The Redhead and the Preacher: A Loveswept Historical Romance (29 page)

“Where’s the marshal?” one of the escorts called out.

“I’ll get him,” someone said.

Bran left his place in front of the bar and hurried to help the wounded man from the wagon. “What happened?”

“The thieves were waiting for us. Took the entire shipment. Never made it to Denver City.”

The marshal rode in from the other side of town. “What’s wrong?”

“They fired on us,” the second man said. “Killed two of the guards and drove the others off. Took the gold and sent us back to town with a warning.”

The marshal pulled his gun from his holster and checked the barrel. “What kind of warning?”

“Said that I was to tell you that the Sylvia would never ship another load,” the wounded man said. “Swore that not even that gunfighter can stop them.”

Larkin pressed his lips together. “Nobody threatens me,” he said. “Preacher Adams, I’d appreciate it if you’d explain to Mrs. Mainwearing what happened. I’m forming a posse to go after the bandits. Who’ll ride with me?”

Moments later the men with horses mounted up and rode away, leaving the women of the church behind, worried and huddled together. “Let’s take care of the wounded,” Macky said, springing into action. “May we use your saloon, Lorraine?”

“Of course, let’s get them inside.” Hank Clay stayed behind long enough to assist the preacher in helping the two wounded men inside. Then, while Bran rode toward the mine, Hank and another man loaded up the wagons and escorted the women and children back home.

Macky, still shocked by the possibility that Bran had been about to confess everything, stood by the window trying to decide what to do. She hadn’t known what to expect; church was as foreign to her as the corset and crinoline she was still learning to tolerate. Understanding Bran was even worse.

“Can you help me, Macky?” Lorraine called from the upstairs hall.

“Yes, as soon as I get out of this fish trap I’m wearing,” she answered and lifted her skirt to unfasten the steel-spoked contrivance and let it fall to the floor.

Little had changed since Bran’s early-morning visit to the widow when she’d offered him a full-time job and issued him a personal invitation to call.

He wasn’t surprised when Mrs. Mainwearing opened the door. “Have you changed your mind, gunfighter?”

“No,” he said and stepped adroitly around her. “I have bad news, about your gold shipment.”

“What about my gold?”

“There was another holdup. They took the gold and either killed or wounded your men.”

“Oh, dear God!” Sylvia stumbled toward a love seat inside the parlor. “What am I going to do?”

“There’s more, I’m afraid,” Bran said. “They sent you a message. No more gold will be allowed to leave. They said nobody can stop them, not even the gunfighter.”

“And what do you intend to do about it?” she asked wearily. “I hired you to save gold, not souls.”

She had a right to be angry. “I intend to, Mrs. Mainwearing, but you can’t identify me just yet.”

“Why shouldn’t I? I can’t see that you’re accomplishing much as a preacher. At least if the murderer knows that Night Eyes is here, he’ll think twice about taking him on.”

“That’s what I want to talk about. I’m afraid you may be in physical danger.”

She cut her gaze to Bran. “You mean you think he might …”

“He’s already sent you a warning by shooting the judge. Then he follows up with stealing your gold and making a threat. He’s getting desperate.”

Sylvia came to her feet and began to pace. Finally she
turned toward Bran. “Somebody killed Moose, Reverend Adams. People thought I didn’t care about him, but I did. I don’t intend to lose his mine.”

“There are times,” he said, “when we can’t control what happens.”

“Maybe, but I’m not going to give up. One way or another, I’m going to find and punish the person behind all this.”

Bran finally convinced her to keep his secret a little longer. He had to make arrangements for Macky before he allowed the truth to come out. But as he rode to town, he knew that he couldn’t hold Sylvia back for long.

He understood the pain of failure and her need to find and punish Moose’s murderer. He also understood the helplessness she felt. He’d lived with that helplessness for most of his adult life. He’d been driven by pain, by his need for revenge, so much so that he’d sacrificed his life to it, even when he was no longer certain that the men responsible for slaughtering his family were still alive.

Being wanted for the murder of the man who’d nearly killed his Indian brother had never slowed Bran down, though the possibility of capture was always there. But the wanted poster of an eighteen-year-old boy bore little resemblance to the thirty-two-year-old gunfighter he’d become. The only thing that tied him to that killing had been his real name, John Brandon Lee.

He was sorry he’d had to shoot the soldier, but he’d had no choice. Even if the Indian being tortured hadn’t been Blue, Bran would still have come to his defense. But Blue had almost died and that had filled the last crevice in a heart already turning to stone.

Afterward, Bran never intended to become a gun-for-hire, but once it happened, the work seemed to come easier and more often. He never walked away when the only way to stop suffering was to punish the one causing it. Never once did he punish unfairly, nor was he blamed.

Night Eyes was an avenger who never used his anger
against the innocent. He’d always worked alone and those who knew his real identity either died or kept his secret.

Age, an eye patch, and several name changes left John Brandon Lee in the past. He’d never stopped looking for the river pirate who’d killed his real family.

But what had he gained?

A reputation as a gunfighter and a life of loneliness.

And now there was Macky.

When he reached the place where the judge had been wounded, Bran pulled off the main road and followed the trail of hoofprints leading up in the rocks. Finding the spot where the ambusher had waited was easy.

After learning about Macky’s part in the bank holdup, Bran was certain that Pratt was the man after her. Pratt must feel secure in his activities. He hadn’t even been careful to cover his tracks.

The scene struck Bran as odd, particularly since the marshal had said he couldn’t find the bushwhacker who’d fired on the buggy. If Larkin hadn’t found Pratt it was because he hadn’t looked or taken the time to track him down.

The sun was directly overhead and warm. The wildflowers blooming among the rocks had been trampled by a horse that had been ridden hard, or was carrying a heavy load. That didn’t mesh with what happened to Sylvia and the judge. Unless someone else had ridden through here since.

Bran wiped his forehead and peered upward. It was time he did a little investigating on his own. Flipping the reins against his horse’s haunch, he started the animal up the trail that became rougher the higher he went. Then he heard the sound of another horse.

Nestled between two boulders was an old miner’s cabin. A lean-to beyond revealed a black horse, dusty and breathing hard as he drank deeply from a water trough. There was no sign of a silver-trimmed saddle, but Bran was fairly certain
that this was the same horse he’d seen in town. It could have been ridden by one of the outlaws who’d tried to hold up the stage. And more than that, it had been ridden hard—recently.

From the look of things, Bran figured there was only one man inside. Bran eased off his horse and tied him to a tree behind a boulder. With the wind blowing down the draw, the black horse wouldn’t smell the intruder and give Bran away.

Carefully he worked his way around to the cabin. Why was Pratt still in Heaven if he was searching for the money Macky had? Either he had some idea that the
kid
was around, or this was his normal hiding place. At least Macky was safe. Bran’s concern for her bothered him. He’d seen too many men lose their edge once they fell in love.

Love? The Devil! Love was something he’d never even considered, never allowed. He’d failed all the people he’d ever loved—his parents, his sister, and his Choctaw brother. All dead.

For so long he’d beaten down the least little spark of feeling, certain that if he let it free, his love would somehow put the recipient in mortal danger.

Find and punish had been the driving factor in his life, suppressing any human need with cold hate. It had worked—too well. He’d stopped feeling at all. Then Macky had gotten on the stage, and like the snowy peaks atop the mountains, the walls of ice around his heart had begun to melt and he couldn’t seem to stop it.

He was still stunned that she’d given him her innocence. That he’d taken it so casually. No. Hell, no! It hadn’t been casual. It had been intense. It was the kind of temptation that David had felt for Bathsheba.

Damn his weakness! Bran knew what caring could do. But he knew about desperation as well. He couldn’t fault Macky for running away. He’d done the same thing. He’d run away because people refused to believe that the men who’d killed his family were river pirates, not Indians.

He’d run away from the charge that he’d murdered a man because he’d known that nobody would believe him then, either. He’d run because his word meant nothing.

Macky also ran away because nobody believed in her and she never thought they would. But that was changing. Her simple honesty was contagious. And he wouldn’t allow Macky to be hurt. So long as the townsfolk didn’t know that he was Night Eyes, they’d accept Macky as the preacher’s wife and she’d be safe. Until he’d dealt with Pratt, he’d have to make certain that the charade continued. But he’d have to find a way to stay away from Macky. He couldn’t stop wanting her, and wanting her could cause her more grief than the law.

The sun was moving toward the west. In the higher elevation the temperature was growing cooler. He needed to move quickly, before Macky decided to return to the parsonage alone. He found a spot close to the house where he could see the man inside the cabin and he knew that he’d found Pratt. On the floor was one of the saddlebags containing Sylvia’s gold.

Pratt hadn’t shaved in a couple of days and the beginnings of a scruffy gray beard smudged his face, covering the wrinkles of age. Bran felt a moment of recognition, an uncertainty that left him almost immediately. This man could hurt Macky.

Confronting him now could be a mistake. Now that Bran knew where Pratt was, he could always find him. What was more important was learning who’d hired him, for Bran didn’t think that the outlaw was working alone. This was simply more of the sinister cat-and-mouse game being played with Sylvia. Someone stood to gain much more. And Bran intended to find out who.

Hank Clay drove the judge from Willa’s Boardinghouse to the stage Sunday afternoon.

“You sure you ought to be leaving, Judge?” he asked.

“Can’t stay. I need to get back to Denver to report that the gunfighter is on the way. I’m not a bit pleased about that,” he confided. “Not a bit.”

“Mrs. Mainwearing might be safer with him around.”

That observation, however casually made by Hank, didn’t please the judge. Everybody in Heaven knew that the judge had his eye on Sylvia. It was obvious that he didn’t like the thought that she was turning to an outsider for help.

Hank also knew that the marshal spent a lot of time with the widow and hadn’t made much progress in finding the bushwhackers. Now, according to the town gossip, Sylvia seemed to have cast a favorable eye on the preacher.

The only thing Hank knew for sure was that there were a lot of people in Heaven with secrets to hide. Including Lorraine. Including himself.

As he drove past the saloon he glanced up and caught sight of the flutter of the window curtain. Someone was watching. He didn’t have to see her face. His senses told him it was Lorraine.

“Will you do something for me, Mr. Clay?” the judge asked as Hank stopped the buggy and held his hand out to help the judge climb down. “I’ll be glad to pay you.”

“If I can.”

“Keep an eye on any newcomers. Send me word if anybody suspicious comes into town.”

“You mean the gunfighter?”

“I guess I mean anybody who’s turned up in Heaven since Moose died. Maybe even before. Whoever arranged that accident could have been here all along. We don’t need people in Heaven who aren’t good citizens. For all we know, Night Eyes is already here.”

Most towns didn’t want people who didn’t fit in. Hank had learned that well enough through the years. He couldn’t believe that a professional gunfighter would be able to keep his identity secret in Heaven. Everybody knew everybody else too well. He didn’t much like spying for the judge. He’d spent the last three years of his life trying to be unnoticed.
As the illegitimate son of a wealthy Southern planter, he’d never been left alone. Until his mother died, everybody who knew made his life a living hell.

Once she was gone there was no reason to stay in South Carolina. There was a whole country out there that didn’t know who he was. He’d tried a town or two before settling in Heaven. As far as Hank was concerned, anybody here was free to be whatever he or she wanted, even a gunfighter.

Living a simple life as a blacksmith and livery operator had been enough for Hank Clay—for a time. Now he wanted more.

Later that night, Hank waited for the last horse to ride away from the saloon. As the lights began to dim, he crossed the street, made his way into the kitchen and up the back stairs.

Lorraine was standing beside the window as if she were waiting for him.

“Mr. Clay?”

“Hank,” he corrected.

“Is that really your name?”

“Is Lorraine yours?”

She dropped her head and turned back to face the window. “My name is Laura Peters. Or at least that’s the name my mother gave me. The trapper my father sold me to called me Lottie.”

“There’s a husband?”

“No. There never was. I ran away. Later, after I learned how to make a living, I called myself Lorraine Lake. I’d run into a piece of bad luck when I met Moose and he brought me here.”

“You and Moose?”

“At first—yes. Not in a long time. Does that matter?”

“Not if it doesn’t matter to you.”