The Maverick Preacher

by Victoria Bylin

  She went back to the saddlebag. “What is it you want?”

  “My Bible.”

  She knew very little about Maggie’s brother, but her friend had let it slip that he was a minister in a big city. Maggie had never said which one, though Adie had surmised she’d come from New England. Trembling, she looked up from the saddlebag. “Are you a preacher?”

  “Of a sort.”

  “Do you have a church?”

  “I do, but not like you mean.”

  Her hand shook as she checked a pocket. “I don’t understand.”

  “I don’t preach in a building,” he explained. “I go from place to place.”

  Adie let out the breath she’d been holding. Maggie’s brother had been wealthy. He’d have arrived in Denver in a private railcar, not on the back of a tired horse. He’d have never gone from town to town, preaching to the poor. She relaxed until she recalled his interest in Stephen. Not many men cared about hungry babies. Her nerves prickled with worry. Aware of his gaze, she reached into the saddlebag. She felt past a pouch holding shaving tools, found the book and lifted it from the bag.

  The words Holy Bible caught the light and glowed like fire, taking Adie back to the evenings she’d spent with the Long family. Old Man Long had often read from the book of Jeremiah. Adie had felt sinful and condemned and confused by a God who treated people so poorly. She’d cast Maggie’s brother in the same mold. Even without her promise, she’d have protected Stephen from such a man.

  She stood and handed him the Bible. Their fingers brushed on the binding, but their hearts were miles apart. Adie believed in God, but she didn’t like Him. Neither did she care for preachers. Carrying a Bible didn’t give a man a good heart. She’d learned that lesson in Liddy’s Grove. She let go of the book as if it had singed her.

  Mr. Blue looked into her eyes with silent understanding and she wondered if he, too, had struggled with God’s ways. The slash of his brow looked tight with worry, and his whiskers were too stubbly to be permanent. Adie thought about his shaving tools and wondered when he’d used them last. Her new boarder would clean up well on the outside, but his heart remained a mystery. She needed to keep it that way. The less she knew about him, the better.

  “Good night,” she said. “Bessie will check you in the morning.”

  “Before you go, I’ve been wondering…”

  “About what?”

  “The baby…Who’s the mother?”

  Adie raised her chin. “I am.”

  Earlier he’d called her “Miss Clarke” and she hadn’t corrected him. The flash in his eyes told her that he’d assumed she’d given birth out of wedlock. Adie resented being judged, but she counted it as the price of protecting Stephen. If Mr. Blue chose to condemn her, so be it. She’d done nothing for which to be ashamed. With their gazes locked, she waited for the criticism that didn’t come.

  Instead he laced his fingers on top of the Bible. “Children are a gift, all of them.”

  “I think so, too.”

  He lightened his tone. “A boy or a girl?”

  “A boy.”

  The man smiled. “He sure can cry. How old is he?”

  Adie didn’t like the questions at all, but she took pride in her son. “He’s three months old.” She didn’t mention that he’d been born six weeks early. “I hope the crying doesn’t disturb you.”

  “I don’t care if it does.”

  He sounded defiant. She didn’t understand. “Most men would be annoyed.”

  “The crying’s better than silence…I know.”

  Adie didn’t want to care about this man, but her heart fluttered against her ribs. What did Joshua Blue know of babies and silence? Had he lost a wife? A child of his own? She wanted to express sympathy but couldn’t. If she pried into his life, he’d pry into hers. He’d ask questions and she’d have to hide the truth. Stephen was born too soon and his mother died. He barely survived. I welcome his cries, every one of them. They mean he’s alive.

  With a lump in her throat, she turned to leave. “Good night, Mr. Blue.”

  “Good night.”

  A thought struck her and she turned back to his room. “I suppose I should call you Reverend.”

  He grimaced. “I’d prefer Josh.”

  Adie preferred formality. She had her differences with the Almighty, but she’d been taught to respect God and honor His ways. Being too familiar with a man of the cloth seemed wrong. So did addressing a near stranger by his given name. She avoided the issue by murmuring good-night.

  Before Mr. Blue could ask another question, she closed the door behind her and went to her bedroom. Too anxious to sleep, she stood next to Stephen’s cradle and watched the rise and fall of his chest, treasuring every breath he took. Someday she’d tell him about Maggie Butler and pass on the things hidden in the trunk at the foot of her bed. Maggie’s jewelry lay wrapped in a red velvet bag, untouchable, except in a matter of life or death. Adie expected to support herself and her son, though earning a living had proven more difficult than she’d expected. With the loan payment due on Friday, she would have to go to the bank where Franklin Dean would harass her.

  Stephen hiked up his legs. Adie tucked the blanket across his back and thought of the other things in the trunk, particularly Maggie’s diary. In the last weeks of her pregnancy, the two of them had spent their evenings on the porch of a Topeka boardinghouse. While Adie did piecework, Maggie had taken a pen to paper.

  “It’s my story,” she’d explained. “If something happens to me, I want Stephen to have it when he’s older.”

  Blinking back tears, she recalled the day Maggie had written the last words in the journal. She’d asked for the book, scrawled a final sentence and taken her last breath. Stunned, Adie had lifted the book from Maggie’s still hands. Without opening it, she’d buried the journal deep in the trunk.

  Looking at her son now, Adie thought of the diary and trembled. Maggie had lived with secrets. The book, Adie feared, held revelations that could tear Stephen out of her arms. She had no desire to read it. Instead she kept it hidden with the jewelry and the picture of his natural mother. Someday she’d give everything to her son. The book held truths he deserved to know, but its presence made Adie tremble. She had no intention of opening the trunk for a very long time.

  Josh opened his Bible to the Psalms. Tonight he needed comfort and he’d find it in the words of David, a man with God’s own heart but human inclinations. Josh understood that tug and pull. In Boston he’d been inclined to protect his own pride. He’d been an arrogant fool and he hadn’t even known it. Others had, though. As the pages fluttered, he recalled preaching in front of a thousand people. Gerard Richards, the leading evangelist in America, had been in the crowd. Josh had been eager for the man’s praise. Instead the famed minister, a stooped man with a squeaky voice, had looked him up and down and said, “You have a gift, young man. But you’re full of yourself. You’ll be better after you’ve suffered.”

  Josh had been insulted.

  Now he understood. Emily’s flight had knocked him to his knees. He’d fallen even lower when he’d lost everything in a river crossing. It had happened on the Missouri at the peak of the spring flood. The barge pilot had steered into an eddy and lost control. When water lapped the logs, the passengers had all run to the side closest to the shore. The raft tipped, sending everything—people, animals and their possessions—into the racing current.

  Josh had made it to shore, but he’d lost the satchel he’d carried from Boston. The clothing could be replaced, but he’d grieved the Bible. It had belonged to his grandfather, the man who’d mentored Josh until he’d died of apoplexy. Even more devastating was the loss of Emily’s letter and the tintype she’d had made a few months before she’d revealed her condition. Josh had tucked them in the back of the Bible for safekeeping, but the river had swallowed them whole.

  Stripped of his possessions, he’d found work in a livery. That Sunday, he’d preached to a trio of bleary men who’d com
e for their horses after a night on the town. They’d each given him two bits for his trouble. Josh had put those coins toward the purchase of the Bible in his hands now. The men had come back the following Sunday and they’d brought a few friends. Josh had preached again. He’d used that collection for laudanum.

  Recalling that day, he lingered on David’s plea to the God who knew his deepest thoughts. He prayed, as he did every night, that the Lord would lead him to Emily. Before the river crossing, he’d shown her picture to everyone he’d met. Now he could only describe her. He missed the letter, too. The night she’d left, she’d put it on top of the sermon notes on his desk. He’d been preaching through the gospel of John and had reached the story of the adulterous woman and Jesus’ famous words, “Let him whose slate is clean cast the first stone.”

  Sermons usually came easily to Josh, but he’d been unable to grasp the underlying message.

  Now he knew why. He’d been a hard-boiled hypocrite. When Emily came to him for help, he’d berated her with words that bruised more deeply than rocks. Blinking, he recalled her letter. He’d read it so often he’d memorized it.

  I love you, Josh. But I don’t respect you. You judged me for my sins—I admit to them—but you don’t know what happened or why. You don’t know me or my baby’s father and you never will. I’m leaving Boston for good. Someday, Reverend Blue, you’ll get knocked off your high horse. I’ll pray for you, but I won’t weep.

  Your sister, Emily.

  That Sunday, Josh had taught on the same passage, but he’d changed the message. Instead of focusing on the woman and Christ’s command to go and sin no more, he’d talked about throwing stones. In front of three hundred people, he’d admitted to his mistakes and resigned his position. A broken man, he’d packed a single bag and bought a train ticket. Based on Sarah’s knowledge, he’d headed for St. Louis, worrying all the time that Emily would travel farther west. Josh hadn’t found her in St. Louis, but he’d spotted a piece of her jewelry in a shop owned by a pawnbroker. It had given him hope. Over the next several months, he’d traveled far and wide.

  Someday he’d find Emily. He’d hit his knees and beg for forgiveness. Until then, he had to live with his regrets. Exhausted, he blew out the lamp. As always he prayed for his sister’s safety. Tonight, he added Adie Clarke to that list. He couldn’t help Emily, but here at Swan’s Nest, he saw a chance to do some good. What he couldn’t give to Emily, he’d give to Adie Clarke and her friends. The thought put a smile on his face, the first one in a long time.

  Chapter Four

  “Don’t let him inside!”

  “I won’t,” Adie said to Pearl.

  The two women were in the front parlor. They’d been on the porch when Pearl had spotted a carriage coming down the street. Terrified of Franklin Dean, she’d run inside with Adie behind her. Together they were peering through the lace curtain at a brougham that belonged to the banker. In the front seat sat Mr. Dean’s driver, a stocky man dressed in a frock coat and black bowler.

  Adie’s gaze skittered to the back of the open carriage where she saw the banker folding a copy of the Rocky Mountain News. Some women would have found Mr. Dean handsome. He had dark blond hair, brown eyes, a mustache and what her mother had called a lazy smile, the kind that curled on a man’s lips with no effort at all. In Adie’s experience, smiles were rare and had to be earned.

  She didn’t trust Franklin Dean at all. She’d felt uncomfortable the instant they’d met, and those suspicions had been confirmed when she’d heard Pearl’s story. A preacher’s daughter, Pearl had been engaged to the banker when he’d taken her for a buggy ride. Dean claimed that they’d succumbed to temptation, but Adie knew otherwise. Pearl had told her about that horrible afternoon. She’d protested. She’d pushed him away. He’d pushed back and left her ashamed and carrying his child.

  Adie put her arm around Pearl’s shoulders. “Go upstairs. I’ll see what he wants.”

  “I can’t leave you.”

  “Yes, you can.” Adie made her voice light. False courage, she’d learned, counted for the real thing if no one saw through it.

  “But—”

  “Go on.” Adie pointed Pearl to the stairs. “I can handle Mr. Dean.”

  The carriage rattled to a stop. With her eyes wide, Pearl stared at the door, then at Adie. “I’ll hide in the kitchen. If he tries anything, I’ll scream for help. I’ll get a knife—” Her voice broke.

  Boots tapped on the steps. Adie nudged Pearl down the hall, then inspected herself in the mirror. She’d planned to walk to the business district to pay the mortgage and had already put on her good dress. Thanks to the rent from Reverend Blue, she had enough money for the payment and roast beef for supper. She’d put Stephen down for a nap and had been looking forward to a peaceful walk. Quiet afternoons were few and far between. She refused to let Franklin Dean steal her pleasure.

  He rapped on the door.

  Adie opened it. “Good afternoon, Mr. Dean.”

  He tipped his hat. “Miss Clarke.”

  It galled Adie to be pleasant, but riling him would only lead to trouble. She forced a smile. “What can I do for you?”

  “May I come in?”

  She stepped onto the porch and closed the door. “It’s a lovely day. We can speak out here.”

  His eyes narrowed. “I’ve come to see Pearl.”

  “She’s not accepting visitors.”

  “I believe I’m the exception.”

  No, he was the reason. The July sun burned behind him, turning the street into a strip of dust and giving his face craggy lines. Adie couldn’t stand the sight of him. He’d hurt Pearl the way Timothy Long had tried to hurt her. He swaggered the way she’d imagined Maggie’s brother strutted in his fancy pulpit. She had to convince him to leave.

  “Pearl’s resting,” she said.

  “You’re lying, Miss Clarke.” His lips curled into the lazy smile. “She was sitting by the window.”

  “How would you know?”

  “Am I wrong?”

  “It’s none of your concern.”

  Her voice rang with confidence, but her insides were quaking. He’d been too far away to see Pearl through the glass. Had he been watching her house? She thought of the rock that had shattered her bedroom window. Fear gripped her, but she met his gaze as if they were discussing lemonade.

  Dean rapped a walking stick against his palm. Over and over, he slapped his own flesh as if he didn’t feel a thing. Adie had been beaten with bigger sticks and knew when to keep quiet. She also knew that Franklin Dean wanted to drive her out of Swan’s Nest so he could sell the property for a higher price than she’d negotiated with his father. Between silver mines and gold strikes, farms, ranches and the arrival of the railroad, Denver had been dubbed the Queen City of the Plains. Adie’s house stood on prime land and Dean wanted it back.

  He couldn’t have it. She forced herself to appear blasé.

  He slapped the walking stick against his palm a final time. Gripping it tight, he smiled as if nothing ugly had passed between them. “I’m rather thirsty, Miss Clarke. I’d enjoy a glass of sweet tea.”

  “I’m fresh out.”

  “Water, then.”

  He wanted to get in the house and corner Pearl. No way would Adie open the door. “I was about to leave for town, Mr. Dean. If you’ll excuse me—”

  “No, Miss Clarke. I won’t excuse you.” His eyes burned into hers. “I want to see Pearl.”

  “Like I said, she’s resting.”

  He glared at her. “The mortgage is due today, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “My timing’s excellent,” he said. “I’ll collect payment and save you the trip to the bank.”

  “No, thank you.” Adie never dealt with Dean when she made her payment. She always visited the same teller, asked for a receipt and stowed it in the trunk. They were that precious to her.

  Craning his neck, Dean peered through the lace curtain hanging in the parlor window. Adie turned and
followed his gaze to Pearl, her belly large and round, as she peered around the corner and out the window.

  He rapped on the glass. “Pearl!”

  Startled, the girl slipped back into the hall that led to the kitchen. Dean made a move for the front door, but Adie blocked him. He pivoted, went down the steps and turned down the path that led to the garden behind the house. Adie raced after him.

  “Stop!” she cried.

  “I have business with Pearl.”

  “You’re trespassing!”

  Ignoring her, he strode past the vegetables she’d planted in place of flowers and rounded the corner to the back of the house. He was headed for the door, but he hadn’t counted on Joshua Blue blocking his path. The scarecrow in the garden had more meat on its bones, but the reverend had a fire in his eyes that scared Adie to death.

  After two days in bed, Bessie’s care and a gallon of goat’s milk, Josh had felt the need for fresh air. He’d gone out the back door, taken in the garden and stepped into the carriage house. He’d been checking his horse when Pearl had run into the outbuilding. Shaking and out of breath, she’d closed the door and hunkered down behind a partial wall before she’d seen him.

  Josh approached as if she were a downed bird. “Are you all right?”

  She gasped. “It’s Franklin Dean. He—” She burst into tears.

  Josh didn’t know a thing about Franklin Dean, but he knew about evil men. “Where’s Miss Clarke?”

  “He tried to get in the house,” Pearl said, whimpering. “Adie stopped him.”

  Josh strode out of the carriage house. As he emerged in the sun, he saw a man headed for the back door of Swan’s Nest. Adie was running behind him, ordering him to stop. One look at her face and Josh knew she’d fight this man. Pearl’s fear explained why. Her belly testified to a deeper reason, one that made Josh furious. Stifling his anger, he looked the man up and down. The stranger didn’t match Josh in height, but he weighed at least fifty pounds more. The difference came from both Josh’s belly trouble and the man’s indulgence. Whoever he was, he didn’t skip dessert.