Stealing the Preacher (30 page)

Slowly, she bent at the waist and lowered the books to the floor. Then she backed into the hall and hurried to escape . . . er . . . fetch the items. Grabbing up the entire basket, she thrust it over her arm and turned to face the hall.

You can do this, Joanna. Crockett needs you. You can be strong for him. Strong for Jackson.

Setting her shoulders, she marched on to the sickroom. Keeping her gaze averted from Jackson, she rounded the bed and placed the sewing basket on the dresser top.

“I have the needle and thread,” she said, tugging a needle free from the pincushion. She always kept two or three of them threaded and ready to go for mending projects. She’d plucked out the one with black thread. Somehow it just seemed a sturdier color than white or blue.

“Soak it in the whiskey in the tray over there.” Crockett didn’t even look up. He didn’t have to. His tone said everything for him—complete assurance that she would accomplish whatever he asked of her. “Then wash up yourself. You need to be clean before you handle any of the instruments.”

She hadn’t planned on staying long enough to handle any instruments. Surely her father could see to that task. He seemed recovered and back to his usual capable self. Joanna opened her mouth to say just that, then closed it. If Crockett had need of her, she’d stay.

The smell of the whiskey wrinkled her nose as she dropped the needle and thread into the shallow puddle on the tray. She couldn’t decide if that smell was better or worse than the blood. Maybe if she kept her back turned, her stomach would stay where it belonged and not jump into her throat again.

Breathing more through her mouth than her nose, Joanna unbuttoned her cuffs and rolled her sleeves. She had just finished
scrubbing to her elbows with the lye soap when Crockett’s voice cut through the quiet.

“Hand me the tweezers. I can see the bullet, but I can’t quite reach it.” Crockett held his bloody hand out in expectation.

Joanna stared helplessly at the tweezer-less tray. “I . . . um . . . don’t have any tweezers.”

Crockett finally glanced her way, a frown scrunching his brow. His eyes raked the tray as if hoping she’d overlooked them. Not finding them, his scowl deepened. His gaze traveled over the entire dresser top, then narrowed in on her. All at once the lines cleared from his forehead.

“Towel off and bring me your hands. Your fingers should be slender enough.”

“Slender enough for
what
?” But she knew the answer. She shook her head even as she reached for the towel. She stared at Jackson, at the hole in his flesh, at the blood. “I-I can’t.”

“Joanna.” The firmness in Crockett’s voice brooked no argument. She forced her eyes to meet his. “Come here.” He spoke in the same authoritative tone he used from the pulpit, and before she consciously chose to obey, her feet carried her to his side.

“The more I cut, the more chance there is of damaging something that can’t be repaired. The top of the bullet is exposed. All you have to do is pull it out.” He circled his left arm around her, careful not to touch her clothing with his hand, and gently nudged her into position directly in front of him. He pressed close, his heat warming her back. Then his cheek came alongside hers, and he spoke directly into her ear. “You can do this, Joanna. I wouldn’t ask it of you if I didn’t believe you could do it.”

She glanced across the bed to her father. He winked at her and nodded. “Easy as cleaning the innards from a chicken before throwing it in the pot.”

The comparison was absurd, but somehow it grounded her.
If she could reach into a chicken to pull out its gizzard, surely she could pull out a bullet.

Only Jackson didn’t look a thing like a chicken, and that tiny circle of lead Crockett was pointing out to her was no gizzard.

“As soon as we blot away the excess blood, reach for it.” Giving her no time to formulate an adequate reason to delay, Crockett signaled her father with a nod of his head. “Silas.”

The two of them patted the area with clean cotton, then held the wound open for her. Biting her tongue, Joanna reached for the bullet. The warm squish around her finger and thumb set her legs to trembling so fiercely, it was only by God’s grace she stayed upright.

As if sensing her weakness, Crockett braced her with his own frame, surrounding her, steadying her.

Her fingertip brushed against something solid. Metal. So close. She just needed to get a grip on it. All thought of where her hand was faded away as she concentrated solely on retrieving the bullet. She burrowed deeper, twisting her wrist to get her thumb nearer the target.

She could feel it. Almost there. Just as her thumb and forefinger closed around it, it slipped away. A frustrated grunt echoed in her throat. If only she could push it toward her from the other side.

Well . . . why not? Joanna pulled her fingers out and reached around to press on Jackson’s side, estimating where the exit wound would have been if his rib cage hadn’t slowed the bullet’s progress. Easing the fingers of her left hand into the wound, she searched again for the bullet. Once she could feel it, she experimented with different angles and pressures with her right hand until she found one that lifted the bullet ever so slightly. She reached with her fingers, praying the metal ball wouldn’t slip away again.

Her thumb was too short, but she managed to trap the bullet
between her first two fingers. Holding her breath, she clasped the hunk of lead between her fingertips and slowly tugged it toward her. Movement! Ever so slight, but it definitely moved. She tugged again. Gently. Afraid the slightest jostle would steal it from her grasp. Again, it moved with her.

“I think I’ve got it,” she whispered.

Crockett’s arms seemed to firm around her, though in truth he barely touched her. He drew in breath as she did, their chests rising together.

Joanna maneuvered her thumb into the small opening and secured her grip on the piece of lead. She pulled her arm back, and the bullet finally slid free of Jackson’s flesh.

Staring at the mangled lead between her fingers, not quite believing she’d really removed it, she dropped it into her palm and pivoted to face Crockett.

“It’s out.” A tremulous smile lifted the corners of her mouth.

Crockett’s answering grin was tender yet beaming with satisfaction. “That it is.” He lifted the bullet from her palm and bent his forehead close to hers. “I never doubted you.” His lips brushed against her hair as he spoke, and his cheek rested against the top of her head for a single precious moment before he stepped aside.

“Why don’t you get cleaned up while I finish things here.” Crockett nodded toward her hands as he reached for the needle soaking on the tray.

Joanna glanced down at her bloodstained fingers and staggered a bit as light-headedness assailed her. Now that the bullet had been retrieved, her queasy stomach was back in full force. “I think I’ll . . . um . . . wash up in the kitchen.”

Holding her hands awkwardly in front of her, she circled the bed and headed for the door. Before she reached it, her father’s voice stopped her.

“You did good, Jo.” His eyes glowed, and Joanna stood a
little taller. Her stomach settled a bit, and her head no longer felt as if it were going to roll off her shoulders.

All her life she’d strived to please him, whether it was with her riding skills, her painting, or even just the way she cooked his beefsteak. Never a great dispenser of flattery, her father rarely spoke his approval aloud. Yet when he did, she treasured the words as if they’d been crafted from the finest silver.

Not trusting her voice, Joanna simply nodded in response and exited.

It didn’t take long to wash up, yet even after cleaning away Jackson’s blood, her hands continued to shake, causing her fingers to fumble with the button at her cuff.

Maybe tea would help. Joanna refilled the empty kettle, set it over the hottest part of the stove, and dug in the cabinet for her tea tin. She grabbed the coffee, too, thinking of the men. As she worked the handle on the grinder, her mind returned to Jackson. So pale. So still. So young. Too young.

“Please, Lord,” she whispered under her breath. “Please bring him through this.”

Once her tea had steeped, she poured a cupful and stirred in a teaspoon of honey, hoping the sweetness would serve as an extra balm to her ragged emotions. She sat at the table, circled her fingers around the heated cup, and blew gently across the brew’s surface. Inhaling the flavorful steam, she closed her eyes and let her head loll forward. The tension she’d carried in her neck for the last hour finally loosened.

“Is that coffee I smell?”

Joanna jerked her head up to find Crockett approaching the table.

“Yes,” she answered, scrambling to her feet. “Sit down. I’ll pour you a cup.” Joanna grabbed a towel to protect her hand, then lifted the coffeepot from the back of the stove and filled a mug. She turned to place it on the table in front of his usual
place, but he wasn’t sitting at the table. He was standing two feet from her, his eyes drinking her in as if he needed her more than any hot beverage.

Crockett Archer was the strongest, most capable man she’d ever met. Never once had he projected anything less than confidence as he dealt with Jackson’s injury—with her father, as well. She was no fool. Something had happened between the two men while she’d been gone. Something that had restored her father’s wilted spirit.

Yet as Crockett stood before her, she saw the toll it all had taken. The weariness etched into his forehead, the vulnerability in his eyes.

Without a word, she set the ceramic mug on the table, then stepped up to Crockett and wrapped her arms around him. She held him fast, laying her head upon his chest and squeezing him close, her only thought to give him the comfort he so readily gave others.

He stiffened at first, then with a strangled sound that could have been a swallowed sob, he clutched her to himself and buried his face in her hair.

Tremors coursed through him. Joanna gathered him closer, as if she could protect him from the storm running its course. After a long moment, the tremors subsided and his hold on her changed. His grip loosened slightly, allowing his hands to roam her back. One traced the line of her spine up to her nape, the light touch of his fingers bringing on another case of light-headedness.

The softness of his lips pressed into her scalp, and his warm breath fanned across the edge of her brow. “I love you, Joanna Robbins.”

Everything inside her froze for a single moment, only to be followed by a deluge of reactions that nearly buckled her knees. Her heart pounded. Her stomach danced. And her mind swirled
so fast, she could barely keep a grip on the words she thought she’d heard.

Tilting her face up, she searched Crockett’s face for the truth she so desperately wanted to believe. She found no teasing smile, no laughing eyes. Only an intensity that stole her breath.

“I love you, Jo.”

Then his lips were bending to hers, and all thought scattered. She stretched up to meet him, thrilling at the way his arms tightened around her. His mouth was soft, insistent. A little bit desperate yet achingly gentle. Joanna melted into him, tasting the promise in his kiss. The hope.

She wanted to linger, to savor, to stretch the kiss into forever. But they weren’t alone. Her father could come in at any moment. And Jackson . . . Well, Jackson should be their focus now.

Slowly she pulled away. The hand Crockett held at her nape slipped around to cup her cheek, and for a moment she didn’t think he would let her go. But then he seemed to remember their circumstances, as well, and lifted his head.

Her breathing ragged, she looked up into the deep brown eyes she loved so well. With a hand that was none too steady, she reached up and combed a bit of his unruly hair off his forehead. Then, as if her fingers were one of her paintbrushes, she stroked the lines of his face, tracing his eyebrows, his cheek, his jaw.

Suddenly shy, she dropped her gaze. Her hand followed, coming to rest against his chest, the beat of his heart thudding against her palm.

“You’re a dream for me, Crockett,” she whispered. “A dream I never imagined would come true. I love you so much my heart aches with it.”

His arms encircled her again, drawing her firmly against him. She laid her head in the hollow beneath his shoulder, her arms wrapping around his waist.

Neither spoke. They simply absorbed strength and comfort
from one another, silently rejoicing in the precious gift they’d found.

But they couldn’t stay as they were forever, not with all that was going on around them. So after lingering as long as her conscience would allow, Joanna eased away from Crockett’s hold.

“How’s Jackson?” she asked in a soft voice, reluctant to completely break the spell that had been woven over the two of them. “Do you think he’ll recover?”

Crockett cleared his throat as he stepped away. He bent to pick up the forgotten mug of coffee, then took a sip before answering.

“I’ll feel better after the doctor examines him,” he said, finally meeting her eye. “But yes, I think he’ll recover. The bullet didn’t strike any vital organs as far as I could tell.” He paused for another sip. “There’s always a danger of infection, though.”

“Maybe when his father comes to collect him, I should try to convince him to leave Jackson here so I can tend him. Sam Spivey’s not the most dependable sort.”

Crockett dipped his chin in agreement. “If he does take the boy home, it might be a good idea for one or both of us to make periodic visits.”

“I’m sure Mr. Spivey would welcome a meal or two if I was to come by. I could make some broth for Jackson and leave his father a heartier soup.”

“That’s a good plan.” He winked at her, and her heart turned a flip. It was such a little thing, yet his approval warmed her inside and out.

Silence crept back into the kitchen, but it was a comfortable one. One that allowed Joanna’s thoughts to flow from one to the next unheeded.

“Is Daddy sitting with Jackson?” She traced the edge of the table with her finger as she moved toward the stove. “I should probably take him some coffee.” She reached for another mug and filled it with fragrant brew.