The Redhead and the Preacher: A Loveswept Historical Romance (18 page)

And unless she were willing to face Pratt, or the marshal, or both, she would have to go along with anything he said, or did.

Her face flamed as she thought about how she’d felt when he’d come into the room, when he’d wrapped the towel around her and …

Macky swallowed hard. She was Mrs. Brandon Adams and there was nothing she could do about it, short of confess to her wrongdoing. But that wasn’t the real problem. Even now she was trembling, all from his touch. She wished she had a sip of Harriet’s sherry to give her courage.

Macky decided it couldn’t get any worse until they walked past the blacksmith’s shop into the livery stable. There, as a reminder of her peril, was the black horse with the fancy silver-trimmed saddle on the ground nearby. And in the next stall was a mule, a mule that looked very familiar.

“Solomon!” she said, before she realized she’d spoken out loud.

“Solomon?” Bran questioned, looking around. “Who’s Solomon?”

“The mule. I mean he looks exactly like a mule I once owned. His name was Solomon.”

The mule snorted and took a step toward Macky.
Oh no, you can’t make up to me now, you ornery old cuss
. She turned away, trying to gather her thoughts. How on earth had he gotten here?

“Evening, Mrs. Adams, Preacher,” Hank Clay said, wiping his hand on his shirt before offering it to Bran. “Got the buggy harnessed and ready.”

“Nice horse,” Bran said. “Is he for sale?”

“Nope. Belongs to a stranger, a miner, I think. I’m just stabling him.” He looked at Macky. “If you’re planning on doing any farming, I can make you a good deal on the mule.”

Bran looked at Macky and back at the mule. “Where’d you get him?”

“Bought him off a drifter who stumbled on him out on the plains. He’s a good animal, but he’s stubborn.”

“We’ll take him,” Macky said. “I mean we’ll need a good farm animal, won’t we, Brother Adams?”

“Why, yes, I suppose we will,” he agreed. “Consider him sold, Mr. Clay. Now, Mrs. Adams, we’d better be going.”

Bran caught Macky’s arm just as she was about to climb up in the buggy. “Allow me to assist you, my dear,” he said. Macky shrugged off his offer, swung her leg into the buggy, and caught the folds of her skirt and petticoat on the edge.

Bran smothered a smile as her crinoline swung up, giving
him full view of her long legs. In an attempt to right herself she put one hand on the bench and the other behind her, pushing the starched undergarment against her bottom, which threw the hoop forward, exposing her front.

“Tadpoles and crawfish!” she swore.

This time Bran couldn’t hold back a chuckle.

The blacksmith quickly turned his back and, with a whistle meant to cover his smile, busied himself at his fire.

“All right, Brother Adams,” she said in a voice that was barely more than a growl. “I can walk, but I can’t sit down. Get up here and tell me how to manage this thing, unless you want me to expose myself to the entire town.”

Bran climbed into the buggy and, with as straight a face as he could manage, took both her hands and pulled her up. Then he arranged the petticoat behind her so that it draped itself over the seat in back and her knees in front.

This time Macky couldn’t even manage to swear. If she’d said a word she would have burst out in tears. Not only was she incapable of being a preacher’s wife, she couldn’t even wear a skirt properly. As soon as she got back to their—no her—room, she was going to put her trousers back on, and if Bran’s so-called congregation didn’t like it, they could just go suck a lemon.

Wisely, Bran didn’t try to talk to Macky. He simply drove out of town, lifting his hat in greeting as he passed the townspeople along the street. Once away from Heaven, he turned the buggy off the trail and stopped the horse beneath a stand of cottonwood trees.

“Why are we stopping?” she asked through clenched teeth.

“I thought it might make it easier on you if I gave you a few lessons on wearing petticoats.” He stepped down from the buggy and walked to the other side.

“Oh? And how many petticoats have you worn? Is that another of your professions?”

“No, but I have watched women wearing those contraptions. And I don’t envy you at all.”

She continued to look straight ahead. The softness in his voice said that he understood her plight. He wasn’t laughing at her and she knew it. But she couldn’t allow herself to weaken as she almost had when he gave her the flower. She didn’t want him to be kind. He was already too much in charge of her life.

“I expect you have,” she snapped, “and I expect you know as much about taking them off as you know about wearing them.”

Bran gave a wry laugh. “I’ve done that a few times,” he admitted. “Would you like me to show you that, too?”

Before she thought about what she was doing, she whirled around, caught her skirt in the brake and released it. With the buggy wheels rolling, she toppled out, landing in Bran’s arms with a thud.

“Oh!” she said, instinctively throwing her arms around his neck to anchor herself.

Bran caught his hands beneath her bottom and held her hard against him as her crinoline flew up in the back.

Macky gasped in astonishment as she felt him pressing through the rough fabric of her petticoats between her legs. She raised her eyes in mute appeal, her gaze locking with his.

She felt her clothes tighten, her body becoming so sensitive that her breasts reacted to the soft chemise. They swelled and ached as her blood roared through her veins in tandem with the beat of her heart.

Or was it his heart?

“Oh …” she said again, this time in a low, intimate whisper. “I don’t think this is helping me.”

Bran tried to answer, but his throat was so tight that he couldn’t speak. She was so damned open with her feelings, with surprise at her own response, with wanting him. How could she have let some man take her—before him? How could some fool have used her and left her with a child?

Tightening his grip on her bottom, he pressed her
against him, trying to erase the other man’s touch, trying to imprint her body with his own.

“Bran, I …” Macky’s head lolled back, exposing her breasts to him, and he couldn’t stop himself from pressing his lips hungrily against the trembling cords in her neck.

For a moment he let go with one hand so that he would be free to touch her. As his hand began to move around her waist, she tightened her arms around him in a move so erotic that he realized he was only moments away from climax.

Gaining enough control to stop himself was the most difficult thing Bran ever did. But he tried to slow his breathing and carefully let her down. They were due at Mrs. Mainwearing’s and there was no time to pursue this now.

Macky let out a little sigh. “I don’t understand.”

“We have to go. I’ll try to explain all this later.”

“All what, Bran?”

“Just get in the buggy, Macky. We’re going to be late.”

This time Bran didn’t offer to help. He marched around the carriage and got in. Macky lifted her petticoat and, after several attempts, climbed in.

“Lift your skirts so that you have as much in the back as the front and sit in the middle, like a hen setting on its nest.”

“Why are you so angry?” Macky asked, trying to calm her stomach and her racing heart.

“Macky, I told you. I know about the child.”

“What child?”

“You don’t have to pretend with me. I won’t hold it against you. It suits you to have a husband for your baby and it suits me to have a wife—for now.”

Macky stared at him, appalled. “You think I’m going to have a baby? Jumping Jehosaphat! Me?”

“Well, aren’t you? That’s what Clara Gooden said.”

Confusion filled Macky’s eyes. “Clara Gooden?”

“According to Mayor Cribbs, you got sick the night of the social because you’re carrying a child.”

Carrying low. Boys?
Now the peculiar conversation came
back to her. Macky took one look at Bran’s face and started to laugh. “Oh, Bran. Surely you don’t think I’m going to have a baby. Why, who’d have me?”

“But you admitted a man would be coming for you. And you were afraid. I could see your fear.”

Macky’s laughter died. Bran really believed that she was with child. He thought he was protecting her from the father. “Oh, Bran, you silly fool. There is no child. It was the pickled pig’s feet on top of Harriet’s sherry that made me sick.”

“But Clara—”

His eyes narrowed and he forced his eyes to the road as he urged the horse to pick up its pace.

“Bran, I don’t know how it happened, but there is no child. No husband. There never was.” The silence was long and painful. “I wish you’d say something.”

He wished he could. An odd kind of relief swept over him. She wasn’t with child, but it didn’t make sense. No matter what she said, he knew that her fear had been real. “Then what were you running away from?”

Her moment of truth had come. She still couldn’t believe that this man had been willing to protect a woman he didn’t even know just because she was carrying a child. But what would he do when he learned that it wasn’t one man he was protecting her from, but three; Pratt, the marshal, and the sheriff from Promise. She had to be careful with what she said.

“Believe me, Bran, you don’t want to be involved. If the truth about me comes out, I could be hung.”

“Why?” His voice was skeptical and hard. He was going to find out, whether she wanted him to or not.

“I’m wanted for—a crime. That’s why I couldn’t be recognized the day we arrived. I never meant to involve you. It just happened.”

“Christ! You mean the law is after you?” That was the last thing Bran expected. He was a gunfighter, acting as a minister trying to avoid a marshal who seemed inordinately interested
in his past. And the woman pretending to be his wife was a criminal?

“I’m sorry, Bran. If you want me to go, I’ll leave.”

“Leave?” That thought cut through him like a sharp wind. He didn’t know why but he couldn’t let her go. And until he could understand why this feeling was so strong, he’d have to follow the road he was traveling.

“No, Macky, it’s too late for that. All we can do now is get through the evening. We’ll sort it out later. For tonight, nothing has changed. I’m still the minister and you’re still my wife. If the town believes you’re carrying a child, so be it. Revealing the truth could result in both of us being exposed as fakes.”

Worse, Bran. The truth could get me hung
. Being hung might not be so bad, but she refused to die without returning the money and clearing her name.

Bran left Macky to her own thoughts while he concentrated on the coming meeting with his employer. He’d been brought to Heaven to solve a problem. He couldn’t change his situation, but he could do his job, and find the person responsible for the trouble at the mine. The only outsiders he’d encountered were Marshal Larkin, and the mysterious man on the black horse.

And of course Macky. From the moment she’d come on board in Promise, she’d thwarted every attempt he’d made to push her away; she’d thrown herself into his life and he was making a place for her. Stealing a quick glance at her, he couldn’t hold back a smile. Trouble, yes, but much more. She was bright and charming and independent. Too damned independent.

Without his help, she’d end up as some farmer’s workhorse or in some brothel earning her living on her back. He couldn’t let that happen. Somehow he’d become responsible for her, and sham or not, he had no intention of letting her past stop this job or ruin her future.

Not if he had anything to say about it.

From somewhere in the outcropping of rock ahead an owl hooted. The late afternoon sky had changed from blue to a hazy purple as the sun slid lower, draping the mountain range in shadows.

Past the barrier of rock, the Mainwearing house loomed like a white crown in the distance. The house was a Spanish-style adobe with a veranda that wrapped around the second floor. It was lit with lamps that shone like jewels in a crown. The fence posts, whitewashed like the house, were also topped with lamps, welcoming the guests’ arrival. As they drew closer they could see a scattering of small white buildings and barns clustered around the house.

“Oh, my,” Macky murmured, as the buggy came to a stop and a servant took hold of the horse’s bridle. “No wonder you were concerned about my appearance. Mrs. Mainwearing must be very wealthy.”

“She is,” he said in a low voice as he helped her down.

“I know that I’ve endangered your position here, Bran, and I don’t understand why you want me to stay. But I owe you a debt of gratitude more than you’ll ever know. So just tell me what to do and I’ll try my best.”

“Just be yourself, Macky,” he answered. “And maybe we can pull this off. Perhaps we can even convince Mrs. Mainwearing to donate some money to help build a church.”

Macky let out a soft breath. He wasn’t going to turn her in. She leaned back so that she could see his face. “I don’t know what you’re up to, but I don’t think it’s building a church. You’d do better if you flatter Mrs. Mainwearing like you did me. You’re very good at it. What do you think?”

He looked down at her and, even with everything that had happened, knew that she was still the most appealing woman he’d ever met. “I think,” he said, folding her arm over his, “not. You see, I have no interest in sleeping with her.”

Before Macky could respond, the door was opened by one of the most handsome women Macky had ever seen.

“Reverend Adams,” the woman said, her eyebrows lifted as if she were measuring the man. “I am Sylvia Main wearing. Welcome to my home.”

Bran released Macky’s arm and took the hand extended to him, kissing it lightly before he reached back and drew Macky forward. “And this is Kate, my wife.”

Sylvia glanced briefly at Macky, then planted her gaze on Bran with such intensity that Macky could feel the intimidation from where she stood.

“You’re not what I expected,” she said. “Neither of you.”

“Welcome, Mrs. Adams,” Marshal Larkin called from the room opening off the entranceway. “It’s very nice to see you again. Come and meet the judge.”

Sylvia looked displeased for a moment, then noting the frown on Bran’s face, she stepped back and motioned them inside. “Yes, do come and meet my guests, Reverend.”