Preacher's Wife (Sweet Town Clean Historical Western Romance Book 5)

by Sarah Christian

  Preacher's Wife

  by Sarah Christian

  Published by Salt of the Earth Press

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Copyright © 2016 by Sarah Christian

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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  For Joe.

  In the shadow of wild Deadwood, sits quiet Sweet Town. Established in the Dakota Gold Rush of the 1870s, Sweet Town is surrounded by gentle hills and fields of clover. It's a place where anyone can start over and redemption is never out of reach.

  Sweet Town romances tell the stories of the community as its members fall in love. These inspiring stories explore the power of charity, the nature of good and evil, and all the miracles that can happen when you open your heart.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty One

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  About the Author

  Summer 1878, Sweet Town, Dakota Territory

  The noisy clatter of the steam engine out back shook the raw wood walls of the small laundry building. Beulah stretched her back and watched for her employer's signal to turn it off. When the machine had quieted, the two women beamed at one another.

  "It works perfectly, Beulah," the owner of the laundry, Bridget O'Cuinn laughed. "I can't wait for our first customers to start streaming in."

  Beulah wiped a trickle of perspiration from her temple, where the moisture was starting to cause flyaways from her otherwise neatly coiled, thick dark hair. Bridget's husband had paid for the laundry building to be constructed for her. Beulah couldn't imagine having a husband so generous he would build an entire shop front for his wife so she could have her own business, but Beulah was glad Bridget's husband had. She wanted nothing more than to earn enough money to get her and her son Jonah out of the apartment over the general store. Until she was secure in her own space, it would always feel like she was waiting out a storm instead of living.

  "The only thing I'm worried about is having Jonah in here when that engine is running. It's so loud," Beulah said.

  "Aye," Bridget tucked a few curly, red strands of hair under her kerchief. "It is loud. I'll have Lore build a shed around it. Maybe that will muffle it some. In the meantime, you can do the ironing and mending after the washing is done for the day. That way you can bring your baby with you."

  "How long do you suppose before we'll have paying business?" She poured glasses of cool tea for each of them and handed one to Bridget.

  The tall redhead took a long drink. "I think as soon as we hang our shingle out front, Mrs. Bjugstad will be here in a jiffy to have us do their wash."

  "That's the banker's wife?" Beulah asked nervously.

  "Yes, she thinks she's pretty special. Having us do her laundry will please her no end."

  "I don't think she likes me much. I hope me being here won't hurt your business."

  "Why wouldn't she like you?" Bridget asked as she set the empty tea glass on a shelf.

  Beulah was incredulous. Here they were, an Irish immigrant and a former slave, and women at that. She noticed a lot of sideways glances from folks in Sweet Town and was amazed that Bridget seemed oblivious to public opinion. The banker's wife was the worst. She seemed to sneer, as though they smelled bad, whenever she came near. "Well, there's our ancestry, for one thing. And me being an unmarried mother for another. And you running your own business for yet another thing."

  "Oh, that." Bridget smiled. "Just ignore her. My Lore has too much money in their bank for them to cause any fuss if they know what's good for them."

  A quick series of knocks on the front door caused both women to look up in surprise. "Do you suppose we have a customer so soon?" Beulah asked. The door opened and Pastor Whitney stepped inside, who was very clearly not carrying any laundry. "Oh. It's just you."

  "Sorry to disappoint you, Miss Douglass." The pastor briefly tipped his wide brimmed hat in the direction of both ladies. "I wanted to see how things are coming along and suggest you make an announcement about your services during our gathering on Sunday."

  Beulah stepped back away from the conversation and fiddled with some bottles of chemicals Bridget had stocked for taking out stains. Trying to not be noticed, she watched the pastor out of the corner of her eye. He was tall, towering over her short stature, and not given to fat like some preachers she had known. Beyond that, though, she couldn't tell much about him. He kept the hat on, shading his face, and his shirt sleeves were long. His hands looked bronzed, and a glimpse of his palms as he gestured showed calluses. She knew he was wont to offer his help in many ways to his flock, including digging wells and hammering nails.

  "What do you think, Beulah?" Bridget was looking at her strangely and she realized she'd been staring at Pastor Whitney.

  "I'm sorry, I was wool gathering. What was your question?" Beulah felt her cheeks warm and she hoped any flushing could be blamed on the heat.

  "The pastor wants to know if we're ready to announce our doors are open for business. I think we'll be ready by Sunday."

  The preacher took that moment to tip his hat back and look at her. Beulah was surprised by how green his eyes were. They were startling in their intensity and it felt as though he could see inside her mind. A light dusting of freckles ran across his pale brown cheeks, though how, she knew not, since as far as she could tell his face was always shaded. He smiled at her and when she saw a flash of dimple her mouth went dry. What in the world is wrong with me, she said to herself. Out loud she answered Bridget's question with a nod.

  "Well, then, ladies, I'll see you Sunday." He settled his hat more firmly on his head, putting his face in shadow once more and turned to the door.

  As soon as he had moved beyond their sight through the front window, Bridget turned to her friend. "What was that all about?"
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  "I'm sure I don't know what you mean." Beulah's heart was settling back into a normal rhythm now that the man had left.

  "All that moony look you were giving him. Do you like him?" Bridget was grinning.

  "Even if I did, it wouldn't come to anything. He's a white man and I have no interest in having to fight the whole town just to live my life." She snatched up the shopping basket from a bench. "Let's go over to the mercantile and see if that detergent you ordered arrived on the wagon that just pulled up."

  The wagon was still unloading several large crates from the cargo area in back, as well as a passenger who looked very excited to have arrived in Sweet Town. As they walked in that direction, Bridget and Beulah shared a glance at one another, with Bridget pulling a face to show that she thought the man's excited antics a bit silly. He stomped his foot in glee, whooping and hollering, waving his hands in greeting to anyone passing by.

  The women were forced to walk in the street to avoid him, when he suddenly pulled a pistol from his waistband and fired it in the air. Beulah jumped in surprise, and noticed a horse, loosely tied at the rail in front of the store also jumped. Snorting, the animal reared in fright and as if in slow motion, Beulah watched the animal's front hooves coming down, directly toward her.

  Matthieu Whitney settled his hat more firmly on his head and walked several paces toward the church. Being a preacher meant that he could set his own schedule, and as much as he should be getting back to writing a sermon for Sunday, he felt compelled to turn around and head in the direction of the general store. Ahead he saw the two women, walking slowly toward the same destination. He had performed the marriage ceremony for Bridget and Lorcan O'Cuinn a couple of months back. They seemed happy, though he knew they had their trials. Being the only Irish people in Sweet Town was one of them. He knew Miss Douglass also suffered some indignities there. She was black, for one thing, and since the war there were many who weren't too happy about emancipation, even if they had fought on the side of the North. He shuddered to think of what she had been through, a freed slave held captive by the son of her previous master. The baby which came of that unholy cruelty wasn't to blame, but people like the banker's wife still held it against them both.

  Beulah's brown skirts ruffled at the movement of her legs and Matt admired her slight figure. Maybe she still needed time to recover from her trials and would plump up with rest and safety. Not that he didn't find her attractive now, but he stopped those thoughts immediately. There was no good to come from thinking courting thoughts about a freedwoman.

  A large wagon was in front of the store and the driver was unloading crates of goods. Some fool fellow, dressed in finery, glad to have arrived at Sweet Town, probably dreaming of striking it rich on gold, or land, or simply freedom, was dancing around like an idiot in the street. The two ladies stepped around the newcomer and Matt noticed that Bridget made a silly face that caused Beulah to smile. Her face lit up, eyes crinkling in mirth, but she pursed her lips as though trying to hold back a laugh. Yes, there was no good to come from admiring that woman.

  A shot rang out and he saw that the dandy was holding a pistol in the air, a wisp of smoke wafting away from the barrel. At the same moment, one of the wagon's horses startled. It reared and as he watched, Beulah Douglass looked up in horror. The animal's front feet were clawing at the air near her head.

  Even if he'd had time to think, he would still have dashed forward, at the last moment leaping to push Beulah away from the horse and danger. In the same instant his hands came in contact with her back, shoving her forward, he turned his head and saw a face in the window of the wagon, a passenger who had not yet disembarked. He would never forget that man, not in a million years, but he hoped Beau Jennings had forgotten him. Just in case, he turned his head to the side, pivoting his body.

  The next thing he knew he was on his back, trying to draw air into his lungs, and Beulah's face was all he could see.

  "He's coming round. Please step back," she said, her voice reedy with worry.

  "I'm fine," he gasped. "Just let me catch my breath." He reached up and pulled his hat lower over his face, hoping Jennings, if he were part of the crowd gathering around him, wouldn't be able to recognize him.

  "Lay still. You might have a broken bone somewhere." She began patting his body, and even as he became aware of a deep pain blossoming out from his chest, her touch seemed to soothe that ache.

  "Please, I'm fine. Help me up," he whispered fiercely and he saw a look on her face that showed she understood that something else was going on. Something that required he get up and on his way.

  "Bridget, help me pull him up. We'll take him to a doctor." Beulah reached to grasp his upper arms.

  "There is no doctor here." Bridget looked around as though help would appear.

  "We'll take him to that Indian midwife then. She's a healer."

  "Mika? Surely you're joshing me."

  Beulah shook her head. "We have to do something. We can't just leave him here in the street." She looked back at him. His breaths were coming fast and shallow ."He saved my life by pushing me out of the way."

  The proprietress of the general store, Lucy Price called from the boardwalk, "Don't worry about your baby, Beulah. I'll tell Emma what has happened. Just get him to Mika's soddie. She'll fix him up." Matt turned his head slightly and saw her standing there, her own belly swollen with child. She would know if the midwife was a good healer. She held out her finger and shook it at the man who had fired the pistol. "Don't think I won't be telling the sheriff about this. "

  Beulah looked at Bridget and raised her eyebrows. "Let's go."

  Matt was ashamed that he had to lean so heavily on their shoulders, but neither woman complained as they made their way slowly to the end of the street where a cluster of soddies had collected. Some, he knew, were the homes of fallen women, surviving the only way they could. Apparently this Lakota healer, Mika lived amongst them as well.

  Thick sod walls, small windows glazed not with glass, but waxed paper, and a pounded earthen floor, kept the small room cool on hot days. It also felt damp, but didn't smell so much of soil as it did of herbs, and the musty aroma of a smudgy fire burning in a small cook stove. A clay pot gently simmered, adding another layer of odors, pungent and strong. Beulah looked around curiously after the Lakota woman had gestured for them to enter.

  "You can lay him there," she pointed at a pallet of blankets and furs on the floor.

  Bridget and Beulah helped lower Pastor Whitney, and his lack of fight in their assistance made the smaller woman more worried than his groans of pain and gasping breaths.

  "He was stomped on by a horse," Beulah said.

  "I saw."

  Beulah didn't know what she had expected an Indian woman from the western frontier to be like, and the ones she'd seen in Georgia had been from afar so she really didn't have anything to go by. She knew Neal Leonetti well enough, but he'd lived for years amongst white settlers and came from a different nation. His sister Lucy had never known their mother, so had no cultural connections to her roots beyond her brother. Even though this was a very crude house, it seemed neat and well cared for. Mika herself was of average height, taller than Beulah by several inches, with hair as dark as her own. Where Beulah's hair was coiled with curls, Mika's was straight, braided in a long plait that hung down her back.

  "Any pain anywhere?" the midwife asked Matt.

  "Just my chest and side. And it's hard to breathe." He took another raspy breath.

  Making a pad from a length of fabric to protect her hands, she carried the steaming clay pot from the stove and set it on the floor next to the preacher. In one move she shook out the cloth. "You need to breathe this steam." She gently and slowly took the hat from his head.

  Without the shadow over his face, his sculpted features were easier to appreciate. His hair was dark, pulled back and tied with a black ribbon. It had been tamed flat against his skull by styling oil and the hat, but curled at his nape. It was an old-fa
shioned style, with most men keeping their hair short these days. He could almost be a Revolutionary War hero like that and she found herself suddenly very fond of longer hair on a man. His eyes didn't seem quite so mesmerizing in the dim room, but the intensity was still there as he looked at her, gauging her reaction. She let her gaze wander over his hair and then glanced back at him curiously. One long final look, and he turned away, letting Mika place the cloth over his face to capture the steam.

  "It looks like this is all under control," Bridget said interrupting Beulah's thoughts. "I'm going back to the mercantile to see if the sheriff arrested that man and to arrange for someone to deliver our soap to the laundry."

  While her attention had been on Bridget, Beulah noticed that Mika had unbuttoned the preacher's shirt and was gently feeling his left side from the center of his chest to under his arm. She lay her head against his chest and listened for a long minute, through several of his attempts to breathe.

  "It may be hard to take air because of the pain, or it may be that a rib has broken and has pierced your lung. I can't tell. Not much I can do to find out, either." She opened a jar and scooped out some thick, waxy, yellow unguent with her fingers. "This will help with swelling and pain," she said as she smoothed it over his ribs. "If someone gives you morphine drops for pain, do not take. It suppresses your breathing. Good way to die painlessly."

  Beulah gasped. "If his rib has pierced his lung, what will happen?"

  "Maybe it will heal but maybe he will die. The best thing to do is to give him everything he needs to heal"

  "He could die?" Matt's face was still covered so she couldn't tell how he was taking this news. "What does he need to heal?" Involuntarily she reached out for his right hand and held it gently, giving a small squeeze, finding comfort that he squeezed it back.

  "Are you his woman?" Mika asked, her eyes glancing down at their clasped hands.

  "No! No, I'm his friend."

  Matt released her hand and pulled the cloth off his face. "Quit talking about me as though I'm already half dead. I'll be fine." He made a move as if to sit up but sank back with another raspy gasp.