The Maverick Preacher (2 page)

Adie felt embarrassed. “I’ll clean it out tomorrow.”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s dirty.”

“Not as dirty as I am,” he said dryly.

She stepped into the room, lifted a rag from the pile on a trunk and swatted the cobweb. It broke into pieces and fell on her face. The vague sensation sent her back to the attic in the Long house, where Timothy Long had threatened to smother her with a pillow if she cried out. The storeroom had the same smell as the attic, the same dust and collection of unwanted things.

Adie wanted to run from the room, but Joshua Blue was standing in the doorway with his hat in one hand and his eyes firmly on her face. He’d trapped her. Or more correctly, she’d trapped herself. What a fool she’d been. Thanks to Timothy Long she knew better.

Show no fear. Stay strong.

The voice in Adie’s head belonged to Maggie. As always, it gave her strength. She coughed once to recover her composure, then looked straight at Mr. Blue. “Do you need anything else?”

He looked pinched. “Do you have another candle?”

His tone made her wonder if the dark bothered him as
much as it bothered her. She indicated the top of the dresser. “There’s a lamp—”

“I see it.”

He lit the match and wick, then adjusted the flame. Adie stepped to the door. As she turned to say good-night, Mr. Blue took off his hat and tried to stand taller. He looked weary to the bone and frail enough to pass out again.

She had no desire to fix him a meal, but he needed to eat. “Would you like a sandwich?”

His face turned pale. “No, thanks.”

Adie wondered if he had a bad stomach. “Broth?”

He swallowed as if his mouth had started to water. She could see him thinking, weighing her inconvenience against his hunger. She took pity on him. “How about bread and butter? Maybe with strawberry jam?”

“No bread,” he said. “But I’d be grateful for a glass of milk.”

Adie knew all about bellyaches. In addition to a cow, she kept a goat for Stephen. “I have goat’s milk. Would that—”

“Yes, please.”

“It’s in the kitchen.”

Holding the candle, she led the way down the hall. She set the brass holder on the table, indicated a chair and opened the icebox where she had two pitchers. The prettiest one, blue crystal etched with cornflowers, held the cow’s milk she served her boarders. The other was smaller and made of pewter. She set it on the counter, took a glass from the shelf and poured.

As the stranger lowered himself to the chair, she heard a stifled groan. She turned and saw him sitting straight, but he looked as pinched as Stephen with a bout of colic.

“Here,” she said, handing him the milk.

He took it, sipped, then drank more deeply. As he lowered the glass, he closed his eyes and exhaled.

The contented silence reminded Adie of her son after a late-night feeding. She glanced at the clock. Soon Stephen would wake up hungry and she still had to put the horse in the carriage house. If she hurried, she’d be back before her son stirred. If he woke up early, Rose or Pearl would check on him.

“I have to see to your horse,” Adie said to her guest. “Will you be all right?”

“I’m much better.”

His voice rang with authority, as if he were used to speaking and being heard. Adie could scarcely believe she’d taken him for a meager drifter. With the candle flickering, he filled the kitchen with the shadows of a giant. He frightened her, yet he’d just guzzled milk like a baby. Confused by her thoughts, she set the pitcher on the table. “Help yourself.”

He lifted it and poured. “Just so you know, Miss Clarke. I’m an honorable man. You have nothing to fear from me.”

As he raised the glass from the table, his eyes found hers and lingered. Adie felt as if he were looking for her soul. He wouldn’t find it. She’d left that part of her heart in Liddy’s Grove. Ever since, she’d drawn lines and expected people to stay behind them.

“I have a few rules,” she said.

“Whatever you say.”

“Under no circumstances may you go upstairs.”

“Of course.”

“Dinner’s at six o’clock. If you miss it, you can make yourself a sandwich.”

“That’s fair.” His eyes twinkled. “Anything else?”

If she made the list long enough, maybe he’d leave. Adie searched her mind for male habits she recalled from her days as an orphan. She’d lived with six families in four years. She’d also cleaned saloons and cheap hotels. She knew about bad habits.

“No cursing, drinking or smoking,” she said.

“That suits me fine.”

“No shouting,” she added. “I can’t abide by it.”

Joshua Blue looked amused. “I’ll try.”

“If you use a dish, wash it.”

“All right.”

“I don’t want you sitting on the front porch. If word gets out I rented to you, other men will knock on the door.”

“I’ll keep to my room or the stable. How’s that?”

“Fine.” Except his courtesy annoyed her.

The man’s eyes locked on to hers. “I know where I stand, Miss Clarke. You’ve opened your home and I won’t betray that trust. I have urgent business. Once I see to it, I’ll be on my way.”

What business?
Adie wanted to ask but sealed her lips. If she didn’t ask questions, she wouldn’t have to answer them. “Then we’re agreed.”

“We are.” He lifted the glass of milk, sealing the deal with a mock toast, a gesture that looked strangely natural considering his appearance.

Adie headed for the front yard where he’d left his horse. In the moonlight she saw a gray mare waiting patiently. Glad to be dealing with another female, she led the horse to the carriage house. The hens twittered as she passed the chicken house. Several yards away she saw her milk cow at the fence marking a small pasture. The cow spent most of her time grazing on the sweet grass, but Adie kept the goat, a cranky thing named Buttons, inside the outbuilding. Her son depended on the nanny goat and she couldn’t risk it getting loose.

When she reached the carriage house, she lit the lantern inside the door, then turned back to the mare and inspected the things strapped to the saddle. Her gaze went first to a rifle jutting from a plain leather scabbard. A canteen hung from the saddle horn and a set of saddlebags draped the horse’s middle.

Adie felt ashamed of herself for what she was about to do, but a woman with a secret couldn’t be too careful. Only her friends knew Stephen wasn’t her natural born son. Somewhere he had a father, a man Maggie had loved and protected with her silence. Adie didn’t know the whole story, but she’d loved her friend and had admired her.

She felt otherwise about Maggie’s powerful family. Maggie had said little about them, but she’d once let it slip that her brother was a minister. Rather than shame him with an illegitimate child, she’d left home. Maggie never mentioned her family’s wealth, but Adie had seen her fine things—silk chemises and embroidered camisoles, stockings without a stitch of darning, shoes with silver buttons. Adie had been in awe, but it was Maggie’s education that made her envious. Her friend had spoken French, played the harp, knew mathematics and could recite dozens of poems.

Adie’s assumption of Maggie’s wealth had been confirmed the day she’d died. Bleeding and weak, she’d told Adie to remove a velvet bag from a drawer of her trunk and look inside. Adie had gasped at the glittering gems. Maggie’s dying wish still echoed in her ears. She had begged Adie to take Stephen and raise him as her own; then she’d squeezed Adie’s wrist with her bloodless fingers.

“Leave Topeka tonight. Break all ties with me.”

“But why?”

“Don’t let my brother near my son. He’ll send Stephen to an orphanage.”

Adie had stood alone as an undertaker buried Maggie in a run-down cemetery; then she’d taken the jewelry and backtracked to Kansas City where Maggie had sold a few pieces of jewelry before coming to Topeka. The sixty-mile train ride to the bustling city had given her two advantages. She’d gotten a better price for Maggie’s jewelry, and the railroad left
Kansas City in four different directions. If Maggie’s family found the jewelry, they wouldn’t know where she’d gone. If by chance a detective, or Maggie’s brother, traced her to Topeka, the man would reach a dead end.

Adie had sold only what she needed for a fresh start, then bought a ticket to Denver because of its size. She wanted to open a boardinghouse, a place for women like herself and Maggie. For two days she’d held Stephen on the crowded train, struggling to keep him fed until they’d arrived in a city full of gambling halls and saloons. Pretending to have Maggie’s poise, she’d stayed at a hotel, visited the bank and explained her ambition to the elder Mr. Dean, who had shown her Swan’s Nest. The mansion had reminded her of Maggie and she’d bought it, using what cash she had from the jewelry sale and signing a two-year promissory note for the balance.

She could have sold more jewelry and paid for the house in full, but she feared leaving a trail for a Pinkerton’s detective. Nor did she want to squander Stephen’s inheritance. The remaining jewels—a sapphire ring, a pearl necklace, a bracelet and some glittering brooches—were his legacy from his mother, a gift from the woman who’d given him life but had never held him.

As Adie led the mare into a stall, she felt the sting of tears. Maggie had died three months ago, but she still missed her friend. She also feared strangers, especially men. If Stephen’s father tried to claim him, Adie would have to make a terrible choice. On the other hand, she had no qualms about hiding from Maggie’s brother. Considering how he’d shunned his sister, he didn’t deserve to know his nephew. In Adie’s book, he didn’t deserve to breathe.

She lifted the saddle off the mare, set it on the ground, then stripped off the scabbard, the canteen and the saddlebags. She set everything aside, filled a bucket with water and gave
the horse a measure of hay. Satisfied, she closed the gate to the stall, stepped to the saddlebags and dropped to a crouch. She had no business going through Joshua Blue’s things, but she had to be sure he had no ties to Maggie Butler.

With shaking fingers, she worked the buckle on the bulging leather bag.

A
s soon as Adie Clarke left the kitchen, Josh drained the glass of milk and poured himself another. He’d been aiming for her boardinghouse when he’d left Kansas City, but he hadn’t intended to faint on her doorstep. Before he’d left, he’d seen a doctor who’d told him what he already knew. He had a stomach ulcer, a bad one that could bleed and threaten his life. At the very least, it offered daily torture.

Josh didn’t care. He had to find his sister. Ten months ago, Emily Blue had left their Boston mansion with a satchel, her jewelry and Josh’s bitter words ringing in her ears. He’d never forgive himself for that night. He’d said unspeakable things, calling her a name that shouldn’t be uttered and accusing her of being a Jezebel. He’d made hateful accusations, all the time wearing the collar that marked him as a minister.

The memory sent fresh acid into Josh’s belly. He had to find Emily and her baby and make amends. Until he found them, he refused to rest.

Never mind the stomach ulcer. The Apostle Paul had written of a thorn in his flesh. It had kept him humble. The ulcer often humbled Josh, though not as profoundly as it had
tonight. Fainting on Adie Clarke’s porch hadn’t been in the plan when he’d left Kansas City on the word of Wes Daniels, a gunslinger who’d frequented the saloon where Josh had been preaching on Sunday mornings. Wes had told him about a boardinghouse called Swan’s Nest.

“It’s for women in trouble,” he’d said, winking at Josh. “Maybe your sister’s there.”

Josh had left the next morning. Halfway to Denver, his stomach had caught fire and he’d stopped eating. Pure and simple, he’d fainted on Adie Clarke’s porch out of hunger.

As he raised the glass to his lips, he said a silent prayer for Emily and her child. Somewhere in the world he had a niece or nephew he’d never seen. A little girl with Emily’s button nose…a boy with the Blue family chin. Josh was imagining a child with Emily’s dark curls when he heard a baby cry. High pitched and needy, it cut through his soul. For all he knew, Emily was sleeping right above his head. The baby could be his niece or nephew.

He wanted to charge up the stairs, but his common sense and Miss Clarke’s stern rules kept him in the kitchen. Closing his eyes, he prayed for the child and its mother. He knew how it felt to wake up with a bellyache.

Above his head, the ceiling creaked. He heard the pad of bare feet on the wooden planks and imagined a mother hurrying to her child. The footsteps faded, then stopped. An instant later, the baby’s wail turned to a hopeful whimper. He imagined the mother taking the baby in her arms, sitting in a rocking chair as she nursed it back to sleep. He listened for the creak of the rockers, maybe the hint of a lullaby. Instead the baby shrieked in frustration. Footsteps scurried back down the hall while the baby’s cry stayed in the same room, growing louder. The pacing stopped over Josh’s head, paused, then went halfway down the hall. He heard a door open, then
another pair of steps, muted now as if two women were trying to be quiet on floors that wouldn’t allow it.

When the stairs squeaked, Josh shot to his feet. Adie Clarke knew she’d rented him a room, but the women coming down the stairs would see a drifter in black, maybe an outlaw. Common sense told him to leave the kitchen, but he stood frozen with the hope of seeing Emily.

“Don’t move, or I’ll shoot you dead.” The female voice, shaking with sincerity, had come from the shadow in the hall.

He froze.

“Get your hands up!”

As he raised his arms, his duster pulled open. Josh believed in turning the other cheek, but he wore a Colt Peacemaker on his hip. He’d learned early in his travels that riding unarmed into an outlaw camp caused more of a stir than a cocked rifle. Carrying a weapon was his way of being a Greek to the Greeks. The Colt made him familiar to the rough men with whom he felt called to share the Good News. Unfortunately, the woman in the doorway wouldn’t see the gun as a calling card. Josh felt the weapon pulling on his belt and winced. He’d lost weight. If he didn’t hike up the belt soon, he’d lose his trousers.

“Who are you?” the woman demanded.

“I’m a new boarder.”

“Liar,” she said in a stony voice. “Adie doesn’t rent to men.”

“She took pity on me.” Josh peered into the hallway. He couldn’t see the woman, but candlelight glinted off the double barrel of a two-shot Derringer. The weapon shook, a sign of her nerves.

“Where’s Adie?” she demanded.

“Tending my horse.”

“Why aren’t you tending it yourself?”

Pride kept Josh from admitting his weakness. Before he could correct the mistake, the woman hollered down the hallway.

“Pearl! Get Bessie and Caroline! We have an intruder.” The gun stayed steady. “Find Adie
now.
”

With his hands in the air, Josh heard doors open and the tap of feet on the stairs. In Boston, he’d enjoyed the Women’s Auxiliary meetings. The ladies had fawned over him and the compliments had gone to his head. The women of Swan’s Nest wouldn’t be so appreciative.

Pain stabbed past his sternum and around his ribs. If he’d been alone, he’d have fallen to his knees, clutched his middle and curled into a ball. With a gun trained on his chest, he didn’t dare move. The pain hit again. His shoulders hunched as he cringed, causing his arms to drop as if he were going for his gun.

The woman fired.

The bullet slammed into Josh’s shoulder. He took a step back, caught his boot on the chair and fell against a hutch filled with china. Plates crashed to the floor and so did Josh. He didn’t want to die. He had to find Emily. He’d shamed himself as a man and a minister. He had to make up for his mistakes.

“Don’t shoot,” he said. “I mean no harm.”

The woman kept the pistol trained on his head. “We’ll see what Adie has to say.”

Josh lay on the floor, clutching his belly and smelling sulfur and blood. He’d seen men die before. In Boston he’d prayed with elderly gentlemen fading in their own beds. In camps west of the Mississippi, he’d seen men die from gunshot wounds, infections and disease. Curled on the floor, he listened to his own breath for sucking air, a sign he’d been hit in the lung, but he heard only a rasp in his dry throat. His heart kept an even rhythm, another good sign.

Judging by the pain, he’d been hit high in the shoulder. Silently Josh thanked God the woman had owned a Derringer and not a Colt .45. He’d live as long as she didn’t panic and shoot him in the head.

He heard footsteps in the kitchen and opened his eyes. Bare toes and the hems of robes filled his vision.

“You shot him!” said a new female voice.

“What happened?” demanded another.

Could one of the women be Emily? The voices hadn’t matched hers—one sounded Southern and the other was too high pitched—but he’d seen four pairs of feet. Josh wanted to look but realized it would be fruitless. He’d become thin and ragged, but Emily would have recognized him. He closed his eyes in despair.

In a breath of silence, he heard the hopeful cooing of a baby and looked up. The fourth woman had an infant in her arms. The goat’s milk, he realized, was for the child. Expecting to be fed, it had settled into its mother’s arms but was growing impatient with the delay. The cooing turned to a complaint, then a wail that dwarfed everything in the room, including Josh’s pain.

“The baby’s hungry,” he said.

“Quiet,” ordered the woman with the gun.

Josh could barely breathe for the pain. “Please. Feed it.”

No one moved.

He raised his voice. “I said feed the baby.”

He flashed on the night he’d clashed with Emily. Three times he’d told her to leave, betraying her love as surely as Peter had betrayed his Lord. Like the fisherman, Josh felt lower than dirt.

The wailing grew worse. The woman with the gun called to one of the others. “Get the milk, Pearl. I’ll keep watch.”

Emily had loved their mother’s pearls, a strand so long it reached to her waist. Was she using an alias to avoid him? Maybe she
hadn’t
recognized him. He’d changed in the past year. Even more worrisome, maybe she’d seen him take a bullet and wished him dead.

Bare feet, slender and white, padded across the wood floor. Josh tried to call Emily’s name, but his belly hurt and the words slurred to a groan. He watched the woman’s feet as she retrieved the pitcher of goat’s milk, filled a bottle and warmed it in a pan of water on the stove. The baby, smelling food, shrieked even louder. Wise or not, Josh raised his head. The baby’s mother wore a yellow robe, his sister’s favorite color, but she had white-blond hair. Emily’s hair was dark and wavy like his. He hadn’t found his sister after all, but neither was this woman the baby’s mother. Her belly promised new life and promised it soon. Closing his eyes, Josh prayed for the mother and child, wishing he’d done the same for Emily instead of driving her away with his foolish pride.

Adie heard a gunshot, dropped the unopened saddlebag and ran for the house. Mary, a former saloon girl, kept a pistol in her nightstand and wouldn’t hesitate to use it.

Had Joshua Blue betrayed Adie’s trust? She didn’t think so. The man could barely walk. It seemed more likely that Stephen had awoken early and Mr. Blue had lingered over the glass of milk. Whoever went for Stephen, probably Mary, had seen Adie’s empty bed. Maybe she’d heard the thump on the door and jumped to ominous conclusions.

She ran up the back steps and flung open the door.

“Adie!” The cry came from Pearl. “We thought—”

“I know what you thought.” She dropped to her knees at the man’s side. “He’s hurt. We’ll have to call the doctor.”

Stephen shrieked. He needed to be fed in the worst way, but Adie feared for the wounded man’s life.

Groaning, he rolled to his back, revealing the bullet hole in his duster. When she opened his coat, she saw a red stain blooming on his white shirt. With each breath he took, the blood spread in a widening circle.

Looking at her face, he mumbled something unintelligible.

She hunched forward. “I couldn’t hear you.”

“I said…feed the baby.”

Joshua Blue was lying on her floor with a bullet in his shoulder, bleeding inside and out, and he was thinking of her son. What kind of man put a baby before his own life? Using the hem of her nightgown, Adie wiped his brow. “Be still. We’ll get the doctor.”

“No.” His voice sounded stronger. “No doctors.”

“But you need help.”

Someone lit a lamp. As it flared to life, Mary stepped closer. Adie smelled the residue of gunpowder and looked up. “Maybe Caroline can go for Doc Nichols.”

The man lifted his head. “I said
no.
”

His refusal made Adie wonder if he was on the run. It wouldn’t have surprised her. Everyone at Swan’s Nest had run from something, including herself.

Mary scowled down at her. “Who is he?”

“I rented him a room.”

“But you don’t rent to men. You promised—”

“This isn’t the time,” Adie said.

She looked past Mary and saw Pearl at the stove. With her back to the rest of the kitchen, she lifted the bottle out of the pot of water and whisked Stephen into the front room where she could feed him in peace. Adie looked at Caroline. “Where’s Bessie?”

“She went to get her nursing kit.”

Mary finally lowered the gun. “Maybe she can take out the bullet.”

Adie studied the man on her floor. His color had come back and his breathing seemed steady. Maybe they could avoid Dr. Nichols after all. Bessie hurried into the kitchen and dropped down next to Adie. She looked at the wound,
checked the man’s back for an exit hole, then lowered him gently to the floor. “The bullet’s still in you, sir. It’ll have to come out.”

“Can you do it?”

“I can try,” Bessie said. “I’m a trained nurse, but it will hurt.”

“Go ahead,” he said.

Bessie looked at Adie. “Get that pint of whiskey.”

Adie kept it with the smelling salts for medicinal purposes only. Before she could stand to fetch it, the stranger clutched her hand. “I don’t want it.”

Why would he deny himself a painkiller? Adie was about to argue with him when Bessie interrupted. “It’s not for your belly, sir. It’s to clean the wound.”

He relaxed but didn’t release Adie’s hand. She felt awkward comforting him, but they were both aware of the coming pain. When Adie didn’t move, Caroline went to the cupboard for the whiskey. She gave the bottle to Bessie, then lifted the instruments from the nursing bag, put them in the boiling water and set out clean rags for blotting the blood. Bessie had opened the two buttons on the man’s shirt, but it wouldn’t pull wide enough to reveal the wound. Using delicate scissors, the kind most women kept for embroidery, she cut the shirt and tugged it back from a small hole oozing blood.

Adie’s stomach churned. The hole in Joshua Blue’s shoulder wasn’t much bigger than a man’s finger, but it had the potential to kill him with infection. In his weakened condition, he might not be able to fight it. Adie squeezed his hand. She feared for his health. She also feared for herself and Stephen. She’d just opened the first saddlebag when she heard the gunshot. Later, when he’d fallen asleep, she’d search his things.