The Redhead and the Preacher: A Loveswept Historical Romance (6 page)

“For water. There was a canteen and other supplies in my pack. We spilled them somewhere along the trail I’m going back for them.”

She scrambled to her feet, reaching out to take his arm before she thought. “But it’s dark. How will you find them?”

“I’m Eyes That See in Darkness, remember?”

The scream of a coyote cut through the night like a sharp knife. Macky didn’t realize that she’d moved closer to the stranger until she felt his hand press against the small of her back.

“He isn’t close. Sound carries a long way across the plains.”

“I know. It’s just that I …” To her horror, water began
to gather in her eyes. She hadn’t even cried when she’d buried Papa. Now, she began to sniffle. Tears rolled down her cheeks and she leaned her face against the man’s chest to hide her weakness.

“You’re tired and afraid,” he said, continuing to hold her. She hadn’t seemed the sort to cringe at the sound of a wild animal, but he liked the idea that she was vulnerable. “That’s understandable. Anyone would be emotional under the circumstances.”

“I’m not emotional,” she protested, but instead of pulling away, she clutched the silky material of his vest.

“Of course you are,” he said gently. He didn’t like the feeling that she needed protecting. He’d never allowed anyone to get past his guard before. Never getting involved had been his shield—up to now.

Now, he found himself saying, “Don’t worry, Trouble, I’ll keep you safe from whoever’s after you.”

“Nobody’s after me!” she snapped. “You don’t understand. If I am emotional, it’s because I—I buried my father and my brother in the last two days. Then we were shot at. A man is wounded and we’re out here in the middle of nowhere. I think that gives me the right to be emotional.”

Anger made her even more appealing. She was very beautiful and she didn’t even know it. Trouble was big trouble for she had the kind of innocent appeal that made men do foolish things. “I’m sorry about your family.” His voice tightened. “What happened?”

“It doesn’t matter,” she said, taking a deep raspy breath. “Not any more. I’m sorry you lost your hat. I liked the feather.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

She continued to rest her cheek against his chest. As they stood, Bran remembered a night long ago when a small boy had buried his family. He understood her pain and, for just a moment, he shared it. Then the driver groaned and the moment between the two of them was gone. Macky pushed herself away and hurried to the injured man.

By the time she’d checked his wound and turned back to the fire, the man the Indians had called Eyes That See in Darkness was gone. For the next two hours she dozed, rousing frequently to check on Jenks and to pile more brush on the fire. The stars faded and the fire burned down.

Bran returned to the campsite as the sky was turning light. The woman was curled in a ball beside the bed of orange coals, sleeping with her face resting on her arm, her back against her portmanteau. Bran felt his heart lighten unexpectedly, then scowled. He still wasn’t convinced that the bandits hadn’t been connected to her, though he could tell she hadn’t been lying about her father and brother. Nobody could fake that, not even a woman.

He studied her face in the firelight. She was an odd contradiction in her skirt that was too short, heavy work boots, and a man’s shirt and coat. Her hands were rough from physical labor; he’d learned that when she’d attempted to help him in the carriage. Now, resting in sleep, her mouth had softened and her hair reflected the fire of the coals, making a kind of copper frame for a face that was strong yet innocent.

The driver was awake, watching as Bran dropped his pack and drew out a canteen. “You see anything out there?” he asked, his voice weak and thready.

“Just a couple of lizards and a coyote. The coyote made off with the hardtack and biscuit I had in my pack.”

“The horses?”

“Gone, for now. Maybe I’ll see the black that was tied to the coach when it gets light.”

The driver nodded. “There was coffee beans, a jug of water, and some jerky in a poke under the seat.”

“I found it. Don’t know what kept it from spilling out. How far to the way station?”

“About half a day’s ride, but somebody will come looking for us when we don’t get there. We’re already overdue.”

“Maybe, but when?”

Jenks licked his dry lips and tried not to stare at the canteen Bran pulled from inside the greatcoat.

Two sips was all Bran allowed the wounded man before he recapped the container. Building up the fire once more, Bran was very tired. His head still hurt. He wished for an hour’s sleep before they began their trek to the way station.

Half a day’s ride. That probably meant a day’s walk, if they were lucky. Bran didn’t want to think about somebody looking for them. He was afraid that somebody might finish what they’d started earlier.

Bran had heard about Pratt’s gang, but their paths hadn’t crossed. From what he knew, holding up a mail coach seemed a little tame for cutthroat bank robbers.

At least they had some water, jerky, and coffee. He carried the driver’s pistol with enough ammunition to keep them in food, but they wouldn’t last more than a few minutes if they had to fight off more outlaws. He glanced at the carrying case against which his redheaded companion was lying.

Idly he wondered what she was concealing inside. He’d been surprised to find her wearing a man’s shirt and coat. Still, he had to admit that the rough work clothes fit her. She might have been a boy, except for the long red hair and her breasts.

The brief tantalizing look he’d had at her bare breasts had stayed with him as he walked back to the coach. Just thinking about her body brought an unwelcome tightening in his loins. “Damn!” The last thing he needed was a woman who spoke to his needs and didn’t even know she was talking.

He told himself that a woman who donned her blouse backwards wasn’t exactly the kind of feminine company he’d choose. He had the feeling that Trouble was better acquainted with masculine attire than what she’d been wearing when she climbed on the stage. She was awake.

• • •

“Let me have your nightgown.”

Bran had gathered a large stack of underbrush. Then he moved the driver closer to the fire.

Macky watched what he was doing. She couldn’t figure his actions out. “You’re going to burn my nightgown?”

“No. I’m going to make a shelter.”

“Why?”

“Once the sun gets up, it could get very hot in here, sheltered from the wind. Or it could rain. Jenks will need a cover.”

“We aren’t going to leave him, are we?”

“I’m not going with you, lass,” the driver said. “I’ll just slow you down.

“Of course you are. We’ll help you, won’t we, Mr.—Bran?”

“No,” Jenks Malone said. “You go on to the station and send someone back for me and the coach. I’ll keep the mail sack here with me.”

“But you don’t have food or water.”

“He’ll keep the rest of the whiskey and part of the jerky,” the preacher said.

“Absolutely not! I won’t leave him behind. Where does a preacher get whiskey anyway?”

Macky didn’t know why she was arguing. The plan made sense. But they’d nearly lost the driver and, as irrational as it seemed, she couldn’t face leaving anyone behind.

Bran put his hand on her shoulder. “Why does a woman carry a man’s shirt and coat as a change of clothes?”

She knew he could feel her muscles contract beneath his touch and feared that he’d misunderstand. She was sure of it when he said, “Perhaps it would be better if you stayed with Jenks. I can travel faster without you.”

“Stay here?” She was torn. She couldn’t be sure about the bank robbers and Jenks needed her. But her feelings about allowing the stranger to walk off across the prairie alone was even more worrisome.

“No, lass,” Jenks said. “You go with him. He might need
help. If somebody doesn’t get to the station, we’re all lost. I’ll wait for you.”

Rationally, Macky knew that he would make better time alone, but irrationally something stopped her from allowing him to go.

“Make up your mind, Trouble. Do you stay or go?”

Jenks was right. She’d done what she could for him. Making certain that someone got to the way station was what he needed now. “I’ll go. Are you ready to leave?”

Bran looked at her. “You have any long pants in that case of yours?”

“Why?”

“You’d make better time if you weren’t wearing a skirt.”

Macky knew he was right. But if it was Pratt who attacked the stagecoach he’d be more likely to recognize her if she were dressed in the clothes she’d worn back in Promise. She couldn’t risk discarding her skirt and she couldn’t be too curious about the outlaws.

“Don’t worry. I won’t slow you down.”

They gathered as much brush as they could, leaving Jenks surrounded by brambles. Finally, satisfied that he had enough to stay warm, Bran took a long look at his traveling companion. He hoped he wasn’t making a big mistake. “All right, let’s move out.”

Macky lifted her portmanteau and started to follow.

“You’re not planning to drag that along,” he said, taking the carrying case from her hand, surprised at the weight.

“Of course I am. I’ll carry it.”

“Don’t be foolish. You’ll never be able to keep up. Besides, who do you plan to dress for? There’s only me and, I assure you, I don’t care what you wear.”

Macky blushed. She knew he was right. But she couldn’t abandon the money. How would she return the part of the money she didn’t have a claim to?

Bran’s expression dared her to argue. “If you can’t wear it, you’ll have to leave it behind.”

Macky grabbed on to that idea. “Just a minute.” She
dragged the case to the outside of the biggest rock and opened it. She stuffed paper money in her pockets and inside her shirt, managing to carry part of it. The rest she’d have to leave until someone could return for Jenks.

She tucked a few of the gold coins into the sleeves of her torn blouse and shoved them inside her coat pocket. Then she refastened the case and tugged it back inside the stand of rocks, leaving it beside Jenks.

“Don’t worry, lass, I’ll keep it for you.”

“Thanks, Jenks. Well get back for you soon.”

Moments later she was charging along behind the preacher. Adding the money to her clothing did keep her warmer, but walking through the clumps of prairie grass was hard. It caught in her skirt and slowed her down, making her stumble. Not so, her companion. Even with the head injury he’d refused to let her treat, he set a steady pace that would have daunted most people.

But Macky kept up.

The ruts in the trail made a thin brown line across the plains. She set her eyes on the horizon, willing her feet to keep moving. A brisk cold wind swept across the plains, tugging at her hair. She was grateful for the heat of the sun as it climbed higher in the sky.

In spite of their dire circumstances there was something stimulating in the air, something that made Macky feel at home. The Kansas Territory had become a melting pot of people and ideas. Farmers, bent on escaping the close confines of the East, were pouring down the Overland Trail looking for a new life, fleeing the growing discord between the Northern and Southern states.

The finding of gold and silver in the mountains drew a different breed, some greedy, some merely independent, risk takers and mountain men.

But with the arrival of the Pony Express, news moved west as fast as the settlers. The politicians back in Washington were determined that Kansas be admitted to the Union as a free state, although some of its settlers owned slaves.
Papa had never owned slaves but he tried to be fair to both sides. He’d watched the growing discord between the North and the South and considered their western journey as a way to avoid being forced to defend either side. Still, he always spoke his mind, something a Boston schoolteacher was unwise to do.

And that made him just as unpopular in the West.

Politics didn’t interest Macky. Always responsible for her father and her brother, she’d never given much thought to what she wanted. She’d certainly never fit in as a society woman back in Boston. Now, walking across the prairie, she realized that under different circumstances, she could easily have joined the pioneer women who walked alongside their wagons, following their men to a new land.

Idly she allowed her mind to build on that picture. What kind of man might she have married if she hadn’t had Papa to care for?

Certainly not a man like her present companion. Bran didn’t look like the rough-dressed men she’d seen pass through Promise driving wagons pulled by oxen. She wasn’t exactly certain what a circuit preacher in the West looked like, but she was reasonably sure that they didn’t carry guns and wear fancy black boots.

And there was the eye patch and his story of being named by the Indians. Was he an Indian fighter? According to Papa, those men wore buckskin clothing and coonskin caps. They were hard-drinking men with bad teeth and they didn’t bathe.

Nothing about Bran fit any of those descriptions. But Macky knew as she straggled to keep up with him that this was a man she could depend on.

“Enough daydreaming, Macky,” she whispered. “You’re no more likely to be a pioneer woman than wear a satin skirt to a ball.”

“Daydreaming?” The preacher’s question startled Macky. She hadn’t realized that she’d spoken aloud. More, she hadn’t realized that she was dreaming. Fantasizing was as
foreign to her as the skirt she was damning. Certainly she’d never done it before.

But neither had she robbed a bank nor followed a man wearing a black eye patch across the prairie before.

They stopped at midday, took a few sips of water and set out again. By this time the wind was gone and Macky’s paper insulation was beginning to make her very warm. But she couldn’t remove her coat without revealing the lumpy presence of the money inside her shirt. Worse, she needed to find a place to stop, a private place.

It was mid-afternoon when she caught sight of an indenture in the landscape. A line of trees, with leaves just beginning to bud out, snaked across their path, bringing the horizon closer.

“Ah, Mr.—Bran,” she began, stopping to wipe her forehead on her sleeve. “I need to—I mean, do you intend to stop anytime soon?”