Cheryl St.John - Marrying the Preacher's Daughter

Without the pain medicine, he slept fitfully. At the sound of a feminine voice, he again woke with the damp sheets sticking to his skin and his head throbbing.

“I’m sorry to disturb you, but the marshal is here to see you.” It was her. Still looking fresh and irritatingly healthy. Maybe it was the drugging effect of the medicine on his head, but the woman was downright pretty.

“Is there water in that bowl over there?” He attempted to sit and swing his legs over the side of the bed, but at the pain in his side, lay back against the pillows. “I need to wash up.”

Elisabeth noted the full bowl and arranged toweling on the washstand, then turned back to him. “Can I help you?”

“Send one of the lads in.”

She glanced toward the door and back at him with a look of concern. “The oldest is only six.”

“He can fetch for me. Unless you want to stick around while I get my pants on.”

She stared at him without flinching; he had to give her credit for that. But then with a swish of skirts and petticoats, she turned to where his satchel sat against a wall. As she leaned to grab the handles, her braid swung over her shoulder. She hoisted the bag onto the bench at the foot of the bed and opened it. “I’ll get Phillip.” She looked Gabe square in the eye. “And then I will stand right outside that door where I can hear everything.”

“Suit yourself.” What did she think he was going to do? Give the boy shooting lessons? “Stand right here if you want to.”

She left the room with her back ramrod-straight and returned a few minutes later to usher in a handsome black-haired little fella with freckles. He surveyed Gabe with curious wide blue eyes.

“This is my brother, Phillip,” Elisabeth said. “Phillip, Mr. Taggart needs help getting up and dressing. I’ll be right out in the hall.” She glanced from her brother to Gabe and backed out, leaving the door open a full twelve inches.

“Thanks for comin’ to my rescue,” Gabe told him. “Think you could help me stand without pullin’ on my left arm?”

“Sure!” Phillip hopped right up on the bed and got behind Gabe to push him upward.

Gabe did his best not to grunt or groan. He’d eat dirt before he’d show weakness in front of the boy—or the woman listening outside the door. He wrapped the sheet around his waist and stood, making his way over to the bowl of water. His reflection in the mirror revealed several days’ worth of whiskers on his cheeks and chin. He scratched at it and poured water into the basin. “Can you find the roll of toiletries in my bag there? I need my razor.”

Phillip found the roll and carried the supplies to the stand, where a shaving brush and mug sat at the ready. Gabe used water and powder to make lather and dabbed it on his face.

“My papa gots a black beard, too.”

Gabe gave an unintelligible reply as he drew the razor up his neck and chin.

“I’m getting one, too.”

Gabe eyeballed him in the mirror. “Might be a year or two before you need to shave.”

“I’m gonna grow stubble like you.”

“Ladies like a stubble,” he replied.

“Mr. Taggart,” Elisabeth cautioned from the hallway.

“Tickles when you kiss ’em,” he added.

Phillip pulled a face. “I’m not gonna kiss girls.”

“Mr. Taggart!” she warned more loudly.

He washed, wet his hair and used his brush and comb. “Can you find me a clean shirt and trousers?”

Phillip set himself to the task. Then the boy leaped up to stand on the bench and held out the shirt so Gabe could ease into it. “Is it true you shot all those robbers who tried to steal ever’body’s jewelry?”

Gabe paused in guiding his arm through the sleeve and looked at the child. “Sometimes takin’ another man’s life is the only choice. But it’s never an easy choice and never something to be proud of.”

“Did you ever shoot anyone before that?”

Gabe buttoned his shirt without reply. Phillip helped him don a clean pair of trousers. “Can you pick that up for me?” he asked, and the lad grabbed his holster from the floor and handed it to him. Gabe showed him how to hold it up so he could get it over one shoulder and around his ribs without touching the side that pained him. He took his Colt from under the pillow and slid it into the holster.

Phillip’s eyes widened. “Is that the gun you used?”

“Yep. Has your pa taught you about guns?”

The boy nodded. “Yes, sir. I ain’t apposed to touch one until I’m bigger. Not Papa’s gun, either.”

Gabe absorbed the information.

“You’re a top-notch valet.” He flipped him a coin.

Phillip caught it. “What’s a valet?”

“A fellow who helps a gentleman get dressed. Can’t say as I ever had the need before, but I’m fortunate you were here. I wouldn’t have wanted to endanger your sister’s sensibilities.” Gabe leaned close and whispered, “She’s a good cook, but she’s prickly.”

Phillip grinned.

“Are you decent?” Elisabeth called from the other side of the door. She didn’t like the sound of that man whispering to her brother.

The door whisked open and he stood in the opening in a clean, albeit wrinkled shirt, his dark hair combed into sleek waves. He wore the leather holster with his loaded gun tucked against his good side.

She’d never faced him standing before. He was a good foot taller than she was and filled the doorway with his imposing presence. One side of his mouth quirked up and her traitorous thoughts raced to his remarks about kissing ladies.

“I’ll get the marshal,” she said.

“No. I’ll come down.”

He was a stubborn one, that was for sure. “Phillip,” she instructed. “Walk on Mr. Taggart’s other side.”

“I’d crush the boy if I fell on him,” he scoffed. “Thanks for your help, Phil. Run along and come back tonight, all right?”

“All right!” The lad tossed a coin in the air and shot toward his room.

She accompanied their antagonistic guest to the parlor, where Roy Dalton waited. He shook Gabe’s hand. “Taggart?” he asked.

Gabe turned to Elisabeth. “Thank you.”

She blinked in surprise. She’d been promptly dismissed in her own home. She turned and left to find Josie and Abigail in the kitchen.

“Goodness, you fixed an entire meal while I napped,” Josie said. “I had so much energy when I woke that I’m making pies. Abigail is helping me.”

Elisabeth’s younger sister had learned to bake and cook at Josie’s side, and her desserts rivaled any that the ladies of the church produced.

“Did you remember that the Jacksons will be here for supper?” Abigail asked.

“I forgot.” Elisabeth glanced at her stepmother. “Will there be enough food?”

“We’ll serve your roast, and we can add more potatoes and carrots and maybe a slaw,” Josie answered.

“Mr. Jackson likes roast beef,” Abigail remarked. At seventeen, she thought Rhys Jackson’s presence at dinner was exceedingly romantic. Elisabeth was far too practical to be caught up in such silly imaginings.

As the preacher, her father invited members from the congregation for dinner at least once a week. It had been Josie’s desire to make a home where they could entertain and where their neighbors would feel welcome. The Jacksons ate with them more often than most other families. Beatrice was a widow, but a well-to-do widow, and her son Rhys worked at the bank. Elisabeth suspected that their recurring invitations had something to do with the fact that Rhys was an eligible, well-mannered bachelor.

Her father and Josie had never said they were impatient for her to marry and leave their home, so perhaps the new concern she’d been feeling was only her imagination. The house certainly wasn’t too crowded for her to remain. In fact, bringing Kalli into their midst had added yet another person to the household and the dinner table. She wasn’t a burden on her parents.