Stealing the Preacher (18 page)

Chuckling to himself, Crockett turned to a section that explained how to properly diagnose the source of a horse’s lameness.

He’d always enjoyed studying medicine. As youngsters, his brothers came to him with aches and pains as well as their more serious injuries—probably due to the fact that his bedside manner was sunnier than that of Travis, who preferred barking orders. Whatever the reasons, Crockett had embraced his role as family healer and studied every medical text and home-remedy manual he could get his hands on. Admittedly, there hadn’t been many, but he made good use of the ones he’d found. Much like he was doing today, although veterinary science didn’t hold the same allure for him as the treatment of human ailments. Yet a rancher couldn’t expect to be successful without at least a rudimentary knowledge of how to doctor his stock. So with a determined tilt to his head, Crockett turned back to Dr. Tellor’s symptomatology.

Unfortunately, he was only a few pages in when a light melody drifted into the parlor, effectively stealing his attention from the discussion of splinting shins and diseased knee joints.

Joanna was singing.

He thought of the first time he’d heard her sing, the morning he’d surprised her with a birthday sermon. At the time, he’d contemplated hiding his presence in order to listen longer to the sweetness of her voice, to the emotion she projected behind the words. In the end, however, he’d been unable to resist joining her. Even now, the lure was strong. Setting aside his
book, Crockett leaned back in his chair and softly hummed a companion harmony.

His gaze idled about the room, taking in the little feminine touches that warmed the place. The lacy handkerchief beneath the lamp. The bow in the curtain sash. The embroidered sampler perched on the table near his elbow. Were they evidence of the late Mrs. Robbins, or had Joanna contributed to the styling?

He examined the framed sampler more closely. Noah’s ark floated atop a wavy blue line of floodwater, beneath which had been stitched the following verse: “
Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.”
An olive branch and a dove served as a divider between the verse and the next line of text. “
1874—Joanna Robbins—age 10.”

Crockett grinned, imagining a little red-headed girl bent over her needlework, her tongue caught between her teeth as she concentrated on getting the stitches just right. What pride she must have felt at having her efforts deemed worthy of such a prominent display. Not as prominent as the large oil painting above the mantel, however.

Crockett pushed to his feet and walked to the hearth to get a closer look at the magnificent rendering of a picturesque river vaguely reminiscent of the one that ran behind the chapel. The work was extraordinary, really, the way light glowed throughout. It was as if the sun had purposely broken through the clouds to beam upon the land in honor of the artist’s visit.

“One of my mother’s finest,” Joanna said beside him, and Crockett turned to face her.

“Your
mother
painted this? It’s masterful.” His eyes veered back to the landscape searching out the signature in the bottom corner.
M. E. Robbins.
“I did wonder how Silas came by such a piece.”

Hearing how that sounded, Crockett pivoted, an apology on his lips. “I didn’t mean to imply—”

“What? That my father had stolen it?” Joanna’s mouth quirked, and her eyes danced with delightful mischief. “Yes, because stage passengers are so apt to cart around bulky framed art when they travel.”

Crockett smiled, gracefully accepting her teasing censure.

“No,” she said, a wistful expression softening her features. “He didn’t steal the painting, just the artist. Or at least her heart.” Joanna stroked the edge of the frame with a reverence that came from deep affection. “Of course, she stole his right back.”

Silas seemed like such a hard man; Crockett had difficulty picturing him as a lovesick swain.

As if she had guessed his thoughts, Joanna stepped closer and whispered like a conspirator in his ear. “You should see his bedroom.”

Crockett arched a brow, which only served to deepen Joanna’s smile.

“You won’t find one inch of open space on those walls. Other than a few hanging about the house, every canvas Martha Eleanor Robbins ever painted is in his room.” A little sigh escaped her. “They used to only hang four at a time. Mama would rotate new ones in every few months and keep the rest in storage. But after she died, Daddy hung every last one of them up. I think it helps him feel closer to her, to be surrounded so completely by her work.”

Silas Robbins had more depth to him than he liked to let on. Crockett clutched his hands behind his back and rocked onto the balls of his feet as new thoughts took shape in his mind. A man who loved his wife and daughter with such fervor would love the Lord with similar ferocity. If he ever gave his heart in that direction.

An hour later, Crockett steered the wagon around a particularly ominous-looking mud puddle as he and Joanna slowly made their way to Deanville. The sun had broken through the clouds to warm the air, but the road remained decidedly soggy in places. He’d looked forward to this outing too much to risk being mired to a halt.

He glanced over to the woman at his side, all buttoned up in her Sunday gloves and bonnet.
Entrancing
was the word that came to mind. If it was possible for a face to sparkle, hers did as she drank in the scenery. He imagined her cataloguing the rise and fall of the land, the position of the trees, the way the yellowed grass bent with the breeze. Is this what she painted in the barn loft?

Silas had left strict instructions naming the makeshift studio off limits. Even he never ventured into his daughter’s sanctuary. That was where she could express herself through her art without fear of censure, where she could truly be free. And where, Crockett assumed, she felt closest to her mother.

“Do you paint landscapes, as well?” he asked, hoping she’d open the door just a bit and let him peek inside those secret places.

She turned toward him and smiled. “A few, though I find myself more drawn to human subjects.” Her eyes traced the lines of his face for a moment, and Crockett found himself wondering what she saw. Did she simply perceive angles and shadows, or did she truly see
him
?

“My mother tutored me in the style of the Hudson River School,” she said, aiming her attention back toward the road, “the style she fell in love with after viewing a Thomas Cole exhibit as a young girl. The paintings idealized nature in such a way that it built a craving within her to someday explore the untamed wilderness in the West.”

“Is that how she met your father?”

Joanna peeked at him from beneath the brim of her bonnet. The look would have been coquettish had it not been for the fact that her features were alight with little-girl eagerness. He sensed he was about to be regaled with a well-loved Robbins family tale.

“She was considered quite a spinster back in New York,” Joanna began. “Not handsome enough to catch a society beau but too educated to attract the average working man. So she dedicated herself to teaching. Art mostly, though she also gave instruction in music. Each year she rewarded her top students with a trip to Frederic Edwin Church’s latest exhibit. He was her favorite contemporary artist, you see.”

She mentioned the man’s name almost reverently, so Crockett quickly nodded in response, as if he comprehended the significance. He hadn’t a clue who the fellow was, of course, but Joanna didn’t need to know that.

“Church would travel to far-off exotic places and then return to New York in the winter to paint. Mama longed to follow in his footsteps. She knew, as a woman, she’d never cultivate the type of investors who would allow her to travel to South America as he had, but she’d gained a small inheritance from her father’s estate and saved every spare penny of her earnings, hoping that one day she’d be able to take her own wilderness excursion.”

“What made her finally leave home?”

“A painting, naturally.” Joanna winked at him. Crockett was so charmed to be on the receiving end of the gesture for once that he nearly laughed aloud.

“
Twilight in the Wilderness
,” Joanna said, as if that explained everything. “Church had captured a rugged landscape of tree-covered mountains embracing a quiet river, all beneath a darkening sky swept with clouds still colored with the lingering pink of a sunset that had just passed. Once she saw that painting, Mama knew she had to go west—had to capture her own piece
of the wilderness before civilization swallowed her for the rest of her days.

“So she finished out her school term, packed her sketchbook and supplies, and set out to find her wilderness.”

“And found your father instead.” Although a young outlaw like Silas Robbins was bound to be wilderness enough for anyone.

“Yep.” Another sideways peek from under her bonnet. “He held up her stage.”

Crockett did laugh then. It was too perfect.

“She’d been traveling for several months and had made it as far west as Texas when her funds ran out. The stage was to take her to Galveston, where she planned to board a ship for home. When Daddy and the boys held it up, she handed over her few valuables without a quibble. But when one of the men—Frank, I think—took the satchel that held her sketchbook, she fought like a wildcat to get it back.

“Jasper tried to restrain her while Frank dumped the contents of the bag. They all thought she had a hidden stash of jewels or something. Daddy was the one who first took hold of the sketchbook. He opened it and gazed upon her work. He told me later, that was the moment he fell in love with her—said any woman who could see such beauty in an unforgiving land had to have a pure soul. And Mama said that when the outlaw leader returned her sketchbook to her, his blue eyes glowed above his mask with an admiration she’d never seen in any man back east. It was as if he’d seen her heart when he looked at her sketches, and that glimpse made her beautiful in his eyes.”

Joanna turned to look at him then, a wistful smile curving her lips. Crockett’s gut clenched. He didn’t have to see her sketchbook. She was already beautiful in his eyes.

Clearing his throat, Crockett adjusted his grip on the reins and adjusted his thoughts in a less dangerous direction. “So did he abduct her?”

Joanna laughed, a light, airy sound that wrapped itself around his heart. “Of course not. He did follow her, though. And that evening, he risked his life by coming to town to court her. Mama recognized him immediately but was too enamored to turn him away. They took a table in a dark corner of the café and talked for hours. When he learned she was set to leave in the morning, Daddy proposed that night.”

“And she agreed?” Crockett couldn’t quite keep the incredulity out of his voice.

“Not at first. She was worried about the difference in their ages. She was four years older than him, you see, and she worried that such a young, spirited man would grow weary of her as she aged. But Daddy convinced her that once his loyalty was given, nothing could sway him. So she agreed. But she gave a condition—he had to stop his thievery.”

Crockett did some quick figuring. “But you told me he’s been a rancher for the last sixteen years, so he must not have stopped robbing stages until after you were born.”

“That’s correct. Unfortunately. It was the only spot of contention between them in the early years. Daddy had promised to go straight as soon as he had enough money to buy a ranch and provide a home for her. He and his gang had always played it safe by stealing only enough to provide for their immediate needs, so he hadn’t stored up much of a cache. They never pulled heists large enough to draw significant attention from the authorities. And they
never
harmed anyone.” Joanna gave special emphasis to this last point.

“My mother continued to plead with him to stop, insisting she didn’t need a large house or fancy things. He could hire on at a ranch somewhere or take a job at a mill or a mine. But Daddy refused to work for anyone other than himself, so he continued with his gang until he’d saved up the money to buy a ranch of his own.”

Her description of her father’s exploits sounded eerily familiar. Crockett frowned as he looked ahead to the outskirts of Deanville. Hadn’t Marshal Coleson said much the same thing when he’d questioned him about his abduction?

“Oh, you don’t need to frown, Crockett.” Joanna gave his shoulder a playful nudge, clearly misinterpreting his concern. “Mama and I got him on the straight and narrow soon enough.”

“What role did you play?” he asked, not wanting her to guess his thoughts about the marshal.

A light blush pinkened her cheeks. “Well, according to Mama, I captured Daddy’s heart the moment I was born. Whenever he was home, he’d tote me around with him—teaching me how to ride, showing me animal tracks, and carving me wooden toys. I adored him, having no inkling of the secret life he lived. All I knew was that he was my father and he loved me.

“Then one day, he and his gang held up a coach heading for Bremond. When he opened the door to demand the passengers’ valuables, he found a woman traveling with her daughter. The little girl was about my age, with red hair and freckles. When she saw him, she screamed in terror and nearly tore her mother’s skirts in a desperate bid to get away from him. Daddy slammed the door closed and rode away without taking a single penny from anyone that day, or any day after. He told me later that all he could see that day was my face on that little girl. My terror. Of him. And he couldn’t bear it.”