Cowboy Preacher, page 2
part #7 of Glory, Montana Series
“Child, what are you talking about?” Mrs. Kinsley looked to Alex and then Clara and then her husband. “Do you have any idea what this is about?”
The preacher shook his head. “Sounds to me like there’s a story here. Alex, have a chair and tell us what happened. Clara, please bring us coffee and join us.”
Alex sat across from the preacher. Clara brought coffee but backed away to the kitchen.
The preacher gave her a quizzical look then let her be. “Alex?”
“It wasn’t anything really. Some man rode up to the store like Louie said.”
The boy grinned and nodded. “Shooting and yelling.”
“That’s right.” He squeezed the boy’s shoulder and was rewarded by Louie pressing close to his knee. “He called for his son. Oliver Pottinger.”
The preacher and his wife looked at each other and nodded.
Alex continued. “His mother said the man hurt the boy and didn’t want him to go.”
“Bad man.” Louie’s voice was full of certainty.
“I can’t abide injustice, so I told the man his son didn’t care to join him.”
The preached chuckled. “I can’t imagine that was well received.”
Alex shrugged. “He left.”
“So you faced a gunman unarmed?” The preacher didn’t sound impressed so much as worried.
“I was covered in the armor of God.”
“Ahh, of course. You know that before the day is out everyone will have heard, and you will be a hero and a living legend. Every eligible young woman will be wanting to meet you, and every mother will be pushing for an introduction.”
A muffled sound behind Alex suggested Clara had reacted to the possibility. He couldn’t see her to know if she thought it good or otherwise.
Mrs. Kinsley chuckled. “Church attendance will no doubt increase.”
“And that’s a good thing,” her husband added.
“Wait a minute. I need to make something clear. I am in no way interested in—” His explanation was cut off by a frantic knocking at the door.
2
Grateful for the distraction, Clara jerked toward the door. She did not care for the way Louie looked at the newcomer, his eyes wide with admiration. Pressing to the man’s side. How was she to keep everything about herself private if the little guy developed a dose of hero worship? Had the man been about to say he wasn’t interested in a wife? My, but wouldn’t the young ladies of the community and their mothers be disappointed if that was the case. For someone looking for a husband, he would likely be considered ideal. A well-educated, fine-looking man with his thick dark blond hair and deep blue eyes. A nice build too. Tall and slender but not thin. Brave as well. Despite his role as a preacher, he dressed much like any man in the west—dark trousers, gray shirt, and a darker gray vest. Yes, the Kinsleys were correct in guessing that attendance at church by females of all ages would increase
The knocking continued. Preacher Kinsley bolted to his feet and rushed toward the door. “I’m coming. Don’t bang the place down.” He pulled the door open. Oliver practically fell inside.
“Is he here?” Oliver glanced past the preacher to Alex and rushed forward to grab Alex’s arm. “You gotta come right now.”
Alex rose and planted a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Slow down. Tell me what’s going on.” Another point in the man’s favor—he was calm and calming. Would that her stepfather knew how to be like that.
Oliver nodded and swallowed loudly. “My pa. He came back. He’s threatening to shoot Ma.”
Mrs. Kinsley drew in a sharp breath.
Louie watched with far more interest in his eyes than Clara cared for. She went close enough to grab him and pull him back.
“Did you go for the sheriff?” Alex asked.
Oliver nodded. His breath rasping over his teeth. “The sheriff ain’t back. You gotta stop him.”
Preacher Kinsley went to Oliver’s side. “This sounds like a job for Mickey or one of the other men.”
Clara understood he meant a man who would not hesitate to use force to stop Mr. Pottinger. Someone carrying a firearm and prepared to use it should deal with the angry and dangerous individual.
“No.” Oliver shook his head. “Preacher Alex stopped my pa afore. He can do it again.” He grabbed Alex’s elbow and urged him to come.
“I’ll go,” Alex said. “Let me get my hat.” He plucked it from the hook by the door where he had left it. A roundish city hat. Not the cowboy hats Clara was used to seeing nor the red toques of her stepfather’s friends. It should have made Alex look weak and citified, but Clara reluctantly admitted that it didn’t. And she knew he wasn’t a coward. Perhaps was a bit rash in his boldness, in fact.
Preacher Kinsley must have thought the same thing. He stopped the pair before they reached the door. “It would be foolish to face an armed, angry man without protection.” He reached for the rifle over the door. “Take this.”
Alex shook his head. “I would never shoot a man. Not even to save my own life.” He and Oliver hurried out the door.
“Oh dear, I fear someone is going to get hurt,” Mrs. Kinsley said. “Isn’t there any way you can prevent it?”
Her husband grabbed his hat. “I’m going to do my best.” He eyed the rifle then returned it to its place and followed the pair.
Clara pressed Louie to her side. At least they were safe. He was safe. But her heart thudded with each beat. Would Alex truly face an angry, armed man? Didn’t he realize that fighting for justice and truth could be dangerous? Sometimes the truth could destroy a person.
She realized she was thinking of her own situation and not the one Alex was rushing headlong into, which was even more dangerous than hers. An angry man carrying a gun and making threats. Perhaps Mr. Pottinger had already shot his wife. If she lay injured she would need help.
“Will you keep Louie?” she asked Mrs. Kinsley. “I’ll see if anyone needs help.”
“Of course.” She pulled the boy close. “Be careful. I’ll be praying.”
Clara slipped from the house and made her way down the street to a narrow alley. Mrs. Pottinger’s house lay at the end. She eased toward it, staying in the shadows lest danger lurked ahead. She was good at hiding though she wished she had a plain skirt and moccasins rather than the wide gray skirt she wore and the stiff shoes.
A few steps further and she stopped. Mr. Pottinger stood before the open door of the house waving a pistol. “Stay away. No one is stopping me.”
Alex faced him, not a hint of fear in his face. He seemed as calm as if he were purchasing candy at the store. “Where is your wife?”
“She ain’t ever going to bother me again.”
Oliver gasped. Looked about ready to faint at Alex’s feet.
Clara’s lungs stopped functioning at the meaning of that statement. Poor Mrs. Pottinger. Poor Oliver.
“Ollie, you get over here now and stop this nonsense.” Mr. Pottinger lowered his voice as he waved for his son to join him.
Clara guessed the man tried to sound conciliatory, but his words carried a good deal of threat.
For a moment, no one moved. No one spoke. Oliver stood at Preacher Kinsley’s side, quaking noticeably.
“Ollie.” The word rang with demand.
Oliver sucked in air so loudly Clara could hear it from where she stood. “No, Pa. I ain’t goin’ with ya. I’ve had it with how you treat me.”
“Why you—” The man lunged toward his son, but Oliver seemed to know what to expect and darted out of his reach. And before Mr. Pottinger could take another step, Alex put himself between the father and son.
“You ain’t got your mama to coddle you no more.” He shook his fist at Oliver then turned to Alex. “What are you doing in my way, little man?”
Clara judged Mr. Pottinger to outweigh Alex by a hundred pounds, but Alex stood several inches above him. Alex was taller than she’d realized. And too bold and brave for his own good.
“I believe the boy is old enough to make his own decisions.”
Preacher Kinsley stood shoulder to shoulder with Alex. “Please move on. At least get out of the way so we can check on your wife.”
“Don’t waste your time.”
A moan escaped Oliver.
A horse and rider approached. The sheriff. Just in time. He rode to the door of the little house and dismounted, glanced inside, shook his head and unholstered his pistol. “Drop your gun. You are under arrest.”
Mr. Pottinger’s gun wavered as he tried to decide what he should do. His eyes narrowed, and he started to swing his arm toward the sheriff.
Everything slowed for Clara. The figures of the men wavered as if seen through a haze of shimmering heat. The background faded to gray. Sounds were muted except for the rattling of her own breath. She’d never seen anyone shot and didn’t care to. Wounds from gunshots were one thing, but to see someone shattered by a shot was the stuff of nightmares. She shuddered.
A loud bang startled her. It took a heartbeat of time for her to realize someone had been shot. She squinted to see who had been hit.
Mr. Pottinger shook his hand and cursed.
His gun lay on the ground, and Alex leaped forward, scooped it up, and handed it to the sheriff.
In Clara’s peripheral vision she watched Oliver sag against Preacher Kinsley, but she kept her gaze riveted on the men directly before her, fearing something bad was about to take place. Angry men did not easily give up.
The sheriff pressed his pistol into Mr. Pottinger’s back. “Off to jail with you. Someone check on his wife and see what she needs.” The pair marched down the street.
Preacher Kinsley eased Oliver to Alex. “Keep him here while I go inside.”
Alex put his arm about the boy’s shoulders and murmured something Clara couldn’t hear, but whatever it was, Oliver nodded, and his shoulders raised and lowered as if inhaling deeply.
Clara knew she should move, but she sagged against the wall of the building whose shadow she clung to. Death and violence made her ill and always had since the first time she’d seen her father shoot a moose and bring it down. She knew in her head and in her stomach that it was essential for survival, providing food for everyone. But she preferred not to witness it firsthand.
“She’s alive.” Preacher Kinsley’s voice called from inside the house, filling Clara with joy.
Her strength renewed, she stepped into the light and crossed to the house. “I’ll help.” She entered into the poorly lit room where Mrs. Pottinger lay on the floor, her face covered in blood and the shoulder of her dress darkened by it.
Preacher Kinsley glanced up from where he knelt at the woman’s side. “He shot her in the head, but the bullet only grazed her. God has mercifully spared her life.”
Mrs. Pottinger stirred. “Did he get Oliver?”
“No. Your son refused to go with him. The sheriff has taken your husband to jail. I don’t expect he’ll be around to bother you any longer.”
Clara looked for something to clean the wound with. It struck her how bare the place was. The table and chairs were crates turned on end. The stove was cold. She looked in the cupboards. A few dishes. A sack of beans and another of oats. She glanced over her shoulder to the preacher. He nodded.
“Let’s get her over to the manse where she can be looked after.”
“We’ll help.”
Clara didn’t realize that Alex and Oliver had come to the doorway until Alex spoke.
“I can walk.” Mrs. Pottinger managed to sit up, and with her son on one side and Alex on the other, she got to her feet. They guided her out the door and down the street toward the manse.
Clara scurried ahead to warn Mrs. Kinsley.
“We’ll put her in the spare room.” The older woman paused. “I wondered how long it would be before our empty rooms filled up again.”
When Clara first came, the place was crowded. Old Mrs. Sears lay in the spare room. The old dear slipped peacefully into eternity two weeks ago. The addition, built for the ill and injured, was overflowing with sick people as an epidemic swept through the area. The epidemic was part of the reason Preacher Kinsley had asked for help. He’d been going day and night and so had his wife. They were exhausted. Clara meant to do all she could to make things easier for them. For that reason, she was grateful that Alex had joined their ranks even though her insides tightened at what he stood for. Justice, she was fine with. Everyone deserved to be treated fairly. Especially children like Oliver and Louie.
But truth was a different matter. There were times the truth could destroy a person.
Louie had followed her into the bedroom where she folded back the covers in preparation for Mrs. Pottinger’s arrival.
“That man stop the bad man?”
“He helped the sheriff.” She wondered what Alex would have done if the sheriff hadn’t shown up. She shivered as she guessed he would have confronted Mr. Pottinger despite the dangers. As she had earlier declared to herself—either very brave or very foolish.
“I like that man.”
She pulled Louie into her arms. “I like you.” She kissed the top of his head, revelling in the little boy scent of him—warmth and sunshine and every good thing.
She held him tight until he squirmed. “Clara, too tight.”
Clara. How she longed to be called mama. But if people learned that she wasn’t his big sister but his mother, she knew they would both be shunned by most people, and likely run out of town. Louie would be labeled with an ugly name. He would be judged for his race, but the other would be worse.
The newcomer with his stated agenda of seeking truth and justice frightened her. She must guard against any slipups.
She must protect her secret at all costs.
Alex helped Mrs. Pottinger to the chair by the table. Oliver hung over her back.
“Ma, are you okay?”
“I’ll be fine, but I confess I have a bit of a headache.”
“I’ll tend her,” Clara said. “Louie, you stay with Mrs. Kinsley.”
Alex watched as she gently sponged the blood from the woman’s face. The bullet had gouged her scalp, leaving a bleeding trail of raw flesh. “It is by God’s grace that you are alive,” he murmured, as much to himself as to any of the others in the room.
“What’s going to happen now?” Oliver asked.
Preacher Kinsley drew the boy away from his mother and had him sit on a chair. “The sheriff will see that justice is done.”
“I hope he hangs!” The words burst from Oliver’s mouth.
Clara glanced toward Louie.
Mrs. Kinsley rose and took the boy’s hand. “Louie and I are going to the garden to get some carrots.”
“Clara, I wanna stay.” Louie was all eyes and ears, wanting to know what more these big people were going to say and do.
“You go along now. You can help Mrs. Kinsley.”
Louie dragged his feet across the floor. His reluctance to obey so evident that Alex chuckled. “Do you suppose he’s thinking he’ll obey on the outside but not on the inside?”
Clara jerked toward Alex, surprise brimming from her eyes. Then her gaze followed Louie, a gentle smile upon her lips.
Alex found himself unable to turn away from the look on her face. Pure love. How fortunate the child was to have a sister who loved him so.
Clara returned her attention to Mrs. Pottinger. “We’ve made up the spare room for you to rest in.”
“Oh. I couldn’t do that. Me and Ollie will go home.”
“Ma, don’t call me Ollie.”
“I’m sorry. Oliver. We’ll go to our house.”
Clara looked to the preacher for help.
He nodded. “You’ll need to have that wound watched for a few days. T’would be best if you stayed here.”
“Ma, what if Pa gets out of jail? I don’t want to be at the house.”
Mrs. Pottinger twisted her fingers together. “I don’t like to be a burden.”
“You won’t be.” The preacher patted her shoulder. “It’s what we do.”
“Very well. And thank you.”
“Thank you.” Oliver’s words rang with relief. He straightened and glanced about, his gaze reaching the stove where pots had been left simmering. Rich aromas filled the air. Oliver smiled widely.
Alex grinned. He couldn’t blame the boy. The smell of roast venison was enough to tempt any man. He thought he detected apples and cinnamon as well.
After a few minutes Clara straightened. “There. That’s the best I can do. I’ll fetch a bandage to cover it.” She slipped from the house and returned in a matter of seconds with a roll of white fabric. She wound a few wraps around Mrs. Pottinger’s head. “That will do for now.” She touched the bloodstained shoulder of the dress. “Would you like me to get you a clean dress?”
“Oh, that’s too much bother.”
Clara smiled. “Just tell me where to find one.”
Mrs. Pottinger did so.
Clara turned to the preacher. “Louie will be all right with Mrs. Kinsley?”
“We’ll make sure he is.”
“Then I’ll be on my way.”
“I’ll accompany you.” Alex followed her to the door.
She stopped and without turning to face him, said, “That’s not necessary.”
“I don’t suppose it is, but I’d like to see more of the town.”
She didn’t turn toward him but lifted one shoulder. “Very well.”
Not exactly welcoming. He waited until they were in the dusty street before he spoke again. “Is there some reason you object to my company?”
She shrugged again. “Who says I do?”
He lifted a hand in resignation. “Perhaps I misinterpreted your reluctance to show me around.”
She didn’t answer, but turned to the right, down another street. “That’s the church.”
“I might have guessed even if I haven’t already been inside.”
She pointed to the left. “Main Street is up there. You can see White’s General Store from here. The hotel is further down the street. Across from the store is the barber shop and next to it, Sylvie’s Diner.” They were almost at the end of the block. A large red barn and surrounding pens took up a good portion. “That’s the livery. Run by Mikey.”
