The Redhead and the Preacher: A Loveswept Historical Romance (32 page)

He’d always avoid his targeted area until after the first crime was committed, then he’d come in to provide protection for the same people he was robbing. Once he’d taken enough, Larkin managed to find the criminal, who would be killed in the arrest. His reputation as a law officer was growing, as was his purse.

But this time he’d delayed his departure. Sylvia was proving to be more resistant to his charms than Larkin had expected. Instead of arresting Pratt for the crimes as he’d intended, Larkin had been forced to continue using him. The fool thought that Larkin didn’t know he was helping himself to some of the gold, but Larkin knew. He’d let Pratt go for a while, but the time had come to get rid of him.

Larkin laid some wood in the stove, then looked around, searching for something to start it. The desk. He opened the desk drawer. Inside, he found a stack of wanted posters. Perfect. They’d been here so long that they were practically falling apart. Larkin wadded up the first two and stuck them under his twigs. But the next poster stopped him cold, the truth settling over him like a bear claw around his heart.

The aged drawing was of a kid with one eye. Wanted for murder in Oklahoma fifteen years before, for killing an army officer who’d been attacked by a Choctaw boy.

Larkin had been a soldier himself back then. He hadn’t been assigned to reservation duty, but he’d heard about what happened. Every officer in the West kept the troops riled up by retelling every incident that resulted in trouble on the reservation.

Later, interrogation of the tribe had brought forth a name from one of the Indians in exchange for the food they so desperately needed. The killer was a white boy named John Lee. But John Lee was long gone.

The sketch on the wanted poster was as accurate as the artist could make it, but John Lee had never been found. In fact, Larkin suspected that neither the army nor the law officers had ever really searched.

Over the years the kid had been forgotten.

Until now.

The kid had grown up. The kid still had only one eye, but now he covered it with a patch. The kid, wanted for murder, was the preacher. He should have recognized the man right away, but he hadn’t.

Larkin smiled. The preacher who was in Heaven to find out who was responsible for Sylvia’s trouble was wanted for murder. And Larkin was the marshal in charge of bringing him in. It couldn’t have worked out any better. He could hardly keep from chuckling. The end was in sight. Pratt would take care of the preacher. Then Pratt would be shot when the marshal tried to arrest him.

Larkin pushed the poster to the bottom of the stack.

Life was good.

When Macky rode into town, there was no sign of the marshal or his horse in front of the jail, only Hank Clay building up the fire in his blacksmith’s shop.

“I saw him riding off a while ago,” Hank Clay said when she stopped at the livery stable. “Surprised you didn’t cross paths.”

“Nope, I didn’t see a soul.”

“Speaking of souls,” Hank said, “where’s the preacher this morning? Something I want to talk to him about.”

“Ah, he’s working on the fence to keep the animals in the corral.”

“He let you ride in without him?” Hank eyed her speculatively.

“I can take care of myself.”

“And what brings you to town?”

“I just came in to see Lorraine.”

Hank smiled slightly. “I doubt you can see Miss Lake yet. She keeps late hours, you know.”

“Mrs. Adams.” Clara Gooden was heading straight for Macky. She arrived just in time to hear Hank’s comment. “See Lorraine?” she said, surprise in her voice. “Whatever for?”

The last thing Macky wanted to do was get caught up in conversation with every resident of Heaven. She needed to find the marshal and confess to her part of the crime so that she could clear the charges against Bran before he caught up with her.

“About using her saloon,” Macky said, making up her story as she spoke. “For a—a special prayer meeting on Wednesday night.”

Clara snorted. “With all those no-accounts who come in there to drink and carouse?”

“Well … that’s just the point. We need to reach the
men who don’t come on Sunday morning. We’ll just pray for their souls.”

And mine, too
. Macky was, as her mother would have said, digging her hole deeper and deeper. The only thing that was going to save her was the fact that she was leaving. Everything she owned was packed in the saddlebags on Solomon’s back.

Clara nodded her head in agreement. “According to Marshal Larkin, the sheriff in Promise is on his way here. Seems to think there’s a possibility that the killer of that banker has something to do with holding up Mrs. Mainwearing’s gold shipment. They think he might even be here in Heaven.”

“The sheriff is coming here?” Macky wanted to groan out loud. “Well, good, we need all the help we can get. Speaking of that,” she said, backing away from the door, “I’d better get on down the street.”

It wasn’t enough that Pratt was on her trail, now the sheriff was coming. Pratt might know that Mrs. Adams was the kid named McKenzie, but she couldn’t believe that the sheriff knew. And the last thing she needed was to have him get here before she’d spoken to Marshal Larkin.

Everything was becoming too confused.

Clara Gooden was talking a mile a minute. She was having no part of Macky slipping away. Once they reached the store, she pulled Macky inside to give her some canned peaches that had been left out of her donation to the parsonage.

“Thank you, Clara. I’m sure the reverend will enjoy them. Now, I really have to go.”

“Not yet,” she insisted, then called out to her husband. “Mr. Gooden, come and listen to what Reverend Adams is going to do. He’s holding a revival in the saloon during the week.”

“Well, it isn’t certain yet,” Macky interjected helplessly.

“A revival?” he questioned from the back room, then came into the store. “Don’t know as I’da thought of it, but if
Preacher Adams wants to try it, the congregation will back him up. I’ll get the word out. Being as how this is Monday, we don’t have much time.”

“Well, I didn’t necessarily mean this week,” Macky began. And she certainly didn’t mean a revival. The only revivals she’d attended had been held in a tent. The leader had spent the better part of two days yelling and chanting until people confessed their sins and pledged their souls just to get the thing over with.

“How nice of Miss Lake,” he said, “to give up a working night for our cause.”

“Well, that’s what I was trying to say. I haven’t asked her yet. It’s still in the planning stages.”

“Then you better get on down to the saloon,” Otis advised.

Macky wanted to talk with Lorraine, but she knew that the hour was too early to disturb her friend. To change the subject she fastened on another idea, a purchase she’d intended to make while in town.

“Before I go, Mr. Gooden, I’d like to buy a pistol.” At Clara’s horrified look, she explained, “The parsonage is so far out of town and Bran will be away a lot, I just thought I’d feel safer.”

“Well, certainly,” Otis said, reaching into his case. “But do you know how to shoot?”

“Yes, I do. My—father taught me about weapons when I was just a girl. He operated a trading post, though not as well stocked as your establishment.”

Pleased at the compliment, Otis withdrew several models, describing the merits of each. Macky selected a small derringer that would serve her purposes without alarming the townsfolk. She slid both the pistol and bullets into her coat pocket and left the store promising that she’d be very careful with her new weapon.

Macky strode down the sidewalk to the saloon. Though it was approaching mid-morning, it was still far too early to
expect to see Lorraine. She walked to the marshal’s office. Maybe she’d wait for him to return. If the sheriff came, at least she’d have a chance to be heard privately.

When Todd was alive, she and the sheriff had crossed swords over her brother’s behavior several times. Though she’d changed, Macky was afraid that he’d recognize her. Convincing him that she was innocent of the bank holdup might be hard to do. But by returning the money and leading him to Pratt, she’d hopefully absolve Bran of any wrongdoing.

The door wasn’t locked and she pushed her way inside. Someone had attempted to tidy up the place. A thick layer of dust had been partially wiped away and the bunk inside the cell had a mattress and blanket. Macky walked over to the potbellied stove. Its door was standing open as if the marshal were about to start a fire. The wood was laid and some crumpled paper peeked out between the dry sticks.

A fire would make her wait more pleasant. The temperature was still chilly, and the street acted like a funnel, whipping the wind straight through the cracks in the wall. All she needed were the matches she carried in her pocket.

Quickly she lit the stove, fanning the small red licks of flame into a full fire before adding more limbs.

Soon there was a warm glow inside the office. Macky glanced at the barred cell at the end of the room with its hard bunk and small boarded-up window and shivered. Spending time in a place like this would be awful. She liked her freedom, the open fields and blue sky. She didn’t even want to think what the law did to murderers.

Worried now, she sat down on the barrel behind the desk, pressing her hands to her temples. She’d had little sleep, though the cause had been worth the headache she was brewing. The pain wasn’t as bad as it had been after drinking Harriet Smith’s sherry-laced tea back at the way station, but it was getting there.

Macky opened the desk, pulled out the posters and began to flip through them. There was Pratt, wanted for robbing
a bank in Missouri and another in Texas. He was younger in the sketch, with an untamed bushy beard that looked out of place on a man that young. But the wild-eyed look was there, even then.

As Macky stared at the posters she wondered why the marshal hadn’t recognized Pratt in the crowd that first day the stage arrived. Of course the churchgoers were thronging around their new preacher, and Pratt had shaved his beard, but he’d made no attempt to hide himself. Either he was the most brazen outlaw Macky had ever seen, or he knew he had no reason to fear the marshal.

Still, the bank robbery in Promise was too close for Pratt to take that kind of chance. It was more likely that the marshal never saw Pratt. She’d have to think about that.

And then, at the bottom of the stack, she came to the sheet that stopped her cold. It was a sketch of John Lee, wanted for the murder of an army sergeant in Oklahoma. If she hadn’t known Bran, she might never have recognized him. The sketch was smeared and poorly drawn.

The young Bran was thin, his hair hung dark and stringy, cut Indian style, and his wounded eye looked like a pucker in his face.

Bran was right to fear the marshal. He was still wanted, and if Macky was any judge at reading people, the marshal had seen this poster, too. Did he know it was Bran? Larkin didn’t seem like a slow-thinking man. Sooner or later he’d recognize Bran and arrest him, no matter what Macky did. If he’d known who Bran was all along, what was he waiting for? Whatever it was, she’d better rethink her original plans to confess her crime. For now, she needed to warn Bran.

Macky folded Pratt’s wanted posters and slid them into her pocket. She fed Bran’s poster into the fire, then headed for the stable to claim Solomon. After she told Bran what she’d discovered, they’d both leave together. There had to be someplace where they’d be safe.

But she never got the chance. As she stepped into the
street, Bran rode up, firing his pistol. Reining the horse to a stop, he dismounted, calling out, “Hank, round up the men in town. Rachel Pendley’s little girl is lost in the woods. We need to make up a search party.”

He didn’t speak to Macky, but she felt his displeasure and took a step back. She knew he’d demand an explanation for her presence but there was no time now. Finding the lost child had to come first.

Moments later, Otis Gooden, Preston Cribbs, and Hank Clay were ready to ride.

“Don’t know why they’re so worried about that child,” one of the townswomen said with a sniff. “Like mother, like daughter. If she don’t get lost in the woods, she’ll end up at a place like Lorraine’s sooner or later.”

Macky didn’t allow herself to speak. To say that about a child was unforgivable. The glare of anger she focused on the woman was more than enough to dry up any further comment.

“Shame on you, Eva, that child is one of God’s children,” Clara said. “And I remember a passage where he said that we should look after the least of them.”

Somehow that didn’t sound exactly right to Macky. But Clara’s comment brought a smile from two others who’d been on their way inside the store.

Macky let the men leave before she climbed up on Solomon and rode behind them. She didn’t know how she could help, but Macky knew that she had to try. Even if it meant letting the sheriff and the marshal meet up and compare information before Macky found a way out.

Macky gave Solomon a kick in his side and forced him into a reluctant gallop. She saw dark clouds gathering in the sky. More rain, she thought. And the child was out there, alone, unprotected. Macky shivered. She knew how that felt.

“Solomon,” she said, as she leaned close to his ear, “we need a miracle. And you and me have to make one.” There was a lump in her throat the size of a hailstone.

Resting her head against the mule’s large neck, she whispered, “Lord, if it’s not too much to ask, give Solomon angel wings so that he can lead us to Gingerbelle.”

But there was no trumpet from on high sending an answer.

L
arkin crested the hill and stopped to check out the cabin. A plume of smoke sketched an
S
in the sky. He let out a deep breath and urged the horse forward. Once the message had arrived last night that Sheriff Dover was on his way to Heaven from Promise, Larkin began to worry.

Dover planned to talk to Mrs. Mainwearing about the recent troubles she’d had in shipping her gold back East. Larkin could handle the sheriff, but there were too many people asking questions. Larkin had to work fast to get rid of anybody who could connect him to the trouble. He still intended to have the mine, but he could wait.