Stealing the Preacher (28 page)

Arms shaking, he clung to Jackson while his pride and bitterness crumbled to dust. “I need your help.” Though God knew he didn’t deserve it. “Please. No favors. No bargains. I’m just a sinner on his knees beggin’ for mercy. Beggin’ you to spare the life of this boy. Please. I ain’t demandin’ a miracle or a flock of angels to swoop down and flutter their wings around him. I ain’t got no right to ask for such things. All I ask is that you give us a fighting chance.”

His breath shuddered as he inhaled. “I’m done running. If you want me . . . I’m yours.”

Silas made no effort to get up. He
did
make an effort to trust—to trust in a God he didn’t understand. Leaning on the faith of his daughter and his wife . . . he waited.

Barely a moment passed before the sound of his name being called met his ears.

“Here!” Silas yelled in response. “Hurry!”

Footsteps pounded faster, louder.

Silas struggled to stand, bracing himself against the slope and clasping Jackson’s legs tight to his chest.

“Give me your hand,” a voice called from above.

Silas lifted his head as he swung the rifles up over the ridge. “Archer. Thank God.” Never had he meant two words more.

The parson’s solid grasp encircled his wrist, and with his strength counterbalancing the downward slope of the hill, it only took two long strides for Silas to regain the trail.

“Is that Jackson?” Archer paled, taking in the kid’s limp form.

Silas swallowed hard, guilt tearing at his throat. “He jumped in front of my bullet when I tried to take down a buck. I never knew he was there.” Moisture pooled in his eyes, but for once he didn’t care. His pride no longer mattered. All that mattered was Jackson.

He braced himself for Archer’s disdain. It was what he deserved. But the man met his gaze head on, nothing more than
concern etched on his face. “Come on,” he said, slinging his rifle strap over his shoulder and gathering up the other two. “I’ll help you get him to the house.”

Each man took one of Jackson’s arms and wound it about his neck. Their greater height kept all but the toes of the boy’s boots from scraping the ground as they stretched their stride in the rush to get home.

“How’d you know to come?” Silas huffed out between steps. “I heard the others hunting farther on.”

“It’s hard to explain,” Archer replied, his own breath heaving between the words. “As soon as I heard your shot, my gut reacted. The guys assured me you were fine, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was supposed to check on you.”

God brought him back.
Archer didn’t make the claim, but Silas knew it was true. God had intervened. Even before Silas had been aware of the need.

Silence fell between them again as they concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other as quickly as possible. Finally, the barn came into view. And with it another slew of problems. They might have gotten the boy home, but the doctor was miles away. Fetching one from Deanville would take at least a couple hours—if they could even find the man.

Silas regarded the preacher from the corner of his eye. “You prayin’, Archer?” Heaven knew the boy needed someone with more pull than he had with the big man upstairs if the kid was gonna have a shot at surviving this mess.

“With every step, Si,” he grunted out, twisting his neck to meet his gaze. “With every step.”

Silas nodded, the vise around his heart loosening just a touch. “Me too.”

30

J
oanna plucked another weed free from around the new carrot tops that had recently pushed through the soil, her mind far from her task. Crockett had invited her to go riding with him when he returned from hunting. Just the two of them. A flutter of anticipation danced in her belly. She planned to show him some of her mother’s favorite painting spots, and if she could muster the nerve, she might even ask permission to sketch his likeness. Not that she hadn’t sketched him already. She’d completed at least a dozen drawings, but they’d all captured Crockett from a distance.

What would it be like to study him up close? To take her time with each feature of his face in order to replicate it on paper? The strong line of his jaw. The sparkle in his eyes when he teased her. The curve of his mouth when he smiled.

The way his lips softened right before they met hers.

Joanna’s hands stilled. Would Crockett kiss her again? Mercy, but she hoped so. Her breath caught in her throat as her eyes slid closed to savor the memory of the kiss they’d shared down by the river. Would their second kiss be as heavenly as the first?

She blinked against the sunlight, and a smile bloomed across her face—until she noticed three men limping toward her from the edge of the woods.

Instantly alert, she shot to her feet and lifted a hand to block the sun’s glare.

Someone was hurt. She couldn’t tell who from this distance, but she knew what her father expected of her in such a situation.

Dashing through the open gate, Joanna abandoned the garden and ran for the house. She bounded up the back porch steps and grabbed the metal rod that hung from the large metal triangle she used for calling the men to supper. She circled the inside of it again and again, striking metal against metal with a strength borne of fear. The clamor nearly deafened her, but she kept it up until the ache in her arm forced her to stop. She prayed the others were within earshot. If so, the alarm would have them running for the house.

The entire time she rang the dinner bell, her focus remained locked on the trio of men approaching from the north. The one on the right had the build of her father, but he was so hunched over from the weight of the injured man, she couldn’t be sure. The one on the left was slightly taller, and her heart wanted so badly to believe it was Crockett—that both he and her father were unharmed.

She longed to sprint out to meet them and see for herself who’d been hurt and how bad the injuries were, but practicality drove her into the house instead. Rushing out to them would only assuage her curiosity, but it wouldn’t actually help anyone. She’d be of better service gathering medical supplies and preparing a sickroom.

Working the pump at the sink, Joanna quickly scrubbed away the garden dirt from her hands and under her nails, then ransacked the linen closet for the rolls of bandages and wads of cotton wool she always kept on hand. By the time she’d gathered
the medicine box and the shears from her sewing basket, and stripped the quilt from her bed, heavy footfalls from the porch announced the arrival of the men.

She’d purposely left the back door ajar, and as she rounded the corner into the kitchen, a male boot kicked it wide.

“Bring him around to my room,” Joanna instructed before she’d even gotten a look at the men. “I’ve got things set up for him in there.”

She held the door open as the threesome finagled their way through. A breath she hadn’t known she’d been holding whooshed from her lungs when she recognized her father and Crockett.

Thank you, Lord, for keeping them safe.

Crockett dropped the rifles he’d been toting to the floor. The injured man didn’t even flinch at the racket. That’s when she noticed the sandy hair and the slender build.

“Jackson?” The name escaped her in a strangled cry.

How had this happened? He was just a boy. A boy who should be pestering her with inappropriate marriage proposals, not drooping lifelessly across her daddy’s shoulders. She moaned, pressing her hand over her mouth to mute the sound. Was he dead already?

“Is he . . .” She couldn’t quite voice the question as the men shuffled past her into the hall.

“He’s still breathing, but there’s a bullet in him,” Crockett answered, his grim expression offering her little comfort.

She followed the men into her room, and when she realized they meant to lay Jackson facedown, she darted to the head of the bed to remove the pillow. Better not take any chances. If he survived the bullet, she didn’t want a pillow suffocating him.

The men grunted as they slowly lowered Jackson to the bed, taking care not to jostle him too much.

“Hand me those shears,” Crockett said from the far side
of the bed and immediately set to work extricating Jackson’s shirttails from his trousers.

Joanna grabbed the scissors from the bedside table and held them out handle first.

“Thanks.” He barely spared her a glance, so focused was he on Jackson. He snipped through the makeshift bandage that held the blood-soaked dressing in place and then started in on the shirt, cutting it from tail to neck.

She retrieved the discarded bandage from where he’d tossed it on the sheet. Only then did she recognize the fabric as being from her father’s shirt.

“Daddy . . . ?” Joanna turned, intending to ask what had happened, but the haunted look etched into his features dissolved her words.

He stared at Jackson as if he didn’t really see him, as if his mind recalled another horror. She held her hand out to him, but he backed away until his bootheels hit the wall on the opposite side of the room. Then he slowly lowered himself to the floor. His hat knocked against the wall and tumbled to the rug. He never even blinked. He just covered his face with his hands and bowed his head over his knees.

She’d never seen him like this—defeated. It frightened her.

“I’m going to need water, Jo,” Crockett said, bringing her attention back to the boy on the bed. “Warm if you have it. And sponges or rags to clean the injured area.”

She met Crockett’s gaze over the top of Jackson’s prone form. Compassion glowed there, along with a rigid determination that helped her own spine stiffen. They would fight this. Together.

“You can start with the water in the pitcher.” She hurried to the washstand and filled the porcelain basin with water, then carried it to Crockett’s side of the bed, setting it on the edge of the dresser at his elbow. “The stove reservoir should have warm water, and I’ll put on a couple of kettles, too.”

He caught her hand before she could dash off to the kitchen. “Heat some of the reservoir water nearly to a boil and bring me the strongest lye soap you’ve got. Oh, and a knife. A thin, sharp one. And tweezers if you have ’em.” He spoke softly, as if he didn’t want the unconscious boy to overhear and start fretting.

His gentleness nearly brought the tears she’d been battling to the surface, but she blinked them back and nodded her understanding before slipping out to the kitchen.

She had just set the second kettle on to boil when the rest of the hands burst into the house.

Frank and Carl bent double as soon as they saw she was unharmed and started wheezing as they gulped air into their lungs.

“What happened?” Jasper demanded, apparently the only one who had enough breath to talk.

“Jackson’s been shot. We’ll need to fetch a doctor.” She glanced back at the hall, expecting to see her father emerge. There was no way he couldn’t have heard the thundering herd arrive. He’d snap back to his usual self, start barking orders, and set everything to right. But he never came.

“The boss?” Jasper asked, obviously at as much of a loss as Joanna.

“He and Crockett are in with Jackson.” They didn’t need to know what state he was in at the moment. It would only rattle them, and right now Jackson needed them at their sharpest.

“What do ya want us to do?” Frank wheezed.

Joanna straightened her shoulders and spoke with authority. “Jasper, you and Frank ride to Deanville. One of you fetch the doctor. The other better track down Sam Spivey.” After years of watching her father lead his men, she easily mimicked his manner and tone. “Search the saloons first. Sober him up before you bring him back here, though. The last thing we need is someone yelling and knocking things around when we’re trying to save his boy’s life.”

Jasper and Frank nodded, then spun and headed out the door without another word.

“What about me, Jo?” Carl stepped forward. He dragged his hat from his head and scrunched it up in his fist. His eyes barely met hers. “I ain’t much good around sick folk.” His Adam’s apple bobbed as he leaned close. “The sight of blood makes me woozy.”

The poor fellow’s face burned deep red at the admission, and his feet shuffled as if he couldn’t wait to leave.

“That’s just as well,” Joanna said. She twisted to check the steam on the kettle, hoping to relieve his embarrassment by acting as if she hadn’t noticed. “With my father and Crockett tending to Jackson, and Frank and Jasper gone to Deanville, the care of the ranch falls to you. I need you to see to the stock and handle all the regular chores while we’re short-handed.”

“Yes’m. I can do that.” He slapped his hat over his thinning hair and dashed for the back door before she could change her mind.

Judging the water in the first kettle to be close enough to boiling, she palmed a folded dish towel and removed it from the fire.

After pouring the hot water into a small dishpan, she balanced the tray containing the lye soap, her two sharpest knives, and clean towels atop it and carried the materials to the sickroom.

Disheartened to see her father still huddled on the floor, Joanna tried not to look at him as she circled the bed to set the dishpan on the dresser top. She could only imagine one thing that could have brought her father this low.

“It’s his bullet in Jackson, isn’t it?” she whispered when Crockett turned toward her and started rolling up his sleeves.

His eyes met hers. “An accident.”

She nodded. It could be nothing else. Her father would never intentionally harm Jackson. But, oh, how her heart ached for both of them, and she worried that neither would recover.

Bring healing, Father. Please. For both of them.

Crockett’s breath hissed out of him as he dunked his arms elbow deep into the near-scalding water.

“Do you want me to cool it down a little?” Joanna moved to collect the pitcher from the washstand.

“No. I can handle it.” He latched onto the cake of soap and started scrubbing. “How long until the doctor arrives?”

“I don’t know. A couple hours, at least. Jasper and Frank are fetching him from Deanville.” She returned to his side and held a towel out for him.