The Redhead and the Preacher: A Loveswept Historical Romance

by Sandra Chastain

  He studied her face in the firelight. She was an odd contradiction in her skirt that was too short, heavy work boots, and a man’s shirt and coat. Her hands were rough from physical labor; he’d learned that when she’d attempted to help him in the carriage. Now, resting in sleep, her mouth had softened and her hair reflected the fire of the coals, making a kind of copper frame for a face that was strong yet innocent.

  The driver was awake, watching as Bran dropped his pack and drew out a canteen. “You see anything out there?” he asked, his voice weak and thready.

  “Just a couple of lizards and a coyote. The coyote made off with the hardtack and biscuit I had in my pack.”

  “The horses?”

  “Gone, for now. Maybe I’ll see the black that was tied to the coach when it gets light.”

  The driver nodded. “There was coffee beans, a jug of water, and some jerky in a poke under the seat.”

  “I found it. Don’t know what kept it from spilling out. How far to the way station?”

  “About half a day’s ride, but somebody will come looking for us when we don’t get there. We’re already overdue.”

  “Maybe, but when?”

  Jenks licked his dry lips and tried not to stare at the canteen Bran pulled from inside the greatcoat.

  Two sips was all Bran allowed the wounded man before he recapped the container. Building up the fire once more, Bran was very tired. His head still hurt. He wished for an hour’s sleep before they began their trek to the way station.

  Half a day’s ride. That probably meant a day’s walk, if they were lucky. Bran didn’t want to think about somebody looking for them. He was afraid that somebody might finish what they’d started earlier.

  Bran had heard about Pratt’s gang, but their paths hadn’t crossed. From what he knew, holding up a mail coach seemed a little tame for cutthroat bank robbers.

  At least they had some water, jerky, and coffee. He carried the driver’s pistol with enough ammunition to keep them in food, but they wouldn’t last more than a few minutes if they had to fight off more outlaws. He glanced at the carrying case against which his redheaded companion was lying.

  Idly he wondered what she was concealing inside. He’d been surprised to find her wearing a man’s shirt and coat. Still, he had to admit that the rough work clothes fit her. She might have been a boy, except for the long red hair and her breasts.

  The brief tantalizing look he’d had at her bare breasts had stayed with him as he walked back to the coach. Just thinking about her body brought an unwelcome tightening in his loins. “Damn!” The last thing he needed was a woman who spoke to his needs and didn’t even know she was talking.

  He told himself that a woman who donned her blouse backwards wasn’t exactly the kind of feminine company he’d choose. He had the feeling that Trouble was better acquainted with masculine attire than what she’d been wearing when she climbed on the stage. She was awake.

  • • •

  “Let me have your nightgown.”

  Bran had gathered a large stack of underbrush. Then he moved the driver closer to the fire.

  Macky watched what he was doing. She couldn’t figure his actions out. “You’re going to burn my nightgown?”

  “No. I’m going to make a shelter.”

  “Why?”

  “Once the sun gets up, it could get very hot in here, sheltered from the wind. Or it could rain. Jenks will need a cover.”

  “We aren’t going to leave him, are we?”

  “I’m not going with you, lass,” the driver said. “I’ll just slow you down.

  “Of course you are. We’ll help you, won’t we, Mr.—Bran?”

  “No,” Jenks Malone said. “You go on to the station and send someone back for me and the coach. I’ll keep the mail sack here with me.”

  “But you don’t have food or water.”

  “He’ll keep the rest of the whiskey and part of the jerky,” the preacher said.

  “Absolutely not! I won’t leave him behind. Where does a preacher get whiskey anyway?”

  Macky didn’t know why she was arguing. The plan made sense. But they’d nearly lost the driver and, as irrational as it seemed, she couldn’t face leaving anyone behind.

  Bran put his hand on her shoulder. “Why does a woman carry a man’s shirt and coat as a change of clothes?”

  She knew he could feel her muscles contract beneath his touch and feared that he’d misunderstand. She was sure of it when he said, “Perhaps it would be better if you stayed with Jenks. I can travel faster without you.”

  “Stay here?” She was torn. She couldn’t be sure about the bank robbers and Jenks needed her. But her feelings about allowing the stranger to walk off across the prairie alone was even more worrisome.

  “No, lass,” Jenks said. “You go with him. He might need help. If somebody doesn’t get to the station, we’re all lost. I’ll wait for you.”

  Rationally, Macky knew that he would make better time alone, but irrationally something stopped her from allowing him to go.

  “Make up your mind, Trouble. Do you stay or go?”

  Jenks was right. She’d done what she could for him. Making certain that someone got to the way station was what he needed now. “I’ll go. Are you ready to leave?”

  Bran looked at her. “You have any long pants in that case of yours?”

  “Why?”

  “You’d make better time if you weren’t wearing a skirt.”

  Macky knew he was right. But if it was Pratt who attacked the stagecoach he’d be more likely to recognize her if she were dressed in the clothes she’d worn back in Promise. She couldn’t risk discarding her skirt and she couldn’t be too curious about the outlaws.

  “Don’t worry. I won’t slow you down.”

  They gathered as much brush as they could, leaving Jenks surrounded by brambles. Finally, satisfied that he had enough to stay warm, Bran took a long look at his traveling companion. He hoped he wasn’t making a big mistake. “All right, let’s move out.”

  Macky lifted her portmanteau and started to follow.

  “You’re not planning to drag that along,” he said, taking the carrying case from her hand, surprised at the weight.

  “Of course I am. I’ll carry it.”

  “Don’t be foolish. You’ll never be able to keep up. Besides, who do you plan to dress for? There’s only me and, I assure you, I don’t care what you wear.”

  Macky blushed. She knew he was right. But she couldn’t abandon the money. How would she return the part of the money she didn’t have a claim to?

  Bran’s expression dared her to argue. “If you can’t wear it, you’ll have to leave it behind.”

  Macky grabbed on to that idea. “Just a minute.” She dragged the case to the outside of the biggest rock and opened it. She stuffed paper money in her pockets and inside her shirt, managing to carry part of it. The rest she’d have to leave until someone could return for Jenks.

  She tucked a few of the gold coins into the sleeves of her torn blouse and shoved them inside her coat pocket. Then she refastened the case and tugged it back inside the stand of rocks, leaving it beside Jenks.

  “Don’t worry, lass, I’ll keep it for you.”

  “Thanks, Jenks. Well get back for you soon.”

  Moments later she was charging along behind the preacher. Adding the money to her clothing did keep her warmer, but walking through the clumps of prairie grass was hard. It caught in her skirt and slowed her down, making her stumble. Not so, her companion. Even with the head injury he’d refused to let her treat, he set a steady pace that would have daunted most people.

  But Macky kept up.

  The ruts in the trail made a thin brown line across the plains. She set her eyes on the horizon, willing her feet to keep moving. A brisk cold wind swept across the plains, tugging at her hair. She was grateful for the heat of the sun as it climbed higher in the sky.

  In spite of their dire circumstances there was something stimulating in the a
ir, something that made Macky feel at home. The Kansas Territory had become a melting pot of people and ideas. Farmers, bent on escaping the close confines of the East, were pouring down the Overland Trail looking for a new life, fleeing the growing discord between the Northern and Southern states.

  The finding of gold and silver in the mountains drew a different breed, some greedy, some merely independent, risk takers and mountain men.

  But with the arrival of the Pony Express, news moved west as fast as the settlers. The politicians back in Washington were determined that Kansas be admitted to the Union as a free state, although some of its settlers owned slaves. Papa had never owned slaves but he tried to be fair to both sides. He’d watched the growing discord between the North and the South and considered their western journey as a way to avoid being forced to defend either side. Still, he always spoke his mind, something a Boston schoolteacher was unwise to do.

  And that made him just as unpopular in the West.

  Politics didn’t interest Macky. Always responsible for her father and her brother, she’d never given much thought to what she wanted. She’d certainly never fit in as a society woman back in Boston. Now, walking across the prairie, she realized that under different circumstances, she could easily have joined the pioneer women who walked alongside their wagons, following their men to a new land.

  Idly she allowed her mind to build on that picture. What kind of man might she have married if she hadn’t had Papa to care for?

  Certainly not a man like her present companion. Bran didn’t look like the rough-dressed men she’d seen pass through Promise driving wagons pulled by oxen. She wasn’t exactly certain what a circuit preacher in the West looked like, but she was reasonably sure that they didn’t carry guns and wear fancy black boots.

  And there was the eye patch and his story of being named by the Indians. Was he an Indian fighter? According to Papa, those men wore buckskin clothing and coonskin caps. They were hard-drinking men with bad teeth and they didn’t bathe.

  Nothing about Bran fit any of those descriptions. But Macky knew as she straggled to keep up with him that this was a man she could depend on.

  “Enough daydreaming, Macky,” she whispered. “You’re no more likely to be a pioneer woman than wear a satin skirt to a ball.”

  “Daydreaming?” The preacher’s question startled Macky. She hadn’t realized that she’d spoken aloud. More, she hadn’t realized that she was dreaming. Fantasizing was as foreign to her as the skirt she was damning. Certainly she’d never done it before.

  But neither had she robbed a bank nor followed a man wearing a black eye patch across the prairie before.

  They stopped at midday, took a few sips of water and set out again. By this time the wind was gone and Macky’s paper insulation was beginning to make her very warm. But she couldn’t remove her coat without revealing the lumpy presence of the money inside her shirt. Worse, she needed to find a place to stop, a private place.

  It was mid-afternoon when she caught sight of an indenture in the landscape. A line of trees, with leaves just beginning to bud out, snaked across their path, bringing the horizon closer.

  “Ah, Mr.—Bran,” she began, stopping to wipe her forehead on her sleeve. “I need to—I mean, do you intend to stop anytime soon?”

  “When we get to those trees up ahead, we’ll stop. Why? Are you getting tired?”

  “No. I have to—”

  He looked over his shoulder, took in the embarrassment on her face and understood. “Can you wait until we get there? If not, I’ll turn my back.”

  “I’ll wait,” she said, tightening her muscles and picking up her steps.

  Just as she’d decided she wasn’t going to make it, they reached the copse of trees and the small stream running through them.

  “Excuse me,” she said, and headed for a section of brush that hid the stream from view.

  Bran moved upstream in the other direction, allowing privacy for both of them and using the time to study their crossing place. The melting snow from the mountain ranges in the distance had caused what was normally a shallow stream to become much deeper, the current stronger.

  There was nothing to do but wade across. Maybe camping here would be best. Then they’d go on to the way station in the morning rather than chancing an unknown trail in the dark.

  As he walked back to where the trail crossed the creek he began to whistle, warning the girl of his approach. Grudgingly, he admitted that she’d been a better walker than he’d expected. He’d set a fast pace and she’d kept up with no complaints and no whining.

  She was smoothing her skirt as she came to meet him. Her body was hidden by the loose-fitting jacket but there was something odd about her shape. She had to be wearing several shirts to look so lumpy.

  “We have to cross the creek here,” he said.

  She glanced at the swiftly moving water and winced. “Isn’t there a shallower place?”

  “Not that I can see. Upstream it’s wider but just as deep, and you can see that downstream the water takes a narrow path. The trail wouldn’t cross here unless this was the best place.”

  Macky swallowed hard. The water wasn’t that deep. She could see the bottom clearly. And she was wearing sturdy boots. But what in hell was she going to do about this skirt?

  “Can’t you just hike your skirt up over your knees?” he asked as if in answer to her thought.

  Sure. You’ve already seen the top half of my body. Now you’re asking to see the bottom. Why hadn’t she worn the trousers? She glared at the amusement she was certain lurked in his stern expression.

  “I’ll get across. Just lead the way.”

  Macky watched as the preacher took off his greatcoat, tied it around a rock and threw it across, and stepped into the stream. Following his suggestion, she pulled her skirt through her legs and tucked it into the waistband, then stepped into the icy water. Taking a few steps, she felt the swift-moving water. So far, so, good. She could do this.

  She would have made it, if she hadn’t slipped on a rock and dropped the heavy blue fabric of her skirt into the water. The current caught it and dragged her downstream before she could right herself. Even then she might have managed, except for the awkwardness of her movements caused by the restriction of her money-stuffed garments.

  The clatter of coins, the string of oaths, and the splash of water caused the preacher to turn back toward her from the far bank. This time he made no attempt to hold back the laughter.

  “Let me help you,” he finally said, holding out his hand.

  “No, thanks. I fell and I’ll get up!”

  In the end, however, she was forced to allow him to pull her up. When he caught the hem of her skirt and lifted it from the stream she followed the line of his vision. The clear water magnified the whiteness of the skin and the trail of blood that seeped from the scratch on her knee, just below the hem of her drawers.

  “You’re hurt,” he said as he reached down and lifted her in his arms and started toward the other side. “And you’re heavy. You feel like a supply sack. What are you wearing under that coat, everything you own?”

  “Yes! Let go of me—this minute!”

  “This minute?”

  “Yes!”

  “Certainly!” He stepped to the bank and let her go, allowing her to fall on the marshy earth like an armful of stovewood.

  “Ohhhh! I have never met anyone so infuriating. Couldn’t you have put me down like—like a gentleman?”

  “You said let go. I did.” She was trying to squeeze the water from her skirt. Though the bottom of her coat was wet, the top of her body had stayed reasonably dry. But Bran knew that the frigid water would turn her into a chunk of ice in minutes. From the look of her blue lips she was already beginning to feel the cold.

  He’d have to chance building another fire so that they could dry their clothing before night set in. “Let’s move upstream, away from the crossing, and I’ll make a fire.” Bran began gathering sticks and limbs. “We
can’t go on until you’re dry, and by that time it will be getting dark. We’ll camp here for the night.”

  Teeth already chattering, Macky followed him. “What about Jenks?”

  “He’s better off at the moment than you are,” he replied. In a short time a fire was blazing. But even the fire didn’t stop the chill.

  “Take off your jacket and skirt and drape them over these rocks,” Bran finally said, “and I’ll see to your knee.”

  She glared at him. Take off her skirt? Her clothes might have to be dried, but she’d turn into an icicle before she’d stand there nude.

  “You need to see my knee? What’s the matter? Haven’t you seen enough of my—me? First you rip the buttons off my shirtwaist. Now you’re asking me to expose myself? What kind of crazy man are you?”

  “I’m the man who is going to show you crazy if you don’t do as I say. Here, you can wear my greatcoat while your clothes are drying.”

  He flung the dusty garment at her and stalked off downstream. “When I get back I want your clothes draped by the fire and you sitting quietly beside them.”

  Macky would have said something but she sensed that her rescuer was very near doing what he’d threatened. Considering what he’d find if he undressed her, she decided that she’d be better off doing it herself. Moments later she’d draped her skirt and jacket over two large rocks near the fire and donned the preacher’s heavy coat. She removed her boots and pushed them toward the heat, leaving her wool-sock-encased feet turning into ice.

  If she removed her shirt she could cover her feet, but the money would have to be hidden. Did she have time to do that before he returned?

  The sound of footsteps told her no. Quickly she emptied the gold from the torn shirtsleeves into her pocket and tied the fabric around her feet.

  The water-soaked skirt began to steam and the socks gave off an odor of wet wool. Bran dropped a second pile of limbs behind her, knelt down and reached for the front of his coat.

  “What are you doing?” Macky attempted to slide away, setting off a jingle of the coins in her pocket.