Stealing the Preacher Page 15

  Crockett gave up all pretense of eating and sat back to watch the two women, who seemed to have forgotten his presence.

  “So how’d you convince your brother to let you keep the house?” Joanna asked.

  “I think he knew what a disaster it would be to have me and Francine under the same roof, so he offered to let me keep the house if I would agree to take in boarders so that he could lower my monthly stipend. It was his way of tryin’ to make both of us happy, I guess.”

  “Do you attract enough business to make up the difference?”

  “Some months are better than others, but I got extra put aside, so—”

  A loud knock cut off the rest of her explanation.

  “Miss Bessie?” A gruff masculine voice echoed through the hall as the front door eased open. “I hear ya got comp’ny.”

  A start of recognition hit Crockett, followed by a jolt of apprehension.

  “Yep,” Bessie hollered, making no move to greet the visitor in person. “We’re in the kitchen, Marshal. You’re just in time for a piece of pie.”

  Crockett looked to Joanna, his pulse growing a bit erratic. Had Marshal Coleson come to question him again? Or had he somehow figured out Joanna’s connection to a particular ex-outlaw? Was she in danger?

  His eyes raked her face. She surely wasn’t acting like she considered herself to be in danger. After Bessie got up to retrieve another plate and cut the pie, Joanna simply wrapped her hands around the delicate china cup in front of her and lifted it to her lips for a sip, the picture of serenity. What she didn’t do, however, was meet his gaze, so he had no way of judging whether her composure was legitimate or strictly an act.

  He had the oddest urge to grab her and dash out the back door.

  Then common sense prevailed. He was pretty sure Silas couldn’t be arrested for crimes committed sixteen years ago, especially without witnesses or evidence. But when Brett Coleson strode into the kitchen, pulled his hat from his head, and sat in the vacant chair next to him, it dawned on Crockett that there was a crime for which Silas Robbins could be prosecuted—kidnapping.

  Joanna eyed the marshal over the rim of her cup. She had too much of her father in her to be comfortable around lawmen, but too much of her mother in her to let it show. Slowly, she lowered her cup to the table and smiled a welcome to the newcomer.

  He nodded politely and took his seat. “Brett Coleson, ma’am,” he said by way of introduction.

  She dipped her chin in return. “Joanna Robbins.” Thankfully, the marshal seemed more interested in Crockett than her. After he mumbled something perfunctory, he turned his full attention to the man beside him.

  “I didn’t expect to see you ’round these parts again, Parson. You decide to take my advice and press charges against those yahoos that abducted you from the train?”

  Her pulse bucked like an unbroken horse. Joanna darted a glance at Crockett, knowing even as she did so that the gesture would be telling if the marshal happened to notice. Crockett apparently had better self-control, for he kept his attention on the lawman. She told herself she was glad even while she ached for his reassurance.

  “No, sir,” Crockett replied, and the denial soothed Joanna’s ragged nerves. “That misunderstanding was worked out weeks ago. I’m here because I took a job in the area. Came into town for supplies. That’s all.”

  “Mmm.” The sound carried a decidedly unconvinced tone.

  Thankfully, Bessie arrived with dessert before the marshal could say much else. “Stop interrogatin’ my guests, Brett, and eat your pie.”

  She plopped an extra-large piece in front of the marshal and slid a slightly smaller one toward Crockett.

  “Yes, ma’am, Miss Bessie,” the marshal replied, all smiles as he picked up the fork she’d laid out on the plate. “A man’d be foolish to waste his mouth on talkin’ when he could be chewin’ on your de-lectable blackberry pie.”

  The woman grunted, unimpressed by the compliment. She retreated to the counter to collect the remaining plates, served Joanna, and returned to her place at the table.

  A blessed few minutes of silence fell upon the room as everyone ate their dessert. Joanna loved blackberry pie, but she didn’t taste a single bite. How could she when the marshal kept looking at her? She felt as if the truths of her heritage and her father’s past sins were rising to the surface under the lawman’s perceptive study. If she didn’t leave soon, she feared they’d emerge through her skin like a tattoo inked upon her forehead.

  “I don’t think I can eat another bite,” Joanna declared, pushing her half-finished pie away from her. “Bessie, thank you for a wonderful meal. I truly enjoyed getting to know you, but I’m afraid I have several tasks needing my attention back at the ranch. We really must be on our way.” She stood.

  Crockett took his cue. He pushed to his feet and collected his hat. “Miss Bessie, it was a pleasure to see you again. I’ll be sure to stop by and say hello the next time I’m in town.”

  “You do that.” She grabbed the roll basket from the table, tied off the towel around the bread inside, and handed the soft bundle to him. “Take these with you. You might get hungry later.”

  “Thanks.” He accepted the gift, then ushered Joanna toward the front door.

  “Hey, Parson?” The deep drawl brought them to a halt.

  Crockett pulled slightly away from her in order to pivot and regard the marshal.

  “I got a sermon idea for you,” the lawman said, his dark eyes narrowed slightly. “Proverbs 21:3. ‘To do justice and judgment is more acceptable to the Lord than sacrifice.’ Might want to spend some time ponderin’ that one.”

  “I’ve been leaning more toward Proverbs 16:6,” Crockett answered without so much as a blink. “‘By mercy and truth iniquity is purged: and by the fear of the Lord men depart from evil.’” Before the lawman could respond, Crockett took Joanna’s arm and led her out of the house.

  As he steered her to where their wagon waited, Joanna hid her concern over the odd conversation. She doubted either man had actually been talking about sermons. They’d definitely been tugging on opposite ends of a doctrinal rope, though, and she could only deduce that her father was somehow at the center of it.

  21

  Sitting in the kitchen where the light was best, Joanna bent over the pile of shiny pink fabric in her lap and pushed her needle in and out of the seemingly never-ending yardage that made up the hem of her new polonaise. She’d taken her mother’s yellow brocade apart and used it as a pattern for cutting the pink muslin after she and Crockett returned from Deanville on Wednesday. Then yesterday, she’d kept the treadle machine whirring for hours, only stopping when she had to cook meals for the men. Fortunately, none of them complained about the simple fare of vegetable soup at midday or the only slightly more substantial beef hash at supper.

  Now, if she could just finish the handwork in the hems and trim today, she might actually have her dress ready for the picnic tomorrow. Little frissons of excitement skittered along her nerve endings, energizing tired fingers and blurry eyes. The men wouldn’t be back for another couple hours. Surely that would be enough time to complete the hem on her overskirt and add the lace she’d taken from her mother’s gown to the sleeves and neckline. Joanna straightened her posture for a moment in order to stretch the kinks from her back, then exhaled a determined breath and set back to work.

  When her thread grew too short to easily work with, she knotted it and snipped off the end. As she unwound another length for her needle, the sound of a wagon approaching the house brought her head up.

  Had one of the men returned early? What if it was Crockett? She didn’t want him to see her working on the dress. It would spoil the surprise. Joanna grabbed up the folds of pink fabric, lace pieces, and thread spools and scurried to her room. She tossed her armload onto the bed, closed the door, and hustled back to the kitchen. Stabbing her needle into the pincushion, she looked for a place to hide her sewing basket. Not finding anything overly promising, she shove
d her scissors, pins, and needle case inside the basket and covered the top with a bread cloth. She hurriedly brushed the tabletop with her hand to clear it of cut threads and fabric scraps, gave it a couple blows to send the residual fuzz flying, and spun toward the door. As she stepped onto the back porch, she gave a quick pat to her hair to make sure her mad rush hadn’t loosened her pins. She might not want Crockett seeing her dress just yet, but neither did she want him seeing her looking like a frazzled ragamuffin.

  That thought set her to dusting off her apron, so it took a moment to realize the wagon had pulled to a stop. She didn’t recognize the team, or the man climbing down from the bench seat—although there was something about his long-legged stride that seemed oddly familiar. When he drew a little closer and smiled a greeting, recognition toyed with her, itching the back of her brain like a mosquito bite she couldn’t quite reach.

  “Afternoon, ma’am.” He touched his hat brim. “This the Lazy R?”

  “It is.” Joanna sensed no threat from the man, who couldn’t have been much older than she, judging by his unlined face and slender build. But her father didn’t like her welcoming strangers when he and the hands were away, so she kept her place on the porch and addressed him with caution. “Do you have business here?”

  She didn’t see how he could. Daddy never invited anyone to the ranch without telling her, and Jasper always took care of town business himself, never arranging for deliveries. Joanna eyed the two trunks in the wagon bed with suspicion.

  “Yes, ma’am. I do.”

  Her eyebrows lifted.

  The young cowboy shifted his weight and snatched the hat from his head, as if his hands needed something to fiddle with. “My brother wrote that he hired on here. Crockett Archer? I brought his things.”

  She could have smacked herself in the forehead for not recognizing the resemblance earlier. Of course he was an Archer. The strong chin. The rich sepia hair. The smile that made his eyes light. He was much too young to be Travis, though, the brother Crockett spoke of most often. She searched her memory for the correct name and mentally pounced as she recalled a discussion about a youthful song leader whose voice was the last to change in the Archer household.

  “You must be Neill.” She poured all the warmth and welcome she’d been holding back into her burgeoning smile as she stepped off the porch. “I’m Joanna Robbins. Crockett works for my father.”

  Relief flashed across the young man’s features. He swiped his palm down his trouser leg, then held his hand out to her, his grin as wide as the sky. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Robbins. Crock mentioned you were the one who arranged his new preaching position. That sure was kind of you.”

  Joanna clasped his hand briefly and then stepped back. “He’s doing me the favor, I assure you. Our little church has been in need of a preacher for far too long, and your brother fills the pulpit better than I dared hope. He’s done more to bring this community together in three short weeks than most could accomplish in a year. Why, he’s even organized a church picnic to reach out to those who don’t regularly attend services. You should stay. See your brother in action.”

  Neill peered at her oddly, tilting his head just a bit, as if to look behind her words for some deeper meaning. Only then did she realize how she’d been gushing about Crockett’s accomplishments.

  “But then you’ve seen him in action all your life, haven’t you.” She gave a little laugh to cover her embarrassment. “Why don’t you come inside? I’ll fix you a glass of spring water and treat you to some leftover fried pies.”

  “I don’t want to put you to any trouble, miss.” Yet his eyes had gone quite wide when she’d mentioned pies.

  “They’re apple . . .” she teased.

  “Well, if you’re sure it wouldn’t be no hardship.” A huge grin stretched across his face, and for a moment his eyes danced just like Crockett’s.

  Joanna found herself caught up in his enthusiasm as she led him into the kitchen. The sewing basket on the table brought her up short, though. Ruthlessly, she swept away the reminder of her unfinished dreams, whisking the basket from the table and dropping it on the floor against the wall.

  There’d still be time to work by lantern light after supper. And if not, well, there’d be other picnics, or so she told herself as she set about fetching the water pitcher.

  She had just reached into the pie safe to retrieve the leftover pastries when someone knocked on the back door. Before she could take a step in that direction, though, the door cracked open and a golden-brown head popped into view.

  Joanna grinned. “Come on in, Jackson. There’s plenty for you, too.” How the boy knew she’d been about to serve pies, she couldn’t fathom, but then Jackson had always had a sixth sense about food. He had a talent for showing up whenever it was being handed out.

  “Saw this stranger roll up your drive and thought I better check it out.” Jackson straightened to his full height and eyed Neill. “He ain’t botherin’ ya, is he, Jo?”

  She shook her head and moved the platter of pies to the table. “No. He’s a guest, Jackson. Neill Archer. Crockett’s brother.”

  The boy snagged one of the small pies as his attention veered sharply back to Neill. “No foolin’? The one who plays the fiddle? Crock told me all about how you used to scare away the barn cats with your screechin’ before you got the hang of it.”

  “Jackson!” If she’d had a spoon in her hand, she would have smacked his knuckles. As it was, she gave serious consideration to yanking the half-eaten pie from his mouth and banishing him from her kitchen. But that would only compound the already poor impression they were making.

  Neill, however, didn’t seem to take offense at Jackson’s insulting comment. He chuckled good-naturedly as he rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, Travis wouldn’t let me play in the house, so the barn critters made up my audience. Fortunately, our mule and milk cow couldn’t escape as readily as the cats.”

  Jackson laughed and reached for a second pastry, leaving three on the plate for Neill. “Crock says you’re pretty good now, though. Played at a barn raising last year, right?”

  “Yep. The cats even stuck around.” Neill turned to smile up at Joanna when she reached past him to set his water glass on the table. “Thanks.”

  She dipped her chin in acknowledgment and moved back to the stove.

  “Hey,” Jackson said, speaking around cheeks bulging with apple filling. Joanna groaned inwardly and tried to pretend she hadn’t noticed. “If I can scrounge up a fiddle, would you play at our shindig tomorrow?”

  “You wouldn’t have to scrounge one up.” Neill winked at him. “I brought my own. Never have liked the quiet around a campfire at night. But we best not get ahead of ourselves. I’m supposed to meet up with a friend of mine later, and I haven’t even talked to Crockett yet.”

  Jackson’s eyes lit with purpose, and she knew the boy would do everything in his power to see that Neill stayed for the picnic. “I’ll go fetch Crockett.” He pushed back from the table so fast the chair nearly toppled. “Where’s he workin’, Jo?”

  She bit back a grin. “In the north pasture. Why don’t you take Sunflower?” she said, knowing how rarely he got to ride. “You can meet up with the men in the large clearing. They’re cutting out the calves for weaning and driving them into the lower pasture.”

  “You mean it, Jo? You’ll let me ride Sunflower?”

  “Sure.”

  Jackson was sprinting for the door the moment the word left her lips.

  “Just make sure you saddle her properly,” she called after him. “I don’t want to have to cart a pile of busted bones back to your pa’s house. Understand?”

  “Yeah, yeah.” He waved her off and disappeared through the door. His excited footsteps clomped across the porch floorboards in a rapid staccato, then quieted into softer thuds as they hit the packed dirt of the yard.

  Joanna shook her head and smiled. It took so little to make the boy happy. She poured a second glass of water from the pi
tcher and joined Neill at the table.

  “I could have sworn the two of you were brother and sister,” he said, his eyes alight with humor. “My brothers used to scold me the same way. Still do from time to time.”

  “You aren’t the first Archer to accuse me of taking on the bossy big-sister role with Jackson.” Joanna chuckled. “I guess that’s what happens when a gal doesn’t have real siblings to practice on. She badgers poor, unsuspecting neighbor boys.”

  Neill grinned. “He doesn’t seem to mind.”

  Joanna ducked her chin, his tone bringing a touch of heat to her cheeks. Eager to turn the conversation in a different direction, she questioned him about growing up as the youngest of the Archer pack. He regaled her with stories that made her laugh and some that made her ache for the four boys who’d been forced to raise themselves in the harsh Texas landscape.

  “And then there was the time I thought it’d be a hoot to trick my brothers into eating fish bait. I threw a handful of worms into Jim’s squirrel stew when he wasn’t looking. But somehow Crock must’ve figured out what I done because when it was suppertime, he insisted I eat my bowl first. They all just sat there watching me until I finished every last bite. Then they gave their portions to the dog and took out some cold ham and stale biscuits instead. Watching them eat, I was sure I could feel those worms wigglin’ around in my stomach. It was enough to send me runnin’ for the outhouse. I tell you, I never pulled a prank involving food again.”

  Joanna grinned at the tale, easily imagining him as a boy running wild and getting into one scrape after another. Before she could ask if he ever discovered how Crockett had outsmarted him, the sound of pounding hooves announced his brother’s arrival.

  Neill’s eyes brightened with an excitement that could only be inspired by deep affection. He launched to his feet and was halfway to the door when he recalled his manners. “Excuse me, miss.”

  But she was every bit as excited as he, and dashed past him when he paused, beating him to the door. “Come along, Neill,” she said with a smile. “Your brother’s here.”