The Sister and the Sinner (4 page)

"Nonsense, sister. There's enough in here for days."

"But it needs to dry out, sir, and... and I always bring in an armload in the morning. It's part of my daily routine!"

He shook his head, tugging on the end of his belt. "Do you need another lesson in who's the boss?"

Mary Francis fell silent, chewing on her lower lip. Obedience had always been the hardest for her. She had no problem with the vow of poverty. The convent was the only home she knew. She'd never been to a city, never seen anything fine or fancy that she would long for it. The vow of chastity had to do with being pure, and until last night, she had never known an impure thought. Now, it was a tossup between the thoughts he inspired in her, or her temper, that would be most likely to get her in trouble.

"May I do the dishes, then, sir?"

He nodded, with a hearty chuckle that irritated her. She rinsed out the dishes, swept the floor, started a batch of bread dough, and puttered as much as she could, all with him watching her intently. Her nerves were frayed and her temper simmering... it was so annoying to have someone looking over her shoulder while she worked! She was used to being alone.

Still, he was wounded, and he wouldn't be much help even if he had offered. Which he didn't. He did let her tend to Mother Agnes alone, but only because she told him she was going to give her a sponge bath and change the linens. He hovered at the base of the stairs, no doubt watching out the windows to see if she risked breaking her legs by jumping. Which she didn't. Maybe it was sinful of her to stay, but she didn't want to try to run away. Mother Agnes needed her, she told herself. And in a way, so did the outlaw.

* * *

"Mary, is that you?" Mother Agnes whispered. "Mary, have you returned? Tell me about California! Is it all you hoped for?"

Mary Francis's brief elation that the Reverend Mother recognized her was quickly dashed. More often than not, the old woman was lost in some earlier, happier time. Mary Francis helped her to a semi-sitting position, so she could spoon feed her the broth. Slowly, patiently, she bathed her, helping her to don a clean gown, and changing the linens one side at a time with a tricky maneuver that did not require the Reverend Mother to get out of bed at all. She plumped her pillows, and opened the window slightly to let in some fresh air, in spite of the summer downpour.

She gazed out of the window, taking a moment for herself. The garden needed this. Even the pigweed had been drooping yesterday. More often than not it had snapped off at the base instead of coming up roots and all, which infuriated her as it meant she would be pulling that same weed in the near future. She imagined the potatoes and squash joining their leaf hands together in praise and thanksgiving for this morning's shower. She smiled, lifting her own arms as she offered God a quick prayer of her own. But then, something on the horizon caught her attention. She stared, trying to discern what it was as it darted about between the trees and prairie grass.

Three, four... no, five men on horseback! They were not charging straight towards the convent, but instead they zigzagged back and forth, a sixth one walking and leading his horse, as though searching for a trail. These men were undoubtedly the ones who had shot her outlaw! She gasped, and fled down the stairs.

"What is it, sister? Is it your Reverend Mother?" the outlaw asked tenderly.

"No! It's your pursuers! They're coming!"

He nodded brusquely. He reached for his guns and strapped them low on his hip, then tucked his knife into the top of a boot. "Go upstairs, and don't come down until it's over," he warned.

"I will not! You cannot possibly expect to survive against seven men! You must hide, but help me move the highboy away from the door first. Quickly!"

"I will not give up, sister, although it pains me to think I have put you in danger. They are not good men - they will hang me on sight, if they don't shoot me first."

"They cannot know for certain that you are here. The rain has surely washed away your trail. I will talk to them, and send them on their way."

"Why? Why would you do that?"

"They shot you in the back, sir. And, I believe God has a reason for sending you here. Now stop jabbering and help me!"

He shook his head disbelievingly, but he helped her slide the highboy away from the door, and unblock the front one as well. Then he went upstairs to hide. It galled him to do so, but he was still too weak from his injury, and the sassy little sister was right. He couldn't take them all on and expect to come out the victor. But if they tried to harm a single hair on her head, well... some things were worth dying for.

* * *

Mary Francis took a hold of the door handle and turned it, but not in time, apparently for at least one of the men had lost patience with waiting for her to respond to their knock and kicked the door in, slamming her up against the wall as if she'd been shot out of a cannon. The men poured into the convent then, tramping in mud and rain. Except for the impatient one, they were actually quite apologetic, helping her up and leading her to the dining room to sit down. They could see that she'd had quite a bump to her head.

The man who said his name was Frank Mills, the oldest of the group judging by his long white beard, began softly, "We're sorry to bust in here like this, Sister, but we're looking for someone."

"Where is he? I'll skin him alive when I find him!" the impatient one was yelling as he strode through the house scouring behind every door he found.

"He's a big fella, about six-foot-three or so, broad as a barn, hair black as coal and dead blue eyes. Smart as a whip, too, he is, the bastard." This man was small and wiry, and he blushed an unbecoming shade of red at his use of profanity in front of her. "Pardon me, Sister."

"You're excused, of course." Katie maintained an air of quiet dignity, if she did say so herself.

"Have you seen anyone like that around here, Sister . . . ?"

"Sister Mary Francis. We are not in the habit of giving shelter to criminals," she said archly. She would try to keep from telling an outright lie, although she knew in her heart that sins of omission were just as bad. Still, she would try to stick to the truth as much as she was able.

"I'm sorry, gentlemen, but the Reverend Mother is quite ill and not in her right mind. I have devoted these many months entirely to her care - I have not been to town or anyplace where I might have met this man you mention."

"He ain't here?" the obnoxious one snarled.

She straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin proudly. "This is a convent, sir! Not a bordello!"

He associates guffawed, and one slugged him in the shoulder. His expression darkened. Sister Mary Francis feared that he might be pushed to violence at any moment. She tried to diffuse the situation.

"May I be so bold as to ask a question?"

Mills nodded.

"Why is it that you want this man? Is he a thief?"

It was the man's reaction to her query that aroused her suspicions. His eyes darted to his friends before he answered, and they all looked as if they wished they weren't in a convent and didn't have to lie to a nun. "Of sorts, Sister."

"Well, then, shouldn't you get Mr. Bullock involved? After all, he is still the sheriff, isn't he?" Mary Francis asked the question specifically so that she could watch their reactions. They all looked a heap more guilty than her outlaw ever had.

"No, no, we don't want to bring the law into this situation, ma'am. We'd rather settle things ourselves. Man to man, don't you know."

"Well, I really wouldn't know, now, would I?" she smiled beatifically at them all. "Could I offer you gentleman anything in the way of refreshments? Perhaps a cup of tea?"

"No, thank you, Sister," the older gentleman replied for the rest of them, who were shuffling about awkwardly. By way of apology, Mills offered, "Higgins was the only one who wanted to come. He was just sure that Holt was hiding here somewhere. We had to come and make sure you was alright."

The angry man, Higgens, finally came back downstairs, and Katie felt as if she could breathe again. How could it possibly be that he hadn't found her outlaw! She'd grown up in this place; she thought she knew all of the hidey holes, and none of them were upstairs!

When she'd seen them all out and put the front door back in place - if a bit askew since it had been knocked entirely off its hinges - she turned and ran upstairs, scouring the place the same way that nasty man had, looking for her outlaw... Mr. Holt. At least she had half a name for him now.

"Where are you? They're gone. You can come out now."

He appeared behind her as stealthily as if he had been an apparition.

"Where were you? I was so worried he was going to find you - oh, those men are not nice people!"

"I figured that he wouldn't search Mother Agnes's room too carefully, her being sick and all. So I just hid behind her door. He wouldn't risk catching whatever she's got to search too carefully."

"But she's not contagious."

"You know that, and I know that. He doesn't."

They shared a bit of a chuckle together, but then his face darkened. "There was quite a commotion downstairs, too. What happened?"

Katie's eyes slid to the floor, the wall, the ceiling - anywhere but him. "Oh, nothing much. One of the men - Higgens, I think he said. He kind of - sort of - kicked down the door rather than waiting for me to let them in."

"He what?" Her outlaw was already halfway down the stairs, as he dashed to view the ruined door. He was cursing under his breath, although she noted that he did not use the Lord's name in his litany.

"And you - are you all right? Did any of them hurt you?"

"It is just a bump," she insisted.

He turned to look at her, his eyes wide with shock. Then he gathered her into his arms, gently, as if she was made of the finest crystal and held her to him, asking softly, as if the answer meant the world to him, "Where does it hurt?"

His hands traveled up her sleeves, down her back, searching for whatever injury the heavy black robe concealed. Only when he touched the back of her head did she elicit a yelp. He tugged off her veil and probed the area around the knot. "Do you have some ice to put on this?"

"It's just a bump. I'll be fine, we don't need to waste the ice," she insisted.

He set her down at the table, parting her hair to view the injury more closely. "It's a large bump, and I know you'll be fine. But we need to put ice on this to keep the swelling down."

He opened the icebox in the kitchen, but just as Mary Francis had suspected, there was no ice remaining. Fetching ice was yet another of the chores she had not finished last night after her outlaw arrived.

"Where do you keep the ice?"

Thick chunks of ice were cut from the pond every winter, carted to a sod house and covered with saw dust to keep from melting. One block at a time was brought inside and placed in the ice box in the kitchen. If she went through her ice too quickly, she would not be able to chill her goat milk or food supplies until winter returned. For that reason alone, she balked. He made a spanking motion with his hands. Mary Francis sighed, and gave him directions to the soddy, behind the convent and to the west of goat house.

While he was gone, she gathered a bucket of water, rags and soap and went to work scrubbing up the mud her visitors had tracked in. She was on her hands and knees when her outlaw returned. He dropped the precious block of ice and yelled at her.

"What do you think you're doing?"

"What does it look like?" she replied tartly.

His grip on her arm was not as gentle as before, as he directed her back to the chair. "You, young woman, have earned yourself another spanking."

"I have not!"

"You knew I was getting ice for that knot on your head. Head wounds can be serious! I've seen fellas survive gunshot wounds, only to die from a bump on the noggin. Have you no sense?"

"More than you, apparently. I'm fine. Honestly," she replied. She winced as he pressed a wedge of ice that had broken away from the main block onto her sore spot. "You forget, I have some skill as a healer. Look into my eyes. If the iris is the same size in both, it's not a concussion."

He tipped her chin up and gazed into her eyes, studiously at first, and then some other emotion came over him. She watched as his eyes dilated. His breath came faster, and he leaned closer to her. She resisted the urge to back away but stared at his lips and he moved closer still. Then he pressed a kiss to the knot at the back of her head, flooding her heart with a warmth she just couldn't find within herself to reject.

Then he hugged her, gently and genuinely, rocking her slowly back and forth, almost as if they were dancing. "I'm so sorry you were hurt, sister. I'm truly sorry."

He wasn't sorry in the least that he'd spanked her, only that someone else had caused her harm. She found that dichotomy very interesting, and extremely touching, somehow.

He held her for a long time, and she let him, drowning in the new sensations he created within her. Eventually he let her go. He went to the door and adjusted it, getting it to close in spite of the damaged hinges. "Tell me exactly what happened."

She told him as much of the conversation as she could recall, mentioning the few names as well. Higgens. Mills. Holt. She noticed the way he startled when she said that last one. "That's you, isn't it? You're Holt."

"J.D. Holt. John Douglas, after my father and grandfather, but everyone calls me J.D."

"J.D," she whispered, glad to have something to call him besides her outlaw.

He seemed irritated with her, though. She felt jittery all over, worrying about whether he meant it when he said he was going to spank her again, dreading yet anticipating it as well.

"What kinds of tools do you have?" he asked, interrupting her thoughts.

"There's a hammer in the dairy shed. And it's way past time I milked her. Nana will be suffering soon if I don't."

"But shouldn't you rest?"

"And you're going to milk a goat, one-armed?"

He shook his head. "Together, we make a pair, don't we? I guess, I'll help you with your chores today, and you can help me. How's that sound?"