Stealing the Preacher (6 page)

“Yer pullin’ my leg.”

“Nope. That’s his name. Although Pa eventually took pity on
him and dubbed him Jim. We only use Bowie now when we’re wantin’ to needle him.”

He spoke of his brothers with such affection, Joanna found herself wanting to delve deeper into the Archer clan’s history. Until she remembered he was leaving.

“Jackson,” she said, feeling a bit like an interloper when two sets of male eyes fastened on her as if they’d just been reminded of her presence. “Mr. Archer needs to get back to the ranch. He has to ride into Deanville before nightfall.”

“What’s the rush? Ain’t he gonna stay for your birthday supper?”

For a boy who’d tried to run the man off a few minutes ago, he sure seemed eager for him to stay.

“He has a previous engagement.”

Jackson’s brow furrowed. “If it’s so important, why’d he come here in the first place?”

“Ha!” The preacher grinned and elbowed Jackson in the ribs. “Her father kid—”

“—
interrupted
his travel plans and persuaded Mr. Archer to come for a short visit in honor of my birthday tomorrow.” Joanna shot Crockett a glance that begged him to keep the details to himself. “Unfortunately, because of a pressing appointment, he won’t be staying for this evening’s supper. But I fully expect to see you there, Jackson. Six o’clock, sharp. You hear?”

“You still gonna have cake?”

“Made a chocolate one this morning.”

His grin nearly engulfed his face. “I’ll be there.”

Joanna hid her pleasure as the boy set off across the field. She’d guessed right. She’d questioned him the other day under the guise of having him help her decide what dessert to use to celebrate her birthday but hoping to discern
his
favorite. Her mama had always made apple pie, knowing Joanna preferred the fruity pastry over cake. But making a pie without Mama
didn’t seem right, so she’d opted to celebrate with something new. Watching Jackson devour her cake would be a gift in itself.

“Why’d you cut me off back there?” The parson’s question brought Joanna back to the present. “I had a great yarn ready to go.”

She much preferred his current good humor to the barely leashed indignation he’d displayed when her father had first presented him to her, but she couldn’t let him endanger her family, even with a seemingly harmless tale.

“Jackson doesn’t know about my father’s past. No one outside the ranch does.”

“But . . .” His voice trailed off.

Joanna bit back the retort that sprang to her lips. There was no reason for Brother Archer to act so surprised. It wasn’t as if reformed outlaws went around telling tales of their exploits at parties to entertain the neighbors.

“I already told you that he’s been making an honest living as a rancher for the last sixteen years. Folks around here know him as the owner of the Lazy R. That’s all they need to know. That’s who he is.” She crossed her arms over her middle, determined to drive her point home, when all at once it occurred to her there was another risk she’d managed to overlook.

Crockett Archer.

He knew the truth about her father, had experienced it firsthand. When he got to Deanville, the town marshal was sure to hound him with questions.

Her arms went limp and unfolded of their own accord. “Will you turn him in?” She stepped closer to him, wanting to grab the lapels of his coat but fisting her hands in her skirt instead. “Please. He meant no harm. You were inconvenienced”—a vision of him trussed up like a calf at roundup time flashed through her mind, stirring her conscience—“and mistreated to a certain extent, I suppose, but surely not to the point where
you wouldn’t be able to extend forgiveness to a man who was simply trying to give his daughter a gift.”

The parson’s brown eyes hardened, but when his palm closed around her shoulder, the gentleness of his touch instilled hope.

“I won’t lie to cover up anything, Miss Robbins,” he said, “but neither will I seek retribution. You have my word.”

“And if the marshal presses you for details?”

“I’ll do my best to be vague, but I will not dishonor my calling with lying. Sin carries consequences. And while a man might escape earthly repercussions, his soul cannot escape the eternal ones. Not without a Savior.”

“I know,” Joanna murmured, her heart squeezing painfully in her chest. “That’s why my father needs more time. Please give him that.”

Brother Archer tightened his grip on her shoulder for an instant, then stepped away. “I’ll do what I can.”

But would it be enough?

7

C
rockett couldn’t seem to extricate Joanna Robbins from his mind during his ride to Deanville. Every time he started to mentally compose a telegram message for the Brenham elders or review his sermon points, memories of a certain redhead intruded.

The woman was a series of contradictions. His first impression had marked her as a shy, timid creature, yet she defended her father with fiery passion. And when given the chance to solicit help for her mission, she finagled time alone to plead with a stranger. Her wild hair and elfin features were more girlish than womanly when it came to feminine charms; but when her eyes sparked with humor or enthusiasm, her face lit up in a way that made his breath catch. And though she fussed at Jackson Spivey as if he were the bane of her existence, she went out of her way to include him in her birthday supper.

Yep. Joanna Robbins was the kind of woman a man could take his whole life trying to figure out. Not that he was in the market for that kind of puzzle. He had enough to worry about with solidifying his position in Brenham.

Perhaps he could check in on her after he was settled, though. They’d forged an odd sort of friendship, after all, during their brief encounter. Then again, that might prove awkward for whomever she found to fill the pulpit of that old church of hers. Better to focus on the here and now and let tomorrow take care of itself.

Deanville was a tiny place compared to Palestine and Brenham, but it boasted all the necessities of an up-and-coming town—general store, schoolhouse, cotton gin, grist mill, saloon, and two churches. He wondered which of the two was shepherded by the preacher who’d left Joanna’s church.

Crockett dropped his horse off at the livery and paid for its board, instructing the stable hand that the animal would be collected by someone from the Lazy R in a day or two. Then, after untying his travel bag, which Joanna’s father had returned to him with a belligerent glare, he solicited directions to the telegraph office.

Crossing to the opposite side of the road, Crockett sidestepped a farmer hefting a pair of feed sacks into a wagon bed and tipped his hat to a middle-aged woman carrying a market basket who’d halted to stare at him outside a shop window that read
Dean’s Store
.

“Ma’am.” He offered one of his most charming smiles. The woman nodded in return, yet he felt her disapproving stare follow him down the street. He was several steps past the store when the rattle of the door and the soft jangle of a bell announced the end of her perusal and the resumption of her shopping.

He probably looked a sight in his rumpled suit coat and dirt-stained trousers. The Lord only knew what the woman must’ve thought of him. A hot bath and change of clothes would work wonders, but they would have to wait. He had to contact the Brenham church.

The telegraph office stood a few yards north of the general
store, a tiny shack of a building with wires strung from wooden poles stationed behind it. Crockett entered and strode to the counter. A short man wearing black sleeve protectors sat hunched over a desk, scribbling furiously as the machine beside him clicked out a pattern of long and short signals. When the clicks ceased, the operator tapped back a brief response, then pushed to his feet.

“What can I do for you, mister?” The fellow’s mustache twitched as he talked.

Crockett grinned. “I need to send a wire to Brenham.”

The operator shoved a tablet across the counter to him and reached above his ear to extricate a pencil. “Nickel a word.”

“Thanks.” Crockett wrote out his message, then struck through as many words as possible. He handed the paper back to the operator and tossed a fifty-cent piece onto the counter.

ABDUCTED FROM TRAIN.

RELEASED.

IN DEANVILLE.

WILL ARRIVE LATE TOMORROW.

As the operator scanned the message, his eyebrows arched high onto his forehead. “I done heard about that holdup this morning. The wire’s been buzzin’ with it for hours. You telling me
you’re
the fellow those bandits took from the train?”

Crockett hardened his gaze. If he answered one question it would only open the floodgate for myriad more. “Just send the telegram, please. To Mr. Lukas Hoffmann.”

“How’d you escape?” The little man leaned his elbows on the counter and stared up at him, nearly salivating in anticipation of a tale Crockett had no intention of telling. Telegram contents were supposed to remain confidential, but something told him this particular operator relished juicy tidbits too much to keep them to himself.

Crockett braced his palms atop the counter near the operator’s elbows and bent his head close enough to growl his response in the man’s ear. “Send the telegram.”

The man jerked backward. “No need to get your dander up, mister. I’s just curious.” He carried the paper back to his desk. “Wanna wait for a reply?”

“I’ll stop back in after I clean up a bit. That is, if you can direct me to a place where a fella can buy a bath.”

“Harold’s Barber Shop, across the street. And the boardinghouse is around the corner if you need a place to hang your hat for the night.”

“Thanks.” Crockett nodded to the operator and turned for the door, his gut telling him that news of his arrival would be all over town before his bathwater cooled.

Maybe he was wrong. Maybe the little operator with the big mustache really did keep things to himself. Maybe he just wanted to assuage his own curiosity. But as Crockett approached the barber shop, a reflection flashed in the window of a man with dark sleeve protectors scurrying down the street. Crockett sighed. Maybe he better make his bath a quick one.

Fifteen minutes later, dressed in his spare trousers and a clean blue chambray shirt, Crockett tucked his soiled suit under his arm and opened the small bathing chamber’s door. A man with a tin star on the lapel of his dark gray coat stood waiting on the other side.

“Evening, stranger.”

“Evening.” Crockett adjusted his grip on his satchel and summoned a smile for the lawman as he stepped past him.

“Thought you might like to share a cup of coffee with me over at the office, so’s we can get better acquainted.” The man didn’t lay a hand on him, but the authority in his voice gave his suggestion the weight of a command.

Crockett slowed his step. “That’s mighty neighborly of you,
Marshal, but I’ve had a rather trying day. Perhaps we can visit tomorrow?”

“Won’t take long, son.” The barrel-chested lawman strode forward, firmly took charge of Crockett’s bag, and extricated his clothes from beneath his arm. “Harold will secure a room for you at Bessie’s place and see that your belongings are delivered.” He handed the bag and clothes to the barber, a thin man with heavily pomaded hair. Then he dug out a coin from his vest pocket and pressed it into the barber’s hand.

“Harold, have Miss Bessie clean and press our guest’s suit. On me.”

“Yes, sir, Marshal Coleson. I’ll see to it.” Harold spun around and headed to the front of his shop while the marshal gestured toward a side door.

“After you, mister.”

Out of options, Crockett nodded and moved toward the exit. “Of course.”

Once outside, the lawman steered him back in the direction of the livery, to a stone building boasting an uninviting small barred window high up the south wall. The glass-paned window at the front promised a warmer reception, but Crockett’s chest only tightened as his promise to Joanna ran circles in his mind.

The inside of the marshal’s office was dim but tidy, the man’s desk empty except for an inkstand and a half-finished plate of food. Crockett frowned. The man had left his supper to chase him down. Such a man wouldn’t be easily put off.

“What’s your name, son?” the marshal asked as he dragged a chair from against the wall to a spot nearer his desk.

“Crockett Archer, sir.”

“Brett Coleson.” He offered his hand and shook Crockett’s with an iron grip. “Have a seat, Archer.”

The man’s age and manner reminded Crockett of Silas Robbins, and an odd sort of recognition filled him as he took his
seat. Marshal Coleson moved past him to the stove behind his desk, where a coffeepot sat waiting.

“Thanks for taking care of my laundry,” Crockett interjected into the growing silence. “You didn’t have to do that.”

The lawman filled a chipped crockery mug, set it on the desk in front of Crockett, and then grabbed his own half-full one and splashed in a couple inches of fresh brew to reheat the dregs. “Glad to do it, son. You’ve had a trying day, after all.” The marshal peered meaningfully at him over the top of the pot as he echoed Crockett’s earlier words. “One I’d like to hear more about.”

Crockett grasped the mug’s handle and held it between the desk and his lips. “What would you like to know?”

“Is it true that you’re the man those bandits took from the Gulf, Colorado, and Santa Fe this morning?”

“Yes.”

Coleson lowered himself into his chair and took a swig from his mug as if he had all night to get the answers he sought. “What’d they want with you?”

A rueful grin slid into place on Crockett’s face. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Try me.”

Crockett shook his head, then met the lawman’s eye without flinching. “I was supposed to be a birthday present.”

Coleson held his gaze, assessing. Silence stretched, but Crockett didn’t turn away. He left himself as open as possible, hoping to disarm the marshal with his honesty so that the vague answers he’d be forced to give later might cause less suspicion.