Stealing the Preacher (38 page)

“First John 1:9,” Crockett murmured softly.

“See,” her daddy said, a near laugh in his voice, “the parson knows what I’m talking about.” He lifted his arms back over her head and gently eased himself from her hold.

Determined to be strong for him, she didn’t fight. She stepped back and dried her cheeks with the back of her hand. When the knuckles of his bound hands chucked her softly under her chin, she bit her lip to keep it from trembling and raised her gaze.

“Don’t you see, darlin’? If I’m gonna be joinin’ up with the Lord, I can’t keep hangin’ on to the secrets of my past. I have to own up to what I did and face the consequences. He ain’t the kind to be satisfied with me handin’ over half the loot. He wants the whole thing.”

Shivers coursed over her skin at the same time a floodgate of warmth opened in her heart to surge through every vein. This was the moment—the moment for which she and her mother had prayed year after year.

Tears rose to blur her vision, but she blinked them away. She didn’t want him to remember her tears; she wanted him to remember her joy. Joanna beamed a smile at him, a smile that wobbled a bit, but one that matched the feelings of her heart.

“I’m proud of you, Daddy. Prouder than I’ve ever been in my entire life.”

“Yeah . . . well . . .” He coughed and turned away, but not before she noticed how his eyes gleamed suspiciously bright in the moonlight. He coughed again, then focused on a point above her head. “You’ll see her home, Archer?”

“I will.” Crockett placed his hands on her shoulders, his thumbs making comforting circles on her back. And while his confirmation was what any gentleman would offer, the solemnity of his voice carried a weight that extended well beyond escort duty.

Her father nodded once, then turned and reached for Gamble’s saddle horn with his bound hands. “No sense dragging
this thing out, Coleson,” he said gruffly as he mounted in a less than graceful manner. “Let’s get the boy home so we can be on our way at first light.”

The marshal gathered Gamble’s reins and climbed aboard his own mount. “Come on, Jackson. You can ride with me.” Coleson removed his boot from the stirrup and reached a hand down to help the boy mount behind him.

Jackson shot a questioning glance at Crockett, then at his nod, scrambled up behind the marshal.

As the threesome disappeared into the night, Joanna stood frozen, too numb and exhausted to do more than stare after them. Her soul rejoiced at her father’s spiritual surrender, but her heart agonized over the price he might pay. Crockett wrapped his arms about her shoulders and pulled her back against his chest. His heat soaked through her chilled skin as he held her close. Then he leaned his face down, pressing his cheek against hers, and whispered words that revived her weary hope.

“It’s not over yet, Jo. It’s not over.”

42

T
he following afternoon, Joanna marched out of Miss Bessie’s boardinghouse, ready to do battle with Marshal Coleson. Crockett had driven her to Deanville first thing that morning, settled her at the boardinghouse, and then rode on to Caldwell in search of a lawyer. Jasper, Frank, and Carl had chipped in from their savings to cover the attorney’s fee, but they chose to stay behind and tend the ranch. That and keep themselves out of the marshal’s line of fire.

She didn’t blame them. In fact, she was glad they were staying away. Her heart was battered enough already. It couldn’t take much more.

Thankfully, she had reinforcements marching alongside her. Miss Bessie, looking stern as ever in her tight bun and pursed mouth, matched Joanna’s stride. Both women’s arms overflowed with items geared to a man’s comfort. Blankets, reading material, food. Miss Bessie had even scrounged up a deck of playing cards that had been left behind by one of her boarders. Knowing her father didn’t sleep well if he didn’t have her mother’s
paintings around him, Joanna had brought two of his favorites from home, along with her mother’s Bible.

No way would she let him rot in a stark jail cell, surrounded by nothing warmer than stone and iron. When she ran into the marshal coming out of the bank that morning, he’d approved her bringing her father a few personal items. Well, her definition of
few
might be a bit liberal, but she aimed to see that Coleson stood by his word, even if she had to bully him to do it.

As she stepped onto the boardwalk that ran in front of the jailhouse, one of the paintings under her arm began to slip. Without a free hand to adjust its position, all she could do was clench her elbow to her side and bend her posture so her thigh could slow its downward progress. Fortunately, the door to the jail stood ajar, and Joanna managed to nudge it open with her foot. Hurrying to reach a raised surface before she completely lost her grip on her mother’s
Sunrise on the Brazos
, she surged forward and dropped her load onto the first table she came to. A table that happened to be the marshal’s desk.

One thing she could say for the marshal—he had good reflexes. The man jumped to his feet and in the same motion snatched his coffee cup and a stack of wanted posters out of the avalanche’s path before the
Brazos
could inflict any damage.

He raised a supercilious brow. “Are you thinking to bribe me, Miss Robbins?” His dry tone reeked with sarcasm. “I’m afraid I’m not much of an art collector.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Marshal.” Joanna jutted out a hip to keep the
Brazos
from sliding off the edge of his desk and quickly stacked
The Lazy R Pines
on top of it, freeing her hands to settle her special surprise on the floor against the front of the desk. “These things are for my father. I only brought a few,” she said with a smile. “Just like you instructed.”

Bessie came in behind Joanna, looked directly at Marshal Coleson, and deliberately dropped her market basket atop the
handful of telegrams sitting on the one section of his desk that hadn’t been overrun by artwork.

“Land sakes, woman! You’re in on this, too?” The lawman growled, looked around for a place to set his coffee, settled on the back of the small cast-iron stove behind him, and growled again. “Listen, ladies. This here ain’t no pleasure palace. It’s a jail. It’s not supposed to be cozy. It’s supposed to be hard. Cold. So downright disagreeable, in fact, that once folks visit, they decide to change their ways so’s they don’t have to come back.”

Joanna crossed her arms over her chest and raised her chin, not about to give in. “But my father doesn’t have to be convinced. He changed his ways sixteen years ago. Therefore no harm will come from a few blankets and knickknacks.”

“Knickknacks?” A rather sour chuckle rattled in his throat. “Lady, your knickknacks are about to swallow my desk.”

“You don’t plan to starve your prisoner—do you, Brett?” Miss Bessie flung back the towel covering her basket to reveal the feast waiting within. “Fresh bread, jam, cheese, apples. Just some snacks to sustain him between those paltry meals Mrs. Elliott brings.” The marshal leaned close to inspect the hamper and inhaled deeply.

“Those your strawberry preserves, Bess?”

“Yep. I thought you might enjoy sampling the wares, too.” She pushed the basket more directly under his nose. “If you dig deep enough in there, you might even find a thick square of my lemon pound cake.”

The man’s head jerked up, and Joanna swore she could hear him salivating. “You
are
trying to bribe me.” He slashed a frown at Bessie, but his gaze twitched back to the hamper, giving him away.

“It’s not a bribe. It’s a reward for doin’ a good deed.” Bessie reached across the desk, and for a moment, Joanna thought she was going to touch the marshal’s hand. But then her fingers
detoured to the towel and drew it back over the food. “Let her hang her pictures, Brett. It ain’t gonna hurt nothing.”

“Seems a waste of time to me,” Coleson grumbled, but he picked up the first painting and started scrutinizing the frame and the back, as if checking for contraband. “The circuit judge is gonna be here next week. Hearing’s set for Tuesday.”

Tuesday.
A moan rose in Joanna’s throat. Six more days of wondering what would happen. Six more days of separation from her father. Joanna’s spine started to slump along with her spirits, but she forced them both straight. Six more days to pray for a favorable outcome.

“What’s this?” Coleson dug a hammer out of the food basket and waved it under Joanna’s nose. “Trying to sneak weapons in to your father?”

Bessie harrumphed in disgust. “Don’t be an idiot. That’s to hang the pictures. There’s a handful of nails down there, too. We just didn’t have enough hands to carry it all. Had to put it in the bottom of the hamper to keep it from smashing the bread.”

Coleson turned to face Bessie and raised a doubtful brow. “You expect me to just let you waltz into that cell with a weapon that Silas Robbins can use against me?”

“No.” Bessie aimed a look at the lawman that seemed to question the man’s intelligence. “What I expect is that you will take charge like you always do and go in there and hang the pictures yourself. Really, Brett. It’s what a gentleman would do.”

“For pity’s sake,” the man grouched. “Give me them nails. You can hand me the blasted paintings through the bars.” He stomped off toward the back of the jailhouse, muttering under his breath about fool women and their crazy schemes.

Bessie smirked at Joanna, then picked up the blankets, playing cards, and Bible, leaving the food hamper on the marshal’s desk. She shrugged off Joanna’s questioning glance. “I really
made it more for him than your father. To soften him up, you know. He loves my cooking.”

Joanna hid a grin as she collected the paintings. If she didn’t know better, she would swear Miss Bessie had a soft spot for the town marshal beneath that prickly exterior. And judging by the man’s reactions, he was probably fond of more than her food.

By the time the women made it back to the trio of cells at the rear of the building, the marshal had already restrained Joanna’s father by placing his arms through the last cell’s bars and cinching a leather strap around his wrists. Her father leaned submissively against the bars while Coleson fit a key into the door’s lock.

Joanna set the paintings against the wall and rushed up to her father, covering his hands with her own. “Are you all right, Daddy?”

He smiled at her and nodded. “I’m fine, darlin’. You don’t need to be fretting about me.”

“Crockett’s on his way to Caldwell to hire a lawyer. We’re going to fight this. It’s not over.”

Her father’s gaze met hers through the bars with a level of peace that stunned her. “God’s in control, Jo. Whatever happens, he’ll take care of me.” He raised his bound hands along the bars until his fingers were able to capture a piece of her hair that dangled by her temple. “He’ll take care of you, too. If I didn’t believe that, I wouldn’t be here now.”

Her eyes grew moist. “I know,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. “I trust him, Daddy. I do.” After so many years of hoping and praying for her father to express such faith, it nearly undid her control to hear him do so. But a weepy woman would serve no good purpose. So she blinked away the unwanted liquid from her eyes and cocked her chin enough to shoot him a grin. “I brought you a few things.”

Marshal Coleson snorted. “A
few
? The woman’s trying to turn my jail into a lady’s parlor.”

“Oh?” Her father quizzed her with a look.

Joanna shrugged, then turned and clasped a frame in each hand. “I know how you like having Mama’s paintings around, so when I left the house this morning, I brought a couple with me.”

His eyes lit with surprised delight. “The
Brazos
?”

Joanna smiled as she held up the painting for her father to see. “Of course.” She handed it through the bars to the marshal, who had come up alongside them. Her father’s gaze followed its trail, caressing the familiar scene with hungry eyes.

“I brought our pines, too.” She held out the last painting her mother had completed before her death, the one she’d claimed was her favorite because it was bathed in the love of home.

He stretched a reverent fingertip toward the canvas. “Ah, Martha.” The words were whisper-soft. Joanna bowed her head, her heart squeezing.

After a pair of thumps from the hammer, the marshal returned to collect the second painting. The first hung rather crooked on the wall above the cot that served as a bed, but it was up. Joanna nodded her thanks to the grumbling lawman and handed him the next one.

Her stomach lurched as she reached for the final item stashed by the wall to her left. “I brought one of mine, too. A new one.” Heat rushed to her cheeks, and she found it hard to look her father in the face. Her hands shook as she lifted the recently framed piece before her.

“One of yours?” Curiosity warmed his voice. “That’s wonderful, Jo. I haven’t seen a new work from you since . . . well . . . in a long time.”

Not since her mother’s death.

Joanna bit her lip and slid the portrait free of the pillowcase she’d wrapped it in. Holding her breath, she let the white cotton fall to the ground and turned the painting around to let her father see it. “I had planned to give it to you for your birthday,
but . . .” She lifted her head, and the rest of the sentence turned to dust in her mouth as she saw what could only be described as awe wash over her father’s face.

He offered no compliments. No flowery praise. Not even a smile. He just stared at the likeness of his wife as if nothing else existed. His hands opened, and Joanna set the bottom edge of the frame across his wide palms. His lips silently formed her mother’s name at the same time that a tear rolled down his weathered cheek.

Joanna glanced away, the moment too intimate for even her to invade. It was only then that she noticed the complete stillness surrounding her. Bessie stood by the cell door, eyes wide in disbelief and wonder. Even the marshal looked nonplussed.

“I’ll just . . . uh . . . place a nail and let you hang that one when you’re ready.” Coleson backed away and quickly pounded a nail into place near the head of the cot.