The Redhead and the Preacher: A Loveswept Historical Romance (9 page)

The woman came back outside, drying her hands on her apron. “Harvil, what are you thinking? Bring them folks inside. They’re hungry and thirsty.”

“Sorry,” her husband said, walking toward the corral. “Go on inside and eat. I’ll go back for the driver. What about the stagecoach and the horses?”

“Horses ran off. A wheel broke, but we can fix it,” Bran said, reluctantly turning to follow Smith. He didn’t feel comfortable leaving Trouble behind, but the stationmaster would need help. “I’ll give you a hand.”

“I’ll go, too,” Macky said, remembering the contents of
her travel case. “Jenks will need someone to see to his wound,” she added.

“You’ll wait here!” Bran’s voice allowed no room for arguing.

Macky started to protest, then changed her mind. She was tired and she was hot. A cool drink of water would suit her fine. “Don’t forget my case,” she said casually.

By the time Mr. Smith had saddled the horses and rounded up a new wheel and replacement animals to pull the coach, Mrs. Smith had prepared canteens of water and food for the ride back.

“There’s some bandages and sulfur powder for the wound,” she said, turning to Macky. “Us women are going to do some gossiping and maybe have a cup of tea.”

“Tea?” Macky couldn’t keep the dismay from her voice.

Mrs. Smith gave Macky a wink and waved to the departing men. Once they were out of sight she turned back inside. “Now, about that tea. I like mine hot and spicy. What about you?”

She reached inside a wooden barrel and withdrew a bottle. “Sherry,” she said, holding it up so that Macky could see the rich light color. “A stage driver brings me a bottle now and again, for when I have company.”

Macky looked at the bottle. It was nearly full.

“I don’t get many guests,” Mrs. Smith said in a low voice. Then she smoothed her hair from her forehead. “I’ll loan you a wrapper. You go out behind the building. My Harvil built me a showerbath out there. Get good and clean and then we’ll have tea and cake.”

The showerbath sounded good anyway. Macky took the wrapper and the wiping cloth Mrs. Smith handed her and went out the back door. The shower was easy to find. The grass around its wood frame was green. On top of the frame was a large tank. A pull of the rope released the water inside.

Macky looked anxiously around. There was no cover to shelter a person’s body from prying eyes. Though, except for someone in the house, who would get close enough to see?

She thought about undressing outside for anyone to see. Then she thought about the dirt and dust she’d endured for the last two days.

She’d do it.

Moments later, Macky’s coat, shirt, her skirt, and the ragged strip of fabric she’d tied her hair back with, all hit the ground. She stepped beneath the water, pulled the cord, and felt the sun-warmed water sluice over her tired body. Quickly she let go the cord, stopping the flow. Using up the full tub would be selfish.

She soaped her body with the grainy homemade soap she found on one of the braces, then released just enough water to rinse. Drying herself, she slipped the wrapper on and gathered her clothing. She’d have tea with Mrs. Smith, then she’d brush the dust from her clothes.

“My, my, you’re a pretty thing,” Mrs. Smith said. “I’m Harriet. What’s your name?”

“It’s—” Macky caught herself just as she was about to answer. She couldn’t say McKenzie. That’s the name the bank robbers were looking for. She couldn’t say Macky. If anybody recognized her in Promise, Macky would be the name the sheriff was looking for.

“Kathryn—no, Kate,” she said softly. “That was my mother’s name.”

Harriet Smith looked at her shrewdly. “It’s a beautiful name. I’m proud to be visiting with you, Kate. How long have you been married?”

Macky hoped her shock didn’t show on her face. For a moment she didn’t know how to respond. “We—we haven’t been together long,” she answered vaguely in case anyone asked Mrs. Smith about her guests.

“Well, don’t you worry. I was shy myself. There’s a pot of stew for supper but we’ll just have our tea before our menfolk get back.”

The tea turned out to be weak—more sherry than water—but the cake was moist and sweet. The reference to “our menfolk” was harder to swallow. Macky’s conscience
nudged her. She’d never lied so willingly before, but she’d never been a bank robber, either.

As soon as her travel case arrived, Macky intended to find a way to buy a horse and head for Denver. She’d leave the preacher to explain their relationship if he hadn’t already.

Mrs. Smith frequently refilled their cups. The afternoon gave way to early evening and the prairie turned cold once more. Macky glanced anxiously out the one window, wondering if something had happened, if the outlaws had come back.

“Fixing a broken wheel takes a spell,” Mrs. Smith volunteered. “Don’t worry, we’d know if something had happened. Harvil’s horse would have hightailed it home.”

“I—I was only worried about Jenks,” Macky lied. It wasn’t just the driver, it was also the money—and Bran.

“Why don’t you take a nice nap while I fix us some food,” Harriet suggested. “They’ll be along soon.”

Macky, suddenly very sleepy, agreed, allowing Mrs. Smith to lead her past the rope bed in the corner of the station into a back room where one large bed and several small hard-looking cots lined the walls.

“We have facilities for the stage passengers to lay over when there’s trouble,” she explained, “but more’n likely there won’t be nobody else along for a day or two. I made you and the mister a bed by the fire.”

Though unsteady on her feet, Macky managed to fold her shirts stuffed with bank money and placed them beneath the straw-stuffed mattress on the floor. At least it looked clean.

Macky lay down, pulled a ragged blanket over her, and before Mrs. Smith had left the room she was asleep.

An hour later when Harvil Smith, Jenks Malone, and Bran returned, she was sleeping so soundly that they decided not to wake her. Leaving her traveling case beside her bed, Bran made use of the same outdoor shower, ate heartily of the stew Mrs. Smith provided, and helped Jenks bed
down by the big fire in the main room before announcing that he’d turn in so that he could get an early start the next morning when Harvil left with the stage.

Inside the room where passengers slept, Bran built up the fire, and lay down on the floor, covering himself with his greatcoat.

He still hadn’t decided on a permanent cover. Announcing that Mrs. Sylvia Mainwearing had hired a gunfighter to protect her claim from whoever was stealing her shipments was what his employer had wanted. But Bran never went into a situation with guns drawn. A challenge often resulted in the death of the wrong target before Bran learned enough about the man he was after. More than once the culprit had gotten away. Now a condition of his employment was that no advance word of his arrival would be announced.

Only when Mrs. Mainwearing’s solicitor back in St. Louis agreed, did he accept the assignment. He’d play it quiet for a day or two, check out the lay of the land, then call on his employer.

But what was he to do about the girl? No matter how tough she thought she was, she was still as innocent as a child, and she didn’t have a tribe of Choctaw to protect her. She didn’t even have a name. He couldn’t help but wonder what she was hiding. And why?

Bran needed sleep; he’d had little of it in the last two days. Now when he had to rest his body, he was restless, the mere sound of his breathing distracting.

“Ah, darling,” he whispered, “the wages of sin are death, and you’re surely the devil’s own temptation.”

John Brandon finally slept, but only because he couldn’t stay awake any longer.

Only because he knew he had to be alert if he wanted to find the man he was after.

Only because he couldn’t allow himself to respond to the desire his body was suddenly feeling after months of being suppressed.

It didn’t take a man of God to know that her papa had named her right when he’d called the girl Trouble.

The next morning Harvil hitched the team to the coach, and loaded the mail sack on board. Macky heard the movement of the carriage and the nickering of the horses. She opened her eyes with a start and quickly climbed from the bed, reeling from the headache that practically blinded her.

Though she’d fallen asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow, she’d dreamed, wonderful fantasies that seemed too real. Even as they disappeared into lost memories she knew that one of the participants had been a man with a patch on his eye.

Now she had to hurry, replacing her bank money in her portmanteau, and pulling on the badly wrinkled skirt and remaining shirtwaist, this time making sure it was closed properly.

By the time she was dressed and had managed to tie her hair back with a piece of cord she found hanging on the end of the bed, the stage was almost ready to leave.

“Good, I was about to call you,” Harriet said as Macky entered the great room.

Jenks was sitting at the table eating flapjacks and drinking black coffee. Harriet filled a cup for Macky. “Sorry it isn’t tea,” she said with a wink.

Tea!
Of course. The tea laced with sherry had to account for Macky’s deep sleep and the headache. And possibly for the strange dream she’d had about Bran, about being in his arms again, about feeling his hands on her body.

“Thank you,” Macky said, trying to conceal a blush which had nothing to do with Harriet’s reference to the spirits they’d drunk.

“How are you feeling, Jenks?” Macky asked as she hurriedly polished off two cups of coffee and forced herself to swallow one of the flapjacks.

“I’ll live, lass,” he said, “thanks to the preacher’s shooting and your fine doctoring back there.”

“I had little to do with it,” she protested, finishing the last of her food just as Bran entered the room. “And I’m not convinced that he’s a preacher,” she said under her breath.

“You coming?” Bran asked Macky.

“Did you think I’d let you leave without me?”

“You’d be smart to do just that.”

“Nobody ever said I was smart.”

Harriet Smith came around the table and gave Macky a hug as she stood. “Bring your man and come back for a visit again, Kate.”

“Kate?” Bran’s voice didn’t bother to conceal his amusement. “Thank you, Mrs. Smith,” he said as he steadied Macky’s faltering step and whispered in her ear. “Kate? I don’t think so. Trouble seems more appropriate for a woman wearing a blue wrapper.”

Macky whirled around and started out the door, stopping only to pick up her traveling case. “And Eyes That See in Darkness is a better name than Bran for a man who goes snooping around in the dark.” She didn’t know how he knew what she’d been wearing, but she was beginning to have the odd sensation that he had done more than see in the dark last night. The shimmering sensation just beneath her skin had intensified the moment Bran had spoken.

Even in her innocence she knew that his knowing grin and the physical reaction that flared between the two of them couldn’t be right. Macky might not know much about men, but she knew there were two kinds of women; the kind of women her brother visited in town when he’d come home drunk and reeking with cheap perfume, and the kind men married.

Macky Calhoun was neither. She was being chased by a killer and the one-eyed man she was traveling with was a devil. He was only trying to frighten her.

And damn him, he was succeeding.

• • •

As the day went on, Macky’s headache only got worse. At least she hadn’t had to tolerate Bran’s presence inside the coach. Instead, he’d ridden on top, next to Harvil, who had his rifle in his lap.

“Just in case we ran into Indians,” Harvil explained. “The Arapaho, the Ute, and the Pawnee have been at it for the last six months, ever since that new Indian agent was killed. Don’t guess they’ll ever learn to live like civilized men.”

“Probably not, when supposedly civilized men have run them off their land and killed their buffalo,” Bran offered bitterly.

They drove off, leaving Jenks at the way station to wait for the next stage coming in. That stage would lay over to rest the horses since there were no fresh replacements.

Macky tried to rest, but the rocking of the coach only added to the pain in her head. If this was what came of drinking spirits, she couldn’t imagine why her brother ever indulged.

The stage crossed the shallow, fast-moving creek at the base of the mountains and Heaven came into sight by mid-afternoon.

Through the curtainless window she saw the snowcapped mountains gradually creep closer, and finally, a crudely constructed mass of buildings came into view, linked together like children playing Red Rover. The stage came to a temporary stop and Bran climbed inside the coach.

“No point in announcing my arrival,” he said.

“You think they won’t see you?” Macky said. “I know you believe you can walk on water, but you haven’t turned into a spirit yet.”

The stage took off again, jostling Macky, who wasn’t prepared for the sudden movement.

“No jingling this time,” Bran observed with a smothered smile.

Macky ignored him, concentrating instead on the settlement she could see through the window. She was surprised at the number of buildings. She was even more surprised at the crowd waiting on the wooden sidewalk outside the stagecoach office.

Harvil drew the team to a stop. A mass of people moved forward, led by two men, one wearing a top hat and a black suit and a United States Marshal wearing a badge.

As Macky searched the crowd her heart sank. Slouching against the building at the rear of the delegation, freshly shaven, and wearing new clothes, was a man she recognized without question.

Pratt. He’d managed to follow her, or the boy named McKenzie. She glanced around, looking for a place to hide, a way out. There was none.

Pratt was waiting for her, but what would he do? He couldn’t turn her in without implicating himself. He’d killed the deputy and that’s what he’d do to her, if she were caught.
Slow down, Macky. How can he know that the woman on the stage is the boy who made off with the money?

Maybe he didn’t. Maybe he was taking the stage and leaving town.