Stealing the Preacher (39 page)

The two sharp taps from the hammer seemed to break Silas from his trance. He blinked and finally lifted his head.

“You brought her back to life, Jo,” he rasped. “Thank you.”

“She’d be so proud of you, Daddy.” Joanna scooted close and wrapped her hands under his as he held the frame.

The cell door rattled closed, shaking the bars. Joanna stepped back, taking the painting with her when the marshal approached. As soon as Coleson unfastened her father’s bonds, however, she passed the painting through the bars.

“I put the blanket, cards, and Bible on the cot, Robbins.”

Her father hugged the painting to his chest but focused his attention on his daughter. “Martha’s Bible?”

Joanna nodded. “You’ve been reading it so faithfully lately, I thought you’d like to have it. I was hoping you’d find strength and comfort in its pages.”

“I’m sure I will.” He set the painting down, leaning it against the bars, and held a hand out to her. “Come here, Jo.”

She went immediately, stretching her arms through the bars to hold as much of him as she could.

“I love you, darlin’,” he said, the words burning a hole directly to the center of her heart.

“I love you, too, Daddy, and I’ll be praying for you every day.”

He patted her shoulder in that slightly awkward way of his that always made her smile. “You do that, girl, but remember . . . if God don’t give you the answer you’re wantin’, don’t be holdin’ it against him. He can still be trusted, even when he says no.”

Joanna had to work hard to swallow the melon-sized lump in her throat. Her father had truly made his peace with God. She locked her gaze with his and lifted her chin. “I’ll remember.”

43

A
ll of Deanville turned out for the hearing—the nosy telegraph clerk, the barber, even the minister who used to preach from the pulpit Crockett now occupied. Crockett recognized several faces from his own congregation, as well.

Joanna hadn’t wanted to leave her father in the days leading up to the court date, so after Crockett returned to town with the attorney, he’d left her in Miss Bessie’s care and returned home, not only to conduct worship services, but also to organize a special prayer meeting Sunday evening. He had been humbled by the number of families that had turned out. And when he put out the word to recruit character witnesses willing to testify on Silas’s behalf, several volunteered and were in the courtroom now, waiting.

Jackson had begged to be included on the witness list, but Mr. Gillman, the attorney, had been afraid the marshal would bring up the shooting incident if Jackson took the stand, and that wouldn’t do Silas any favors.

The door to the judge’s chambers cracked open, and Joanna squeezed Crockett’s hand. He stroked the pad of his thumb over
her knuckles and shifted closer to her on the wooden gallery pew, his own nerves on edge.

The judge, a surprisingly short, slender man with a balding pate, strode into the courtroom. He seemed to grow in stature, however, as he ascended to the bench, and when he pounded his gavel, all chatter died. With no more than a flick of the wrist, the man had taken command of the room.

Crockett and Joanna rose to their feet along with the rest of the crowd, but the judge quickly waved them all back down. Gillman had assured him that Judge Wicker was a fair man who didn’t stand on ceremony, and it appeared that at least the latter half of that assessment was true. Crockett prayed the first half proved accurate, as well.

“Silas Robbins.” The judge’s voice echoed through the crowded room with an impressive boom. Mr. Gillman stood and urged Silas to do the same. The judge shuffled some papers around on his desk as he continued. “You are charged with an ambiguous number of robberies.” He looked up and pierced Coleson with a glare of displeasure. “Apparently the good marshal, here, was unclear as to how many crimes to actually charge you with.”

“That’s my fault, Your Honor,” Silas said, ignoring the lawyer at his side who was muttering furiously at him to be quiet. “When I made my confession, I couldn’t recall the exact number of stagecoaches. Probably around twenty or so. I only robbed three trains, though. Four if you count the time I abducted the parson.” He jabbed his finger over his shoulder.

Crockett raised his hand and waved at the judge.

“What are you doing?” Joanna hissed.

Crockett bent toward her and whispered out of the side of his mouth. “Trying to show there are no hard feelings over that incident.”

The judge raised a brow at Crockett and turned back to Coleson. “I don’t see kidnapping listed among the crimes.”

“That’s because the parson refuses to press charges.” The marshal folded his arms across his chest, and Crockett had no doubt the lawman’s glare would’ve scorched him if he had actually glanced in his direction. “’Course, I hear he’s marryin’ up with the defendant’s daughter, so that might have something to do with it.”

“The parson’s matrimonial prospects are not the concern of this court, Marshal. I’ll thank you to keep your suppositions to yourself so that we may progress in an orderly manner. Do I make myself clear?”

Coleson scuffed the sole of his left boot against the oak floorboards. “Yes, sir.”

The judge redirected his attention to Silas. “Now, Robbins, since you have been so forthcoming about the events for which you are charged, and since I have a statement from Mr. Coleson indicating that you have confessed to the crimes in question, may I assume that you are entering a guilty plea?”

Silas straightened his posture and lifted his chin in a way that reminded Crockett of Joanna when she was determined to see something through. “Yes, Your Honor.”

Joanna whimpered softly, and Crockett wrapped his arm around her, wishing he could do more to protect her heart from this emotional pummeling.

“An honest criminal,” Judge Wicker remarked. “That’s a rarity in my line of work. Refreshing.” He made a note on one of the papers in front of him, then gestured to Mr. Gillman. “Before I pronounce sentence, do you have any witnesses who wish to offer testimony on Mr. Robbins’s behalf?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” the lawyer replied.

“Very well. Call your first witness.”

“I call Silas Robbins.”

After giving his oath to tell the truth, Silas took the stand.

Mr. Gillman strode up to Silas, then turned slightly to include
the audience as well as the judge in his questioning. “Mr. Robbins. How many years have passed since the last time you stole something? A material possession of any value.”

Silas cleared his throat. “Sixteen years.”

The lawyer paced before the judge’s bench, hands behind his back. “And after sixteen years of lawful living, what prodded you to suddenly confess these past wrongs?”

“Got tired of carryin’ the past around with me while dodgin’ God and my conscience. Finally stopped dodging and realized it was time to come clean. I couldn’t be God’s man otherwise.”

Mr. Gillman smiled. “I see. So not only have you been a law-abiding citizen for the past sixteen years, but you have also recently become a man of religious conviction. Admirable, indeed. No further questions.”

“You may be excused, Mr. Robbins.” Judge Wicker directed Silas back to his seat. “Call your next witness.”

Gillman turned to face the gallery. “I call Mrs. Idabelle Grimley.”

A shuffle echoed behind Crockett as Mrs. Grimley made her way forward, clutching her handbag nervously before her. Her gaze found his as she passed his row, and Crockett nodded encouragement to her.

At Mr. Gillman’s prompting, she told the court about the time Silas had shown up on her family’s doorstep with two of his men in tow offering to cut hay after her husband had been laid up with a broken leg. Mr. Robbins hadn’t accepted a thing in payment beyond the cherry pie she forced him to take home in thanks.

Two other church members took the stand following Mrs. Grimley, each painting a picture of Silas as a hardworking rancher who kept mostly to himself but who could always be counted on to help his neighbor in time of crisis. When the attorney turned toward the crowd to call the fourth witness, however, Judge Wicker interrupted him.

“You’ve made your point, Gillman. Robbins has been a model citizen and a decent neighbor to these folks.” He waved his hand impatiently, as if trying to erase names from an invisible blackboard. “I think we can dispense with the rest of the witnesses if they all have a similar testimony.”

“Yes, Your Honor.” Gillman took his seat.

Judge Wicker turned to Coleson. “You have any refuting witnesses?”

The marshal slowly gained his feet. “Uh . . . no, Your Honor. But the man’s confessed,” he hurried to add, “so that should tell you all you need to know.”

The judge frowned. “Did you not wire area lawmen to see if there were witnesses willing to testify regarding Mr. Robbins’s crimes?”

“I did. But of the two men who came forward, neither could identify him. Robbins always wore a bandana over his face, you see. And with all the years that’ve passed . . . well . . . the witnesses weren’t willing to swear on a Bible that he was the man who’d robbed them.”

Judge Wicker glared his displeasure at the marshal until the man finally took his seat. “This is highly irregular,” the judge grumbled. “A confession of decades-old crimes from a criminal with no accusers.” He set aside his papers and let out a heavy sigh.

Joanna tensed. Crockett rubbed her arm, his own chest growing tight.

“Mr. Robbins,” the judge intoned, his scowl locking on Silas as Joanna’s father pushed his chair back and rose to accept his sentence. “You present me an unusual dilemma. You have pled guilty to the charge of robbery. Therefore, I must assign a sentence appropriate to the crimes for which you have confessed. Usually a minimum of five years.”

“No,” Joanna whispered, her quiet anguish a shout in Crockett’s ear.

“However,” the judge continued, “I find myself asking what, exactly, that five years in prison would be expected to accomplish.

“Incarceration serves a twofold purpose. First, it is a punishment for crimes committed against society and a deterrent against future illicit behavior. But second, and I believe most crucial, incarceration provides an opportunity for reformation of the criminal character. That is why we have libraries and chaplains in our prisons, why we teach our inmates a marketable trade. We want them to reenter society changed and prepared to contribute in a positive manner.”

Judge Wicker paused for breath, then pointed a stubby finger directly at Silas.

“You, sir,” he declared, a note of accusation ringing in his voice, “have already reformed.”

44

J
oanna blinked. Had she heard correctly? Had the judge just accused her father of being
too
rehabilitated? She shared a brief glance with Crockett, but he appeared equally perplexed. He rubbed her arm again, though, and the simple touch buoyed her. She didn’t know how she would have survived this day without him by her side, always ready with a smile or a gentle reassuring touch.

Her father stood so straight and tall, his shoulders squared as he listened to the judge’s pronouncement. He’d stood the same way at her mother’s funeral, as if braced for a blow he couldn’t defend against.

“Since you have already renounced your criminal ways and have been an exemplary citizen for the past sixteen years, I am reluctant to enforce prison time.”

Joanna’s heart hiccupped in her chest. She grabbed Crockett’s knee.
Please, Lord. Please.

“However,” the judge continued, his expression grave, “there is the element of punishment that must be addressed. In such cases, I would normally insist that you make restitution to those
you have wronged. Yet it seems we have no victims on which to confer such compensation. Hence my dilemma. I cannot let a guilty man go free with no consequences for his actions. Nor will my conscience allow me to sentence to prison a man who has already proven himself reformed.

“That leaves me with only one recourse. Therefore, it is the ruling of this court that you, Silas Robbins, will make restitution to the community at large in lieu of individual victims. Instead of time served in prison, your five years will be probated on the condition that during each of those five years, ten percent of all income, whether personal or the product of the Lazy R ranch, be donated to local charitable or civic organizations approved by the court. The court will appoint a business manager to oversee your finances during this period and to keep an accounting of all earnings and expenditures. Do you agree to abide by these conditions?”

“Yes, sir.” Her father gave a shaky nod. “I do.”

“Then the ruling stands. This court is adjourned.” Judge Wicker pounded his gavel, rose from the bench, and strode to his chambers.

Applause reverberated through the room along with a handful of hearty cheers, but it was nothing more than a buzz in Joanna’s ears. All of her attention focused on her father and her need to get to him. Now.

She tried to squeeze past Jackson and Miss Bessie to get to the aisle, but they were too busy celebrating—Jackson with loud hollers and Bessie with timid claps as she backed up to avoid being impaled with a flying elbow or jerking knee. Crockett must have sensed Joanna’s growing desperation, for when she turned his direction to look for an escape route, he seized her about the waist and hoisted her over the barrier separating the court from the gallery. With a wink, he shooed her toward her father.

Loving him for knowing her so well, she blew him a kiss,
then pivoted and threw herself into her father’s arms, not caring that he was occupied with a handshake from Mr. Gillman at the time.

“Oh, Daddy! You’re free.” Free from the past. Free from prison. Free to be the man God always intended him to be.

His arms tightened around her, and he dropped a kiss on her head. “That I am, darlin’. That I am.”

Joanna pulled slightly away, her gaze drinking in his beloved face. He smiled, and the light in his eyes shone brighter than she’d ever seen it. A laugh of pure joy bubbled out of her, and her father’s rich chuckle joined it on its journey to the rafters.