Cheryl St.John - Marrying the Preacher's Daughter

“Do you suppose Mr. Taggart and the marshal would care for a glass of lemonade?” Josie asked.

Elisabeth glanced at Josie’s flour-covered hands as she shaped the piecrust and then gave her sister a hopeful look. Abigail sprinkled cinnamon on her sliced apples without looking up. “I’ll pour them lemonade,” she finally offered.

She set out two glasses. “Josie? Do you feel I contribute to the family?”

“Contribute?” Josie looked up. “You are an important part of this family, Elisabeth. Why would you ask such a question?”

She shrugged off her insecurity. “No reason. Forget I asked.”

Sometime later, she carried a tray into the parlor and set it on the serving cart. The men’s conversation ground to a halt. She set a frosty glass in front of each of them on a low table before the settee. Gabe looked decidedly out of place on the dainty piece of furniture.

“Miss Hart, will you join us, please?” Roy Dalton asked.

Surprised, she recovered her composure and seated herself on a chair opposite the marshal.

“Mr. Taggart isn’t willing to accept the entire sum of the reward money.”

Startled, she glanced at Gabe and back. “There is a reward?”

“Three of those fellas were wanted in several states for train robberies,” he replied. “And two of them for murder.”

“Oh, my.” Clasping her hands together, she silently thanked God. They’d all come dangerously close to losing their lives. She remembered the verse in the Psalms that talked about God giving His angels charge over her, and knew it was so.

“Mr. Taggart claims he can’t take all the credit for catching those men.”

“Meaning that God had a hand in what happened?” She looked to Gabe, but he didn’t reply.

The marshal was still holding his hat, and he turned it around by the brim. “Seems he’s of the mind that you were the one responsible for insisting he do something about their apprehension.”

“Oh, he is.” She bored her gaze into Gabe’s and then couldn’t resist a glance at the gun he wore.

“Claims he would’ve handed over his valuables and let those good-for-nothin’s go on their merry way if you hadn’t started the ruckus.”

Anger burned a fiery path to Elisabeth’s cheeks, but she didn’t look away.

“Mr. Taggart’s a real generous and honest fella. Half the reward money is yours.” The marshal took a fat envelope made from folded parchment from the settee cushion beside him and shoved it toward her. “This here’s your share.”

She held the packet in both hands before she realized what had just happened. “What is this?”

“Half the reward money, like I said,” Roy replied.

Reward. For killing those men? Elisabeth dropped the envelope as though it was a poisonous snake. The seams of the envelope burst open and a stack of currency spread across the rug.

Blood money.

“I don’t want that!” Elisabeth sized up the marshal and then Gabe. “I’m not accepting money for those men’s deaths.”

“That’s what reward money is,” Roy replied. He knelt and scooped up the scattered bills and tucked them back in order and closed the paper over them. He extended the package. “It’s your half.”

“But I didn’t do anything,” she objected. “I didn’t hold a gun.”

“They’d have gotten clean away with everyone’s purses and watches if you hadn’t caused a ruckus,” Gabe disagreed. “I gave the bandit mine.” His gaze fell to the chain at her neck, though the ring was beneath her bodice like always. “Your kinship with your jewelry set the whole episode in motion. So half is yours.”

“Well, I won’t take it.”

Gabe raised a brow and looked at Roy. “What happens to the money if she won’t take it?”

The marshal pursed his lips and scratched his chin with a thumb. “Don’t reckon I know. It’s never happened before. Goes back in the city coffers, I guess.”

“Shame all that cash goin’ to waste,” Gabe remarked. “Could’ve bought your brothers shoes or hired your father a hand or…” Gabe appeared thoughtful, then pleased with himself. “You could have taken a trip somewhere.”

“My brothers have all the shoes they need, thank you, and I am my father’s assistant.” She paused, however, considering that a trip might have been nice. But that was vain and selfish thinking. She could have given the money to the church to provide help to those in need.

Could have? She still could. Elisabeth extended her palm. “I’ll take it.”

Seeming pleased not to have to deal with the money, Roy handed over the packet.

“I’ll give it to the church,” she decided.

“It’s yours to do with as you see fit,” Gabe said with a shrug.

“Well, that takes care of the business I came to do.” Roy finished his lemonade and excused himself. She showed the sheriff to the door, then returned to the sitting room.

Elisabeth held the envelope to her chest. The Taggart fellow’s face looked paler than it had been, and he’d set his mouth in a grim line. He was quite obviously in pain and too stubborn to say so. “You should’ve let me bring the marshal upstairs so you didn’t have to dress and come down.”

“I needed to move a bit.” He stood, but swayed on his feet.

She tucked the money in her apron pocket and hurried to his side. “Lean on me.”

“I can manage.”

“I said lean on me, Mr. Taggart. If you fall flat on your face, I’ll never get you up by myself.”

He seemed to consider that as a distinct possibility and wrapped one solid arm across her shoulders.

With him butted up against her side, his imposing height and hard muscle were glaringly obvious. Now the possibility of him falling and crushing her became the issue. “Phillip!” she called.

A minute later, her brother skidded to a stop in front of them.

“Get on the other side of Mr. Taggart and do your best to help me get him to the banister where he can hold on.”

Phillip eyed the holster, but ducked obediently under Gabe’s other arm, and they managed their way to the front hall, where Gabe grabbed the banister and helped support his weight.

“Don’t get behind us,” Elisabeth warned. “Run ahead.”

Phillip scampered up the stairs.

The farther they climbed, the more Gabe leaned his weight against her, until, at the top, she feared they’d both topple down the stairs. With Herculean effort, she used every ounce of her strength to keep him upright. “Come back and get his other side!” she called to Phillip.

The boy was a minimal help, though his face turned red from his efforts.

“Mr. Taggart, you’re going to have to help or we’re going to drop you in a heap right here,” she huffed.

Lifting his head, he rose to the occasion with a grunt and they made it through the correct doorway and to the bed, where they dropped him unceremoniously.

He lay atop the blankets, his face white, his eyelashes lying against his cheeks.

“This is ridiculous,” she said, straightening her skirts and her disheveled hair, while catching her breath. “You’re taking your medicine and sleeping and not getting back out of bed until you’re better able.”

She poured a dose of the liquid painkiller, and with Phillip’s help got it down Gabe’s throat, then got him situated on the bed and closed the curtains.

“Is he dead?” Phillip asked.

“No, he’s breathing,” she answered, but paused to watch his chest rise and fall. “He’s sleeping.”

“He’s sleeping in his clothes,” the boy remarked. “And wearing his holster and gun.”

“That’s his own fault. He could have stayed put and he’d still be comfortable.” Her hand went to the thick envelope in her apron pocket. Just having all that money on her person made her uncomfortable. She would give the ill-gotten gains to her father and let him use it to his discretion. She led Phillip out of the room. “We’ll let him be.”