The Redhead and the Preacher: A Loveswept Historical Romance

by Sandra Chastain

  She took a half step toward him. “What job?” she asked again. “Why can’t you tell me? I don’t care if you’re not a minister. In fact, I’d be in a pickle if you were. And I trust you, John Brandon, no matter what you are.”

  He looked at her a long time before he answered.

  “Don’t trust me, Macky. There are dark things about me that you can’t even imagine. I’ll only hurt you.”

  “No you won’t. And I may not know the truth about you, but I know that you’re a good person. You’re kind and caring. What’s happened between us can’t be bad, can it?”

  Bran wanted to laugh. Oh, it was bad. How in hell was he going to be able to stay away from her when all he could think about was taking up where they’d stopped the night before?

  “You’re trouble, McKenzie Kathryn Calhoun.”

  “Because I know how to be honest about what I want?”

  “And because you go after it.”

  “I do,” she said. “I’d like you to kiss me, Bran. Just one kiss,” she murmured, closing the space between them, justifying her need to be near him by telling herself that she’d probably end up in jail and never know what happened between a man and a woman. This was her only chance.

  “Damn it to hell, Macky. You’ve got no business asking me to kiss you.” Then every reservation disappeared as she lifted her face to meet his.

  “Please, Bran.”

  Their lips touched, lightly at first, then more firmly. “Am I doing it right?” she asked as he nuzzled her neck.

  “If you were doing it any better, I’d have you leaned against a tree with your legs around my waist—”

  She opened her green eyes, wide with wonder. “Why on earth would you do that?”

  “I wouldn’t,” he growled and thrust her away. “And I’m not. Macky, go back inside before I lose every ounce of control I have.”

  “Don’t you like kissing me? I know that I’m inexperienced, but I thought I was learning. If there’s something I’m doing wrong, just tell me. I’ll fix it. We’re going to have to spend a lot of time together. It seems to be a very pleasant way to spend some time, since we’re married.”

  “We’re not married, Macky. Not in the eyes of God.”

  “Oh, phoo! It seems to me that God wouldn’t have made something like this feel good unless it was all right for a body to feel it.”

  Bran let out an oath.

  Macky was beginning to understand his frustration. She was feeling much the same thing herself. “So I make your body do crazy things. Good. I wouldn’t want to think it was just me.”

  He would have taken her, right there, on the ground, except Solomon came meandering up and stopped next to them as if he were inspecting the proceedings.

  “What the?”

  Bran let go of her, blinking his eyes at the sight of the long-eared creature. “Thank God!”

  “Solomon! You bad boy! I ought to turn you into fertilizer,” Macky cried out. “Go away!”

  The mule stamped his foot and let out an awful sound of complaint.

  “Don’t you argue with me. You ran off when I needed you and now … now …” She choked back her anger and frustration.

  “He really is your mule?”

  “Yes. I was riding him into Promise that day. He got spooked by a hawk and ran off. I would have had to walk. I should have walked, then I would have had plenty of time in town and none of this would have happened.”

  “What do you expect to do with him?”

  “Plow our field, of course. Can you put him behind the fence with your horse?”

  “Why not?” Bran caught the mule by the halter. “They’re about as well suited as we are.” By the time he secured the makeshift gate on the fence around the shed, Macky had left.

  The source of his trouble was gone, but Bran was still as hard as a rock and even more frustrated.

  Bran was as overwhelmed by Macky’s innocence as her lack of guile. More and more he was convinced that whatever had happened to her was not of her choosing. Sooner or later he’d get the truth from her. But for now it was all a confusing mess. And he couldn’t see it getting any easier.

  Back in the cabin, Macky decided to change out of the dress and petticoat. Cooking biscuits would be enough of a challenge without having to worry about a skirt. Glancing out the window, she saw Bran filling the horse trough with water. She’d better hurry unless she wanted him to see how really inept she was.

  She climbed the ladder to the loft, took a look around and felt her heart drop. Any idea she might have had of sleeping up there disappeared when she saw the dust on the floor and the spiderwebs strung to the low ceiling.

  Quickly she removed her new clothes and donned her brother’s trousers and shirt. The old work boots followed. As she shimmied down the ladder, she felt normal for the first time in days.

  First she’d make a fire. Then she’d tackle the sack of flour. Making biscuits couldn’t be that hard. She’d watched her father do it. All she needed was flour, grease, and milk. Well, maybe not milk. Water would have to do.

  But first came the fire.

  “That was a close call last night. The fire spread so fast, you almost got caught. Why’d you have to stab him?”

  “Yeah, well, he figured it out and I had to move fast. I got the job done, didn’t I?” Pratt, standing on the ground, looked up at the rider.

  “At least he’s dead. But I don’t like bodies left lying around. People ask questions.”

  “Better than having somebody go looking for suspects.”

  “Next time, be more careful. What about the preacher? Did he get a look at you?”

  “No, but it was close. Are you going to the housewarming?”

  “Certainly. I want to know exactly what’s happening. Somebody in Heaven spent gold coins at the general store. I intend to know who.”

  I intend. Pratt bristled. That’s the way he always talked. He made everybody who answered to him feel as if they were being looked down on, even when he wasn’t on his horse. “Didn’t that woman know who spent the money?”

  “The forgetful Mrs. Clara Gooden couldn’t recall. I think she was just afraid she’d have to give it back.”

  Pratt was getting tired of staring straight into the sun. “Some of the coins were probably used here in town anyway, weren’t they?”

  “Yes, Sylvia couldn’t resist showing off the new engraving, but if she’d been the one who spent the gold, Clara would have said so.”

  “So, what happens now? I’m going stir-crazy with nothing to do out here. I’m ready to go back to town.”

  “Absolutely not. You’re lucky somebody hasn’t spotted you. We’re too close to take any chances. Now this is what I want you to do.”

  Pratt took a step closer and smiled as the man on the horse gave his instructions.

  Macky opened the sack of flour and took two hands full, dropping them in the chipped pottery bowl she found on the shelf. She needed grease. There was none. But grease came from frying bacon.

  Macky sliced several chunks from a slab of bacon that Bran had brought from town. After almost singeing her eyelashes, she managed to set the skillet in the fire and plopped the bacon inside.

  Moments later the sizzling bacon was spewing grease in the fire like gunpowder. Flames licked eagerly at the meat in the pan.

  Macky’s attempt to raise the skillet resulted in her pouring part of the grease directly into the fire and she had to jerk the pan away from the flames. Finally, with a burned finger and a splat of grease on her arm, Macky decided that if the bacon wasn’t done, it was close enough.

  She laid the meat on a plate, then poured some water from the kettle into the grease, sending a splattering cloud of smoke in the air. Finally, she stirred in the flour and shoved it back into the fire. Then she hung the kettle on a hook suspended from the other side of the fireplace.

  By the time the water began to boil, her hair was hanging in wisps. Perspiration and soot ran down her face. And the smell from th
e skillet announced that at least the bottom of her bread was cooking, too much, too quickly.

  “Horsefeathers!” she swore. “Even Solomon wouldn’t eat this.”

  She squatted before the fire, wiping her forehead on her sleeve, wishing Papa had taught her to make bread, regretting her ignorance.

  “What I deserve is ‘just death, kind umpire of men’s miseries,’ eh, Mr. Shakespeare?”

  A low familiar laugh answered. “Am I to assume ‘there is death in the pot’?”

  Macky came to her feet in a rush and whirled around. “Not yet, but I’m working on it. I think it was Aesop who said, ‘don’t count your chickens before they are hatched.’ ”

  Bran walked past her and, wearing his gloves, lifted the skillet from the fire. “This looks—interesting. What is it?”

  “Biscuits. That’s what you ordered, isn’t it?”

  “I take it biscuits aren’t your specialty?” He slid the edge of the knife under the clump of dough and, after several attempts, managed to turn the bread over. Shaking his head, he planted the skillet back over the fire and turned toward Macky.

  Her eyes were shimmering with moisture, but Bran knew that the last thing he could expect from this woman was tears. She might very well swing the skillet at him, but she’d never apologize for her efforts.

  “I don’t think you have had any more experience cooking than I’ve had preaching,” Bran said. “What exactly are you good at?”

  “Plowing a field,” she snapped. “Got one handy?”

  He didn’t mean to rile her further, but everything about her was deadly right now, especially her temper. Still, he couldn’t contain a smile. Together they were like lightning in a storm, bouncing off the clouds and colliding with a streak of fire.

  “Oh, Macky, what a treasure you are. How on earth are you going to manage what’s ahead?” He took a handkerchief from his pocket, moistened it in a pool of water she’d sloshed from the kettle and began to wash her face.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, her voice losing its fury as her stomach flipped at his touch.

  “The question is, what have you been doing in here? You look like a scullery maid.”

  “That’s probably a step up from being a farmer,” she quipped. “And that’s what I ought to be doing instead of this, if you don’t want me to be a total embarrassment to you.”

  He found himself reassuring her. “Nothing you could do would embarrass me, Macky. If you can’t cook, I’ll teach you.”

  She groaned and closed her eyes. He couldn’t mean that. If the truth came out, not only would she embarrass him, she’d be arrested. Instead of taking cooking lessons, she should take herself into town and confess her crime to the marshal.

  But first, she had to make things right.

  “There’s something I need to tell you, Bran, about my past.”

  His fingers continued to hold her chin. “You don’t need to explain anything to me.”

  “Yes I do. I never meant to get involved. By the time I was, it was too late. I shouldn’t have kept going. I should have stayed to face my punishment.”

  “Macky, I know you. If you ran, you had reason.”

  She went on as if he hadn’t spoken. “I saw him again, the man responsible. I was afraid he’d come after me.”

  Bran swore and pulled Macky into his arms. “Then there is a man involved.”

  “Not the way you think, Bran. I mean, we didn’t even know each other. He just offered me a ride into town and it happened before I knew.”

  He didn’t know what she was trying to say. She’d already told him that she wasn’t going to have a baby, that her terrible secret could get her hung. Still, if there really was a man after her, Bran could protect her.

  “I couldn’t save my sister, but if I get my hands on the man who took advantage of you, Macky, I’ll make him sorry he did.”

  “No,” Macky said. “This man killed someone. He is very dangerous and he’s after me because I—I have something he wants. I’ve made up my mind,” she said. “I’ll go into town and confess the truth to the marshal. I don’t want to put you in danger.”

  The marshal, the same man who might recognize the preacher as a kid named John Lee who was still wanted for murder. He ought to let her go, if for no other reason than she wasn’t safe with him. But if something happened and they took him away, who’d protect Macky?

  “No, you can’t do that,” he said. “There are other things to consider.”

  His left hand was rubbing a circle on her back, spreading heat throughout her body. The intensity of his motion was even beginning to give off a scorched odor. “What other things, Bran?”

  A burning smell.

  “The biscuits! Bran, the biscuits are on fire.”

  This time when Bran attempted to rescue the skillet, he dropped it into the fire.

  As if in an attempt to keep pace, the coffee boiled over, falling into the pan, dousing the flames and spitting the scalding droplets across the floor.

  “Well.” Macky gulped in air through peals of laughter. “You wanted coffee and biscuits. Help yourself.”

  The moment of revelation passed while Bran and Macky laughed until they were out of breath.

  Later they peeled the burned crusts from the bread and ate it with the chunks of bacon. The coffee, once Bran added more water and let it reheat, was just about right.

  Then, without knowing why, Bran began to talk. He told her about the Choctaw tribe he’d gone to live with when his family was killed. He talked about his Indian parents, about the good times, and the bad ones. He told her of the terrible winters they’d faced in the West and how the white men constantly forced them off their land. Then later, he told her how the same government officials who were supposed to keep them supplied with food and goods cheated them instead. But he stopped short of telling her about his adoptive brother, Blue, and how he’d killed a soldier to save Blue’s life.

  Macky told him about their home back East, about her father’s store on the Mississippi, and about her brother as a boy.

  Neither talked about tomorrow or what would happen then. They grabbed on to the present and the sharing of their pasts. The evening passed in a rare mood of companionship that neither wanted to examine too closely.

  As the fire began to die down, Bran banked it for the night and took the skillet to the creek to wash it. Macky put away the food supplies and swept the crumbs from the floor.

  When Bran returned, he closed and bolted the door. “Macky, about what you were saying earlier. I respect your need for secrecy. Let’s don’t make a decision yet. Let’s think about it until after the housewarming. There’s plenty of time for you to talk to the marshal.”

  Macky wasn’t so sure about that, but she agreed and placed her makeshift broom, made of a broken branch, in the corner. Her fears that she’d have to share Bran’s bed were alleviated when he gave her a chaste kiss on the forehead and said he’d take the loft.

  “But it’s full of dirt and spiders,” she protested.

  “Just about right,” he agreed, “for a snake.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Lorraine arrived at the cabin shortly after noon, driving a wagon filled with lumber. “Are you sure you want me here?” she asked Macky, not even trying to conceal the reservations in her voice.

  “Absolutely sure. I need a friend.”

  “Hello, Reverend,” Lorraine said as Bran came from the shed to greet her. “Help me unload these boards.”

  “What are you going to do with them?” Bran asked, pulling the planks out the back of the wagon.

  “Hank Clay says he’ll use these to make the tables.” Lorraine glanced around, her gaze stopping at the stand of cottonwood trees near the creek. “Let’s set them up there.”

  “Tables?” Macky echoed. “How many people do you expect?”

  “Don’t know. I’ve never been to a housewarming.”

  “Why not?” Macky asked. “I thought they were common.”

 
“Never been invited.”

  Macky took the end of one of the boards and helped Lorraine carry it to the spot where Bran was piling them. “Heck, I was hoping you could tell me what to do.”

  “ ’Fraid not. You’ve had more experience with church socials than me.”

  “I wish,” was Macky’s plaintive response.

  “All I know is there will be children, ranch hands, and miners. They always seem to know when there is free food, and I heard Clara talking about musicians. I guess that means we’ll—they’ll dance.”

  Musicians? This time Macky didn’t echo her words out loud. But dancing was something she’d never considered.

  “And there’s the marshal and the judge,” she went on. “Clara even told me that she was frying chicken.”

  “Something unusual about that?” Bran asked, as he pulled the last of the lumber from the wagon.

  “Frying chicken? No. It’s her telling me that’s unusual.

  Macky followed Bran to the stack of lumber. She was as surprised at Clara’s carrying on a conversation with Lorraine as Lorraine was. Maybe there was something to be said for a little meddling in the name of religion. “How are we going to make tables out of this?”

  “Don’t have to,” Lorraine answered for him. “Hank Clay is right behind me with some legs he’s put together at his shop. All we have to do is wait—look, there he is now.”

  Hank was driving his own wagon, stacked with odd-looking pieces of wood and iron, fastened into crosspieces which would support the wooden planks.

  “Morning, Mrs. Adams,” Hank said, crawling from the wagon. “We’ll have these tables put together in no time.”

  Helplessly, Macky watched as Hank hitched his suspenders higher on his shoulders and rolled up his shirtsleeves. She’d seen more than one late snowstorm hit the territory, but this year, the surprisingly warm weather had continued, and in no time Bran and Hank had worked up a pleasant sweat.

  As the tables were assembled, Macky and Lorraine worked together covering them with bed sheets sent by the women in town. By the time they were finished, Lorraine turned to Kate and studied her. “I think you have about enough time to clean up and dress while Hank and I start your cooking fire and put the coffee on.”