The Redhead and the Preacher: A Loveswept Historical Romance

by Sandra Chastain

  “Men can’t always tell what they want, but when they find it, sooner or later, they know. Whatever you did to catch Bran’s eye, I’d say, just keep it up.”

  “But I haven’t done anything but let him kiss me.”

  Lorraine tied a ribbon around Macky’s hair, drawing it up in the back so that she could pin it under. She considered Macky’s comment. Everybody in town knew that she was carrying a child, even Bran confirmed it. So she couldn’t be that innocent. Or could she?

  “Macky, don’t answer this if you don’t want to, but have you ever been with a man?”

  “Of course I have. Bran and I shared the same stage. We’ve shared the same room in your establishment. You’ve seen me with him.”

  “I mean, in the physical way, Macky. As a man lies with his wife, makes love to her, joins his body to hers?”

  Macky ducked her head to conceal her blush. “I don’t think I ought to talk about this with you,” she said. “I mean, Bran would likely not approve.”

  But Lorraine didn’t need to hear the answer. She could see the truth in Macky’s face. She’d never made love to Bran, but she wanted him. And he wanted her. So, who was the father of Macky’s child or, better still, was she really carrying one?

  And how could she explain love to Macky when she’d never felt it herself? Lorraine lifted her head and caught sight of Hank through the window.

  He’d been watching her.

  As their eyes met, he dropped his head and found something on the ground which interested him greatly. He was buttoning his shirt and threading his fingers through his damp hair.

  He looked like a man of the earth.

  Lorraine felt a flutter of disappointment. She liked him without the shirt. She wondered how he looked without the trousers.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Marshal Larkin studied his pocket watch and spoke to Bran, who was standing with the town fathers by the fence. “I’m beginning to wonder if Mrs. Mainwearing is coming.”

  “Maybe she heard that Lorraine would be here and decided not to come,” Preston said, watching the women place the food on the table.

  “Maybe, but I was out at the mine this morning. She said Judge Hardcastle was picking her up. I’m getting a little worried.”

  Bran pulled his attention from Macky, who’d been given a place of honor on a stool just outside the cabin door where she could watch the women trying to turn the cabin into a proper parsonage and the others preparing the food. “What were you doing at the mine?” he asked the marshal.

  “I suppose it’s all right to say now. Another gold shipment went out this morning. I sent an escort with it, but after the bank robbery in Promise, I’m worried.”

  “Was there something unusual about that robbery?” Bran asked.

  The marshal pulled out a small cigar and lit it. “The regular wagons left for Denver as usual. Then we secretly shipped the new coins to Promise. From there they’d have gone on to California on the stage. It would have worked except that the Pratt gang decided to hold up the bank.”

  “Yeah, it was almost like Pratt’s gang knew they were there,” Hank Clay said as he joined the group.

  “And then,” Bran added, “there was the explosion in the mine.”

  The marshal shook his head. “We still don’t know whether that was an accident or not. It turns out the man who was killed had been newly hired and the other men said he seemed awfully nervous.”

  Something was wrong but Bran couldn’t put a finger on it and he hated that nagging feeling. He did know that whoever was behind the trouble was not an ordinary criminal. Sylvia had hired Bran to find the culprit, but he didn’t have a lead on the guilty party.

  Larkin drew on the cigar and tapped the ash to the ground where he crushed it beneath his boot. “If Mrs. Mainwearing isn’t here by the time the ladies get the food ready, I’ll ride over there and check.”

  “Why wait?” Bran asked.

  Larkin nodded. “You’re right, let’s go. But don’t alarm the women, we’ll just say we’re going to meet them.”

  “Want us to tag along?” Hank Clay asked.

  “No,” the marshal said as he mounted his horse. “Don’t want to make the women worry. You and Cribbs stay here, in case there’s trouble.”

  Bran borrowed a horse that was already saddled and rode out behind the marshal, giving a quick wave to Macky, whose look of alarm wasn’t going to be satisfied without more explanation. But that would have to wait. Besides, it wasn’t safe for her to know any more than she already did.

  They rode leisurely back toward town until they came to the fork, then took the other path that ambled up the trail into the mountains. After ten minutes of riding, the marshal spoke. “I’ve been thinking about where I’ve seen you before, preacher, but it hasn’t come to me yet. I’m sure we’ve crossed paths before.”

  “Could be,” Bran admitted. “I’ve ridden all over the West for the last fifteen years. Not many men wear an eye patch.”

  “More than you think out here. Too many Indians. Oh, well, it’ll come to me. I never forget a face.”

  At that moment shots rang out up ahead. Bran instantly pulled his gun.

  Larkin glanced at Bran’s gun and frowned for a second. “Most preachers don’t carry firearms.”

  “I do,” was all Bran said as they spurred their horses into a gallop. They reached the crest of a hill and caught sight of a buggy being driven hard toward them. The bushwhackers were hidden in the rocks above.

  “It’s Sylvia,” the marshal called out and began returning fire. “I’ll go for the crooks. You see to her.”

  Bran rode hard toward the buggy, circled around and came alongside. The judge was slumped against Sylvia. He’d dropped the reins and the horses were running wild.

  “Hold on,” he yelled and drew even with the frightened animals, sliding from his mount onto the back of the lead horse. Moments later he had them under control. Behind him the gunfire had stopped. Then the marshal was galloping to catch up to them.

  “Are you all right, Mrs. Mainwearing?” Bran asked, worry making his voice sound almost angry.

  “I’m fine,” she snapped. “But the judge got his hair parted by a bullet. Did you get them, Marshal?”

  “No, by the time I got up there whoever was shooting at you was gone. All I saw was a man riding away on a horse with a silver-trimmed saddlehorn.”

  “Silver trim?” Bran asked.

  Sylvia looked curiously at him. “That mean something to you?”

  “No, it’s just that most bandits aren’t so well equipped,” Bran responded. The marshal had gotten close enough to see the silver-trimmed saddle, but he couldn’t catch the rider. Of course he was concerned about Mrs. Mainwearing, but Bran would have thought he’d at least have tried to follow whoever had been shooting at the buggy.

  “The judge?” Larkin asked.

  “I’m fine, just took a chunk out of my scalp,” he replied, trying to right himself. “Caught me by surprise or I wouldn’t have dropped the reins. Didn’t even get a chance to draw my gun.”

  “You carry a gun too, Judge?” The marshal looked from the judge to the preacher and back again.

  “Certainly. The West is a wild place,” he said, then groaned and glanced at his blood-splattered shirt and vest. “Don’t suppose there’s a doctor at your party, is there, Adams?”

  “No doctor in Heaven, Judge,” Larkin replied. “But I imagine Lorraine can fix you up.”

  “Lorraine?” Sylvia repeated, a frown marring her face.

  When the buggy reached the parsonage, the members of the congregation were waiting. “What happened?” Preston asked.

  “The preacher’s horse came hightailing it back. We knew there was trouble,” another commented.

  “Some bandit riding a horse with a silver-trimmed saddle decided to take potshots at me,” Sylvia said, climbing down from the buggy. “He got the judge instead. Help him down and get … Lorraine Lake to look at him.”

  The judg
e, blood streaming down his face, was carried inside. The women stood back to let Lorraine treat the wound.

  Macky, who’d forgotten her injured ankle, walked away from the doorway, stunned by Sylvia’s revelation. Pratt.

  Inside the cabin, Sylvia pulled a small bottle of whiskey from her purse and handed it to Lorraine. “This ought to purify the wound.”

  “That’d do me a sight more good if it was in my stomach instead of on my head,” the judge growled.

  “I suppose we could manage that,” Lorraine agreed, “if there’s any left.”

  He’d lost some blood but the bullet hadn’t done any real damage, other than leave him with a giant headache. After settling him down and cleaning away the blood, Lorraine poured whiskey on the wound, then handed the bottle to the judge and turned away.

  Sylvia was watching. “You did a good job, Miss Lake,” she said. “Moose always thought a lot of you.”

  “I thought a lot of him, too. He was a good man.”

  Sylvia let out a laugh. “No he wasn’t. He was an ornery old coot, lied for the hell of it and drank like a fish, but he did know how to appreciate a good woman.”

  Lorraine, startled for a moment, recognized a hint of friendship in Sylvia’s eyes, and nodded. “You’re right. He said that once he found you, he knew he’d met his match.”

  Sylvia walked over to the judge and studied him. “Think you can amuse yourself here while we feed these men? No point in wasting all this good food.”

  The judge pulled himself to a sitting position, and leaned against the wall. “By all means,” he said, his voice revealing the depth of his pain.

  Sylvia brushed the wrinkles from her dress, and stepped out the door, stopping for a moment beside Bran. “I know you don’t approve, but I won’t have anybody else shot at because of me.”

  Before he could stop her she walked to the center of the clearing. “I’d like your attention,” she said, waiting for everyone to gather around. “I have an announcement. The trouble in Heaven has gone far enough. I don’t intend to lose another gold shipment, or have anyone else hurt. In that regard, I’ve hired a gunfighter to find out who is behind these attacks.”

  A murmur of conversations spread through the crowd. “When will he be here?” Clara Gooden asked with worry etched across her face.

  “You know what happens when a gunfighter comes to town,” Preston Cribbs added. “Every would-be killer in the territory suddenly turns up to prove he’s the best.”

  “Yeah,” Hank agreed from where he was standing behind Lorraine. “Who is he?”

  “His name is Night Eyes and I received a notice from my solicitor. He’ll be here any day.”

  The collective gasp of the onlookers effectively covered Macky’s, but she couldn’t stop herself from turning her gaze toward Bran.

  He was looking at her. Night Eyes? Eyes That See in Darkness? It had to be. His expression hadn’t changed, but she knew that he was giving her the chance to reveal that he wasn’t the preacher he claimed to be.

  Macky had known from the beginning that Bran was dangerous. But a gunfighter?

  She held her breath and the moment of decision passed. He had allowed her to pretend to be his wife when she needed to hide, the least she could do in return was protect his identity. She owed him that much, until she knew the truth. Besides, she knew something that they didn’t. The man riding the horse with the silver-trimmed horn was Pratt, the bank robber.

  Bran waited. He inclined his head slightly, as if he could read her mind and understood her confusion. She couldn’t give him away. No matter what Sylvia said, she wasn’t afraid. She went to stand beside Bran, laying her hand on his arm, ready for whatever came next.

  Larkin, waiting under a tree by the tables, felt the pieces fall into place. He didn’t know why he hadn’t seen it before. The man with the eye patch wasn’t a preacher; he was Night Eyes, the gunslinger. Larkin didn’t much like competition, either in his job or his personal life. He was in charge here and he didn’t intend to let anybody else mess up his plans. Too bad Bran wasn’t a wanted man. It would make Larkin’s life easier if the preacher could be arrested and carried off to jail. But this gunfighter was too careful for that. He never killed a man who wasn’t trying to kill him first.

  But his job as marshal was to find the man behind the trouble in Heaven. How better to find the criminal he was looking for than to use Night Eyes to do it? He bit back a smile.

  “Mrs. Mainwearing, I wish you hadn’t done that,” the marshal finally said. “The judge sent me here to look into the matter. I assure you that I’ve done everything possible. By bringing in a man with that kind of reputation, you’ll only make matters worse.”

  “Maybe, and maybe whoever is after me will understand that I mean business,” Sylvia snapped, then turned toward Bran. “I understood I was invited to supper and all this has given me an appetite.”

  “Of course,” the mayor spoke up, recognizing the undercurrent of unease rippling through the crowd. “Preacher Adams, will you say grace?”

  Bran’s arm stiffened beneath Macky’s touch. There was only silence. She caught his hand. “Maybe you’ll allow me?”

  There was a moment of surprise, then the mayor nodded and bowed his head.

  But it was Bran’s strong voice that spoke. “Let brotherly love continue. Be not forgetful to entertain strangers; for thereby some have entertained angels unawares. May the angels remain among us.”

  “Amen,” Hank said, and was rewarded with a puzzled look from Lorraine.

  “I’ll say amen, too,” the marshal agreed, taking Sylvia’s hand. “May I escort you, Mrs. Mainwearing?” he asked and, on her nod of acceptance, led her to the tables piled high with food.

  Bran leaned down to whisper in Macky’s ear. “I don’t know why you protected my identity, but thank you.”

  “You did the same for me.”

  “As you said, maybe we can look after each other.” He didn’t have to say that this kind of thinking was new to him. “As for you, Mrs. Adams. I think you’d better limp back to your stool and let me serve you if you plan to continue the ruse that you have a sprained ankle.”

  She flushed. “You knew? How?”

  “I don’t tell everything I know, either.”

  Sylvia insisted on taking a plate to the judge and remained inside while she tried to get him to eat. However, he refused, choosing instead to empty the bottle. By the time the musicians began to tune up their fiddles, Judge Hardcastle was singing boisterously and threatening to get out of bed to dance.

  One of the women brought a low bench from the back of her wagon and sat beside Macky. She held one child on her knee while discreetly nursing a newborn beneath a faded shawl.

  Macky smiled at the little girl who ducked her head against her mother’s arm. “What’s your name? I’ll bet it’s Sunshine.”

  The child shook her head.

  “Then it must be Gingerbelle. I once had a friend named Gingerbelle who looked like you, except she had only one arm and I’m sure you have two, don’t you? Of course Gingerbelle did very well with only one, except when she had to draw water from the well. Then do you know what she did?”

  The little girl, caught up in Macky’s story, forgot to hug her mother’s body. “What did she do?”

  “She whistled,” Macky exclaimed. “That worked every time. Can you whistle?”

  “No.”

  Macky knew that the little girl wasn’t buying her story, but she was intrigued. Macky slid closer. “It’s a secret, but I’ll share it with you if you’ll sit on my knee. Of course, you can’t tell the baby. Babies don’t understand about big girl’s secrets.

  Solemnly the child slid from her mother’s knee and let Macky lift her into her lap. “Secret?” Her eyes were as large as saucers.

  Macky lowered her voice. “What she did was whistle and her mule named Solomon came running. He took the end of the rope and lifted the bucket of water from the well. Once it was up high enough for Gingerbel
le to reach it, she’d pull it to the ground and let Solomon have a drink.”

  “She did?”

  “Of course the secret was that her mama never knew that Solomon drank out of the family water bucket. And you must promise not to tell anybody what I did.”

  “You’re really Gingerbelle? But you have two arms.”

  “Well, yes, but you have to keep my secret. I wasn’t strong and Solomon got awfully thirsty. Would you like to meet him?”

  “Solomon is here?”

  “Solomon is here,” Bran answered. “But Trouble has a sprained ankle so she can’t introduce you. But if your mother will let you, I’ll take you to the corral to say hello.”

  The grateful mother nodded and watched as her child confidently held up her arms to the man dressed in black. “You know she doesn’t usually have anything to do with anybody. She hardly ever talks, not since her real papa died.”

  The woman finished feeding the baby and plopped her against her shoulder where the baby let out a satisfied burp. “I’m Rachel Wade—I mean Pendley—and that was Rebekah. The baby is Louis. Mr. Pendley is Louis’s daddy. He and I aren’t really married yet. There wasn’t a preacher. That’s what made it so hard, me having another baby and all. Some people were pretty outspoken about it.”

  “I’m Macky Calhoun, I mean Macky Adams. Don’t pay attention to gossip. Nobody can know what’s best for someone else. God gave you a child and I’m sure He understands. I’m so glad you came.”

  Gratitude filled Rachel’s face. “My ma always made us youngens go to church. Mr. Pendley wouldn’t come, but maybe he will when I tell him how nice you are. Maybe your man will say the words?”

  Macky nodded, though she didn’t know what Bran would say, or what it meant to have a legal marriage. She’d find out and help Rachel, if she could.

  Soon, members of the congregation, caught up in the judge’s good spirits, began to dance merrily. The marshal took one turn around the floor with Lorraine, then turned her over to Hank Clay and set his sights on Sylvia. Bran didn’t dance, but after he returned the child to her mother, he began to mingle with the guests, laughing and giving every indication that he was having a good time.