The Redhead and the Preacher: A Loveswept Historical Romance

by Sandra Chastain

  And of course Macky. From the moment she’d come on board in Promise, she’d thwarted every attempt he’d made to push her away; she’d thrown herself into his life and he was making a place for her. Stealing a quick glance at her, he couldn’t hold back a smile. Trouble, yes, but much more. She was bright and charming and independent. Too damned independent.

  Without his help, she’d end up as some farmer’s workhorse or in some brothel earning her living on her back. He couldn’t let that happen. Somehow he’d become responsible for her, and sham or not, he had no intention of letting her past stop this job or ruin her future.

  Not if he had anything to say about it.

  From somewhere in the outcropping of rock ahead an owl hooted. The late afternoon sky had changed from blue to a hazy purple as the sun slid lower, draping the mountain range in shadows.

  Past the barrier of rock, the Mainwearing house loomed like a white crown in the distance. The house was a Spanish-style adobe with a veranda that wrapped around the second floor. It was lit with lamps that shone like jewels in a crown. The fence posts, whitewashed like the house, were also topped with lamps, welcoming the guests’ arrival. As they drew closer they could see a scattering of small white buildings and barns clustered around the house.

  “Oh, my,” Macky murmured, as the buggy came to a stop and a servant took hold of the horse’s bridle. “No wonder you were concerned about my appearance. Mrs. Mainwearing must be very wealthy.”

  “She is,” he said in a low voice as he helped her down.

  “I know that I’ve endangered your position here, Bran, and I don’t understand why you want me to stay. But I owe you a debt of gratitude more than you’ll ever know. So just tell me what to do and I’ll try my best.”

  “Just be yourself, Macky,” he answered. “And maybe we can pull this off. Perhaps we can even convince Mrs. Mainwearing to donate some money to help build a church.”

  Macky let out a soft breath. He wasn’t going to turn her in. She leaned back so that she could see his face. “I don’t know what you’re up to, but I don’t think it’s building a church. You’d do better if you flatter Mrs. Mainwearing like you did me. You’re very good at it. What do you think?”

  He looked down at her and, even with everything that had happened, knew that she was still the most appealing woman he’d ever met. “I think,” he said, folding her arm over his, “not. You see, I have no interest in sleeping with her.”

  Before Macky could respond, the door was opened by one of the most handsome women Macky had ever seen.

  “Reverend Adams,” the woman said, her eyebrows lifted as if she were measuring the man. “I am Sylvia Main wearing. Welcome to my home.”

  Bran released Macky’s arm and took the hand extended to him, kissing it lightly before he reached back and drew Macky forward. “And this is Kate, my wife.”

  Sylvia glanced briefly at Macky, then planted her gaze on Bran with such intensity that Macky could feel the intimidation from where she stood.

  “You’re not what I expected,” she said. “Neither of you.”

  “Welcome, Mrs. Adams,” Marshal Larkin called from the room opening off the entranceway. “It’s very nice to see you again. Come and meet the judge.”

  Sylvia looked displeased for a moment, then noting the frown on Bran’s face, she stepped back and motioned them inside. “Yes, do come and meet my guests, Reverend.”

  “We’d be delighted,” Bran said easily.

  Bran was wrong. From the look on Mrs. Mainwearing’s face, Macky could see that it wouldn’t take many compliments for Bran to gain her favor. Macky swallowed back the hot anger that blazed inside and instinctively moved closer to the man who was not only her husband, but her jailer as well.

  Bran put his hand on her back, urging her forward, “Is this the lion’s den?” she whispered under her breath.

  “Oh, yes, this is definitely the lion’s den.”

  “Well, I hope you brought your slingshot.”

  “Wrong story, Macky. That was David.”

  She could have argued that she wouldn’t feel comfortable with both David and Daniel as her escorts. Only her fear of the marshal, who had stepped forward to greet them, stopped Macky’s need to flee.

  “Judge,” he said, “meet our new minister, Brandon Adams, and his wife, Kate,” the marshal said, turning to the stately man standing beside the fire.

  A judge and a marshal. Macky was dead. Even a Methodist minister in the middle of Sodom and Gomorrah couldn’t save her now.

  “A true Southern beauty,” the judge said, smiling at her. “No doubt about it. Where are you from, missy?”

  Bran started slightly. At that moment Macky knew Bran still wasn’t sure of her. She was as much his jailer as he was hers. She felt an enormous need to prove to him that she could be trusted.

  “I’m originally from Boston, Your Honor. And you?”

  “From New Orleans. Came out to Denver to make my fortune after the last fire. A splendid, though slightly wicked place, New Orleans. But the folks there don’t take to Americans too well.”

  Macky wandered closer. “I’ve never been there myself, but my father ran a trading post along the Mississippi, before we came to Kansas. Mr. Adams is from Mississippi originally, too.”

  “Interesting, we’re all ex-Southerners. I believe the marshal is from that area as well.”

  “How long have you been married, Mrs. Adams?” Sylvia asked, coming to stand by the judge.

  “Not long enough,” she said.

  “Not very long,” Bran said at the same time, looking for a way to change the subject. “What brings you to Heaven, Judge Hardcastle?”

  “This angel in red,” he answered, smiling possessively at Mrs. Mainwearing. “I’m trying to convince her to come to Denver, for safety’s sake,” he said.

  “Don’t believe a word he tells you, Reverend Adams. He’s interested in my money, just like every other man I’ve ever met. Except for Mr. Mainwearing, of course. He already had the money. He just wanted me. What about you, Reverend?”

  “Oh, I already have a wife, Mrs. Mainwearing, but if you’re offering me money, the church will be pleased to accept it, in the name of your late husband, of course.”

  She looked at him oddly for a moment, then asked shrewdly, “What are your plans for our town?”

  “I’m not quite sure yet. I have to get to know the people of Heaven, find out what their needs are. Then I’ll decide what to do. You have a lovely place here, Mrs. Mainwearing. That is an interesting painting over the fireplace.”

  Bran’s remark drew everyone’s attention to the framed picture of a crown, adorned by an ornate gold letter S, surrounded by lacy filigree against a black background.

  “It’s the crest which represents my mine, the Sylvia. In an effort to stop the thefts we recently installed a press that engraves all my gold with my own mark. That way we can always identify the gold from the Sylvia.”

  Marshal Larkin took a sip from his whiskey glass. “The first marked shipment of Mrs. Mainwearing’s gold coins was stolen by the Pratt gang in that bank holdup over in Promise. We don’t believe any of them have been used yet, but once they are, we’ll get the thief.”

  Macky’s breath whooshed out of her lungs. The S was the same as the letter on her coins. Everybody would know that her gold had come from the Sylvia mine. Pratt had seen it. Bran had seen it. And she’d spent some of the coins in Mrs. Gooden’s store. She’d run from discovery only to set herself up to be identified. As always, Macky was in trouble.

  Mrs. Mainwearing, the judge, and the marshal were all studying the painting. But Bran’s full attention was focused on her. He knew about the coins. Macky had to find some way to get out of there. As if she were collapsing inside her crinoline petticoat, McKenzie Kathryn Calhoun did the only sensible, womanly thing. She fainted dead away.

  Chapter Twelve

  Macky’s pretend faint scared the wits out of Bran, but he was able to act like a concerned husb
and long enough to get Macky out of the room. He didn’t know what had set her off, but he could tell that she was ready to bolt.

  Sylvia Mainwearing insisted on taking Macky upstairs to rest, shooing Bran out the door until the servants had made her comfortable.

  “Now,” Sylvia was saying, “we’ll just get you out of your gown and into a wrapper. You can take a nice rest while I see that the men are fed.”

  “Thank you,” Macky said gratefully, hoping that her tone was reasonably faint. “But I’ll be fine. You go back to your guests.”

  The older woman studied Macky carefully, then agreed, but had one of the maids sit by the bed to watch over Macky. Mrs. Mainwearing gave her one last concerned look, then slipped out of the room and closed the door behind her.

  Bran was waiting in the hall. “Is she all right?”

  “She’s fine, Reverend Adams. The mayor explained that your wife is with child. These things are to be expected. Shall we rejoin the others?”

  Bran knew he had to talk to his employer sometime and this was as good a time as any. “Mrs. Mainwearing, is there somewhere we could talk, privately?”

  Sylvia quirked an eyebrow, then nodded. “Of course. My private sitting room is just down the hall.”

  “That will be fine.”

  Bran followed her, rehearsing his story, wishing he had the wisdom that his Indian father had always predicted. Sylvia left the door ajar, but didn’t bother to light more than the one lamp.

  “What did you want to talk about, Reverend Adams?”

  “Let’s begin with my name. I think you know me better by Night Eyes. I’m sorry to have misled you, but as you know, I always keep my identity secret when I start a job.”

  Sylvia’s eyes widened. Then she started to laugh. “You’re my half-breed gunfighter? With an eye patch? I don’t believe it. I will have to say that you’re the least likely looking preacher I’ve ever seen. What did you do with the real one?”

  “He died on the way here. I buried him on the trail. I didn’t plan to assume his identity, but it happened and then it seemed like it was meant to be.”

  “Heaven-sent,” she quipped. “Yes, I can see how you would. But how’d you get his wife to go along?”

  “Macky isn’t his wife. She—well, she doesn’t figure in our situation. Now, we don’t have much time. Suppose you tell me what’s been happening.”

  For the next few minutes, Sylvia Mainwearing described how after Moose’s death, the original prospectors had been scared off, followed by the attacks on her mine and her gold shipments.

  “It’s as if that outlaw knows exactly what I’m doing and when I’m doing it.”

  “And you have no idea who is behind it?”

  “Well, obviously it’s somebody who wants my money. The truth is, it could be anybody. It could even be somebody in Denver whom I don’t know.”

  “What about the marshal?”

  “Judge Hardcastle brought him here. He’s done all he can. He’s sent guards along with my shipments, he’s posted his own men at the mine. I’m at my wit’s end. The townspeople are tired of their men getting shot up. They’re beginning to resent me so much that I don’t even go into town. What am I going to do?”

  “We need their help, Mrs. Mainwearing. The first thing I want you to do is get to know those people in town.”

  “I wouldn’t know how.”

  “Well, I can think of one way. They’re holding a house-warming for us, to help furnish Kelley’s shack, the new parsonage. Why don’t you come?”

  He expected an argument, but to his surprise, she thought about it for a moment, then nodded. “Do you think they’d mind?”

  “I don’t think so, but it’s a perfect way to get things started. People are inclined to gossip at social occasions, let things slip because they’re among friends.”

  “Wouldn’t it be better just to announce that you’re here? Every crook in the West knows about Night Eyes.”

  “Yes, but nobody actually knows me. They think I’m a half-breed who lives a mysterious life as a loner. One of the conditions of my employment is that nobody gives out my description. You were told that, weren’t you?”

  Sylvia looked as if she wanted to disagree. “Yes,” she finally said, “but wouldn’t your reputation as a gunfighter be enough to stop him?”

  “It just might make him lay low until I’m gone. I need everyone to believe that I’m trustworthy, that I’ll be able to help them. That’s where you can help.”

  “How?”

  “You say that the people in town resent you, maybe it’s because they think you are only using them, taking without giving back.”

  Sylvia gave him a look of sheer disbelief. “What in hell does that mean?”

  “It means that what man takes from the earth, he must share for the good of all. You may have all the money in Heaven, but you don’t have respect, and I think that may make a difference. Make a contribution to the church and see what happens.”

  “I might go to a housewarming, but I don’t believe in all that religious stuff. Why should I give my gold to build their church?”

  “You don’t have to believe in religion to know that the Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away, Mrs. Mainwearing. You’ve seen it personally. Oh, I don’t think God is responsible for your trouble, but you never know. Now, I want to check on my wife.”

  “All right, Reverend Adams, I’ll go along with your plan, but only for a time. If you don’t find out who’s behind this soon, I’m going to tell the town that Night Eyes is here.”

  Back in her room, Macky was quietly steaming. Her fainting spell hadn’t worked. She’d expected Bran to take her back to the saloon so she could find a way to get rid of the coins before Clara Gooden identified the minister’s wife as the person spending Sylvia Mainwearing’s gold.

  Once the marshal learned she was a thief, he’d start asking questions about Bran. Macky had put him in danger and he’d only tried to help her. She was surrounded by predators, waiting to pounce.

  And more than that, Macky had to find a way to escape Bran before he kissed her silly again and she lost whatever common sense she still had. The first thing she had to do was get rid of the maid guarding her.

  That idea was temporarily set aside when the door opened and Bran slipped in, his face laced with concern. At his request, the maid stepped outside the door, giving them more privacy than Macky wanted.

  “What’s the matter, Macky?” he asked, perching lightly on the side of her bed.

  She gave what she hoped was a convincing sigh and closed her eyes. “I’ll be fine. Just go back to the party and don’t worry about me.”

  “Don’t lie to me. You aren’t expecting so don’t try to blame your little faint on that. What are you really up to?” Bran’s hand lightly cupped her jaw, forcing her to face him.

  “Honestly, Bran, it just happened. I think it might be this corset. Polly trussed me up like a Christmas goose and I can hardly breathe.”

  “You do look a little flushed,” he admitted, still not willing to accept her story at face value. Without knowing what he was doing, Bran’s fingertips moved down her chin toward the open neckline of her dress.

  Macky gasped. It was becoming harder and harder to appear faint when her pulse was racing like wildfire, and the color in her face wasn’t from fever. With Bran looking at her as if he were ready to strangle her and the marshal downstairs ready to send her to jail, she couldn’t think straight.

  “I’ve already caused you enough trouble. I—I mean it came on me so suddenly. I feel really ill, Bran. I’d like to go home—I mean back to the saloon please, before …”

  “Tell me the truth, Macky. You aren’t sick, are you?”

  “I’m very uncomfortable, Bran. I really don’t feel well.”

  She was going to brazen it out unless he could find a way to force her to explain. He needed to know what upset her. He couldn’t carry this off without knowing the facts.

  “Maybe you are coming down
with A fever,” he said, filling the washbasin with water and dipping a cloth into it. He wrung it, then began to wipe her face and neck. “I believe you’ll be more comfortable if you have a bit more breathing room.” He loosened a button, then another, his cloth roaming farther beneath her chemise and across her nipples. Bran felt her tremble.

  When he started his caresses, he’d only intended to rattle her enough to learn the truth. But now that her breasts were visible in the lamplight he couldn’t stop. God, how smooth and soft she was, how yielding.

  If only they were back in their room at the saloon. If only she weren’t so damned appealing. He was fully hard and he wanted nothing more than to push up her skirt and take her, right here, with a room filled with people below.

  “Tell me what happened, Macky, you’ll feel better.”

  “No! You’re just saying sweet things to me again, Bran. And I want you to stop, right this minute!” Despite her words, he could tell she was aroused, maybe as much as he was.

  “You’re a very tempting woman, Macky. Since you do seem set on pretending to be my wife, maybe we should do more than pretend.”

  “Damn you,” she swore. If he’d just kept touching her, coaxing her body into such wild yearnings, she wouldn’t have stopped him. But he had to exact a price for his silence.

  She sat up, her face flushed, her dress open and her breasts exposed. “I understand what you’re asking, Bran, and you and I both know that I can’t stop you. I can’t imagine why you’d want me, but if this is what it takes to keep your silence, I’ll pay your price. So do what you have to and stop torturing me.”

  Pay his price? She couldn’t imagine that he’d want her? That was such a lie that he almost laughed. What in hell could she have done that was so bad that she thought she had to buy her freedom?

  He wanted her like hell, but if he made love to McKenzie Kathryn Calhoun, it had to be because she wanted it, not because she was paying a debt.