The Redhead and the Preacher: A Loveswept Historical Romance

by Sandra Chastain

  “I know,” he said, and lifting himself over her, he plunged inside.

  She cried out and tried to move away as he penetrated a barrier. Then he felt her begin to move again and he was lost in the tumultuous response that wouldn’t be held back.

  He couldn’t stop. And even as he began to spill himself inside her, he knew that she wasn’t there yet. She was still taut with anticipation when he collapsed against her.

  Stunned.

  Dazed.

  Possessed.

  For a moment he lay there, unable to comprehend what had happened, what he knew but refused to believe, what he’d built to a point of no turning back, then failed to fulfill.

  Macky was whimpering softly, trying to control her body, embarrassed at its frustration, but unable to find a source of relief.

  “Bran,” she whispered, planting desperate little kisses against his face, squeezing his bare bottom as she tried to recapture what he’d taken away. “What’s wrong with me?”

  “Nothing’s wrong with you, my darling Macky,” Bran said, knowing he couldn’t leave her like this, knowing that he had to finish what he’d started.

  “It’s me, not you.”

  “But I’m on fire. I feel—”

  And then Bran felt himself come back to life, filling her even more fully than he had before. This time he was going to give her the same pleasure he’d had.

  “Don’t hold back, Macky. What you feel is good and natural. Dear God, let me show you.”

  He kissed her again at the same time he slipped his hand between them, finding the swollen nub of her pleasure and caressing it. Slowly at first, he began to move, afraid that he would hurt her. But she folded her legs around him and arched to meet his thrusts. He pulled his hand back and, forcing her to slow her movements, he built her higher and tighter.

  “Ohhhhh. Bran, I feel something. I’m going to explode. I’m …”

  And she did, taking him with her to a place he’d never been and never wanted to leave.

  Much later, when Macky’s head lay on his shoulder, her eyes closed in sated sleep, Bran let himself face the truth.

  His wife had been a virgin. She was telling the truth.

  McKenzie Kathryn Calhoun couldn’t be carrying any man’s child.

  Unless it was his.

  “I told you to shoot at her, to scare her, not hit anybody.”

  “Sorry, how’d I know she’d whip that horse into a frenzy and bounce somebody into a bullet?”

  This time Pratt was on horseback. This time he was eye-to-eye with the man who was pulling the strings.

  “There’s one piece of bad news, Pratt. She’s hired a gunfighter.”

  “So?” The outlaw spoke in a voice filled with bravado. “I’ve taken care of my share of gunfighters. Who is he?”

  “A man called Night Eyes. Ever met him?”

  “Nope, but I’ve heard of him. They say he’s half Indian and half white, spent fifteen years searching for one man. Nobody knows what he looks like, keeps to himself. The few folks who have seen him won’t talk about it. When’s he due?”

  “I think he’s already here.”

  “Here?”

  “Yeah, our Messenger from God, the Reverend Adams.”

  “The preacher is a gunslinger?” But this time Pratt’s voice wavered. He didn’t understand men who worked in secret, men who instilled both loyalty and fear. Half of Pratt’s success was based on making his presence known.

  “Crazy, isn’t it, but it’s a good cover. Who’d ever expect a preacher?”

  In spite of the bad feeling that made him look over his shoulder, Pratt chortled. “A preacher? It’ll be a fine day when I can’t take a one-eyed preacher.”

  This time when Pratt listened for his instructions, he knew he’d have to make a few alterations of his own. Somebody had spent some of the gold coins from the bank job right here in Heaven. Pratt intended to find out who it was. There was still the matter of the kid who’d escaped with his loot.

  He’d already intended to take care of the reverend. The preacher knew about his saddle. He’d seen it when Pratt tried to hold up that stage, then again that night in town. Pratt wasn’t sure why the man hadn’t said anything. Maybe he was afraid. Maybe he needed to be taught a little lesson about the wrath of God, and Pratt was just the one to do it.

  Pratt felt his self-confidence return. If he did it just right, he’d take care of the marshal and the judge at the same time.

  There was little activity around Sylvia’s ranch the next morning. It was Sunday, a day of rest for all. Bran watched for a long time, until he was satisfied that the marshal had not spent the night.

  Sylvia had jumped the gun on announcing that she’d hired Night Eyes. They had an agreement and it was important that she follow it. Bran slowly rode his horse into the courtyard, dismounted and tied his reins to the fence.

  As if she’d been expecting him, Sylvia herself opened the front door and stood back to let him in. “I wondered when you’d get here,” she said and closed the door behind him. “We’ll have coffee while we talk.”

  Bran followed her into a dining room large enough to feed the entire town council. There were coffee cups on the table and silver pots filled with cream and sugar.

  “Why’d you do it?” he asked as she filled the cups and waited for him to pull out her chair before sitting.

  “Too many people have died. The judge getting hit was the last straw. By the way, I like your wife.”

  “I like her, too. But I’m thinking of sending her to Denver. And I want you to go with her.”

  “She looks like she’s about as likely to follow orders as me. Sit down, Preacher, and tell me who is trying to run me out.”

  “Hard to say. Whoever it is hides his tracks so well that, in spite of how unlikely it sounds, the best prospects are the judge and the marshal.”

  “Actually, it could be one of them. Both have tried to buy me out. Now they want to marry me.”

  “Doesn’t surprise me.”

  “You know, you’d be a lot more appealing choice,” she said, with a twinkle in her eye. “But then you already have a wife. Or is she part of your cover?”

  Bran slowly nodded his head. “She’s my wife.”

  “Too bad.”

  “For her,” he acknowledged. “Not for me. As for your problem, it seems to me there is one unknown player in the game.”

  “Who?”

  Bran took a sip of the strong, hot liquid. “I can’t get a handle on him. I only know he rides a horse with a silver-trimmed saddle. He’s tried to hold up the stage and he’s been seen in town.”

  “The man who fired at us?”

  “At you, I think. I believe he was warning you.”

  “Or the judge. You know he stands to become an even wealthier man if some of the claims he’s bought prove out.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “So, what happens now? I don’t want to lose any more gold and there’s no way I’m selling the mine.”

  “I don’t know. I need more time.”

  Sylvia studied her cup, then answered. “I don’t think so, Preacher Adams. I think that time is running out. If you don’t know who you’re after, you aren’t going to catch him. I think the settlement needs to know you’re the gunfighter.”

  The thought chilled Bran. Making himself a target didn’t bother him, but announcing his true identity would put Macky in danger. That he couldn’t do.

  “No, not yet, Mrs. Mainwearing. I’ll find out the truth, but I’ll do it my own way.”

  “I’ll give you a week, Night Eyes. If you’re as good as they say you are, you’ll find him. If not, I’ll bring in someone else.”

  Sylvia rose.

  Bran followed her toward the door. She stopped before opening it. “You know, you’re a very attractive man, Preacher. If I didn’t like that young wife of yours so much, I’d offer you a permanent job, something you might not want to turn down. What would you say, I wonder?” She gave a
laugh and opened the door. “Relax, Preacher. You’re safe.”

  Bran let out a silent sigh of relief. There might have been a time when he’d consider her offer. But not any more. He was already anxious to get back to the parsonage, to McKenzie Kathryn Calhoun. It was time for her to confess her sins.

  Bran took Sylvia’s hand and tipped his hat. “I thank you for the offer, ma’am, but I already have a woman and I’d better get back to her.”

  • • •

  As Bran rode up to the cabin he could hear Macky singing one of the popular miners’ songs about a woman named Clementine. She had a full voice that made a man feel good just listening. She’d make a good wife and mother.

  And she’d been a virgin.

  Bran hadn’t let himself face that yet. Obviously she’d been honest about not being with child. But who was the man following her and why? He hadn’t pressed her last night. But now, he needed to know.

  He put the horse inside the makeshift fence and went toward the cabin, pausing to watch Macky through the window as she fried bacon and cut slices from a loaf of bread left by the women the night before. She was wearing her man’s shirt again, hanging loose over her drawers.

  Every now and then Macky stopped and stared off into space. When she woke this morning and found Bran gone she’d been disappointed, then grateful. It gave her a chance to make plans. She didn’t know how Bran felt about her now, but she hoped that Lorraine was right when she said that he cared.

  For Macky knew the truth. She was in love with her gunfighter husband. Being wanted for murder didn’t change her feelings. She’d have killed anyone trying to hurt Todd, if she’d had the chance.

  He didn’t want the folks in Heaven to know he was the gunfighter. She wasn’t sure what that meant, but until she returned the money, she wanted to keep her identity secret as well.

  As she worked, she’d gotten an idea. She didn’t hold any stock in Bran’s belief that she had any influence over the town, but if she could find a way to use her ill-gotten fortune to do good, the church members might understand and forgive her.

  Bran could retire and give up his life as a hired killer and they would use her money to build a church. If anybody lost their savings in the robbery back in Promise, they could be repaid from the banker’s portion of the money.

  Surely Sylvia had enough gold that she’d be willing to go along with the plan until they could pay her back. Maybe she’d just consider it a donation to the Lord.

  Macky and Bran could leave their wicked pasts behind and no one would ever have to know. She was creating one of those lovely fantasies, the kind she’d never indulged in before.

  But suppose Bran didn’t want to marry her? And what about the marshal and the judge?

  She’d have to wait, to be sure before she confessed her crime.

  Macky heard the horse greeting Solomon. Bran had returned. A moment later, she turned around slowly to face him, forgetting that she was only half dressed. She’d wait until he let her know where they stood before she put forth her plan.

  He caught sight of her hair spilling across her shoulders, falling into the space between her breasts, and he smiled.

  Macky knew he hadn’t intended to smile; none of his smiles came easy. That made them all the more special. Then a grin slashed across his mouth like the sun cutting through a cloud.

  She grinned at him, took a running leap and landed with her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist. With all the pent-up anxiety and residual desire fed by the memories of what she’d felt the night before, Macky kissed Bran. And before he could ask the questions he’d intended to, he was lying on the bed with her on top of him, returning her kisses and her caresses.

  “Macky. Macky,” he said, trying to pull back and regain control. “Don’t do this.”

  But his protest was swallowed up by her mouth and he soon discovered that containing Macky was like trying to stop a prairie fire. It was blazing too hot and moving too fast to escape. And then he was caught up in its heat and giving as much as he got.

  Their coupling was over almost before it began and then Macky was urging Bran to hurry and dress.

  “We don’t have long. Eat your food. We’d better get moving.”

  “Get moving where?” Bran asked incredulously as he watched her washing herself and pulling on her clothes.

  “It’s Sunday, Preacher. You have a service to lead, remember?”

  “The devil I do,” he swore.

  “No, you’re God’s messenger,” she said. “Your sermon will be on the Temptation of Man.”

  “That’s a subject I’m well acquainted with,” he said.

  “I cleaned your clothes. I’ll hitch up the wagon while you dress.”

  Macky left Bran inside, knowing that if she didn’t, they’d never get to church. She flew out the door, as if she had angel wings. She pushed her hair beneath a straw bonnet, not noticing the long tag of curls hanging down her back.

  “Get away from me, Satan!” Bran growled and began to dress. Macky was no angel. He’d do well to listen to his own words, else he was going to end up on a spit, being roasted by the fires of hell.

  Even now he felt breathless, as if he were flying, and nothing he could do would wipe away his joy. This couldn’t be happening. He’d never done something so irresponsible. Without a thought about the consequences, he’d burned all his restraint.

  Bran swore. He left the meat and bread on the table and followed Macky outside. She’d climbed into the wagon and was humming the song the citizens of Heaven had sung on their arrival.

  Bran didn’t feel much like he was bringing in the sheaves. He was afraid that he was the fatted calf.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Macky, we have to talk about what happened,” Bran finally said, after they had ridden for awhile.

  She didn’t want to talk. She just wanted them to be like any other man and his wife going to church on Sunday. “Why? Can’t we go on just as we are now? The people in Heaven don’t have to know the truth, do they?”

  She was serious. For a moment he allowed himself to consider her suggestion. Not telling the truth meant that he’d go on being a preacher and Macky would be his wife. Could he? No. Neither option was reasonable.

  “Who are you hiding from? Why did you let the people of Heaven believe that you are my wife?”

  “I want to tell you, Bran, but I can’t. Especially now. It could put you in danger.”

  “Telling me what’s wrong will put me in danger but keeping me in the dark won’t? I don’t believe that, Macky. It doesn’t make any sense.”

  Bran didn’t make any better sense to Macky. They weren’t married, but they’d been as close as two people could be. He’d been ready enough to go along with the pretense in the beginning. And he’d had all kinds of opportunity to correct the mistake. But he hadn’t. Why?

  Sylvia Mainwearing. The mine. The accidents and thefts. Was he somehow involved in the trouble in Heaven? Even the idea overwhelmed Macky. That would mean that he hadn’t cared about her at all. That he was using her.

  No. She would never believe that; he’d been too careful to see that she felt what he had. Macky didn’t think other men would be so concerned.

  When he’d made love to her, it had seemed like he cared about her, wanted her. A lump filled her throat and she felt tears well up behind her eyelids. She couldn’t have misunderstood that.

  Swallowing hard, she finally forced herself to speak. “I’m sorry, Bran. I have no right to expect anything of you. I’ll tell the people at church this morning that I’m going back East to visit my folks. You don’t have to worry about protecting me any more.”

  The wagon hit a rut and bounced Macky against Bran. He moved quickly away. He knew that she was waiting, giving him the chance to say that he cared about her, that they had a future. But he didn’t say the words. He had to tell her that no woman could be a part of the kind of life a gunfighter led and survive. Not even Macky.

  “I care
about you, Macky. You’re obviously in trouble of some kind and I have a job to do. We’re stuck with each other, whether we like it or not. I don’t want you hurt, and to protect you, I need to know the truth.”

  “The truth?” she said softly. How could she expect honesty from him if she withheld it? She owed him that much. “All right, the truth is that I’m a wanted woman.”

  Bran scoffed. “I don’t believe a word of that. What on earth are you wanted for?”

  “Bank robbery. The man I am hiding from is Pratt, the man with the silver-trimmed saddle. He—we held up the Bank of Promise the day your stage stopped in town.”

  “I don’t believe you. Why would you hold up a bank? You couldn’t possibly be a part of Pratt’s gang.”

  Then she told him how it happened. “Now Pratt is here, in town, looking for his money.”

  “It was his horse you were searching that night outside the saloon? I thought he was the father of your child.”

  “Oh, my goodness. You thought that I’d have something to do with a man who murders people?”

  Bran looked down at the gun sheathed in the holster he was wearing. “You did, didn’t you?”

  “You’re different, Bran,” she said softly. “I know you’ve killed men, but you’re not a murderer.”

  “And I don’t believe that you’re an outlaw, Macky.”

  “Believe it, Bran,” she said. “You saw the money hidden under the mattress and the gold coins in my handkerchief. They were from Sylvia’s mine.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “You saw them. They were imprinted with an S.”

  They’d reached Hell Street and Bran could see the wagons filled with churchgoers arriving. They’d run out of time.

  “So what are we going to do, Bran?” Macky asked.

  “First, unless I can figure a way out, it looks like I’m going to preach a sermon, Macky. Then I’m going to find the man behind Sylvia’s troubles. And if he happens to be Pratt, all the better.”

  “And me?” she asked. “I’ll go to jail.”

  “I won’t let that happen, though how I’ll stop it, I’m not sure.”

  Heaven’s bell, atop the saloon, began to toll. Bran knew that he and Macky could be approaching the hour of their unmasking and, for the first time, he had no idea what he could do to prevent disaster.