The Redhead and the Preacher: A Loveswept Historical Romance (27 page)

“Well, it still seems odd that he didn’t say anything. But thank you for being honest.”

“I’m glad it’s out,” Bran said, “I’ve kept too many secrets for too long. I want you to know them all.”

“There’s more?”

“Yes. Night Eyes isn’t wanted by the law, but John Brandon Lee is. When I was seventeen, I killed a man, a soldier who was beating an Indian boy. I ran away. I’m wanted for murder.”

“If you killed him, he must have deserved it. Why didn’t you stay and stand trial?”

“I was young and the only witnesses were Indians. I knew I wouldn’t have a chance. But I’m not sorry for what I did. The Indian boy was my brother, Blue. I couldn’t let anybody get away with killing another member of my family.” Bran turned toward the fire.

“Well,” she said, searching for something to say to ease his pain. For a moment she was tempted to confess that she was the kid who’d taken part in the bank robbery. But she was guilty and confession would mean that she’d have to go
to jail. Yet, to stay would only put Bran’s safety in jeopardy. She needed time to think.

Tonight she just wanted to enjoy the odd feeling of companionship they were sharing. Like her father, who always delayed dealing with problems in the hope they’d disappear, she’d confess tomorrow.

“If it’s all the same to you, Bran, I’d rather save any more truth until later. There’s something else I want to do tonight.”

“What?”

“I want you,” she said, and held out her arms, “to teach me how to dance.”

Her answer was so beautifully Macky that he lost his self-imposed iron will before he’d put it in place.

B
ran sucked in a harsh breath. For a few seconds he only looked at her, not trying to conceal the hunger in his eyes.

“Dance?”

“Surely you know how?” she said softly, revealing her uncertainty as she dropped her gaze to his boots. “I mean I thought that you must have had some occasion to learn. I’m sorry.” She turned away. “It was a foolish idea.”

“Only because it means that I’ll have to put my arms around you,” he said, catching her shoulder and turning her back toward him. “I don’t know how smart that is.”

“Why? Am I such a clod?”

“Oh, Macky, you’re not a clod. You’re a temptation. And I,” he said, leading her out the door, “have discovered that when I touch you, I have no control.”

“I’m sorry. I suppose dancing could be a temptation for a preacher, but since you’re a gunfighter I’m not going to worry any more.”

“You should worry. Not because I’m a gunfighter, Macky, but because I’m a man.”

She let out an exasperated breath. “And wearing these silly shoes, I’m a clumsy oaf. Just a minute.”

Seconds later, she stood in her stocking feet, hesitated, then held out her hand. She was asking for more than dance lessons. He could see it in her eyes and, damn it, he couldn’t refuse.

Bran placed her left arm on his shoulder and took her right hand in his. “I’m going to put my foot between yours. I’ll show you how to move with my hands. Just relax and move with me.”

Macky wanted to laugh. If only he knew the kind of heat that pooled inside her and intensified with every glance. It came not only when they were alone and touching, but when she looked up and caught his gaze.

But she wished there were fewer clothes between them. She wished they were really married. She wished she’d never robbed a bank.

With a sigh Macky allowed him to slide his knee between her legs and use his body to direct her movements. She didn’t think that the other dancers had been so close, but perhaps this was necessary until she learned the steps.

“I’m sorry we don’t have music,” he said, “it makes it easier for you to feel the rhythm.”

She didn’t need music. The rhythm of her heartbeat was enough. And soon they were whirling around the clearing. Her hair came loose and fell across her shoulders. She let out a laugh of joy. Bran laughed in response, dipped her to the right, then back to the left as he swung her around. Her body was a music box wound tight. Then, as if it were running down, they began to move slower and slower, fitting their bodies together in slow seduction until they were barely moving at all.

Bran watched Macky’s look of pleasure. She was like a cat, her eyes closed, purring in satisfaction. What she lacked
in womanly skills, she more than made up for in honest emotions.

Every touch was an invitation, every sigh a reminder that they were alone, that this woman was as close to a wife as he’d ever have.

His breath was as rough as a cowboy wrestling a steer to the ground, a lumberjack taking the last cut at a tree ready to fall, a lover nearing the moment of penetration.

Finally, Bran caught his foot on the hem of Macky’s dress and toppled her. In an attempt to break her fall, he pulled her even closer. Before he could stop it, his lips were against hers, his hand holding her bottom, and her breasts were crushed against his chest.

The moon slipped behind a cloud. The wind kicked up. With his lips still devouring hers, Bran lifted Macky in his arms and carried her inside, allowing the door to swing closed behind them.

Macky didn’t hold back. One hand was already unbuttoning his shirt, the other threading through his hair, pulling him closer. She used her tongue to speak the language she was learning from this man who’d set her body on fire.

Suddenly her dress was gone, along with her petticoats and her chemise. Her skin was bare, her nipples hard and aching and her lower body trembling from a sensation that she couldn’t begin to describe.

And Bran. Forcing her eyes open, she saw the fire cast a flickering light across his bare chest. He’d shed his boots and trousers and now his drawers were falling down his legs, revealing …

Macky gasped. He was like some wild animal, one of the Greek gods in Papa’s books. He was beautiful, his dark hair touching his shoulders, his breath coming hard and fast, his arousal throbbing. Then he stopped and looked at Macky.

“Make me stop, Macky.” His voice was so hoarse that she could barely hear him. His fists were clenched. He was a man almost past control.

“I can’t,” she whispered.

“If you don’t, there’ll be no going back.”

“I don’t want to go back.”

“I could hurt you.”

“Probably. You are very large.”

“One last time,” he rasped. “Do you want me to stop?”

She didn’t answer. Instead she lay back on the bed, parted her legs, and let a shudder ripple through her body. “It hurts so bad, Bran. Help me.”

He caught her nipple roughly in his mouth for a moment while he sought the mound between her legs. She was wet and trembling. Just a touch and she moaned and tried to impale herself on his fingertips.

“I want—I want—” she said, eagerly lifting her body against his thigh, urging him with her hands.

“I know,” he said, and lifting himself over her, he plunged inside.

She cried out and tried to move away as he penetrated a barrier. Then he felt her begin to move again and he was lost in the tumultuous response that wouldn’t be held back.

He couldn’t stop. And even as he began to spill himself inside her, he knew that she wasn’t there yet. She was still taut with anticipation when he collapsed against her.

Stunned.

Dazed.

Possessed.

For a moment he lay there, unable to comprehend what had happened, what he knew but refused to believe, what he’d built to a point of no turning back, then failed to fulfill.

Macky was whimpering softly, trying to control her body, embarrassed at its frustration, but unable to find a source of relief.

“Bran,” she whispered, planting desperate little kisses against his face, squeezing his bare bottom as she tried to recapture what he’d taken away. “What’s wrong with me?”

“Nothing’s wrong with you, my darling Macky,” Bran said, knowing he couldn’t leave her like this, knowing that he had to finish what he’d started.

“It’s me, not you.”

“But I’m on fire. I feel—”

And then Bran felt himself come back to life, filling her even more fully than he had before. This time he was going to give her the same pleasure he’d had.

“Don’t hold back, Macky. What you feel is good and natural. Dear God, let me show you.”

He kissed her again at the same time he slipped his hand between them, finding the swollen nub of her pleasure and caressing it. Slowly at first, he began to move, afraid that he would hurt her. But she folded her legs around him and arched to meet his thrusts. He pulled his hand back and, forcing her to slow her movements, he built her higher and tighter.

“Ohhhhh. Bran, I feel something. I’m going to explode. I’m …”

And she did, taking him with her to a place he’d never been and never wanted to leave.

Much later, when Macky’s head lay on his shoulder, her eyes closed in sated sleep, Bran let himself face the truth.

His wife had been a virgin. She was telling the truth.

McKenzie Kathryn Calhoun couldn’t be carrying any man’s child.

Unless it was his.

“I told you to shoot at her, to scare her, not hit anybody.”

“Sorry, how’d I know she’d whip that horse into a frenzy and bounce somebody into a bullet?”

This time Pratt was on horseback. This time he was eye-to-eye with the man who was pulling the strings.

“There’s one piece of bad news, Pratt. She’s hired a gunfighter.”

“So?” The outlaw spoke in a voice filled with bravado. “I’ve taken care of my share of gunfighters. Who is he?”

“A man called Night Eyes. Ever met him?”

“Nope, but I’ve heard of him. They say he’s half Indian
and half white, spent fifteen years searching for one man. Nobody knows what he looks like, keeps to himself. The few folks who have seen him won’t talk about it. When’s he due?”

“I think he’s already here.”

“Here?”

“Yeah, our Messenger from God, the Reverend Adams.”

“The preacher is a gunslinger?” But this time Pratt’s voice wavered. He didn’t understand men who worked in secret, men who instilled both loyalty and fear. Half of Pratt’s success was based on making his presence known.

“Crazy, isn’t it, but it’s a good cover. Who’d ever expect a preacher?”

In spite of the bad feeling that made him look over his shoulder, Pratt chortled. “A preacher? It’ll be a fine day when I can’t take a one-eyed preacher.”

This time when Pratt listened for his instructions, he knew he’d have to make a few alterations of his own. Somebody had spent some of the gold coins from the bank job right here in Heaven. Pratt intended to find out who it was. There was still the matter of the kid who’d escaped with
his
loot.

He’d already intended to take care of the reverend. The preacher knew about his saddle. He’d seen it when Pratt tried to hold up that stage, then again that night in town. Pratt wasn’t sure why the man hadn’t said anything. Maybe he was afraid. Maybe he needed to be taught a little lesson about the wrath of God, and Pratt was just the one to do it.

Pratt felt his self-confidence return. If he did it just right, he’d take care of the marshal and the judge at the same time.

There was little activity around Sylvia’s ranch the next morning. It was Sunday, a day of rest for all. Bran watched for a long time, until he was satisfied that the marshal had not spent the night.

Sylvia had jumped the gun on announcing that she’d
hired Night Eyes. They had an agreement and it was important that she follow it. Bran slowly rode his horse into the courtyard, dismounted and tied his reins to the fence.

As if she’d been expecting him, Sylvia herself opened the front door and stood back to let him in. “I wondered when you’d get here,” she said and closed the door behind him. “We’ll have coffee while we talk.”

Bran followed her into a dining room large enough to feed the entire town council. There were coffee cups on the table and silver pots filled with cream and sugar.

“Why’d you do it?” he asked as she filled the cups and waited for him to pull out her chair before sitting.

“Too many people have died. The judge getting hit was the last straw. By the way, I like your wife.”

“I like her, too. But I’m thinking of sending her to Denver. And I want you to go with her.”

“She looks like she’s about as likely to follow orders as me. Sit down, Preacher, and tell me who is trying to run me out.”

“Hard to say. Whoever it is hides his tracks so well that, in spite of how unlikely it sounds, the best prospects are the judge and the marshal.”

“Actually, it could be one of them. Both have tried to buy me out. Now they want to marry me.”

“Doesn’t surprise me.”

“You know, you’d be a lot more appealing choice,” she said, with a twinkle in her eye. “But then you already have a wife. Or is she part of your cover?”

Bran slowly nodded his head. “She’s my wife.”

“Too bad.”

“For her,” he acknowledged. “Not for me. As for your problem, it seems to me there is one unknown player in the game.”

“Who?”

Bran took a sip of the strong, hot liquid. “I can’t get a handle on him. I only know he rides a horse with a silver-trimmed
saddle. He’s tried to hold up the stage and he’s been seen in town.”

“The man who fired at us?”

“At you, I think. I believe he was warning you.”

“Or the judge. You know he stands to become an even wealthier man if some of the claims he’s bought prove out.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“So, what happens now? I don’t want to lose any more gold and there’s no way I’m selling the mine.”

“I don’t know. I need more time.”

Sylvia studied her cup, then answered. “I don’t think so, Preacher Adams. I think that time is running out. If you don’t know who you’re after, you aren’t going to catch him. I think the settlement needs to know you’re the gunfighter.”

The thought chilled Bran. Making himself a target didn’t bother him, but announcing his true identity would put Macky in danger. That he couldn’t do.

“No, not yet, Mrs. Mainwearing. I’ll find out the truth, but I’ll do it my own way.”

“I’ll give you a week, Night Eyes. If you’re as good as they say you are, you’ll find him. If not, I’ll bring in someone else.”