Victoria Bylin - The Maverick Preacher

Adie’s assumption of Maggie’s wealth had been confirmed the day she’d died. Bleeding and weak, she’d told Adie to remove a velvet bag from a drawer of her trunk and look inside. Adie had gasped at the glittering gems. Maggie’s dying wish still echoed in her ears. She had begged Adie to take Stephen and raise him as her own; then she’d squeezed Adie’s wrist with her bloodless fingers.

“Leave Topeka tonight. Break all ties with me.”

“But why?”

“Don’t let my brother near my son. He’ll send Stephen to an orphanage.”

Adie had stood alone as an undertaker buried Maggie in a run-down cemetery; then she’d taken the jewelry and backtracked to Kansas City where Maggie had sold a few pieces of jewelry before coming to Topeka. The sixty-mile train ride to the bustling city had given her two advantages. She’d gotten a better price for Maggie’s jewelry, and the railroad left Kansas City in four different directions. If Maggie’s family found the jewelry, they wouldn’t know where she’d gone. If by chance a detective, or Maggie’s brother, traced her to Topeka, the man would reach a dead end.

Adie had sold only what she needed for a fresh start, then bought a ticket to Denver because of its size. She wanted to open a boardinghouse, a place for women like herself and Maggie. For two days she’d held Stephen on the crowded train, struggling to keep him fed until they’d arrived in a city full of gambling halls and saloons. Pretending to have Maggie’s poise, she’d stayed at a hotel, visited the bank and explained her ambition to the elder Mr. Dean, who had shown her Swan’s Nest. The mansion had reminded her of Maggie and she’d bought it, using what cash she had from the jewelry sale and signing a two-year promissory note for the balance.

She could have sold more jewelry and paid for the house in full, but she feared leaving a trail for a Pinkerton’s detective. Nor did she want to squander Stephen’s inheritance. The remaining jewels—a sapphire ring, a pearl necklace, a bracelet and some glittering brooches—were his legacy from his mother, a gift from the woman who’d given him life but had never held him.

As Adie led the mare into a stall, she felt the sting of tears. Maggie had died three months ago, but she still missed her friend. She also feared strangers, especially men. If Stephen’s father tried to claim him, Adie would have to make a terrible choice. On the other hand, she had no qualms about hiding from Maggie’s brother. Considering how he’d shunned his sister, he didn’t deserve to know his nephew. In Adie’s book, he didn’t deserve to breathe.

She lifted the saddle off the mare, set it on the ground, then stripped off the scabbard, the canteen and the saddlebags. She set everything aside, filled a bucket with water and gave the horse a measure of hay. Satisfied, she closed the gate to the stall, stepped to the saddlebags and dropped to a crouch. She had no business going through Joshua Blue’s things, but she had to be sure he had no ties to Maggie Butler.

With shaking fingers, she worked the buckle on the bulging leather bag.

As soon as Adie Clarke left the kitchen, Josh drained the glass of milk and poured himself another. He’d been aiming for her boardinghouse when he’d left Kansas City, but he hadn’t intended to faint on her doorstep. Before he’d left, he’d seen a doctor who’d told him what he already knew. He had a stomach ulcer, a bad one that could bleed and threaten his life. At the very least, it offered daily torture.

Josh didn’t care. He had to find his sister. Ten months ago, Emily Blue had left their Boston mansion with a satchel, her jewelry and Josh’s bitter words ringing in her ears. He’d never forgive himself for that night. He’d said unspeakable things, calling her a name that shouldn’t be uttered and accusing her of being a Jezebel. He’d made hateful accusations, all the time wearing the collar that marked him as a minister.

The memory sent fresh acid into Josh’s belly. He had to find Emily and her baby and make amends. Until he found them, he refused to rest.

Never mind the stomach ulcer. The Apostle Paul had written of a thorn in his flesh. It had kept him humble. The ulcer often humbled Josh, though not as profoundly as it had tonight. Fainting on Adie Clarke’s porch hadn’t been in the plan when he’d left Kansas City on the word of Wes Daniels, a gunslinger who’d frequented the saloon where Josh had been preaching on Sunday mornings. Wes had told him about a boardinghouse called Swan’s Nest.

“It’s for women in trouble,” he’d said, winking at Josh. “Maybe your sister’s there.”

Josh had left the next morning. Halfway to Denver, his stomach had caught fire and he’d stopped eating. Pure and simple, he’d fainted on Adie Clarke’s porch out of hunger.

As he raised the glass to his lips, he said a silent prayer for Emily and her child. Somewhere in the world he had a niece or nephew he’d never seen. A little girl with Emily’s button nose…a boy with the Blue family chin. Josh was imagining a child with Emily’s dark curls when he heard a baby cry. High pitched and needy, it cut through his soul. For all he knew, Emily was sleeping right above his head. The baby could be his niece or nephew.

He wanted to charge up the stairs, but his common sense and Miss Clarke’s stern rules kept him in the kitchen. Closing his eyes, he prayed for the child and its mother. He knew how it felt to wake up with a bellyache.

Above his head, the ceiling creaked. He heard the pad of bare feet on the wooden planks and imagined a mother hurrying to her child. The footsteps faded, then stopped. An instant later, the baby’s wail turned to a hopeful whimper. He imagined the mother taking the baby in her arms, sitting in a rocking chair as she nursed it back to sleep. He listened for the creak of the rockers, maybe the hint of a lullaby. Instead the baby shrieked in frustration. Footsteps scurried back down the hall while the baby’s cry stayed in the same room, growing louder. The pacing stopped over Josh’s head, paused, then went halfway down the hall. He heard a door open, then another pair of steps, muted now as if two women were trying to be quiet on floors that wouldn’t allow it.

When the stairs squeaked, Josh shot to his feet. Adie Clarke knew she’d rented him a room, but the women coming down the stairs would see a drifter in black, maybe an outlaw. Common sense told him to leave the kitchen, but he stood frozen with the hope of seeing Emily.

“Don’t move, or I’ll shoot you dead.” The female voice, shaking with sincerity, had come from the shadow in the hall.

He froze.

“Get your hands up!”

As he raised his arms, his duster pulled open. Josh believed in turning the other cheek, but he wore a Colt Peacemaker on his hip. He’d learned early in his travels that riding unarmed into an outlaw camp caused more of a stir than a cocked rifle. Carrying a weapon was his way of being a Greek to the Greeks. The Colt made him familiar to the rough men with whom he felt called to share the Good News. Unfortunately, the woman in the doorway wouldn’t see the gun as a calling card. Josh felt the weapon pulling on his belt and winced. He’d lost weight. If he didn’t hike up the belt soon, he’d lose his trousers.

“Who are you?” the woman demanded.

“I’m a new boarder.”

“Liar,” she said in a stony voice. “Adie doesn’t rent to men.”

“She took pity on me.” Josh peered into the hallway. He couldn’t see the woman, but candlelight glinted off the double barrel of a two-shot Derringer. The weapon shook, a sign of her nerves.

“Where’s Adie?” she demanded.

“Tending my horse.”

“Why aren’t you tending it yourself?”