They didn’t speak much during the short drive, but when they pulled up to the churchyard and that scoundrel of a parson moved to greet them, the pleasure on Jo’s face spoke loud enough to ring his ears.
“Miss Robbins.” Crockett Archer couldn’t take his eyes off her. The bounder. He practically ran up to the wagon, so eager was he to get his hands on Jo and assist her to the ground. His grip on her waist didn’t linger long enough to be improper, but his fingers took their sweet time disengaging. “You look lovely, Joanna,” the man said so low Silas doubted anyone but he and Jo heard it.
Silas stared a hole in the parson’s head until the fella finally remembered someone besides Jo existed. Tempted to upend Jo’s potato salad on the man’s head when he finally looked back to the wagon, Silas restrained the impulse and contented himself with a glare that would melt iron.
Archer blinked, then smiled up at him as if he hadn’t just been scorched. “Silas! So glad you could come. I understand you’re the man to beat when it comes to target shooting.”
“You needin’ some lessons, Preacher?” He was more than willing to do some teaching. Especially if Archer was the target.
“No, sir.” The parson’s smile widened, but determination glittered in his eyes. “I’m needing some competition.”
“Ha!” Silas surprised himself with the shout of laughter. “If you think you can beat me, preacher man, you best save some room after lunch for the humble pie you’ll be eating.”
“You’re probably right, but it will be interesting to see, won’t it?” Challenge radiated from Archer as he reached up to the wagon seat and took hold of the potato salad.
Silas tried to glare him down, but the man didn’t even flinch. He simply turned and offered Jo his arm before leading her over to the food tables.
Dratted sermonizer.
The crazy thing was, if Archer were just a cowhand, Silas would probably favor a match between him and Jo. The man worked hard, lived up to his word, and refused to be intimidated, even by Silas. He was the kind of man who would be a good provider, a good protector, and if he truly loved his girl, a good husband.
But how could he trust his daughter’s future happiness to a preacher? To the type of man who knew how to trick the world into believing his holy façade while wielding a cruel rod of tyranny behind closed doors? His gut told him Archer was different, that he would never strike down a woman or a child, but the vision of little Andy Murdoch, broken and battered, flashed an unforgettable warning in his mind.
His gut had been wrong before.
It seemed the entire community had turned out for the church painting and picnic. Joanna was amazed at how quickly the men had the exterior white-washed. Jackson and some of the older boys even scrambled up the hackberry trees and onto the roof in order to paint the steeple.
She had brought an apron and planned to carry water around to the workers, but Holly commandeered the bucket and ladle from her before she could move past the food tables, insisting that she and Becky Sue had been assigned that task. Holly even went so far as to suggest that Joanna should round up the younger children for a game of hide-and-seek or other entertainment.
“Their mothers so rarely get a chance to sit and visit without having to worry about the little ones getting into mischief,” Holly had said. “Just think what a boon it would be to have you tend them for an hour or so.”
Then she and Becky Sue had sauntered over to the men. Holly inserted herself between Crockett and his brother Neill, sidling close as Crockett gratefully accepted the refreshment she offered. She turned to Neill next, and the man must have made some teasing comment, for she threw her head back and tittered a laugh that grated worse than fingernails on a schoolroom blackboard.
Holly loitered and lingered while Becky Sue dashed from one thirsty man to the next, and when she finally moved on, she made a point to arch a superior brow in Joanna’s direction before approaching the next gentleman.
The vile woman. She’d done everything in her power to keep Joanna away from Crockett while insinuating herself into the very position Joanna coveted. And all Crockett did was smile at her. Stupid man.
Yet despite her raging jealousy, Joanna had recognized the truth in Holly’s earlier statement. The young mothers really could be blessed by having someone else tend their children for a while. Deciding it would be better to focus her energies in a positive direction instead of sitting around brooding over missed opportunities, Joanna spent an hour organizing footraces, a pinecone toss, and a game of leapfrog for the boys and hopscotch for the girls.
When the church bell finally rang, the signal for everyone to gather in the yard for lunch, the children whooped and scampered back to their mothers. Joanna lagged behind, savoring the quiet of the uninhabited field, and steeling herself for more of Holly’s machinations.
She arrived in time to hear Crockett’s prayer of thanksgiving for the food and for all the neighbors who had worked so hard that morning. She halted on the fringe of the crowd to bow her head, but not before catching a glimpse of her father across the way, head uncovered, eyes respectfully closed. Her heart swelled in her chest.
I have so much to be thankful for, Lord. Forgive me for forgetting that there are more important things at work here than my own desires.
The men had all washed up and changed into their picnic attire behind the church’s shuttered windows. The painting done, now their only concern lay in piling their plates as high as possible with the feast Mrs. Brewster had organized.
Crockett stood in the center of it all, smiling and chatting. Bowing to the ladies. Clasping men on the arm. Ruffling a boy’s hair as he dodged between the adult legs to get closer to the food. His face gradually turned in her direction, and she lifted a hand to wave, her lips curving upward in anticipation. But Mrs. Grimley snagged his attention by pushing a plate into his hands and steering him over to the food.
The woman could be a force of nature when set to a task, so Joanna knew Crockett had no choice but to follow. Yet that knowledge did little to keep the disappointment at bay.
Focus on what’s important, Joanna.
Squaring her shoulders, she sought out her father and his men. They’d spread out the blankets she’d packed under one of the hackberry trees near the back of the chapel. Thinking to make sure they had everything they needed before claiming a plate for herself, she skirted the edge of the crowd, pressing as close to the building as she dared without brushing up against the wet paint.
She had just come even with one of the shuttered windows, when Becky Sue’s distinctive nasal voice echoed from within the church.
“The parson kissed you? However did you manage that?”
Shock stopped Joanna midstep.
“I just created the opportunity for him to do exactly what he’s been wanting to do for the last several days.”
Holly Brewster? Crockett kissed Holly Brewster? No. It had to be some kind of mistake. He wouldn’t. Would he? Joanna’s palms pressed against her stomach as she fought to find a breath.
“We’ve grown quite close, Crockett and I.”
The sound of his given name on Holly’s lips bruised Joanna’s sore heart.
“We spent long hours talking in the evenings on my mama’s porch, and not always about picnic business—if you know what I mean.”
“But how did you get him to kiss you?” Becky Sue pressed. “Here. At the picnic.”
Holly’s voice grew quiet and conspiratorial. Joanna had to strain to hear. “While the men changed out of their work clothes, I snuck around to the back of the church and waited for him to show up. I figured he would drop his painting clothes off in his living quarters before rejoining the group over by the food. He’s the tidy sort, you know.” She imparted this last bit as if she were a relative or sweetheart, someone intimately acquainted with the nuances of his preferences and personality. It made Joanna want to scream. Or sob. Or yank Holly’s shiny blond hair out by the fistful.
“Well, just as I s
uspected,” Holly continued, “he came around the corner and disappeared into his room. I ran up to the door and met him as he came out. Finding me there, he wrapped his arms around me, and his lips caressed my forehead. He couldn’t risk anything more since someone could have come by, but it was enough to assure me that his feelings are indeed engaged.”
“His feelings are indeed engaged.” The words echoed in Joanna’s mind like a death knoll.
Biting back a wounded cry, Joanna spun around and sprinted back the way she had come. She couldn’t let her father see the tears streaking her cheeks. She couldn’t let anyone see. Plunging back into the field where she’d romped so cheerfully with the children, she headed for the one place she could hide.
The river.
24
Mrs. Grimley bulldogged her way through the crowd, dragging Crockett in her wake. The woman could have given Moses instructions on sea parting. She refused to rest until she had him firmly planted at the head of the line. Not used to being mothered, Crockett shrugged apologetically at the men whose places were being usurped, but none of them seemed to mind. They just grinned and slapped his back as he passed.
Once the lady had shoved a plate at him and ordered him to heap it full, she apparently considered her duty accomplished, for she left his side in order to shoo away a pair of boys who were trying to stuff extra cookies into their trouser pockets down at the dessert table. Crockett recognized the scamps from the group that had been playing with Joanna earlier.
She’d been so good with the kids. Laughter and squeals had carried to the work crew from the field, bringing smiles to many of the fathers’ faces. He’d smiled, too, though not because of the children. Because of Joanna.
His eyes had followed her all morning. He’d been aware of her when she assisted at the food tables, and again when she helped unload an elderly couple’s wagon and set up their rockers beneath the shade of a large oak. He’d noticed, too, when she lingered to visit with them so they wouldn’t feel excluded from the activities. More than once, his arm had gone slack, leaving paint to drip unused from his brush before he roused himself and got back to work. He couldn’t seem to stop himself from searching her out. Even when he’d opened his eyes after offering the blessing, a flash of pink in his periphery told him she was near.
Crockett glanced back to the place where he’d last seen her, hoping to meet her eye or share a smile. This was their day, their success. Something inside him stretched toward her, needing to connect, to share the moment in whatever way possible.
But she wasn’t there.
He craned his neck to see over the heads of the people milling about the yard. There. Was that her by the chapel? Where was she . . . ?
A red-haired pixie in a fancy pink dress bolted down the side of the church and disappeared around the corner, swiping a hand across her cheek as she ran—the way a woman would swipe at a tear.
If someone had hurt her . . .
Crockett’s gut hardened to stone.
He turned to the man behind him in line and forced his lips to curve enough to pass for a smile. “Go ahead of me, brother. I just realized there’s something I need to attend to.” He set the plate Mrs. Grimley had given him well out of the way of the lunch traffic, and squeezed between the men huddled around him and the food.
“Can’t it wait, preacher?” one of the men he was pushing past asked. “You’re gonna miss the best pickin’s.”
“I won’t be long,” Crockett said. “Besides, the way the women around here cook, they’re all good pickin’s.”
“You ain’t tried my Maybelle’s corn pone, then. Stuff’s drier than a dust storm in August.”
That set the men to cackling, and Crockett used the distraction to make his escape. He stretched his stride as long as the crowded yard would allow, but the minute he reached the far side of the chapel, he broke into a loping run.
He crossed the field in the direction he’d assumed she’d gone but had to halt when he couldn’t find her. He scanned east, then west, his heart thudding against the wall of his chest. Where was she?
Fighting the urge to cup his hands around his mouth and shout her name, Crockett bit the edge of his tongue and scoured the landscape again. As his head turned south, a red cardinal shot into the air above the water oaks that lined the river and chirped an alarm.
Joanna.
Crockett made for the trees.
He found her beneath the branches of a pecan, her back to him. Her left arm was braced against its trunk, her head hanging low, her shoulders heaving with quiet sobs. The sight broke his heart.
He stepped forward, every instinct screaming at him to take her into his arms and soothe away the hurt, but she must have heard his approach, for she gave a little squeal of distress and dodged behind the tree.
“Jo, wait. It’s me.” He hurried after her, reaching out to capture her hand and draw her to him, but she recoiled. She scooted farther around the tree, forcing more distance between them and keeping her face averted.
“Go away, Crockett.” Her voice hitched as she struggled to subdue her tears. “You should be at the picnic. You’ll be missed.”
He dug a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it over her shoulder, careful not to crowd her. “You’re more important to me than the picnic.”
She clasped the white cotton but offered no thanks. “I know we’ve been friends,” she said between sniffs and a delicate blow, “but you shouldn’t say things like that to me. Not when you’re courting someone else.”
“Courting?” The idea jarred him so thoroughly that his response shot from his mouth like a bullet from a gun, throwing him back a step. “What are you talking about? I’m not courting anyone.”
At least not yet. And certainly not someone other than the woman standing before him.
“Maybe not officially,” Joanna allowed, “but from what I heard, the young lady in question seems to believe that a certain understanding has been established.”
“What young lady? I swear to you, Joanna, any understanding this person believes she has is a misunderstanding. I’ve made no promises. I’ve not even hinted at promises.”
She spun around to face him then, her eyes the dark blue-gray of a stormy sky, her chin jutting, her reddened nose sniffing in disdain instead of distress. “A kiss is more than a hinted promise, Crockett Archer. At least for an honorable man. But maybe you’re not as honorable as I thought.”
“Now, hold on a minute.” Crockett raised a hand to ward off her accusations, his clenched jaw clipping the ends off his words. “Before you go impugning my honor, let me make it perfectly clear that I have kissed no one.”
“So you deny being with Holly outside your personal quarters less than an hour ago?”
Crockett’s brow furrowed. What did that have to do with anything? “No . . .”
“I heard her describe the encounter to Becky Sue in vivid detail.” Joanna advanced on him, hands fisted at her sides. “The way you wrapped your arms around her and pressed your lips to her forehead.”
“Heaven help me!” Crockett’s arms sliced upward through the air like twin sabers, then slapped down against his thighs. “If she considered that a kiss, the woman is deranged.”
“Deranged? Just because you’re too ill-mannered to consider such a gesture a kiss doesn’t make her deranged. How dare you toy with a woman’s affections in that manner? You . . . you . . . toad!” She flung his soggy, crushed handkerchief directly into his face along with her ridiculously innocuous insult.
Suddenly Crockett wanted to laugh. Either that or show the little firebrand exactly how he defined a kiss. But he dared not let his mouth so much as twitch for fear she’d assume he was belittling her pain. For he saw now that that was exactly what it was. Her pain. Not Holly’s. Hers.
And though he hated himself for finding joy in her distress, that pain gave him hope. Hope that her feelings might run deeper than friendship.
Stepping over the handkerchief that had bounced off his no
se and fallen to the ground, Crockett gently clasped her upper arms. He’d not let her back away from him this time.
She trembled at his touch, and a tiny gasp echoed in the air between them.
“Joanna,” he said as he stroked the bottom of her shoulder with his thumb. “The contact I made with Holly was nothing personal. I ran into her—almost sent her tumbling to the ground, in fact. That’s why I put my arms around her. To keep her upright. Nothing more.”
The skin between her brows scrunched, and her eyes searched his. “But—”
“Shh. Let me finish, sweetheart.” Her damp lashes blinked in surprise at the endearment, bringing a smile to his face. “When we collided, my chin banged against Holly’s forehead. That’s it. I separated myself from her as quickly as I could, made my apologies, and hurried back to the gathering. There was no rendezvous. No embrace. And definitely no kiss.”
“So Holly was wrong about your feelings being engaged?” She tilted her head farther back to examine his reaction to her question. Of course, that only strengthened his reaction to her. Joanna’s face was at the perfect angle for a kiss. Her lips parted ever so slightly as she awaited his answer.
Oh! His answer.
“I have no feelings for Miss Brewster beyond gratitude for her help with the picnic.” That and a bit of suspicion of her motives. Holly had a way of twisting the truth to suit her purposes, and he was leery of what exactly those purposes might be since they seemed to involve him. He needed to keep her at a distance from now on.
“You don’t intend to court her, then?” Joanna’s soft mouth curved ever so slightly, and his stomach clenched in response. Heaven help him, but he wanted to kiss her.
“No.” The hoarse reply came out so low, he added a slight shake of his head for clarification.
“I’m glad,” she whispered. At least he thought she whispered. It might just have been the increased thudding of his heart against his rib cage that kept him from hearing.
Karen Witemeyer Page 17