The Redhead and the Preacher: A Loveswept Historical Romance (7 page)

“When we get to those trees up ahead, we’ll stop. Why? Are you getting tired?”

“No. I have to—”

He looked over his shoulder, took in the embarrassment on her face and understood. “Can you wait until we get there? If not, I’ll turn my back.”

“I’ll wait,” she said, tightening her muscles and picking up her steps.

Just as she’d decided she wasn’t going to make it, they reached the copse of trees and the small stream running through them.

“Excuse me,” she said, and headed for a section of brush that hid the stream from view.

Bran moved upstream in the other direction, allowing privacy for both of them and using the time to study their crossing place. The melting snow from the mountain ranges in the distance had caused what was normally a shallow stream to become much deeper, the current stronger.

There was nothing to do but wade across. Maybe camping here would be best. Then they’d go on to the way station
in the morning rather than chancing an unknown trail in the dark.

As he walked back to where the trail crossed the creek he began to whistle, warning the girl of his approach. Grudgingly, he admitted that she’d been a better walker than he’d expected. He’d set a fast pace and she’d kept up with no complaints and no whining.

She was smoothing her skirt as she came to meet him. Her body was hidden by the loose-fitting jacket but there was something odd about her shape. She had to be wearing several shirts to look so lumpy.

“We have to cross the creek here,” he said.

She glanced at the swiftly moving water and winced. “Isn’t there a shallower place?”

“Not that I can see. Upstream it’s wider but just as deep, and you can see that downstream the water takes a narrow path. The trail wouldn’t cross here unless this was the best place.”

Macky swallowed hard. The water wasn’t that deep. She could see the bottom clearly. And she was wearing sturdy boots. But what in hell was she going to do about this skirt?

“Can’t you just hike your skirt up over your knees?” he asked as if in answer to her thought.

Sure. You’ve already seen the top half of my body. Now you’re asking to see the bottom. Why hadn’t she worn the trousers?
She glared at the amusement she was certain lurked in his stern expression.

“I’ll get across. Just lead the way.”

Macky watched as the preacher took off his greatcoat, tied it around a rock and threw it across, and stepped into the stream. Following his suggestion, she pulled her skirt through her legs and tucked it into the waistband, then stepped into the icy water. Taking a few steps, she felt the swift-moving water. So far, so, good. She could do this.

She would have made it, if she hadn’t slipped on a rock and dropped the heavy blue fabric of her skirt into the water. The current caught it and dragged her downstream
before she could right herself. Even then she might have managed, except for the awkwardness of her movements caused by the restriction of her money-stuffed garments.

The clatter of coins, the string of oaths, and the splash of water caused the preacher to turn back toward her from the far bank. This time he made no attempt to hold back the laughter.

“Let me help you,” he finally said, holding out his hand.

“No, thanks. I fell and I’ll get up!”

In the end, however, she was forced to allow him to pull her up. When he caught the hem of her skirt and lifted it from the stream she followed the line of his vision. The clear water magnified the whiteness of the skin and the trail of blood that seeped from the scratch on her knee, just below the hem of her drawers.

“You’re hurt,” he said as he reached down and lifted her in his arms and started toward the other side. “And you’re heavy. You feel like a supply sack. What are you wearing under that coat, everything you own?”

“Yes! Let go of me—this minute!”

“This minute?”

“Yes!”

“Certainly!” He stepped to the bank and let her go, allowing her to fall on the marshy earth like an armful of stovewood.

“Ohhhh! I have never met anyone so infuriating. Couldn’t you have put me down like—like a gentleman?”

“You said let go. I did.” She was trying to squeeze the water from her skirt. Though the bottom of her coat was wet, the top of her body had stayed reasonably dry. But Bran knew that the frigid water would turn her into a chunk of ice in minutes. From the look of her blue lips she was already beginning to feel the cold.

He’d have to chance building another fire so that they could dry their clothing before night set in. “Let’s move upstream, away from the crossing, and I’ll make a fire.” Bran began gathering sticks and limbs. “We can’t go on until
you’re dry, and by that time it will be getting dark. We’ll camp here for the night.”

Teeth already chattering, Macky followed him. “What about Jenks?”

“He’s better off at the moment than you are,” he replied. In a short time a fire was blazing. But even the fire didn’t stop the chill.

“Take off your jacket and skirt and drape them over these rocks,” Bran finally said, “and I’ll see to your knee.”

She glared at him. Take off her skirt? Her clothes might have to be dried, but she’d turn into an icicle before she’d stand there nude.

“You need to see my knee? What’s the matter? Haven’t you seen enough of my—me? First you rip the buttons off my shirtwaist. Now you’re asking me to expose myself? What kind of crazy man are you?”

“I’m the man who is going to show you crazy if you don’t do as I say. Here, you can wear my greatcoat while your clothes are drying.”

He flung the dusty garment at her and stalked off downstream. “When I get back I want your clothes draped by the fire and you sitting quietly beside them.”

Macky would have said something but she sensed that her rescuer was very near doing what he’d threatened. Considering what he’d find if he undressed her, she decided that she’d be better off doing it herself. Moments later she’d draped her skirt and jacket over two large rocks near the fire and donned the preacher’s heavy coat. She removed her boots and pushed them toward the heat, leaving her wool-sock-encased feet turning into ice.

If she removed her shirt she could cover her feet, but the money would have to be hidden. Did she have time to do that before he returned?

The sound of footsteps told her no. Quickly she emptied the gold from the torn shirtsleeves into her pocket and tied the fabric around her feet.

The water-soaked skirt began to steam and the socks
gave off an odor of wet wool. Bran dropped a second pile of limbs behind her, knelt down and reached for the front of his coat.

“What are you doing?” Macky attempted to slide away, setting off a jingle of the coins in her pocket.

His hand froze in midair. “I was going to examine your knee.”

“My knee is fine.”

His face showed obvious displeasure. “I thought you lost your purse.”

“I did.”

“You apparently have an unending supply of coins. Is that why you wanted to bring your travel case along?”

There was no arguing with the truth. Macky decided that admission to his charge was the only way she’d stave off being forced to tell him about the bank robbery.

“Yes. Are you going to steal my money?”

“No. I’m going to build a second fire. Then I’m going to find us something to eat. Then what I want to do is—”

But he didn’t move. In her attempt to step back, the greatcoat had parted, exposing two bare legs that went on forever.

Macky’s lips parted, making a small circle as she gasped.

Bran’s pulse quickened as he imagined capturing those lips, sliding his hands along those legs, exposing those breasts. For a long moment they stared at each other, only a shaky breath away from touching.

This time it was the shrill cry of a bird ruffling the tree limbs that broke the silence.

“What I want is … be rid of you,” he said in a voice so hoarse that she could barely hear him. “Before …”

The air was tense. Macky could hardly breathe. She felt a trembling in her limbs that had nothing to do with the cold. Half of her was burning, half shivered. She’d never felt such odd sensations before.

Gathering her senses, she said, “But a preacher wouldn’t—”

“No? Maybe I’m not a preacher. Suppose I’m something else? A gunfighter, maybe.”

“Should I be afraid of you?”

“Yes,” he said as he stood and moved away. “Maybe you should.”

B
ran stopped from time to time and inclined his head as though he were listening. Macky could tell that he was worried about the fire drawing attention to their campsite, but, like him, she didn’t see that they had a choice. Dry clothing was necessary and the sooner the better.

He started a second brush pile several feet behind the first one. “Two fires will heat the air faster,” he explained as he lit it. “Keep them going. I’ll get food.”

“What about the jerky?”

“We need something more nourishing. Save the jerky for tomorrow when we’re walking.”

When Bran returned he was carrying a tin bucket, rescued from the water’s edge where some earlier travelers had dropped it, and another rabbit that he set to roasting on a spit over the fire. The bucket, placed in the second fire, soon sent the aroma of coffee into the night air. Macky’s stomach
started a fresh round of protesting. She wasn’t sure she’d ever satisfy her hunger again.

When Bran finally cut strips of meat from the rabbit she reached for them eagerly, burning her tongue in her haste to eat. “How do we drink the coffee?” she asked. “We have no cups, unless you have another bottle in your pockets.”

“There are other ways.” He headed downstream and she heard the rustle of brush followed by a splash. When he returned he was carrying a curved limb from which a newly grown offshoot had been twisted out.

Then he enlarged the knothole left by the branch with a knife, using a rough stone to smooth the inside. After rinsing the crude dipper once more, he scooped up some coffee and handed it to Macky.

“Where’d you learn how to do that?”

“The Indians. I lived with them after my family died. They taught me many things.”

“What happened to your family?”

Bran took the dipper back and refilled it. He looked down at the murky liquid, swirling it around as if he might be seeing things, things that made his expression turn hard and cold.

She didn’t think he was going to answer when he finally said, “River pirates. They raided our farm one night, stole the money from a year’s work, then killed my father, my mother, and my sister. Then they burned the cabin. There was nothing left.”

As if it were responding to Bran’s sad story, a coyote let out a low moan in the distance, only to be answered by a second animal far away.

“Is that how you lost your eye?”

He swallowed the coffee in one long gulp, then refilled it and handed it back to Macky. “Yes. The leader of the gang thought he killed me, too. He laughed. I’ve never forgotten the sound of that laugh.”

She blew on the steaming liquid. There was more, but Macky could tell he wasn’t ready to share everything. She
had the feeling that not many people knew as much as she. Pushing back her natural need to sympathize, she asked a less painful question. “Which tribe did you live with?”

“Choctaw. In Mississippi, until they were driven west.”

“Driven?”

“Herded like cattle,” he said, his stark face not showing any signs of emotion. But his eyes couldn’t hide the pain.

“But you went with them, didn’t you? Why? You were a white boy.”

“Army offered to send me to a white family. I liked the Indians better.”

Though Macky knew little about the man, she had the firm conviction that if he started something, he saw it through. “I don’t know much about the various tribes,” she admitted, hoping to draw him out. “We lived in Boston where there were only immigrants. What were the Choctaw like?”

“They became my family. They were good to me.”

That was it. They were family and they were good to him. That was all that mattered in a child’s world. Not the suffering of the tribe, nor what her father had described as inhuman cruelties inflicted on the Indians. “What happened to them?”

This time he didn’t answer. After a long silent moment he stood and turned her skirt over so that the other side would face the heat. “Still wet. It’ll be dry by morning.”

When he knelt beside her, Macky tried to sidle away.

“No, being close will keep us warm.”

“But …” She tried to protest, then realized that he wasn’t listening. He smoothed the ground, then lay down on his side, pulling her tight against him.

“Mr.… Bran … Preacher—whatever you are, I don’t feel right about this. I’d prefer to sleep apart.”

“Then you’re going to be cold.”

He started to pull his greatcoat away, exposing her legs and lower body to the cool air. He was going to leave her without cover. What kind of man would do that?

The answer was simple. He’d given her a choice and he’d abide by her decision.

“Fine,” she snapped. “I’ll just cover myself with my skirt.”

She sat up, reached out for the garment, touched the still-damp fabric and let it go. For a moment she felt tears well up in her eyes. Everything had gone wrong since Papa died. Everything. Now she was going to freeze to death out in the middle of nowhere, that or sleep with a man who had her stomach playing leapfrog with her lungs.

She let out a deep, ragged sigh, folded her arms across her knees and leaned her forehead against them. All the money from the Promise Bank couldn’t help her now. As if to remind her of how helpless she was, the eerie scream of a wild animal rent the night silence.

Unconsciously, she shifted closer to Bran who, by now, seemed to have gone to sleep without showing any further concern for Macky. As the fires began to burn down, the air between them cooled.

Macky added more brush, then took an unemotional look at her plight. She couldn’t help herself or poor Jenks if she froze to death. If lying close to the preacher would provide additional warmth, then that was the sensible thing to do.

Except for the money. A man wouldn’t have to have much sense to feel the padding beneath her shirts and Bran was a smart man.