The Redhead and the Preacher: A Loveswept Historical Romance by Sandra Chastain Page A

crossed paths with Miss Lake before. Based on the sheepish expressions of discomfort on the men’s faces, she’d bet they’d all put a foot on the bar rail at one time or another.
    Macky had been in the saloon back in Promise more than once, bringing Todd home—until he’d finally moved out and dared her to torment him again. But never had she seen a woman like Lorraine.
    It was the devil that made her do it. Macky had no other explanation for her planting herself firmly against Bran’s side and smiling up at him as she thought an adoring wife might do. “Do call me Kate,” she said. “Mrs. Adams is just too formal. Thank you for making us welcome.”
    It wasn’t Trouble’s saucy remarks but the sharp heel of her heavy boot that caught Bran’s attention and reminded him that his cover as a minister had to be complete or it could be ruined. He didn’t know which, if any, of the men watching might be the one he was after. But for now, he’d better play it out—all the way.
    “Yes. Thank you, Miss Lake,” Bran said.
    Macky’s words hadn’t erased the twinkle from Lorraine’s eyes. The citizens of Heaven might be taken in by Macky’s claims, but she was afraid that fooling Lorraine Lake was going to be a bigger task. She was certain of it when Lorraine said, “Maybe you’d like to begin our redemption by leading us in a word of prayer, Reverend, before we enjoy the refreshments the ladies of your church have prepared.”
    “I—I …” Bran was at a loss for words. If Macky hadn’t been sure that he was masquerading as a preacher before, she was now.
    The saloonkeeper went on. “I might even contribute something spirituous to the occasion—to welcome you.”
    I’ll bet you will
, Macky wanted to say. In spite of their story, Lorraine had taken one look at Bran and set her sights on him. To stay out of jail Macky needed Bran. She’d just have to find a way to keep him from Lorraine’s clutches untilshe could get away. The method hadn’t come clear yet, but Macky would find it.
    “Yes,” Marshal Larkin agreed, “a word of prayer might be in order.”
    It was the marshal’s agreement, or his challenge, that forced Bran to gather his wits and bow his head.
    The crowd grew quiet.
    There was a cough and someone shushed someone else.
    The silence continued.
    Macky nudged Bran with her elbow and risked cracking one eye to study his face.
    “Father of all,” he finally began, “He who was there first, before any man or woman, or rain or wind or beast, hear our lament. We ask you this day to make our steps firm and our hearts good.”
    He stopped.
    Macky took a chance and added, “Amen!”
    The members of the congregation looked at Bran and back at each other, unable to hide their bewilderment before Mr. Cribbs let out an echoing “Amen!” The others followed and surged forward to shake Bran’s hand and introduce themselves.
    Reluctantly, Macky allowed herself to be separated from Bran by the ladies. They insisted that she taste every dish laid out on the bar, each giving her a description of its ingredients, each tactfully ignoring the nearly nude figure painted on the floor.
    She followed their lead, dutifully eating meat pies, cakes, apple dumplings, and a few dishes she couldn’t name. One very heavy woman with several chins held out a dish of what looked for all the world like animal feet.
    “We don’t have many hogs to kill, Mrs. Adams. But I always put the feet back to brine. You’re going to love my pickled pig’s feet.”
    It could have been the rich food after she had eaten nothing more than a bit of meat for days. It could have been overindulgence in Harriet’s special tea or it could have beenthe sight of the pig’s feet. In any case, Macky took a deep desperate breath and held her stomach as she began to heave.
    “Oh, dear, I think I’m going to—”
    “Don’t you worry, child,” Mrs. Cribbs said, nodding her head in understanding. “Come with me.”
    Before Macky knew