifle butts into the ground to help him stabilize. His gaze lifted to where the hill leveled out above him. Still twenty yards to go.

Sweat beaded his forehead despite the cool morning breeze. Silas set his jaw and took another step. He’d get the boy home or die trying.

Ten yards. Five. Something caught the toe of his boot. A root, maybe? He staggered to the right, Jackson’s weight nearly toppling him sideways. Not now. He was so close. Just a few more steps.

He thrust the rifle butts into the earth as he corrected his balance. Once steady he started onward, but the sandy slope shifted beneath his boots. As his feet struggled to find purchase again and again, his defenses weakened. Determination alone wasn’t going to save Jackson. Nor would stubbornness or strength of will.

The next slip took Silas to his knees. As his legs absorbed the impact of his collision, his soul absorbed the realization that relying on himself was hopeless. A forty-year-old grudge against God had no place on this hillside nor in his heart. Not when a boy’s life hung in the balance.