Stealing the Preacher (3 page)

Odd? It was downright unnatural. But what a man chose to do for his kin was none of this sermonizer’s concern.

“To the house, boys.” Silas gave the signal to head out. He trotted his gray gelding to where the preacher’s hat lay on the ground. Without slowing, he pulled his rifle from the scabbard, leaned deeply to the right, and plucked the thing off the ground by jabbing the gun’s muzzle into the head hole. Guiding his horse with his knees, he unhooked the black felt slouch hat from his rifle barrel and slapped it onto the parson’s head.

Gotta have the man looking respectable for Jo.

It gave him a sense of satisfaction to have the upper hand again. The preacher might be a couple decades younger and fleeter of foot, but Silas Robbins still had a few tricks up his sleeve. King David, here, wouldn’t be getting the drop on him again.

“You want me to put him up on his horse, boss?” Jasper wrapped the end of the rope around the saddle horn and prepared to dismount, but Silas stopped him with a shake of his head.

“He seemed so all-fired anxious to run across our pasture, I figure we might as well grant him his wish.”

The parson’s attention snapped to meet Silas’s before shifting to the barn and back again. The disbelief lining his face was priceless. The poor fellow thought he’d been running for freedom when all along he’d been heading directly into the den of the thieves he’d meant to escape. If there hadn’t been the little problem of him ruining Jo’s surprise, Silas might have let him go just to see his expression when they rode into the yard and met him at the barn door. Might’ve made catching the parson’s fist with his jaw worthwhile.

Silas set a leisurely pace as they circled the pasture’s perimeter. The man leashed to Jasper’s horse masked his fatigue well, but he had to be tuckered out after that mad dash through the trees.

Besides, everyone knew preachers were only good for one thing—talking. It stood to reason that if Jo wanted a preacher, she’d want to talk to the fellow. What kind of gift would the hypocrite make if he was so out of breath when he met her that he couldn’t get a word out? If Silas was going to all the trouble of surprising her with this gift, it’d be foolish to break it before she could use it.

But would she like it?

Last-minute doubts nibbled the corners of his confidence. Martha had always been the one who’d selected Jo’s birthday gifts in the past. Last year, their grief had been too raw over Martha’s passing to celebrate anything. But this year Jo was turning twenty-one. She deserved something large, something meaningful, something she never dreamed she’d actually receive.

Ah, Martha.
As they gained the road that led to his ranch, Silas turned his eyes heavenward.
I miss you something fierce, love. You should be the one arranging things for our Jo. Not me.

Jasper was right. Martha never would have approved of his methods, but somehow he thought she’d approve of the gift. She always was partial to preachin’ and church-goin’. And Jo followed in her mama’s footsteps.

When he’d asked her last week what she wanted for her birthday and she’d told him she wanted a preacher, Silas had seen the truth of her words in her eyes—eyes so like her mother’s. She’d laughed afterward and tried to play like she’d just been foolin’, but he’d known better. His Jo was hurtin’, and for some reason she thought a preacher man would make it better. Silas had no patience for religion, but if Jo wanted a preacher, by George, he’d get her a preacher.

It was only as they pulled up in the yard and the door to the ranch house cracked open that it occurred to Silas that he maybe should have tried to fashion a bow out of some of the rope around the parson’s middle to make him look more like a present and less like a prisoner.

Joanna Robbins stepped from the house, her gaze, as always, drawn to her father. The dappled gray he rode stood out among the brown quarter horses, just as he stood out from his men. Mama used to say he was a man born to lead, and Joanna had to agree. He exuded authority, but it was his unwavering dedication to those closest to him that won their loyalty. His men would follow wherever he led. As would she. Yet in the one thing that mattered above all else, she needed him to follow
her
, and that he would not do.

But he was her daddy, and she loved him. So when a smile crinkled his eyes as he swung down from his horse, and his arms stretched wide in invitation, Joanna banished her worries and ran to him.

His strong arms surrounded her with the love and acceptance he’d shown her all her life. She reveled in it as she circled his waist and squeezed her own love back into him, nestling her head against his chest.

“Three days is a long time, Daddy. I missed you.”

“I missed you, too, darlin’.” His grip loosened, and he leaned back. “But I brought you something real special.”

“For my birthday?” Giddy anticipation bubbled up inside her, as if she were a girl turning twelve, not twenty-one. But the men were looking on, so Joanna harnessed her excitement.

Saddle leather groaned, drawing Joanna’s attention to Jasper Mullins, her father’s foreman. He swung a leg over his mount’s back and unwound a rope from the saddle horn. He dragged his hat from his head, exposing a circular crease in his white-gray hair, then leaned forward and bussed her cheek. The tickle of his droopy mustache made her smile, but the rope he placed in her hand brought a furrow to her brow.

“Happy birthday, Miss Jo.”

“Thank you, Jasper.”

Frank Pickens and Carl Hurst called out similar well-wishes before making themselves scarce by following Jasper to the barn. It was only when they’d all led their horses away that she got a clear view of what stood tethered to the end of her rope.

“You brought me a . . . rustler?”

The tall man was dressed better than any rustler she’d ever seen—not that she’d ever really seen any. But she imagined they’d wear something more practical for their thieving. Denim trousers, perhaps. And a cotton work shirt. Not a fancy suit and tie. Although the coat
was
rather rumpled, and the trousers were coated with a thick layer of dust.

“He’s not a rustler, Jo.” Her father’s deep voice penetrated her thoughts.

She questioned him with her eyes.

He struggled to meet her gaze and failed. Blowing out a heavy breath, he plucked the hat from his head and beat it against his thigh. “Dad-burn it, girl. You said you wanted a preacher, so that’s what I brung ya.”

A preacher?

Joanna’s knees nearly buckled. She dropped the rope as if it had become a snake and pressed her empty hand to her belly. A preacher. How fervently she had prayed for a man of God to cross her path, one who would aid her in fulfilling her calling. This should be a time of great rejoicing and thanksgiving. Instead she felt ill.

“You stole him?” She bit back a moan. “Daddy, how could you?”

“I didn’t steal him,” he shouted at her back as she rushed to the preacher’s side and began loosening the knot. “I just encouraged him to pay you a visit for your birthday. That’s all.”

Joanna didn’t respond. Nor did she meet the parson’s eye. She just focused on the knot above his waist.

“I was real careful not to hurt him none—which is more than I can say for him. That preacher man nearly broke my jaw!”

That brought her head up. “You did?” she whispered.

The man shrugged. “Seemed prudent at the time. I was trying to escape a band of ruthless kidnappers.”

Lord have mercy, but the man was handsome. His eyes were the exact shade of the Caledonian brown pigment in her paint set, though infused with a light that would be nearly impossible to duplicate on canvas. His jaw was strong and slightly squared. His nose perfectly proportioned to the rest of his face.

The artist in her had begun cataloging the position of his ears and the line of his throat when he wiggled against his bindings and reminded her of more pressing matters.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, fumbling once again with the knot. Finally it loosened enough for her to expand the loop and free his hands. He immediately flung the lasso over his head and rolled his shoulders.

She instinctively stepped back, not sure what he would do. The sound of a gun being cocked directly behind her made it clear her father was taking no chances, either.

The parson seemed unruffled by the show of force, however. He simply continued rubbing his arms and wiggling his fingers in an effort to repair his circulation.

Curious. Most men of her acquaintance had difficulty standing up to her father when he was in a stern mood, even without a gun pointed in their direction. But this preacher, if he truly was a man of the cloth—she was beginning to have her doubts—acted as if standing in a yard at gunpoint was an everyday occurrence.

“Who are you?” She hadn’t realized she’d spoken the thought aloud until he turned to her.

He swept his hat from his head, revealing russet hair neatly trimmed. “Crockett Archer, miss.” He dipped his chin politely.

She stepped closer. “I’m Joanna Robbins.”

“Well, Miss Robbins. As much as I’ve enjoyed this little side trip, and as delighted as I am to have the honor of wishing you felicitations on your birthday, I really must take my leave. I’m afraid I have a prior engagement that is of the utmost importance. A congregation awaits my arrival in Brenham.”

His gaze held no malice, and his smile seemed genuine enough, but she sensed a layer of iron beneath his words.

“You ain’t going nowhere, preacher man.” Her father moved to her side, his gun less than a foot from Mr. Archer’s chest. “Not until my Jo gets what she wants from you.”

Joanna’s eyes slid closed in mortification. What
his Jo
wanted right now was for the earth to open up and swallow her whole.

4

I
t appears I am at your disposal, Miss Robbins.” Crockett made little effort to hide his irritation, and only felt the tiniest twinge of guilt when his abductor’s daughter winced.

What in heaven’s name did the girl want with a preacher, anyhow? Did she have some potential husband tied up inside the house waiting to be hitched? Poor wretch had probably been kidnapped, too. Gagged and chained to the stove, no doubt.

Not that this woman would need chains to capture a man’s attention under normal circumstances. Her milky skin, soft eyes, and that mad riot of reddish-gold corkscrew curls that gave her a pixie-like appearance would see to that task. But with a train robber for a father and his gang having free rein on her ranch, circumstances were anything but normal.

Part of him wished she was indeed the
Joe
he’d imagined. At least then he could fight his way free. Her being a woman complicated matters. And this ridiculous situation was complicated enough already.

Joanna Robbins raised her head, her gaze meeting his for only an instant before skittering away to somewhere near his
chin. “If Mr. Archer agrees to accompany me on a short stroll, I’d be happy to loan him a mount so he can ride into Deanville later this evening. From there he can arrange transportation to Caldwell and be on about his business.”

The gun pointed at Crockett’s chest lowered a few inches as Silas turned to study his daughter. “That’s all you’re wanting, Jo? A stroll?”

Crockett found it hard to believe, as well. Yet her voice rang with a quiet earnestness he couldn’t discount.

Slowly she raised her chin. Her blue-gray eyes pleaded with him. “It’s not all I want, but it’s all I’m asking.”

How was a man supposed to fight against that? Crockett sighed inwardly. To deny her request would be well within his rights. Yet even considering the notion left him feeling small and petty. No. He’d been called to a higher road, a narrower road.

Besides, if taking a stroll with the gal satisfied her father and thereby gained him his freedom, it’d be worth the concession. He needed to get to a town as soon as possible and wire the elders in Brenham. They would have heard what had happened by now and were surely concerned. And while he wanted to allay their fears, what he really wanted was to allay his own by rescheduling his audition. The elders had communicated their wish to have a decision made and a permanent minister installed as soon as possible. Today’s delay, no matter how outrageous the circumstances, would not do him any favors.

“I’d be pleased to escort you wherever you wish to go.” Crockett sketched a brief bow, then fit his hat to his head and offered her his arm.

Joanna’s lashes dipped over her eyes and pink stained her cheeks, but she only hesitated a moment before sliding her fingers into the crook of his arm. A tiny smile wavered upon her lips. “Thank you.”

She swiveled to face her father next. “We’ll just walk down to the churchyard and back, Daddy. We won’t be long.”

“You won’t be alone, either,” Silas groused. “I plan to keep my eye on you.” He spoke to his daughter, but Crockett had no doubt where the implied threat was aimed.

“No.” The solidity of the single word brought Crockett’s head around to the woman he’d thought docile. “I need privacy for my conversation with the parson. The churchyard is visible from the dormer windows in the attic. You can watch us from there if you feel you must. You can even use your spyglass. But we walk alone.”