Stealing the Preacher Page 13

  “I’d rather worry about the floors than about you. Come on, now. You’re trembling from the cold, Crockett. Come in and get warm.”

  He was pale, too, and sluggish in his movements. After watching him struggle with the fasteners on his slicker for a long, agonizing minute, Joanna stepped close and took over the task herself.

  Even with his weakened condition, standing close to him tickled her insides. Her heart thumped wildly in her chest, but she kept her head down, hiding his effect on her with a mask of efficiency. Once the metal buttons had been worked free, she stepped back to allow him space to pull the slicker off. His trembling became more violent as he hung up the coat and reached for his hat.

  Her father’s shirt had been damp, and his trousers had been soaked from the knees down, but Crockett looked as if he’d just pulled himself out of the river fully clothed. He was sodden, dripping.

  Joanna clasped his arm to steady him when he tried to use the bootjack, then quickly arranged his footwear next to her father’s before half pushing, half pulling him into the kitchen and steering him toward the stove. One of the mugs was missing from the table, so she knew her father had grabbed some coffee before heading to his room to change.

  Crockett just stood where she’d placed him, as if he couldn’t figure out what to do next. Gone was his playful, teasing manner. Gone was the twinkle from those deep brown eyes. Truly, he was starting to scare her. She reached for the coffeepot, thinking that getting something hot and bracing inside him would help. But then she heard his teeth chatter, and she immediately changed tactics. She grabbed one of the blankets she’d set out earlier and threw it around his shoulders, like her mother used to do for her after her baths when she’d been little. Then she began rubbing his arms, trying to warm him with the friction. Frowning at his continued shivering, she stepped closer and wrapped her arms more fully around him, rubbing his shoulders and his back. Only he was so broad she couldn’t reach all the way around.

  His chin bumped the top of her head as she slanted in for a better vantage. She glanced up and froze. His eyes were anything but lifeless now. Intensity glowed from within their depths, the type of intensity that made it impossible to look away. Or breathe.

  The type of intensity that whispered possibilities. If she hadn’t trapped his arms with the blanket, would he circle them around her and draw her into a real embrace? Would his face bend to hers and sear her lips with a kiss?

  Would her father catch them and tear the parson limb from limb?

  This last thought brought sanity. Joanna dropped her gaze and stepped back. Eyeing the table, she grabbed the towel sitting so prim and tidy on the corner and shoved it at him.

  “For your hair,” she mumbled.

  He stretched a hand out from under the blanket and took it from her. Unable to resist the temptation of seeing if that intensity still burned in his eyes, she chanced a quick glance at his face. His features had indeed changed, but the heart-stopping half smile he sported, and the resurgence of the twinkle that had earlier been dormant, left her equally giddy.

  As she aimed her attention at the coffee once again and turned her back to the soggy parson with the dancing eyes, a secret smile curved her lips.

  “Ain’t you poured the man his coffee yet, Jo? He’s gotta be half froze.” Her father’s booming voice nearly startled her out of her skin.

  “I wanted to dry off first,” Crockett quickly interjected, scrubbing the towel against his hair. “At this rate, I’m going to leave a lake-sized puddle in your kitchen.” His teeth still chattered slightly as he spoke, but he was starting to sound more like himself—a fact that soothed Joanna considerably.

  “Well, since Jo went to the trouble of laying out a second set of clothes, and seeing as how I don’t plan to wear both, I suggest you step into the back room and put those on.” Her father jabbed a finger toward the shirt, pants, and socks folded tidily on the tabletop.

  Crockett stilled. “Thank you, sir. I will.”

  But he didn’t seem to know how to collect the clothes while holding both the blanket and towel. He couldn’t exactly tuck them under his arm. They’d be soaked in seconds.

  “Here.” Joanna grabbed the dry clothes and reached for the coffee she’d just poured him. “I’ll show you the way.”

  She led him to a small guest room at the back of the house and set his coffee on the edge of the bureau near the door. “Just wrap your wet things up in the blanket when you’re through and bring them out to the kitchen. I’ll string a clothesline near the stove.”

  Crockett squeezed through the doorway beside her. Slowly. So slowly that when his eyes met hers and held, she felt as if time had halted altogether. Neither of them spoke, but something was definitely being communicated. Joanna just wished she understood what it was. Her untutored, rapidly pounding heart wanted very much to believe it was two souls recognizing they belonged together, yet her head warned it was probably nothing more than friendship and gratitude.

  So when Crockett murmured a quiet “Thank you” and moved into the room, proving her mind wiser than her heart, Joanna hid her disappointment with a gracious smile and a hasty retreat.

  She slid into a chair at the table next to her father, drawing in the comfort of his solid, dependable presence. It was too bad she couldn’t climb up into his lap like she used to as a child. She eyed his shoulder longingly, took in his pensive demeanor as he stared into his half-empty coffee mug, and finally decided to ignore her head and listen to the urging of her heart. Without saying a word, she scooted her chair closer to his and laid her head on his shoulder.

  He didn’t turn his head or say a word. The break in the pattern of his breathing was the only indication he was aware of her actions. But then a measure of tension drained from his muscles, and his head tipped toward hers in an armless embrace.

  “He’s a hard worker, this preacher of yours,” her father said after a long minute. He straightened his head and rearranged his fingers around his cup. “If he’s not careful, I might actually start to like him.”

  “Oh no.” Joanna sat up, her heart lightening. “Don’t do that, Daddy. Just think of your reputation.”

  “Scamp.” Her father chuckled and playfully bumped his shoulder against hers. “It does make me wonder what he’s up to, though.” His voice turned serious, contemplative. “Why would a man work so hard, going beyond what is asked, when this job is clearly nothing more than a stepping-stone for him.”

  “Because everything I do reflects upon my Lord.”

  Joanna and her father swiveled as one toward the sound of Crockett’s voice.

  He dropped his soggy bundle into the washtub where her father’s clothes lay heaped and took a seat at the table across from them. “Scripture instructs God’s people to give our best to whatever task we turn our hands to, to conduct ourselves as if we work for the Lord himself, not for man.” His focus never wavered from her father.

  “I’ve known plenty of god-fearing men who were lazy no-accounts—men who’d rather beat a child than spare him a loaf of bread.” Her father spat the accusation at Crockett, but Joanna was the one who flinched. She’d never heard such anger from him, such pain. When had he witnessed such cruelty? Her stomach clinched suddenly. Had he been the child?

  “And that poisons your view of God, doesn’t it.” Crockett’s words were softly spoken, but the weight behind them was staggering.

  Her father gave no response beyond tightening his jaw.

  “God desires his people to be abounding in love and good works. To be people of integrity and honor. People who reflect his character. But we are human—sinful people capable of evil deeds.”

  A snort of disgust erupted from her father, but he quickly pressed his lips together, as if shutting a gate to keep anything else from escaping.

  “Sometimes those mistakes have far-reaching effects,” Crockett quietly intoned, “ones that can be used by the enemy to drive others away from the God who loves them.”

  Joanna’s
pulse stuttered. Would her father actually open himself to what Crockett was saying? Was he softening?

  But as she watched, a shutter fell over his face, and he pushed away from the table. “I thought we agreed to no sermonizing, Archer.” He turned his back to the table and strode over to the window, staring out at the rain that had finally started to lessen.

  “That we did, Silas. That we did. Forgive me.” Crockett immediately lightened his tone and leaned back in his chair. “I’m not immune to making mistakes myself, I’m afraid. Just ask my brothers. They’d gladly regale you with tale after tale, I’m sure.”

  Crockett shot her a wink from across the table, and Joanna found herself smiling despite the forfeiture of the previous topic of conversation. Give it time, he seemed to be saying with that wink. A new seed has been planted. Don’t churn up the soil before it can take root.

  For several minutes, no one spoke. The rain spattered against the roof. The parlor clock struck the quarter hour. The stovepipe creaked.

  Then her father broke the silence. “You still want to go to town tomorrow if the weather clears, Jo?” He addressed his question to the window glass instead of to her.

  “Yes, I would.” She shared a look with Crockett before turning to regard the back of her father’s head. “Brother Archer gave me the money from the offering to buy the paint for the church, and I’d like to get everything purchased as soon as possible.” Including that dress fabric.

  She’d hoped to get to town before now, but there had been too much work on the ranch for a hand to make a trip solely for workday and picnic supplies.

  “I don’t think I can spare Jasper,” her father said, and Joanna’s hopes withered. “But after his hard work today, I’d thought to give Archer some time off. If you can convince him to make the trip, I’d not be opposed to letting him drive you.”

  Joanna’s gaze flew to Crockett’s, her breath catching in her throat.

  “I’d be honored to escort you, Miss Robbins.” He dipped his head in a gentlemanly gesture, but it was the twinkle in his eye that set her heart aquiver.

  Had her father really planned to reward Crockett with a day off, or was this simply a ploy to keep the parson and his arguments away for a time?

  Did she really care, since it meant she’d be spending an entire day in Crockett’s company? The bubbles of delight effervescing in Joanna’s middle provided her answer.

  19

  Crockett arrived at the Lazy R bright and early the following morning, despite his supposed day off. He’d much rather eat Joanna’s cooking than his own, and truth be told, he was half afraid Holly Brewster might somehow discern that he’d been granted time off and show up on his doorstep with more ideas and plans for him to consider. The woman’s constant need for attention and affirmation drained energy out of him faster than water ran through a sieve.

  Unlike Joanna, whose very presence seemed to pour strength into him.

  Watching her bustle about the kitchen, making sure the men had plenty to eat and coffee mugs that never ran dry, memories of yesterday flooded his mind. The way she’d fussed over him when his fingers were too numb to unfasten his own slicker. The way she’d warmed him with her hands through the blanket. The way her hair smelled and the softness of it as it brushed his chin. He’d wanted to pillow his head against it. More than that, he’d wanted to throw the blanket aside, take her in his arms, and taste her lips. Not the most parson-like instinct.

  He’d never experienced such strong desire before. He enjoyed the company of women, had even flirted a little, but never had he been stirred to any deeper emotion. After fourteen years of being secluded with only brothers for company, he’d found women a delightful experience—their smiles, their softness, their lilting voices. Each encounter had been like a bee flitting to a new blossom—every bloom beautiful and sweet in its own way. But the more time he spent with Joanna, the more addicted he became to her particular nectar. It was as if the rest of the flowers had begun to fade, losing their attraction.

  “Honey, Mr. Archer?”

  Coffee nearly exploded from Crockett’s mouth. Had the woman somehow divined his thoughts?

  Joanna arched her brows, a line of puzzlement crinkling her forehead. “For your biscuit.” She lifted the small crock in front of her, nothing but innocent inquiry in her eyes.

  He managed to choke down his coffee, only too aware of the strange looks he was garnering from the other men around the table. He dipped his chin in a desperate bid to compose himself and found a lone biscuit sitting uneaten on his plate.

  “No . . . uh . . . thank you. Butter will suffice.” He immediately picked up his knife and set about the task of buttering said biscuit, throwing in a mental lecture on the dangers of undisciplined rumination for good measure.

  Thankfully, breakfast soon concluded. Silas and the others scattered to their chores, and Joanna cleared the table. Crockett offered to help her with the dishes, but she shooed him to the parlor, claiming it was his day off and insisting she wasn’t going to let him lift a finger until it came time to drive the wagon to Deanville.

  Determined not to give his mind a chance to wander into perilous territory again, Crockett picked up one of the three books stacked on a small table between a pair of armchairs. Taking a seat, he opened the book to a random page, only to come face-to-face with the skeletal anatomy of a horse. He twisted the volume to examine its spine. The Diseases of Livestock and Their Most Efficient Remedies by a Dr. Lloyd V. Tellor. Well, it could have been worse, he supposed. It could have been a treatise on beekeeping.

  Chuckling to himself, Crockett turned to a section that explained how to properly diagnose the source of a horse’s lameness.

  He’d always enjoyed studying medicine. As youngsters, his brothers came to him with aches and pains as well as their more serious injuries—probably due to the fact that his bedside manner was sunnier than that of Travis, who preferred barking orders. Whatever the reasons, Crockett had embraced his role as family healer and studied every medical text and home-remedy manual he could get his hands on. Admittedly, there hadn’t been many, but he made good use of the ones he’d found. Much like he was doing today, although veterinary science didn’t hold the same allure for him as the treatment of human ailments. Yet a rancher couldn’t expect to be successful without at least a rudimentary knowledge of how to doctor his stock. So with a determined tilt to his head, Crockett turned back to Dr. Tellor’s symptomatology.

  Unfortunately, he was only a few pages in when a light melody drifted into the parlor, effectively stealing his attention from the discussion of splinting shins and diseased knee joints.

  Joanna was singing.

  He thought of the first time he’d heard her sing, the morning he’d surprised her with a birthday sermon. At the time, he’d contemplated hiding his presence in order to listen longer to the sweetness of her voice, to the emotion she projected behind the words. In the end, however, he’d been unable to resist joining her. Even now, the lure was strong. Setting aside his book, Crockett leaned back in his chair and softly hummed a companion harmony.

  His gaze idled about the room, taking in the little feminine touches that warmed the place. The lacy handkerchief beneath the lamp. The bow in the curtain sash. The embroidered sampler perched on the table near his elbow. Were they evidence of the late Mrs. Robbins, or had Joanna contributed to the styling?

  He examined the framed sampler more closely. Noah’s ark floated atop a wavy blue line of floodwater, beneath which had been stitched the following verse: “Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.” An olive branch and a dove served as a divider between the verse and the next line of text. “1874—Joanna Robbins—age 10.”

  Crockett grinned, imagining a little red-headed girl bent over her needlework, her tongue caught between her teeth as she concentrated on getting the stitches just right. What pride she must have felt at having her efforts deemed worthy of such a prominent display. Not as prominent
as the large oil painting above the mantel, however.

  Crockett pushed to his feet and walked to the hearth to get a closer look at the magnificent rendering of a picturesque river vaguely reminiscent of the one that ran behind the chapel. The work was extraordinary, really, the way light glowed throughout. It was as if the sun had purposely broken through the clouds to beam upon the land in honor of the artist’s visit.

  “One of my mother’s finest,” Joanna said beside him, and Crockett turned to face her.

  “Your mother painted this? It’s masterful.” His eyes veered back to the landscape searching out the signature in the bottom corner. M. E. Robbins. “I did wonder how Silas came by such a piece.”

  Hearing how that sounded, Crockett pivoted, an apology on his lips. “I didn’t mean to imply—”

  “What? That my father had stolen it?” Joanna’s mouth quirked, and her eyes danced with delightful mischief. “Yes, because stage passengers are so apt to cart around bulky framed art when they travel.”

  Crockett smiled, gracefully accepting her teasing censure.

  “No,” she said, a wistful expression softening her features. “He didn’t steal the painting, just the artist. Or at least her heart.” Joanna stroked the edge of the frame with a reverence that came from deep affection. “Of course, she stole his right back.”

  Silas seemed like such a hard man; Crockett had difficulty picturing him as a lovesick swain.

  As if she had guessed his thoughts, Joanna stepped closer and whispered like a conspirator in his ear. “You should see his bedroom.”

  Crockett arched a brow, which only served to deepen Joanna’s smile.

  “You won’t find one inch of open space on those walls. Other than a few hanging about the house, every canvas Martha Eleanor Robbins ever painted is in his room.” A little sigh escaped her. “They used to only hang four at a time. Mama would rotate new ones in every few months and keep the rest in storage. But after she died, Daddy hung every last one of them up. I think it helps him feel closer to her, to be surrounded so completely by her work.”