The Redhead and the Preacher: A Loveswept Historical Romance

by Sandra Chastain

  “All right, Pratt,” Bran finally said. “I want you to get back to your cabin and wait for the marshal to contact you. I want to know every move he makes. If we can set him up we’ll be secure for life.”

  “Sure,” Pratt agreed eagerly. “I’ll let you know everything that happens.

  “It would be a mistake for you to run away, Pratt. If you do, I’ll chase you down to the ends of the earth.”

  “I won’t run,” Pratt promised eagerly. “Why would I walk away from a sweet deal like this?”

  “Just to remind you how serious I am,” Bran said. He took careful aim and fired, the bullet amputating the tip of the little finger on Pratt’s right hand.

  Pratt grabbed his hand and screamed. “Son of a—! What’d you do that for?”

  “So you won’t forget our agreement. I’m a man of God, remember, and I believe in an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth. Would you rather I start with your eye?”

  As Bran rode back toward the cabin, the sky clouded over. They might have snow, but the temperature seemed too warm.

  Everything was coming to a head now. Before he confronted Macky he needed to make sure that his plan could work. She had to be convinced that Pratt was leaving town, and would never tell the truth about the bank robbery in Promise because he’d be implicated by the gold coins Bran had in his possession, the coins that had come from Macky’s purse. For the first time, Bran was grateful for his reputation.

  He’d have to keep a close watch on Pratt. Even with the little reminder he’d given the outlaw, he couldn’t be certain that Pratt wouldn’t try to double-cross him. Still, he was counting on what he knew about men like Pratt. They thrived on their own reputations and being a partner with a famous gunfighter would give him the fame he craved. Fame and fear, either one ought to work.

  With Pratt under control, the threat of Macky’s arrest was lessened. Bran hadn’t figured out what he was going to do about the marshal, but she didn’t have to know about that. Once the marshal was gone, the sheriff in Promise could be told the truth.

  Then Macky could make her own choices about her future. And he’d see that she had every chance to become a farmer if that was what she wanted. As for Night Eyes, he could disappear forever. It was time. He was tired of being on the move. Night Eyes had searched for the killer of his parents for most of his life. That seemed less important now.

  Macky was here, and alive and waiting for him.

  Bran felt his insides twist at that thought. In the strangest moments, like now, when he should be concentrating on the problem at hand, his mind would catch on some obscure little detail about Macky and he’d lose his train of thought.

  Suddenly he was remembering that soot-covered sock on her head. The one she’d accounted for by saying it was a treatment to make her hair more manageable. He laughed lightly. The last thing in life he wanted to be manageable was Macky’s hair. He preferred it flying wildly around her face when he was loving her, like some shimmering veil of fire.

  Maybe he was getting too involved in his role. He was a gunfighter, not the preacher he was pretending to be. He was a killer, not the husband he wanted to be. But it didn’t matter any more. He knew the minute he saw Pratt at the cabin that he was a liar when he said he didn’t love that woman.

  “May God smite you dead if you fail, John Brandon Lee,” he whispered to the wind.

  Chapter Twenty

  With a muttered oath, Bran pulled his coat tighter and rode his horse back toward the cabin. He’d better be right about Pratt, else Macky’s fate was sealed. What happened to him didn’t matter, but Macky deserved a future.

  He’d known that he had to end their growing intimacy, but every time he’d attempted to do so, Macky had burrowed through his defenses and left him even more vulnerable. And he’d let himself reach out to her. But now, he had to find a way to shut all his feelings for her out of his mind until he could be sure she was safe.

  Bran met Macky running to the trail toward him, worry making little wrinkles across her forehead, her glorious hair flying behind her in the wind.

  “Oh, Bran, I heard shots and I thought—”

  “You thought what?” He swung down from the horse to catch her as she whirled herself into his arms.

  “I was afraid you’d been shot. What happened?”

  He could feel her heart hammering against his chest. She was holding him so tight he could barely breathe. “Mr. Pratt had a little accident. He decided that he’d make a sacrifice to show repentance for his life of crime.”

  She leaned her head back and studied him, not sure whether he was serious or teasing. “Is he all right?”

  “No, but he’s working on doing better. But I don’t know how long I can control him. We’re going to arrange a little visit to Denver for you. You can stay there until this is settled.”

  “And what’s my reason for leaving my husband?”

  “Well, the town still believes that you’re carrying a child. Let’s let them keep thinking that. You’re going to Denver to consult a doctor.”

  She nodded, then slipped her arms around his waist and laid her cheek against his chest. “Oh, Bran, let’s get out of here, go so far away that nobody will ever find us.”

  “There is no place far enough, Macky. Marshal Larkin isn’t going to let us go.” A statement more true than Macky could know. “We’d never be able to live without looking over our shoulder. This has to be resolved another way.”

  “Bran, Pratt knows who I am. Sooner or later, if he doesn’t get his money, he’s going to tell—whether I’m here or not. I won’t let you get involved.”

  “I already am. The marshal knows I’m the man Sylvia hired. The only thing he doesn’t know yet is about your part in the robbery.”

  That stopped her. “Are you and the marshal working together like Pratt said?”

  “Of course not. But I don’t trust him and I don’t want you anywhere near him.”

  “Oh, Bran, what if he figures out that you’re wanted on that old murder charge?”

  “He hasn’t yet.” And with a little luck, he’ll be so involved in acquiring the mine that he won’t. And you’ll be long gone by the time he does.

  She’d known that he wouldn’t listen. He’d decided to protect her and he would, at any cost. For now, she’d let him think that she was going. But come morning she’d find the marshal and tell him about her part in the robbery. She’d convince him that Bran knew she was running from an angry husband and agreed to go along. Everybody in Heaven liked Bran. Sylvia would vouch for him. With his reputation they’d believe that he thought he was protecting her.

  As they stood, big drops of rain began to fall. Macky grabbed Bran’s hand and together they dashed to the cabin, separating as Bran took the horse to the shed and Macky ran into the house. She lit the fire and stood rubbing her hands together over the flame. If Bran had his way, this might be their last time together.

  Moments later, she heard the cabin door close. Macky sat down on the bed and began removing her shoes. Bran added another log on the fire and slid out of his wet coat as he tried to gather his wits. Macky unbuttoned her dress. She wasn’t preparing supper. She was preparing for bed.

  He couldn’t stay there without making love to Macky yet he didn’t want to leave her alone. “ ‘Lead us not into temptation,’ ” Bran whispered. “Pack your clothes, Macky, we’re going to town.”

  “We are not, John Brandon,” Macky said, stepping out of her dress. “I may have to leave you, but not tonight. You always pull back as if you’re afraid of caring about me. You think that I’ll be better off without you.” She let the dress fall to the floor.

  “You will.”

  She began unfastening her crinoline. “As far as Heaven is concerned, I’m your wife. As far as I am concerned, I am your wife.”

  “But you’re not. I won’t let you do this, Macky.”

  Ignoring him, she removed her chemise, followed by her drawers. Finally she looked up. “I’m trouble, r
emember? I told you that in the beginning. Nothing’s changed. You can’t stop me from loving you one last time.”

  And he didn’t.

  He didn’t even try.

  The pounding that woke Bran the next morning was insistent and loud. It took him a moment to bring himself back to the present, to the now empty bed he’d shared with Macky.

  Pulling on his trousers, he made his way to the door and opened it.

  He didn’t recognize the man standing there, but there was no mistaking his concern.

  “Preacher, I need your help. Please. Rachel said you’d come.”

  “Rachel?”

  “My—my missus,” he exclaimed, wringing his hands. “I’m Lars Pendley. It’s our little girl, Rebekah. She’s done wandered off first thing this morning, chasing a stray pup that took up at the house. We can’t find her nowhere.”

  Bran remembered the woman who’d sat beside Macky, the woman with the baby and the blond little girl with blue eyes. Bran reached for his shirt, pulled on his boots, and quickly looked around. Macky was nowhere to be seen. The fireplace was cold, and from what he could tell, the only thing she’d taken was her brother’s clothes. A trip to the corral revealed that Solomon too was missing. Bran didn’t stop to look, but he’d bet his last dollar that the money from the holdup was gone as well.

  With a groan Bran saddled his horse and took off toward town. “We’ll mount a search party,” he said to the worried man. “You go on back home and tell your wife not to worry. We’ll find the little girl.”

  Bran didn’t know where Macky had gone, but he had a bad feeling in his gut. Now this. When he needed to go after Macky he had to help locate a lost child. He gave the horse a nudge. He didn’t know how long Macky had been gone. He only hoped she wasn’t with Pratt.

  • • •

  Aaron Larkin had taken over Heaven’s empty sheriff’s office as his living quarters. Willa’s Boardinghouse was too public and an invitation to share Lorraine’s bed hadn’t materialized as he’d anticipated.

  Inside the office there was a desk, a potbellied stove, and one barred cell containing a bunk across the back side. With a mattress and blankets, he’d managed to turn the bunk into a bed. Tobe, the boy who helped out in the saloon occasionally, brought a load of wood. Still, the jail was bare and mean. He’d spent an uncomfortable night and the morning didn’t promise much more.

  Through the window the sky looked like rain and the wind was cold. He could build a fire to take off some of the chill while he decided what he wanted to do next. He was tired of being cold and living on the pitiful salary the government paid him.

  Once he had the mine in his grasp, he’d be in a position to take over the whole town. Then he’d resign from his job as the judge’s lackey and he’d never be cold again.

  He’d drawn this job out too long. In the past he’d been quick to choose his victim, then he’d move on. That way, nobody ever connected him with the crimes he’d planned.

  He’d always avoid his targeted area until after the first crime was committed, then he’d come in to provide protection for the same people he was robbing. Once he’d taken enough, Larkin managed to find the criminal, who would be killed in the arrest. His reputation as a law officer was growing, as was his purse.

  But this time he’d delayed his departure. Sylvia was proving to be more resistant to his charms than Larkin had expected. Instead of arresting Pratt for the crimes as he’d intended, Larkin had been forced to continue using him. The fool thought that Larkin didn’t know he was helping himself to some of the gold, but Larkin knew. He’d let Pratt go for a while, but the time had come to get rid of him.

  Larkin laid some wood in the stove, then looked around, searching for something to start it. The desk. He opened the desk drawer. Inside, he found a stack of wanted posters. Perfect. They’d been here so long that they were practically falling apart. Larkin wadded up the first two and stuck them under his twigs. But the next poster stopped him cold, the truth settling over him like a bear claw around his heart.

  The aged drawing was of a kid with one eye. Wanted for murder in Oklahoma fifteen years before, for killing an army officer who’d been attacked by a Choctaw boy.

  Larkin had been a soldier himself back then. He hadn’t been assigned to reservation duty, but he’d heard about what happened. Every officer in the West kept the troops riled up by retelling every incident that resulted in trouble on the reservation.

  Later, interrogation of the tribe had brought forth a name from one of the Indians in exchange for the food they so desperately needed. The killer was a white boy named John Lee. But John Lee was long gone.

  The sketch on the wanted poster was as accurate as the artist could make it, but John Lee had never been found. In fact, Larkin suspected that neither the army nor the law officers had ever really searched.

  Over the years the kid had been forgotten.

  Until now.

  The kid had grown up. The kid still had only one eye, but now he covered it with a patch. The kid, wanted for murder, was the preacher. He should have recognized the man right away, but he hadn’t.

  Larkin smiled. The preacher who was in Heaven to find out who was responsible for Sylvia’s trouble was wanted for murder. And Larkin was the marshal in charge of bringing him in. It couldn’t have worked out any better. He could hardly keep from chuckling. The end was in sight. Pratt would take care of the preacher. Then Pratt would be shot when the marshal tried to arrest him.

  Larkin pushed the poster to the bottom of the stack.

  Life was good.

  When Macky rode into town, there was no sign of the marshal or his horse in front of the jail, only Hank Clay building up the fire in his blacksmith’s shop.

  “I saw him riding off a while ago,” Hank Clay said when she stopped at the livery stable. “Surprised you didn’t cross paths.”

  “Nope, I didn’t see a soul.”

  “Speaking of souls,” Hank said, “where’s the preacher this morning? Something I want to talk to him about.”

  “Ah, he’s working on the fence to keep the animals in the corral.”

  “He let you ride in without him?” Hank eyed her speculatively.

  “I can take care of myself.”

  “And what brings you to town?”

  “I just came in to see Lorraine.”

  Hank smiled slightly. “I doubt you can see Miss Lake yet. She keeps late hours, you know.”

  “Mrs. Adams.” Clara Gooden was heading straight for Macky. She arrived just in time to hear Hank’s comment. “See Lorraine?” she said, surprise in her voice. “Whatever for?”

  The last thing Macky wanted to do was get caught up in conversation with every resident of Heaven. She needed to find the marshal and confess to her part of the crime so that she could clear the charges against Bran before he caught up with her.

  “About using her saloon,” Macky said, making up her story as she spoke. “For a—a special prayer meeting on Wednesday night.”

  Clara snorted. “With all those no-accounts who come in there to drink and carouse?”

  “Well … that’s just the point. We need to reach the men who don’t come on Sunday morning. We’ll just pray for their souls.”

  And mine, too. Macky was, as her mother would have said, digging her hole deeper and deeper. The only thing that was going to save her was the fact that she was leaving. Everything she owned was packed in the saddlebags on Solomon’s back.

  Clara nodded her head in agreement. “According to Marshal Larkin, the sheriff in Promise is on his way here. Seems to think there’s a possibility that the killer of that banker has something to do with holding up Mrs. Mainwearing’s gold shipment. They think he might even be here in Heaven.”

  “The sheriff is coming here?” Macky wanted to groan out loud. “Well, good, we need all the help we can get. Speaking of that,” she said, backing away from the door, “I’d better get on down the street.”

  It wasn’t enough that Pratt was
on her trail, now the sheriff was coming. Pratt might know that Mrs. Adams was the kid named McKenzie, but she couldn’t believe that the sheriff knew. And the last thing she needed was to have him get here before she’d spoken to Marshal Larkin.

  Everything was becoming too confused.

  Clara Gooden was talking a mile a minute. She was having no part of Macky slipping away. Once they reached the store, she pulled Macky inside to give her some canned peaches that had been left out of her donation to the parsonage.

  “Thank you, Clara. I’m sure the reverend will enjoy them. Now, I really have to go.”

  “Not yet,” she insisted, then called out to her husband. “Mr. Gooden, come and listen to what Reverend Adams is going to do. He’s holding a revival in the saloon during the week.”

  “Well, it isn’t certain yet,” Macky interjected helplessly.

  “A revival?” he questioned from the back room, then came into the store. “Don’t know as I’da thought of it, but if Preacher Adams wants to try it, the congregation will back him up. I’ll get the word out. Being as how this is Monday, we don’t have much time.”

  “Well, I didn’t necessarily mean this week,” Macky began. And she certainly didn’t mean a revival. The only revivals she’d attended had been held in a tent. The leader had spent the better part of two days yelling and chanting until people confessed their sins and pledged their souls just to get the thing over with.

  “How nice of Miss Lake,” he said, “to give up a working night for our cause.”

  “Well, that’s what I was trying to say. I haven’t asked her yet. It’s still in the planning stages.”

  “Then you better get on down to the saloon,” Otis advised.

  Macky wanted to talk with Lorraine, but she knew that the hour was too early to disturb her friend. To change the subject she fastened on another idea, a purchase she’d intended to make while in town.

  “Before I go, Mr. Gooden, I’d like to buy a pistol.” At Clara’s horrified look, she explained, “The parsonage is so far out of town and Bran will be away a lot, I just thought I’d feel safer.”