Marrying the Preacher's Daughter

by Cheryl St. John

  He hefted both bags into the back of the wagon, and while her family climbed onto the seat and over rails into the wagon bed, she gave him a friendly hug.

  “You’re trembling, Lis.”

  “I’m a little shaken up, I guess.”

  He was the only person ever allowed to call her by a shortened version of her name. At about sixteen, she’d stopped letting his teasing bother her, and thereafter it had become his habit. “I’m glad you weren’t involved.”

  “Well, actually…”

  “Actually what?”

  She thought better of what she’d been about to reveal and pulled away. “Actually, I read an entire book in the two evenings I was in Morning Creek,” she answered, avoiding her involvement.

  “You’re a wild one, you are,” he said and helped her up to the bed beside her younger siblings and Kalli. Josie was on the springed seat, and he climbed up beside her. “I’m going to deliver you home, but I need to get right back and help with the paperwork and identifying the—uh—criminals.”

  Kalli occupied the boys by singing a nursery rhyme, and Elisabeth was grateful for the distraction she provided. Gil halted the team at the bottom of the hill, where the church sat beside a tiny empty parsonage.

  Her father exited the church’s side door and crossed the lawn, his black hair shining in the afternoon sun and a smile on his handsome face.

  “Papa, there was robbers on the train!” Phillip called.

  Samuel Hart’s smile faltered and he studied Elisabeth with concern. “Are you all right?”

  She jumped down to embrace him, and gave him a brief explanation.

  “I’ll head over to Dr. Barnes’s to pray for the wounded hero,” her father said. Elisabeth had expected nothing less of her father, a man of compassion and faith.

  Gil led the team up the hill toward their home at the top of the tree-lined street. When the shrubbery and mature trees that surrounded their vast yard came into view, Elisabeth sighed with appreciation. Josie had been a wealthy widow when Father had married her, and her inheritances had supplied this dwelling where, in the years since, love had abounded and faith flourished.

  While the others bustled around her, Elisabeth studied the asymmetrical house with its bay windows, balconies, stained glass, turrets, porches, brackets and ornamental masonry. The structure was two-storied, except for a third floor at the top of one pointed turret. That was the room where she and her sisters had spent hours reading and dreaming. She still used the space to relax and find a peaceful spot away from the boys.

  Elisabeth exhaled with relief at being safely home.

  She found her bags just inside her doorway where Gil had set them. She needed to unpack. Father would have duties piled up for her.

  Sweat trickled along his spine, but the bandanna he’d tied around his head beneath his black cowboy hat kept perspiration from his eyes. Vision was critical when a keen eye meant the difference between life and death.

  Gabe studied the cabin baking beneath the blistering sun. The man he’d been hunting for the past six weeks was holed up in there with a bottle of whiskey and a slug in his thigh. If he hadn’t passed out from pain or bled to death, heat and starvation would drive him out eventually. Gabe rested his rifle against a bolder and reached for his canteen. Empty? He’d only just filled it. His throat was burning and dry; he needed water badly.

  Heat more searing than the sun licked up his side. The dry grass around him was on fire! He jumped up to escape the flames and a shot rang out. His prey had exited the cabin and aimed another shot at Gabe, now standing and exposed.

  Gabe reached for his rifle. It was gone, and in its place a coiled rattler lifted its head and shook its tail in warning.

  Gabe jerked awake.

  He lay drenched with sweat and his side throbbed. His tongue felt too big for his mouth. For a moment he didn’t recognize the room, but then the train robbery and his subsequent ride to the doctor’s home came back to him.

  “He’s one stubborn fellow.” Vaguely, Gabe remembered the doctor removing the bullet from his side, but now instead of a blood-spattered apron, the man was wearing a clean white shirt and tie.

  “Heavy, too.” The black-haired fellow beside him threaded his hair back from his forehead and stared down.

  Grimacing, Gabe raised up on one elbow.

  “No more getting out of this bed,” the doctor ordered and poured a glass of water from a nearby pitcher. He had silver hair at his temples, but was probably only ten years older than Gabe.

  That’s right. He’d made a foolhardy attempt to use the outhouse on his own. Gabe gulped down four glasses of the cool liquid before he lay back. “How long was I out?”

  “You blacked out when I removed the bullet yesterday. It cracked your rib, but traveled a ways. Now stay put or I’ll tie you to this bed. Good thing the reverend came along or I’d never have gotten you back in here.”

  Reverend? “Am I dying?”

  “You’re not dying,” Matthew Barnes assured him. “You’re just weak from losing so much blood. You need to rest and build up your strength.”

  “Why’d you call the preacher?”

  “He didn’t call me.” The man offered his hand. “I’m Samuel Hart. My daughter was on the train yesterday. She’s one of the passengers you saved from being robbed. She told me all about the incident.”

  “Hart,” he said with a scowl. “The blonde?”

  “That’s Elisabeth.”

  Gabe groaned. “She had a strong aversion to parting with her neck chain.”

  Samuel Hart nodded. “She’s worn the ring on that chain ever since my first wife died.”

  Gabe glanced around the room, finally noting there was another man lying on a cot several feet away. He looked to be sleeping or unconscious. “What’s wrong with him?”

  “Snake bite,” Dr. Barnes replied. “Just got here an hour or so ago.”

  Gabe turned his attention back to the preacher. “If the doc didn’t call you, why are you here?”

  “I came yesterday, too, though you never woke up. I prayed for you and came back to see how you’re doing.”

  Gabe couldn’t recall anyone praying over him before. “I hurt like I’ve been dragged behind a team of horses.”

  The man in the other bed moaned, and the doctor moved to attend to him.

  “Well, thank God you’re alive,” the preacher said.

  Gabe studied him again and attempted to sit up, but pain lanced through his side and took his breath away. He rested a hand over the bandages. “I’ve been shot before, but it never hurt like this.”

  “Cracked ribs hurt more than a wound,” the doctor said. “But you can’t take a chance on opening that hole or letting it get infected.”

  “I can’t stay here,” Gabe objected. For one thing, if any of the train robbers’ friends had heard of him being shot, the first place they’d search would be the doctor’s. “I have business to see to.”

  “Where do you plan to go?” the doc asked him. “You need close supervision for at least a week or better.”

  “Looks like you’ve got your hands full with the snake-bit fella,” Gabe replied.

  “You can come home with me,” the preacher said.

  Gabe gave him a sidelong look.

  “I have a big house full of women who can help me look out for you.”

  “I do have to head out this afternoon and make calls,” the doc advised. “Plus look after this fella. You’d likely get better care at the Harts’.”

  Gabe hated to admit it, but the thought of moving more than his toes made him sweat. He’d pulled through a lot worse than this, though. “All right. The preacher’s house it is.”

  Chapter Three

  Elisabeth returned from the clothesline with a basket of her clean folded clothing in time to hear a commotion coming from the front hall.

  “Not there!” a man shouted. “Don’t grab me there, for pity’s sake!”

  She didn’t recognize the voice, but then h
er father’s more calming words reached her. “We’ll have you settled in just a minute, Mr. Taggart.”

  Taggart? She entered the enormous sunlit foyer from the back hallway, stopped and stared.

  Her father and Gil supported the tall man, one on each side, and Dr. Barnes followed, carrying his bag in one hand, a carton in the other.

  “Just a little farther,” Sam coaxed.

  “Any farther and you might as well just shoot me again,” the man growled. Sweat beaded on his forehead and his swarthy face had turned pasty white. A steep set of narrow stairs led from the street up to the house, and he’d just maneuvered them with a bullet wound.

  Sam glanced up. “Elisabeth, bring cold water and wash rags to the bedroom on the south corner.”

  “But that’s…” At her father’s stern look, she let her voice trail off. Next to mine. What was he thinking? “Yes, sir.”

  She set down her basket and hurried to the kitchen. Her father had brought that man here! To their home! She cringed in mortification. Now she’d be forced to face him—and her shame.

  Minutes later, she climbed the stairs with a pitcher and toweling. She traveled the now-silent corridor and paused outside the closed door. From inside, she heard rustles and a couple of grunts.

  The door opened and her father gestured for her to enter.

  Gil stood just inside the room, and she met his interested gaze. “Looks like Mr. Taggart’s going to be your guest for a while,” he said.

  Reluctantly, she followed her father inside.

  They had removed the man’s clothing and tucked a sheet up around his waist and over part of his chest. His ribs were bound, the white wrapping a stark contrast against dark skin that held scars from previous injuries. Who was this man?

  “You did just fine,” Dr. Barnes said, standing over him. “The wound isn’t bleeding.” He turned and took the pitcher from Elisabeth, poured water into the bowl and got a cloth wet. “The Harts will take care of you. They’re good people.”

  Gabe took the wet rag from the doctor and wiped his perspiring face.

  Dr. Barnes set a bottle on the bureau. “He gets two teaspoons every six hours for pain. It’ll help him sleep. Give him a dose now.”

  “You’ll be in charge of his medicine, Elisabeth,” her father directed.

  “Me-e?” She hadn’t meant to squeak.

  “You’re the most meticulous,” he replied.

  She nodded her obedient consent, but kept the disagreeable man she’d hoped never to see again under her observation. He didn’t appear any more pleased with the situation than she, which was a comfort.

  “I’ll check on you tomorrow,” the doc told him.

  Gil glanced from the stranger to Elisabeth with a crooked grin and headed downstairs, followed by the doctor.

  “Elisabeth will see to your needs,” Sam told Gabe. “And I’ll be back at suppertime.”

  He progressed into the hall, and she followed, not wanting to be left alone with their patient. The other two men headed downstairs. “What am I supposed to do with him?” she whispered to her father.

  “Give him his medicine and something to drink. Let him sleep. If he gets hungry, bring him a meal.” He took a step toward the stairs, but stopped and met her gaze. “Oh, and you might try thanking him for saving your mother’s wedding ring.”

  He turned and walked away.

  Her heart picked up speed and, as though the pressure would calm her pulse, she flattened her palm against her waist. She took a deep breath and released it. Slowly, she turned back to the room and entered, lowering the hand to her side. The Taggart fellow leveled that piercing green gaze on her, but his demeanor was blessedly less imposing minus his hat and shirt.

  “Alone at last,” he said.

  Normally she prided herself on her calm demeanor, but this man managed to fluster her with every breath.

  “Where did they put my gun?”

  “You’re not going to need your gun here,” she assured him.

  Grimacing, he attempted to lean forward, but grabbed his side through the sheet and bandage. “It’s on that bureau.” He pointed. “Bring it here.”

  Rather than argue with him, she stepped to the chest of drawers and picked up the surprisingly heavy tooled leather holster that sheathed the deadly looking weapon. He’d shot half a dozen bandits in the blink of an eye with this very gun. Holding it on both upturned palms, she carried it to him.

  Meeting her eyes first, and making her even more uncomfortable with his stare, he took the belt from her. Yanking the gun from the its sheath, he swiftly opened the cylinder and fed bullets plucked from the belt into the chambers. After flipping the cylinder closed and sliding the gun under the pillow behind his head, he let the holster fall to the floor.

  “I’ll go fetch a spoon and a water glass.” She couldn’t get out of that room fast enough. Elisabeth stood in the kitchen longer than necessary, finding reasons to delay. What kind of man loaded a gun and stashed it under his pillow? What—or who—did he expect to shoot here? He hadn’t been wearing a badge or a star, but just carrying a gun didn’t make him a criminal. Her own father had worn a gun during their travels west and for months after arriving in Jackson Springs.

  Finally, she returned and measured a dose from the liquid in the brown bottle. “Would you like a drink?”

  “I’d love a drink, lady, but I’ll settle for that water.” Grimacing, he rose on one elbow to take the glass and finish the water. “Thanks.”

  Noticing the sun arrowing through the shutters, she closed them and pulled the curtains closed over both windows, leaving the room dim.

  “I never asked where you were headed.” She wrung out the cloth and hung it on the towel bar attached to the washstand.

  “Here.”

  “Oh.” She came to stand beside the bed. “Do you have family in Jackson Springs?”

  “I own some land,” he replied. “I’m going to buy horses and build a house. Might buy a business or two.”

  “What type of business?”

  “Depends on what’s for sale.”

  She had to wonder if he had any skills or definite plans or if he’d just set off willy-nilly. “I see.” She left and returned with a small brass bell. “Ring if you need anything.”

  Her father’s suggestion burned. She reached to place a hand over the ring that lay under her bodice and, even though the room was only semi-lit, Gabe’s astute perusal followed.

  He had protected her from harm, saved her ring and had become injured in the process. Why did she have so much difficulty forming the words?

  “Thank you, Mr. Taggart.”

  He curled his lip. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

  Irritating man. She spun and fled.

  “He’s wike Wyatt Eawp.”

  “Where’s his six-shooter?” another child asked. “Jimmy Fuller said he shot the robbers with a six-shooter.”

  Gabe rolled his woozy head toward the open door and caught sight of three little boys. They scattered like chicks in the wake of a bantam rooster, and Elisabeth Hart entered with a laden tray.

  In disbelief, he blinked sleep from his eyes. “You have kids?”

  Elisabeth frowned. “I’m barely twenty years old, Mr. Taggart.” She set the tray on the bureau and opened the curtains, the thick blond braid hanging down her back swaying with her movements. She slid the window open wider. “Those are my young brothers.”

  He blinked at the glare of the late-afternoon light, but the breeze gusting in was most welcome. The sheet stuck to his skin and he plucked it loose. “Your father only mentioned daughters.”

  Gabe hadn’t thought she looked old enough to have all those kids, but looks were often deceiving. She stepped close to arrange the pillows behind him. He sat forward with her scent, a combination of freshly ironed linen and meadow grass, enveloping him. He hadn’t expected the alarming effect she had on his senses. He scratched his chin. “He said there was a house full of females.”

  “My
sisters have come home from school, but they have lessons to complete. My stepmother needs her rest, so…” She snapped open a napkin and draped it over his chest. “You’re stuck with me.” She uncovered the plate of food and carried the bed tray to him. “I prepared a roast while you slept, along with potatoes and carrots. Beef will build up your strength.”

  Spotting the plate of food and the savory aroma of meat and gravy made his belly rumble. At least she could cook. He picked up the fork in anticipation. “I haven’t eaten anything that looked half this appetizin’ in a long while.”

  “I’m not the cook my stepmother is, but I’m not half-bad. My skills lie in accounting and organization, but I can do most anything I set my mind to.”

  He took a bite and savored the taste of the tender roast. She could cook well. “You’re used to getting your way.”

  She studied him and shrugged. “I see that things get done.”

  He ate several bites, then pointed at the nearby wooden chair with his fork. “Where were you returnin’ from when we met?”

  Stiffly, she seated herself. “Morning Creek. I’m the notary public for this county.”

  “Unusual job for a female.” He couldn’t say he was surprised. She seemed anything but usual, and her persnickety ways probably made her good with details.

  “The position fell into my lap after an elderly parishioner passed away a year ago. The post required someone willing to travel to nearby towns once a month or so.” She raised one shoulder in a delicate shrug. “The job sounded like a good way to do a bit of traveling. And it has been. Until yesterday.” A frown formed between her pale eyebrows. “Nothing like the incident on the train has happened before.”

  Her perfect speech amused him. “So the body count’s been low until now.”

  She averted her attention to the window, and he was almost sorry for the jibe. Almost. “Ruffle your tail feathers, don’t I?”

  She swung her attention back. “You’re the first person I ever met who is deliberately antagonistic. Why do you do that?”