Stealing the Preacher (35 page)

Crockett grinned as he crossed the field to the churchyard.
The man who’d hated preachers for forty years was not only welcoming one into the family but handing over the reins of his ranch. If anyone doubted the existence of God, they’d have only to witness Silas Robbins’s turnabout to be convinced. No other explanation would suffice.

Thank you, Father, for your patient wooing, for never giving up on any of us. Keep working on Silas. Guard his newfound faith through whatever trials may arise, and help him to fully accept you as Lord. Give Jo and me wisdom as we walk alongside him and—

A clanking noise from inside his rooms interrupted his prayer as he approached the rear of the church. Had a coon found its way inside? He hoped the little bandit hadn’t gotten into his books. Most were safely stored in his trunk, but he’d left a few sitting out on his table last night, including his Bible. He’d had to read all three epistles of John to calm down after his run-in with Holly. He’d gone to bed meditating on 1 John 4:11—“Beloved, if God so loved us, we ought also to love one another”—before he’d finally reclaimed enough peace to sleep. Some people were a trial to love, but with God’s help, he’d find a way.

Having reached his door, he yanked it open and scanned the interior for signs of a furry intruder. The intruder he found, though, was neither furry nor likely to scamper away with a stomp of his foot or a wave of his hat.

Crockett stiffened. “What are you doing in my house?”

Holly Brewster smiled sweetly and held out a cup of coffee and a plate bearing some kind of wedge-shaped dessert. Crockett didn’t take the time to assess if it was pie or cake. All of his attention, and fury, were focused on the woman making herself at home in his personal sanctuary.

“I came to apologize for that little misunderstanding we had last night and to bring you a peace offering.” She lifted the plate toward him again, but Crockett just scowled at her, not about
to accept anything she offered. “Come on,” she cooed. “It’s my vanilla cream cake, guaranteed to bring a smile to even the grumpiest of faces.”

“You need to leave. Now.” Crockett strode forward and swiped the plate from her hand. He dumped the dish, cake and all, into the ribbon-covered basket sitting on his table.

Finding a shawl that could only be hers draped across his bed, he snatched it up and tossed it at her, not caring if the coffee she held splattered the fine wool.

“Do you have no care for your reputation?” He growled the question, barely restraining the shout clawing its way up his throat. “Or mine? You can’t be in my rooms.”

She set the coffee cup aside and folded her shawl over her arm as if his reaction didn’t perturb her the slightest bit. “You’re overreacting, Crockett.”

“It’s Brother Archer,” he ground out between clenched teeth. “I am your minister, not your beau.” He clasped her elbow, maintaining enough self-control to keep his grip only firm, not painful, while he
encouraged
her toward the door.

She tried to yank her arm free from his grasp, her eyes finally widening in alarm, but he refused to release her.

“How dare you treat me this way,” she sputtered. “You have no right!” She fought his hold yet was no match for his strength.

“I not only have the right,” he said, grabbing the basket from the table as they passed, “I have the obligation as a Christian man to protect your virtue.” He reached the door that still hung ajar from when he’d entered and pushed it fully open with the toe of his boot. “You’re like a child who keeps wandering too close to the stove. You won’t heed my warnings, so my only choice is to put you out of the kitchen.”

“A child?” Holly screeched. “Why, you condescending, manhandling barbarian! You think you’re so noble, but you’re nothing more than a bully. A bully!”

With a swing of his arm, Crockett set her forcibly out of his home, thrust the basket at her, and then stepped back and closed the door in her disbelieving face.

Something crashed against the wall. Probably a plate, by the sound of it. Crockett leaned his back against the door, some part of his brain wondering if the cake had still been on it when she threw it.

“You’ll pay for this, Crockett Archer! Do you hear me?” Something else thudded against the side of the building. The basket, perhaps? “You’ll pay for this!”

Another screech. Then something that sounded like tearing fabric, followed by feet stomping in rapid succession. He’d never witnessed a grown woman throw a temper tantrum, but Holly Brewster seemed to have a definite knack for such things.

Through his window he caught a glimpse of her back as she huffed off. She’d worked herself up to such an extent, half her hair was coming out of its pins. Crockett shook his head, pitying the man she did finally wrangle into marriage. She’d either walk all over him or shred him to pieces with those claws whenever he did something she didn’t like.

“‘It is better to dwell in the corner of the housetop, than with a brawling woman in a wide house.’” Crockett chuckled to himself as his anger cooled. “Now I know why Solomon saw fit to record that particular proverb twice.”

Thanking God for his providence in providing a peace-loving woman like Joanna for him to share a house and life with, Crockett pushed away from the door and headed for the table. Lighting the lamp to chase away the encroaching darkness, he settled in his chair and reread that passage from 1 John before starting in on his evening prayers.

He prayed over a different household from his congregation each night. However, instead of moving on to the Wards as he had originally planned, he decided to return to the Brewsters.
Heaven only knew what kind of upheaval they’d be facing once Holly got home. And Holly herself needed prayer, too. Prayers for wisdom, for a forgiving heart, and for comfort. Now that he had his own emotions back under control, he could see that her tantrum was driven by hurt. He’d rejected her quite adamantly. Probably bruised her pride as well as her heart.

Guilt pricked his conscience. Had he been too hard on her? Too forceful? Had he acted more in anger than admonishment? Crockett bowed his head again and added a plea for his own forgiveness to his list of petitions.

An hour later, Crockett had a completely different petition on his lips when Alan Brewster kicked in his door and started throwing punches.

Crockett barely had enough time to throw a hand up to ward off Alan’s meaty fist before the enraged man grabbed him by the shirtfront and slammed him into the wall. Crockett twisted his body at the last second to take the force of the collision on his shoulder instead of his skull, sending shards of pain down his arm.

“You call yourself a man of God? You wretch!” Alan’s fist slammed into Crockett’s gut as his left hand pinned his shoulder to the wall. “You’re a demon who preys on the trust of young women!” Another blow came, but Crockett hardened his muscles to deflect the force while knocking away Alan’s hold with an upward thrust of a stiff arm.

He ducked and spun toward the door. “What are you talking about?”

Alan roared and charged like a bull. Crockett braced his legs, but the man’s weight and momentum were too great. Alan wrapped his arms about Crockett’s middle and drove him through the open doorway, taking him to the ground.

The air rushed from Crockett’s lungs as he hit. The back of his head bounced against the hard-packed earth, stunning him.

Arms from behind hoisted him to his feet, dragging him out from under Brewster. Crockett was about to thank whomever had stepped in, when those same arms tightened like manacles around his biceps. Crockett strained against the hold, but the men on either side of him gave no quarter.

“I haven’t done anything!” He swiveled his head from side to side to plead with his captors, men who seemed slightly more rational than Holly’s father. He recognized them as kin to Alan and Sarah. He’d met them at the picnic but had never seen them at church.

Brewster staggered forward, winded but still packing plenty of rage to fuel another attack. “Are you saying that you never laid hands on my girl?”

Crockett hesitated for a split second, thinking of the way he’d grabbed Holly’s arm and ushered her out the door. That second was all it took to reignite Alan’s fury. His fist crashed into Crockett’s jaw, knocking his head into the chin of one of the men holding him.

“I didn’t harm her,” Crockett insisted, desperate to insert some reason into this situation before things got any worse. “She was in my house when I arrived home from the ranch, and I escorted her out. I was concerned for her reputation and made her leave. That’s all.”

“That’s all?” Alan bellowed and landed a blow to his ribs. Crockett groaned. “My Holly comes home bawling her eyes out, her dress torn clear off her shoulder, her hair falling down around her ears, leaves and sticks poked every which way, dirt in her nails as if she had to claw to get away from you, and you dare to tell me you were protecting her reputation?” A volley of punches to Crockett’s midsection punctuated the accusation.

Crockett’s legs sagged, but his captors held him upright to accept the blows. He tasted blood in his mouth. Agony throbbed in his side. His strength was nearly gone.

Thankfully, so was Alan’s.

The man took a step back, his chest heaving from his exertion.

Crockett slowly lifted his head and met Alan Brewster’s glare with the fierce dignity of one unjustly accused. “With God as my witness, I did not harm your daughter. Holly was upset when she left me but unharmed. Perhaps she fell on her way home. Perhaps someone else attacked her. I don’t know what happened. All I know is that it wasn’t me.”

No one spoke. Crockett’s avowal simply hung in the air like a righteous beacon. And he started to hope.

“Did Holly actually
say
the parson attacked her?” one of the men at Crockett’s back dared ask.

Please, God, let them see the truth.

“You think I’m gonna ask for all the gritty details?” Alan snapped, his eyes dark as the surrounding night. “The evidence spoke for itself. My baby girl threw herself into my arms and sobbed her heart out. ‘Make him go away, Papa,’ she said. ‘Make Brother Archer go away and never come back.’ I aim to do just that. To make sure this man never hurts another young girl like he did my Holly. Do you boys stand with me or not?”

The arms holding Crockett tightened, hefting him nearly off the ground.

“We’re with you, Alan.”

“Good,” Brewster said. “Then, let’s string him up.”

38

J
oanna stood before the canvas she’d been working on for the last several months and gazed into the beloved eyes she missed so keenly.

“Oh, Mama. I’m going to be married. Can you believe it?” A thrill coursed through her at the thought of becoming Crockett’s wife.

Her mother’s likeness smiled back at her, serene and loving, just the way Joanna remembered her. She hoped she’d captured her the way her father remembered her, as well, for the portrait was to be his birthday present. If he was still at home and not in prison somewhere when his birthday came around next month.

Don’t think about that.
It was much more pleasant to think about Crockett. Her betrothed. Joanna grinned as she stepped to her worktable to rinse out her paintbrush. She swished the bristles in the small Mason jar of turpentine, the pungent smell familiar and well loved, one that never failed to bring her mother to mind. But at the moment, a handsome man with twinkling eyes and strong arms consumed her thoughts.

Those thoughts drew her to the barn loft window and lifted
her gaze over the trees to focus on the church. Would Crockett be in his room composing his next sermon or crawling into bed after a grueling day of ranch work? Her heart leapt at the thought that she wouldn’t have to wonder much longer. Soon she would be there with him, perhaps mending quietly in a corner while he worked on his notes, or maybe rubbing the soreness from his shoulders as they readied for bed.

Joanna nibbled on her lip, her stomach fluttering in a way that sent delightful shivers through her core. But then something caught her eye in the direction of the churchyard. Were those lights? She braced a hand against the frame of the window and squinted into the night. It looked like two—no, three—lights. Lanterns.

Crockett hadn’t mentioned any appointments. Could there be an emergency of some kind? An illness or injury? Word had gotten around about his skill in tending Jackson’s wound. Yet something didn’t feel right. An odd urgency prodded her, turning those belly flutters into needle pricks. Reaching behind her back to untie her painting smock, Joanna whirled from the window and dashed to the loft ladder.

Once her feet hit the ground, Joanna ran for the bunkhouse. “Jasper!”

Her father’s most trusted man had the door opened and was several steps into the yard, his pistol in hand, by the time she met up with him.

“Saddle Sunflower and Gamble. There’s trouble at the church.”

He didn’t waste time on words, just nodded once and jogged toward the barn.

“Jo?” Her father must have heard her shout for he was crossing the yard with long strides, buckling his gun belt as he went.

She ran to him and grabbed his arm. “Daddy, something’s going on at the church. There are lights in the yard. I can’t
explain it, but I just know something’s wrong. Will you ride with me to check on Crockett?”

Silas wrapped his arm around her shoulder and steered her toward the barn. “I don’t see the harm in payin’ Archer a little visit.”

“Thank you, Daddy.”

He gave her a firm pat and rushed forward to take over Gamble’s preparation, freeing Jasper to see to Sunflower.

The instant the cinch was fastened on her mount, Joanna stuck her foot in the stirrup and hoisted herself astride. Without waiting for her father, she kicked Sunflower into an easy canter. The deepening darkness kept her from the gallop her heart demanded. By the time she crossed onto the main road, her father was at her side, urging Gamble to take the lead.

“Stay mounted until we know what’s going on,” her father ordered.

She knew better than to argue.