A Lady Like Sarah

by Margaret Brownley

  His face brightened. "Are you saying you don't rob stages?"

  "Oh, we rob them all right. But we ain't killed no one like he said we did."

  A muscle flickered at his jaw, but whether in relief or disapproval, she couldn't say. "So how did you escape?"

  "My brothers finally showed up and blowed a hole in the wall of the jailhouse. You never saw such a mess in all your born days. But don't you go worryin' none, you hear? No one got hurt or anythin'."

  "That should go in your favor," he said slowly. "And when the town marshal hears how you saved Owen . . . how you took care of his bullet wound, he's bound to take your side."

  She frowned. "I'd sooner have a rattler in my bedroll." Hating what she saw in his eyes, she protested, "Don't look at me like that. Wells Fargo deserves to be robbed. They took our papa away."

  His gaze softened. "How?" he asked. "What happened to your father?"

  Words rushed from her. She told him how the bank had threatened to take her parents' farm away following tough times. "Papa pleaded with the bank president, and they got into an argument. Next day, the president was dead with a knife in his back. They strung Papa up before they found the real culprit. By then, it was too late."

  He shook his head in disbelief. "I'm so sorry, Sarah. How old were you when this happened?"

  "Six," she said.

  His voice soft with sympathy, he asked, "What about your mother?"

  She took a deep breath. "She died six months later. Some say she died of a broken heart." She lifted her eyes to his. "Now do you see why my brothers rob stages? Wells Fargo took everything from us."

  For the longest while, he didn't speak. Finally, he said, "I'll do everything possible to help." He sounded oddly distant and so unlike himself.

  "What does that mean, everythin'P" She studied his profile. "Does that mean you'll let me go?"

  His face was without expression as if an inner door had closed, creating a barrier between them. "If I let you go, you'll live a life on the run. Is that what you want? Don't you think it would be better to face your accusers and demand a fair and just trial?"

  She considered his suggestion for all of a second. "Fair and just? If the last trial was any ind'cation, I druther take my chances runnin'."

  "And spend the rest of your life looking over your shoulder? Facing your accusers is better. I know it is." After a moment, he added, "Maybe we can get your sentence commuted to prison time."

  She wrinkled her nose. "I ain't sittin' in no prison makin' horsehair saddles for something I ain't done."

  He tilted his head toward her. "Maybe you won't have to. You're a woman, and that's bound to work in your favor."

  She gave him a sidelong glance. "It's never worked in my favor before."

  "Really?" His gaze traveled the length of her. "Maybe they'd be less inclined to hang you if you . . . uh . . . dressed more . . . you know, like other women . . . if you emphasized the fact that you're a—a . . . lady."

  "E-emphasize?" she stammered, surprised to feel her cheeks grow warm. Nobody had ever accused her of being a lady before, but knowin' the preacher, he probably meant it as a compliment.

  A look of horror crossed his face. "I didn't mean to suggest—" He cleared his throat and glanced away.

  He looked so uncomfortable that she almost felt sorry for him. "What. . . what are you suggestin'?"

  His eyes met hers. "Only that it might be to your advantage to wear a frock instead of men's clothes."

  She glanced down at her canvas pants.

  "And the way you talk."

  She looked up. "What's wrong with the way I talk?"

  He peered at her intently. "I think you could probably tone down your speech here and there."

  She wrinkled her forehead. "Are you saying you want me to act like one of those spoiled society ladies who don't know the difference between a Henry and a Winchester rifle?"

  His face shadowed in confusion, he nonetheless gave a quick nod of his head. "That would be a start."

  She chewed on a fingernail. "I don't know. Being a lady ain't gonna come easy for the likes of me."

  "I'm only thinking of your welfare. It would be to your advantage once we arrive in Texas to face your accusers."

  She glanced at the marshal asleep nearby. The man hadn't moved since Justin settled him on bedroll. "So you're sayin' that wearin' a dress and talkin' like a lady will save my neck?"

  He hesitated. "I can't make any promises. Prosecutors in Boston tend to be more lenient with . . . ladies. I imagine it's the same in Texas."

  She sat back, hand on her chest. "Now if that don't take the rag off the bush. How come no one ever told me this before?"

  "It's probably not something that comes up in general conversation."

  It was a comforting thought, but she couldn't imagine a Texas judge being swayed by a woman's speech or dress.

  After a beat, he added, "I think we better get some shut-eye. I want to get an early start. We can't be too far from Stonewell."

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out the handcuffs. He stared down at them for a moment. "I'm sorry, Sarah. I don't want you taking off in the middle of the night again. It's too risky."

  She stared at the manacles in his hands and wondered what he saw when he looked at her. Did he see an outlaw or someone else—the woman whose heart suddenly yearned to be held by a man? By him? Cheeks aflame, she looked up.

  Head lowered, he reached for her hand, but before cuffing her, he hesitated.

  She searched his face and he met her gaze. She wanted him to look at her like she had seen her brothers look at other women. But anything would be better than the pity she saw in his eyes.

  Look at me, she wanted to cry. Look at me. Without thinking, she threw her arms around his neck. If he was surprised, she couldn't tell. For his lips melted against hers, sending waves of heat down her body. His mouth on hers was both gentle and demanding, sweet and warm, and more than anything, persuasive. She drank in the moment, wishing it would last forever.

  Great sand and sagebrush! How come no one ever told her that kissin' a man was even more fun than fightin' a bear? She'd heard tell about this man and woman stuff, but no one ever said it felt this good, felt so completely and utterly right.

  The kiss ended far too soon. One hand on her shoulder, he firmly pushed her away. The mouth that moments earlier had been soft and yielding was now hard and unrelenting. No pity showed in his eyes now. Only rejection . . . and, somehow, that was even worse.

  Her senses in turmoil, she didn't know what to think. She wondered if she had only imagined his response, imagined that he'd welcomed her kiss.

  Confused as much by her own actions as his, she stared up at him.

  "I'm sorry, Sarah."

  She couldn't have felt more humiliated had she been thrown from a horse. For the longest while, they stared at each other like two wild animals meeting by chance.

  "Forgive me," he pleaded. "I can't do this."

  Had he thrust a knife in her heart, he couldn't have hurt her more. "Because of who I am?" she lashed out at him. "Because I'm a wanted woman and not fit to wipe your feet?"

  He shook his head sadly. "No, Sarah. Because of who I am."

  No sooner had he cuffed her than he walked away, leaving her and the sleeping marshal alone. Unable to settle down, she paced a circle around the fire pit.

  There was no denying it; she had thrown herself at a man—and a preacher at that—and even she couldn't think of a way to excuse such a brazen act.

  All her life she'd been accused of being impulsive. Of acting without thinkin'. Of runnin' headlong into trouble. But kissin' the preacher was far and beyond anything she had ever done before.

  True, the preacher had offered to help her and for that she was grateful. But gratitude don't excuse brash behavior. She would definitely have to keep a tight rein on her impulses in the future.

  Still, recalling the feel of his lips on hers, she couldn't help but sm
ile. She pressed her fingers against her still burning mouth. The memory made her cheeks grow warm again, and she felt a strange excitement unlike any she had ever known.

  She might not be a lady, but for all his talk of proper behavior, there was no denying that Justin Wells had, for one short but magical moment, kissed her back.

  Six

  That night, Justin lay awake for hours, staring at the sky. Stars spilled across the heavens like polished diamonds, but he hardly noticed. He squeezed his eyes shut in an attempt to block out the memory of Sarah's lips on his, but it was nearly impossible to do. Even with his eyes closed, he could still see her, feel her. To make matters worse, her slightest movement and softest sigh played on his senses, keeping him on edge.

  With a heavy heart, he opened his eyes and resisted the urge to glance her way. Had she told him the truth? All that business about robbing a stage? Being tried for murder? It was hard to believe. He didn't want to believe it.

  Why had God brought this woman, this outlaw, into his life? Was it to test him? To punish him? Or to tempt him?

  Sarah, Sarah, Sarah. Her very name seemed to nestle into some secret part of him. She might be tough as old leather, but her lips had felt soft as fine silk. The unbidden memory added still more weight to his already troubled thoughts.

  He'd had his share of women in the past, but that was before he realized his calling and was ordained as a minister. Since that time eight years ago, he'd immersed himself fully into church work, giving little if any attention to his own physical needs.

  There were, of course, many single women in the church, some who would make fine wives. But none interested or even tempted him, and it was an effort not to look bored when they prattled on about the latest Parisian fashions or current opera season.

  Through the years he'd learned to cultivate a certain demeanor that effectively warded off overzealous mothers eager to marry off their daughters. He was never without his frock coat and collar, except when traveling, and carried a Bible with him at all times. However, he was convinced that none of his carefully crafted barriers would have worked with Sarah, whose unconventional and unpredictable ways had simply and effectively caught him off-guard.

  No more. From this moment on he would watch his every step. He would keep his distance and never again think about her pretty pink lips or those big blue eyes.

  To that end, he forced himself to concentrate on her legal problems. Though the crimes she described were serious, he was convinced of her innocence. He just couldn't believe that the woman who worked so hard to save Marshal Owen's life and risked capture to save a dog was capable of a serious felony. She said her brothers had stopped the stage. Did that mean she wasn't there? That she had nothing to do with the actual robbery?

  He knew what it was like to be wrongfully accused. His work in Boston came to an abrupt halt when a wealthy widow accused him of taking advantage of her. Nothing could be further from the truth.

  Mrs. Geoffrey Thornhill, an active member of the church, called one day asking for him. She sounded desperate. He hurried to her home to offer counsel and was stunned when she made her true intentions known. He turned her down as kindly as he could, of course, but whether out of anger or spite, she reported him. It was his word against hers. When she threatened to withhold a substantial amount of money from the church if he wasn't reprimanded, Justin was asked to leave.

  It was only because one of his superiors believed in his innocence that he was given a second chance—not to clear his name, but to continue to carry out the Lord's work, this time in a little church in the small Texas town of Rocky Creek.

  But the second chance came with a severe warning: he was told to stay away from trouble—and there lay the problem. There wasn't a doubt in his mind that Sarah was trouble, whether or not she actually had a hand in robbing that stage.

  Yet he couldn't just turn his back on her. What kind of preacher would just walk away? What kind of man? These questions kept him tossing and turning for the remainder of the night.

  The next day Justin was in the worst possible mood. His head ached, partly from lack of sleep, but mostly because he had made the decision to fulfill his promise to Owen and take Sarah to Texas. It was the hardest decision he ever had to make. It meant he would have to fight to save her.

  He didn't know if he could or even if it were possible, but he had to try.

  What choice did he have? Now that he knew the extent of her problems, he could no longer justify letting her go. When he was ordained, he had taken an oath to obey God's commandments, and that included the one about obeying the laws of the land.

  He knew many preachers who struggled with this very commandment, especially during the War Between the States, when conscience was often at odds with the law. There was no way he could justify letting Sarah go under these circumstances. The Bible was clear on that account.

  He would fulfill his promise to the marshal, take her to Texas, and demand that she be tried in front of a lawful court. If she was innocent as she claimed, all they'd have to do was prove it. Yet making the decision brought him no peace of mind.

  Aligning himself with an outlaw against an entire town could have grave consequences for him as a preacher, and he could well lose his ministerial rights. The thought of not being allowed to preach God's Word again was more than he could bear.

  Why, God? he asked in tortured silence. Why are You doing this to me? He'd never questioned God's will in the past. Why, then, did he question it now?

  To make matters worse, it was already hot and the air heavy with dust. Every step felt like walking uphill.

  Owen had slept fitfully through the night, and it was obvious that the lawman had taken a turn for the worse. His skin was hot and clammy; the wound on his shoulder appeared even more red and swollen than it had the day before.

  Owen needed medical help, and he needed it now.

  As far as Justin could figure, they were still fifteen or more miles away from the closest town. With a wounded man and handcuffed woman in tow, he'd be lucky if he got there by late afternoon.

  He only hoped there was a doctor in residence. If not, at least they should be able to obtain clean bandages and maybe even find a decent bed.

  If things weren't dismal enough, Sarah was at her combative worst. She begged him to free her, and when he refused she became even more difficult to handle, forcing him to pick her up, haul her over his shoulder, and set her on her horse.

  Until he could figure out a plan, he had no choice but to keep her handcuffed, and he was sorely tempted to gag her as well.

  "I'm not going to Texas!" she yelled at him.

  "You're going," he insisted.

  "Over my dead body."

  "God's commandments make that option unfeasible."

  She leveled cold blue eyes at him. "If they hang me, my blood will be on your hands for the rest of your born days. Is that what you want?"

  "What I want is to make sure that no noose ever touches that pretty neck of yours."

  A light like a candle flared in her eyes, and she looked ready to retort, but instead she clamped her mouth shut. Her hands still handcuffed together, she took hold of the reins.

  He roused Owen. It was a struggle to help Owen onto Noah. Owen could barely stay awake and he slumped over the horse's neck. Justin kept a steady hand on the man while mounting the saddle behind. His arms around Owen, he tightened his hold on the reins.

  He glanced at Sarah, who sat on her horse looking remarkably obstinate given her circumstances. Smiling to himself, he clicked his tongue and started along the trail.

  For the most part, Sarah remained silent for the rest of the morning, which suited him just fine. He had enough to worry about.

  The farther south they traveled across Missouri toward the Ozarks, the more available water they found. Flat grasslands gradually gave way to rocky inclines and deep ravines surrounded by loose soil. He soon gave up any hope of reaching the town until nightfall, if then.

>   Justin didn't know how much longer Owen could survive.

  With each cautious step, the hooves of their horses slipped dangerously, sending rocks and soil tumbling into the valley below. An unexpected clearing allowed him to put Moses in front, and this turned out to be a wise decision. Whereas Noah grew ever more skittish and confused, the mule showed no such hesitation, leading the way with surefooted confidence.

  On occasion, they were forced to cross a fast-flowing stream or detour around a tangled thicket. Upon circling one such dense growth, they roused several deer from a hidden lair, sending the frightened animals bounding away in alarm. A spotted fawn wobbled after them.

  The relentless glare of the sun began to take its toll. Justin mopped his wet forehead and glanced back at Sarah, but she avoided his eyes. He could see she was tired. Her face was flushed and less lively than usual, but she looked no less stubborn. Even so, he felt sorry for her.

  He wondered if somehow they had missed the town. He searched the trail ahead for a shady place to rest, but it was another hour before they actually found a suitable spot next to a sparkling stream and grove of sturdy cottonwoods.

  After helping Owen off the horse, Justin settled the feverish man down on a soft patch of grass. He turned to give Sarah a hand, but she had managed to slip off her mount without his help. He took off her cuffs so she could cool herself in the water.

  Justin knelt at the stream and doused himself with water before rinsing off his neckerchief. He then removed Owen's hat and gently dabbed his face with the wet cloth. Owen's skin was flushed red, and he was breathing hard.

  Fearing for the man's life, Justin stared at the rocky trail ahead. "Traveling is taking a lot out of him. At the rate we're going, we won't make it to the next town till after nightfall," he said. Lowering himself onto a fallen log, he held his weary head with both hands and said a silent prayer.

  He felt her hand on his back, her head on his shoulder.

  Startled by the way her touch made his heart leap, he jumped to his feet.

  The initial surprise on her face turned to hurt. "I was only tryin' to be a friend," she said.