The Redhead and the Preacher: A Loveswept Historical Romance Read online

  Maybe he didn’t. Maybe he was taking the stage and leaving town.

  Desperately Macky considered her choices. If she ran away she’d call attention to herself. If she stayed she just might get away with her deception. Particularly if the waiting crowd made the same mistake that the Smiths had back at the way station; that the preacher was her man.

  The expression on Bran’s face said that he wasn’t any happier over their reception than she. He looked as if he would like nothing better than to leave the stage and disappear.

  “Brother Adams, greetings! We got your letter saying you were on the way,” the man wearing the top hat said as he opened the door and extended his hand to Bran. He caught sight of Bran’s eye patch and for a moment his hand hung limply in the air before he caught himself and held it straight again.

  “And Mrs. Adams,” one of the women said, rushing forward to greet Macky. “The minister wasn’t sure you’d be up to making the trip. The journey from St. Louis must have been dreadful.”

  “After we heard about the bank robbery in Promise we were worried about you, Reverend,” another called out. “You didn’t run into that Pratt gang, did you?”

  “There was a little problem,” Harvil said, climbing down. “Bandits tried to hold up the stage. The driver got shot, but they managed to get away. The driver was saved, thanks to these folks.”

  The man in the top hat tried to help Macky down from the stage first, but she quickly moved behind Bran so that Pratt couldn’t see her. The man finally turned his attention back to Bran, who climbed out.

  “We don’t have much of a church yet, Brother Adams, but we Methodists know how to make our new preacher welcome. I’m Preston Cribbs, the new Pony Express station manager and the mayor of Heaven.”

  “You knew we were coming?” Bran asked in surprise as he reached back to pull Macky out.

  The clipped way he had of speaking was back and Macky knew that Bran was not pleased with what was happening. She expected him to speak out any minute and tell them that he’d never seen her before the stop in Promise. But he didn’t.

  “My rider told us you were on the way. He stops at the way station, then comes cross-country,” Mr. Cribbs explained, and held out his hand once more to Macky, who could no longer avoid climbing down.

  “So, when we found that you’d be arriving this afternoon, we all came down to welcome you.”

  “Thank you,” Macky said, her voice trembling in fear. She held her breath, waiting for his reaction when he got a good look at the new parson’s wife.

  At that moment the man wearing the badge stepped forward. “Aaron Larkin, here, U.S. Marshal. Did you get a good look at the outlaws?”

  Harvil answered. “No, had their faces covered. But the preacher got two of them. The only one to escape was riding a black horse. Could have been the Pratt gang, but the regular driver couldn’t say for sure.”

  Macky gulped. She was staring at a federal marshal and the sheriff in Promise was probably on his way. If she wasn’t killed by Pratt, she’d be hung from the nearest scaffold by the law.

  Macky glanced casually over the heads of the townsfolk at the bank robber, who studied her briefly for a moment, then turned his attention back to the stagecoach. She leaned down, smoothing her skirt, reckoning that the shorter she appeared, the less likely he’d recognize her. But all she did was draw the ladies’ attention to the sad state of her travel-worn short skirt.

  She heard a murmur ripple through the crowd. Then came dead silence. Macky raised her gaze to find all the attention was on her. She was caught in the most humiliating moment of her life. She had to act quickly before Pratt figured out who she was or Bran gave her away.

  “Please,” she began in a soft, strained voice, “call me Kate. I’m—we’re very pleased to be here.” That much was certainly true. Under other circumstances she’d be in jail, or dead. Anything was preferable to that, anything except the look of fury in the preacher’s eye.

  While it had suited Bran to use the minister as his cover until he got a handle on the situation, he never expected to have a wife. To save his life, he couldn’t figure out what her angle was until he saw the fear in her eyes. She reached out and clasped his arm, holding on for dear life.

  We’re glad to be here? What in hell was she doing, formally linking them before this crowd? The last thing he needed was some half-wild female to be responsible for. But somehow that was what was happening.

  The flame of her cheeks said that she realized how inappropriately she was dressed. He’d seen the lifted chins on the women. Yet she was standing up to them, proud and undaunted.

  “Preacher Adams,” the mayor went on, “would you and the missus like to adjourn to the saloon?”

  “Saloon?” Macky repeated in a shocked voice.

  “Don’t look so surprised, Reverend,” Marshal Larkin commented dryly. “They don’t have a church yet. Until funds are raised for a building, the good Methodists of Heaven have been using the saloon as their meeting place. They’ve planned a meal and a social occasion in your honor.”

  “How nice,” Bran said, feeling Macky’s fingertips dig even deeper into his arm.

  The marshal tilted his hat back and studied Bran. “Interesting eye patch, Reverend Adams. Not many men wear them. Have I ever met you before?”

  Macky’s eyes strayed back to the bank robber. Pratt pushed himself away from his spot against the building and walked around the stagecoach, casually studying the travelers. Macky followed his movements, catching his gaze head-on. The outlaw looked at her, puzzled for a minute, then smiled and nodded his head.

  Damn! Had he recognized her? Macky didn’t know. Maybe he hadn’t figured it out yet. The headache she’d nursed since she awoke this morning came pounding back.

  It was only a matter of time before Pratt would remember seeing those same green eyes on his young associate who’d vanished with his money. She had to do something to stop him.

  “I don’t believe we’ve met.” Bran was answering the marshal’s question. “In fact, I’m afraid—”

  “We’ve—I mean I’ve never been out West before,” Macky interrupted. “I’m originally from Boston and the Reverend Adams is from—” She looked at him helplessly, imploring him to go along. She’d long since stopped trying to decide whether she was putting alibis in an outlaw’s mouth, or lies in a preacher’s.

  “Mississippi,” Bran finished, questions flashing in his eyes.

  They were in it now. With the marshal’s gaze fixed on him and Trouble looking as if she were about to be burned at the stake, he had little choice.

  Years had passed since he’d feared that old wanted poster from back in Texas. The Rangers had looked briefly for John Lee, who’d saved his Indian brother from a beating by a thieving army sergeant delivering cattle to the reservation. But with only a pen-and-ink sketch of a young man with an injured eye to identify the boy, and with many feeling sympathy for his act, Bran had never been seriously hunted.

  Because his scarred eye could identify him, he’d covered it with the black patch which he’d worn ever since. The case was still open, but Bran hadn’t worried about it for years. Until now. Maybe having a wife was good.

  “Mrs. Adams and I would be pleased to attend the social,” he said, gallantly folding Macky’s arm over his. “Shall we, Kate, dear?”

  For a moment Macky seemed nonplussed. She glanced around, then turned to Bran and smiled bravely. “Certainly, but I—” She looked down at her skirt and winced.

  “Don’t worry about the skirt,” Bran said, “the good people of Heaven will understand that your clothing was destroyed in the wreck of the stagecoach.”

  “Of course,” the woman closest to Macky said, with relief in her voice. “We certainly understand.”

  Bran felt the vibrations coming from his new bride and knew he’d better head off the approaching explosion. In spite of his profession, Bran had a strong moral code and he believed that God’s servants shouldn’t be ridiculed.
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br />   “The Lord will provide, Mrs. Adams,” he said piously. “In the meantime, let us be truly grateful for what we have been given—a place of safe refuge from our enemies.”

  Macky tried to jerk away.

  Bran held her tighter. At her startled look he inclined his head so that his mouth was close to her ear as they walked. “Now, what in hell are you doing, Kate?”

  “What the hell are you doing?” she asked under her breath, then turned to the woman beside her. “We know that God works in mysterious ways, and our arriving in Heaven is truly a miracle.”

  Preston Cribbs nodded vigorously, turned and started across the street. “Yes, indeed. Let’s ring the Heaven bell to let the sinners know that our minister has come.”

  The welcoming committee closed around Bran and Macky, pushing them even closer together. A shiny new bell mounted on the top of the saloon began to ring.

  “I was a bit worried that your members might not recognize me,” Bran said pleasantly, to the beaming members of his congregation keeping pace with his steps. In his own way he was testing his hope that nobody in Heaven had ever seen the preacher.

  “Harvil’s wife said you wore an eye patch,” someone said, as if that identified him.

  “Of course. Why would anyone doubt you?” Macky asked in exaggerated innocence, all the while keeping her eye on Pratt, who was still dogging their steps. “I never would.”

  She was very clever, this woman who’d proclaimed herself to be his wife just moments earlier. “And you’ve known a lot of ministers, haven’t you, dear?”

  “Only you.” She blinked her eyes in what she hoped was a flirtatious gesture and smiled.

  At that moment the church members broke into a lively chorus of “Bringing in the Sheaves” to accompany their march to the saloon, offering Bran the opportunity to ask his new wife a whispered question. “And why do you care what happens to me?” he asked, his voice barely more than a growl.

  “Because,” she snapped, “I’d rather be a rich wife than a poor widow.”

  Bran gave a dry laugh. “What in hell makes you think I’ll ever be rich?”

  “Why, this is Heaven, isn’t it? I’ve heard that the streets are paved with gold.”

  Chapter Seven

  Macky kept reminding herself that, for whatever reason, Bran hadn’t corrected the welcoming committee’s impression that she was the minister’s wife.

  For now, she couldn’t ask questions. Later, when she’d gotten away from this crowd, would be soon enough to find out what kind of game the preacher was playing.

  In the meantime, she was Mrs. Adams, Mrs. Kate Adams, wife of the new Methodist minister in the part of the Kansas Territory called Heaven. But she didn’t believe for one minute that Bran was helping her out of the goodness of his heart, and though she’d started this charade, she wasn’t sure she wanted to be used.

  “ ‘Oh what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive,’ ” she said softly, trying to pry herself away from the pressure of Bran’s arm against her rib cage.

  “Or ‘come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly,’ ” he whispered as they moved through the swinging doors to the saloon.

  Macky caught sight of the women standing around the edges of the room, circling a painting on the floor. “My goodness. It’s a picture of a lady.”

  There was a laugh as one of the onlookers separated herself from the others and moved toward them. Her presence stopped the chatter abruptly.

  “It’s your face on the floor,” Macky exclaimed.

  “Yes, it’s me. Good afternoon, Mrs. Adams, is it?” the woman said, her voice laced with amusement. “A good likeness, don’t you think?”

  “It’s beautiful,” Macky admitted, feeling all the more shabby in comparison to the saloonkeeper. She was even taller than Macky, but that was where the resemblance ended. Her hair looked like spun gold and her body was magnificent. There was so much of it, so nicely shaped, so openly displayed.

  The marshal stepped forward. “Reverend, Mrs. Adams, this is Miss Lorraine Lake, the proprietor of Heaven’s Bell, recently renamed in honor of the new church.”

  “Ah, yes,” Preston Cribbs chimed in. “Miss Lake has been gracious enough to allow us to hold Sunday-morning services in her establishment, seeing as how she doesn’t use it then, of course.”

  “Of course, your congregation believes you’ll manage to convert me,” Miss Lake said, turning her attention to Bran. “Who knows, maybe you will.”

  There was an instant connection between the woman and Bran, obvious to Macky if not to the others. Bran’s lips quirked at the corners and he held out his hand. “Miss Lake, is it? I’m Brandon Adams, your new messenger from God. It’s very kind of you to welcome my little flock of sheep to your—establishment, but it isn’t Sunday, is it?”

  “No, but your sheep are always welcome to join my other guests,” Lorraine practically purred, pushing a long strand of golden hair behind her ear.

  There was a collective gasp from the ladies of the church and Macky wondered how often they’d crossed paths with Miss Lake before. Based on the sheepish expressions of discomfort on the men’s faces, she’d bet they’d all put a foot on the bar rail at one time or another.

  Macky had been in the saloon back in Promise more than once, bringing Todd home—until he’d finally moved out and dared her to torment him again. But never had she seen a woman like Lorraine.

  It was the devil that made her do it. Macky had no other explanation for her planting herself firmly against Bran’s side and smiling up at him as she thought an adoring wife might do. “Do call me Kate,” she said. “Mrs. Adams is just too formal. Thank you for making us welcome.”

  It wasn’t Trouble’s saucy remarks but the sharp heel of her heavy boot that caught Bran’s attention and reminded him that his cover as a minister had to be complete or it could be ruined. He didn’t know which, if any, of the men watching might be the one he was after. But for now, he’d better play it out—all the way.

  “Yes. Thank you, Miss Lake,” Bran said.

  Macky’s words hadn’t erased the twinkle from Lorraine’s eyes. The citizens of Heaven might be taken in by Macky’s claims, but she was afraid that fooling Lorraine Lake was going to be a bigger task. She was certain of it when Lorraine said, “Maybe you’d like to begin our redemption by leading us in a word of prayer, Reverend, before we enjoy the refreshments the ladies of your church have prepared.”

  “I—I …” Bran was at a loss for words. If Macky hadn’t been sure that he was masquerading as a preacher before, she was now.

  The saloonkeeper went on. “I might even contribute something spirituous to the occasion—to welcome you.”

  I’ll bet you will, Macky wanted to say. In spite of their story, Lorraine had taken one look at Bran and set her sights on him. To stay out of jail Macky needed Bran. She’d just have to find a way to keep him from Lorraine’s clutches until she could get away. The method hadn’t come clear yet, but Macky would find it.

  “Yes,” Marshal Larkin agreed, “a word of prayer might be in order.”

  It was the marshal’s agreement, or his challenge, that forced Bran to gather his wits and bow his head.

  The crowd grew quiet.

  There was a cough and someone shushed someone else.

  The silence continued.

  Macky nudged Bran with her elbow and risked cracking one eye to study his face.

  “Father of all,” he finally began, “He who was there first, before any man or woman, or rain or wind or beast, hear our lament. We ask you this day to make our steps firm and our hearts good.”

  He stopped.

  Macky took a chance and added, “Amen!”

  The members of the congregation looked at Bran and back at each other, unable to hide their bewilderment before Mr. Cribbs let out an echoing “Amen!” The others followed and surged forward to shake Bran’s hand and introduce themselves.

  Reluctantly, Macky allowed herself to be separate
d from Bran by the ladies. They insisted that she taste every dish laid out on the bar, each giving her a description of its ingredients, each tactfully ignoring the nearly nude figure painted on the floor.

  She followed their lead, dutifully eating meat pies, cakes, apple dumplings, and a few dishes she couldn’t name. One very heavy woman with several chins held out a dish of what looked for all the world like animal feet.

  “We don’t have many hogs to kill, Mrs. Adams. But I always put the feet back to brine. You’re going to love my pickled pig’s feet.”

  It could have been the rich food after she had eaten nothing more than a bit of meat for days. It could have been overindulgence in Harriet’s special tea or it could have been the sight of the pig’s feet. In any case, Macky took a deep desperate breath and held her stomach as she began to heave.

  “Oh, dear, I think I’m going to—”

  “Don’t you worry, child,” Mrs. Cribbs said, nodding her head in understanding. “Come with me.”

  Before Macky knew what was happening she was out the door, throwing up beside the building.

  “I know how it is when you’re that way,” Mrs. Cribbs said. “When is your time?”

  Macky gagged again. “Any minute now, I’m afraid.”

  “But you don’t look a bit like you’re hiding something.”

  “Hiding something?” Macky remembered the money hidden inside her shirt.

  “Boys always carry low,” Mrs. Cribbs went on. “I guess the preacher is pleased.”

  Macky leaned her arm against the building and wiped her mouth with the scrap of cloth from her hair. “Boys?”

  “Take deep breaths,” her helpful companion advised. “I’ll just wet my handkerchief in the water barrel.”

  Macky nodded. Seconds later there was a rippling sound in the water, followed by a damp cloth being pressed to her forehead.

  “Let’s get you up to your room, Mrs. Adams, so you can rest for a while. I’m sure the folks will understand once they learn about your condition.”