Stealing the Preacher (5 page)

“‘They that are whole have no need of the physician, but they that are sick,’” Joanna recited.

The words of Christ pierced Crockett’s heart and deflated his defenses. “‘I came not to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance.’” The remainder of the quote fell from his lips and lashed his conscience like a whip. “Forgive me, Miss Robbins. You’re right, of course. I
can
recommend. With caution, certainly, but with sincerity, too.”

And if the Lord was leading him in the direction Crockett believed, there just might be a young minister who would be grateful for an alternative position once the elders in Brenham made their decision. He’d be sure to mention the possibility to him.

“Thank you, Brother Archer. I’ll be praying that God will lead the right man to us.
Without
my father’s help this time.”

Her smile asserted itself once again, and Crockett found himself returning it.

He laughed a deep chuckle that unknotted his belly and expelled the last of his resentment. Joanna’s soft chimes added to the music, and for the first time, Crockett was actually glad to be exactly where he was.

“So, how did this old place come to be abandoned?” he asked, his gaze lifting to trace the outline of the neglected building.

“A few years back, the folks over at Deanville offered our preacher a church in town. They already had a cotton gin and grist mill and plans for a school. New families were moving in. It was a good opportunity for him, and I don’t blame him for taking it.”

“But it left you without a minister.”

She nodded, looking back at her hands. “Some of the folks who live farther north make the trip into town on Sundays for services. Most in the area, though, find the journey too long. It’s a good ten miles into Deanville from our place, and many live farther away.” Joanna grasped the rail nearest her hip and stroked it as if it were the arm of a dear friend. “This old building sits
right in the center of the largest cluster of farms and ranches. No one in the area has to travel more than five miles to reach its doors. We still gather here for socials on occasion, but we haven’t come together for worship in over two years. I miss it.”

The longing in her voice struck a familiar chord. Hadn’t he hungered for the same thing? For a community of believers to worship with outside his immediate family? His brothers had been his church for longer than he could remember, and while he loved them and found their encouragement and support invaluable, something within him had cried out for a broader community. For different opinions and perspectives. For friendship. For mentorship. For prayer. When Amos Ralston took Crockett under his wing and introduced him to the congregation in Palestine, he’d felt as if he’d been invited to a feast. What an emptiness it would leave to have that taken away.

Crockett leaned forward and touched Joanna’s hand. “I will help you find a new preacher. I promise.”

She stared at him a long moment, then nodded. “I believe you.”

Joanna quickly ducked her chin and tugged her hand from his. She pushed to her feet, and minding his manners, Crockett stood, as well. His attention lagged behind, however, remembering the passion in her eyes, the determination etching her brow.

In the last three years, he’d met many women. Young. Old. Pretty. Plain. Devout. Flirtatious. After living only among men for years, he found he enjoyed the company of women. Their gracious manners. Their gentle ways. Their lovely figures. But never had he felt anything deeper than a surface admiration. Perhaps because he’d been so focused on his training. Yet after only a handful of minutes, Joanna Robbins had touched something deep inside him, as only a kindred spirit could do.

She’d experienced the Lord’s call on her life as surely as he had. And while he’d been called to minister to many, she’d been called for one. Who was he to say her calling was any less
significant than his own? In fact, her dedication to the one in her care humbled him, gave him a perspective he’d been lacking. In other circumstances, he could easily imagine the two of them becoming friends. Maybe after he settled in Brenham, he could write to her, encourage her.

One thing was for certain. He’d keep his promise. An Archer never went back on his word. Joanna Robbins would get her preacher. It just wouldn’t be him.

“So I guess this means I owe you the use of a horse.” She smiled up at him as she dusted her hands together. “You held up your end of the bargain, after all.”

Crockett tipped his hat. “As much as I’ve enjoyed our walk, I really do need to be on my way. I’m sure the congregation in Brenham is concerned for my safety.”

She led him to a path that meandered back toward the road. “Is that where you preach?”

“I’ve spoken there on two occasions,” Crockett answered. “Tomorrow was to be my third. I’m hoping to be selected for a permanent position there.”

“And my father’s ill-timed interruption has put that position in jeopardy, hasn’t it.” She halted, her expression pained. “I’m truly sorry.”

Crockett drew even with her and gestured for her to continue on. “Don’t fret, Miss Robbins. My future is in God’s hands. All will be well.”

“I wish I had your faith,” she said, not yet moving.

“I wish I had your horse.” He shot her a wink to let her know he was teasing. Mostly.

Joanna grinned, then dutifully resumed her march toward home. Crockett stayed close to her side, enjoying her company now that the tension hovering over them had lifted.

She was telling him something about the creek that ran behind the old church when his senses suddenly sharpened.

Someone was watching them.

Crockett swiveled his head, searching the empty road behind him and then scanning the trees like he used to do at the ranch when standing guard. A movement caught his eye. Furtive. Menacing. Near the blackjack oak they’d just passed to the left of the road. His muscles grew taut, and for the second time that day, he reached for a holster that wasn’t there.

A figure jumped from behind the tree. The glimpse of a rifle barrel was all Crockett needed. He grabbed Joanna, ignoring her startled cry as well as her resistance. He pressed her to his chest and curved his larger body around hers, shielding her from the attack.

“Get your hands off my woman, mister, or I’m gonna put a new crease in them fancy duds of yours.”

6

J
oanna wiggled against the parson’s protective hold. She recognized that bothersome voice. And as soon as she found her freedom, she was gonna strangle the scrawny throat it came from.

She shoved against Brother Archer’s chest, a rather firm and well-muscled chest that never would have given way to her puny efforts, she was sure, had she not muttered some disparaging comment about the man’s intelligence that finally seemed to clue him in to their lack of true danger.

Once free, Joanna darted around the preacher, dodged the rapidly lowering rifle, and smacked Jackson Spivey upside the head.

“Owww, Jo,” the twelve-year-old whined as he jerked away. “What’d ya go and do that for? He’s the one that grabbed ya.”

“He never laid a hand on me until you jumped out at us like some crazed coyote. What were you thinking, waving a gun around like that? You could’ve hurt somebody!” Joanna’s chest heaved as she dug her fingernails into her palm in a bid
for control. “You got no business spying on me, Jackson, or making ridiculous claims on me.”

The sandy-haired boy set his mouth in a mutinous line and stretched himself to his full height, which put the top of his head at least an inch above hers. How was she supposed to give him a good dressing down when she had to look up to do it?

“It ain’t ridiculous, Jo.” His rebellious eyes dared her to contradict him. “Soon as I get old enough to offer for you all proper like, I’m gonna. I done told ya that. And I won’t hold with no fancy-pants rooster moving in on my territory in the meantime.”

Jackson’s eyes narrowed and shifted to Joanna’s right, where Brother Archer had come to stand.

Could mortification kill a person? Because at that moment, she was feeling precariously close to expiring.

“You do much hunting, Jackson?” The parson’s deep voice rumbled beside her, but it was his question that took her off guard. So nonchalant and . . . well . . . man-to-manish.

Jackson glowered at him. “Now and then.”

“Winchester’s a good gun. That the ’73 Carbine?” The parson stepped forward, his attention on the rifle.

“Yep.”

“I prefer the sporting rifle, myself. Longer barrel, more cartridges. But the carbine is lighter weight. Better for when a man’s on foot. You clean it after every hunt?”

“Yes, sir.”

Joanna’s jaw nearly came unhinged. With a few simple questions, Brother Archer had drained all the posturing right out of the boy. Jackson was even holding the rifle up to the preacher for his inspection.

“That’s good.” The parson smiled and clasped the boy’s shoulder in praise. Something that almost looked like pride flashed across Jackson’s face. “Make sure you keep it oiled even
when you’re not hunting. A man’s weapon can save his life. You can’t get lazy with its upkeep.”

“No, sir. I always clean it real good. Pa’s, too, when he’s . . . ah . . . sick.” Jackson’s gaze dropped to the ground and stayed there while he kicked at a dirt clod.

Joanna ached for Jackson’s embarrassment. He might be a pest and the cause of more headaches than she cared to count, but he only acted that way because he was starved for attention. His pa was a no-account drunk who spent more time at the saloon in Deanville than at home. Jackson had basically been rearing himself for the five years since his ma up and ran off. Which was why Joanna usually didn’t put up much of a fuss when he came around and pestered her. But today he’d gone too far.

Brother Archer didn’t seem offended, though. Instead he smiled at the boy as if Jackson hadn’t just aimed the very weapon they were discussing at his back and threatened bodily harm. As far as she could tell, the parson had no intention of taking the boy to task for his actions. Yet the next man Jackson took aim at might not be so forgiving.
Someone
had to set the boy straight, and apparently that duty fell to her.

“Your pa get sick often?” Brother Archer asked before Joanna could regain her footing in the conversation.

Jackson shrugged, still staring at the dirt. “Often enough.”

“Ever had to use your gun to ward off trouble when he was feelin’ poorly?”

He ventured a glance up, his eyes wary. “Some.”

“Two-legged trouble?” The parson’s passive face revealed nothing of his thoughts. His voice remained calm, giving no sign that he felt any of the alarm rising within her own breast. She knew Jackson had it hard, but she never imagined him fighting off trouble harsh enough to require weaponry.

“Once or twice.” The boy’s matter-of-fact tone left Joanna certain that he’d understated the frequency.

“Why didn’t you tell me, Jackson?” Joanna reached out a hand to him, but he shied away, shooting her a glare that made it clear he’d not welcome her pity. “You should have asked for help. My father could have—”

“I handle my own problems.”

“With what? A gun?”

He bristled at her, but she didn’t care. The kid was twelve years old, for pity’s sake. He shouldn’t be wielding anything more deadly than a slingshot.

Brother Archer’s hand came to rest at the small of her back. The touch was so brief she barely registered the warmth of his fingers before it disappeared, but the surprise of it scattered her thoughts.

“Sometimes it takes a gun.”

Shock stole Joanna’s breath. How could he stand there and say such a thing? He was a man of God. A man of peace. “He’s just a boy!” She flung the accusation at him, but it bounced off his stoic shoulders without an ounce of impact.

“Some boys grow into men slowly,” Brother Archer said, his attention trained on Jackson, as if his answer were more for him than Joanna. “Others have manhood thrust upon them whether they’re ready for it or not.

“I was eleven when my father died, leaving my brother, Travis, and me to run the ranch, care for our two younger brothers, and defend our home from those who thought they could take it from us. We grew up fast because we had to. Used our guns for the same reason. But all those years, the fear that I might one day have to kill a man haunted me. Nothing scars a man’s soul like taking a life, whether justified or not.”

A shiver crept down Joanna’s back. What kind of parson was this? Weren’t preachers supposed to be gentle, compassionate creatures, preferring words to weapons? Crockett Archer sounded more like her outlaw father than a preacher. Perhaps it
was a good thing he had other ministerial commitments keeping him from starting up her church.

“Did ya ever hafta do it?” Jackson’s low tone rumbled with trepidation. “Kill a man?”

Joanna held her breath, waiting for the answer.

“No, thank the Lord.” Brother Archer lifted his face heavenward and closed his eyes for a moment before turning back to Jackson. “Every time you point a gun at someone, though, you run that risk.” He paused to glance meaningfully at the carbine in the boy’s hand. “A wise man draws his weapon only in the direst of circumstances.”

Jackson swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. But he nodded—nodded with the maturity of a young man, not a boy. And suddenly Joanna didn’t care if Crockett Archer was like other preachers. He had a gift for reaching people. A gift that could make him more valuable to her than the most rousing speaker or genteel scholar.

“Name’s Crockett, by the way,” the parson said, his face breaking into a smile that banished the solemnity hovering over the trio. “Crockett Archer.” He offered his hand, and Jackson shifted the hold on his rifle in order to shake it.

“Crockett? As in Davy Crockett?”

“Yep.” The twinkle Joanna had noted earlier returned to the parson’s eyes. “My ma named all us boys after men who fought at the Alamo.”

Jackson scrunched up his nose. “Why didn’t she just call ya Davy?”

Brother Archer laughed, and the rich sound spread through Joanna’s chest like molasses on hot oatmeal. “Crockett’s not so bad. My younger brother got saddled with Bowie.”