Stealing the Preacher Page 8

  “Bye, Miss Bessie,” Crockett whispered, a smile tugging his lips upward.

  He certainly wouldn’t have chosen to be pulled from a train by a gang of retired outlaws, but at least he’d touched a life or two during his little side trip. It just went to show how the Lord could bring good out of any situation. And a reminder that his God was more than capable of working things out with the Brenham elders, as well.

  Crockett sent a prayer heavenward as he stepped into the hotel dining room and spotted Brother Hoffmann at a table near the window.

  See me through, Lord. See me through.

  The Brenham elder caught his eye and stood to greet him as Crockett approached. “Brother Archer. Good to see you again.”

  Crockett nodded and accepted the man’s hand. “Mr. Hoffmann. It was good of you to travel all this way to speak with me, though I would have been happy to meet you in Brenham.”

  “I know you would’ve, but I was headed this way on business, anyway, so it was no trouble.” The older man waved him toward a chair, and the two seated themselves at the table.

  After a waiter took Crockett’s order, Lukas Hoffmann kept up a steady stream of friendly banter. He asked about the abduction and oohed and aahed in all the right places as Crockett recounted the adventure—minus a few key details. Crockett asked after the man’s family and listened to several delightful anecdotes about Hoffmann’s grandson and the scrapes the young lad seemed determined to get into.

  Crockett liked Lukas Hoffmann—had since they first met a month ago. He was a jolly sort, always ready with a smile, a laugh, and a thump on the back when a man was feeling low. But as the waiter cleared away their empty plates and poured fresh coffee in their cups, Crockett knew the time for pleasantries had passed.

  Hoffmann stirred a heaping spoonful of sugar into his coffee and stared at the swirling liquid, his face losing its cheerful mien. Crockett waited, his unease growing the longer the silence stretched between them. Finally, Hoffmann let out a heavy sigh and looked up from his coffee.

  “We’ve decided to hire Stephen Middleton.”

  The suddenness of the statement hit Crockett like a fist to the gut.

  “I see.” The two words were all he could manage past the tightness in his throat.

  This wasn’t right. He deserved a chance to prove himself. Hiring his competitor simply because the man managed to survive his train travel without incident was grossly unfair! He’d fostered such hopes on this appointment, such dreams. God had been leading him to Brenham; he was sure of it. So how could they just cut him loose without a proper trial?

  “You’ve got to understand, son. None of us took this decision lightly.”

  Yet you made it in a matter of hours without the benefit of hearing me preach.

  “For weeks we have been asking for the Lord to make our path clear. To make our choice evident. When you failed to arrive yesterday, many of us saw it as a sign. A clearing of the path, you might say, leaving us one candidate for the position.

  “When we learned of the abduction, however, we questioned our conclusion, considered that perhaps a force other than God was at work.” Hoffmann paused to sip his coffee, but the fervor in his eyes didn’t dim. “Then you wired that you were safe, and it brought to mind all the times the Lord worked his will even through the evil deeds of others. Joseph’s brothers selling him into slavery. Pharaoh’s oppression of the Israelites. The trickery that sent Daniel to the den of lions. Who were we to say that the Lord wasn’t at work in a similar way with you?”

  Hoffmann took another sip, his gaze challenging Crockett to ask himself the same question. “When Brother Middleton’s sermon was well received by the congregation this morning, our conviction solidified. The Lord had made our choice.”

  If the Lord had made their choice, where did that leave him?

  Unable to hold Hoffmann’s scrutiny any longer, Crockett’s attention fell to the coffee before him. He lifted the white china cup to his mouth and drank in the bitter beverage, its heat lightly scalding the back of his throat as it went down. Much like the painful truth he was mentally trying to swallow.

  God had chosen another man to pastor the church in Brenham.

  “I’m sorry it didn’t work out the way you’d hoped, son.” The genuine compassion in Lukas Hoffmann’s tone soothed away a bit of the sting, though Crockett’s heart still railed against the injustice of being removed from the running by an event so totally beyond his control.

  “Me too.” Crockett set his cup down, suddenly eager for some time alone.

  “God has plans for you, Crockett Archer. Don’t let this little setback sour your outlook.” Hoffmann pulled a couple bills from his wallet and tucked them under the edge of his saucer, enough to cover the cost of both their meals. Then he pushed his chair back, tossed his napkin on the table, and rose to his feet. “His timing might not be our timing, but it is always perfect.”

  With that, he left.

  Crockett lingered long enough to finish his coffee, then wandered to the hotel desk and rented a room for the night. There wouldn’t be another train to Palestine until tomorrow.

  The decision on his destination had been made.

  Yet as he stood in his room discarding his suit coat and removing his boots, a vague disquiet nagged at him like the itch of a mosquito bite. And the more he tried to define it, the itchier it became.

  Had his confidence been misplaced? He’d been so certain God was leading him to Brenham. How could he have mistaken the Lord’s purpose so completely? Or had this detour been God’s plan all along? And if so, what did that mean for his future?

  “What am I supposed to do, Lord?” Crockett whispered the question against the glass of the window that overlooked the dim side street below. He unfastened the buttons of his vest, undid the tie at his throat, and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. None of the adjustments to his clothing made him comfortable, though. He reached for his watch, intending to set it on the small desk behind him, but when his fingers closed around the brass casing, Hoffmann’s words echoed again in his mind.

  “God’s timing is not our timing.”

  Pieces of a verse flashed through his consciousness, a verse he’d read recently, during his study of Peter’s epistles.

  Crockett strode to the bed and unlatched his satchel. Taking up his Bible, he sank onto the mattress and flipped to the end of the second epistle. Pages crinkled as he searched for the passage. Then it was there.

  “But, beloved, be not ignorant of this one thing, that one day is with the Lord as a thousand years, and a thousand years as one day. The Lord is not slack concerning his promise, as some men count slackness; but is longsuffering toward us, not willing that any should perish, but that all should come to repentance.”

  “‘Not willing that any should perish . . .’” The whispered words fell from his tongue almost of their own accord. Crockett barely noticed, for at that moment other words bombarded his senses.

  “I prayed for a preacher to come. To save my father’s soul.”

  “I need help, Mr. Archer. I need a preacher to bring this old church back to life.”

  “I will help you find a new preacher. I promise.”

  Crockett rose from his seat on the bed, his finger sandwiched between the closed pages of the Bible he still grasped, and returned to his position at the window. Staring over the top of the building across the street, he found the steeple of a church a couple blocks away. A tiny smile touched his lips as the persistent nagging that had plagued him the last half hour suddenly dissipated.

  “I’m not going home to Palestine, am I, Lord?”

  12

  Joanna whacked at the weeds daring to encroach her butternut squash plants as the late morning sun warmed her back through the fabric of her brown calico work dress. Once she finished her garden chores and ate a bite for lunch, she’d be able to escape to the barn loft for a few hours to paint. And, oh, how she needed that time away. After all the excitement of the last couple days,
she craved the quiet serenity of her studio. Not even her father would bother her there. That sanctuary was hers alone.

  The gentle thud of hoofbeats echoed in the distance. An ordinary sound on a ranch, but as Joanna tilted her head to listen better, she realized they were coming not from the pasture or barn but from the road. She straightened, resting her weight against the handle of the hoe. The floppy hat she wore blocked much of the sun, but it still took her a minute to recognize the approaching horse.

  “Sunflower?”

  Jasper had promised to retrieve her mare when he went to town tomorrow for supplies. Who would be riding . . .

  Brother Archer?

  Joanna recognized the black hat the preacher had worn the past two days, yet his clothes had changed. Gone was the black Sunday-go-to-meeting suit. Instead, the man riding her horse wore a pair of new denims and a tan work shirt. If it wasn’t for the way he sat in the saddle, and the fact that she’d memorized that particular combination of man and horse yesterday as she watched him ride off, she probably would have mistaken him for a wandering cowhand looking for work.

  As he dismounted near the barn, he must have caught sight of her, for he lifted a hand in greeting and strode toward the garden.

  Her heart skipped a delighted beat, barely able to believe what she was seeing. Then her delight turned to horror as she realized the state of her attire.

  Joanna bit her lip and spun around. Good heavens! She was covered in dirt. Probably had smudges on her face. And her nails? Joanna moaned as she examined the dark stains around her cuticles. Could his timing be any worse? Not only had he caught her in her ugliest dress with one of her father’s old hats plopped on her head, but she probably smelled of the cabbage she had harvested before she checked on her squash. Wonderful. Just what a man wanted to smell when visiting a lady.

  “Miss Robbins?”

  Joanna pivoted and bit back a groan of despair. Crockett Archer was even more handsome than she’d remembered. Somehow his rancher’s clothing made him seem more approachable, more . . . within her reach. And if that wasn’t the most ridiculous notion, she didn’t know what was. A man with his looks and kind heart could have any woman he chose. He’d never settle for a shy, freckly redhead with an ex-outlaw for a father. She was everything the ideal preacher’s wife was not.

  “Brother Archer. What a surprise.” Joanna forced her lips to curve in welcome, praying there wasn’t a big blotch of dirt on the end of her nose where she’d rubbed an itch a moment ago. “I didn’t expect to see you again.”

  “I hadn’t anticipated a reunion this soon, either, but it seems the Lord had other ideas.”

  His smile was so warm, it took a moment for his words to penetrate. “The Lord?” Joanna scrunched her eyebrows as she tried to puzzle out his meaning. “What ideas?”

  The parson removed his hat and held it before him, worrying the brim as if he were actually nervous. “If you’re still looking to fill the local pulpit, ma’am, I’d like to apply for the job.”

  “You’d like to . . . apply . . . ?” Joanna couldn’t even form all the words. In fact, she barely managed to hold herself upright. No, truth be told, even that meager feat was beyond her, for she was listing dangerously to the right.

  In an instant, Crockett Archer was by her side, steadying her elbow with a solid grip. He angled himself slightly behind her, as if he were a stake propping up a drooping bean plant. “Miss Robbins? Are you all right?”

  When she continued teetering, he slapped his hat back on his head and wrapped his right arm around the back of her waist. Her knees quivered from the close contact and from the way his decadent brown eyes searched her face in concern.

  His arms felt heavenly about her, and his attentive regard left her breathless, but she needed to clarify his words. Bracing her legs more firmly beneath her, she steadied herself and stepped away from his support. “Are you saying you’d like to . . . to preach here on a regular basis?”

  His furrowed brow eased a bit as he nodded. “Yes’m. Every Sunday, if I can find work to support me until the church can pay my salary.”

  “But what about Brenham?”

  From the moment he disarmed Jackson Spivey with nothing but a calm demeanor and a display of respect, Joanna had known in the depths of her soul that Crockett Archer was the minister she needed to reach her father. But she’d watched him leave—twice. Had God truly brought him back to stay?

  “They apparently filled their vacancy yesterday.”

  “I’m sorry.” And she was. For him. He’d been so excited, so full of plans when they spoke on Saturday. He must have been devastated.

  And it was her fault.

  If her father hadn’t abducted him, he would have auditioned on schedule, and she knew firsthand how marvelously he could deliver a sermon. A day later, her heart still swelled when she recalled his passionate oration. The man had a gift. A gift she’d stolen from the people of Brenham.

  Joanna pushed her father’s floppy hat off her head, letting it dangle down her back from the string around her neck. She needed to see Brother Archer’s face, his eyes. “How could you want to preach here when it is because of me that you lost your position?”

  “Ah, Joanna.” Her given name fell from his lips as his gaze melted into hers. “It was never my position to lose. If it had truly been God’s will that I preach in Brenham, no abduction could have prevented my appointment. You are not to blame. And I know your rascal of a father’s not, either—despite my carrying on the other day. God is the one in charge, and it is he who led me back here. Will you have me?”

  Although she knew he only meant in an official preaching capacity, her heart fluttered with a little thrill at his words as she let herself imagine for the briefest of moments what it would be like to have Crockett Archer ask her the same question with a much more personal implication.

  Foolish girl. She stood on the verge of having her dearest wish granted. Why did she have to go and start hungering for more?

  Joanna resolutely turned her mind back to the gift Brother Archer was offering her, and a genuine smile burst across her face. “Of course I’ll have you!”

  As soon as the words left her mouth, heat sprinted to her cheeks. Heavens, that wasn’t how she’d intended to answer. She cleared her throat, and dropped her gaze. “Having you here would do our community a world of good, Brother Archer. We’d be honored to have you serve as our minister.”

  There. That sounded better. More formal. Perhaps that would cover her earlier blunder. However, when she looked up, the parson’s eyes twinkled with far too much merriment for her peace of mind.

  “Wonderful!” he declared, and his enthusiasm eased some of her embarrassment. “Now, all I have to do is find sufficient employment to keep me in food and supplies until we can get this church of ours established.”

  This church of ours. It was amazing what that simple phrase did to her insides. Ours. This was their project. Both of them. Together. She wasn’t alone in her mission anymore. And she’d make sure he wasn’t alone in his.

  “I can ask around. Introduce you to a few . . . ” An idea struck her so hard while she was speaking, she almost felt the blow. “Wait! I know the perfect person to ask.” Excitement buzzed over her nerve endings faster than a message on a telegraph wire. She’d taken three steps toward the barn before she remembered she was leaving a thoroughly bewildered preacher standing in the middle of her squash rows. She couldn’t stop, though. Not now. Not when her mission was so clear.

  “Go take stock of the parsonage,” she called over her shoulder as she picked up speed. “See what you’ll need to make it habitable. I’ll meet you there in an hour.”

  Crockett watched Joanna dart through her garden like a rabbit fleeing a shotgun blast. Only it wasn’t fear that drove her. It was purpose. She was definitely up to something.

  Once she disappeared into the barn, Crockett broke out of his bemused stupor. He grinned over his own foolishness. What was it about Joanna Robbins that
took his attention hostage whenever she was near? The expressive features that displayed her every thought? The delightful way she blushed when he teased her? Or perhaps it was the way she threw herself wholeheartedly into those things that were important to her. Whatever it was, it was certainly compelling.

  Rubbing the back of his neck, Crockett glanced around. Apparently he wasn’t the only thing Joanna had abandoned in the garden. Her hoe lay fallen atop the winter squash plants she’d been tending so carefully moments ago. And near the garden gate, a small burlap sack with a head or two of cabbage peeking out from between the folds sat forgotten.

  Since Joanna was off to do him a kindness, it was only fair that he return the favor. Crockett retrieved the hoe and collected the cabbage on his way through the gate. He was halfway to the house, thinking to set the cabbage inside the kitchen door, when a brown blur thundered past him.

  Joanna Robbins tore out of the barn astride a magnificent chestnut quarter horse. She leaned forward in the saddle, hat flopping against her back, hair streaming out behind her in a wild, curly mass as she urged her mount to a full-out gallop. Unable to do anything but stare, Crockett stood dumbstruck as she raced past.

  She was the most amazing horsewoman he’d ever seen.

  Joanna Robbins. The shy creature who claimed painting and reading were her favorite pastimes had just bolted across the yard like a seasoned jockey atop a Thoroughbred. She might have inherited her mother’s grace and manner, but the woman rode like her outlaw father. Maybe better.

  13

  Sweat dripped down Silas’s neck as he set his hatchet aside and signaled to Jasper. “Ease ’er back slow.”