How could he know what God wanted when he couldn't even trust his own judgment? He'd been wrong about a lot of things. About his life. About his church.
His faith had burned like a steady light inside him all these years, but even that had been shaken in recent months.
Who knows? Maybe he was even wrong about Sarah. Maybe he only imagined the goodness he saw in her, the vulnerability.
From the distance came the howling of wolves. It was a lonely sound that seemed to echo the very loneliness inside him.
"Dear heavenly Father, Almighty God, Creator of heaven and earth . . . Keep her safe, God. Keep her safe."
The hours dragged on until, at last, a silver thread of light on the distant horizon announced the near arrival of dawn. Stumbling around in the darkness, Justin packed up his belongings and loaded them on to Moses, careful to balance the load so as not to add undue stress to the animal's back.
He'd not slept a wink since Sarah left. He rubbed his neck and stretched the muscles in his back. He wondered if a body ever got used to sleeping on the cold, hard ground.
However, his low spirits had little if anything to do with his physical complaints. He couldn't stop thinking about Sarah, praying for her safety, wondering whether he'd made a mistake in not keeping better watch over her. The truth was, he detested the idea of handcuffing her. Holding her against her will went against his very nature.
Even if his chances of catching up to her were slim or altogether impossible, he should have gone after her. If for no other reason but to make her wait till daylight to escape.
Why hadn't he?
And why, for that matter, hadn't he stayed in Boston and faced his accusers? Why did he always take the path of least resistance? It was a question very much on his mind that morning as he wandered about in the dawn's early light.
Marshal Owen woke at his touch. His skin sallow and parched, his cheeks hollow, he gazed at Justin from sunken eyes.
"How are you feeling?" Justin asked.
"Like I was run over by an iron horse," Owen replied, his voice weak.
Justin debated what to do. "Do you think you're well enough to travel? There's a town about thirty miles away." Normally, he would have easily made it there in less than a day, but with two men on a single horse, he wasn't sure how long it would take. "We might find a doctor there."
The response was slow in coming. "I can try."
"We only have one horse," Justin said.
"The prisoner—"
"Shh. Don't try to talk. You need to conserve your strength."
"Just don't make me drink any more of that ghastly tea," Owen pleaded.
The silvery sky gradually turned blue with not a cloud in sight. North and west of him, the Missouri prairie seemed to go on forever. To the far south, the Ozarks rose like ghostly ships sailing across the sealike plains.
The lawman slumped on the saddle in front of him, Justin made his way along a rutted trail. Travel was slow, but it couldn't be helped.
Spotting fresh horse tracks, he stopped for a closer look. He felt certain the tracks belonged to Sarah, and the way the hoofs sank into the ground indicated she'd been traveling fast. She was probably miles away by now.
It was still only May, but already the temperatures began to soar. He studied the landscape ahead for even the slightest motion, but nothing, not even a blade of grass, moved beneath the shimmering, hot sun.
He rode for the better part of the morning, stopping only long enough to water his horse and pack mule in one of the many natural springs that dotted the area, and to check Owen's bandage and make him drink.
The red, swollen skin around the jagged wound worried him. If only Sarah were here, she'd know what to do, he was certain of it.
He rode past herds of wild horses and graceful antelope. A lone buffalo bull bellowed, then walked away on legs that seemed too short and thin for such a large, cumbersome body. The sound woke Owen. "Mating season," he muttered before closing his eyes again.
Never having seen such an odd animal, Justin stopped to watch it. He'd heard that the plains were once filled with the woolly beasts, but he had always assumed the reports were exaggerated. That was before he'd witnessed for himself the unbelievable number of bleached bones strewn across the land. Feeling a sense of sadness, Justin watched the magnificent creature until it moved away.
Around noon, the ground grew muddy. Shallow pools of water made travel increasingly difficult.
Something caught his eye—a horse.Sarah's horse. He anxiously scanned the marshy bogs. Her untethered bay stood a short distance away, grazing, but there was no sign of Sarah.
Fearing the worst, he urged Noah on. The horse gingerly picked his way around the soggy ground with Moses plodding behind.
Birds took flight as he drew near. Ducks, geese, and loons rose to the sky and scattered like feathers in the wind. Striped frogs jumped out of the way, splash-landing into sodden swales. Dragonflies hovered close to the water's surface, their blue bodies gleaming in the sun. The air was abuzz with dark clouds of bugs that flittered back and forth in a graceless dance.
He found a relatively dry spot next to Blizzard and tethered both horses together. Fearing the marshal would fall out of the saddle if left unsupervised, he helped Owen to the ground and settled him on a blanket in the skimpy shade of a low-growing willow.
As quickly as he dared, he circled the marshy bog on foot, his sense of dread increasing with each hurried step. He cupped his hands around his mouth and called her name. "Sarah!"
"It's 'bout time you got here!"
His heart leaped at the sound of her voice. Unable to discern where her voice came from, he squinted against the sun. "Where are you?"
"Over here!"
He spotted her, at last, in the middle of a murky pool. Alarm shot through him. "What in the world . . .!"
"Don't come any closer," she warned. "If you get stuck, neither of us has got a prayer of gettin' out. This stuff holds on tighter than a corset."
"A corset, eh?" He couldn't help but laugh. He was so relieved to see her he almost jumped with joy. "You don't strike me as the type to have firsthand knowledge of such a garment."
"You don't have to wear them to know how they fit," she snapped. "Now get off the stick and get me outta here!"
Without another word he backed away, watching his every step until he reached hard ground again. "Don't move," he called. He then raced back to the horses. A coil of rope hung from the skirts of the marshal's saddlebags. He hoped it was long enough to do the job.
Rope in hand, he started back. Moving as close to Sarah as he dared, he uncoiled the rope. "Grab hold of this," he called. "I'll haul you in."
He tossed one end of the rope to her, and it fell a distance away.
"You throw like you build a fire," she complained.
Pulling the rope back in, he grinned. "I'm glad to see you've retained your usual sweet disposition."
"Don't go gettin' your hopes up high, Preacher," she said. Although her fate was in his hands, she made no attempt to agree with him or even placate him. "I might have one foot in the grave, but I ain't about to mend my ways."
"That's two feet you have in the grave," he teased. "And if you mended your ways, I wouldn't have to keep rescuing you." He tossed the end of the rope again, this time hitting his mark.
She grabbed hold of it, and he slowly reeled her in. When she was close enough to reach, he held out his hand and yanked her out of the mire.
She followed him back to the horses with her arms straight out like a scarecrow's, complaining all the way. "Did you ever see such a mess in all your born days?" she cried.
"We'll find a safe place for you to clean off," he said. "While you're doing that, I'll fix us something to eat."
"I'll eat with you. But I ain't goin' to Texas with you," she said. "So you can just forget that notion, you hear?"
By the time they had moved to dry land and found clean water, she was in an even worse mood than before.
Her pants, shirt, boots—everything—were caked with sand and she walked like a stiff board.
Apparently, it wasn't in Sarah's nature to suffer in silence. She voiced her complaints nonstop till his ears began to ring.
He pulled a blanket off the horse and handed her a pair of clean pants and a shirt. He then pulled out a bar of Blue India soap he had tucked away in his saddlebags and tossed it to her. She stared down at the soap in her hand, and her face softened.
Without a word, she turned and disappeared behind a clump of trees.
She was in a considerably better mood when she returned. Her damp hair fell to her shoulders in tangled curls. His clothes were too large for her, and she had rolled up the legs of his pants and the sleeves of his shirt. She flung her newly washed clothes over Moses' saddle to dry.
He offered her a strip of dried meat and hard tack bread, and she sat down and ate with great relish. Her hearty appetite and the way she devoured whatever he placed in front of her would be deemed scandalous by Boston standards. He wondered what Sarah would think of the dainty portions and timid eating habits of Boston's female population. The thought amused him.
On the ground nearby, Owen slept, his chest rising and falling visibly with each labored breath.
Sarah watched the marshal from beneath a furrowed brow. "He don't sound so good," she said.
Justin leaned against a tree, his arms crossed in front. "I figure there must be a reason why you didn't get away," he said. He expected a reaction and she didn't disappoint him.
She glanced up quickly, her face etched in confusion. "You ain't thinkin' that bog was some sort of. . . you know?"
"Divine intervention?"
She shrugged. "Somethin' like that."
"Can you think of a better explanation?" he asked.
"Yeah, I can. It was dark. I couldn't see farther than a blindfolded hog. So I decided to wait till mornin'. I got off my horse and took a tumble. It was my own stupid fault."
"And you're not even willing to consider the possibility that maybe this is all part of a plan? That God has something up His divine sleeve?"
"No one makes plans for me, you hear?" The sharp tone of her voice was at odds with the uncertainty in her voice. As if to explain the discrepancy, she added, "Not without my say-so."
"Maybe He brought you back for Owen," Justin said.
"If God wanted to help Owen, I reckon He would have sent a doctor."
Later, as they prepared to hit the trail again, Justin checked his saddle. As far as he could determine, the extra burden of Owen's weight didn't create any problems for his horse.
He rubbed the gelding's forehead. "What do you say, Noah? Was that or was that not divine intervention?"
It was hot and humid that afternoon, and Sarah felt utterly miserable. Her canteen was empty, her mouth dry as cotton, and her head felt like someone was hammering inside, trying to get out. She was beginning to think they would never reach the town of Stonewell.
She coaxed Blizzard to go faster until she reached the preacher's side. Owen was slumped over, his head bopping with each jolting step.
"How's he doin'?"
"Not too good," the preacher replied. "I only hope we reach Stonewell in time."
"If we don't rest our horses, we ain't gonna make it to the next stump."
He frowned in protest but nodded in agreement. "Looks like some trees about a mile ahead."
They rode side by side in silence for several moments.
She stole a glance at the preacher's profile. He looked tired but no less determined. Moisture glistened on his sun- darkened skin. For no good reason, she felt a sense of guilt for causing him so much trouble.
"Don't you go thinkin' I'm not grateful for what you've done for me," she said.
He turned to look at her, his face shadowed by his hat.
She took a deep breath and continued. "I've been buzzards' bait twice, and both times you saved my carcass." She stared at the trail ahead. "I ain't used to people being nice to me."
"Maybe you don't give them a chance to be nice to you."
Her eyes locked with his. "The last time I gave someone a chance to be nice, he held me up at gunpoint. Stole all my money, he did."
"I won't steal anything from you, Sarah."
Something in his voice touched her and made it harder to fight the battle inside. Part of her wanted to trust him, but to do so would only add to his own burdens without relieving any of hers. Still, she was tempted—and it practically scared the life out of her.
"Let me help you," he beseeched her in a soft, clear voice.
She tossed her head and lifted her chin. "I can tote my own skillet, and don't think I can't." With that she snapped the reins, forcing Blizzard to pull ahead.
Later, as she sat around the campfire, the marshal asleep nearby, the preacher settled next to her. "Sarah . . . Everyone can use a friend, and I want to be yours. But I can't help you if you don't tell me what kind of trouble you're in. Why were you handcuffed to the marshal? What crime have you been accused of? What is it about Texas . . . specifically, Rocky Creek, that has you running scared? Come on, Sarah. I can't be your friend if you don't trust me."
She stared at the blazing hot fire. She'd never had a friend. Never knew anyone she could trust except her brothers. Her first instinct was to push him away as she had done earlier, but the cautionary voice inside didn't have a chance next to his gentle and persuasive voice. Maybe it was the harrowing night spent in that bog or just plain exhaustion, but she could no longer fight the friendship he offered her.
She watched him through lowered lashes. "That old marshal . . . Owens . . . was escortin' me back to Texas."
The preacher nodded. "To jail."
"No." She lifted her head and searched his face, studying every nuance for signs of censure. She was about to find out just what kind of friend he was. "To the gallows."
Five
Justin turned gray, his eyes round as two pie plates. His shock radiated outward until even the very fire seemed to dim in the aftermath of her revelation. "But. . . but you're a woman!" he said, horror written all over his face.
She gave him a curious look. "Don't they hang women in Boston?'
"Maybe a hundred years ago," he said. "But not anymore."
For several moments the only sounds that could be heard was Owen's labored breathing and a chorus of noisy crickets in the nearby grass.
She studied his face and wondered if it had been a mistake to trust him. From earliest childhood, she'd been taught by her brothers to reveal nothing and admit to even less, and that advice had served her well through the years.
But it was hard to resist this preacher, whose soft-spoken words and kind demeanor lulled her into believing she could trust him. She only hoped she wouldn't live to regret confiding in him.
"The g-gallows—" he muttered as if he still couldn't believe it. His voice sounded like gravel rattling in an old wooden bucket. "I knew you were in trouble, Sarah, but. . . never did I imagine anything so . . . like this."
Sensing no reproach, she allowed herself to breathe. "You still want to be my friend?" It was more of a plea than a request.
"I said I did, and I mean it. But this . . . this is too serious to handle by yourself. Let me talk to the authorities. I'm a man of God. They'll listen to me."
She pursed her lips. She could only imagine the look on her brothers' faces upon hearing that a preacher offered to put in a good word for her. "Have you ever talked anyone out of a hangin' before?"
The question seemed to surprise him. "Uh. . . no. But that doesn't mean I can't." He thought for a moment. "First. . . first, I have to know . . ." He rubbed his chin as if he dreaded even having to ask the question. "What did you do?"
"I ain't done nothin'.Except that golden rule stuff. You know the one 'bout dishin' out the same medicine that other folks dish out to you."
Sarah had hoped this would set the preacher's mind at rest, but the worry lines on his foreh
ead only deepened.
"Since you're still very much alive, I'm assuming you didn't kill anyone?"
"Never killed anyone in my life, but I sure have been tempted."
He frowned. "Did you steal?"
This question was a bit trickier. "Never stole a thing that wasn't mine," she replied, after a while.
"You can't steal what's yours."
"Really?"Now, if that ain 'f the bird's twitter. She wondered if her brothers knew about that one. "Well, then, I'm as innocent as a newborn babe."
The ridge between his eyebrows grew another notch deeper. "I seriously doubt that. Tell me, why do they want to hang you? And I want the truth, Sarah."
"The truth?"
"You know, the facts as they really happened, with no embellishments or omissions."
"There ain't much to tell," she said. "My brothers and I were ridin' out of town—"
"Would that be Rocky Creek?" he asked.
She nodded. "Like I was saying, we were hitting the grit when I spotted this stray dog hung up on a fence. If I hadn't stopped to help it, the dog would have been wolf bait sure as shoo tin'. The next thing I knew, the marshal was on top of me and I was eatin' dirt."
He looked perplexed. "I don't understand. The marshal arrested you for helping a dog?"
She bit down on her lower lip. "The dog ain't got nothin' to do with it," she said. "It was because my brothers stopped a stage."
"Why did they do that? Stop a stage?"
She stared at him in disbelief. Even a preacher couldn't be that dense, even if he was from Boston. "It's the easiest way to rob it," she said, matter-of-factly.
His eyes widened in astonishment before he caught himself. She had to give him credit; he was obviously trying not to pass judgment. But if the swollen veins in his neck were an indication, his efforts to remain impartial didn't come easy.
"So . . . so how did you get away?" he asked, his voice strained.
"I didn't. Not until after they tried me in mustang court," she said, using the Texas phrase for mock justice. "The old pros'cutor blamed me and my brothers for things we ain't done."
A Lady Like Sarah Page 4
