Introduction

She's an outlaw; he's a preacher. Both are in need of a miracle.

Sarah Prescott has never known a respectable life. Just a hardscrabble childhood and brothers who taught her to shoot straight.

Justin Wells left Boston in disgrace, heading out alone on the dusty trail to Texas. But when the once-respected clergyman encounters a feisty redhead in handcuffs with a dying US Marshal at her side, their journey takes a dramatic turn.

His high society expectations and Sarah's outlaw habits clash from the start. With a price on her head and a sweet orphan in tow, Justin and Sarah make the difficult journey toward Rocky Creek. There justice will be meted out. Perhaps--they hope--with a healthy portion of grace.

Filled with mishaps, laughs, and adventure, Margaret Brownley's inspiring romance will keep readers cheering for Sarah as she struggles to become a true lady.

Editorial Review

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Excerpt

Vultures signaled trouble ahead.

“Whoa, boy.” Reverend Justin Wells tugged on the reins

of his horse, bringing his brown gelding to a standstill.

Adjusting the brim of his dusty felt hat, he narrowed his

eyes against the bright afternoon sun and peered across the

wide, arid plains. Trees grew directly ahead of him, the first he’d seen since leaving St. Louis five days prior. The graceful, tall sycamores suggested the welcome presence of water, perhaps a stream.

He mopped his damp brow with a kerchief, then lifted his

eyes upward. They were vultures, all right. No question about it. The scavengers circled overhead on broad, outstretched wings, scanning the ground in waiting silence.

Something or someone was dying. An animal no doubt.

He’d passed his share of buffalo skulls and cattle carcasses in recent days, and each had made him ruminate on dying and the meaning of life.

Born and raised in Boston, he never planned to travel

across country, never really had a hankering for adventure.

Not like most men he knew. Certainly he never expected to

leave his hometown in disgrace.

He reached for his canteen, every muscle in his body

protesting. He wasn’t just saddle sore; his back ached from the restless nights spent on the hard, unyielding ground. Sleep, if it came at all, had been fleeting at best and offered little respite from his troubled thoughts.

He pulled off the cork top of his tin canteen and lifted it

to his parched lips. Never one to question God’s will in the past, it disturbed him that he questioned it now.

Texas!

What possible reason could God have for sending him to

a rough, untamed town in Texas?

He thought of all the work left undone in Boston. To be

separated from the congregation he loved seemed a fate worse than death. Though what choice did he have but to accept God’s will?

Behind him, Moses, his pack mule, made a strange

whinnying sound that ended in a loud hee-haw. The short,

thick head moved from side to side; the long ears twitched.

Having learned to trust the animal’s instincts, Justin felt a sense of unease. With increased alertness, he rose in his saddle and scanned the area ahead. A movement in the trees caught his attention. A previously unnoticed horse stood in the shade.

At first he thought it was a wild mustang that had strayed

away from its herd. Upon closer observation, he realized his mistake. This horse was saddled.

He glanced at the still-circling buzzards and a sense of

urgency shot through him. “Let’s go, boy.” Digging his heels gently into his gelding’s ribs, he galloped along the trail, kicking up dust behind him.

Moses followed close behind, the pots and pans tied to the

mule’s pack clanking like old rusty chains.

Moments later, Justin dismounted, stabbed the ground

with a metal picket, and staked his horse. He approached the bay cautiously, his gaze scanning the nearby terrain for its owner.

Tethered to a sapling, the horse pawed the ground and

neighed, its long black tail swishing back and forth. Something— a red neckerchief—fluttered from a nearby bush.

Leaving horses and mule behind, he followed a narrow

path toward the stream, stopping to pick up the kerchief en

route.

Two bodies lay side by side in the grass, and he hurried

toward them, searching for signs of life. One man wore a

badge on his black vest, identifying him as a U.S. Marshal.

The other man, judging by the handcuffs, was his prisoner.

Justin kneeled by the lawman’s side and felt for a pulse.

The man’s eyes flickered open and his parched lips quivered.

He had been shot. Blood had seeped through his clothes and

trickled to the ground.

“Don’t talk,” Justin said. “Save your strength. I’ll get you some water.”

The marshal reached for Justin’s arm. “Promise me—” He

coughed. “My prisoner . . . promise—” He spoke in a murmur

that was almost drowned out by a sudden gust of wind rippling through the tall prairie grass. “Take . . . to . . . Texas—”

Justin sat back on his heels in surprise. “Texas? You want

me to take the prisoner to Texas?”

The lawman nodded slightly and closed his eyes, his

breathing labored.

Intent upon getting the marshal water, Justin straightened.

A moaning sound, soft as a kitten’s first mew, made him

take a closer look at the prisoner. That’s when he saw the

man’s foot move.

Dropping down on his knees by the prisoner’s side, Justin

leaned over him. “Take it easy, lad.” The prisoner’s face was covered in dust, but he appeared to be a young man, cleanshaven, probably still in his teens. The boy’s youth would probably account for his ill-chosen bright red boots, which looked all the more garish in full sunlight.

“Just stay put.” Justin squeezed the man’s slight shoulder.

“I’ll get you something to drink.” There was nothing to be

done about the boots.

Returning to his horse, Justin retrieved the canteen tied to his saddle, then hurried to the fast-running stream. Removing the stopper, he dipped the canteen into the cool, clear waters and rushed back to the injured men, chasing away one of the vultures that had landed nearby.

“Here.” Lowering himself onto his knee again, he slid one

arm beneath the marshal’s head and lifted the canteen to the man’s swollen lips. The lawman took a sip and then slumped back as if it took all his energy to swallow. His eyes open, he looked worried or distressed, maybe both.

“Tell my . . . f-family—”

Justin tried to reassure him. “You’ll be all right,” he said.

He didn’t know anything about bullet wounds. It wasn’t the

kind of thing taught at Boston Theological Seminary. Still, he couldn’t just let the man die. There had to be something he could do.

But first things first. He turned to the prisoner. Slipping

his hand beneath the young man’s shoulders, he lifted the

youth’s head. The man’s wide-brimmed slouch hat was

crushed behind him, the leather strap still beneath his smooth chin. Justin pulled the felt hat off and—much to his surprise— long red hair tumbled out of the crown.

Justin froze. Not sure if he could believe his eyes, he

blinked and took a closer look. There was no mistake; the

prisoner was a woman!

Two

Even before Sarah Prescott’s eyes flickered open, she sensed something had changed. The sun didn’t seem quite as bright or the heat as unrelenting as it had been previously. Something or someone blocked the sunlight, but before she could determine whether friend or foe she drifted off again. Now, she saw blue. Or was it green? Something. She imagined herself running along a sweet-scented meadow, free as the wind that touched her fevered brow. Then it hit her. It wasn’t the wind she felt; it was something else, something soft and gentle and refreshingly cool.

She tried to sit up, but a weight of some kind held her

down. Hands. Strong yet gentle hands. She lay back, willing

the fog in her head to clear.

A face floated into view, the face of a man—not the lawman,

but a stranger. A stranger with clear, blue eyes and a

handsome, square face that was all at once strong and kind.

He knelt by her side and, cupping her chin in his hand,

sponged her forehead with tender strokes. He then lifted her by the shoulders and held a canteen to her dry lips. The water tasted sweet, but it hurt to swallow and she couldn’t take much more than a sip at a time.

He lowered her gently. “How do you feel?”

She gazed up at him, still confused. The sun seemed less

bright and she realized she lay beneath the shade of a black willow tree. The stranger must have carried her.

She lifted her hand to her head, surprised to find that her

handcuffs had been removed. She tried to sit up.

“Whoa, there,” he said, his strong fingers pressing into

her shoulder. “Take it easy. Some rest and food and you’ll be good as new.”

She settled back on the canvas roll that served as a pillow, aware that her hat had been removed and her hair had come loose. “Who . . . who are you?”

“Name’s Justin Wells. Reverend Justin Wells.”

Surprised, she stared at him. She pictured preachers old

and stooped-shouldered, lacking in humor. This one stood

straight and tall, his broad shoulders straining against his white shirt, rolled up at the sleeves.

“A preacher, eh?”

“That I am.” Her surprise seemed to amuse him, and a

glint of humor danced in his eyes. His mouth turned up in a

grin.

“Talk about dumb luck.”

The grin left his face and his dark eyebrows arched

upward. “Is there a problem?”

“No,” she muttered. “No problem.” She lowered her

lashes. Of all things, a preacher.

“And your name is . . . ?”

She opened one eye and studied him. The wind ruffled

his thick black hair, but his gaze never wavered. “My name’s Sarah.”

“Sarah, huh?”

Something in his voice made her open the other eye and

regard him with suspicion. “You have a problem with my

name?”

“Not at all. I think it’s a beautiful name. A biblical name.”

He didn’t look like a preacher, but he sure sounded like

one. “You’re joshin’ me, right?”

“No, honest. Sarah’s in the Bible.”

She considered this for a moment. If what he said was

true, why hadn’t she heard about it before now? Thinking he

might be poking fun at her, she glared at him. But he looked solemn as soap.

He drew the tip of his finger along his upper lip. Unlike

most men, he was clean-shaven, and this gave him an open,

honest appearance that made her regret having to be secretive.

“Did you know that ‘Sarah’ originally meant contentious?”

“Contentious?” She repeated the word slowly, trying to

think if she ever heard it before.

“Quick-tempered,” he offered.

“You don’t have to tell me what it means,” she snapped.

Sooner or later she would have figured it out for herself.

“It wasn’t until she turned eighty and gave birth to a

prince that she became known as Sarah, the princess,” he

added.

Sarah had never heard of anything so ridiculous in all

her born days. “This Sarah woman had a baby when she was

eighty?”

He nodded.

“If that don’t beat all.”

“It was a miracle,” the preacher said gently.

“You call it what you want, mister. But any woman who

has a baby at that age ain’t got both oars in the water.”

“I guess that’s one way to look at it.” He studied her for a moment. “What’s the rest? Sarah what?”

“I ain’t got no rest,” she said. She wasn’t about to tell him

she was a Prescott. Just ’cuz he was a preacher was no reason to think he wouldn’t recognize her name.

“What should I call you?”

Her eyes met his. “Call me Sarah.”

“It’s customary for a man to address a woman by her surname.

Miss—?” He waited.

“I never did cotton much to being called miss,” she said.

“Makes it sound like I’m missin’ out on somethin’ just ’cuz I ain’t got me no husband. Just call me Sarah.”

He grinned. “You sure do have a different way of looking

at things.”

She wondered if he meant that as a compliment or criticism.

It was hard to tell if he was serious. He didn’t speak like

anyone she knew. He pronounced each word fully with no

clipped vowels or lazy drawls, and she wondered if perhaps he was part Irish.

“Where you from?” she asked.

“Boston,” he said. “And you?”

She shrugged. “Here and there.”

He accepted her answer without question. “So what happened?” he prodded. “Who shot the marshal?”

“Never saw the scoundrel before in my life,” she replied.

She gave an indignant toss of her head, and the world spun

circles around her.

He placed a steadying hand on her shoulder. “Take it easy.”

Not one to pay much heed to physical ailments, she

pushed his hand away. “The fool man ambushed us and then

done stole my horse.”

The preacher sat back on his haunches and regarded her

thoughtfully. “You better rest for a while.” He turned his

attention to the marshal, dabbing the man’s feverish face with a cool, wet cloth.

“He ain’t lookin’ so good,” she said.

She glanced at the two horses grazing a short distance

away, thinking about the attack. She had pleaded with the

marshal to stop so she could rest her weary bones. He cufflinked her to himself and tucked the key into his saddlebags before letting her dangle her feet in the fresh, cool waters of the stream. As she and the marshal returned to the horses, they were ambushed without so much as a warning.

“If I ever get my hands on that no-good thief, he’ll be cold

as a wagon wheel,” she vowed. She glanced at the preacher for a sign of objection, but his face was oddly expressionless.

Whatever he was thinking, he kept it to himself.

Not that she cared what he thought. That scoundrel shot

Marshal Owen in cold blood and left them both to die. What

was she supposed to do? Forgive and forget?

“So why is the marshal holding you prisoner?” the

preacher asked.

She stiffened at his question. “I reckon that’s my bus’ness.”

He studied her intently but didn’t pursue the matter further.

“Here, have some more water.”

This time he watched her drink from his canteen, unassisted.

Then he carefully unwrapped a small wedge of cheese

and a generous portion of hard bread and handed it to her.

“Since you haven’t eaten in a while, I think you should

take it nice and easy,” he cautioned.

Ignoring his warning, she stuffed the food into her mouth.

His dark brows slanted in a worried frown, but he said

nothing until she had finished every last crumb. “That should tide you over for a while.”

He handed her the canteen. After taking another sip, she

tried to stand, fighting off the dizziness. The preacher held her down with a firm hand, and she glared up at him. “You ain’t keepin’ me here ag’inst my will.”

“I think the marshal has something to say about that,” he

said, releasing her. “It would save us both a lot of trouble if you just sat back and concentrated on getting your strength back.”

“My strength is back,” she argued. She tried standing,

again, this time more slowly. A wave of dizziness washed over her, but she stubbornly remained on her feet.

“I’m not stayin’ here,” she added when her head stopped

spinning. Though still light-headed, she started toward the

horses, but in her present state she was no match for him. In one easy movement, he clamped his hand around her arm,

surprising her with his strength. He might be a city-born

preacher, but he was no weakling.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said in a low, soothing

voice, his fingers wrapped tightly around her wrist. He waited for her to stop struggling, then he calmly snapped the marshal’s handcuffs in place.

Furious, she pulled away and lashed out at him. “You have

no right to do that! You ain’t no lawman.”

“Sorry,” he said, and he actually sounded sincere. “It’s for your own good. I don’t want you taking off in your condition.”

“My condition?” She studied him from the corner of her

eye. “You make it sound like I’m gonna have me a baby.”

The preacher’s face turned red. Obviously, he wasn’t

used to plain talk. “I-I didn’t mean to suggest you were in

a . . . f-family way,” he stammered.

He looked so uncomfortable, Sarah almost felt sorry for

him. “Now don’t go getting yourself all in a powder,” she

said. “Take these things off me and I won’t give it another

thought.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, “but I can’t do that. I need you to stay in place while I take the bullet out of the marshal’s shoulder.”

Turning his back on her, he set about stacking rocks in a

circle for a fire pit.

Exasperated, she flopped down on the ground and quietly

seethed. She decided her only option was to watch the

preacher’s every move until she figured out a plan. “Know

your enemies” was one rule she had learned early in life.

Though, she had to admit, never before had she met a foe

more pleasing to the eyes.

It wasn’t often that she saw a man whose face wasn’t

scarred and whose nose was straight as the day he was born.

Nor could she remember the last time she’d met a man who

didn’t smell of whisky and tobacco. Instead, the preacher

smelled of sunshine and something else that filled her with a strange and unfamiliar longing.

Trying not to appear obvious, she kept a wary eye on him.

He made several futile attempts to build a fire, and she shook her head in disbelief. The man knew about the Bible, but didn’t know horsefeathers about the fundamentals of plain old livin’. He was as useless as a sundial in the shade. If she had to depend on him for survival, she was in worse shape than she thought.

Her disbelief grew as he heaped dry grass onto a mound,

tossed in a small piece of green wood, and struck a safety

match. As would be expected, the grass burned bright for a

moment or two before the flames died in a cloud of gray

smoke.

She coughed and turned her head against the haze that

drifted her way. “You might try buffalo chips.” She nodded

toward the trail. He gave her a dubious frown.

“The chips make a nice hot fire, with no stink,” she added.

“Is that so?” He sounded like he’d never heard of such a

thing, and she could only shake her head in wonder. He tossed the last of the green wood and started toward the area she indicated.

“Be sure you pick out the dry ones,” she called after him,

though she couldn’t imagine anyone doing otherwise. “And

don’t forget to give ’em a good kick before pickin’ ’em up.”

He turned to stare at her, his brows raised in question.

“You want me to kick them?”

“You’d be amazed at how many critters live under a chip.

If you don’t want to end up in a terr’torial dispute with a scorpion, you best pay heed.”

He acknowledged her warning with a tip of his hat and

continued on his way.

He returned a short while later, his arms full. He dropped

the chips in a pile and started tossing them one by one into the pit. In no time flat, hot flames licked the air.

“See? What did I tell you?” she said. “Simple as sin.” She

immediately regretted her words. Mentioning sin in front of

a preacher was askin’ for trouble. “I mean—”

“I know what you mean,” he said.

That was it? No lecture? No sermon? Curious, she studied

him, noting the warm glow of leaping flames reflected in

his eyes.

He looked straight at her and she quickly turned away,

irritated at herself for being caught staring.

“Have you done much camping out in the wilderness, like

this?” he asked.

Thinking he was mocking her, she stiffened, ready to

defend herself. Seeing nothing derisive on his face, she bit back her angry retort.

“This ain’t campin’ out. This is plain old livin’.”

His mouth dipped in a frown. “Don’t you have a home? A

family?”

“Like I told you before, I ain’t got no husband.”

“What about parents?” he persisted. “Or brothers and

sisters?”

“I reckon I come down on the short side of family,” she

said, purposely keeping her answers vague. “But I don’t let

myself worry about it none. You have to play the fiddle you

have.” She watched him with keen interest. “What about you?

Are you hitched?”

“No, I’m not married,” he replied, and she detected a

tightness in his voice.

“You have something ag’inst gittin’ hitched?” she asked.

“No, nothing like that. My church work takes up all my

time.” He studied her a moment. “What’s your excuse?”

“I don’t reckon there’s a man alive who would want me for

his wife.” She shrugged. “Maybe when I’m eighty.”

He surprised her with his laughter, a full-hearted resonance both deep and rich, and more than anything, catching.

She grinned at him. What do you know? She done found

a preacher with a sense of humor.

The smile died abruptly as he kneeled beside the lawman

and carefully removed his bloodied shirt. Next, he pulled a

knife out of his boot and lowered the blade into the bright

orange flames.

She regarded him with suspicion. “Have you ever removed

a bullet?”

“Never.”

“Figures.”

He glanced at her. “I suppose you have.”

“I’ve removed my share,” she said.

It was obvious by his dubious expression that he didn’t

believe her. As if she cared what he believed.

Knife in hand, he bowed his head and closed his eyes in

prayer. “Dear heavenly Father, Almighty God, Creator of

heaven and earth . . .”

On and on he went. Not one to sit still for long, she

shifted her body impatiently. If the marshal didn’t die before the end of the prayer, that in itself would be a miracle.

“Oh, God, my strength and my salvation . . .”

Growing even more restless, Sarah opened her eyes,

though she kept her head bent low. She thought about the

simple prayers she’d uttered all those years ago—prayers to

save her papa, prayers to save her ma.

All these years she’d blamed God for not answering them.

Maybe she had only herself to blame for not using the right

words. Or for not addressing God with all those highfalutin’ names. Feeling guilty, she forced herself to concentrate on the preacher’s every word.

“Amen.”

She breathed a sigh of relief but said nothing.

Justin leaned over the lawman and gently lowered the

knife. Owen squirmed and let out a bloodcurdling scream.

The preacher fell back, the knife still in his hand.

She rolled her eyes. “You better let me do it,” she said.

Judging by his pinched white face, the preacher was about to faint and that’s all they needed.

“You serious?” he asked. “Can you really remove a bullet?”

He gave her a long, penetrating look. “This isn’t a trick,

is it? So you can get away?”

“Where’s your faith?” she asked evenly.

The question clearly startled him. He stepped back as if

punched in the face, a shadow of indecision on his forehead.

“Why would you want to help a man who’s holding you

prisoner?”

“Owen, here, has three young’uns,” she said. “And I don’t

aim to sit and watch you make orphans out of ’em.”

The preacher’s expression softened. “That’s mighty nice

of you to be concerned about his welfare.”

“I told you, I’m doin’ it for his young’uns. No child

deserves to be an orphan.” Hoping he hadn’t noticed the

telltale bitterness that had crept unbidden into her voice, she watched him with a sinking feeling. She knew from his furrowed brow that he hadn’t missed the rancor, but it was the softness in his eyes that told her he’d guessed from where it came.

Alarmed by the compassion she saw on his face and the

way it made her feel all warm and soft inside, she lifted her chin in open defiance.

She was used to people whispering behind her back or

staring at her with accusations. But never before had anyone treated her like she was a real person, maybe even a good person, and she wasn’t sure how to handle it.

“Don’t go looking at me like that, you hear?” she said

irritably.

“Like what?” he asked, sounding genuinely confused.

“Like I’m some sort of—” She glared at him. “We’re

wastin’ time. If we don’t get that bullet out soon, it’ll be too late.”

He reached into his pocket for the key to the handcuffs.

After the cuffs fell away, she rubbed the circulation back

into her wrists before taking the knife from him.

She held the shiny dagger in a flame, turning the staghorn

hilt slowly in her hand until the blade turned red. It was the sorriest looking knife she’d ever laid eyes on, the serrated cutting edge ill-equipped for the task at hand. Still, it was all she had to work with.

Waving the knife in the air to cool, she knelt by the marshal’s side. “You better hold him down,” she said.

She waited for the preacher to position himself opposite

her. With one hand on Owen’s uninjured shoulder and the

other on his thighs, the preacher pressed down.

She pulled off a piece of the dark brown bark from a

nearby willow and pushed it into the marshal’s mouth. “Bite

down hard,” she said. “You hear?”

Owen stared up at her, his glazed eyes round, but said

nothing.

“Alcohol would help,” Sarah said.

“So would a doctor,” the preacher replied.

As she attempted to dislodge the bullet, the marshal

started to bleed profusely. Fortunately, the bullet wasn’t

embedded in bone. Not having any tongs in which to grab

it, she tried to work the tip of the knife beneath the slug.

The marshal cried out and she drew back.

“Hold on,” the preacher said, softly, repositioning his

hands on the patient. “It’ll soon be over.”

He signaled his readiness with a nod of his head.

Taking a deep breath, she pushed the knife into the fleshy

wound. She couldn’t see anything for all the blood. The marshal squirmed and yelled whenever her knife touched bone, and it was only after he passed out that she was able to probe deeper.

Finding the bullet, she gently worked the tip of her knife

under the lead and flipped it upward. The slug flew up and

landed on the ground nearby.

She glanced up at the preacher, whose head was turned

away. “You can look now,” she said. “Have you got a clean

rag?”

The preacher handed her a clean kerchief from his saddlebag, and she used it to press down on the open wound. “I need you to fetch me some tumbleweed.” She pointed into the distance.

The preacher frowned. “Tumbleweed?”

“A trick I learned from an old medicine man. You pour

tumbleweed tea into the wound to prevent infection.”

The preacher nodded and walked away. His step faltered

as he glanced back over his shoulder and his eyes met hers.

Apparently, he thought she was going to take off—and if she

had the brain of a bird, she would.

“Stop gawkin’ and hurry!” she called after him. “He’s

gonna bleed to death.”

He returned moments later, carrying a ball of the thorny

weed on the end of a long stick.

While she pressed on the wound to slow the bleeding, she

told him how to brew two different types of tea, one for flushing out the wound and one for drinking.

Following her directions, he took two tin cups from the

marshal’s saddlebags and dropped pieces of tumbleweed into

one and chunks of willow bark into the other, adding hot water to both.

After the tumbleweed brew had cooled, Sarah flushed the

marshal’s wound with it and tied a strip of fabric torn from one of the preacher’s clean spare shirts around it.

Then she carefully spooned warm willow bark tea into the

injured marshal’s mouth. The bitter taste shocked him into

consciousness, and he sputtered and groaned.

“This will help with the swellin’ and fever,” she explained.

She shoved another spoonful into the marshal’s mouth. His

eyes grew round in protest, but he swallowed it, then

gasped.

She handed the preacher the cup. “Make him drink some

every hour or so.”

The preacher glanced at the lawman with uncertainty, but

he nodded and set the cup down. He walked with her to the

fast-running stream and waited while she washed her hands.

She felt grimy and longed to bathe. She glanced over her

shoulder and found him watching her every move. Sighing,

she dried her hands on her shirt and straightened. When they returned to camp, he pulled out the handcuffs, his face shadowed with regret.

He continued to stare at the metal bracelets in his hand,

refusing to meet her gaze. “I’m sorry, Miss—” He caught himself.

“I mean, Sarah . . . but I promised him . . .”

He looked so genuinely upset that she felt sorry for the

man and didn’t have the heart to fight him. Or maybe she

simply didn’t have the strength. The surgery had taken a lot out of her, and all she wanted to do was lie down and sleep.

Sighing, she pressed her hands together and held them out to him. Without another word, he snapped on the cuffs.

He placed his hat on his head. “Sarah, this problem you

have with the law . . . If you let me, I know I can help you. In fact, I’m sure of it.”

She shrugged. “There ain’t nothin’ that’s a sure thing,

’cept death and trouble.”

“That’s why we need God,” he said.

She frowned but said nothing.

“Anything you tell me will be held in strictest confidence,” he said gently.

She glared up at him. “I ain’t airin’ out my wash to you or

anyone else.”

He stared at her like he could see right through her, and

she feared he could read her mind. She knew such a feat was

impossible, of course, but she clamped down on any untoward

musings, just the same.

“All right, Sarah. I can’t force you to confide in me. I just

want you to know that I’ll do anything I can to help you, if you’ll let me.”

“If you want to help, then let me go.” She held up her

handcuffed wrists, but he made no move toward her.

Grimacing, she twisted her hands back and forth, but the

metal cuffs held tight. First she was stuck with Marshal Owen, and now she had a preacher to contend with. If it wasn’t chickens, it was feathers.

Plunking down on the ground, she laid her head against a

tree and tried to look at the bright side. The preacher wasn’t armed, except for that poor excuse for a knife, and he obviously had no stomach for violence. Getting away shouldn’t be all that difficult, as long as she did it before the marshal regained his strength.

It was an encouraging thought, and despite her somewhat

precarious predicament, her spirits rose. By cracky, that

preacher would be eatin’ out of her hand in no time, or she

ain’t no Prescott. view abbreviated excerpt only...

Discussion Questions

1.What made Sarah initially decide to stay with Justin and how did those reasons change during the course of the journey?

2.Justin had no weapons and no knowledge of the wild west. Yet Sarah felt safe with him. Why?

3.Justin always took the path of least resistance and didn't even fight the false charges lodged against him in Boston. By nature a peaceful man, what happened during the journey that brought out his fighting spirit?

4.How did finding baby Elizabeth change Sarah? How did it change Justin? How did it change their relationship?

5.Justin's favorite hymn was Amazing Grace. Why do you think he identified so strongly with the words of that traditional hymn?

6.Sarah said the west didn't change a person; it simply made you more of who you were. What did she mean by that?

7.During the course of the journey to Texas, Justin was forced to grow and change in ways he never imagined. God tested him as both a Christian and a man. Name a time in your life when God put you and your faith to the test.

8.What drew Sarah to the Lost and Found church?

9.Sarah was told by the pastor of Lost and Found to follow God's signs. Describe a time in your life that you felt God leading the way.

10.Sarah believed in God but she was afraid to put her trust in Him. Yet, she took a big chance in going back to Rocky Creek. What part did her faith play in that decision?

11.When did Sarah's opinion of her brother George change and how did it affect her? Was there ever a time that you disapproved of a loved one's actions? How did this affect your relationship?

12.Justin said that God always sends someone to help in time of need. Name a time in your life when one of God's "angels" helped you. Were you aware of God's help at the time?

13.During the course of the story, Sarah learned that God loves you even if you aren't perfect and "don't know no four-footed words." How has your relationship to God changed through the years?

14.Justin knew how to minister to people in Boston, but he questioned his ability to help the folks in Rocky Creek. Sarah told him all he needed was his faith. Has there ever been a time that you doubted your ability to do something? What part did your faith play in overcoming your fears?

15.Rocky Creek is a wild frontier town where revenge passes as justice and God is an afterthought. In what way does the condition of the town (and church) mirror the spiritual decay of Rainbow Creek's citizens?

16.Justin questioned God's reasons for sending him to Texas. When did he finally understand why God sent him there?

17.How were the folks in Rocky Creek different from those in Boston?
How were they similar?

18.Justin didn't want to leave Boston and the church he loved. But by following God's plan, he gained so much more than he lost. Can you think of something bad that happened to you which later turned out to be a blessing in disguise?

Weblinks

»	Author Margaret Brownley's web site
»	Publisher's Book Info

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