Stealing the Preacher (31 page)

Hesitating at the edge of the table, she turned back to Crockett. “How’s he doing? He looked more like his old self when I came back from your place, but I know he still feels responsible.”

“If you ask me,” Crockett said, a slight smile touching his lips, “he looks more like his new self than his old one.”

Joanna’s brow furrowed. “His new self? I don’t understand.”

“He’s praying, Jo.” Crockett reached out and clasped her hand. “Truly praying. I think for the first time in forty years, he’s letting go of the past and opening himself to the Lord.”

Her knees did buckle then. She thunked the coffee mug she held onto the table—not caring about the liquid that sloshed over the brim—and all but fell into the nearest chair. Her vision blurred as tears pooled in her eyes and rolled down her cheeks.

Crockett moved behind her, his hands massaging her shoulders. “Those seeds you and your mother planted are coming to fruition, Jo. He’s finally stopped running.”

Joanna leaned her head back against Crockett, her mind too overwhelmed to pray anything more than
Thank you.

33

C
rockett clasped Jackson’s good arm above the elbow and levered him to a sitting position. It’d only been four days since the accident, but the boy was already itching to return to his free-spirited ways.

“Easy does it,” Crockett cautioned as Jackson tried to stand on his own. “Let me help you.” He adjusted his hold, moving his hand to grip the boy’s upper arm.

“Aww, come on, Crock. Quit treating me like an old woman.” He tugged his arm free and staggered a bit at the sudden loss of support. “The doc came by yesterday and said I was mendin’ just fine. I ain’t got a fever no more, and so long as I wear this stupid sling, I can go about my business.”

“Within reason.” Crockett raised a brow until Jackson squirmed sufficiently to let him know he’d caught the message. “If you try to do too much too soon, it could set you back.”

“Yes,
Ma
.” Jackson rolled his eyes.

Crockett chuckled and gently ruffled his hair. “You’re a mess, kid.” But he was improving, praise God. This was the second day he’d been out of bed, and he seemed stronger.

Jackson made his way gingerly across the one-room Spivey cabin and lowered himself into a chair at the rickety table in the corner by the stove. He reached for the towel-covered plate Crockett had brought.

“What’d she make this time?” He peeked beneath the cloth. “Mmm. Oatmeal cookies.” He grabbed one and shoved it into his mouth. “I should get shot more often,” he said around a mouthful of cookie, “if it means Jo will keep sending me treats.”

“It might be less painful if you just stopped by the house every once in a while.” Crockett winked, and Jackson, cheeks bulging, grinned.

Helping himself to a cookie as he joined Jackson at the table, Crockett took a bite, then surreptitiously surveyed the cabin. Cooking wasn’t all Jo had done. The cabin glowed with a cleanliness that must have taken her hours to accomplish, even with the room’s small size. The walls looked as if they might crumple like a pile of sticks if the wind blew too hard, and the furniture was a broken, mismatched mess, but there wasn’t a speck of dirt to be found.

He frowned as he surveyed the cot Sam Spivey used. Apparently dirt wasn’t the only thing scarce around here.

“Your father’s saddlebags are gone.” Crockett strove to keep his voice free of condemnation. “He light out again?”

“Yeah, well . . .” Jackson shrugged, the reddish tinge creeping up his cheeks belying his air of nonchalance. “Three days is about his limit, you know. And with the doc’s good report, he figured I’d be all right. Said he had a job lined up with one of the ranchers closer to Deanville and was worried the man would give it to someone else if he didn’t show up soon.” He jutted his chin forward as he grabbed another cookie from the plate. “All his hoverin’ was driving me batty, anyway. We’re both better alone.”

Crockett met Jackson’s skittery gaze and waited for the boy’s attention to settle. “You’re not alone.”

Jackson swallowed the bite he’d been chewing. “I know.”

A confirming silence passed between them before Crockett pushed to his feet. “Why don’t you let me take you back to the Lazy R? If nothing else it would save Joanna from having to drag food over here twice a day.”

“Nah. Tell Jo I got enough to tide me over for a while. Pa laid in supplies before he left. She don’t have to keep coming.”

“She will anyway. You know how she is.”

“Yeah. But a man don’t want his lady to see him weak. If I were to stay there, she’d probably coddle me like some kind of baby or something.” His face screwed into a comically disgusted expression.

At his words, though, memories assailed Crockett of the way Joanna had held him after he’d emerged from Jackson’s sickroom. She seen him at his weakest, yet instead of diminishing him, the sharing of the burden made him stronger. Her love made him stronger.

Jackson’s heavy sigh from across the table pulled Crockett from his thoughts. “You’re gonna marry her, aren’t ya?”

A pinprick of guilt poked Crockett’s conscience for depriving the boy of his infatuation. Nevertheless, he straightened in his seat and nodded once. “Yes.”

“Figures.” Jackson leaned back in his chair. “Well, if I had to lose her to somebody, I’m glad it’s you.”

“No hard feelings?”

The boy looked more resigned than pained, but Jackson was good at putting up fronts, so it was hard to tell.

Jackson sat a little straighter, his demeanor changing from boy to man as he eyed Crockett with surprising maturity. “If I didn’t think you’d be good for her, I’d fight you for her. But I trust you, Crock. I been around you enough to know that you
don’t just spout nice words from the pulpit—you live ’em. She’ll be in good hands.”

For once, Crockett had no words at the ready. Humbled by the boy’s faith, all he could manage was a gravelly “Thanks.”

“’Course, you still gotta get through Silas.” The smile that twisted Jackson’s face made it clear he wouldn’t mind witnessing his friend endure a little fatherly torture.

And Crockett fully expected to suffer some. Silas might have opened up to him in a moment of weakness after Jackson’s injury, and he might have even worked through some of his issues with preachers, but the man was still an ornery cuss who wouldn’t give away his precious daughter without demanding his pound of flesh. Crockett hid a grin behind his hand. He actually looked forward to the challenge.

“Well, anything worth having is worth working for, right?” He winked at Jackson.

“Yep.” Jackson grabbed the towel that had guarded the cookies and wadded it in his good hand. “Don’t worry.” He launched the towel at Crockett’s head. “I’ll put in a good word for you. Silas promised to bring his checkerboard over tomorrow to entertain me while you and Jo are off at church.”

Crockett hid his disappointment. He’d hoped Silas would attend services. According to Joanna, he’d been reading her mother’s Bible the last few evenings and even asked a question or two. But Silas was a man used to making his own way—a leader, not a follower. Nagging him about attending church would only create friction. The man needed to come to his own conclusions and decide for himself whom he would serve. Like Joshua, all Crockett could do was offer the invitation and proclaim his own allegiance through his words and deeds. It was up to Silas to do the rest.

“You think you can manage to ring the bell without me?” Jackson interjected into the silence.

Crockett shook off his ponderings and smiled. He snagged the towel from where it had fallen across his shoulder and tossed it back at Jackson’s face. “Maybe. But just this once.” He crossed his arms over his chest and spoke with his best mock-lecture tone. “You don’t need two arms to pull the bell rope, you know. I fully expect you to be back at work next Sunday. No more lazing about, you hear?”

Jackson chuckled. “You got it.”

As it turned out, Crockett missed Jackson for more than his bell ringing skills the next day. With the boy at home, Crockett had no one to run interference for him when it came to dodging Holly Brewster. The gal seemed to be constantly circling like some kind of hungry buzzard, swooping in every chance she got to pick at his flesh. She arrived early and offered to ring the bell in Jackson’s place. Yet when he unhooked the rope for her, all she did was bat her eyelashes and plead with him to help her.

What if the rope slipped through her fingers? What if she did it wrong? Wouldn’t it be better for him to hold the rope, too? Preferably by holding her in the process.

She hadn’t said that last part aloud, but it projected through the sultry glances she kept aiming in his direction. He’d finally instructed her to yank on the rope however she liked, then left her to her own devices and strode away to the podium to review the sermon notes he’d finished reviewing not five minutes before.

Thankfully, Joanna arrived soon after, saving him from Holly’s more blatant machinations. But all through the service, Miss Brewster continued her subtle attack. She sang a touch too loudly from the pew behind his, ensuring he heard her voice above any other. He strained to hear Joanna’s gentle lilting from across the aisle, but Holly’s brassy tones drowned her out.

During the sermon, Holly stared at him with a far-too-enraptured expression. As much as he would’ve liked to believe that his message could hold her so in thrall, not even his pride could swallow that much rot. Then she started toying with the buttons on the bodice of her dress, and that’s when he gave up all pretense of acting as if he didn’t notice her. He locked his focus on the left side of the congregation from that moment on and never veered to the right again.

Her brazenness had gone too far. It was no longer just a matter of his being uncomfortable with her forward manner; it had progressed to the point where he worried about moral implications. He couldn’t simply strive to avoid her. He needed to confront her. Not only as a man who wished to discourage her interest but also as a minister who needed to caution her about the slippery path she was walking.

But he hated confrontation. Growing up, he’d been the keeper of the peace in the Archer household. If Travis got too uptight, Crockett would tease him into a better frame of mind. If Jim wanted to pound Neill into a pulp for ruining his stew, Crockett intervened with a funny anecdote to diffuse the tension. He was an expert at charming people back onto the honorable path. Unfortunately, charm wouldn’t work with Holly. It would only inflame the problem.

So he had no choice. He had to confront her directly. Which meant he’d have to hurt her, because the truth was not what she wanted to hear.

Is there any other way, Lord? Couldn’t you just change her heart? I have little experience in talking to women. I’m bound to muck this up.

No peace came with the prayer. Only a recollection of a verse from James.
“He which converteth the sinner from the error of his way shall save a soul from death, and shall hide a multitude of sins.”

Apparently, he couldn’t charm God, either.

As Crockett stood at the rear of the church, shaking the hands of departing members, he forced himself to smile and make polite conversation despite the sick mound of dread swelling in his stomach. A confrontation with Holly was sure to be awkward, possibly even volatile. But he’d been called to minister to all the members of his flock, not just the easy ones.

So when Holly and her mother made their way toward him, he steeled himself for what needed to be done.

“Another wonderful sermon, Brother Archer,” Sarah Brewster gushed. “As always.” She tittered like a young girl as she held her hand out to him. “Won’t you come for lunch? I’m frying chicken, and Holly baked a wild blackberry cobbler that will melt in your mouth.”

“It sounds wonderful, ma’am,” Crockett said as he clasped her hand, “but I’m afraid I’m already promised elsewhere today.”

“At the Lazy R?” Holly interjected, her lips puffed into a pretty pout. “Pish. You eat there all the time. I’m sure Joanna wouldn’t mind sharing you.”

Actually, he figured she’d probably mind quite a bit.

The possessive thought cheered him considerably. “I’m sorry, ladies. I’ve given my word. However . . .” He drew the word out to keep Holly from arguing further, then turned his attention to her mother. “I would like to ask your permission to call on Holly tomorrow evening. Perhaps around seven? There is a matter of some urgency I need to discuss with her.”

He’d tried to make it clear that his visit would not be a courting call by his last remark, but judging by the way Holly’s pout disappeared beneath the onslaught of a beaming smile, she hadn’t caught on.

Pressing the issue with so many parishioners within hearing distance didn’t seem wise, and he supposed she’d understand soon enough, so he held his tongue.

Mrs. Brewster squeezed his hand and nearly bounced in her delight. “Of course you can pay a call, Parson. We’ll be sure to hold back a serving of cobbler for you.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

She finally released his hand and grabbed hold of her daughter. “Come along, Holly. Let the man get to his lunch. You’ll see him tomorrow.”