The Redhead and the Preacher: A Loveswept Historical Romance

by Sandra Chastain

But what if Bran came and she was gone?

  So what if he did? He had no claim on her. She could do what she wanted. Besides, the hour was long past the time a preacher should be at home with his wife. If he really was a preacher.

  A shiver ran up her backbone. She had no claim on him, either. She wasn’t really his wife.

  The window opened out onto the roof that covered the wood-plank sidewalk. If she could climb out, she could find a way down without being seen. Her mind made up, she quickly changed into her brother’s trousers and shirt. She had lost Papa’s hat, but if she covered her hair with something, she could conceal its color and the fact that she was a woman.

  A sock would make a fine cap.

  “Phoo!” The sock was too light in color. It would stand out in the moonlight like a beacon. No man would wear a white stocking on his head. Desperately she glanced around.

  The fireplace. Without a thought she ripped the sock from her head and put her hand inside. Then, avoiding the dying coals of the fire, she wiped the inside of the fireplace, turning the sock black with soot. Pulling it back over her head, she was satisfied that, in the darkness, nobody would see her.

  The window opened easily and the roof seemed steady as she climbed out on it and made her way across the front of the saloon to the side. The streets appeared empty. Now all she had to do was find a way down.

  Bran, leaning against the wall of the general store next door to the saloon, watched the street and considered his next move.

  He was uncharacteristically restless and out of sorts. Not just because he couldn’t get a handle on the situation in Heaven, but because, for the first time, he wasn’t working alone. Any decisions he made involved another person.

  If Trouble hadn’t stepped forward and allowed the welcoming committee to think she was the minister’s wife, he could have corrected their impression. But she had, and Lucifer’s horns if he hadn’t gone along with her.

  An unmistakable tightening in his gut reminded him that traveling under the guise of being a minister was one thing, but keeping up the charade was going to be something else. He wasn’t normally a man who worried much about hoodwinking people if he stood a chance of finding the man he was after, but being a preacher could be difficult.

  Having a wife could be even more.

  Normally, he’d go to Sylvia Mainwearing as a half-breed drifter, looking for a job. But as the minister, he could call on anybody he wanted to under the pretense of soliciting funds and saving souls. And if he collected any pledges it would be a fair exchange for anonymity.

  Each time he started a new job he hoped the man he was after could lead him to the cutthroats who’d killed his family. During the last fifteen years he’d located many men who started as Mississippi River bandits, but the man with the disturbing laugh remained free. And Bran couldn’t give up. The search kept him going, gave his life purpose.

  This time he had a feeling that he was on the right track. His Choctaw father would have said it was his second sight, the kind of unique instinct that had given him the name Eyes That See in Darkness.

  The end justified the means, he told himself, and if Trouble was part of the charade, so be it. She’d made her own choices. Now she’d have to put up with him and whatever happened.

  But hell, it was going to be hard. He let out a laugh. No, he was hard already and the night was still to come. Sooner or later he’d have to retire to the room the townsfolk had arranged for the new minister and his wife. He’d put off confronting that temptation as long as he could by taking a walk down one side of the street and back up the other. Now he delayed once again to have a last smoke.

  He’d spent one night holding the girl in his arms to keep her warm and another night wishing he could. Until they were able to move into the cabin, he could see no way out of sharing the same bedroom. What had started out as a necessity was turning into a real problem.

  As he’d watched her discomfort at the social earlier, he’d seen how uncertain she was under her show of bravado. Obviously, she was completely out of her element. But she’d forced herself to go through the motions, never once asking for help. He was more than a little curious about her past; it was imperative now that he know. Ignorance of his accomplice could be fatal.

  Then, in a lull in the merriment filtering out of the saloon, came a voice. “Ding dong bells! No stairs.”

  The voice was little more than a whisper, but he instantly recognized the swear words of the woman he’d spent the last hour fretting over.

  What in hell was she up to?

  The sound of scuffling answered his question as two trousered legs suddenly dangled from the roof.

  Bran stepped into the shadowed doorway of the store and waited. Whatever she was doing, she didn’t want to come through the saloon to do it.

  Suddenly she let go, landed on her feet, and fell forward to her knees. “Ouch!”

  Bran almost reached out for her, then caught himself and waited. He’d been standing there long enough for his eyes to become adjusted to the darkness.

  After a moment, she stood and scurried to the edge of the building and waited. Apparently she was satisfied that nobody had seen her for, hugging the shadows, she made her way into the street toward the horses tied at the rail.

  Was she about to steal a horse? That activity seemed more natural for her than attending socials. But the marshal was already too interested in Bran. Having the preacher’s wife guilty of horse theft was certainly not the kind of attention he could afford.

  He almost called out to her when she moved around to the other side of one of the horses, examining the saddle. The sudden droop of her shoulders was obvious. What had she seen that bothered her so much? And what was she going to do?

  Macky was wondering that same thing. She’d confirmed her worst fears. The horse was the same one she’d ridden into Promise in the company of the Pratt gang. Pratt must have claimed it and was still in town, looking for McKenzie.

  Why?

  He couldn’t know that the preacher’s wife was the McKenzie he was searching for, could he? She opened the saddlebag, running her hand inside. She didn’t know what she expected to find, but when her fingers touched the velvet and she heard the sound of coins clinking together a knot formed in her stomach.

  Pratt had found her purse along the trail, the purse containing some of the coins from the bank robbery. Surely that didn’t prove anything. Would Pratt connect that to the robbery, to Heaven?

  Her heart sank. She was about to be discovered. She’d lose everything and now she didn’t even have the brooch to sell. Jail was a distinct possibility, or even worse.

  The cameo. It had been in the purse. It was hers, the last thing she had that belonged to her mother. Digging deeper, she found it, closed her fingers around it and something else. She drew the objects out.

  At that moment the doors of the saloon swung open, throwing light across the startled Macky, catching her in the act. Instinctively she ducked and started running around the corner of the building, tucking the cameo inside her pocket.

  “Hold it, you little thief!” Pratt said, drawing his gun. “I’ll kill anybody who steals from me.”

  Bran let her run by, then left his hiding place and stepped between the fleeing Macky and her pursuer. His voice was intentionally low. No point in calling attention to what was happening. “Careful, pilgrim. The Scriptures say that ‘He who is without sin may cast the first stone.’ Are you free from sin?”

  The startled fugitive hesitated, then pointed his gun at Bran. “Get out of my way, preacher. The thief is getting away.”

  “What did he steal?”

  That stopped the clean-shaven man for a moment. “Nothing,” he finally answered, replaced his gun in his holster, turned back to his horse and climbed on. Patting his saddlebags and eliciting a jingle of coins, he seemed satisfied. “Sorry, preacher, I thought I’d seen him somewhere before. Guess I was wrong.”

  Bran wasn’t so sure about that. He didn’t understa
nd what he’d just witnessed, but he knew there was more to it than a case of mistaken identity. An ordinary drifter wouldn’t leave anything valuable unguarded in his saddlebags. Maybe the patrons of Heaven’s Bell knew the man better than they wanted to admit. All the more reason for him to have a little talk with Lorraine.

  Bran stood on the sidewalk and watched as the man rode away, then turned and went around the building in search of his errant bride.

  Macky didn’t know what had stopped Pratt from coming after her. But she seemed to have escaped. With her heart thudding in her throat, Macky pushed open the back door and peered into what seemed to be a dining room. It was empty.

  She slipped inside. There were two doors, one leading into a pantry, the other into a hall where she found a set of narrow servant’s steps leading to the second floor.

  Letting out a deep sigh of relief she crept up, feeling her way in the darkness. The stairs led to the end of the hall across from the room she and Bran had been assigned. As she crouched in the shadows, she heard the soft laughter of Miss Lake, the proprietor of the Heaven’s Bell.

  “How long will you be staying this time, Marshal?” she asked.

  The answering voice was deep but too muffled to be understood.

  “No,” Lorraine said. “Perhaps Reverend Adams isn’t exactly what the town expected, but what makes you think that I would know him?”

  There was a silence.

  Macky was curious about that herself. Why would the marshal question Lorraine? Obviously, he was suspicious of Bran. If Marshal Larkin was asking questions about Bran, it only followed that he’d question Macky.

  “Are you saying you don’t like him, Lorraine? Don’t lie to me. I saw the way you looked at him.”

  There was a low, amused laugh. “Them,” she corrected. “He has a wife, remember? And if you think I looked at him with desire, you weren’t looking at his wife.”

  “Wife? I still don’t know what I think about her.”

  “Neither do the women of the congregation. I hope she’s as tough as I think she is. Otherwise, those sanctimonious souls will have her tarred and feathered before she even knows why.”

  “I think she can take care of herself,” the marshal observed. “With a little help she could be … appealing in a primitive sort of way.”

  “Leave her alone, Larkin. You’re already flirting with Sylvia. She’s more your cup of tea—respectable and wealthy.”

  Primitive? Why, that toad-sucking jackass!

  “Kate is an innocent. I won’t have you corrupting her!”

  Crawfish and tadpoles! Lorraine was sticking up for her. Macky didn’t know what to think about that for she too had seen the way Lorraine looked at Bran. And Lorraine had been honest in admitting that if things were different she’d be interested in him.

  As innocent as she might be, Macky couldn’t forget the feel of the soft mat of hair on his chest, the strength of the muscles in his legs when she’d examined him for wounds. How could she blame Lorraine?

  But by damn, Bran was hers. Well, not really, but he belonged to her as far as the world was concerned. Besides, for now, she told herself, she needed him and she had no intention of sharing him with another woman. As for the marshal’s suspicions, Macky had to let Bran know so that he could …

  What? What did she expect him to do?

  The sound of footsteps interrupted her thoughts. Someone was coming up from the kitchen. Macky scurried into her room and closed the door. Suppose it was Pratt, looking for her? Quickly she tucked the purloined jewelry behind the bed, shed her clothing, donned the sleeping garment, and dived under the cover.

  Just in time. The door opened and closed softly.

  Macky didn’t dare open her eyes to see who was standing there. She was certain that it was someone she didn’t want to have a conversation with.

  Then she knew, without words or sight.

  Eyes That See in Darkness was watching her. She could feel him. Not the preacher, nor Bran, but the dangerous man to whom she’d formed an unnatural spiritual connection. That same fluttery feeling filled her stomach and threatened to stop her lungs from drawing in air. Willing her breath to rise and fall evenly, she feigned sleep.

  She was pretending to sleep when Bran entered the room to which Lorraine had directed him earlier. Deep shadows fell across the bed where she was lying, shrouding her face in darkness. She was covered by a satin spread that had slipped down to reveal a soft pink sleeping garment.

  His plan to confront her about her past got lost in the sudden tightness he felt in his loins. Damn it all to hell, it was self-defense, he told himself, concern over her nefarious activities. What connection could she possibly have with the man from the saloon? Whatever it was, she was inviting trouble and it was up to him to protect her—in self-defense.

  Bran massaged a dull ache gathering at his temples. Trouble. She’d warned him. But Bran wasn’t prepared for this unexpected need to keep her safe. He was no gladiator, but he had the growing feeling that this woman was not as independent as she wanted him to think. And he already knew she was much too impulsive.

  He’d had demons chasing him a time or two and he recognized that something powerful was driving her. Whatever had sent her running was important enough to force her to pretend to be his wife.

  Bran was still having trouble with that word. He’d never had a wife and never expected to. But he’d had a mother and a sister once. He hadn’t been able to take care of them. Now this girl had been thrust into his life and instead of walking away he was making himself a part of her.

  Bran knew he’d committed too many cruelties, accepted too many assignments that ended in bloodshed, to let himself see this relationship as anything more than a means to conceal his identity while he searched for the man who was behind the mining thefts in Heaven.

  Why, then, was he still standing there, staring at her?

  Because without the ill-fitting clothing she looked totally different. Soft in sleep, there was a vulnerability about her that she wouldn’t have appreciated him seeing. And it caught at whatever small bit of tenderness still lay hidden inside his heart.

  That worried him. He’d always prided himself on his ability to remain focused on his objective. Using a woman to achieve his goal was one thing, but breaking his concentration was dangerous.

  She moved, drawing her knees up and snuggling her chin beneath the covers like a child. Desire swept over him and he took an involuntary step toward her.

  Suddenly her eyes opened and he heard her take a soft breath.

  Then silence.

  She knew he was there and she was waiting.

  From the bed, Macky could see only the outline of the man, the fire beside him forming an orange backdrop for the black silhouette beside her bed.

  She could hear his breathing and her own. What would she do if he touched her? What had she done by letting the world think she was his wife? Why had he allowed it?

  She moistened her lips and waited.

  She heard a match strike and groaned. Any hope of escaping a confrontation died as the light flared on the table beside her.

  “I think we need to talk. Christ! What in hell do you have on your head?”

  “Oh!” The sock. She’d forgotten to take it off. Glancing back at the pillow, she saw the sooty evidence of the outline of her head on the linen case. “It’s—it’s a beauty treatment.”

  “I see. And what is it supposed to accomplish?” He struggled to hold back a smile as he moved closer.

  “To make my hair more tame.” She began to edge away from him. “I mean, a preacher’s wife should look … proper.”

  “Somehow I doubt that the congregation would see it quite that way. How long does that stay on your head?”

  “Ah, it’s only temporary. I’ll take it off now.” She jerked the sock from her head and poked it under the soiled pillow. Anything to get it out of sight and stop his questions.

  “I think it’s time you told me why you let them
believe that you were my wife.”

  She’d known the question was coming but she had no answer. “Why are you pretending to be a minister?”

  “What makes you think I’m not?”

  “I don’t know,” she admitted. “You know the Scriptures, but there is something about you that frightens me.”

  “You should be frightened. I’m a man and you’re still a girl.”

  “I’m almost twenty.”

  “Why are you running away, Trouble?”

  Dare she tell him? No. Telling him would only put him in danger. From what she’d seen of Pratt he wouldn’t think twice about threatening Bran, or worse. And there was the marshal. Even if Bran truly wanted to keep her shameful secret, what would keep him from protecting himself by turning her in to the marshal?

  No, for now, she’d keep her past to herself.

  Until she could be certain that Pratt had gone and that the law wasn’t looking for her.

  “I was running away from—from a town that had turned its back on me, from a life that was over.”

  “Running away? Yes, I believe that. Is someone likely to come after you?”

  She took too long to answer. “Yes, but he won’t be looking for a minister’s wife.”

  “Knowing you, I can believe that.”

  “As you pointed out,” she went on, “a mining town isn’t safe for a woman like me, alone. It was either become a preacher’s wife or one of Miss Lake’s girls and I’m not experienced enough for that.”

  “But you’re experienced enough to be my wife?” He couldn’t hold back a laugh. “I don’t think you have any idea what that would mean.”

  She hadn’t seen him laugh before. His entire face changed and suddenly it was hard for Macky to talk. After a long moment she put on her bravest front and answered. “I don’t know what you’re really up to, but it seems that pretending to be Reverend and Mrs. Adams will serve us both well—for now.”

  Bran stopped smiling at her statement. Obviously he was having more trouble carrying out their charade than he wanted to admit. She could tell from the set of his shoulders that he was going to say something to frighten her.