Preacher's Wife (Sweet Town Clean Historical Western Romance Book 5) Read online

  Beulah put her hand on his shoulder, whether for comfort or to keep him still, she didn't know. Turning back to the Indian woman she repeated, "What does he need to heal?"

  "Mostly time and rest. He shouldn't do anything strenuous, not even lift a tea kettle. I will wrap him well and visit every day to bring herbs and check his healing."

  "I have too much to do to be an invalid," Matt protested. "I live alone and have many responsibilities."

  Looking back to the healer, Beulah ignored his comment. "I'll take care of him. He saved my life. The horse came down on him instead of me because he pushed me out of the way."

  "You know as well as I do that wouldn't be proper, Miss Douglass," he said.

  "This town will just view me as your servant. I don't think any talk will come of it." She paused, thinking about Mrs. Bjugstad. "Well, maybe not much talk, anyway. I'll have to bring my baby with me, but he's a calm child and shouldn't disturb your peace." Beulah felt like she didn't have any choice but to offer to help, and by all rights she should like this man. He had defended her against the entire town when she came back for Jonah. Why were there two wars going on in her belly, then? A terrible sick feeling had settled in under her ribs, while at the same time the idea of being in his company made her feel like she'd swallowed soda water, all bubbly and fizzy inside.

  "Just one more thing," Mika said as she slowly buttoned Matt's shirt. Her fingers paused and she traced a mark that wrapped around his torso, lighter in color, raised and rippled. "What happened here?" Not waiting for him to answer, she finished buttoning his shirt but not before Beulah had seen the terrible scar. She'd seen healed wounds like that before, but not since she left Georgia.

  By the time a wagon had been hired to carry Matthieu home from the Lakota midwife's soddie, the sun was low in the wide sky. He lay in the back and stared up at that bowl of blue and mentally kicked himself. Getting hurt was merely an inconvenience. The danger was in being recognized. That man he'd seen on the freight wagon, Jennings, hadn't seen him in a year and a half, since he left Minnesota. Maybe he wouldn't know him now, and the thought gave him a brief respite from worry. Matt now kept his hair long, pulled back in a tie at his nape and oiled it each day to keep it slicked back in the style. He wore the hat to hide his distinctive eyes, and long sleeves to hide the scars from blacksmithing. Being a minister could very well be the best disguise of all. He just had to stay out of sight for a few days, and wait until Jennings moved on.

  In that regard, his injury was actually a blessing because it gave him the perfect excuse to lay low. But having Beulah stay at the parsonage and nurse him could turn out to be his undoing.

  The wagon pulled up to his back door. Beulah was already there waiting on his step, carrying Jonah, her eight month old baby. He noticed she had a small carpet bag next to her, likely holding the items she would need for the time she'd be staying with him. There was also a box of books, which seemed curious.

  She sat Jonah on the grass beside the steps and joined the driver in helping Matt down. They paused at the foot of the stairs, which gave him a chance to look around the yard, trying to see it from Beulah's point of view. A rather large kitchen garden took up most of the space. A chicken house took up a corner with several clucking hens pecking at the ground. Near that was a clothesline where two white shirts hung, his preaching shirt and another spare for visiting, both long sleeved and high collared, but of a lightweight fabric. Near the house itself stood a small barn for his horse. He whistled and his mare, Rose, trotted out from behind the barn, reaching her head over the simple split rail fence that enclosed the barnyard.

  He wished he could take credit for the compact and tidy design of the property but in reality, he had kept it much as the previous preacher had left it. Even the chickens had been included, but Rose was his own, traveling with him across the entire country.

  "Looks like you have some ripe tomatoes and snap beans. I'll get to them as soon as I have you settled inside." Beulah lithely ran up the two steps to the back door and turned the knob. Leaving it wide open she ushered him into his own house.

  The driver didn't stay. Once Matt passed the threshold the burly fellow tipped his hat and went on his way. Matt looked at Beulah from under the brim of his hat and saw she wasn't paying him a bit of attention, but had run back outside and retrieved the baby and carpet bag.

  "Miss Douglass, this really isn't necessary. I can manage fine on my own."

  "Humph. And what if you fall or something? No, I'll just stay here and keep you as safe as I can until you're all better." She dropped the bag to the floor and scooted it out of the way with one booted toe. ""I'll start the stove, and while a kettle heats, I'll get you settled. Now, where is your bedroom?"

  "This is scandalous. You can't stay here. You certainly can't go in my bedroom. If you think Mrs. Bjugstad had a poor opinion of you before, she'll use this against you and me both." He put one hand on the kitchen table to support himself.

  "Well, you certainly seem to be breathing easier. That was quite a bit of hot air you just blew in my direction under the disguise of conversation." Her heart-shaped face held a pleasant expression as she delivered her dismissal of his entire argument. "I'll poke around until I find your bedroom and then I'll come back for you. You should probably just… stand there." She waved her hand in the air at him.

  By the time Beulah came back the kettle was beginning to make sounds. Matt was shocked to realize that even standing still was painful but his one attempt to move away from the support of the table made it clear to him that she was right. He needed help.

  "I've turned your bed down and found your nightshirt. I put Jonah on the floor in your parlor so I'd have both hands free to hold onto you. Now, lean on me so's I can get you in that bed."

  He realized her words were chaste enough, but there was only so much a man could take. The sweet little beauty, with her rosy brown cheeks, big dark eyes, and glossy black hair, seemed oblivious to the innuendo of her innocent comments. Obviously he couldn't continue standing in the kitchen, but he also couldn't walk without assistance. He had no other choice but to lean on her narrow shoulders, feeling the fragile bones beneath his weight, and pray to get through this trial.

  "I'm appreciative of your help but I maintain that it would be more proper for a man to come help me. The good book tells us to avoid even the appearance of sin."

  "That's a fine idea. Do you have any men friends who could walk away from their businesses, drop their chores, and leave their families for days if not weeks, to come nurse you?"

  He recognized her tone was sarcastic but determined to not answer in the same vein. "You have me there, Miss Douglass. I can't think of a soul." It was true. He hadn't really formed any friendships since he'd come to Sweet Town to take over the church.

  They paused beside the bed and she turned toward him, his arm still across her shoulders. Looking down into her face he saw there were streaks of gold in her eyes, and her lashes were so thick they created the appearance of a black liner across her lids. She licked her lips and her gaze seemed to roam over his face, still in shadow under the brim of his hat. His heart skipped a beat and he pulled her a little closer, leaning down.

  She whispered, soft breath against his face, "It's time to take off the hat, Preacher."

  A real house was far more comfortable to cook in than the little apartment over the general store. With Jonah laying on his belly, Beulah didn't have to worry about him inch-worming his way toward stairs or into a hot stove that was only ever half a step out of reach. While she looked through Pastor Whitney's larder, she'd occasionally glance out at the baby just to be safe, but all seemed well so far. he'd pushed himself up on his hands and was craning his chubby little neck to search his new environment.

  "He seems awful small to be moving around so much," Matt said.

  Beulah raised her eyes from the sack of rice she'd just found. His hat was off at last, revealing the long hair he had combed and oiled to stay tamed in its que
ue. Those pale eyes of his were all the more striking without the shadow of the hat brim over them. He leaned on the wall near where Jonah was exploring, one hand gingerly covering his wounded side. Shirtsleeves rolled up, she could see corded muscle there at odds with the physically undemanding life of a preacher. The freckles across the bridge of his nose looked like they extended onto his arms as well, or perhaps they were tiny scars, like the kind a blacksmith earned from little sparks. Without getting far too close to him, it was difficult to tell. It seemed the height of irony that a man of God would be such a visual temptation.

  "He's eight months. Some babies are crawling all over at this age and some are just about as active as bread dough." She looked over Jonah fondly, then turned her attention back to the larder.

  Matt's laugh sounded shocked. "That doesn't sound very reverent for one of God's greatest gifts."

  "Oh, I'm plenty reverent. Jonah is the sweetest blessing I ever received, but we don't do ourselves any favors pretending people aren't what they are and babies are people." Whoever had built the parsonage had known what they were doing, Beulah thought. Past the sack of rice was a trap door in the floor and beneath that was a root cellar. Tucked under the larder as it was, it would be accessible even in the harshest winter. "What do you have in the root cellar? So I know not to waste climbing down there if it's not worth it."

  "This time of year, it's just cured meat."

  That sounded promising. "Can you keep an eye on Jonah for just one moment?"

  At Matt's nod, she climbed down into the cellar. She was blind for a moment in the dim space until her eyes adjusted to the light filtering in from the larder above. Sausages of various kinds, a ham, and a bit of bacon hung from the cellar's ceiling. They'd been salt cured, then smoked to seal them. Some of the sausages caught her attention, as they were so deeply red with spices that she mistook them for black at first. She sniffed one, noting the pleasantly warm scent, and decided it was a good choice. Back up in the larder, she collected onions, garlic, and some of the fresh vegetables from the garden before noticing what else he had.

  "I haven't seen a proper spice cupboard since I left Georgia." Beulah gave Matt an approving look over her shoulder.

  He grinned. "I was born in New Orleans before my family moved north. I special order those through the mercantile so I can still get a little taste of home."

  While she got a pot of water heating to cook the rice, she kept looking at him through her lashes, trying not to be too obvious about it. Now that he'd mentioned it, there was a hint of that area in his voice, but his family must have moved when he was young because it wasn't especially strong. He had the look of some of the Creole gens de couleur libres - free people of color - she'd chanced to meet, though. They were mixed, usually French and African, though the Spanish and Creek people might be blended into their ancestry as well. Certainly, a man could come from that background and have green eyes and freckles.

  Rather than ask just what sort of family he had in New Orleans, Beulah busied herself with making their supper. The stew was rich and thick, the sausage and seasonings warm enough to burn on the way down. She cooked the snap beans with a bit of onion and garlic. The rice was the bed for the meal, topped with a pat of butter before she ladled the stew over it. Having had to make do with so little for so long, she felt quite pleased with herself when she served Matt.

  "No one's cooked anything like this for me since I left my mother's table," Matt said after grace. As soon as the prayer was done, he dug into the stew, occasionally closing his eyes in relish.

  "You must cook for yourself, though. You're the one who makes your sausage, aren't you?"

  "I am, but it's always different when someone else cooks it. Nothing tastes better than that." His eyes met hers, amusement dancing in them, and she felt her heart flip-flop in answer. "Thank you mightily, Beulah."

  "You're welcome, of course," she finally managed to get out, embarrassed by how breathy her voice sounded. "Making you supper is the least I can do after you were injured on my behalf."

  "Is there anything more you'll need here? I know you brought things with you when you came, but it might not be enough to make you comfortable."

  "I might get some more of the books from the mercantile. I like to read in the evening and I might get bored without them."

  "Oh?" Matt looked at her in interest. "Are those Karl's old books?"

  Karl Price, the brother of Sheriff Kit Price, had died some months before Beulah arrived in town, but she'd heard a little about him from the sheriff. It was his lonely little place she and Jonah had been staying in, and his library that had brought her some of the only entertainment she could find outside of her baby.

  She nodded. "He had a whole mess of books, but I'm still working my way through the ones he had on philosophy and law."

  "What sorts of philosophy books?"

  "Well, recently I've been reading this Scottish fellow, David Hume. It's very interesting, especially what he has to say about sentiment and ethics."

  Matt frowned, brow slightly furrowed. "Sentiment and ethics?"

  "That's right. See, Hume argues that ethics can't have a rational basis alone." She paused to bounce Jonah on her knee, who had begun to fuss. She held a green bean out to him and he clutched it in one chubby fist, then began gnawing on it happily.

  "I suppose that's true." Matt set his spoon down, face thoughtful. "But I'm afraid I don't see what great insight it is."

  "People argue the opposite all the time. That logic and reason can answer moral questions, when our reason will always be led by our emotions first. There's some Hume has to say that I think is nonsense, but how we determine what's right and what's just is through our compassion and empathy."

  "And even when people support terrible ideas, they're being driven by selfish emotions or fear," Matt mused. "So trying to reason people out of wickedness doesn't do much good."

  Beulah smiled sadly, thinking to all the times she had tried that. Gentle words and trying to argue that she deserved all the rights and protections of any woman hadn't done much against a man only focused on his own cruel, selfish desires.

  "No, I'm afraid it doesn't."

  The church was a small, wooden framed building sporting a high peaked roof. A bell tower completed the look, but there were no funds for a bell so it was empty for the time being. Matthieu never locked the building, allowing that it might be used as sanctuary for someone in need. As he opened the door, the sweet, earthy smell of wood engulfed him and he breathed deeply, his breath catching at the pain in his ribs.

  He hadn't seen Beulah as he left the house, but knowing she was there made the place seem homier. The aromas from supper the night before still lingered in the air, spicy and sweet, reminding him of his mother and their little house on the bayou. Perhaps that was why it felt homier, he considered. Surely it wasn't Beulah, but merely the familiar smells of his childhood, and the comfort of another soul in his house, that brought to mind domestic feelings. He felt the pull of attraction toward her, but he reminded himself that it was dangerous for them to have anything other than a friendship.

  Even though the interior was hidden in early morning darkness, he moved past the pews and beyond to the pulpit with no hesitation. He had just grasped a sheath of papers, his notes for next Sunday's sermon, when the front door squeaked.

  "Is someone there?" he called out.

  "Pastor, is that you?"

  Matt recognized Mrs. Bjugstad's voice and he grimaced. "Yes, it's me. Can I help you in some way?"

  "I need to have a word with you," she said as she bustled up the aisle toward him, where he stood next to the dais. "I understand you have a housekeeper now."

  He felt around under the slanted top of the lectern until his fingers met a glass jar of matches. Striking one, he lit a candle on the desk top. "Miss Douglass is helping me while I recover from an unfortunate injury."

  The woman's face came into the little circle of light the candle gave off. "I'm happy to
hear she's found her place in this community at last. She and her child have caused nothing but grief since last winter when Lorcan O'Cuinn found that baby."

  Matt considered carefully what to say. "I am thankful that Lorcan found Jonah in time to save his life. And thankful also to Neal Leonetti for finding Beulah and bringing her here to be reunited with her baby. Yes, there was grief and fear, but what a glorious gift of hope and love. All that's behind us now. Beulah is finding her place in Sweet Town but it's not as my housekeeper."

  "Pastor, need I remind you that you are an example for our young people and single men. If she isn't your housekeeper, what exactly is she doing there?"

  Irritation rose up in Matt and he wanted nothing more than to give this busybody a piece of his mind. Taking a deep breath wasn't possible so he paused, looking down at the pages in his hand. A line of his handwriting jumped out at him, and he considered it divine providence that he should notice it at exactly that moment. He that is slow to wrath is of great understanding: but he that is hasty of spirit exalteth folly. "Well, as you probably heard," he said slowly between clenched teeth, "I was injured yesterday and may have a broken rib. I've been cautioned to not do too much. Beulah kindly offered to come and help while I recover."

  "I know who gave you that advice to take it easy. It was that Indian medicine woman who lives with the soiled doves at the end of the road." She fairly spat the words out with disgust. "The sheriff and Emma have made them feel all too comfortable in town by marrying half-breeds."

  "As I was saying, Beulah will be helping me for a few days while I recover and then she'll go back to working with Mrs. O'Cuinn at the new laundry."

  "Yes, I heard about that. I am so happy we are to have a laundry and even happier yet that Mrs. O'Cuinn has accepted her place in our little town."