A Lady Like Sarah (8 page)

On occasion, they were forced to cross a fast-flowing stream or detour around a tangled thicket. Upon circling one such dense growth, they roused several deer from a hidden lair, sending the frightened animals bounding away in alarm. A spotted fawn wobbled after them.

The relentless glare of the sun began to take its toll. Justin mopped his wet forehead and glanced back at Sarah, but she avoided his eyes. He could see she was tired. Her face was flushed and less lively than usual, but she looked no less stubÂborn. Even so, he felt sorry for her.

He wondered if somehow they had missed the town. He searched the trail ahead for a shady place to rest, but it was another hour before they actually found a suitable spot next to a sparkling stream and grove of sturdy cottonwoods.

After helping Owen off the horse, Justin settled the feverÂish man down on a soft patch of grass. He turned to give Sarah a hand, but she had managed to slip off her mount without his help. He took off her cuffs so she could cool herself in the water.

Justin knelt at the stream and doused himself with water before rinsing off his neckerchief. He then removed Owen's hat and gently dabbed his face with the wet cloth. Owen's skin was flushed red, and he was breathing hard.

Fearing for the man's life, Justin stared at the rocky trail ahead. "Traveling is taking a lot out of him. At the rate we're going, we won't make it to the next town till after nightfall," he said. Lowering himself onto a fallen log, he held his weary head with both hands and said a silent prayer.

He felt her hand on his back, her head on his shoulder.

Startled by the way her touch made his heart leap, he jumped to his feet.

The initial surprise on her face turned to hurt. "I was only
tryin
' to be a friend," she said.

Feeling utterly foolish, he raked his hand through his hair. "I apologize."

Her eyes blazed into his. "Don't go
gettin
' yourself all worked up. I ain't that desperate, and you ain't that—"

"Irresistible?" he asked, hoping to break the tension with a little humor.

She bit her lip and lowered her eyes. "It's the first time I ever done that, you know," she said, her voice barely more than a whisper.

"First time you did what?
Try
to be a friend?"

"I ain't talking about
no
friends. You're the first man I ever kissed."

Hands on his hips, he stared at the ground. "I think it would be best if we don't talk about it."

"Really?"
She sounded surprised. "Is that one of those subjects that ladies can't discuss?"

He looked up. "I suppose it's all right if you're married," he said gently, not wanting to hurt her feelings any more than he already had. "But unmarried ladies aren't supposed to talk about kissing . . . and things."
He
couldn't talk about such things. Not with her so close and looking so fetching.

Sarah shook her head. "If
that don't
beat all." She frowned. "Is that one of those rules in the Good Book?"

"Rules?
Oh, you mean the
Ten
Commandments. The Bible is clear on the importance of remaining honorable until marriage."

She chewed on her lip. "By 'honorable,' you mean—"

"Yes," he said quickly, his terse voice meant to discourage further discussion.

Much to his dismay, she persisted. "What about kissin'?"

He cleared his throat. "There's nothing in the Bible that specifically addresses the subject
of.
. .
kissing. It's just something that polite society expects."

"So what you're sayin' is that it's okay with God if I talk about kissin', but it ain't okay with society?"

"I suppose."

She glanced around. "I don't see
no
society here, do you?"

"Well—"

"It's just you, me, and God." She glanced at Owen as if tryÂing to decide if his presence counted. "So that means that I can talk about kissin'."

He stared at her, not knowing how to handle such logic. "I don't really see what there is to talk about. I
mean . . ."
Needing all the defenses he could muster, he slipped into his role as pastor as easily as he donned a coat.

He continued, "Sometimes people do things when they're carrying a burden that they wouldn't normally do. In view of your troubles, it's perfectly understandable that you might do something you'd later regret."

"I ain't
regrettin
' nothin',"
she said with a frown.

Not knowing how to respond, he looked away and remained silent. Most people were quick to admit their transgressions in his presence and were enormously relieved when he told them of God's forgiveness. But Sarah wasn't like anyone he'd ever met. He wondered if she were one of a kind or if peoÂple in these parts had their own way of looking at things. If that were the case, he was in trouble, for he couldn't begin to think like she did.

Sarah made him feel like he was in a foreign country. She didn't even speak the same language. It came as a shock to think how limited his pastoral work in Boston had been. He felt totally unprepared for the challenges of the West. Nor did he have a clue how to deal with people like Sarah, whose plain-talking ways were both refreshing and alarming.

After a long silence, she said, "I just want to know if I done it right."

Feeling a flicker of hope, he cleared his throat. Maybe if he put her mind at ease, she would abandon the subject. "Other than the fact that you threw yourself at me," he began slowly, "I'd say you did everything else . . . very well."

"Is that so?" She smiled and her whole face lit up. It was the first real smile she'd given him all day.

"It must
come
nat'ral
, being that I lack experience and all," she said.

As much as her boldness disarmed him he was also intrigued, and he regretted having to discourage such frank talk. "It might help you to know that it's the man who does the initiÂating, not the woman." If she would keep her distance, then surely he could keep his.

"Don't tell me," she said. "It's one of those society rules, right?"

"Right."

"So if it's just God
watchin
'—"

He quickly stepped back, putting more distance between them. "Same rules apply," he said firmly.

Where
's
the prisoner?"

Startled by the man's gravelly voice, Justin spun around to find the marshal's eyes open.

"You're awake." Justin scraped off the last of his whiskers with a hoe-shaped razor and swished it in a cup of hot water. The new-type razor had been developed so men could shave safely aboard a moving train, but Justin preferred the old blade type, which was easier to strop.

Owen shifted his legs and tried to sit up. "I'm awake," he mumbled.

"Hold on." Justin quickly wiped the remaining soap away from his freshly shaven chin, then moved to the marshal's side.

Owen's breath rattled in his chest, his lips tinged in blue.

Kneeling down on one knee, Justin slipped his hands beneath Owen's armpits and lifted the man into a sitting position.

"Thank you," Owen wheezed. He leaned his head back
against a tree. Groaning, he pressed his hand gently on the wad of fabric protecting the wound at his shoulder.

"You got a name?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

"My name's Wells. Reverend Justin Wells."

"A preacher, huh?
What do you know?" He took a moment to catch his breath before adding, "This is the last place I'd expect to run into a fire escape."

Justin chuckled. As a preacher, he'd been called a "sin twister" and other such names, but "fire escape" was a new one on him. "It's the last place I expected to be," Justin said. "Would you like some Arbuckle's?"

"Only if it tastes better than that tea you keep forcing down my throat," Owen rasped.

Justin smiled to himself. Sarah had a few choice words to say about his coffee—none of them good—but he wasn't about to repeat her sentiments.

He poured the steaming coffee into a tin cup and, stoopÂing low, held the cup next to Owen's lips.

Owen blew on the hot liquid, took a sip, and grimaced. "Sure hope your sermons are better than your coffee."

"There are some who would argue in favor of the coffee," Justin said.

Owen leaned his head against the tree. His gaunt, ash-colored face hardly seemed able to support his dark, drooping mustache and stubbly beard. His sunken eyes looked like two black holes. "You still haven't told me where the prisoner is."

Justin tossed a nod in the direction she'd gone. "She's down by the stream, bathing."

Owen grimaced, but whether from pain or disapproval, Justin couldn't tell. "I'll wager the last breath in me that she skips, if she hasn't already."

"Then you'd be one sorry man," Justin said.

Owen coughed. "If you knew what awaited her in Texas . . ."

"She told me about the hanging."

Owen's eyebrows arched in surprise. "You know, and you still think she won't escape? She's no fool." He coughed and then continued, his voice fading with each spoken word. "She's . . . she's not about to stay around . . . for her own lynchÂing party."

"I made her leave her boots here at camp. Without boots and a horse, she won't get very far."

"She escaped once . . ." Owen cleared his voice and started again. "Rocky Creek's town marshal made the mistake of underestimating her. Don't you make the same
mistake.
"

Not about to admit it was a mistake he'd already made, Justin tossed the dregs of his coffee on the ground and set the tin cup down on a flat rock. He rose and reached for the spare shirt used for bandages. One sleeve and half the back was all that was left. He tore a strip of cotton, dampened it, and squeezed out the excess water. Kneeling by Owen's side, he laid the cool damp cloth on the marshal's forehead.

"She told me she and her brothers were wrongly accused of murder."

"It's not my job to determine guilt or innocence. It's not yours either."

"She saved your life," Justin said.

Owen looked at him with clouded eyes. "And you want me to save hers." It was a statement more than a question.

"She's a woman."

"The judge found her guilty."

"She didn't kill anyone," Justin said firmly.

"Maybe not.
But she and her brothers are guilty of other crimes," Owen wheezed.
"Robberies."

"They don't hang people for robberies," Justin argued, then caught
himself
. He had no right to quarrel with a wounded man. "I'm sorry," he said, his tone beseeching. "It's
just.
. . not right."

"It's not our . . . decision." Owen's voice faded away.

Justin sighed and let his gaze travel toward the stream. The trees hid Sarah from view, but there was no hiding from the fate that awaited her.

"What happens if you don't bring her in?"

"A U.S. Marshal doesn't get paid until he delivers the goods." Owen's voice was barely more than a whisper, each word sounding more strained than the one before it. He coughed so hard that his whole body shook. Catching his breath, he gasped for air and closed his eyes.

Justin laid a hand on top of Owen's and said a silent prayer.
Dear heavenly Father, Almighty God, Creator of heaven and earth . . .

He finished the prayer, but even after asking for God's help, he felt no peace. He
felt.
. .
nothing. Here in the wilderÂness God's handiwork was everywhere, from the magnificent sky to the tiniest blade of grass beneath his feet. Yet, never had he felt more distant from God, more alone. He stared across the endless Missouri plains and thought about the Israelites wandering the desert. God had tested them as He now appeared to be testing Justin.

He lifted his eyes to the heavens. "I sure do hope it doesn't take me forty years to pass
Your
test, God," he said. He sighed and reached for the cloth on Owen's forehead. The man was still burning with fever.

Owen stirred and regarded Justin through half-shut eyes. "You . . . you promised to take her to Texas. If you can't trust a man of God—"

"She took the bullet out of your shoulder. She saved your life."

Owen said something, but his voice was so weak, his words were nothing more than a wisp of air. Justin leaned over until his ear was
mere
few inches from Owen's quivering lips. "What did you say?"

"I said . . . There's a generous reward for her capture." He gasped before continuing. "A. . . A fire escape like you could do a lot of good with that kind of money."

Justin shook his head. "That's blood money. I don't want any part of it."

"Then maybe you'd be good enough"—Owen coughed— "to . . . to see that my wife gets it. Raising three
young'uns
by
herself.
. . she'll need all the help she can get."

Justin pulled back and regarded Owen with grave concern. He wanted to say something, anything, to put the man's mind at ease, his worries to rest. He wanted to tell him he wasn't going to die, that he would see his children reach adulthood. But Justin had sat by enough deathbeds to recognize the near- end of life. To lie would deny Owen the chance to put his worldly concerns aside and prepare himself to meet his Maker.