Marrying the Preacher's Daughter. Cheryl St.John

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      She set down her basket and hurried to the kitchen. Her father had brought that man here! To their home! She cringed in mortification. Now she’d be forced to face him—and her shame.

      Minutes later, she climbed the stairs with a pitcher and toweling. She traveled the now-silent corridor and paused outside the closed door. From inside, she heard rustles and a couple of grunts.

      The door opened and her father gestured for her to enter.

      Gil stood just inside the room, and she met his interested gaze. “Looks like Mr. Taggart’s going to be your guest for a while,” he said.

      Reluctantly, she followed her father inside.

      They had removed the man’s clothing and tucked a sheet up around his waist and over part of his chest. His ribs were bound, the white wrapping a stark contrast against dark skin that held scars from previous injuries. Who was this man?

      “You did just fine,” Dr. Barnes said, standing over him. “The wound isn’t bleeding.” He turned and took the pitcher from Elisabeth, poured water into the bowl and got a cloth wet. “The Harts will take care of you. They’re good people.”

      Gabe took the wet rag from the doctor and wiped his perspiring face.

      Dr. Barnes set a bottle on the bureau. “He gets two teaspoons every six hours for pain. It’ll help him sleep. Give him a dose now.”

      “You’ll be in charge of his medicine, Elisabeth,” her father directed.

      “Me-e?” She hadn’t meant to squeak.

      “You’re the most meticulous,” he replied.

      She nodded her obedient consent, but kept the disagreeable man she’d hoped never to see again under her observation. He didn’t appear any more pleased with the situation than she, which was a comfort.

      “I’ll check on you tomorrow,” the doc told him.

      Gil glanced from the stranger to Elisabeth with a crooked grin and headed downstairs, followed by the doctor.

      “Elisabeth will see to your needs,” Sam told Gabe. “And I’ll be back at suppertime.”

      He progressed into the hall, and she followed, not wanting to be left alone with their patient. The other two men headed downstairs. “What am I supposed to do with him?” she whispered to her father.

      “Give him his medicine and something to drink. Let him sleep. If he gets hungry, bring him a meal.” He took a step toward the stairs, but stopped and met her gaze. “Oh, and you might try thanking him for saving your mother’s wedding ring.”

      He turned and walked away.

      Her heart picked up speed and, as though the pressure would calm her pulse, she flattened her palm against her waist. She took a deep breath and released it. Slowly, she turned back to the room and entered, lowering the hand to her side. The Taggart fellow leveled that piercing green gaze on her, but his demeanor was blessedly less imposing minus his hat and shirt.

      “Alone at last,” he said.

      Normally she prided herself on her calm demeanor, but this man managed to fluster her with every breath.

      “Where did they put my gun?”

      “You’re not going to need your gun here,” she assured him.

      Grimacing, he attempted to lean forward, but grabbed his side through the sheet and bandage. “It’s on that bureau.” He pointed. “Bring it here.”

      Rather than argue with him, she stepped to the chest of drawers and picked up the surprisingly heavy tooled leather holster that sheathed the deadly looking weapon. He’d shot half a dozen bandits in the blink of an eye with this very gun. Holding it on both upturned palms, she carried it to him.

      Meeting her eyes first, and making her even more uncomfortable with his stare, he took the belt from her. Yanking the gun from the its sheath, he swiftly opened the cylinder and fed bullets plucked from the belt into the chambers. After flipping the cylinder closed and sliding the gun under the pillow behind his head, he let the holster fall to the floor.

      “I’ll go fetch a spoon and a water glass.” She couldn’t get out of that room fast enough. Elisabeth stood in the kitchen longer than necessary, finding reasons to delay. What kind of man loaded a gun and stashed it under his pillow? What—or who—did he expect to shoot here? He hadn’t been wearing a badge or a star, but just carrying a gun didn’t make him a criminal. Her own father had worn a gun during their travels west and for months after arriving in Jackson Springs.

      Finally, she returned and measured a dose from the liquid in the brown bottle. “Would you like a drink?”

      “I’d love a drink, lady, but I’ll settle for that water.” Grimacing, he rose on one elbow to take the glass and finish the water. “Thanks.”

      Noticing the sun arrowing through the shutters, she closed them and pulled the curtains closed over both windows, leaving the room dim.

      “I never asked where you were headed.” She wrung out the cloth and hung it on the towel bar attached to the washstand.

      “Here.”

      “Oh.” She came to stand beside the bed. “Do you have family in Jackson Springs?”

      “I own some land,” he replied. “I’m going to buy horses and build a house. Might buy a business or two.”

      “What type of business?”

      “Depends on what’s for sale.”

      She had to wonder if he had any skills or definite plans or if he’d just set off willy-nilly. “I see.” She left and returned with a small brass bell. “Ring if you need anything.”

      Her father’s suggestion burned. She reached to place a hand over the ring that lay under her bodice and, even though the room was only semi-lit, Gabe’s astute perusal followed.

      He had protected her from harm, saved her ring and had become injured in the process. Why did she have so much difficulty forming the words?

      “Thank you, Mr. Taggart.”

      He curled his lip. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

      Irritating man. She spun and fled.

      “He’s wike Wyatt Eawp.”

      “Where’s his six-shooter?” another child asked. “Jimmy Fuller said he shot the robbers with a six-shooter.”

      Gabe rolled his woozy head toward the open door and caught sight of three little boys. They scattered like chicks in the wake of a bantam rooster, and Elisabeth Hart entered with a laden tray.

      In disbelief, he blinked sleep from his eyes. “You have kids?”

      Elisabeth frowned. “I’m barely twenty years old, Mr. Taggart.” She set the tray on the bureau and opened the curtains, the thick blond braid hanging down her СКАЧАТЬ