The Redhead and the Preacher: A Loveswept Historical Romance by Sandra Chastain
Authors: Sandra Chastain
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preacher.
“Harvil’s wife said you wore an eye patch,” someone said, as if that identified him.
“Of course. Why would anyone doubt you?” Macky asked in exaggerated innocence, all the while keeping her eye on Pratt, who was still dogging their steps. “I never would.”
She was very clever, this woman who’d proclaimed herself to be his wife just moments earlier. “And you’ve known a lot of ministers, haven’t you, dear?”
“Only you.” She blinked her eyes in what she hoped was a flirtatious gesture and smiled.
At that moment the church members broke into a lively chorus of “Bringing in the Sheaves” to accompany their march to the saloon, offering Bran the opportunity to ask his new wife a whispered question. “And why do you care what happens to me?” he asked, his voice barely more than a growl.
“Because,” she snapped, “I’d rather be a rich wife than a poor widow.”
Bran gave a dry laugh. “What in hell makes you think I’ll ever be rich?”
“Why, this is Heaven, isn’t it? I’ve heard that the streets are paved with gold.”
Chapter Seven
M acky kept reminding herself that, for whatever reason, Bran hadn’t corrected the welcoming committee’s impression that she was the minister’s wife.
For now, she couldn’t ask questions. Later, when she’d gotten away from this crowd, would be soon enough to find out what kind of game the preacher was playing.
In the meantime, she was Mrs. Adams, Mrs. Kate Adams, wife of the new Methodist minister in the part of the Kansas Territory called Heaven. But she didn’t believe for one minute that Bran was helping her out of the goodness of his heart, and though she’d started this charade, she wasn’t sure she wanted to be used.
“ ‘Oh what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive,’ ” she said softly, trying to pry herself away from the pressure of Bran’s arm against her rib cage.
“Or ‘come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly,’ ” hewhispered as they moved through the swinging doors to the saloon.
Macky caught sight of the women standing around the edges of the room, circling a painting on the floor. “My goodness. It’s a picture of a lady.”
There was a laugh as one of the onlookers separated herself from the others and moved toward them. Her presence stopped the chatter abruptly.
“It’s your face on the floor,” Macky exclaimed.
“Yes, it’s me. Good afternoon, Mrs. Adams, is it?” the woman said, her voice laced with amusement. “A good likeness, don’t you think?”
“It’s beautiful,” Macky admitted, feeling all the more shabby in comparison to the saloonkeeper. She was even taller than Macky, but that was where the resemblance ended. Her hair looked like spun gold and her body was magnificent. There was so much of it, so nicely shaped, so openly displayed.
The marshal stepped forward. “Reverend, Mrs. Adams, this is Miss Lorraine Lake, the proprietor of Heaven’s Bell, recently renamed in honor of the new church.”
“Ah, yes,” Preston Cribbs chimed in. “Miss Lake has been gracious enough to allow us to hold Sunday-morning services in her establishment, seeing as how she doesn’t use it then, of course.”
“Of course, your congregation believes you’ll manage to convert me,” Miss Lake said, turning her attention to Bran. “Who knows, maybe you will.”
There was an instant connection between the woman and Bran, obvious to Macky if not to the others. Bran’s lips quirked at the corners and he held out his hand. “Miss Lake, is it? I’m Brandon Adams, your new messenger from God. It’s very kind of you to welcome my little flock of sheep to your—establishment, but it isn’t Sunday, is it?”
“No, but your sheep are always welcome to join my other guests,” Lorraine practically purred, pushing a long strand of golden hair behind her ear.
There was a collective gasp from the ladies of the church and Macky wondered how often they’d
“Harvil’s wife said you wore an eye patch,” someone said, as if that identified him.
“Of course. Why would anyone doubt you?” Macky asked in exaggerated innocence, all the while keeping her eye on Pratt, who was still dogging their steps. “I never would.”
She was very clever, this woman who’d proclaimed herself to be his wife just moments earlier. “And you’ve known a lot of ministers, haven’t you, dear?”
“Only you.” She blinked her eyes in what she hoped was a flirtatious gesture and smiled.
At that moment the church members broke into a lively chorus of “Bringing in the Sheaves” to accompany their march to the saloon, offering Bran the opportunity to ask his new wife a whispered question. “And why do you care what happens to me?” he asked, his voice barely more than a growl.
“Because,” she snapped, “I’d rather be a rich wife than a poor widow.”
Bran gave a dry laugh. “What in hell makes you think I’ll ever be rich?”
“Why, this is Heaven, isn’t it? I’ve heard that the streets are paved with gold.”
Chapter Seven
M acky kept reminding herself that, for whatever reason, Bran hadn’t corrected the welcoming committee’s impression that she was the minister’s wife.
For now, she couldn’t ask questions. Later, when she’d gotten away from this crowd, would be soon enough to find out what kind of game the preacher was playing.
In the meantime, she was Mrs. Adams, Mrs. Kate Adams, wife of the new Methodist minister in the part of the Kansas Territory called Heaven. But she didn’t believe for one minute that Bran was helping her out of the goodness of his heart, and though she’d started this charade, she wasn’t sure she wanted to be used.
“ ‘Oh what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive,’ ” she said softly, trying to pry herself away from the pressure of Bran’s arm against her rib cage.
“Or ‘come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly,’ ” hewhispered as they moved through the swinging doors to the saloon.
Macky caught sight of the women standing around the edges of the room, circling a painting on the floor. “My goodness. It’s a picture of a lady.”
There was a laugh as one of the onlookers separated herself from the others and moved toward them. Her presence stopped the chatter abruptly.
“It’s your face on the floor,” Macky exclaimed.
“Yes, it’s me. Good afternoon, Mrs. Adams, is it?” the woman said, her voice laced with amusement. “A good likeness, don’t you think?”
“It’s beautiful,” Macky admitted, feeling all the more shabby in comparison to the saloonkeeper. She was even taller than Macky, but that was where the resemblance ended. Her hair looked like spun gold and her body was magnificent. There was so much of it, so nicely shaped, so openly displayed.
The marshal stepped forward. “Reverend, Mrs. Adams, this is Miss Lorraine Lake, the proprietor of Heaven’s Bell, recently renamed in honor of the new church.”
“Ah, yes,” Preston Cribbs chimed in. “Miss Lake has been gracious enough to allow us to hold Sunday-morning services in her establishment, seeing as how she doesn’t use it then, of course.”
“Of course, your congregation believes you’ll manage to convert me,” Miss Lake said, turning her attention to Bran. “Who knows, maybe you will.”
There was an instant connection between the woman and Bran, obvious to Macky if not to the others. Bran’s lips quirked at the corners and he held out his hand. “Miss Lake, is it? I’m Brandon Adams, your new messenger from God. It’s very kind of you to welcome my little flock of sheep to your—establishment, but it isn’t Sunday, is it?”
“No, but your sheep are always welcome to join my other guests,” Lorraine practically purred, pushing a long strand of golden hair behind her ear.
There was a collective gasp from the ladies of the church and Macky wondered how often they’d
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