Feeling utterly foolish, he raked his hand through his hair. "I apologize."
Her eyes blazed into his. "Don't go gettin' yourself all worked up. I ain't that desperate, and you ain't that—"
"Irresistible?" he asked, hoping to break the tension with a little humor.
She bit her lip and lowered her eyes. "It's the first time I ever done that, you know," she said, her voice barely more than a whisper.
"First time you did what? Try to be a friend?"
"I ain't talking about no friends. You're the first man I ever kissed."
Hands on his hips, he stared at the ground. "I think it would be best if we don't talk about it."
"Really?" She sounded surprised. "Is that one of those subjects that ladies can't discuss?"
He looked up. "I suppose it's all right if you're married," he said gently, not wanting to hurt her feelings any more than he already had. "But unmarried ladies aren't supposed to talk about kissing . . . and things." He couldn't talk about such things. Not with her so close and looking so fetching.
Sarah shook her head. "If that don't beat all." She frowned. "Is that one of those rules in the Good Book?"
"Rules? Oh, you mean the Ten Commandments. The Bible is clear on the importance of remaining honorable until marriage."
She chewed on her lip. "By 'honorable,' you mean—"
"Yes," he said quickly, his terse voice meant to discourage further discussion.
Much to his dismay, she persisted. "What about kissin'?"
He cleared his throat. "There's nothing in the Bible that specifically addresses the subject of. . . kissing. It's just something that polite society expects."
"So what you're sayin' is that it's okay with God if I talk about kissin', but it ain't okay with society?"
"I suppose."
She glanced around. "I don't see no society here, do you?"
"Well—"
"It's just you, me, and God." She glanced at Owen as if trying to decide if his presence counted. "So that means that I can talk about kissin'."
He stared at her, not knowing how to handle such logic. "I don't really see what there is to talk about. I mean . . ." Needing all the defenses he could muster, he slipped into his role as pastor as easily as he donned a coat.
He continued, "Sometimes people do things when they're carrying a burden that they wouldn't normally do. In view of your troubles, it's perfectly understandable that you might do something you'd later regret."
"I ain't regrettin' nothin'," she said with a frown.
Not knowing how to respond, he looked away and remained silent. Most people were quick to admit their transgressions in his presence and were enormously relieved when he told them of God's forgiveness. But Sarah wasn't like anyone he'd ever met. He wondered if she were one of a kind or if people in these parts had their own way of looking at things. If that were the case, he was in trouble, for he couldn't begin to think like she did.
Sarah made him feel like he was in a foreign country. She didn't even speak the same language. It came as a shock to think how limited his pastoral work in Boston had been. He felt totally unprepared for the challenges of the West. Nor did he have a clue how to deal with people like Sarah, whose plain-talking ways were both refreshing and alarming.
After a long silence, she said, "I just want to know if I done it right."
Feeling a flicker of hope, he cleared his throat. Maybe if he put her mind at ease, she would abandon the subject. "Other than the fact that you threw yourself at me," he began slowly, "I'd say you did everything else . . . very well."
"Is that so?" She smiled and her whole face lit up. It was the first real smile she'd given him all day.
"It must come nat'ral, being that I lack experience and all," she said.
As much as her boldness disarmed him he was also intrigued, and he regretted having to discourage such frank talk. "It might help you to know that it's the man who does the initiating, not the woman." If she would keep her distance, then surely he could keep his.
"Don't tell me," she said. "It's one of those society rules, right?"
"Right."
"So if it's just God watchin'—"
He quickly stepped back, putting more distance between them. "Same rules apply," he said firmly.
Seven
Where's the prisoner?"
Startled by the man's gravelly voice, Justin spun around to find the marshal's eyes open.
"You're awake." Justin scraped off the last of his whiskers with a hoe-shaped razor and swished it in a cup of hot water. The new-type razor had been developed so men could shave safely aboard a moving train, but Justin preferred the old blade type, which was easier to strop.
Owen shifted his legs and tried to sit up. "I'm awake," he mumbled.
"Hold on." Justin quickly wiped the remaining soap away from his freshly shaven chin, then moved to the marshal's side.
Owen's breath rattled in his chest, his lips tinged in blue.
Kneeling down on one knee, Justin slipped his hands beneath Owen's armpits and lifted the man into a sitting position.
"Thank you," Owen wheezed. He leaned his head back against a tree. Groaning, he pressed his hand gently on the wad of fabric protecting the wound at his shoulder.
"You got a name?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
"My name's Wells. Reverend Justin Wells."
"A preacher, huh? What do you know?" He took a moment to catch his breath before adding, "This is the last place I'd expect to run into a fire escape."
Justin chuckled. As a preacher, he'd been called a "sin twister" and other such names, but "fire escape" was a new one on him. "It's the last place I expected to be," Justin said. "Would you like some Arbuckle's?"
"Only if it tastes better than that tea you keep forcing down my throat," Owen rasped.
Justin smiled to himself. Sarah had a few choice words to say about his coffee—none of them good—but he wasn't about to repeat her sentiments.
He poured the steaming coffee into a tin cup and, stooping low, held the cup next to Owen's lips.
Owen blew on the hot liquid, took a sip, and grimaced. "Sure hope your sermons are better than your coffee."
"There are some who would argue in favor of the coffee," Justin said.
Owen leaned his head against the tree. His gaunt, ash-colored face hardly seemed able to support his dark, drooping mustache and stubbly beard. His sunken eyes looked like two black holes. "You still haven't told me where the prisoner is."
Justin tossed a nod in the direction she'd gone. "She's down by the stream, bathing."
Owen grimaced, but whether from pain or disapproval, Justin couldn't tell. "I'll wager the last breath in me that she skips, if she hasn't already."
"Then you'd be one sorry man," Justin said.
Owen coughed. "If you knew what awaited her in Texas . . ."
"She told me about the hanging."
Owen's eyebrows arched in surprise. "You know, and you still think she won't escape? She's no fool." He coughed and then continued, his voice fading with each spoken word. "She's . . . she's not about to stay around . . . for her own lynching party."
"I made her leave her boots here at camp. Without boots and a horse, she won't get very far."
"She escaped once . . ." Owen cleared his voice and started again. "Rocky Creek's town marshal made the mistake of underestimating her. Don't you make the same mistake."
Not about to admit it was a mistake he'd already made, Justin tossed the dregs of his coffee on the ground and set the tin cup down on a flat rock. He rose and reached for the spare shirt used for bandages. One sleeve and half the back was all that was left. He tore a strip of cotton, dampened it, and squeezed out the excess water. Kneeling by Owen's side, he laid the cool damp cloth on the marshal's forehead.
"She told me she and her brothers were wrongly accused of murder."
"It's not my job to determine guilt or innocence. It's not yours either.
"
"She saved your life," Justin said.
Owen looked at him with clouded eyes. "And you want me to save hers." It was a statement more than a question.
"She's a woman."
"The judge found her guilty."
"She didn't kill anyone," Justin said firmly.
"Maybe not. But she and her brothers are guilty of other crimes," Owen wheezed. "Robberies."
"They don't hang people for robberies," Justin argued, then caught himself. He had no right to quarrel with a wounded man. "I'm sorry," he said, his tone beseeching. "It's just. . . not right."
"It's not our . . . decision." Owen's voice faded away.
Justin sighed and let his gaze travel toward the stream. The trees hid Sarah from view, but there was no hiding from the fate that awaited her.
"What happens if you don't bring her in?"
"A U.S. Marshal doesn't get paid until he delivers the goods." Owen's voice was barely more than a whisper, each word sounding more strained than the one before it. He coughed so hard that his whole body shook. Catching his breath, he gasped for air and closed his eyes.
Justin laid a hand on top of Owen's and said a silent prayer. Dear heavenly Father, Almighty God, Creator of heaven and earth . . .
He finished the prayer, but even after asking for God's help, he felt no peace. He felt. . . nothing. Here in the wilderness God's handiwork was everywhere, from the magnificent sky to the tiniest blade of grass beneath his feet. Yet, never had he felt more distant from God, more alone. He stared across the endless Missouri plains and thought about the Israelites wandering the desert. God had tested them as He now appeared to be testing Justin.
He lifted his eyes to the heavens. "I sure do hope it doesn't take me forty years to pass Your test, God," he said. He sighed and reached for the cloth on Owen's forehead. The man was still burning with fever.
Owen stirred and regarded Justin through half-shut eyes. "You . . . you promised to take her to Texas. If you can't trust a man of God—"
"She took the bullet out of your shoulder. She saved your life."
Owen said something, but his voice was so weak, his words were nothing more than a wisp of air. Justin leaned over until his ear was mere few inches from Owen's quivering lips. "What did you say?"
"I said . . . There's a generous reward for her capture." He gasped before continuing. "A. . . A fire escape like you could do a lot of good with that kind of money."
Justin shook his head. "That's blood money. I don't want any part of it."
"Then maybe you'd be good enough"—Owen coughed— "to . . . to see that my wife gets it. Raising three young'uns by herself. . . she'll need all the help she can get."
Justin pulled back and regarded Owen with grave concern. He wanted to say something, anything, to put the man's mind at ease, his worries to rest. He wanted to tell him he wasn't going to die, that he would see his children reach adulthood. But Justin had sat by enough deathbeds to recognize the near- end of life. To lie would deny Owen the chance to put his worldly concerns aside and prepare himself to meet his Maker.
He squeezed the lawman's hand. "Where can I find your family?"
"About. . ." His voice grew weaker. "Two miles outside of Rocky Creek. They sent me to Missouri to fetch the prisoner and bring her back." After a beat, he murmured, "My. . . my family. . .?"
Justin leaned close. "You have my promise. I will do whatever I can to help your family." He didn't know how or even if he could help them, but he was determined to try.
Owen stared up at the sky for several long moments before his eyelids drooped shut.
Justin pulled out his Bible and read the Twenty-Third Psalm in a low, mellow voice. "The Lord is my shepherd . . ." He had committed the psalm to memory, of course, but he found that by reading it, he always discovered some new meaning, some depth of understanding that had previously escaped him.
The words seemed to have an immediate effect. Owen's breathing slowed, and he seemed less agitated.
One of Justin's early mentors told him to listen carefully whenever he attended a birth or death. Justin followed the older preacher's advice and was amazed to discover that a newborn babe's first breath made a yah sound and the last breath of the dying sounded likeweh. Yahweh.The biblical name for God.
No sooner had Justin finished the psalm than he heard the unmistakable sound of Owen completing God's name—the last task of the living.
The silence that followed was broken by a strangled gasp behind him. He turned to find Sarah standing a few feet away, her eyes round in horror.
Sarah stood on the crest of a hill, staring at the mound of fresh dirt at her feet. She thought about her parents' graves nestled in the arms of a little white church in Texas. Though it had been years since she visited their final resting place, it comforted her to know they weren't alone.
She couldn't imagine anything worse than to be buried out here in the wilderness with only the wind and sky for company.
Together she and Justin had taken turns digging the grave with the one spade they had. It had been hard work to break through the claylike soil, but no more so than carrying the marshal's body up the hill, which Justin did without complaint.
She'd picked out the site herself, choosing a spot at the base of a sturdy cottonwood whose branches spread far and wide to provide ample shade. The hill commanded an impressive view of the meandering stream below. It would have been easier had she chosen a resting place closer to camp where the soil was softer. But it was too close to the water's edge and she worried about possible flood waters.
She helped Justin cover the grave with rocks to discourage animals from digging up the remains. Then she wandered through the brown prairie grass to pick blue buffalo clover, which she scooped up by the roots and replanted near the grave.
The air, heavy as a wet wool blanket, was hard to breathe. Even the shade beneath the tree offered little respite from the heat of the day. Her throat felt like it was lined with burlap and her eyes stung, partly from the oppressive heat but mostly from unshed tears.
Justin's soothing voice washed over her as he read from the Bible. "Ashes to ashes . . ." Despite the heat, he wore his collar and black frock coat, which made him look even more imposing than usual.
After a long while, he closed the Good Book. In all the confusion that had followed Owen's death, he'd forgotten to handcuff her. Not wanting to remind him, she held her hands behind her back.
"I prayed for him to get well," she said. The accusations in her voice crept in unbidden, but she didn't care. God had let her down, yet again, and she didn't care who knew it.
"Your prayers were answered," he said softly. "Owen is well. He's with his heavenly Father."
Eight
Sarah couldn't move, her hands tied behind her back. She struggled to pull free, to no avail. Looking up, she gasped. The hangin' rope descended from a beam overhead. She watched in horror as the circle of hard fiber cord fell over her head. Her throat closed in protest. She opened her mouth, but the rope at her neck prevented her scream . . .
A male voice cut through her sleep-dazed brain. "Don't move."
Her eyes flew open. A mean-looking hombre stood over her. Her mind scrambling, she fought to sit up, but he held her down with a boot to her chest.
A short distance away, Justin lay on his back and stared at the shotgun pointed straight at him, mere inches from his nose.
A deep baritone voice belonging to a barrel of a man said, "Hold it right there, mister."
Sarah recognized the two gunmen as the Mitchell brothers. The voice belonged to the older of the two, a round-bellied man with a pock-marked face and a broken nose, named Pete. His brother, called Shorty though he stood over six feet tall, was thin as a snake on stilts and had the disposition to match. A scar ran down the length of his cheek to his chin, making his face appear lopsided.
Pete prodded Justin with the barrel of his weapon. "Throw down your gun," he drawled.
Justin di
dn't move a muscle. "I-I don't have a gun."
The man's face darkened. "A lawman without a gun? What do you take me for? A fool?"
"Leave him alone, you—" Sarah held back the name that sprang to the tip of her tongue. Justin looked distraught enough without her adding to his dismay with unsavory talk. "He's not a lawman. He's a preacher," she said. She doubted the good-for-nothin' Mitchells respected anythin', let alone a man of the cloth, but it was worth a try.
The man's eyebrows disappeared beneath the brim of his dusty felt hat. "A preacher?"
"Yeah, and if you bother a preacher, God will punish you, He will."
The man nodded toward the handcuffs on Sarah's wrists and spoke to Justin. "Don't tell me you preach so bad you have to handcuff people before they'll listen to you."
His brother laughed at the joke and grabbed Sarah roughly by the shoulder. She glared up at him. It had been years since she'd last come face-to-face with him, so it wasn't too surprising that he didn't recognize her. "We got no money. We got nothing. So jus' leave us alone, you hear?"
Shorty's beadlike eyes raked the length of her. "I think the little lady underestimates her true worth. What do you say, Pete?"
Pete grinned. "I say it's worth checkin' out."
Shorty knelt beside Sarah, grinning. "It'll be my pleasure."
Justin tried to sit up, but Pete stayed him with his shotgun. "Hold it right there, Preacher."
"Leave her alone," Justin warned, his lips thin with anger. "If you touch her, I'll—"
Pete laughed in his face. "What do we have here? A preacher making threats?"
"I'm asking you in the name of God to leave her alone." When his plea went unheeded, Justin struggled to sit up again, but his efforts were rewarded by a whack on the side of the head with the barrel of the gun.
Justin fell backward with a groan, and Sarah cried out. There wasn't much she could do with Pete holding a rifle on them and Shorty leaning over her like a bull in heat.
He groped her and she kneed him. He fell back and eyed her in surprise. "Well, now, ain't you a little spitfire? How lucky can I git?"
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