“You should take him to a doctor,” Micah said.
Hardison sneered. “Oh, yeah? He was the one who tried to strangle that beast. Let him suffer.”
“Deke.” Micah tamped down his temper and gave the sick man his full attention. “Deke, can you hear me?”
The man’s eyes fluttered open and then closed again. “Howdy, Reverend.” His voice rough and scratchy, Deke managed a shaky smile. “Miz Northam’s been preaching to me. You gonna do that, too?”
“If you want me to, Deke.” Compassion filled Micah’s heart. If he wasn’t mistaken, this was indeed going to be a deathbed conversion. And like the repentant thief hanging on the cross beside Jesus, this man could have salvation if only he would ask. At least he hoped the man would see the Light. “I’m sure Marybeth spoke to you about the Gospel. You know Jesus Christ, the Son of God, died for your sins. No matter how big or small our sins, if we put our trust in Him, He’ll forgive us and save us. Don’t you want to do that?”
“Don’t I have to confess ’em all to you?” A violent shudder went through Deke’s body.
Micah tucked the woolen blanket up closer to Deke’s chin. “Only if you want to.” He gave his full attention to the dying man, but in the back of his mind, he wondered why Hardison hadn’t stopped them from talking. “All you need to do is tell the Lord you know you’re a sinner and can’t save yourself. Ask Him to save you. You can do that now.”
“I b’lieve I will.” Deke’s eyes cleared, and he stared up at the unpainted ceiling. “Lord, You know I’m a sinner. Ain’t never done a decent thing in my life.” He shuddered again. “Caused heartache for lots of folks who didn’t deserve it.” He cast a guilty look at Micah. “Even killed a few men. But, Lord, if You can see fit to forgive me, I’d be much obliged.” A soft smile spread across his thin, cracked lips, and he closed his eyes.
For a moment, Micah thought he had died, but his chest still rose and fell erratically. An ominous death rattle accompanied each breath. Maybe the Lord would spare him for a little while longer.
“Well, now, ain’t that sweet?” Hardison leaned against the wall, sneering. “What a worthless polecat you turned out to be, Deke, being taken down by a cat.” He spat on the floor and then moved closer to the cot. Leaning over his partner in crime, cursing the sick man for a fool and a coward, he seemed to be searching for signs of life.
Micah stood and moved out of his way. If Hardison tried to harm Deke, he’d do his best to stop him, despite the gun in the man’s hand. Micah glanced at Grace, who stood in front of Marybeth. Hiding a straw broom close to her side, Grace gave him a brief nod and looked down at his side, silently telling him to be ready to draw his gun. With only one man to manage, maybe they could take him down. But visions of Grace lying on the floor with a bullet wound in her, such as her sister Beryl had suffered three years ago, clouded his mind.
He wanted to do as she suggested, but it was too late. Hardison ceased his rant against Deke and now turned his attention toward Grace. She lunged at him, aiming the sharp broom straws at his gun hand and striking her target. Hardison cursed as the weapon flew across the room. Micah used the opportunity to draw his own gun.
Hardison grabbed the broom, twisted it from Grace’s hand and tossed it aside. In the scuffle, Marybeth fell to the floor with a painful cry. Grace tried to go to her, but Hardison slapped her away, drawing blood on her cheek. Micah saw red, and not only blood. He’d never wanted to kill another man, but this one was pushing him closer to that edge.
“Come on, sissy preacher man,” Hardison taunted. “Can’t shoot a man?” He snorted derisively. “I didn’t think so.” He walked across the small room and retrieved his own gun.
Micah tried to pull the trigger. Tried to pray. Everything seemed frozen in time. Could he shoot this evil man? Possibly kill him, knowing he would be eternally lost? God, help me! The only answer that came was the certain knowledge that he would have to subdue Hardison and protect the women some other way. Lifting a fervent prayer for mercy and strength, he lowered his gun to the floor and moved in front of Grace and Marybeth, who held each other desperately.
“Micah, no!” Grace cried out behind him.
Micah. Not Rev. Somehow hearing her say his name gave him an odd sort of comfort. No matter what happened, their friendship would be one of the best things that had ever happened to him.
“I may not choose to shoot you, Hardison, but I won’t let you hurt these two good women.” Maybe he could still jump the man and wrest the gun from him. Despite his boasts, Hardison didn’t appear to be in the best of health, and Micah had never felt stronger.
“Have it your way, preacher.” Hardison kicked Micah’s gun under the cot and took aim at him. “You’re a fool, just like all of your kind.”
“No!” Grace cried out behind him.
Lord, have mercy. Oddly, Micah felt only peace. He hadn’t expected to die this way, but—
Gunfire exploded in the small room. Hardison’s face twisted in surprise. He fell forward toward Micah. The gun dropped from his hand. Micah caught him, lowered him to the floor. For endless minutes, silence filled the room.
“Is he dead?” Deke croaked out the words. “I meant to kill him. Is he dead?” he repeated.
Micah stared down at the motionless man and the bloody hole in the back of his coat. “I don’t know. I think so.”
“Well, I s’pose I ain’t goin’ to heaven now.” A shaky sob emanated from Deke. “Don’t deserve it anyway.”
Throwing off his stupor, Micah returned to the bedside and knelt down. “None of us deserves salvation, Deke. We’ve all sinned and come short of the glory of God.”
“I couldn’t let him kill Miz Northam. She was good to me, even after we brought her here meaning to do her harm, her and her babe.” He lifted a wobbling hand and swiped it across his fevered brow.
A sobbing scream split the air, and Micah’s heart dropped like a stone. Had the bullet gone through Hardison and struck one of the women? He jumped up from the bedside to see Marybeth writhing in Grace’s arms. Grace raised her eyes to meet his.
“The baby’s coming.”
Chapter Twelve
Grace felt strangely calm. But then, she’d delivered countless calves and colts and kittens, and had been at Doc’s side when her sister Maisie gave birth to Johnny. She could handle this as long as Marybeth was strong enough after the ordeal she’d already been through. As always with childbirths, if there were complications, only the Lord could save either mother or baby.
“We need to get her off the floor.” She tilted her head toward a second cot in the corner of the room.
“What can I do?” the Rev asked as they moved a whimpering Marybeth to the bed and settled her in.
“Add a log to the fire.” Grace tilted her head toward the fireplace, then looked around the shabby shack. Through a doorway, she saw a small kitchen. “Boil some water. Find some clean rags.”
To his credit, the Rev didn’t hesitate to do what was needed. Nor did he seem put off by Marybeth’s impending delivery. Every day that she knew the man, he surprised her with new shows of strength. When he stepped in front of her and Marybeth to shield them from Hardison’s gun, her first reaction was that she should be the one to protect them all. But then, hadn’t she always dreamed of having someone to be strong for her? The Rev had been just that, and it had felt good to her, mighty good.
When she’d accidentally called him Micah instead of Rev, she’d realized for certain that she loved him. Had actually known it for weeks, but tried to ignore such useless feelings. After all, when all of this settled down, he would marry the proper Miss Sutton, and that would be the end of it.
Marybeth cried out again, putting an end to her ruminations. When her pain subsided, she gave Grace an apologetic grimace. “I’m such a crybaby.”
“Pshaw!” Gr
ace huffed indignantly. “Even a cow bawls when she’s giving birth.”
“Thanks, Grace.” Marybeth giggled and then grimaced. “I’ve felt like a cow for weeks now.”
“That’s not what I meant.” Couldn’t she say anything right? She’d meant to console her friend, but ended up insulting her.
“I’m only jo-oking.” Marybeth gritted her teeth and twisted on the cot as if trying to get away from the pain. After a few moments, she exhaled a long sigh and closed her eyes, appearing to rest.
Grace let her be and went to the kitchen. The Rev had found a pan and was dutifully stoking the cast-iron cookstove to boil the water. Or rather, the snow. On the back of the stove sat a cast-iron Dutch oven holding the remnants of beef stew that still smelled good. The scoundrels had probably made Marybeth cook for them.
“No water in here, so I had to scoop up a pan of snow out back.” He looked a bit harried, like maybe he needed approval.
It tickled her innards to see him show his humanity this way. “Good idea.”
“It looks like it’s from yesterday’s snow, so it’s probably fairly clean.” He glanced up from his work. “Will that be all right?”
“That’s why we boil it.” At least that’s what Doc, Grace’s brother-in-law, always said. She leaned against the doorjamb and crossed her arms. “Do you suppose we should toss Hardison’s sorry carcass outside? It galls me to think of a sweet little baby being born in a room with a dead killer. I mean, a dead repentant sinner is one thing, but Hardison—”
The Rev stopped in the middle of placing another piece of wood into the stove. “I’m not sure he’s dead. Are you?”
“Oh.” Shame surged through her chest, and with it, a realization. Marybeth and the Rev had been kind to Deke. The Rev had even faced down Hardison, refusing to shoot him, though the varmint would have killed him if not for Deke’s interference. Like Jesus, he was willing to lay down his life not only for his friends but for a wicked sinner like Hardison. Grace would just as soon have shot them both and asked questions later. “No, I’m not sure.”
What she was sure of was a brand-new understanding of one of the Rev’s favorite sermon topics: God’s grace. It was for everyone, not just “good” people. That was important to know, because she didn’t feel like a very good person right now. Not her willingness to protect the innocent, but her eagerness to kill the killers was all the more proof that she didn’t deserve the love of a man like the Rev. Not only was she too rough in her ways, but her heart was just as deplorable as her actions.
“I’m going to leave this to come to a boil,” the Rev said, “and go out to let Dub know what’s happened in here.”
Marybeth called out to her before she could respond. Which was a good thing, because right now, her throat felt all clogged up with emotions, and she had no idea why.
* * *
Micah reached Dub and the now-conscious Purvis just as some twenty riders came up the road. Led by Rand and Nate Northam, the group included Doc Henshaw, a fact that made Micah’s knees go weak. God was so good, so amazing.
Eager to let the posse know the lay of the land right away, he waved, called out and smiled. “She’s safe, Rand. Everything’s going to be all right.”
Rand reined his horse to a stop. “Where is she?” Fear and hope collided on his face.
“In the cabin.” Micah hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “Doc, there’s some work for you in there.”
The two men galloped the hundred yards to the cabin while Micah and the rest of the posse approached more slowly and helped to sort out other matters. The outlaws’ and Marybeth’s horses needed to be saddled and brought from the barn. Dub and several other men took charge of Purvis and headed back to town with a promise to send a buggy or wagon for Marybeth. The rest waited to see where they might be needed.
Micah entered the cabin just as Doc drew the woolen blanket over Deke’s face.
“This man wasn’t in good health to begin with.” Doc shook his head and sighed. Just as Micah wanted to see men’s souls saved, Doc longed to save their bodies. “The infection from the cat bite was the final straw.”
A deep ache opened up in Micah’s chest. At least Deke had turned to God in his last moments. Hardison sat in a half-broken overstuffed chair, his legs sprawled helplessly as if he couldn’t move them. His pale face was twisted into a snarl, although he looked near death, too. Across the quiet room, Rand and Grace knelt beside Marybeth, who had yet to bring forth her child.
Doc must have already checked Hardison’s wound, because the outlaw’s bloody coat lay beside him on the floor.
“Let me have another look.” Doc bent over the man, only to be waved away with a gesture too harsh for a badly wounded man.
“Leave me alone.” Hardison spat out the words. “Let me die.”
“Can’t do that.” Doc tried again, this time succeeding in pulling Hardison away from the back of the chair. “Hmm. Still bleeding. I need to take out that bullet.”
“Why? So you can watch me hang? Just let me die now.” He coughed, and Micah could see more blood oozing from his back.
Marybeth cried out again, and a shiver ran down Micah’s back. In this moment, he agreed with Grace. A baby shouldn’t be born under these circumstances—or with an audience.
Doc checked Marybeth and then returned to Hardison. “Reverend, would you help me?” With the floor rough and cold, they had no place to lay the outlaw, so Doc would have to lean him against Micah while he worked.
Hardison had lost all ability to fight. He slumped against Micah, only emitting a few curses and cries of pain while Doc removed the bullet and patched up the wound. As Micah supported him, he prayed for the man’s soul. He didn’t realize he spoke aloud until Hardison whispered roughly, “Don’t waste your time.”
* * *
Grace didn’t know who needed her help the most, Doc or Rand. As Marybeth’s time drew nearer, Rand paced the room between her pains and rushed to her side when she cried out. The anxiety on his handsome face suggested he was on the edge of panic.
“Hey, settle down, Pa.” Grace grinned at him, trying her best to appear relaxed herself. “Babies are born every day, and Doc’s the best at bringing them into this world.”
“You’re right.” Running a hand through his dark brown hair, he grinned sheepishly. But his eyes strayed to Deke’s covered body on the other cot and the now-unconscious Hardison slumped in the overstuffed chair.
The Rev stood by the door. As always, he seemed to be looking around to see how he could help. Grace smiled at him, and he returned a warm grin that even lit up those remarkable gray eyes. She basked in that look for as long as she could before Marybeth needed her again.
“I have an idea.” The Rev put on his coat and walked to the door. “I’ll be right back.”
Curious, she grabbed her coat and followed him out. In truth, she just wanted to be near him. Soon enough he’d be married, and she’d have to keep her distance.
“Do you think you can do that?” The Rev spoke to Nate and the three remaining posse members who’d stuck around to help where needed.
“Sure thing. Should have thought of that myself.” Nate appeared grateful to have something to do. “Let’s go.” He beckoned to the others, and they all headed toward the barn.
“What did you tell them?” Grace let herself enjoy the moment.
He shrugged in his humble way. “Just to look for ways to make a travois to carry Deke and Hardison back to town.”
“We all should have thought of that.” Grace shook her head. The Rev certainly had done more to help put an end to this whole mess than she had. Maybe it was time to hand in her badge.
A new kind of cry came from within the cabin, the lusty cry of a healthy newborn baby, followed by Marybeth’s joyous laughter and a hearty whoop from Rand. Grace and the Rev traded o
ne of their special looks and both grinned.
“A new life.” Grace’s eyes burned, but for once, she let the tears come. “God is good.”
“Two new lives.” The Rev’s eyes were suspiciously red, too. When she questioned him with a look, he added, “Deke. His new life with the Lord.”
“Oh. Yeah.” Of course he would think about a man’s soul. That was the main business of his life. Grace could only pray for such a tender heart. “Well, let’s go see if it’s a boy or a girl.”
* * *
Micah had never been so glad to return home as he was that Monday evening. Deke’s body had been delivered to the undertaker, and Micah would give him a Christian burial on Wednesday before prayer meeting. Jud Purvis, the third outlaw, was locked up in jail, where Justice Gareau—no longer needed to guard Nolan Means—watched over him until he could come to trial. Hardison still lingered between life and death at Doc’s house, where Sean O’Shea stood guard to be sure the outlaw wasn’t faking. Seamus was still at Doc’s, too, but on the mend. Marybeth and her sweet baby daughter had traveled back home in a buggy driven by her doting husband. Nate had collected his wife, children, mother and nephew from the hotel and joined his brother in the refuge of Four Stones Ranch.
To Micah’s surprise, Joel and Miss Sutton had already moved back into the parsonage once they’d heard the outlaws had been apprehended. The young lady had even prepared an exceptional supper of chicken and dumplings. She seemed particularly happy, but Micah was too tired to ask why. For some reason, he felt a lingering sadness over the day’s trials. And he missed Grace. Missed her quiet ways. Something he might not have noticed if Miss Sutton weren’t such a—he searched for a kind way to refer to her—a lively talker.
Just as they were about to sit down to supper, Grace arrived. It felt to Micah as if the sun had come out, even though it was long past sunset. “Sorry. I don’t mean to intrude. Just wanted to return this.” She handed Micah his Colt Peacemaker.
Cowgirl Under the Mistletoe Page 17