Advance Acclaim for
"I've known for years that Margaret Brownley is a great writer but I think A Lady Like Sarah is Margaret at her peak. A perfect blend of romance, the old west, and characters that steal your heart, along with writing that sings. A fabulous read. I laughed and cried and wished I could pick up the sequel immediately. Write faster, Margaret."
—Lauraine Snelling, author of The Red River of the North series
"Margaret Brownley has created two wonderful, unforgettable characters in Sarah and Justin. Their story held my interest from the start, and I couldn't wait to find out if or how their love would overcome the obstacles set before them. A Lady Like Sarah is one of my favorite reads of this year."
—Robin Lee Hatcher, best-selling author of Fit To Be Tied and The Perfect Life
"Margaret Brownley brings the old west to life through her humor, drama, and memorable characters. A Lady Like Sarah is completely enjoyable from beginning to end."
—Jill Marie Landis, author of Heart of Stone, releasing March 20I0
"A Lady Like Sarah is not your average romance novel. Margaret Brownley's writing is whimsical and unconventional. . . I highly recommend this story"
—TheDabblingMum.com
© 2009 by Margaret Brownley
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Published in Nashville, Tennessee. Thomas Nelson is a registered trademark of Thomas Nelson Inc.
Thomas Nelson, Inc. titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fundraising, or sales promotional use. For information, e-mail [email protected]
Scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible. Public domain.
This novel is a work of fiction. Any references to real events, businesses, organizations, and locales are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
CIP has been applied for.
ISBN 978-1-59554-809-2
Printed in the United States of America
09 10 11 12 13 CLS 5 4 3 2 1
To George . . .
For the privilege and joy of loving you.
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Epilogue
One
1879
Missouri
Vultures signaled trouble ahead.
"Whoa, boy." Reverend Justin Wells tugged on the reins of his horse, bringing his brown gelding to a standstill.
Adjusting the brim of his dusty felt hat, he narrowed his eyes against the bright afternoon sun and peered across the wide, arid plains. Trees grew directly ahead of him, the first he'd seen since leaving St. Louis five days prior. The graceful, tall sycamores suggested the welcome presence of water, perhaps a stream.
He mopped his damp brow with a kerchief, then lifted his eyes upward. They were vultures, all right. No question about it. The scavengers circled overhead on broad, outstretched wings, scanning the ground in waiting silence.
Something or someone was dying. An animal no doubt. He'd passed his share of buffalo skulls and cattle carcasses in recent days, and each had made him ruminate on dying and the meaning of life.
Born and raised in Boston, he never planned to travel across country, never really had a hankering for adventure. Not like most men he knew. Certainly he never expected to leave his hometown in disgrace.
He reached for his canteen, every muscle in his body protesting. He wasn't just saddle sore; his back ached from the restless nights spent on the hard, unyielding ground. Sleep, if it came at all, had been fleeting at best and offered little respite from his troubled thoughts.
He pulled off the cork top of his tin canteen and lifted it to his parched lips. Never one to question God's will in the past, it disturbed him that he questioned it now.
Texas!
What possible reason could God have for sending him to a rough, untamed town in Texas?
He thought of all the work left undone in Boston. To be separated from the congregation he loved seemed a fate worse than death. Though what choice did he have but to accept God's will?
Behind him, Moses, his pack mule, made a strange whinnying sound that ended in a loud hee-haw. The short, thick head moved from side to side; the long ears twitched.
Having learned to trust the animal's instincts, Justin felt a sense of unease. With increased alertness, he rose in his saddle and scanned the area ahead. A movement in the trees caught his attention. A previously unnoticed horse stood in the shade. At first he thought it was a wild mustang that had strayed away from its herd. Upon closer observation, he realized his mistake. This horse was saddled.
He glanced at the still-circling buzzards and a sense of urgency shot through him. "Let's go, boy." Digging his heels gently into his gelding's ribs, he galloped along the trail, kicking up dust behind him.
Moses followed close behind, the pots and pans tied to the mule's pack clanking like old rusty chains.
Moments later, Justin dismounted, stabbed the ground with a metal picket, and staked his horse. He approached the bay cautiously, his gaze scanning the nearby terrain for its owner.
Tethered to a sapling, the horse pawed the ground and neighed, its long black tail swishing back and forth. Something—a red neckerchief—fluttered from a nearby bush.
Leaving horses and mule behind, he followed a narrow path toward the stream, stopping to pick up the kerchief en route.
Two bodies lay side by side in the grass, and he hurried toward them, searching for signs of life. One man wore a badge on his black vest, identifying him as a U.S. Marshal. The other man, judging by the handcuffs, was his prisoner.
Justin kneeled by the lawman's side and felt for a pulse. The man's eyes flickered open and his parched lips quivered. He had been shot. Blood had seeped through his clothes and trickled to the ground.
"Don't talk," Justin said. "Save your strength. I'll get you some water."
The marshal reached for Justin's arm. "Promise me—" He coughed. "My prisoner . . . promise—" He spoke in a murmur that was almost drowned out by a sudden gust of wind rippling through the tall prairie grass. "Take . . . to . . . Texas—"
Justin sat back on his heels in surprise. "Texas? You want me to take the prisoner to Texas?"
The lawman nodded slightly and closed his eyes, his breathing labored.
Intent upon getting the marshal water, Justin straightened. A moaning sound, soft as a kitten's first mew, made him take a closer look at the prisoner. That's when he saw the man's foot move.
Dropping down on his knees by the prisoner's sid
e, Justin leaned over him. "Take it easy, lad." The prisoner's face was covered in dust, but he appeared to be a young man, cleanshaven, probably still in his teens. The boy's youth would probably account for his ill-chosen bright red boots, which looked all the more garish in full sunlight.
"Just stay put." Justin squeezed the man's slight shoulder. "I'll get you something to drink." There was nothing to be done about the boots.
Returning to his horse, Justin retrieved the canteen tied to his saddle, then hurried to the fast-running stream. Removing the stopper, he dipped the canteen into the cool, clear waters and rushed back to the injured men, chasing away one of the vultures that had landed nearby.
"Here." Lowering himself onto his knee again, he slid one arm beneath the marshal's head and lifted the canteen to the man's swollen lips. The lawman took a sip and then slumped back as if it took all his energy to swallow. His eyes open, he looked worried or distressed, maybe both.
"Tell my . . . f-family—"
Justin tried to reassure him. "You'll be all right," he said. He didn't know anything about bullet wounds. It wasn't the kind of thing taught at Boston Theological Seminary. Still, he couldn't just let the man die. There had to be something he could do.
But first things first. He turned to the prisoner. Slipping his hand beneath the young man's shoulders, he lifted the youth's head. The man's wide-brimmed slouch hat was crushed behind him, the leather strap still beneath his smooth chin. Justin pulled the felt hat off and—much to his surprise— long red hair tumbled out of the crown.
Justin froze. Not sure if he could believe his eyes, he blinked and took a closer look. There was no mistake; the prisoner was a woman!
Two
Even before Sarah Prescott's eyes flickered open, she sensed something had changed. The sun didn't seem quite as bright or the heat as unrelenting as it had been previously. Something or someone blocked the sunlight, but before she could determine whether friend or foe she drifted off again.
Now, she saw blue. Or was it green? Something. She imagined herself running along a sweet-scented meadow, free as the wind that touched her fevered brow.
Then it hit her. It wasn't the wind she felt; it was something else, something soft and gentle and refreshingly cool.
She tried to sit up, but a weight of some kind held her down.Hands. Strong yet gentle hands. She lay back, willing the fog in her head to clear.
A face floated into view, the face of a man—not the lawman, but a stranger. A stranger with clear, blue eyes and a handsome, square face that was all at once strong and kind.
He knelt by her side and, cupping her chin in his hand, sponged her forehead with tender strokes. He then lifted her by the shoulders and held a canteen to her dry lips. The water tasted sweet, but it hurt to swallow and she couldn't take much more than a sip at a time.
He lowered her gently. "How do you feel?"
She gazed up at him, still confused. The sun seemed less bright and she realized she lay beneath the shade of a black willow tree. The stranger must have carried her.
She lifted her hand to her head, surprised to find that her handcuffs had been removed. She tried to sit up.
"Whoa, there," he said, his strong fingers pressing into her shoulder. "Take it easy. Some rest and food and you'll be good as new."
She settled back on the canvas roll that served as a pillow, aware that her hat had been removed and her hair had come loose. "Who . . . who are you?"
"Name's Justin Wells. Reverend Justin Wells."
Surprised, she stared at him. She pictured preachers old and stooped-shouldered, lacking in humor. This one stood straight and tall, his broad shoulders straining against his white shirt, rolled up at the sleeves.
"A preacher, eh?"
"That I am." Her surprise seemed to amuse him, and a glint of humor danced in his eyes. His mouth turned up in a grin.
"Talk about dumb luck."
The grin left his face and his dark eyebrows arched upward. "Is there a problem?"
"No," she muttered. "No problem." She lowered her lashes.Of all things, a preacher.
"And your name is . . . ?"
She opened one eye and studied him. The wind ruffled his thick black hair, but his gaze never wavered. "My name's Sarah."
"Sarah, huh?"
Something in his voice made her open the other eye and regard him with suspicion. "You have a problem with my name?"
"Not at all. I think it's a beautiful name. A biblical name."
He didn't look like a preacher, but he sure sounded like one. "You're joshin' me, right?"
"No, honest. Sarah's in the Bible."
She considered this for a moment. If what he said was true, why hadn't she heard about it before now? Thinking he might be poking fun at her, she glared at him. But he looked solemn as soap.
He drew the tip of his finger along his upper lip. Unlike most men, he was clean-shaven, and this gave him an open, honest appearance that made her regret having to be secretive.
"Did you know that 'Sarah' originally meant contentious?"
"Contentious?" She repeated the word slowly, trying to think if she ever heard it before.
"Quick-tempered," he offered.
"You don't have to tell me what it means," she snapped. Sooner or later she would have figured it out for herself.
"It wasn't until she turned eighty and gave birth to a prince that she became known as Sarah, the princess," he added.
Sarah had never heard of anything so ridiculous in all her born days. "This Sarah woman had a baby when she was eighty?"
He nodded.
"If that don't beat all."
"It was a miracle," the preacher said gently.
"You call it what you want, mister. But any woman who has a baby at that age ain't got both oars in the water."
"I guess that's one way to look at it." He studied her for a moment. "What's the rest? Sarah what?"
"I ain't got no rest," she said. She wasn't about to tell him she was a Prescott. Just 'cuz he was a preacher was no reason to think he wouldn't recognize her name.
"What should I call you?"
Her eyes met his. "Call me Sarah."
"It's customary for a man to address a woman by her surname. Miss—?" He waited.
"I never did cotton much to being called miss," she said. "Makes it sound like I'm missin' out on somethin' just 'cuz I ain't got me no husband. Just call me Sarah."
He grinned. "You sure do have a different way of looking at things."
She wondered if he meant that as a compliment or criticism. It was hard to tell if he was serious. He didn't speak like anyone she knew. He pronounced each word fully with no clipped vowels or lazy drawls, and she wondered if perhaps he was part Irish.
"Where you from?" she asked.
"Boston," he said. "And you?"
She shrugged. "Here and there."
He accepted her answer without question. "So what happened?" he prodded. "Who shot the marshal?"
"Never saw the scoundrel before in my life," she replied. She gave an indignant toss of her head, and the world spun circles around her.
He placed a steadying hand on her shoulder. "Take it easy."
Not one to pay much heed to physical ailments, she pushed his hand away. "The fool man ambushed us and then done stole my horse."
The preacher sat back on his haunches and regarded her thoughtfully. "You better rest for a while." He turned his attention to the marshal, dabbing the man's feverish face with a cool, wet cloth.
"He ain't lookin' so good," she said.
She glanced at the two horses grazing a short distance away, thinking about the attack. She had pleaded with the marshal to stop so she could rest her weary bones. He cuff-linked her to himself and tucked the key into his saddlebags before letting her dangle her feet in the fresh, cool waters of the stream. As she and the marshal returned to the horses, they were ambushed without so much as a warning.
"If I ever get my hands on that no-go
od thief, he'll be cold as a wagon wheel," she vowed. She glanced at the preacher for a sign of objection, but his face was oddly expressionless. Whatever he was thinking, he kept it to himself.
Not that she cared what he thought. That scoundrel shot Marshal Owen in cold blood and left them both to die. What was she supposed to do? Forgive and forget?
"So why is the marshal holding you prisoner?" the preacher asked.
She stiffened at his question. "I reckon that's my business."
He studied her intently but didn't pursue the matter further. "Here, have some more water."
This time he watched her drink from his canteen, unassisted. Then he carefully unwrapped a small wedge of cheese and a generous portion of hard bread and handed it to her.
"Since you haven't eaten in a while, I think you should take it nice and easy," he cautioned.
Ignoring his warning, she stuffed the food into her mouth.
His dark brows slanted in a worried frown, but he said nothing until she had finished every last crumb. "That should tide you over for a while."
He handed her the canteen. After taking another sip, she tried to stand, fighting off the dizziness. The preacher held her down with a firm hand, and she glared up at him. "You ain't keepin' me here ag'inst my will."
"I think the marshal has something to say about that," he said, releasing her. "It would save us both a lot of trouble if you just sat back and concentrated on getting your strength back."
"My strength is back," she argued. She tried standing, again, this time more slowly. A wave of dizziness washed over her, but she stubbornly remained on her feet.
"I'm not stayin' here," she added when her head stopped spinning. Though still light-headed, she started toward the horses, but in her present state she was no match for him. In one easy movement, he clamped his hand around her arm, surprising her with his strength. He might be a city-born preacher, but he was no weakling.
"I'm not going to hurt you," he said in a low, soothing voice, his fingers wrapped tightly around her wrist. He waited for her to stop struggling, then he calmly snapped the marshal's handcuffs in place.
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