“You’ll pay for this, Crockett Archer! Do you hear me?” Something else thudded against the side of the building. The basket, perhaps? “You’ll pay for this!”
Another screech. Then something that sounded like tearing fabric, followed by feet stomping in rapid succession. He’d never witnessed a grown woman throw a temper tantrum, but Holly Brewster seemed to have a definite knack for such things.
Through his window he caught a glimpse of her back as she huffed off. She’d worked herself up to such an extent, half her hair was coming out of its pins. Crockett shook his head, pitying the man she did finally wrangle into marriage. She’d either walk all over him or shred him to pieces with those claws whenever he did something she didn’t like.
“‘It is better to dwell in the corner of the housetop, than with a brawling woman in a wide house.’” Crockett chuckled to himself as his anger cooled. “Now I know why Solomon saw fit to record that particular proverb twice.”
Thanking God for his providence in providing a peace-loving woman like Joanna for him to share a house and life with, Crockett pushed away from the door and headed for the table. Lighting the lamp to chase away the encroaching darkness, he settled in his chair and reread that passage from 1 John before starting in on his evening prayers.
He prayed over a different household from his congregation each night. However, instead of moving on to the Wards as he had originally planned, he decided to return to the Brewsters. Heaven only knew what kind of upheaval they’d be facing once Holly got home. And Holly herself needed prayer, too. Prayers for wisdom, for a forgiving heart, and for comfort. Now that he had his own emotions back under control, he could see that her tantrum was driven by hurt. He’d rejected her quite adamantly. Probably bruised her pride as well as her heart.
Guilt pricked his conscience. Had he been too hard on her? Too forceful? Had he acted more in anger than admonishment? Crockett bowed his head again and added a plea for his own forgiveness to his list of petitions.
An hour later, Crockett had a completely different petition on his lips when Alan Brewster kicked in his door and started throwing punches.
Crockett barely had enough time to throw a hand up to ward off Alan’s meaty fist before the enraged man grabbed him by the shirtfront and slammed him into the wall. Crockett twisted his body at the last second to take the force of the collision on his shoulder instead of his skull, sending shards of pain down his arm.
“You call yourself a man of God? You wretch!” Alan’s fist slammed into Crockett’s gut as his left hand pinned his shoulder to the wall. “You’re a demon who preys on the trust of young women!” Another blow came, but Crockett hardened his muscles to deflect the force while knocking away Alan’s hold with an upward thrust of a stiff arm.
He ducked and spun toward the door. “What are you talking about?”
Alan roared and charged like a bull. Crockett braced his legs, but the man’s weight and momentum were too great. Alan wrapped his arms about Crockett’s middle and drove him through the open doorway, taking him to the ground.
The air rushed from Crockett’s lungs as he hit. The back of his head bounced against the hard-packed earth, stunning him.
Arms from behind hoisted him to his feet, dragging him out from under Brewster. Crockett was about to thank whomever had stepped in, when those same arms tightened like manacles around his biceps. Crockett strained against the hold, but the men on either side of him gave no quarter.
“I haven’t done anything!” He swiveled his head from side to side to plead with his captors, men who seemed slightly more rational than Holly’s father. He recognized them as kin to Alan and Sarah. He’d met them at the picnic but had never seen them at church.
Brewster staggered forward, winded but still packing plenty of rage to fuel another attack. “Are you saying that you never laid hands on my girl?”
Crockett hesitated for a split second, thinking of the way he’d grabbed Holly’s arm and ushered her out the door. That second was all it took to reignite Alan’s fury. His fist crashed into Crockett’s jaw, knocking his head into the chin of one of the men holding him.
“I didn’t harm her,” Crockett insisted, desperate to insert some reason into this situation before things got any worse. “She was in my house when I arrived home from the ranch, and I escorted her out. I was concerned for her reputation and made her leave. That’s all.”
“That’s all?” Alan bellowed and landed a blow to his ribs. Crockett groaned. “My Holly comes home bawling her eyes out, her dress torn clear off her shoulder, her hair falling down around her ears, leaves and sticks poked every which way, dirt in her nails as if she had to claw to get away from you, and you dare to tell me you were protecting her reputation?” A volley of punches to Crockett’s midsection punctuated the accusation.
Crockett’s legs sagged, but his captors held him upright to accept the blows. He tasted blood in his mouth. Agony throbbed in his side. His strength was nearly gone.
Thankfully, so was Alan’s.
The man took a step back, his chest heaving from his exertion.
Crockett slowly lifted his head and met Alan Brewster’s glare with the fierce dignity of one unjustly accused. “With God as my witness, I did not harm your daughter. Holly was upset when she left me but unharmed. Perhaps she fell on her way home. Perhaps someone else attacked her. I don’t know what happened. All I know is that it wasn’t me.”
No one spoke. Crockett’s avowal simply hung in the air like a righteous beacon. And he started to hope.
“Did Holly actually say the parson attacked her?” one of the men at Crockett’s back dared ask.
Please, God, let them see the truth.
“You think I’m gonna ask for all the gritty details?” Alan snapped, his eyes dark as the surrounding night. “The evidence spoke for itself. My baby girl threw herself into my arms and sobbed her heart out. ‘Make him go away, Papa,’ she said. ‘Make Brother Archer go away and never come back.’ I aim to do just that. To make sure this man never hurts another young girl like he did my Holly. Do you boys stand with me or not?”
The arms holding Crockett tightened, hefting him nearly off the ground.
“We’re with you, Alan.”
“Good,” Brewster said. “Then, let’s string him up.”
38
Joanna stood before the canvas she’d been working on for the last several months and gazed into the beloved eyes she missed so keenly.
“Oh, Mama. I’m going to be married. Can you believe it?” A thrill coursed through her at the thought of becoming Crockett’s wife.
Her mother’s likeness smiled back at her, serene and loving, just the way Joanna remembered her. She hoped she’d captured her the way her father remembered her, as well, for the portrait was to be his birthday present. If he was still at home and not in prison somewhere when his birthday came around next month.
Don’t think about that. It was much more pleasant to think about Crockett. Her betrothed. Joanna grinned as she stepped to her worktable to rinse out her paintbrush. She swished the bristles in the small Mason jar of turpentine, the pungent smell familiar and well loved, one that never failed to bring her mother to mind. But at the moment, a handsome man with twinkling eyes and strong arms consumed her thoughts.
Those thoughts drew her to the barn loft window and lifted her gaze over the trees to focus on the church. Would Crockett be in his room composing his next sermon or crawling into bed after a grueling day of ranch work? Her heart leapt at the thought that she wouldn’t have to wonder much longer. Soon she would be there with him, perhaps mending quietly in a corner while he worked on his notes, or maybe rubbing the soreness from his shoulders as they readied for bed.
Joanna nibbled on her lip, her stomach fluttering in a way that sent delightful shivers through her core. But then something caught her eye in the direction of the churchyard. Were those lights? She braced a hand against the frame of the window and squinted into the night. It looked like t
wo—no, three—lights. Lanterns.
Crockett hadn’t mentioned any appointments. Could there be an emergency of some kind? An illness or injury? Word had gotten around about his skill in tending Jackson’s wound. Yet something didn’t feel right. An odd urgency prodded her, turning those belly flutters into needle pricks. Reaching behind her back to untie her painting smock, Joanna whirled from the window and dashed to the loft ladder.
Once her feet hit the ground, Joanna ran for the bunkhouse. “Jasper!”
Her father’s most trusted man had the door opened and was several steps into the yard, his pistol in hand, by the time she met up with him.
“Saddle Sunflower and Gamble. There’s trouble at the church.”
He didn’t waste time on words, just nodded once and jogged toward the barn.
“Jo?” Her father must have heard her shout for he was crossing the yard with long strides, buckling his gun belt as he went.
She ran to him and grabbed his arm. “Daddy, something’s going on at the church. There are lights in the yard. I can’t explain it, but I just know something’s wrong. Will you ride with me to check on Crockett?”
Silas wrapped his arm around her shoulder and steered her toward the barn. “I don’t see the harm in payin’ Archer a little visit.”
“Thank you, Daddy.”
He gave her a firm pat and rushed forward to take over Gamble’s preparation, freeing Jasper to see to Sunflower.
The instant the cinch was fastened on her mount, Joanna stuck her foot in the stirrup and hoisted herself astride. Without waiting for her father, she kicked Sunflower into an easy canter. The deepening darkness kept her from the gallop her heart demanded. By the time she crossed onto the main road, her father was at her side, urging Gamble to take the lead.
“Stay mounted until we know what’s going on,” her father ordered.
She knew better than to argue.
Cutting through the field would be too treacherous for the horses at night, so Joanna and her father kept to the road. As they approached, she could make out a handful of men in lantern light under one of the large, spreading oaks that had shaded the crowd during the picnic. She leaned forward in the saddle, trying to get a better view of what was going on. A pair of horses stood ground-tethered nearby, but there seemed to be one in the middle of the men.
Had it been injured? Is that why they all huddled around it? But their attention didn’t seem to be on the horse directly. No, they seemed to be focused on something else. Something writhing against them. They were beating it; she could see that now. Beating it and throwing it on top of the horse.
That’s when a snake fell down from among the tree branches. A snake whose tail was looped at the end. Her stomach dropped. Not a snake. A rope.
And the thing on the horse was . . .
“Crockett!” She screamed his name at the top of her voice and urged Sunflower to a gallop. But her father cut in front of her before she could race into the fray.
“Stay behind me.” His voice was harsh. Harsher than she’d ever heard it. Then he pulled his rifle from his scabbard without breaking stride and fired a shot in the air. Once fully upon the men, he pulled Gamble to a halt and aimed his weapon at the belligerent fellow in the front of the pack—Alan Brewster.
“What’s going on here?” Her father’s voice echoed calmly in the night, as if meeting a neighbor at an impromptu hanging was nothing out of the ordinary.
Joanna reined Sunflower in a few paces back as her father had instructed but close enough that she could see Crockett. And the sight wasn’t pretty. His beloved face was beaten and bloody, his hair dusty and disheveled, his hands bound behind his back.
Oh, Crockett. She moaned and had to restrain herself from running to him. Fear for his safety rooted her to the earth, however. For while they’d ridden in, one of the men had slipped the noose over Crockett’s neck and tightened the knot. If the horse he sat on spooked, or if one of the men gave the beast a slap, Crockett would be left dangling.
“This is none of your concern, Silas.” Mr. Brewster planted his hands on his hips—hips that supported a gun belt with a revolver at the ready.
“You’re about to string up one of my ranch hands, and my future son-in-law. That makes it my concern.”
“Son-in-law?” Mr. Brewster turned his head to spit, then lifted the back of his hand to wipe his mouth. Only then did Joanna notice that he sported several cuts and bruises of his own. “Seems to me I’m doing you and that girl of yours a favor, then. When you hear what this skunk did to my Holly, you’ll be beggin’ to help instead of asking me to stop.”
A sick feeling churned in Joanna’s stomach. Holly. No doubt that girl had twisted the truth into something ugly and vile. But surely not even Holly could be so cruel as to crave a man’s death.
“What is she accusing him of?” Her father shifted slightly in his saddle, laying his rifle across his lap as if he no longer saw a need for it.
Joanna longed to snatch the weapon from him and demand Crockett’s release . . . until she noticed her daddy’s finger hovering over the trigger. He’d not surrendered. He’d just removed the appearance of the threat to put Brewster’s men at ease.
“My girl stumbled home tonight with her dress torn, hair a mess, sobbing about how she hated Brother Archer and wanted me to make him leave and never come back. If your Jo had done the same, what would you have done?”
“Beaten the man responsible to a bloody pulp.”
“Exactly.” Mr. Brewster nodded in satisfaction, righteous indignation glowing in his eyes.
“But I wouldn’t hang him. That’s the law’s job.”
Mr. Brewster’s face darkened, his jaw working back and forth as if it were in danger of locking. “There ain’t no law around these parts, Silas. A man’s gotta see to his own justice.”
“But there is law around. Marshal Coleson’s up at the Spivey place.”
Joanna shot a look at her father. Would he actually bring the law in on this, put himself in the marshal’s path to save Crockett?
“Let me go fetch him.”
Apparently he would. Moisture clouded Joanna’s eyes. Never had she loved her father more.
“You sure bringin’ in the law is the best idea, Alan?” the man holding the horse’s head asked.
Mr. Brewster hesitated.
“You hang that man, you’re doing it out of anger and vengeance, not justice.” Joanna’s father slowly brought his rifle back around and aimed it at Alan Brewster’s chest. “Besides, as sure as you are that Archer’s guilty, I’m equally sure he’s innocent. I know this man. I’ve worked with him day after day. You think I’d trust him with my daughter if I wasn’t completely convinced of his character?”
“Every man’s got secrets, Silas. Even you.” The threat hung in the air. Joanna peered at the man, her pulse erratic. Did Mr. Brewster know something about her father’s past?
“I’m getting the marshal, Brewster.” Her father’s voice had hardened to stone. “He’ll sort this out. If I’m wrong, Coleson will take care of Archer. But if I’m right and you hang him before I get back, you’ll be the one the marshal carts off to prison. For murder.”
“Fine,” Mr. Brewster shouted, spooking Crockett’s horse.
Joanna gasped, her knees tightening around her own mount, causing Sunflower to sidestep. Thankfully, the man tending Crockett’s horse held the beast steady.
“Fetch the marshal,” Mr. Brewster conceded. “While you do that I’ll send Buck after Holly.” The man who had been up in the tree securing the rope slithered down and hurried to his horse. “We’ll see who Coleson believes.”
“That we shall.” Joanna’s father reined Gamble around and came up alongside her. “Take my rifle, Jo.” He pushed the weapon into her shaky hands.
“Shouldn’t I be the one to fetch the marshal?” Joanna eyed the angry men around her. She hated the idea of leaving Crockett, but of the two of them, her father would prove the bigger deterrent. Alan Brewster w
ouldn’t consider her much of a threat, even with the rifle.
Her father shook his head. “No, stay here. I know Archer didn’t lay a hand on Holly, but somebody else might have. I don’t want you riding alone in the dark.” He clasped her shoulder and gave her one of those looks that made it clear the discussion was over. “Watch over your man.”
Joanna steeled her spine and nodded. “I love you, Daddy.”
His lips turned up in a strained smile. “I love you, too, darlin’, and I swear to you that I’ll make this right.”
All she could do was nod in response.
Taking up the reins, her father brought Gamble’s head around and touched his heels to the animal’s flanks. Gamble leapt forward and the two of them raced up the road that led to Jackson’s cabin.
“Hurry,” she whispered.
39
Silas’s heart pounded as fast and hard as Gamble’s hooves while he raced up the path to Jackson’s home. When he caught sight of the marshal’s horse sheltered under the broken-down lean-to west of the house, a heavy exhale released the pressure that’d been building in his chest.
If Coleson had already returned to Deanville, Archer would have been in a world of hurt. Not that he was all that dandy now.
Silas had spent most of his younger years doing everything possible to keep his neck out of a noose, but when Joanna screamed Archer’s name as if her heart were being torn from her body, all he could think was that it should be him wearin’ that rope necktie, not the parson.
Reining Gamble in, Silas leapt from the saddle, not surprised in the slightest when the marshal shoved the door open and came out to meet him, pistol in hand.
“Mount up, Coleson.” Silas paid the gun no heed, just rounded Gamble’s head and faced the lawman straight on. “You’re needed down at the church.”
“The church?” Coleson scoffed. “That’s rich coming from you, Robbins. Don’t think I’m fool enough to go haring after you in the dark on some manufactured pretense. I know you want me gone.”
Karen Witemeyer Page 27