Finally, a pale-faced man stood. "I ain't listenin' to no Bible thumper." He started toward the door, and others stood to follow.
"Hold it right there!" The voice belonged to a tall, bearded man wearing a rebel kepi cap. His long hair tied back, he walked with a limp. He held a rifle pointed in such a way that no one doubted he meant business.
Justin didn't know if it was the kind of rifle that required skill or luck, but no one in the room seemed willing to find out—he least of all. One by one, the men sat down again and the women backed up against the wall.
His finger on the trigger, the gunman tipped his hat to Justin and introduced himself. "Everyone 'round here calls me Timber Joe on account of my wooden leg. So go ahead, Preacher, and do what you came to do." To emphasize his words, Timber Joe pointed the rifle at Justin momentarily before leveling it around the room.
"Uh . . ."Justin cleared his throat and brushed the back of his hand across his damp forehead. He'd heard of shotgun weddings, but this was the first he'd heard of a shotgun sermon.
"Please join me in prayer."
He looked at each face in return and was greeted with eyes full of resentment and, in some cases, downright hostility.
Timber Joe limped around the room, the thumping sound of his wooden limb muffled by the sawdust on the floor. He nudged any slacker with the barrel of his rifle and soon, even the most stubborn of men had complied. Satisfied, Timber Joe spun around, pointing his gun straight at Justin.
Justin cleared his voice, lowered his head, and hastily began, "Dear heavenly Father . . ."
Sarah called him long-winded, but today called for as much wind as he could muster. God didn't need to hear his prayer as much as the townsfolk did. Judging by what little he knew of the town, there was a lot to pray for.
"Amen," he said at last and a sigh of relief circled the room. Anyone who so much as shifted in his chair found himself staring down the barrel of the gunman's rifle.
Timber Joe glanced around the room and, apparendy satisfied, nodded. "It's all yours, preacher."
Justin opened his Bible to Exodus 20:8 and read the verse aloud. '"Remember the sabbath day, to keep it holy.'"
While he read, Jake's customers sat attentively. If anyone so much as scratched his nose, Timber Joe's rifle swung into action.
After a while, Justin closed the Bible. "How many of you consider yourselves honest?"
Hands shot up all around the room. A homemade faro cheating device fell to the floor, but no one moved to pick it up.
"I see we didn't need Timber Joe's help with that one," Justin said with a wry smile.
A few brave souls laughed, but most remained stoic, bodies rigid, ready to escape at the first opportunity.
Justin continued, "So what we have here is a room full of honest people stealing a day that belongs to God." It felt good to be preaching again. Never did he preach to a more attentive audience, thanks to Timber Joe, and he made the most of it.
Dead silence followed his sermon. Justin pulled off his hat. "God gives freely, and it's now our chance to give freely back. The church is in dire need of windows and pews. And I'm sure there are many in this town in need of your kind generosity."
He passed his hat to the nearest person, a skinny man with a sweeping mustache and bobbing Adam's apple. The man stared down into the crown, then passed it to the man next to him. "I ain't got no money."
Timber Joe was on him in a flash, rifle leveled at the man's throat. "Look again, Moe."
Moe started to argue, then apparently thought better of it. He reached into the pocket of his pants and produced a shiny gold coin. With more prodding from Timber Joe, he reached over and dropped it into the empty crown.
By the time Justin's hat made its way back to him, it was overflowing. He gave the benediction. In Boston, people knew to leave following the blessing, but here no one made a move. All eyes watched Timber Joe.
Taking the hint, Joe slipped the rifle strap over his shoulder. No other invitation was needed. Every patron jumped up and made a mad dash for the door, knocking over tables and chairs in their haste to escape.
Timber Joe nodded in satisfaction and tugged on the beak of his gray kepi hat. "You sure do know how to empty a saloon," he drawled. "We could have used you in the war."
Justin grinned. "You think my sermon was that good, huh?"
Timber Joe nodded. "I'd say it was good enough to torture a whole roomful of Yankee prisoners."
Justin's smile died.
Timber Joe slapped him on the back. "You might consider hiring me permanently. That way, it won't matter if you preach good or bad. They'll listen either way."
"I prefer to use more gentle persuasion," Justin said as tactfully as he could. Not wanting to sound ungrateful, Justin thanked him.
"My pleasure." Timber Joe touched the visor of his cap in a salute. "Let me know if you change your mind." He limped out of the saloon, leaving only Justin and Jake, the bar's proprietor, behind.
Jake spit a yellow stream into a tarnished brass spittoon. He then wiped the bar down with a dirty rag, watching Justin with a disapproving frown. A heavy-set man with squinty eyes, a pointed chin and drooping mustache, he clearly did not appreciate Justin's turning his saloon into a place of worship.
"The man's crazy," the bartender muttered. "The war did somethin' to his brain. He acts like he's still fightin' them Yankees."
"I guess we're all fighting our own private wars," Justin said.
He stared down at his overflowing hat. He still didn't believe how much money he'd collected. Not even Christmas services in Boston commanded so much generosity. Nor, for that matter, had he ever known a more attentive audience. As much as he hated to admit it, there was something to be said for Timber Joe's unorthodox methods.
Justin stuffed his pockets with the collection, placed his hat on his head, thanked Jake for his hospitality, and walked outside.
He was greeted by the same old man on his rocking chair. "You're still alive."
"Yeah," Justin said. "I guess I am."
"Hank Applegate's the name." Squinting beneath the brim of his old leather hat, he clamped down on his jaw, letting his toothless gums grind against each other. "That was some preachin' job you did, young man."
Justin tipped his hat. "Much obliged." Justin eyed the saloon across the street. If he cut his sermon down, he could probably empty the remaining six saloons by suppertime.
Applegate studied him from watery eyes. "Don't go judgin' this here town too harshly."
Justin looked the man square in the face. "I'm not here to judge. That's God's job."
"Reckon I know judgin' when I sees it. You're askin' yourself what kind of town neglects its church?"
Justin rubbed his chin and felt a pang of guilt. "I'm afraid the thought did cross my mind," he admitted.
Applegate gave a sage nod. "The folks around here have had some mighty tough times. Kind of makes you lose faith, you know what I mean? We lost a bunch of boys in the war. Cattle ranches went bankrupt after an outbreak of Texas fever. Entire families were wiped out by a smallpox epidemic. A tornado ripped through here three years ago. Then there was the flood year before last. Water swept down Main Street like nobody's bus'ness. Before that, there was all that Indian trouble."
Justin didn't know what to say. People in Boston had problems, of course, but their problems seemed mild compared to what this little town had gone through.
He gazed up and down the street, seeing things in a different light. Instead of saloons, he saw buildings where hurting people went to drown their sorrows. He was reminded of his own careless youth following the death of his sisters.
All at once, he knew why God had sent him to that town. Who better to lead the way out of the darkness than someone who had traveled that very same route?
What he didn't know was how to go about restoring the town's faith.
"I'm not judging the town," Justin said again, and this time he meant it.
"Well if you ain't
now, you will be." Applegate rocked his chair and it squeaked beneath his weight. "Day after tomorrow, Rocky Creek is gonna hang a woman."
Justin stared at him. "A . . . A woman, did you say?"
Applegate nodded and ground his gums together. "Don't look so shocked, Reverend. Some say the woman's only gittin' what's comin' to her. She's a member of the Prescott gang, and—"
Justin didn't wait to hear the rest.
Twenty-five
At first Justin thought someone had made a mistake. The woman's face was hidden in the shadows, but he could see the ruffled hem of her skirt. It wasn't Sarah!
With a sense of relief, he moved closer to the tiny jail cell, thinking that whoever she was, she could probably use some spiritual counseling.
He squinted to get a better look. The narrow band of light that streamed through the square cut high in the gray stone wall failed to reach the cot.
"Hello," he called softly. "My name is Reverend Wells."
The shadow on the cot moved. "Justin?"
His heart skipped a beat. "Sarah!"
Battling yards of ruffles and lace, Sarah jumped to her feet, rushed across the tiny cell, and grabbed hold of the iron bars. Under normal circumstances, he would have laughed at the feminine fussiness that weighed her down. Today he could only gaze at her, absorbing every detail of the face he had dreamed about since the day they parted.
He reached through the bars to grab hold of her hands, and they both started talking at once.
"I—"
He fell silent, and for the longest while, he could only gaze at her. "I never thought I'd see you again," he whispered at last, his voice hoarse.
"I missed you so much."
Suddenly, neither one of them could get their words out fast enough.
"I couldn't stop thinking about you," he said.
"I ain't hardly slept."
"I should never have let you go."
"How did you know I was here?"
"It's a small town," he replied. "News travels fast."
"Knowing you, you probably think this is some sort of divine intervention," she said.
"Interruption," he said, correcting her out of habit. Realizing his error, he laughed.
She laughed too. "I've been practicin' my words. Tryin' to talk like a lady."
She wore a pretty blue frock the very same color as her eyes. The dress swept around her in gentle folds, the fabric whispering each time she moved. He noticed now that she still wore her red boots. The sight of scuffed toes beneath the ruffles of her dress made him smile.
"You've always been a lady to me," he said, aching with a need to hold her in his arms. Even her hair was different, falling gracefully down her back in silken strands of gleaming red curls. He lifted his hand to her cheek. "You're so beautiful."
"And you're so handsome," she whispered back, pressing both her hands against his.
"Are . . . are you all right?"
"I've seen better days." She searched his face. "Elizabeth?" He could see the pain it caused her to say the baby's name. "Did you . . . find her a good family?"
He shook his head. "Not yet. My landlady is taking care of her. Wait till you see her. She smiled at me."
"Oh!" Tears sprang to her eyes. "I wish I could—"
"You will," he said. "You will."
She dropped her hands to her side and shook her head. "It's bad, Justin. It's really, really bad."
He pulled his hand away. "I don't understand. How did you get here? I thought you were in Fort Smith with your brothers. I thought you were safe."
A shadow clouded her face. "They ain't in Fort Smith. I don't know what happened to them. I'm really worried."
"But this still doesn't explain how you got here."
"I turned myself in."
"What?" He gaped at her. Sarah was impulsive, but never did he imagine she would do something so foolhardy. "Why. . . why would you do that?"
"I couldn't stand bein' away from you. And you said that no one would hang a lady."
He moaned and slapped his forehead. "This is all my fault."
"Don't go thinkin' that, you hear? That fool marshal's to blame, not you." She pinched the fabric of her skirt and held it out. "I'm all gussied up. Even put on three petticoats. But that don't make no difference to the marshal. I'm tellin' you, the man don't know dung from honey."
"Sarah, if anything happens to you—" Never did he think they would actually hang a woman. Such a thing would not happen in Boston, but Texas was a horse of a different breed, one that he obviously knew nothing about.
"Don't go blamin' yourself, you hear? It's my own fool fault that I'm in this mess. I didn't read the signs right."
"Signs? What signs?"
Ignoring his question, she continued. "I'm trying to put my trust in God, just like you said I should."
He nodded his head. "That's good, Sarah."
She looked at him long and hard. "No matter what happens, it was worth seein' your face again." Her voice broke. "Do . . . do you think I can see Elizabeth before they . . . ?"
"I'll bring her, but. . . they aren't going to—" He couldn't bring himself to say it. He pressed his forehead against an iron bar. "Remember, you said you were going to put your trust in God."
"I'm tryin'—I really am. I don't know if even He can save me." Her voice faltered. "I don't know if anyone can. The marshal's plumb got his heart set on tyin' a bow around my neck. Said I killed his brother-in-law."
Justin lifted his head. "His brother-in-law?"
"U.S. Marshal Owen was hitched to Marshal Briggs' sister."
A knot tightened in the pit of his stomach. This was worse than he'd thought. "But you didn't kill him. You tried to save his life." His thoughts raced. "How does he know about the marshal's death?"
"I told him," she said. "He asked me where Owen was and I told him."
He reached through the bars and gently brushed his fingers against her cool pale cheek.
"God will help us find a way to save you. Elizabeth needs you."
A shadow creased her forehead, and her lips trembled. "I told you, she needs someone better to be her ma. She don't need the likes of—"
"I need you," he said. "I love you."
She glanced over his shoulder to make sure that no one had heard. "Shh. If they know the town's new preacher takes a fancy to an outlaw, there ain't no tellin' what they'll do."
"I don't care," he said.
"I do," she whispered, and her eyes filled with tears.
"Sarah," Justin pleaded. "Please don't cry."
She pulled her hand away from his. "See what happens when you dress like a lady? I'm as leaky as an old water pump."
He dug through all the bills and coins in his coat pocket for his neatly folded handkerchief and then wiped away her tears. "I promise, with God's help, I'll find a way to get you out of this."
She managed a wan smile. "I reckon it's gonna take a miracle to get me out of this mess."
"Miracles happen," he said.
She wiped away the last of her tears, and her smile widened. A look of shining hope had replaced the earlier fear. "You wouldn't be pullin' my leg now, would you?"
He shook his head. "Miracles happen. You know they do. Mira the goat is living proof of that. Remember the ten plagues of Egypt and the parting of the Red Sea?"
"Don't forget the eighty-year-old woman havin' a baby."
Grinning, he squeezed her hand. Suddenly, something occurred to him.
"Sarah, you've just given me an idea. I think there might be a way to save you."
Anxious to put his plan into action, he spun around and called for the marshal to let him out, rattling the bars on the outer door with impatience.
"Wait!" she called after him, hands on her hips. "You can't say somethin' like that and take off, you hear? How do you expect to save me?"
He turned. "It's easy," he said with a grin. "All I need is God's help—and a quick tongue." He laughed at the exp
ression on her face. "I'm not sure about the quick tongue, but I'll give it my best shot."
Twenty-six
Marshal Briggs sat with his feet on the desk, his hands folded across the generous mound of his stomach. Tapping his fingers together, he stared at Justin like a cat trying to decide whether a mouse was worthy of attention.
Briggs had permitted Justin to visit the prisoner out of respect for the church, but his disapproval of the preacher's visit was etched in every pore of his sunbaked skin. His mustache twitching, he indicated the ladder-back chair in front of his desk with a nod of his head.
"Did you get a confession from her, Reverend? Did she tell you how she killed my sister's husband in cold blood?"
Justin sat down and balanced his hat on his knee. He gave the marshal careful regard before responding. After what happened in Boston, he wasn't eager to divulge having spent all that time alone with Sarah. It wasn't only his own reputation that worried him; he hoped to prove Sarah's innocence and, for that, he needed credibility. Any scandalous gossip about the two of them could only hurt his cause.
"I'm sorry about the death of your brother-in-law, and my sympathies are with your sister." Briggs said nothing, and Justin continued, "Miss Prescott had nothing to do with Owen's death. The two of them were ambushed, and Owen was shot in the shoulder. Sarah . . . Miss Prescott did everything in her power to save him."
"That's what she told you, eh?" Briggs dropped his feet to the floor and he hit the desk with his fist. "My brother-in-law left Texas for one purpose and one purpose alone, to track down Sarah Prescott. I don't care who fired the actual bullet. I hold the Prescott family personally responsible for his death."
"While the real killer goes free?"
The marshal's eyes glittered. "I'll have them all before I'm through, don't you worry none about that."
Justin fingered his hat. "Revenge is a poor excuse for justice."
The lawman's mouth twitched as if he fought to control his anger. "It would be to your advantage to stick to preachin' and let me worry about the likes of Sarah Prescott."
"I don't know about Texas, but in Boston, that would be considered a threat."
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