Stealing the Preacher (36 page)

Cutting through the field would be too treacherous for the horses at night, so Joanna and her father kept to the road. As they approached, she could make out a handful of men in lantern light under one of the large, spreading oaks that had shaded the crowd during the picnic. She leaned forward in the saddle, trying to get a better view of what was going on. A pair of horses stood ground-tethered nearby, but there seemed to be one in the middle of the men.

Had it been injured? Is that why they all huddled around it? But their attention didn’t seem to be on the horse directly. No, they seemed to be focused on something else. Something writhing against them. They were beating it; she could see that now. Beating it and throwing it on top of the horse.

That’s when a snake fell down from among the tree branches. A snake whose tail was looped at the end. Her stomach dropped. Not a snake. A rope.

And the thing on the horse was . . .

“Crockett!” She screamed his name at the top of her voice and urged Sunflower to a gallop. But her father cut in front of her before she could race into the fray.

“Stay behind me.” His voice was harsh. Harsher than she’d ever heard it. Then he pulled his rifle from his scabbard without breaking stride and fired a shot in the air. Once fully upon the men, he pulled Gamble to a halt and aimed his weapon at the belligerent fellow in the front of the pack—Alan Brewster.

“What’s going on here?” Her father’s voice echoed calmly in the night, as if meeting a neighbor at an impromptu hanging was nothing out of the ordinary.

Joanna reined Sunflower in a few paces back as her father had instructed but close enough that she could see Crockett. And the sight wasn’t pretty. His beloved face was beaten and bloody, his hair dusty and disheveled, his hands bound behind his back.

Oh, Crockett
. She moaned and had to restrain herself from running to him. Fear for his safety rooted her to the earth, however. For while they’d ridden in, one of the men had slipped the noose over Crockett’s neck and tightened the knot. If the horse he sat on spooked, or if one of the men gave the beast a slap, Crockett would be left dangling.

“This is none of your concern, Silas.” Mr. Brewster planted his hands on his hips—hips that supported a gun belt with a revolver at the ready.

“You’re about to string up one of my ranch hands, and my future son-in-law. That makes it my concern.”

“Son-in-law?” Mr. Brewster turned his head to spit, then lifted the back of his hand to wipe his mouth. Only then did Joanna notice that he sported several cuts and bruises of his own. “Seems to me I’m doing you and that girl of yours a favor, then. When you hear what this skunk did to my Holly, you’ll be beggin’ to help instead of asking me to stop.”

A sick feeling churned in Joanna’s stomach.
Holly.
No doubt
that girl had twisted the truth into something ugly and vile. But surely not even Holly could be so cruel as to crave a man’s death.

“What is she accusing him of?” Her father shifted slightly in his saddle, laying his rifle across his lap as if he no longer saw a need for it.

Joanna longed to snatch the weapon from him and demand Crockett’s release . . . until she noticed her daddy’s finger hovering over the trigger. He’d not surrendered. He’d just removed the appearance of the threat to put Brewster’s men at ease.

“My girl stumbled home tonight with her dress torn, hair a mess, sobbing about how she hated Brother Archer and wanted me to make him leave and never come back. If your Jo had done the same, what would you have done?”

“Beaten the man responsible to a bloody pulp.”

“Exactly.” Mr. Brewster nodded in satisfaction, righteous indignation glowing in his eyes.

“But I wouldn’t hang him. That’s the law’s job.”

Mr. Brewster’s face darkened, his jaw working back and forth as if it were in danger of locking. “There ain’t no law around these parts, Silas. A man’s gotta see to his own justice.”

“But there is law around. Marshal Coleson’s up at the Spivey place.”

Joanna shot a look at her father. Would he actually bring the law in on this, put himself in the marshal’s path to save Crockett?

“Let me go fetch him.”

Apparently he would. Moisture clouded Joanna’s eyes. Never had she loved her father more.

“You sure bringin’ in the law is the best idea, Alan?” the man holding the horse’s head asked.

Mr. Brewster hesitated.

“You hang that man, you’re doing it out of anger and vengeance, not justice.” Joanna’s father slowly brought his rifle back around and aimed it at Alan Brewster’s chest. “Besides,
as sure as you are that Archer’s guilty, I’m equally sure he’s innocent. I know this man. I’ve worked with him day after day. You think I’d trust him with my daughter if I wasn’t completely convinced of his character?”

“Every man’s got secrets, Silas. Even you.” The threat hung in the air. Joanna peered at the man, her pulse erratic. Did Mr. Brewster know something about her father’s past?

“I’m getting the marshal, Brewster.” Her father’s voice had hardened to stone. “He’ll sort this out. If I’m wrong, Coleson will take care of Archer. But if I’m right and you hang him before I get back, you’ll be the one the marshal carts off to prison. For murder.”

“Fine,” Mr. Brewster shouted, spooking Crockett’s horse.

Joanna gasped, her knees tightening around her own mount, causing Sunflower to sidestep. Thankfully, the man tending Crockett’s horse held the beast steady.

“Fetch the marshal,” Mr. Brewster conceded. “While you do that I’ll send Buck after Holly.” The man who had been up in the tree securing the rope slithered down and hurried to his horse. “We’ll see who Coleson believes.”

“That we shall.” Joanna’s father reined Gamble around and came up alongside her. “Take my rifle, Jo.” He pushed the weapon into her shaky hands.

“Shouldn’t I be the one to fetch the marshal?” Joanna eyed the angry men around her. She hated the idea of leaving Crockett, but of the two of them, her father would prove the bigger deterrent. Alan Brewster wouldn’t consider her much of a threat, even with the rifle.

Her father shook his head. “No, stay here. I know Archer didn’t lay a hand on Holly, but somebody else might have. I don’t want you riding alone in the dark.” He clasped her shoulder and gave her one of those looks that made it clear the discussion was over. “Watch over your man.”

Joanna steeled her spine and nodded. “I love you, Daddy.”

His lips turned up in a strained smile. “I love you, too, darlin’, and I swear to you that I’ll make this right.”

All she could do was nod in response.

Taking up the reins, her father brought Gamble’s head around and touched his heels to the animal’s flanks. Gamble leapt forward and the two of them raced up the road that led to Jackson’s cabin.

“Hurry,” she whispered.

39

S
ilas’s heart pounded as fast and hard as Gamble’s hooves while he raced up the path to Jackson’s home. When he caught sight of the marshal’s horse sheltered under the broken-down lean-to west of the house, a heavy exhale released the pressure that’d been building in his chest.

If Coleson had already returned to Deanville, Archer would have been in a world of hurt. Not that he was all that dandy now.

Silas had spent most of his younger years doing everything possible to keep his neck out of a noose, but when Joanna screamed Archer’s name as if her heart were being torn from her body, all he could think was that it should be him wearin’ that rope necktie, not the parson.

Reining Gamble in, Silas leapt from the saddle, not surprised in the slightest when the marshal shoved the door open and came out to meet him, pistol in hand.

“Mount up, Coleson.” Silas paid the gun no heed, just rounded Gamble’s head and faced the lawman straight on. “You’re needed down at the church.”

“The church?” Coleson scoffed. “That’s rich coming from you,
Robbins. Don’t think I’m fool enough to go haring after you in the dark on some manufactured pretense. I know you want me gone.”

“What I want is your butt in the saddle.” Silas’s hands clenched into fists, but he kept them at his sides as he marched up to where the lawman lounged against the doorframe. “An innocent man’s gonna be lynched unless you put a stop to it.”

“And who’s the poor soul I’m supposed to save?” Coleman straightened a bit at Silas’s approach but gave no indication he intended to follow him to the churchyard.

“The parson.”

“Archer?” Laughter sputtered out of the lawman. Silas’s right hand twitched. He ached to shut the man up with a quick jab to the mouth.

Coleson pushed his hat back on his forehead. “I guess I’m supposed to believe he stepped on the wrong toes in one of his sermons, huh? Come on, Robbins. I expected better of you. At least come up with a tale that’s remotely believable.”

Silas was debating the merits of forcibly installing the man on his horse when Jackson pushed past Coleson, his face whiter than milk on snow.

“Who’s got Crock?”

“Alan Brewster.” Silas focused on the boy, letting the marshal fade from his vision entirely. “He’s got it in his head that the parson attacked Holly.”

Color surged back to Jackson’s cheeks. “Crock would never hurt a woman. Never!” The kid stomped over to Silas’s side, then hopped from one foot to the next as if he couldn’t quite contain his outrage. “Holly Brewster’s been chasing after him for weeks, always throwin’ herself in his path and makin’ eyes at him in church. I kept telling him he needed to set her straight, but you know Crock. He’s too nice. Every time he tried to discourage her, she doubled her efforts. She must’ve cornered him, pushed him so far that he stopped worryin’ about her feelings
and finally told her flat out to leave him be. That woulda made her madder than spit.”

“Well, right now the only thing standing between Archer and a stretched neck is Jo and my promise to fetch a lawman to sort things out.” Silas glared at Coleson. “So, you comin’?”

The marshal glared back, holding his answer hostage.

“I am.” Jackson shoved his foot into Gamble’s stirrup and reached for the saddle horn.

“Watch that arm, boy.” Worried Jackson would damage his still-healing wound, Silas hurried over to give him a leg up. “You sure you’re ready to ride?”

“Crock’s the best friend I got. I’m goin’.” Jackson’s mulish expression as he settled into the saddle kept Silas from arguing. He nodded instead and swung up behind the boy.

Coleson approached the pair and laid a staying hand on Jackson’s leg. “You really believe Archer’s in trouble, son?”

“Yes, sir, Marshal.” Jackson glanced over his shoulder at Silas, then turned back to Coleson. “I know you think he used to rob them stagecoaches, and maybe he did way back when. But that don’t make no never mind to me. I’ve known Mr. Robbins for near half my life, and I trust him.”

“Even after he shot you?”

“On accident—how many times do I have to tell you?” Jackson corrected, his defense a salve on Silas’s conscience. “And yes, I still trust him.”

Coleson’s gaze narrowed as it slid from the kid to Silas. “Maybe I’d trust him, too, if he stopped hiding his past.”

“Come with me now, and I’ll tell you everything you want to know.” The words surprised Silas as much as the lawman, but something inside clicked into place with the saying of them. He’d vowed to let God have his way with him, but that couldn’t happen if he was still holding on to the sins of his past, could it? Time to put the old to rest and take up the new.

After they saw to Archer.

“I plan to hold you to that, Robbins,” the marshal said as he strode toward his horse.

Silas maintained his stoic mask despite the rapid thump in his chest. He’d face what he had to face when the time came, but for now what mattered was keeping his promise to his little girl.

Touching his heels to Gamble’s flanks, he set off for the church, praying he’d find Archer still breathing when he got there.

Joanna’s arms ached and had begun to shake, but she refused to lower her rifle, despite the fact that Alan Brewster was no longer paying her any mind. It was the only thing she could do for Crockett, and she had to do something. She couldn’t tend his wounds, couldn’t hold him, couldn’t even get that foul rope off his neck. All she could do was watch, pray, and keep her rifle trained on the man who threatened his life.

She spared a quick glance toward the road.
Where are you, Daddy?
Had the marshal moved on? What would happen if he wasn’t there? Would they be able to stop Mr. Brewster without the law to intervene?

A bead of sweat rolled down her spine, slowing over each bump of her backbone. Joanna felt each rise and fall of the droplet as if time had slowed. And when the trail ended at the small of her back, she couldn’t escape the morbid sensation that Crockett’s time had reached its end, as well.

“This is taking too long,” Alan Brewster grumbled. He stopped his agitated pacing and strode over to Crockett. “I shouldn’t have sent Buck after Holly. She’s been through enough tonight without being forced to see this scum again. I say we just take care of business now and spare her the ugliness.”