A Lady Like Sarah (4 page)

"I know a thing or two about the Good Book," she declared. "So don't you go
thinkin
' you've got
somethin
' over me, you hear?"

"The thought never occurred to me."

"Yeah, well, I know how you preachers think." She tossed her head. "I heard about that golden rule," she persisted. "You know the one? Always dish out the same medicine that other folks dish out to you."

"Actually it's something more along the lines of 'Whatever you want men to do to you, you should also do to them.'"

"Just like I said.
And I want you to know that I'm prepared to abide by the rule," she said solemnly. "You take these cuffs off me, and I'll fix supper for you. Now if that ain't
dishin
' out the same medicine, I don't know what is."

He considered her request carefully before reaching in his pocket for the key. Obviously, he was a man who never did anything without giving it a lot of thought, and she tried to think how to best use this to her own advantage.

"I'll free you, but I'll take care of supper. You've had a rough time of it. You need all the rest you can get before we hit the trail." He dropped down on one knee and fit the tiny key into the rusty hole, and the handcuffs fell away.

Rubbing her sore wrists, she clamped her jaw tight and said nothing. The only way she planned to ride out with him was over her dead body.

"You're on your honor." He stood and pocketed the cuffs.

She absently picked up a leaf that had fallen onto the blanket and tossed it aside. If he believed that, he didn't have enough brains to grease a skillet. Still, the trusting expression on his face filled her with guilt.

"What's a preacher like you
doin
' out here, anyhow?" she asked, anxious to change the subject.

"I'm on my way to Texas," he replied.

She swallowed hard.
"T-Texas?"

"Rocky Creek."

She snapped her mouth shut and stared at him, her heart pounding. Just hearing the name of the town felt like someÂone had kicked her in the stomach. Leaning forward, she pressed her crossed arms against her middle.

Sensing her discomfort, his eyes bored into her. "Do you know the town?" he asked.

Taking a deep, unsteady breath, she tried to conceal her anxiety beneath a veil of indifference. "I reckon everyone knows the town."

His gaze locked with hers, and she felt like a butterfly pinned to a board.

"I gather it's not your favorite place," he said.

Irritated, she chewed a fingernail. Just '
cuz
he was a preacher was no reason to go 'round reading minds. "It ain't
nobody's
favorite place," she said. "And if you know what's good for you, you'll turn around and head back to Boston."

Not wanting to answer the question so plainly written on his face, she jumped to her feet and grabbed the woolen blanÂket off the ground.

"I'm
gonna
wash up," she said. "And I don't need anyone
watchin
' me, you hear?"

He tossed her one of his clean shirts but made no move to follow her.

As anxious to bathe as she was to forget Rocky Creek, she all but ran to the water's edge.

Standing behind the overgrown bushes, she pulled off her clothes. The stream ran only ankle-high, but the water was fresh and clean and, next to the still-warm air, cold enough to freeze the fur off a bear. But not cold enough to erase the memory of Rocky Creek and all that had happened there.

Teeth chattering, she quickly washed off the prairie dust and pulled out the pins that still remained in her unruly mane. Bent at the waist, she rinsed her hair off, wishing for the luxÂury of soap.

She shuddered as the memory of the night she'd been captured came back to haunt her. Her brothers had left instructions for her to stay hidden in Logan, Missouri, until their return. For days on end she had done exactly as they said, despite her restless nature. Everything would have been fine had that fool merchant not insisted upon charging her double for bonbons. The ensuing argument blew her cover, and she spent the next couple of weeks cooling her heels in the town's flea-ridden jailhouse. The next thing she knew, she and the marshal were heading for Texas.

Pushing her thoughts aside, she waded to the bank and wrapped herself in the blanket. She then piled three rocks, one on top of the other. She found a stick and scratched out the letters KG for Kansas City on the biggest rock.

Satisfied, she stepped back and surveyed the stack from a distance. A casual traveler could easily miss the sign, but not George. Nothin' escaped her brother's attention.

Her three brothers had surely returned to Logan by now, and the moment they found her missing and heard about her capture, they would pound the trail after her.

It was dark by the time she returned to camp, her hair falling loosely down her back. The preacher's shirt was too big for her, but it was clean. She tied the tails together and rolled up the sleeves until she had somewhat contained the volumes of fabric.

She caught the preacher changing his shirt. The unexÂpected glimpse of his broad shoulders and bare chest made her heart race like a runaway horse. She waited until he was dressed before stepping into the light of the fire and revealing her presence.

The preacher's gaze traveled the length of her. Thinking she saw amusement on his face, she was about ready to tell him to keep his eyes to himself when he scooped a spoonful of beans onto a tin plate and handed it to her.

Her stomach turned over in hunger, and she immediately began to shovel the food into her mouth. Somehow, he had managed to burn the beans, but she didn't care. She hadn't had a decent meal in days and, by gummy, she'd eaten worse, though not much worse.

He sat on the opposite side of the fire, watching her, his own plate in hand.

"What are you
gawkin
' at?" she asked.

"Nothing," he said. He lowered his head and waited for her to do likewise before he proceeded to give thanks to God for their supper.

"Dear heavenly Father, Almighty God, Creator of heaven and earth . . ."

She doubted that God wanted credit for the burned beans, but she lowered her fork and didn't move until the long- winded preacher finally finished the prayer with a hearty amen.

She shoveled another forkful of beans into her mouth and grimaced. "It still tastes burned," she said, "even with the
blessin
'." To make matters worse, the beans were now cold. "I reckon it would take a miracle to improve your
cookin
'."

The preacher's mouth curved in a half-smile. "You surÂprise me, Sarah. I didn't think you'd be the kind to believe in miracles."

"I don't," she muttered, staring down at her plate. "I never saw a miracle in my life." She glanced at him from beneath lowered lashes. "Nor did I ever have a prayer answered."

"You probably had lots of prayers answered. You just didn't know it."

She glowered at him. "A person would have to be mighty dumb not to recognize an answered prayer when they see it."

She waited for the preacher to argue the point and didn't have to wait long. He leaned forward, the fire turning his handsome face to bronze.

"It seems to me that my finding you and the marshal was an answer to a prayer," he said.

"Not if you're
plannin
' to take me to Texas, it's not," she snapped.

He drew back and regarded her in that searching way of his that was beginning to get on her nerves.

Doing her best to ignore him, she finished her meal withÂout comment,
then
she lifted a canteen to her lips in an effort to get rid of the acrid taste in her mouth.

After dinner she sat crossed-legged next to the marshal to keep an eye on him. The buffalo chips burned brightly, keepÂing the shadows at bay.

The lawman lay on the preacher's bedroll. He lay so still that the slight rattling sound in his chest was the only sign he was still alive.

From time to time the preacher held Owen's head upright while she spooned willow bark tea into his mouth to ease his pain and guard against fever.

Convinced that she'd done all she could do for the lawÂman, she was anxious to make her escape. She eyed the horses. Owen's horse was fast, and she was an expert rider. With a little luck, she would be miles away before the preacher even knew she was gone.

She decided against chasing off the other horse, Noah. The preacher had saved her life, and she didn't have the heart to put him and the injured lawman in any more danger than they already were.

And they were in danger, all right. Two men on a single horse wouldn't have much chance of outrunning trouble. As far as she could tell, the preacher didn't even own a gun. Who ever heard of anyone traveling across country with nothing more than a knife—and a sorry one at that?

That no-good scoundrel who stole her horse also stole the marshal's weapons. Not that a gun would do much good should Indians or outlaws attack, but it never hurt to put up a decent fight, and sometimes it even helped.

The preacher checked on Owen and sat down by the fire opposite her. He assessed her with thoughtful, questioning eyes.

"So tell me what you know about Rocky Creek," he said.

She didn't want to talk about Rocky Creek or anything else for that matter. What she wanted was for the preacher to get some shut-eye so she could make her escape.

"What do you want to know?" she
asked,
her voice tight.

He shrugged. "What the town's like? What to expect?"

"You can expect trouble and a lot of it," she answered quickly. She could tell by his knitted brow that it wasn't what he wanted to hear, and she regretted her hasty reply.

He gave her a questioning look. "I was told that Rocky Creek is one of the best towns in Texas."

She pursed her lips and tried to think of something posiÂtive to say about the town. "It has the basic
necess'ties
.
Seven saloons, one street lamp, a
dem'cratic
street sprinkler, and the fastest-
growin
' cemetery in Texas."

Not wanting to discourage him entirely, she'd chosen her words carefully, something she rarely—if ever—did. But if the dismay on his face was any indication, she could have saved herself the trouble and spoken plainly.

"Only one street lamp?" he asked after a while.

She eyed him curiously. "How many lamps do you want?" she asked. "How many does your town have?"

"Boston? I don't know.
Hundreds."

"Kind of like St. Louis," she said. "I don't know how a body can get any sleep with all those lights
ablazin
'."

"What is the church like?"

"I don't know nothin' about
no
church," she said truthfully.

For a long while he stared into the fire and said nothing. Finally he asked, "What else?"

She thought for a moment. "It has an independent newsÂpaper, which means it comes out whenever it feels like it. Last time I heard, there were fifteen fellows in jail, not
countin
' the ones scheduled for
hangin
'."

His eyes filled with dismay. "They hang a lot of people, do they?"

"Not as many as they hang in Judge Parker's territory," she said. Noting the horror on his face, she hastened to add, "Don't you worry none, you hear? Far as I know, they ain't never hung a preacher."

Rather than looking relieved at the news, his expression turned grim. After a while, he asked, "What's the story of the boots?"

"What?"

"Your boots.
I've never seen anyone wear red boots before."

Sarah stared down at the scuffed red leather toes peering from beneath her pant legs. "My papa gave me a pair of red boots when I was six. He said the bottom of me should match the top of me, and I ain't never seen fit to change colors. My brother George says you can't tell if I'm right side up or not,
bein
' that my hair and boots are both red."

He chuckled. "Is your father still alive?"

She shook her head. "He's dead," she said, her voice terse enough to forbid further questions. She knew better than to reveal anything about her family or background, and it shocked her that some of her carefully guarded secrets had slipped out so effortlessly.

"I'm sorry," the preacher said. Though he continued to scrutinize her, he asked nothing more.

She covered a yawn with her hand. Much to her relief, he took the hint. He stood, checked the marshal again, and then settled down on his bedroll next to the lawman's side.

"Good night, Sarah."

Finally!
Making a show of pulling off her boots, she settled into her own bedroll. "It's a good night," she muttered, her voice so low she doubted he could hear her.
Just the kind of night for making a quick getaway.

After a while, the preacher called to her. "Don't forget now, Sarah. You're on your honor. I expect you to find you here in the morning."

Not on your tintype!
she
thought. When she didn't respond to him, he repeated his warning.

Pretending to be asleep, she clamped her mouth shut and kept the blanket drawn up to her brow. She had no intention of telling him a thing. Nor did she want to be on her honor. She had enough problems.

The fire died down, and only a few hot embers remained. In the cover of night, she rolled on her back, placed her hands behind her head, and didn't move.

Overhead the stars burned bright, and she imagined herÂself escaping along the Milky Way.

No doubt her brothers were already hot on her trail. Her oldest brother, George, would be furious at her for getÂting into yet another scrape. Maybe the messages she left along the trail telling them to meet her in Kansas City would put her back in George's good graces.
Then again, maybe not.

It was late before the preacher stopped twisting and turnÂing. The position of the stars told her it was close to midnight. That gave her several hours before dawn. She would be miles away before he even knew she was gone.