A Lady Like Sarah (26 page)

"And what crime are you guilty of, ma'am?" he asked, his voice edged with sarcasm. "Failing to do your wifely duties?" He winked. "Spreading vicious gossip?"

The law man's mocking tone was downright insulting, and she could feel her anger beginning to flare. Her future was on the line, and she was in no mood for snide remarks. She threw back her head and nailed him with a scathing look that was more characteristic of her true nature than her earÂlier demeanor had been.

"My name is Sarah Prescott."

The smile slid off his face as quickly as a greenhorn
off
a bucking horse. This time, he not only looked shocked, his eyes practically popped out of his head.

"You're the Prescott woman?" he sputtered.

"I am," she said, keeping her voice steady.

He rubbed his chin. "You don't look like her."

"I'm her, all right," she said. "Since I'm now a lady, I demand all charges be dropped." Pleased that she had rememÂbered the exact words she'd practiced, she gave herself a silent pat on the back.

Marshal Briggs scratched his head. "I don't follow. What does one have to do with the other?"

It was a question she hadn't expected and she wasn't sure how best to answer it. "I've heard it on good authority that no one hangs a lady."

"You don't say?"

"It's not right."

He rubbed his chin. "And who might that authority be?"

She
hesitated. "I . . ."
Drats
! She couldn't remember the word Mrs.
Springlock
used to describe the word
ain't.
Contraption?
Conception?
Contraction?
Yes, that was it, contraction.

"I
is
not—" She stopped and tried again. "I are not—" The marshal frowned and she sighed. This could take all day.

Choosing clarity over proper English, she blurted out, "I
ain't
at liberty to say."

If Briggs noticed her lapse in grammar, he didn't show it. "In that case, I'm
gonna
have to carry out the judge's orders."

"But I'm innocent, and you have no right to hang me."

"You're a Prescott," he said as if that were explanation enough.

"You can't hang me '
cuz
of my family name."

He pawed through a pile of papers. Finding what he was looking for, he waved a wrinkled document in the air. "I've got an order here that says I can." He tossed the paper aside.

He scrutinized her. "Speaking of family, where's my brother-in-law? He sent a wire saying he'd captured you and was
bringin
' you in."

"Y-your b-brother-in-law?" she stammered. She felt her hopes sink.

"U.S. Marshal Owen is married to my sister."

She bit her lip, her mind scrambling.

"Well?" he said impatiently.

Since there didn't seem to be any nice way of wording it, she decided to come right out and say it. "I-I'm sorry to tell you, but he's dead. Died in Missouri from a bullet wound, he did."

The marshal's face turned beet red and the veins in his neck stood out in thick blue cords. "You killed him!" He rose to his feet, sending his chair flying backward.

Startled by the unexpected accusation, she was momenÂtarily speechless. She stared at him in disbelief. It had never occurred to her that she would be blamed for the marshal's death.

"I did no such thing," she shot back, "and don't you go
sayin
' I did, you hear?"

Hands on his desk he leaned forward. "The only reason he left Texas was because of you. In my book, that makes you responsible for his death."

Panicking, she spun around and frantically tried to escape. Her fancy sleeve caught on the door latch, and before she could pull herself free, the marshal was on her like a hawk on a snake.

She fought him off with everything she had, kicking and screaming all the while. Papers scattered, hats flew off nails, and the potbellied stove tilted to one side.

She could have escaped had it not been for all the layers of lace and silk beneath her dress, which slowed her down.

After much fumbling, Briggs finally managed to slam her up against the wall and snap handcuffs around her wrists. He was clearly winded, and he slumped against the wall next to her, trying to catch his breath.

"What a pity I can only hang you once," he gasped.

Not wanting to give him the satisfaction of thinking he had the upper hand, she lifted her head in open defiance. "I reckon that gives me the advantage."

His gaze sharpened. "How do you mean?
Advantage?"

"There ain't
no
limit on how many times a person can escape."

The marshal somewhat recovered, grabbed hold of her arm.
"There isn't
gonna
be any escaping. Not this time!"

Justin hammered the last nail in place and stood the pulpit upright. He wiggled it back and forth. It seemed sturdy enough, though it needed paint.

He stood behind it and gazed at the mismatched chairs that his landlady had rounded up. He imagined the church filled with people.
Families with small children.
Older folks.
Young.
He thought of the couples he would join together in holy matrimony, the babies he would baptize.

Maybe once he started preaching again, the aching loneÂliness and despair would go away, and he would better underÂstand God's plan for him. Maybe then he could sleep again and stop thinking about Sarah.

Today, as always whenever he thought of her, he said a silent prayer, ending with the plea,
Lord, keep her safe.

He forced his troubling thoughts away. Not now, not here. Today, his thoughts didn't belong to Sarah.
Couldn't.
Today he had to concentrate on spreading God's Word to the citizens of Rocky Creek.

He donned his black frock coat that Ma had cleaned and ironed for him, picked up the Bible, and waited as he had so often waited on Sunday morning.

It was almost 10 a.m. Soon worshippers would fill the church—and yet he felt none of the eager anticipation he norÂmally felt on Sunday mornings.

He closed his eyes and imagined himself back in Boston, back in the church he loved so much. He could practically smell the polished wood pews and waxy scent of burning candles. Hear the resonating chords of the organ.

From his distant memory came the rattle of carriage wheels on cobblestones. He could almost hear the rustle of silken gowns and feathered hats, the tapping sound of high- buttoned shoes on white marble floors.

Feeling the familiar sense of joy and expectancy return, he smiled broadly and opened his eyes. He walked to the door to greet the first arrivals and stared outside. Much to his surprise, not a single soul could be seen. Ma had warned him that few if any townsfolk would show, but he had refused to believe it.

He'd tacked posters around town and was confident that at least some worshippers would attend service, if for no other reason than curiosity. He pulled his watch from his waistcoat pocket and checked the time. It was almost ten fifteen.

Outside, the dirt road leading up the hill was deserted. Neither horse nor wagon headed his way.

He walked to the end of the narrow dirt path. Loud voices, laughter, and music floated up from the saloons along Main Street. The revelers never stopped, but today was Sunday, the Lord's Day. Justin noted with surprise that these people treated the Sabbath like any other day of the week.

Never would he have imagined such a thing in Boston. There, blue laws required saloons and other businesses to remain closed on the Sabbath.

He stood on the hill overlooking the town and felt utterly alone and disheartened. "What am I doing here?" he shouted to the sky.
"Why me?
I don't understand these people. What could I possibly give them?"

In the stillness of his troubled mind, he thought he heard a voice—her voice—seeming to come out of nowhere.
"Your faith."

He spun around, knowing even as he scanned the surÂrounding hillside, she was lost to him.

Shaken, he turned back to the town. It was then that an idea came to him:
If they
won 't
come to me, then I will go to them.

The idea surprised, shocked him. Never did he have to seek out worshippers in Boston. Never, for that matter, did he have to do much more than stand behind a pulpit to spread God's Word. His ministry seldom went beyond the church walls, except for an occasional visitation. His convictions had been strong, but he had never really put his faith in action. Saddened by his past failures as a pastor, he resolved to do things differently here in Rocky Creek.

Feeling more vitalized than he'd felt in ages, he hurried back into the church and grabbed his hat. With his Bible still in hand, he dashed back outside.

Moments later, he rode down the center of Main Street and tethered his horse in front of Jake's Saloon, by far the noisiest saloon of the lot. The place was packed.

Justin stood outside the batwing doors and almost lost his nerve.
"Faith
,
"
Sarah had said. "
You can offer them your faith. "

An old man sat in a rocking chair in front of the saloon smoking his pipe. "The last stranger who walked in there without a gun was carried out
feetfirst
."

"Thank you, sir, but I don't need a gun. I have something better."

With that, he walked in and stood by the door until his eyes adjusted to the dim light. At first, no one paid attention to him.

Men squeezed around square faro tables placing their bets. Others stood at the bar downing whiskey like water. Women in garish gowns flitted from one man to another, coyly smiling from behind feathered fans.

Justin walked toward the bar. He was taller than most of the other men, and dressed in his dark trousers and frock coat, he stood out like an elephant in a herd of cows.

The room suddenly grew quiet as all eyes turned in his direction.

"Gentlemen," he said, tipping his hat. "And ladies. As I'm sure you've heard
,
I'm your new pastor." He glanced around the room.
"Reverend Justin Wells at your service.
I would like to welcome you all on this glorious day that the Lord has made."

Silence followed his announcement. No one seemed to know what to make of the preacher's presence.

Finally, Link Haskell, whom Justin recognized as the blacksmith who had welded metal door hinges for the church, raised his shot glass. "Welcome, preacher. Why don't you belly up to the bar and join us in a toast?"

"Thank you, kindly, but I don't imbibe.
Especially when I'm working."

"You working?" someone slurred.

"That I am," Justin said. "Preachers are allowed to work on the Sabbath.
Now, then.
If you will kindly bow your head in prayer, we'll begin."

Stunned silence followed his proclamation. Mouths rounded in disbelief, Jaws dropped. One jowly man rolled his eyes. A drunk raised his head from a table, saliva dribbling from the corner of his mouth. Women in low-cut gowns peered at him from painted faces, their feathered fans beating what little air was left in the room.

Finally, a pale-faced man stood. "I ain't
listenin
' to
no
Bible thumper." He started toward the door, and others stood to follow.

"Hold it right there!" The voice belonged to a tall, bearded man wearing a rebel kepi cap. His long hair tied back, he walked with a limp. He held a rifle pointed in such a way that no one doubted he meant business.

Justin didn't know if it was the kind of rifle that required skill or luck, but no one in the room seemed willing to find out—he least of all. One by one, the men sat down again and the women backed up against the wall.

His finger on the trigger, the gunman tipped his hat to Justin and introduced himself. "Everyone 'round here calls me Timber Joe on account of my wooden leg. So go ahead, Preacher, and do what you came to do." To emphasize his words, Timber Joe pointed the rifle at Justin momentarily before leveling it around the room.

"Uh
. . ."Justin cleared his throat and brushed the back of his hand across his damp forehead. He'd heard of shotgun wedÂdings, but this was the first he'd heard of a shotgun sermon.

"Please join me in prayer."

He looked at each face in return and was greeted with eyes full of resentment and, in some cases, downright hostility.

Timber Joe limped around the room, the thumping sound of his wooden limb muffled by the sawdust on the floor. He nudged any slacker with the barrel of his rifle and soon, even the most stubborn of men had complied. Satisfied, Timber Joe spun around, pointing his gun straight at Justin.