by Emilia Loft
Emilia Loft
Rodeo Passion
A M/M Western Romance
Copyright © 2020 by Emilia Loft
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
First edition
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Contents
1. Chapter 1
2. Chapter 2
3. Chapter 3
4. Chapter 4
5. Chapter 5
6. Chapter 6
7. Chapter 7
8. Chapter 8
9. Chapter 9
10. Chapter 10
11. Chapter 11
12. Chapter 12
Also by Emilia Loft
1
Chapter 1
The planks underfoot were slick with sea mist and grime, worn black and shiny, gnarled and frayed at the edges, the bulkheads wet with foam and fish blood, sticky from entrails where salt weathered men used them as tabletops to prep their chum. Jo had waxed poetic about Boston in springtime for weeks and begged Evan daily to tell her everything about the glamorous city when he returned.
Watching a ragged group of children swing rats by the tail and whip them at the bobbing ships had him of a mind to plan another trip just so he could watch her face when he deposit her here.
The Masthead was a tavern in concept if not assembly. Evan had never set eyes on a place so patchwork and jerry-rigged in his life. It looked to be that the bother of fitting out any of the regular spots on the dock was just too much effort or cost since the whole of it was barely a single story high and looked to be constructed of torn up planks and the scavenged remains burnt ship parts. There was a liberal use of rope and tar that may have been the only thing holding the roof upright other than prayer. And to top it all off, the whole stinking barnacle of the thing was just crammed right up against the end of the dock row, unconcerned that the wharf had never intended for it to reside there. At least it was easy to find, perhaps that was why the preacher had picked this spot, though he still didn’t know why a regular church or even a boarding house couldn’t have sufficed for their meeting. As he watched the toothless, drunken filth spill into and out of the clapboard shack, he was tremendously glad he hadn’t given into his desire to make it in and out of Boston as quickly as possible by telling the young lady he was due to collect to just meet them here as well. Convenience or no this was no place for a lady, hell it was barely a place for someone like him and that was something to say.
The interior was no better, but at least it was small enough that he shouldn’t have too much trouble picking his man out. He looked over the seamen and dock workers, a few whores, the bored looking slip of a bartender wiping down the slop on the bar and then using the same rag on the glasses. Maybe he wouldn’t indulge just yet. The only option as far as he could see was a wizened old man with frizzy white hair and a yellowing beard sitting primly in a corner sipping at his drink. Part of him laughed while the other part cringed for poor Anna, Lord he hoped her folks weren’t still hell bent on foisting that sweet young girl on the preacher. Watching the trembling wet lips of the man take another sip of his brandy had Evan thanking, not for the first time, whoever had done him the favor of getting him born a man.
As he approached the man with a question in his eyes, it began to occur to him with some relief that this may not be the preacher he was looking for. There was a near insanity of dementia that cracked ugly across the drunk old thing’s face when he smiled up at Evan. He was just about to back off slowly with a relieved apology when the door burst open and a cluster of men tumbled inside in a snarl of fists and feet and flapping coats. It was more inconvenience that put Evan to scowling, he watched and waited for an opening so that he could leave and wait for his quarry outside.
“You’re a dead man preacher!” And that was enough to prick up his ears. From the look of things now, it was five on one, and the unlucky man jumped up, locked onto Evan with the most electric set of blue eyes he’d ever seen and sidled up to him with barely a hint of concern for the angry hulking men that wanted to tear him apart.
“You Parker?” Evan could onlyParker any aversion to fisticuffs?”
Evan just smirked and shook his head, hadn’t reckoned he would get a bit of fun in on this trip and evening out the odds with the skills that made him sheriff always scratched a real good itch.
The preacher just rolled his shoulders and jumped to it, took a moment for Evan to hop in after him, lost as he was in watching a man of the cloth fighting fast and dirty like it was all he’d ever known. He was a sight too, and if the man hadn’t been outnumbered Evan would have taken a shine to kicking back against the bar and appreciating the view. But there was work to do.
They made a heck of a pair and by the time the attackers realized they weren’t gonna win this one, the two of them were bloody and cursing but doing it with matching smiles. That’s when the guns came out, and Evan was smart enough to know that flashing his badge would get him nothing but a gut shot here. So he grabbed the preacher by the wrist and was yelling Run for no particular reason since they were already hightailing it out the door at a considerable pace. His horse was untied and turned by the time the gang had even made it out the door after them. Evan mounted up and was hoisting the preacher behind him in the saddle at the same time he clicked his steed to action. Sinewy arms wrapped around him from behind with surprising strength as they careened too fast down the narrow streets. The hot breath at his neck came out in broken puffs as the man with the blue eyes and a mean left hook laughed gritty in his ear.
“Guess I picked the right time to get out of Boston.”
* * *
“Your letter said you wasn’t a Catholic!” There hadn’t been an answer to the two short knocks Reverend Turner had rapped on the rectory door, but he stood there all the same as if willing to wait for an answer even if it had to come from God himself.
“I’m not.”
The man that finally answered was so large he couldn’t fit through the frame and didn’t look like he had any intention of doing so. He shoved a battered leather valise into the preacher’s hands and said in a voice somehow impossibly deeper than the man next to him. “God speed Reverend Turner.”
“Thank you Brother Uriel. I will keep you in my prayers.” And there’s a pointed arch to Brother Uriel’s brow that said he might prefer it if he didn’t but the half tug of a smile isn’t lost to either of them as he shuts the door.
Evan returned with the preacher to his inn to collect his things and make use of the time to clean up. And get a better sense of this fellow. Sheriff Parker knew how to read a maParkerell the history of his work by the way his parts fit together, could see guilt, fear, threat from the twitch of an eyebrow. It weren’t that hard once you got used to doing it, and most folks were so patently basic in their make-up that his lawman swagger at being the most competent person in the room wasn’t a front.
But here he was not two hours into the company of the man he’d come to fetch as Lawrence’s brand new preacher and Evan found himself dizzy with consternation. A preacher was kindly and meek, or stern and brimming with condemnations. He should be wizened or brittle or plump with corruption. This man was none of those things. A titch smaller than Evan, but he damn near filled the room to bursting with his presence, moving about with assurance in a way that put Evan of a mind there was military in his
youth. For a man of the church Reverend Turner didn’t seem to have any shyness to him, readily pulled off the dirty layers of his shirt and vest and began to wipe himself down with the water from the wash basin. Evan busied himself with packing, did his best to avert his eyes. He had already noticed too quickly what a fine looking man the reverend was. Wouldn’t do no good to tip the Holy Father off about what a mess of a man he was inside before they’d even made it out of the city. But he couldn’t seem to help it, giving in to a few short glimpses of pale ropes of muscle, sharp cuts of bone and long fingers that made sadly short work of cleaning off the filth of that morning and putting on fresh clothes that had him looking more like a body meant to be behind a pulpit. Evan felt instantly guilty the minute Reverend Turner turned to him with a simple shrug, presenting himself, an indication this was as good as it was going to get. Seemed mighty good to Evan, but that was just one more reason why he wasn’t a decent man. Decent men didn’t turn a lustful eye to the new town preacher.
“You got blood on you.” And Evan looked down at his shirt, not noticing until the last moment that Reverend Turner had moved into his space until he was right there, those long fingers tipping up his face and turning it so he could dab a cool damp rag at the cut to Evan’s cheek, forehead. Those fingers didn’t feel as delicate as they looked and it was getting a mite uncomfortable to notice the train his thoughts started to take. Evan coughed out in embarrassment before shrugging away.
“I’m a sheriff, Reverend. Few little cuts just means I’m doing my job.” The preacher surveys his work with a frown.
“Or you aren’t very good at it.” Evan’s as surprised by the bark of laughter that escapes him as the preacher is, it’s been a while since someone made him laugh like that.
“So you plan on telling me why I got these in the first place? Won’t do no good if I’m bringing in a holy man who’s got demons that need running from.”
Reverend Turner appraised him and sat on the bed with a sigh, gesturing to the worn wicker chair beside him as if these were his rooms and Evan the guest.
“I believe I should be honest about myself to you, I understand wanting to look after your townsfolk and it’s only a credit to you if you wish to give me a thorough inspection before handing me the post.” Evan looked on with an even expression that didn’t hint at just how thorough an inspection he’d like to give the man.
“The man that attacked me, he’s a terrible person, I don’t know the friends he brought but I imagine they’re just as wicked as the company they keep. He sold his own sister, only fed her enough to keep her upright on the docks till someone dragged her to their bed. Beat her something awful too, last time nearly killed her and he actually came to me for help patching her up because he knew he might get locked up for it if anyone else saw what he did. I told him she was real bad off, needed a month at least to get herself healed up, let her stay with me the whole time and told him it would save him money on food and boarding in the long run. Got her a ticket to San Francisco, got a job for her out there with a family I know. Little money, couple clothes, not much but enough for a new start till she got herself sorted out.”
“And let me guess, old boy found out you shipped his sister off and was a bit sore at the loss of income. That why you was hiding out with the Catholics?” Father Turner just shrugs and picks a thread from his pant leg.
“Oh no, I’ve been staying there a while ever since my church burnt down.”
“That ‘nother unhappy relative or an actual act of your God?” Reverend Turner frowned at him then and kept silent for a moment before replying.
“No, I took in a couple of lost souls that most would think….unwholesome, used money from the
collection plate to help how I could. My parishioners felt the need to show their displeasure in a rather direct manner.”
“Shit preacher, your own flock burnt up your church?” He watches the other man’s lips thin out as a hard look drops into place, this is the part where he thinks he’s about to be shown the door. “You ‘n me are gonna get along just fine.”
* * *
The hotel is simple, the room is simple, but the cherub cheeked woman that shoves a suitcase at each of them is anything but. Her clothes look new, and though not what some might call fancy, have the look of something a wealthy person might choose if they were aiming for plain. Heavy unmarred fabrics in subtle grey with no adornment other than their sheen and spotless hems, the cut modern. Her hair is a glossy dark mass of curls topped with a black lace hat and her lips and cheeks such a delicate red that Evan knows in a moment this tiny thing in front of them hasn’t known a day of hard work in the span of her life.
“There’s got to be a mistake.”
“No mistake, you the Master Parker that was sent to escort mParkernce, Kansas?” Evan can only mutely nod. “Then I assure you I am your charge and I ask you to carry that to the coach. I’ll get the last of it and meet you downstairs.” It’s a dismissal if he ever heard one but still he’s rooted to the spot.
“Miss Masters—“
“Meg”
“Miss Megan—“
“I believe I just said Meg.” Fine said his clenching jaw.
“Meg, all I meant was that the advertisement was quite clear this was an arrangement for a rancher’s wife. That don’t carry the same water as a city wife, ain’t got much flower ‘ranging or tea time out there.” The porcelain skin barely wrinkled as she scowled at him, workin’ on a look of toughness but mostly just proving his point.
“I am under no delusion as to what this arrangement implies. I’m not afraid of hard work, despite what you might gather from my appearance.”
Evan just digs in for the fight, feeling more than a little ridiculous at holding a floral carpet bag while trying to spare a lady’s feelings. The only thing keeping him from relenting is the absolute certainty that if he has to drag her all the way out there only to have her crying uncle he will most likely just strangle her to save himself the return trip.
“Alright then Miss Meg, sayin’ you do have a hand for being a rancher’s wife, Bobby Singer ain’t a pretty young thing like you. Man could be your father on a good day and he’s a hard drinking blue streak cussing sonovabitch if there ever was one. You tellin’ me you want to tuck yourself into bed at night with that grizzled piece of jerky instead of any number of nice young men you must have sniffin’ around your door?”
“You told me in your letter that he was a good man.”
“Well…well he is a good man, nearly raised me an’ my brother at one time.”
“Alright,” She nods hard as if that was that. “He drink to where he can’t work?”
“No.”
“He ever hit his last woman?” Evan pulls up in anger, hell if he was going to let her imply something bad about Bobby. She should be the one passing his inspection.
“No!”
“Well then, seems about right to me. I just got two demands, he turns out to be some lazy sack of shit that won’t work or spends all his time drinking and gambling I’m on the next coach West. And if he ever lays a hand on me in anger I’ll string him up with the laundry and fill him with lead. You got that?”
“Sounds fair to me.” Evan shot Reverend Turner a look, silent up till now and this is what he thinks to contribute?
“Well don’t come crying on your wedding night!” Is all he can think to shout as he stomps down the hall.
The coach is waiting, Garth just nodding with a wide grin as they clamber inside. By the time they make it out of Boston Evan is fretting over what they’ll say when they see what he’s bringing home.
“Got a proper lady with ten pounds of crinoline wantin’ to be a rancher’s wife and preacher that gets into dock fights as a matter of principle. Remind me never to go to Boston if I’m looking to buy a horse.”
* * *
By the time they decide to stop for the night on the second day, Evan’s already made up his mind that he can’t stand another day cooped up in t
hat coach. It’s not just that it’s crowded, not just that he’s more accustomed to the open freedom on the back of a horse, it’s that the Reverend Turner is driving him slowly insane. It was a wicked thing for God to build a man so tempting, so beautiful yet masculine, every piece fit for sin and then make him also good, wrap him in vestments and ask the world not to touch.
Reverend Turner doesn’t offer much about himself, but what he does speaks to a man who came up from nothing but the skin on his back to grit his way down a path he deemed righteous when everyone else mocked and abused him for offering more than lip service to the work of his Lord. Evan’s seen too many cowards and thieves in his day to know just how rare a thing that is and he never had any intention of caring what kind a man their new preacher would be, long as he didn’t cause trouble, but now he feels a hard little kernel of what might be admiration. Lot of despicable men who kneel before a cross but Reverend Turner wasn’t one of them.
Meg was a firecracker, he could already tell that, seemed to be running from something to do with family, took it as a personal mission to sass sharper than a two dollar whore but she was educated, as was Reverend Turner, and the unlikely pair seemed to hit it off. So they settled right quick into an easy banter that can only come when a man and a woman know there’s nothing but friendship between them. Evan didn’t have much to contribute to the conversation, shooting outlaws and stringing up cattle thieves not being ideal topics, so he just kicked back and took in fifty miles worth of crinkle eyed smiles, smoky laughs falling from full pink lips. Got to brush thigh to thigh with the man in the sway of the coach, got to track long fingers as they absently mussed his already wild hair.
Evan had always known he weren’t right inside, that there was a reason he tended to pick younger whores, not cause he liked the age, but cause they usually came in a more boyish package. It had come to him pretty quick that he wasn’t bound to get what he wanted in life. There had been one time in his youth fumbling with the blacksmith’s son, and another time he almost got himself killed by a man he should have thought twice about trying to seduce. Then one day he’d been at his father’s side on another run when they came across a town with two bloated bodies swinging from the cemetery tree. He recalled most the look of the crows watching him when they’d asked after their crimes. The old caretaker had said they’d been abominations that lay together with Satan and could have corrupted the local youth, then he spat on the ground. That had shaken Evan up real bad back then, he wasn’t yet a full man and didn’t yet have the quick draw or hard muscle he did now to get himself out of a spot like that. It was years before he found that a body could be had without much fuss if he was far enough from home and nobody exchanged names. But he never felt better afterward, no matter how bad the need had been, just more hollow, the hunger deeper than a few short moments behind a barn once a year could feed. So at some point he just stopped.