Stealing the Preacher (12 page)

“Bah!” Silas snatched a fist-sized stone off the ground and chunked it at the man’s head. “Your rheumatism flares whenever it suits your fancy, you sorry dog.”

Frank ducked, narrowly avoiding the stone. “Watch it!” He glared at Silas, but there was no real heat behind the look. He knew he’d stuck his nose where it didn’t belong. “I’m just sayin’ that it wouldn’t be so bad to have a young buck around to do the heavy lifting for a change.”

Having said his piece, Frank held out a conciliatory hand and headed back to the fence line.

“He’s right,” Jo said, laying her hand on Silas’s arm. “Crockett Archer grew up on a ranch, so it’s not like he’s some greenhorn who doesn’t know a heifer from a steer. He’d be a help to you. I swear. Please, Daddy? Please? It would mean the world to me.”

Consarn it!
Why did it have to be a preacher that made her happy? It was one thing to have the feller at the church, but on his land? He’d rather house a cougar.

The denial of her request sprang to his tongue, but he just couldn’t push it past his lips. Not when the sadness that had lingered in her eyes for more than a year had finally vanished.

“If he fails to do a proper day’s work, I’ll fire him on the spot.” Silas scowled and jabbed a finger in Jo’s face.

Unperturbed by his posturing, Joanna squealed in glee and
threw her arms around his neck. “Thank you, Daddy! You won’t regret it. I promise.”

He already regretted it. But after she smacked half a dozen kisses on his cheek and nearly squeezed the breath out of him with her huggin’, the dread that had built inside him lessened to a tolerable level.

Looked like he and the preacher man were fixin’ to get better acquainted.

Crockett opened the firebox on the stove in his new accommodations and winced as a pungent smell hit him in the face. Instinctively squinting and jerking his face to the side, he hastily identified the source of the stench. Some kind of rodent. Squirrel or mouse, most likely. Whatever it was, it was dead. His stomach churned, but he steeled himself against the compulsion to gag. Casting a desperate glance around for the stove shovel, he finally clapped eyes on the end of its handle protruding from behind the cobweb-strewn kindling bucket. He seized it and quickly scraped it along the base of the firebox, scooping up the indistinguishable furry mass and removing it from its tomb. Trying not to breathe, Crockett made for the door with all possible haste.

He’d be lighting a fire to sanitize that box just as soon as he ensured the stovepipe was clear of debris. No way would he be cooking on that thing tonight, though.

Once outside, Crockett moved toward the edge of the field that bordered the church and hurled the foul-smelling remains as far from him as he could.

“You treat all your visitors that way, Parson?”

Crockett did a brisk about-face. He’d been so intent on ridding himself of one varmint that he’d completely missed the arrival of another.

“Silas.” Crockett tossed the stove shovel back toward the
church and pulled out a handkerchief to wipe his hands. Heaven knew there wasn’t a clean spot left anywhere on his clothes after an hour of sifting through the rubble of his new living quarters.

Joanna’s father glared down at him from atop his big Appaloosa. “I hear you’re thinking about stickin’ around these parts.” He made no move to dismount, just crossed his wrists over the pommel, enjoying his position of power.

“That’s right.” Crockett tucked his thumbs into his suspenders and adopted a bored air, refusing to be intimidated.

All at once, Silas swung down from his horse and stalked up to Crockett, his eyes carrying deadly promise. Crockett freed his hands and formed them into fists, his muscles tense and ready.

“My little girl has her heart set on starting this here church up again. I ain’t gonna try and stop her, but understand this, preacher man—I
will
see that nothing hurts her along the way. You already done left twice. If you’re planning on leaving again, you best do it now. ’Cause if you leave after you get Jo’s hopes up, I’ll track you down and feed your liver to the buzzards. Got it?”

Crockett stiffened. “Keep your threats to yourself, Silas.” He matched the man scowl for scowl. “You’ll not be chasing me off. God brought me to this place, and I’ll stay until the job he has for me is finished.” And judging by the belligerent attitude of the hardheaded man in front of him, that job was going to take a while.

“What’re you planning to do for food and supplies?” Silas challenged. “Don’t look like the old parson left you much.”

“The Lord will provide.” Crockett crossed his arms.

“Ha! That’s where you’re wrong.” Silas smiled, but the expression looked too much like a wolf eyeing his prey to be comforting. “The Lord ain’t gonna do the providin’. I am.”

“
You
are?” Crockett jerked, his arms unfolding.

“Yep. Startin’ tomorrow morning, you’ll be working for the Lazy R.” He stated it as if everything had already been decided.
“Two meals and a dollar a day. Breakfast’s at six. Come late, and you don’t eat. Fail to handle the work I give you, and you’re out on your ear.”

Having delivered his dictates, Silas turned to leave. He made it all the way to his horse and had one foot in the stirrup when he stopped and shot a final hard look at Crockett.

“And no sermonizing. I’m hiring you to work cattle and tend to ranch chores, not spout nonsense at me all day. Understand?”

Oh, he understood. Better than Silas himself did. “Tomorrow at six,” Crockett agreed, relaxing his stance. “I’ll be there.”

Silas muttered something under his breath, then mounted and rode off without another word.

Crockett watched him go, an odd satisfaction swelling in his chest. Silas had no idea what was in store for him. The Lord had indeed provided—provided not only a vocation for Crockett but also an opportunity for him to spend time with Joanna’s father day in and day out. No wonder Joanna had lit out of the garden as if her skirts were on fire. She’d received divine inspiration. And it was brilliant.

He might be preaching on Sundays, but the rest of the week he’d be living out the message on a more practical level.

Help me make an impact, Lord. His heart is as hard as his head, but I know you are stronger. Work through me, and bring about your glory.

Crockett headed back to the mess that awaited him inside, a grin creasing his face. Silas might think he was coming to the ranch to work cattle, but in truth, he planned on fishing. Fishing for men.

14

J
oanna adjusted her position on the high stool she had dragged to the loft window and studied her subject for several uninterrupted minutes before glancing away to add more details to her sketch. The way his hair brushed his collar at the back of his neck. The angle of his hat. The set of his chin. The way his rolled sleeves exposed muscled forearms.

His likeness was difficult to re-create exactly while he moved about the yard, but she hadn’t been able to resist the lure of trying to capture him on paper when he’d driven the wagon in from the upper pasture and began stacking the split logs he’d transported into the woodshed.

Crockett Archer made an arresting artistic specimen.

When her father had ordered her to take Gamble home yesterday after her riotous ride and insisted on following up with the parson himself, she’d worried that he’d try to scare Brother Archer off. But the parson had knocked on her back door before six this morning and even helped her set out the platters of flapjacks and bacon.

She should have known better than to worry. Crockett Archer
had never yet allowed her father to cow him. It’d been foolish to think he’d start now.

Joanna stroked her pencil firmly against the tablet as she delineated Crockett’s profile, bringing definition to the soft outlines of her preliminary sketch. She idly nibbled her tongue as she shaded in the black of his hat and the long, dark lines of his trousers. The more she worked, the more the drawing came to life beneath her fingers. When she finished and held it out for a final inspection, her heart fluttered at the image before her.

Careful, Jo. God brought him here for your father—not for you.

“Afternoon, Miss Robbins.” Brother Archer’s deep voice echoed directly below the loft window.

With a guilty start, Joanna slammed the cover of her sketch pad closed. “A-afternoon.”

“What are you doing up there?” His hat shaded his eyes, saving her from the teasing twinkle sure to be in evidence otherwise.

Taking a moment to regulate her pulse, Joanna slid from her stool and moved to the window ledge, picturing an invisible book on her head just as her mother had taught her. However, she probably needed an entire imaginary library to ground the hopes that kept trying to take flight within her.

“This is where I paint,” she said, proud that her voice sounded normal. Then, not wanting him to question her further about her activities, she hurried to redirect the conversation. “How’s your first day at the Lazy R going?”

“It’s been anything but lazy—that’s for sure.” He chuckled a bit, and the sound drew a smile from her. “I’m accustomed to working my family’s spread and having a say in what my day looks like, so taking orders from your father will require some getting used to, but we’re managing. He hasn’t drawn his gun on me today. I count that a success.” He tipped his brim back and winked.

“And how is the parsonage working out? I had intended to help you clean it yesterday, until my father placed me on horse duty.”

“It’ll do.” His lack of explanation, more than anything, told her how bad it truly was. “I wrote to my brother and asked Jasper to post the letter for me the next time he goes to town. Travis can box up my things and ship them here. That will make it feel more like home.”

“Well, don’t worry about the sanctuary. I’ll round up some of the ladies in the area, and we’ll give it a good scrubbing.”

“With all the work I’ll be doing here during the day, having one less thing to do to get ready for Sunday would be a tremendous blessing. Thank you.” All hint of teasing left his voice, and what remained seeped into her pores like warm bathwater. She wanted to close her eyes and sink into it, but good sense prevailed.

“I’m glad to help, Brother Archer. We’re partners in this endeavor, after all.”

His gaze held hers, shrinking the distance between them as well as her resolve to be sensible. “Call me Crockett. At least when we’re not in church. We are partners, after all.” He grinned as he echoed her words.

“Yes, we are.” Her pulse started up those crazy flutters again. “And as such, I think we need to—”

A furtive movement near the chicken coop stole her attention.

“What is it?” Crockett asked.

“I’m not sure.” The shadow vanished. She peered at the corner of the coop, searching for a clue to help her decipher what she had seen. Nothing. Except . . . There! A thin rod poked out from beneath the roof. A rod that looked suspiciously like . . .

Joanna spun away from her perch and clambered down the loft ladder as fast as her skirts would allow, ignoring Crockett’s concerned calls. When she dashed into the yard, the parson dogged her heels.

“I know you’re behind that coop, Jackson Spivey.” Joanna eyed the rod as it twitched once, then disappeared behind the wall. “Show yourself.”

She halted just short of the coop, wanting to give Jackson the chance to emerge on his own. He might be a boy, but he had his pride. And that pride was much in evidence when he marched around the corner, chin jutted, arms crossed.

“I ain’t done nuthin’ wrong, Jo. You don’t have to lay into me like I’m some sort a criminal or somethin’.”

“Didn’t my father warn you about sneaking around the Lazy R? He told you not to do any more hunting on our land without permission.”

Jackson blasted a puff of air out of the side of his mouth, as if her concerns needed shooing like some kind of pesky insect. “He just didn’t want my rifle shots spookin’ his cattle. Besides, I wasn’t huntin’. I was fishin’. He ain’t never said I couldn’t do that.” His glance shifted from Joanna to the man behind her, and his eyes widened as his belligerence drained away. “I made sure to stay clear of the pastures,” he said, turning his attention back to her. “The best fishing holes and game trails are in the woods to the east, anyhow.

“I almost snared me a rabbit.” This comment he directed to Crockett, a touch of excitement creeping into his voice. “He slipped the noose, though.”

It irked a bit to know that a virtual stranger could inspire such a change in Jackson without saying a single word, while all her efforts to help the boy stay out of trouble seemed only to provide fodder for arguments. It must be a man thing—some kind of code. Her father could do the same thing with his men. She often left the dinner table feeling like an entire secondary conversation had taken place with nothing more than glances and grunts.

“You use fishing line for the snare?” Crockett asked as if there weren’t more important issues to pursue.

“Yep. But I didn’t have much time to set it up and got the knot tangled. It didn’t close right.”