The Redhead and the Preacher: A Loveswept Historical Romance

by Sandra Chastain

  To Lorraine’s surprise, she was asked to dance not once but twice. It wasn’t much, but it was a beginning, all because of Macky. She’d thought that the women of Heaven had tolerated her because she’d made them welcome in her saloon, but she was no longer sure. She sighed. They seemed guardedly friendly but she didn’t want to get her hopes up for nothing. She didn’t know why she’d come to the party. She didn’t belong.

  Lorraine turned toward the creek, feeling more lonely than she’d ever felt. She never had real friends.

  And except for Moose, every man she’d ever known had used her. She’d thought the marshal was different and she’d been lonely. But it was obvious that it was Sylvia he had his eye on and Lorraine wouldn’t be second choice.

  The music behind her had turned slow and soulful. Just what she needed when she already felt like throwing herself into that creek and letting it sweep her away from this godawful little town in the middle of nowhere.

  She stood at the edge of the water, listening as it splashed against the rocky barriers and moved off into the night.

  “It’s hard being different,” a male voice said.

  Lorraine whirled around. It was Hank Clay leaning against a tree behind her. Had he followed her, or had he been there all along?

  “Yes,” she answered. “Though I don’t know how you’d know. You’re one of the city fathers.”

  “No, they just include me so that I’ll agree with whatever they say. They don’t think I’m very smart. I let them believe they’re right.”

  “You’re smart enough to know what they’re up to,” she said. Odd, she’d never paid much attention to the burly man across the street from her business. He never came in; she’d thought it was because he was too frugal. And he was always dirty, until tonight. Tonight was probably the first time she’d ever seen Hank Clay in clean clothes. And the stains on his fingers were probably burned into his skin.

  “What about you, Miss Lake?”

  “What do you mean? I’m a saloonkeeper. They know it and I know it. I’m only tolerated tonight because of Macky. You don’t think they’d ever invite me on their own, do you?”

  “Maybe not. But you’re not the only one. How many times do you think I’ve broken bread with them? This is the first.”

  “I’m sorry,” Lorraine said.

  “I’m not. I am what I am and I don’t have to prove anything to anybody. Neither do you.”

  Lorraine listened to Hank in shocked silence. She’d never heard him say more than two or three words before. Yet he clearly understood the truth and he was sharing himself with her. Why?

  “What do you want from me, Hank?” she asked. “You know I don’t spend private time with my customers.”

  “I’m not a customer, Lorraine. I’m just a man you’re passing the time with at a housewarming.” He took a step forward and held out his hand. “Will you do me the honor of going walking with me, Miss Lake?”

  Lorraine stifled a gasp. His manners were perfect. Someone had trained him in the way to approach a lady. And she was a lady, even if only she knew it.

  She surprised herself by saying, “I’d be delighted, Mr. Clay.”

  He folded her arm across his and led her away from the sound of the music until they reached an open meadow beneath a starlit sky. Hank removed his coat and laid it on the ground. “Miss Lake,” he said, “would you care to sit for a spell and look at the night sky?”

  “I think I would, Mr. Clay.”

  Moments later she was sitting on the damp, cool earth and Hank was lying on his back staring up into the heavens. “Look, there’s a shooting star.”

  “I wonder if it’s going some happy place and if it wants to go?”

  “Maybe it hasn’t any choice. Look, there’s the evening star.”

  “It’s so bright, close enough that you could almost reach up and touch it.”

  “Do you see the Big Dipper?”

  Lorraine studied the sky, trying to follow the path of his pointing finger.

  “Come down here beside me and you can see it better. There are seven stars, three in the handle and four in the bowl.”

  Lorraine lay down, arranging her crinoline so that the back side pulled up, exposing her bottom to the ground, the front side lying flat across her. Hank leaned against her so that she could see where he was pointing.

  “I read about the Big Dipper, but I’ve never been able to find it.”

  “There. It’s in the north sky now. By summer it will move to the west with the bowl down and the handle pointing upward. By winter its handle will point down. When I was a boy I always thought that the snow was water being emptied from the dipper.”

  Lorraine turned her head toward him. “That’s pure poetry, Hank. How did you learn all this?”

  “My mother was the mistress of a very learned man. He taught me many things—before he died.”

  Lorraine didn’t comment right away, studying him in the fading light. His face took on new angles, new character in the shadows. “It’s hard to know things and have nobody to share it with.”

  He turned to his side and rested his weight on one elbow. “No. What I know is mine. What I allow people to know is my choice, Lorraine.”

  “And you’re choosing to let me know you?” Her voice was barely above a whisper.

  “If you wish.”

  “I wish.”

  Then he kissed her. It was sweet and gentle and her response came unexpectedly out of nowhere, filling Lorraine’s mouth with the magic of the night. She sighed and opened her lips to him, knowing that the moment was special and that she might never find it again.

  When he pulled back she was stunned. “Why did you stop? I mean, other men don’t—”

  “I’m not other men,” he said quietly. “I want you to know that.”

  “Why should you be different?”

  “Because,” he said simply. “I’m the man you’re going to marry. When I touch your body like this,” he lightly ran his fingertips across her breasts, “it will be a thing we both enjoy. When you come to know my body”—he took her hand and pressed it against his arousal—“it will be because I have the right to know yours.”

  Lorraine stared at him in disbelief. “My goodness, the town blacksmith is a poet.”

  “And the town saloonkeeper is a teacher.”

  “No, I only offered.”

  “And as the new newspaper editor, I’m going to see that it happens, as soon as my equipment arrives from back East. It’s time you and I got back to the party,” he said, moving to his feet and pulling her up.

  “But—”

  “Come along, Miss Lake.”

  “Where did you come from, Mr. Clay?” she finally asked as they made their way back to the cabin.

  “Where we came from isn’t important, it’s where we’re going that counts.”

  “And where is that?” she asked breathlessly as they came to a stop at the edge of the woods by the creek.

  He kissed her again, this time more deeply, then answered. “To the stars, Lorraine.”

  As they entered the clearing where the dancers were whirling around, Hank stepped back and suddenly Lorraine was alone. She still wasn’t sure that she hadn’t dreamed what had happened. Except for the tingle in her lips and the thudding of her heart.

  Imagine that. She’d been kissed by the town blacksmith, a man she’d scarcely noticed before, and she was practically floating on air. And he was offering her a future.

  “Lorraine,” Aaron Larkin said, interrupting her state of magical intensity. “I’m going to escort Sylvia back to her ranch. Will you drive the judge into town?”

  “Yes, of course. Tell him to get into my wagon.”

  “I think it’s more a matter of pouring him into the back. He’s had too much to drink.”

  “Just like Moose,” Sylvia said. “Will you check on him, Lorraine? And let me know how he gets along?”

  “I’ll be glad to, Sylvia. I wonder if you’ll ride along with us, Mr. Clay
?” she asked. “I mean, in case the shooters are still around.”

  Moments later Lorraine was in the wagon and Clay was riding alongside. Halfway back, the judge passed out. Lorraine waited for Hank to say something. He didn’t, and for the first time in her life, Lorraine Lake didn’t know how to talk to a man.

  Once the judge had been driven away, Aaron Larkin suggested that, considering what had happened, the members of Preacher Adams’s flock all ride back together. “There’s safety in numbers,” he reminded them.

  Subdued now, the women quickly packed up the leftover food, leaving what they thought the preacher and his wife could make use of. They accepted Bran’s thanks for their help and promised to be in church the next day as they started back to town. This time, one of the older Cribbs boys took the reins in Rachel Pendley’s wagon.

  “Reverend Adams was worried about Mrs. Pendley being able to see to her babies,” Ethel Cribbs said. The other women quickly agreed, basking in the afterglow of such Christian concern. Rachel gave Macky a timid wave as they drove away.

  Aaron assisted Mrs. Mainwearing into her buggy, tied his own horse to the back, and followed the townspeople. “I don’t think the outlaw will dare come to her house, but I think I’ll stay the night with Mrs. Mainwearing,” he said to Bran.

  Bran didn’t comment. He couldn’t help but wonder if the bushwhackers had been after Sylvia or the judge. At least the marshal was with her tonight.

  Tomorrow he had to set things straight with his employer. Tonight he had to set things straight with his wife.

  Bran stepped inside the cabin. “That was a nice thing you did for Rachel Pendley.”

  “I like her,” Macky said.

  “And inviting Lorraine turned out to be a good idea. I think she and Sylvia have more in common than they thought.”

  “I think, Reverend Adams, that you are very good at flattery. Did you see Sylvia dancing with Otis Gooden? How’d you get her to come?”

  Bran pursed his lips and considered how best to proceed. “You know Mrs. Mainwearing was talking about me, don’t you? I’m the gunfighter.”

  Macky was standing in the middle of the cabin looking around at all the things the women in the church had brought to make the place more livable.

  She turned. “Yes. I knew. Does she?”

  “Yes. I told her after dinner last night. I thought she wasn’t going to announce that she’d hired me just yet.”

  “I think she wanted to send out a warning to whoever shot at her. She doesn’t want anybody to get hurt.”

  “Aren’t you going to ask me why a gunfighter is pretending to be the preacher?”

  “Not unless you ask me why I’m pretending to be your wife.”

  “When I allowed the congregation to believe that, I thought it was because you needed a husband. I wanted to protect you. And I always use a disguise.”

  “I would have thought,” Macky mused aloud, “that the marshal would know Night Eyes, or at least about him.”

  “The world knows Night Eyes as a half-breed gunfighter, but there is no detailed description and no reason to arrest him. Night Eyes has never killed except in self-defense.”

  “Well, it still seems odd that he didn’t say anything. But thank you for being honest.”

  “I’m glad it’s out,” Bran said, “I’ve kept too many secrets for too long. I want you to know them all.”

  “There’s more?”

  “Yes. Night Eyes isn’t wanted by the law, but John Brandon Lee is. When I was seventeen, I killed a man, a soldier who was beating an Indian boy. I ran away. I’m wanted for murder.”

  “If you killed him, he must have deserved it. Why didn’t you stay and stand trial?”

  “I was young and the only witnesses were Indians. I knew I wouldn’t have a chance. But I’m not sorry for what I did. The Indian boy was my brother, Blue. I couldn’t let anybody get away with killing another member of my family.” Bran turned toward the fire.

  “Well,” she said, searching for something to say to ease his pain. For a moment she was tempted to confess that she was the kid who’d taken part in the bank robbery. But she was guilty and confession would mean that she’d have to go to jail. Yet, to stay would only put Bran’s safety in jeopardy. She needed time to think.

  Tonight she just wanted to enjoy the odd feeling of companionship they were sharing. Like her father, who always delayed dealing with problems in the hope they’d disappear, she’d confess tomorrow.

  “If it’s all the same to you, Bran, I’d rather save any more truth until later. There’s something else I want to do tonight.”

  “What?”

  “I want you,” she said, and held out her arms, “to teach me how to dance.”

  Her answer was so beautifully Macky that he lost his self-imposed iron will before he’d put it in place.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Bran sucked in a harsh breath. For a few seconds he only looked at her, not trying to conceal the hunger in his eyes.

  “Dance?”

  “Surely you know how?” she said softly, revealing her uncertainty as she dropped her gaze to his boots. “I mean I thought that you must have had some occasion to learn. I’m sorry.” She turned away. “It was a foolish idea.”

  “Only because it means that I’ll have to put my arms around you,” he said, catching her shoulder and turning her back toward him. “I don’t know how smart that is.”

  “Why? Am I such a clod?”

  “Oh, Macky, you’re not a clod. You’re a temptation. And I,” he said, leading her out the door, “have discovered that when I touch you, I have no control.”

  “I’m sorry. I suppose dancing could be a temptation for a preacher, but since you’re a gunfighter I’m not going to worry any more.”

  “You should worry. Not because I’m a gunfighter, Macky, but because I’m a man.”

  She let out an exasperated breath. “And wearing these silly shoes, I’m a clumsy oaf. Just a minute.”

  Seconds later, she stood in her stocking feet, hesitated, then held out her hand. She was asking for more than dance lessons. He could see it in her eyes and, damn it, he couldn’t refuse.

  Bran placed her left arm on his shoulder and took her right hand in his. “I’m going to put my foot between yours. I’ll show you how to move with my hands. Just relax and move with me.”

  Macky wanted to laugh. If only he knew the kind of heat that pooled inside her and intensified with every glance. It came not only when they were alone and touching, but when she looked up and caught his gaze.

  But she wished there were fewer clothes between them. She wished they were really married. She wished she’d never robbed a bank.

  With a sigh Macky allowed him to slide his knee between her legs and use his body to direct her movements. She didn’t think that the other dancers had been so close, but perhaps this was necessary until she learned the steps.

  “I’m sorry we don’t have music,” he said, “it makes it easier for you to feel the rhythm.”

  She didn’t need music. The rhythm of her heartbeat was enough. And soon they were whirling around the clearing. Her hair came loose and fell across her shoulders. She let out a laugh of joy. Bran laughed in response, dipped her to the right, then back to the left as he swung her around. Her body was a music box wound tight. Then, as if it were running down, they began to move slower and slower, fitting their bodies together in slow seduction until they were barely moving at all.

  Bran watched Macky’s look of pleasure. She was like a cat, her eyes closed, purring in satisfaction. What she lacked in womanly skills, she more than made up for in honest emotions.

  Every touch was an invitation, every sigh a reminder that they were alone, that this woman was as close to a wife as he’d ever have.

  His breath was as rough as a cowboy wrestling a steer to the ground, a lumberjack taking the last cut at a tree ready to fall, a lover nearing the moment of penetration.

  Finally, Bran caught his foot on the
hem of Macky’s dress and toppled her. In an attempt to break her fall, he pulled her even closer. Before he could stop it, his lips were against hers, his hand holding her bottom, and her breasts were crushed against his chest.

  The moon slipped behind a cloud. The wind kicked up. With his lips still devouring hers, Bran lifted Macky in his arms and carried her inside, allowing the door to swing closed behind them.

  Macky didn’t hold back. One hand was already unbuttoning his shirt, the other threading through his hair, pulling him closer. She used her tongue to speak the language she was learning from this man who’d set her body on fire.

  Suddenly her dress was gone, along with her petticoats and her chemise. Her skin was bare, her nipples hard and aching and her lower body trembling from a sensation that she couldn’t begin to describe.

  And Bran. Forcing her eyes open, she saw the fire cast a flickering light across his bare chest. He’d shed his boots and trousers and now his drawers were falling down his legs, revealing …

  Macky gasped. He was like some wild animal, one of the Greek gods in Papa’s books. He was beautiful, his dark hair touching his shoulders, his breath coming hard and fast, his arousal throbbing. Then he stopped and looked at Macky.

  “Make me stop, Macky.” His voice was so hoarse that she could barely hear him. His fists were clenched. He was a man almost past control.

  “I can’t,” she whispered.

  “If you don’t, there’ll be no going back.”

  “I don’t want to go back.”

  “I could hurt you.”

  “Probably. You are very large.”

  “One last time,” he rasped. “Do you want me to stop?”

  She didn’t answer. Instead she lay back on the bed, parted her legs, and let a shudder ripple through her body. “It hurts so bad, Bran. Help me.”

  He caught her nipple roughly in his mouth for a moment while he sought the mound between her legs. She was wet and trembling. Just a touch and she moaned and tried to impale herself on his fingertips.

  “I want—I want—” she said, eagerly lifting her body against his thigh, urging him with her hands.