The Preacher's New Family
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Linda S. Glaz
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Chapter 1
Dakota Territory, 1881
The prairie was a cold mistress. But TJ loved her nonetheless, loved the freedom to come and go, no questions asked. It did his heart good, like a tonic. Never again would he be jammed twelve to a room as he had been in the slums of New York City.
Terrance Jonathan OâBrien, TJ to his friendsâfew as they wereâpoured the last drops of coffee into his tin cup. As he wrapped his hands around the warmth and sipped the strong, hot goodness, his gaze surveyed the open expanse of land. He took another sip, remembering the tough times after his folks had passed on.
Five years ago, when he had turned twenty-one and Uncle Michael had given him the $200 from his parents and a handful of keepsakes, TJ had left New York, and it had been the best day of his lifeâup to now. Sitting here, gazing over the prairie, he soaked in the kind of freedom only open space could provide.
TJ set down his cup and stretched the kinks out of his legs. It had been a long dayâs ride. He breathed deeply of the dusty prairie. Clear, uncluttered land. No people, no noises except that of the earth and its diminutive creatures. Crickets shouted a round of chirps, and he smiled at the interruption the noisy little critters caused in his thoughts. The sound of crickets he could tolerate; the noises of humanity, not quite as much. But in his calling as a preacher, heâd have to listen plenty.
Peaceful and free. How he loved the opportunity to pick up and go whenever he chose. He could stop for a day or two and appreciate a cold spring, a tree in the middle of nowhere, a rabbit that would soon roast crackling over an open fire then fill his belly. Never again would he listen to neighbors screaming at each other and pounding on common wallsâunhappy families fighting over a scrap of space to sleep or a loaf of bread to eat.
For two years now, heâd been preaching Godâs Word to anyone who itched to pull up a chair and listen. An empty schoolhouse in one town, a saloon in another. Maybe a neighborâs front porch with blankets as pews. Didnât matter so long as TJ could breeze into town, preach and hightail it out of there before some well-meaning mother presented her unmarried daughter for the preacherâs appreciation. Each town seemed to have an unlimited number of unmarried females looking for a sorry single fella without the sense to say no. But not this fella. The last thing he wanted was to be tied down to some anxious girl with family on her mind. No, sirree...not TJ.
Tomorrow heâd arrive in Gullywash, the town heâd recently been invited to make part of his circuit. He prayed for plenty of welcoming folks willing to listen, but not enough so that heâd feel penned in. This life presented a delicate balance between his desire for seclusion and the needs of the folks. After all, his entire reason for living was to bring the love of God to the lost, the same way it had been brought to him.
He lifted the coffeepot from the fire and sat up straight. Snaking his hand into his saddlebag, he drew out the Bible his uncle had given him when TJ had learned to read. His thumbs caressed the cover. Soft, worn leather slid beneath his touch. The words, etched on his heart, fulfilled every desire of his life. He was comfortable in the solitude of his simple life.
* * *
âMama, Mama, Mama! A manâs a-cominâ. A big man. On a horse. Near our well. Mama, Mama. Câmere, quick! He looks awful mean.â
Sarah Anne Rycroft jumped from her rocker, sending her sonâs half-patched pantsâneedle still stuck in the legâsliding to the floor. She dashed for the fireplace mantel and, stretching on the toes of her boots, hefted her late husbandâs Winchester from the rack. Her fingers trembled as she readied herself to fire if necessary. âGet away from the window and get in your room, Zach.â Breath caught in her throat. âNow!â
As her son scampered away, Sarah dashed to the front, opened the door a crack and peered around the edge of the thick maple wood. A tall man with a rough day-old beard, dressed in a long black duster, black hat, black gloves and black boots, rode high in the saddle on a bay horse that must have been eighteen hands, at least. She hadnât ever seen a bigger bay, and such an imposing, intimidating figure on its back. Zach was rightâthe man looked...well, menacing. âWhoâs there?â she called.
The man pulled a glove off and waved a hand. âMay I have a dipper of water, miss?â
âMrs. Mrs. Rycroft. My husbandâs gone to town, but he should be back any second. If youâre wanting a drink, go ahead, and then move on along.â She made sure to let the barrel of the rifle stick out the door far enough so there would be no funny business or further questions.
âYes, maâam. If Iâm not putting you out too much, Iâd like to fill my canteen and water my horse, and Iâd thank you kindly for the hospitality. Itâs a scorcher today and Iâm afraid my horse is mighty thirsty.â
Sarah stepped onto the porch, the gray weathered boards creaking slightly, the rifle heavy in her grip as she watched the man lead the bay closer to the well. Then she felt a spark of guilt over her lack of compassion for the stranger passing through her property. Nathaniel would be upset at her behavior. If he could see her standing there, ready to shoot the man through the heart, heâd have words with her.
âYou new to these parts?â she asked.
âYesâm. Riding in to see the sheriff. Heâs a friend of mine.â
Sheriff Redford. He and his wife, Molly, were friends of hers, too. âYou had breakfast today?â
âA couple of corn dodgers and leftover roasted rabbit when I rose.â
The sun burned straight overhead, shooting blinding rays, reminders that the man had likely gotten up six hours ago. Nathaniel had always been able to eat as much as she could cook, and this fellow probably had a powerful hunger by now. âWhatâs your name? What are you doing in these parts?â
âTJ, maâam. Iâm the new circuit rider. Iâll be in town over Sunday to preach. Didnât mean to frighten your boy.â
Since when did Gullywash have a preacher?
âThisâll be my first time here. Sheriff Redford invited me when he picked up a prisoner last month and heard me in the pulpit. I guess I do all right according to some folks.â
Nice-looking man for a preacher, but too young to be able to understand what was in his Bible...which was nothing. Nothing that made any sense to her. Not anymore. And besides, looks had little to do with it. So what?
However, the hat, gloves, black jacketâwhy, the sun must be baking him alive. She should at least be polite. After settling the rifle against the side of the door, she put a hand to her forehead and shaded her eyes. She attempted a smile but realized it must look painted on her face; she hadnât smiled much lately. âYou look mighty green to be a preacher. Canât be much older than I am. How do you expect to teach folks?â
âI can assure you, Iâm old enough to preach and then some.â He slipped out of the saddle and Sarah reached for the rifle again.
She bit the side of her lip, trying to decide whether or not to give the man some bread and honey, when she heard a scream. âMah-ma!â
Sarah spun around and she dropped the rifle to the porch with a loud crash. The scream had come from the back of the house. She dashed down the porch two steps at a time and ran around the side of the house, where she froze. Her spindly four-year-old clung to the edge of the roof, fingers clawing to keep from falling. He screamed her name. âMama, catch me. I canât hold on no more!â
âZach!â Her feet froze to the ground. Not again. God, please, not again. I canât lose my baby, too.
With the charge of a bull, the preacher pushed past her. He stopped below Zach and held up both arms. âDrop down, boy. Câmon. Iâll catch you.â
âMama? Mama! Iâm falling!â
âLet go. Iâve got you.â The preacher reached both arms up, his fingers nearly touching Zachâs feet. The span of his limbs was near as wide as a sturdy treeâs.
Sarahâs heart thundered in her ears as her precious boy dropped into the manâs grasp. She rushed to their side, her arms half around Zach and half around the stranger. She buried her face in Zachâs teary face. âOh, Zach, whatever were you doing up on the roof? You know better. Shame on you for scaring me. Are you sure youâre all right?â
His tears dampened his shirt and he licked the moisture from his upper lip. âI climbeded up the tree and out on the roof. I was tryinâ to pâtect you, Mama. Like Daddy. I had a rock I coulda throwed at that man if he hurt you.â He dropped a threatening frown at the preacher and hugged Sarah tighter. âS-or-ry. I dinnunt mean to scare you.â He looked at the big man with as much courage as fearâher four-year-old boy doing his best to take his fatherâs place.
At first the preacher shot the boy a look mean as a bearâs, but all the time, he held tight. âBoy, you should obey your mama. Youâve scared her half to death.â Then he smiled, a gentle smile that said all was forgiven and gave his forceful face a kind expression. âYou all right, young fella?â
âUh-huh. Iâm sorry, Mama.â
Sarah, lip quivering as much as Zachâs, turned to the stranger. âThank you, Mr...?â
The man pressed Zach into her arms and held out a hand. âOâBrien, maâam. TJ OâBrien at your service. I have to say, you must be proud. One mighty brave fellow you have here.â
âYou certainly were at our service.â She snuggled Zach closer until he arched his back and turned into the little man who had tried his best to take her husbandâs place as her protector.
âMama, put me down. Iâm not a baby.â
He was definitely not a baby. In fact, he was growing up much too fast for her. Turning from blond to light brown, his curls had begun to look more and more like Nathanielâs hair, thick and silky and loaded with the smell of grass and sunshine. Oh, how she missed the love of that sweet man. From the day she had turned sixteen, he had been the one and only man in her life. Paâs hardest worker. Fresh hay and manure clung to his clothes most of the time. Sweat and sweetness. And heâd kissed her on her birthday. Yes, she saw Nathaniel in Zachâs brown eyes every day.
A tear slipped down her cheek, and she swiped at it before she could embarrass herself further. Too late for that nowâZach and TJ had both seen.
The manâs blue-gray eyes blinked in his handsome face, which was filled with compassion. âAre you all right, maâam?â
âI am, Mr. OâBrien. Wonât you come in and have a bowl of soup and a piece of warm bread with honey? I do believe we can spare that much to show our appreciation.â She headed back toward the porch and motioned for him to follow.
His face drew into a frown, but not until after heâd licked his lips at her mention of soup. âWhat about your husband, maâam? Wonât he be hungry when he gets home? Iâd hate to finish his dinner for him.â
Her footsteps drew to a halt. Her husband. Maybe...maybe he could be trusted. He was a preacher, after all.
âMr. OâBrien. I apologize for my falsehood. Forgive me. I have to be careful out here alone. My husband passed on two years ago. You see here a sad excuse for a farmer and her son. I can shoot, at least, enough so we survive. And ZachâZach takes care of the small animals on the farm.â
âAnimals?â He glanced around until she saw him notice the barn.
âYes, two dozen chickens and five piglets for my son to see to, while I take care of the larger ones. Three cows, two calves and three horses. Two of the horses as fine a set as youâll see.â
âNice little spread.â
âWe get by. No luxuries to speak of, but we have plenty of food and lots of fresh milk for Zach.â They did get by until the banker told her Nathaniel hadnât paid up on all the land. She either forked over the rest of the money by the end of September or she lost the farm. Well, no need for the preacher to know about all their sorrows. That was tomorrowâs problem, not todayâs.
âIâd be mighty grateful for a home-cooked meal, maâam. If youâre sureââ
âPlease, Mr. OâBrien. Call me Sarah or Sarah Anne. The maâam makes me feel older than my years.â Older than her years. At Nathanielâs death sheâd felt much more than twenty-three. And now, two long, hard years later, she felt like an old woman, and probably looked like one, too. She couldnât help reaching up to tuck loose strands of hair behind her ear. In spite of feeling as if she were betraying Nathaniel, she couldnât help but notice the fine features of the preacher man. Even after a long, dusty ride, he looked good.
âThen youâll have to call me TJ. All my friends do.â He held out a warm, callused hand. Her skin tingled when she touched him. âAnd weâll be able to call ourselves friends once we break bread and I help with the chores to pay you back.â
âOh, no. I couldnât let you do that. You saved Zachary. Iâm the one obliged.â
âYes, maâam. The only way Iâd feel right to impose. I pay my own way.â
Sarah nodded and picked up the fallen rifle on the way into her house. As they entered, TJ took it from her and placed it back over the mantel. She shivered as their hands touched.
âAgain, please forgive my unkind welcome. And itâs thoughtful of you to offer your help.â She indicated their seats, making sure she kept a nice comfortable distance from him. It would feel good to let someone else do her chores for a day. Maybe sheâd even feed him supper...if he did a good dayâs work. Mr. OâBrien took their hands and bowed his head. She pulled against his grasp, but he held tight. Thatâs right; a preacher would want to pray. Well, she could close her eyes and pretend the God he was praying to hadnât taken away her wonderful husband. And she could ask forgiveness for allowing the preacherâs hand to feel warm and comforting around hers for the third time in the past few minutes.
* * *
The ladyâs hand squeezed his fingers in a way that sent shocks of surprise straight through him. TJ peeked from under his brow. Obviously uncomfortable with prayers, she squirmed in her seat. And the little fellow gazed around the room as if heâd never heard a prayer spoken before.
These were hurting folks. But he had to remember that lots of folks were hurting hereabouts; these two had no more right to his time than anyone else. No man to take care of them. The lady a mere bit of a thing. He groaned at the direction his mind veered. He had to help with chores and move along. This was exactly why he chose to travel around. No staying in one place long enough to get attached to folks.
This weekend heâd be preaching in Gullywash and staying in the sheriffâs guest room. Once a month, heâd make his modest circuit, preach, collect enough to keep him in coffee and then make the round again. Absolutely no one to tie him to any one place.
The delicious smells of beef soup, warm bread and hot coffee mingling together invaded his thoughts and prayers until he lost the battle. âAmen.â
The soft voice mimicked his. âAmen.â
âA-man, too,â Zach added. âWhatâs that mean, Mama? Why you guys talkinâ about a man?â
Sarahâs face zinged. âZach. Thatâs impolite to question our guest.â She turned to TJ, red-faced. âIâm sorry. Since Nathaniel passed, Iâm afraid Iâve allowed him more freedom to express himself to adults.â
âDonât pay it any mind, maâam. Iâll explain to him after we eat. Uh, Sarah. If you donât mind.â
She looked him in the eye and said, âI donât mind. Itâs most kind of you.â
He blew out a huge unexpected sigh and picked up his spoon. âSmells mighty fine, maâam.â
She gazed anywhere but at him as she sliced the bread. Probably just as ill at ease with his presence as he was with hers. Only she looked very fine for being uneasy. Very fine indeed.
The boy giggled and clapped his hands. âOh, boy. You gonna tell me about a man?â
âZach.â She patted the boyâs hand.
TJ grinned at the happy little face. He leaned toward Sarah. âBe happy to oblige, Sarah. Youngsters out on the prairie donât often get to see a preacher. Theyâre curious, is all.â Her name slid off his lips like honey. He fought against the growl in his chest. Heâd eat, talk to the boy, chop a load of wood to pay for the meal and make for town. The spacious room, full of homey knickknacks, had become stuffy. He had the sense it was closing in on him. He tugged at his collar as a piece of the sweet, warm bread stuck in his throat. He grabbed his coffee and choked it down.
The inviting home, the kindness of this woman, the freckle-faced boy. All three suddenly added to his discomfort. He didnât want these feelings. Didnât want attachments.
With a slight clearing of his throat, he took another swig.
âYou okay, mis-ter?â Zach asked. âYou look kinda funny.â
Nowhere near as funny as he felt.
