Karen Witemeyer

by Stealing the Preacher

  “You use fishing line for the snare?” Crockett asked as if there weren’t more important issues to pursue.

  “Yep. But I didn’t have much time to set it up and got the knot tangled. It didn’t close right.”

  “I can show you a quick knot my brother Jim showed me when we were kids. He was in charge of our meals, so he had the most practice—”

  “Can we discuss this later, please?” Joanna glared a warning at Crockett. The rogue had the grace to look slightly abashed, but the way Jackson cocked a grin left her feeling as if the two had somehow allied against her.

  “Jackson.” She lightly gripped his shoulder to get his attention. “It’s not just about scaring the cattle. My father has strict rules about knowing where each of the hands are, and he makes sure to always let me know where I can find him should there be a need. What if you were injured? No one would know where to find you.”

  “I could get injured in the wild lands behind my house and no one would find me there, either.” The boy straightened his shoulders and stepped away from her mothering touch. “I’m man enough to know how to take care of myself, Jo. You don’t have to worry about me.”

  The kid was all bravado, but she didn’t have the heart to call him on it. “Would you please just ask permission first? I’m sure my father wouldn’t mind letting you fish or snare small game in our woods now and again.”

  Jackson made no response, but the way his gaze darted toward the trees and back, she got the feeling he made more than the occasional foray through the Lazy R woods. Joanna swallowed a sigh. He probably had a hard time finding much game on that barren patch of land his father owned. And there was no telling how often Mr. Spivey actually remembered to bring home supplies after his drinking binges in Deanville. Taking access to the woods away from Jackson might mean taking away his food supply.

  Before she could come up with a decent solution that would soothe Jackson’s pride without riling her father’s temper, Crockett voiced a suggestion.

  “If you’ve got time to go fishing in the afternoons, I would guess you’d have time to put those muscles of yours to more profitable use.”

  Interest immediately lit Jackson’s face. “You talkin’ cash money, profitable?”

  “Yep.” Gone was the twinkle from Crockett’s eye. The parson approached Jackson with all the seriousness and respect of one man doing business with another. “With me working at the ranch now, I’ll need someone to run errands for me and help with repairs around the church. And since I don’t know the area yet, I’ll need someone to show me around and introduce me to folks. You interested?”

  “How much you payin’?” Jackson crossed his arms, but not before Joanna noticed the trembling in his fingers.

  Most people ignored Jackson, their lack of respect for his wastrel of a father leading them to keep their distance from him, as well. His penchant for trouble didn’t help much, either. Yet as he stood there trying so hard to act as if he didn’t care about Brother Archer’s offer, Joanna could almost feel his hunger to prove himself worthy of the respect that had been denied him.

  “Fifty cents a week.”

  Jackson’s eyes doubled in size. She doubted the boy had ever had more than a couple pennies of his own to rub together.

  “You got yourself a deal, Preacher.” He held out a slightly shaky hand, and Crockett grasped it.

  “Excellent. Can you meet me at the parsonage tonight around seven? We can discuss more of the details then.” He slapped the boy on the shoulder, but then a small frown crept across his brow. “Unless you’re needed at home, of course,” he said. “I don’t want you to neglect your other responsibilities.”

  “I ain’t got none when Pa’s away. And when he’s home he’s always shooing me out so he can do his leatherwork in peace. His head pains him a lot,” Jackson added by way of explanation, “and noise makes it worse. As long as I leave him something to eat before I head out in the morning and show up long enough to fix him supper in the evening, he don’t care what I do the rest of the time.”

  Joanna caught Crockett’s quick glance and knew he felt the same sympathy she did for the boy. Thankfully, he did a good job of hiding it.

  “Well, I’ll plan to see you tonight, then, Jackson.”

  “I’ll be there, sir.” He spun away to collect his fishing gear and a string of three small catfish and a carp. “Tell your pa thanks for the fish, Jo.” He winked and dodged out of her reach when she pretended to give chase, then set off for the road.

  “Having a job will be good for him,” Joanna said, stepping closer to Crockett. “Keep him out of trouble.”

  “Maybe it will keep him out of your hair for a while.” The skin around the parson’s brown eyes crinkled slightly when he smiled. She’d have to add that detail to her sketch later.

  Joanna returned his smile, then dragged her thoughts back where they belonged—on Jackson. “I really don’t mind having him around. In truth, some days I want to tie him to a chair and feed him ’til he fattens up. Other times I want to hug him until that chip on his shoulder falls off. That boy needs some serious mothering. Unfortunately, I don’t think I’m the right one to do it.”

  “Because he’s sweet on you.” She could feel Crockett’s eyes on her when he spoke, but she didn’t turn. What she did do was wonder what he saw when he looked at her.

  Perhaps she’d be better off not knowing.

  “I just don’t want to give him the wrong idea and end up being one more adult who lets him down.” She kicked at the dirt with her foot. “He has an abundance of those already.”

  “So you harp at him like a big sister instead.”

  That brought her head up, along with an affronted gasp. Until she saw the teasing gleam in his eyes.

  “You show all the classic signs,” he said. “You order him about, take him to task when he misbehaves, and bake him chocolate cake on your birthday because you know it’s his favorite. All because you care and want to protect him.” He shook his head in mock despair. “Yep. You’ve got a bad case. I’ve seen it before. My brother Travis still exhibits the symptoms, despite the fact that all the siblings who were in his care are now grown men.”

  Joanna pondered his observation, the revelation clicking things into place in a way that made sense. “I guess I do rather think of him as a younger brother.” Somehow, knowing how to categorize her relationship with Jackson made it easier to define their boundaries.

  Now she just needed Jackson to see it the same way. Maybe his spending time with Crockett would help with that.

  “I suspect I need to be getting back to work.” The parson ambled toward the emptied wagon. “Silas will be looking for me.”

  Joanna nodded, disappointed that he had to leave so soon but not wanting anything to cause friction between him and her father.

  Crockett led the horses around, then climbed onto the driver’s bench, took up the reins, and released the brake. She lifted a hand to wave.

  “You’ve a good heart, Joanna Robbins,” he said from his perch on the wagon seat. “It’s easy to see why Jackson admires you.”

  He touched the brim of his hat in farewell and slapped the reins to get the team moving. As the wagon rolled out, his words lingered, tempting her to ponder other ideas. Like . . . if he could see why Jackson might admire her, did that mean he could come to admire her, as well? Or was he just playing big brother, unaware of the growing attraction she felt?

  Perhaps she and Jackson had more in common than she’d thought.

  15

  It’d been three days since that conversation by the barn. Three days since she’d seen Crockett outside of mealtimes. Three days of staring at that silly sketch and wishing for things that would surely lead only to heartache.

  Joanna exhaled a long breath and sat up enough to rub the perspiration from her forehead with her rolled sleeve. Her knees throbbed from being pressed into the wood floor for so long, but the dais supporting the pulpit glistened as if it were new.

 
; Earlier in the week, she had arranged for several ladies to meet her at the church this afternoon for a cleaning spree. Together they’d been sweeping floors, washing windows, oiling pews, and even ridding the rafters of cobwebs, thanks to a large crate, a long-handled broom, and Mrs. Grimley’s unfashionable height.

  “Mother, is it time to go yet? We’ve been here for hours.” Holly Brewster’s woeful moan cut through the sounds of industriousness to grate on Joanna’s nerves.

  Grant me patience, Lord. Her mind sent the prayer heavenward while her eyes rolled the same direction. At least Holly had shown up to help. That’s what she kept telling herself. But really, all she’d done was flick a dust rag haphazardly over a handful of windowsills—windowsills her mother had made a point to surreptitiously clean a second time when she came through with a bucket of vinegar water for the glass. The girl’s apron was still as white and pressed as when she’d arrived and her hair flowed in beautiful blond waves down her back—unlike the rest of the women, who had clothes covered in grime and heads covered with kerchiefs.

  “I think we’re nearly finished, dear,” Mrs. Brewster soothed. “Why don’t you see if Joanna has anything that needs doing?”

  Holly trudged over to the front of the church and twirled a hair ribbon around her index finger as she smiled prettily down at Joanna. “You don’t need me to do anything—do you, Joanna? The angels themselves couldn’t make this place any cleaner.”

  Joanna set aside her scrub brush and pressed her hand into the small of her back as she sat back on her heels. “Actually, if you could dump this lye water out in the field for me, I would really appreciate it. That way, I can start mopping up the excess moisture from the wood right away.”

  Holly eyed the dark brown water with obvious distaste. “Why, I don’t think I could carry that heavy thing without sloshing its filthiness all over this beautiful clean floor. I would just feel dreadful if I caused a mess after everyone’s diligent work.”

  And she’d probably feel even worse about sloshing the dirty liquid on her clean hem, but Joanna kept that opinion to herself. “I’m sure you can manage, Holly. Just walk slowly.”

  “I don’t think you understand.” Holly’s smile never dimmed, but her eyes hardened. “I’m sure to spill. And I know you don’t want that.”

  The not-so-veiled threat hung between them just long enough for Joanna to fantasize about turning the bucket over Holly Brewster’s lovely head. In the end, Joanna simply shrugged and asked Holly to hand her the toweling piled in the front pew. She didn’t have the energy to deal with a confrontation.

  Holly tossed the rags to her with a triumphant grin and meandered over to one of the windows. Joanna had just started mopping up the first small puddle on the dais when Holly’s quiet gasp brought her head up. The young woman’s face was plastered to the window, her arms braced against the sill to give her a higher vantage point as she peered out toward the field.

  “Joanna,” she hissed, tossing a quick glance over her shoulder before pressing her nose back to the glass. “Is that the new parson? The man walking with Jackson Spivey?”

  A curl of unease wound through Joanna’s chest at Holly’s obvious interest. “I reckon so,” she admitted, despite her irrational desire to hoard the information. “Jackson does odd jobs for Brother Archer, so I wouldn’t be surprised to see them together.”

  Holly spun from the window, tidied her already pristine apron, pinched some color into her cheeks, and then did the one thing Joanna never thought to see her do. She picked up the bucket of grungy lye water and started hauling it toward the door. Without spilling a drop on her pretty, ruffled hem, Joanna couldn’t help but notice.

  The girl had impeccable timing, too. She managed to reach the door at the exact moment Crockett did.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed, as if coming upon him in the doorway had surprised her. “Pardon me. I hope I didn’t get any of this dirty water on you.”

  Was it possible to hear eyelashes bat? Because Joanna could have sworn she heard heavy fluttering as Holly gazed adoringly up at Crockett.

  “No harm done, miss.”

  Did he have to smile at her with the same twinkling grin she’d come to think of as hers? Come now, Joanna, you can’t really see his eyes from here. Maybe not, but she could hear the charm oozing in his voice. All right, so maybe it wasn’t oozing, but he certainly gave no indication that he saw through Holly’s ruse. She’d thought him smarter than that. Really. Could the man not see that there was not a single smudge of dirt anywhere on her person? Nor was there even a hint of perspiration on her brow. Yet as Joanna watched, Holly raised a hand to her forehead as if to blot that nonexistent sheen.

  “I’m so glad I didn’t get any on you,” she said, using that same hand to touch Crockett’s arm. “After all the work I’ve done this afternoon, I’m quite fatigued, and I feared my grip might not be as steady as it should be.”

  “Why don’t you let me dispose of that water for you?” Crockett shifted to take the pail, forcing the hand Holly had laid on his arm to fall back to her side. Joanna’s lips curved slightly in satisfaction. Until his fingers encircled Holly’s around the handle.

  “Oh, thank you, Parson.” Holly made no move to extract her hand. “That’s ever so kind of you.”

  “It’s the least I can do after all the work you ladies have done.” He raised his eyes to glance about the sanctuary, directing his appreciation to everyone present. “The place looks marvelous. I can’t thank you all enough.” His gaze rested briefly on Joanna, and her breath caught. Had his smile deepened just then? But before she could decide the answer, Crockett turned his attention back to Holly.

  “I’ll be right back.” He gently pulled the pail away, but Holly held on as long as possible.

  “I’ll come with you,” she said. “I could do with some fresh air. My name’s Holly, by the way. Holly Brewster.”

  And with that, the two of them disappeared through the doorway.

  Joanna fought the urge to dash to the window and press her own face to the glass. The only thing restraining her was the fear that the other women would notice and comment upon her strange behavior. That, and the fact that her knees had been bent so long, her feet were numb.

  “I think Holly’s taken a fancy to the new preacher, Sarah.” Etta Ward elbowed Mrs. Brewster and favored her with a matchmaker’s smile.

  “Heaven help us all,” Mrs. Grimley muttered, turning her back on the scene.

  Joanna amened the sentiment wholeheartedly.

  “I’d steer clear of that Brewster gal if I were you.” Jackson gave Crockett a man-to-man look as he handed the parson another nail.

  Crockett hammered it into the new step he held in place while fighting to keep a smile from his face. “Oh? Why’s that?”

  Ever since the women left that afternoon, Jackson had been filling him in on all the pertinent details of the families that had been represented. Which ones came from farms versus ranches. How many young’uns they had. The names of their husbands. He’d efficiently rattled off the facts as the two of them repaired the church steps, but this latest comment seemed more personal.

  “She acts real sweet and all, as long as things are going her way. But the minute you cross her, she turns meaner than a swarm of fire ants.”

  Crockett wondered what experience had led the boy to that conclusion, but he knew better than to ask. “I appreciate the warning,” he said, reaching for another nail. “However, we need to be careful not to say anything unkind about her when she’s not here to defend herself. All right?”

  Jackson frowned and looked as if he wanted to argue, but eventually he nodded, and they resumed their work.

  Yet thoughts of Holly, now resurrected, stubbornly refused to die. The young lady was certainly pretty. And even though he could tell she’d been exaggerating the tale of her cleaning exploits, the fact that she’d done it to impress him was rather gratifying. What man wouldn’t enjoy the overt attentions of a beautiful woman? And while he cou
ld easily imagine her turning her lips out in a pout or storming off in a huff if she didn’t get her wish, he could hardly picture her turning venomous. Maybe it would seem so to a boy, but it wouldn’t be more than an irritant to a man.

  Crockett drove in the last nail and straightened, visions of another young woman entering his mind, one who’d conversed with him on these very steps. Joanna’s quietly intent nature contrasted sharply with Holly’s vibrancy. While Miss Brewster’s flirtation stroked his ego, the spiritual maturity Miss Robbins exhibited commanded his admiration and respect. Of course, to be fair, the ten minutes he’d spent in Miss Brewster’s company this afternoon offered scant opportunity to form more than a surface opinion. A masculine smile tugged at Crockett’s lips. He had to admit, though, his opinion of her surface was quite favorable.

  “You want me to start sandin’ the steps?” Jackson’s question broke Crockett free from the dueling female images wreaking havoc on his concentration.

  He cleared his throat. “Yes. They’ll need a coat of paint, too, but it will be a while before I can make a trip to Deanville to pick some up.”

  “You gonna get enough to do the whole buildin’?” Jackson asked, assessing the peeling white clapboard with a critical eye.

  “It sure needs it, doesn’t it?” Crockett tipped his hat back, braced his right foot on the edge of one of the steps, and leaned his forearm across his thigh as he examined the neglect.

  Jackson mirrored his stance from the opposite side. “Yep. But I ain’t never painted a building afore. And if we gotta wait for you to get done at the Lazy R every day, it’d take us a right long time.”

  “I’ve got an idea about that.”

  Jackson stared at him expectantly, but Crockett said no more—partly to pique the kid’s curiosity, and partly because he wasn’t sure he could pull it off.