The Redhead and the Preacher: A Loveswept Historical Romance (26 page)

One of the women brought a low bench from the back of her wagon and sat beside Macky. She held one child on her knee while discreetly nursing a newborn beneath a faded shawl.

Macky smiled at the little girl who ducked her head against her mother’s arm. “What’s your name? I’ll bet it’s Sunshine.”

The child shook her head.

“Then it must be Gingerbelle. I once had a friend named Gingerbelle who looked like you, except she had only one arm and I’m sure you have two, don’t you? Of course Gingerbelle did very well with only one, except when she had to draw water from the well. Then do you know what she did?”

The little girl, caught up in Macky’s story, forgot to hug her mother’s body. “What did she do?”

“She whistled,” Macky exclaimed. “That worked every time. Can you whistle?”

“No.”

Macky knew that the little girl wasn’t buying her story, but she was intrigued. Macky slid closer. “It’s a secret, but I’ll share it with you if you’ll sit on my knee. Of course, you can’t tell the baby. Babies don’t understand about big girl’s secrets.

Solemnly the child slid from her mother’s knee and let
Macky lift her into her lap. “Secret?” Her eyes were as large as saucers.

Macky lowered her voice. “What she did was whistle and her mule named Solomon came running. He took the end of the rope and lifted the bucket of water from the well. Once it was up high enough for Gingerbelle to reach it, she’d pull it to the ground and let Solomon have a drink.”

“She did?”

“Of course the secret was that her mama never knew that Solomon drank out of the family water bucket. And you must promise not to tell anybody what I did.”

“You’re really Gingerbelle? But you have two arms.”

“Well, yes, but you have to keep my secret. I wasn’t strong and Solomon got awfully thirsty. Would you like to meet him?”

“Solomon is here?”

“Solomon is here,” Bran answered. “But Trouble has a sprained ankle so she can’t introduce you. But if your mother will let you, I’ll take you to the corral to say hello.”

The grateful mother nodded and watched as her child confidently held up her arms to the man dressed in black. “You know she doesn’t usually have anything to do with anybody. She hardly ever talks, not since her real papa died.”

The woman finished feeding the baby and plopped her against her shoulder where the baby let out a satisfied burp. “I’m Rachel Wade—I mean Pendley—and that was Rebekah. The baby is Louis. Mr. Pendley is Louis’s daddy. He and I aren’t really married yet. There wasn’t a preacher. That’s what made it so hard, me having another baby and all. Some people were pretty outspoken about it.”

“I’m Macky Calhoun, I mean Macky Adams. Don’t pay attention to gossip. Nobody can know what’s best for someone else. God gave you a child and I’m sure He understands. I’m so glad you came.”

Gratitude filled Rachel’s face. “My ma always made us youngens go to church. Mr. Pendley wouldn’t come, but
maybe he will when I tell him how nice you are. Maybe your man will say the words?”

Macky nodded, though she didn’t know what Bran would say, or what it meant to have a legal marriage. She’d find out and help Rachel, if she could.

Soon, members of the congregation, caught up in the judge’s good spirits, began to dance merrily. The marshal took one turn around the floor with Lorraine, then turned her over to Hank Clay and set his sights on Sylvia. Bran didn’t dance, but after he returned the child to her mother, he began to mingle with the guests, laughing and giving every indication that he was having a good time.

To Lorraine’s surprise, she was asked to dance not once but twice. It wasn’t much, but it was a beginning, all because of Macky. She’d thought that the women of Heaven had tolerated her because she’d made them welcome in her saloon, but she was no longer sure. She sighed. They seemed guardedly friendly but she didn’t want to get her hopes up for nothing. She didn’t know why she’d come to the party. She didn’t belong.

Lorraine turned toward the creek, feeling more lonely than she’d ever felt. She never had real friends.

And except for Moose, every man she’d ever known had used her. She’d thought the marshal was different and she’d been lonely. But it was obvious that it was Sylvia he had his eye on and Lorraine wouldn’t be second choice.

The music behind her had turned slow and soulful. Just what she needed when she already felt like throwing herself into that creek and letting it sweep her away from this godawful little town in the middle of nowhere.

She stood at the edge of the water, listening as it splashed against the rocky barriers and moved off into the night.

“It’s hard being different,” a male voice said.

Lorraine whirled around. It was Hank Clay leaning against a tree behind her. Had he followed her, or had he been there all along?

“Yes,” she answered. “Though I don’t know how you’d know. You’re one of the city fathers.”

“No, they just include me so that I’ll agree with whatever they say. They don’t think I’m very smart. I let them believe they’re right.”

“You’re smart enough to know what they’re up to,” she said. Odd, she’d never paid much attention to the burly man across the street from her business. He never came in; she’d thought it was because he was too frugal. And he was always dirty, until tonight. Tonight was probably the first time she’d ever seen Hank Clay in clean clothes. And the stains on his fingers were probably burned into his skin.

“What about you, Miss Lake?”

“What do you mean? I’m a saloonkeeper. They know it and I know it. I’m only tolerated tonight because of Macky. You don’t think they’d ever invite me on their own, do you?”

“Maybe not. But you’re not the only one. How many times do you think I’ve broken bread with them? This is the first.”

“I’m sorry,” Lorraine said.

“I’m not. I am what I am and I don’t have to prove anything to anybody. Neither do you.”

Lorraine listened to Hank in shocked silence. She’d never heard him say more than two or three words before. Yet he clearly understood the truth and he was sharing himself with her. Why?

“What do you want from me, Hank?” she asked. “You know I don’t spend private time with my customers.”

“I’m not a customer, Lorraine. I’m just a man you’re passing the time with at a housewarming.” He took a step forward and held out his hand. “Will you do me the honor of going walking with me, Miss Lake?”

Lorraine stifled a gasp. His manners were perfect. Someone had trained him in the way to approach a lady. And she was a lady, even if only she knew it.

She surprised herself by saying, “I’d be delighted, Mr. Clay.”

He folded her arm across his and led her away from the sound of the music until they reached an open meadow beneath a starlit sky. Hank removed his coat and laid it on the ground. “Miss Lake,” he said, “would you care to sit for a spell and look at the night sky?”

“I think I would, Mr. Clay.”

Moments later she was sitting on the damp, cool earth and Hank was lying on his back staring up into the heavens. “Look, there’s a shooting star.”

“I wonder if it’s going some happy place and if it wants to go?”

“Maybe it hasn’t any choice. Look, there’s the evening star.”

“It’s so bright, close enough that you could almost reach up and touch it.”

“Do you see the Big Dipper?”

Lorraine studied the sky, trying to follow the path of his pointing finger.

“Come down here beside me and you can see it better. There are seven stars, three in the handle and four in the bowl.”

Lorraine lay down, arranging her crinoline so that the back side pulled up, exposing her bottom to the ground, the front side lying flat across her. Hank leaned against her so that she could see where he was pointing.

“I read about the Big Dipper, but I’ve never been able to find it.”

“There. It’s in the north sky now. By summer it will move to the west with the bowl down and the handle pointing upward. By winter its handle will point down. When I was a boy I always thought that the snow was water being emptied from the dipper.”

Lorraine turned her head toward him. “That’s pure poetry, Hank. How did you learn all this?”

“My mother was the mistress of a very learned man. He taught me many things—before he died.”

Lorraine didn’t comment right away, studying him in
the fading light. His face took on new angles, new character in the shadows. “It’s hard to know things and have nobody to share it with.”

He turned to his side and rested his weight on one elbow. “No. What I know is mine. What I allow people to know is my choice, Lorraine.”

“And you’re choosing to let me know you?” Her voice was barely above a whisper.

“If you wish.”

“I wish.”

Then he kissed her. It was sweet and gentle and her response came unexpectedly out of nowhere, filling Lorraine’s mouth with the magic of the night. She sighed and opened her lips to him, knowing that the moment was special and that she might never find it again.

When he pulled back she was stunned. “Why did you stop? I mean, other men don’t—”

“I’m not other men,” he said quietly. “I want you to know that.”

“Why should you be different?”

“Because,” he said simply. “I’m the man you’re going to marry. When I touch your body like this,” he lightly ran his fingertips across her breasts, “it will be a thing we both enjoy. When you come to know my body”—he took her hand and pressed it against his arousal—“it will be because I have the right to know yours.”

Lorraine stared at him in disbelief. “My goodness, the town blacksmith is a poet.”

“And the town saloonkeeper is a teacher.”

“No, I only offered.”

“And as the new newspaper editor, I’m going to see that it happens, as soon as my equipment arrives from back East. It’s time you and I got back to the party,” he said, moving to his feet and pulling her up.

“But—”

“Come along, Miss Lake.”

“Where did you come from, Mr. Clay?” she finally asked as they made their way back to the cabin.

“Where we came from isn’t important, it’s where we’re going that counts.”

“And where is that?” she asked breathlessly as they came to a stop at the edge of the woods by the creek.

He kissed her again, this time more deeply, then answered. “To the stars, Lorraine.”

As they entered the clearing where the dancers were whirling around, Hank stepped back and suddenly Lorraine was alone. She still wasn’t sure that she hadn’t dreamed what had happened. Except for the tingle in her lips and the thudding of her heart.

Imagine that. She’d been kissed by the town blacksmith, a man she’d scarcely noticed before, and she was practically floating on air. And he was offering her a future.

“Lorraine,” Aaron Larkin said, interrupting her state of magical intensity. “I’m going to escort Sylvia back to her ranch. Will you drive the judge into town?”

“Yes, of course. Tell him to get into my wagon.”

“I think it’s more a matter of pouring him into the back. He’s had too much to drink.”

“Just like Moose,” Sylvia said. “Will you check on him, Lorraine? And let me know how he gets along?”

“I’ll be glad to, Sylvia. I wonder if you’ll ride along with us, Mr. Clay?” she asked. “I mean, in case the shooters are still around.”

Moments later Lorraine was in the wagon and Clay was riding alongside. Halfway back, the judge passed out. Lorraine waited for Hank to say something. He didn’t, and for the first time in her life, Lorraine Lake didn’t know how to talk to a man.

Once the judge had been driven away, Aaron Larkin suggested that, considering what had happened, the members of Preacher Adams’s flock all ride back together. “There’s safety in numbers,” he reminded them.

Subdued now, the women quickly packed up the leftover
food, leaving what they thought the preacher and his wife could make use of. They accepted Bran’s thanks for their help and promised to be in church the next day as they started back to town. This time, one of the older Cribbs boys took the reins in Rachel Pendley’s wagon.

“Reverend Adams was worried about Mrs. Pendley being able to see to her babies,” Ethel Cribbs said. The other women quickly agreed, basking in the afterglow of such Christian concern. Rachel gave Macky a timid wave as they drove away.

Aaron assisted Mrs. Mainwearing into her buggy, tied his own horse to the back, and followed the townspeople. “I don’t think the outlaw will dare come to her house, but I think I’ll stay the night with Mrs. Mainwearing,” he said to Bran.

Bran didn’t comment. He couldn’t help but wonder if the bushwhackers had been after Sylvia or the judge. At least the marshal was with her tonight.

Tomorrow he had to set things straight with his employer. Tonight he had to set things straight with his wife.

Bran stepped inside the cabin. “That was a nice thing you did for Rachel Pendley.”

“I like her,” Macky said.

“And inviting Lorraine turned out to be a good idea. I think she and Sylvia have more in common than they thought.”

“I think, Reverend Adams, that you are very good at flattery. Did you see Sylvia dancing with Otis Gooden? How’d you get her to come?”

Bran pursed his lips and considered how best to proceed. “You know Mrs. Mainwearing was talking about me, don’t you? I’m the gunfighter.”

Macky was standing in the middle of the cabin looking around at all the things the women in the church had brought to make the place more livable.

She turned. “Yes. I knew. Does she?”

“Yes. I told her after dinner last night. I thought she wasn’t going to announce that she’d hired me just yet.”

“I think she wanted to send out a warning to whoever shot at her. She doesn’t want anybody to get hurt.”

“Aren’t you going to ask me why a gunfighter is pretending to be the preacher?”

“Not unless you ask me why I’m pretending to be your wife.”

“When I allowed the congregation to believe that, I thought it was because you needed a husband. I wanted to protect you. And I always use a disguise.”

“I would have thought,” Macky mused aloud, “that the marshal would know Night Eyes, or at least about him.”

“The world knows Night Eyes as a half-breed gunfighter, but there is no detailed description and no reason to arrest him. Night Eyes has never killed except in self-defense.”