Free Stealing the Preacher by Karen Witemeyer Page B

trouser leg, gave it a quick inspection, and handed it to her. “I’m no troubadour, but I’d gladly join you in a hymn or two before the sermon. If you’d like.”
    Taking the book, she thumbed through the pages, seizing the excuse to look anywhere other than his face. Because, really, how could she be expected to converse with any semblance of rationality when the warm kindness in his brown eyes was turning her insides to mush?
    “This one,” she managed to squeak as she smoothed the pages open.
    He nodded, inhaled, and led her in the familiar strains of Charles Wesley’s “Love Divine, All Loves Excelling.”
    She added her alto to his baritone, one song after another. Joanna would have been edified aplenty just staying in that pew with him and singing all morning. But all too soon he set the hymnal aside and strode to the front of the sanctuary.
    “Brothers and sisters,” he began, his gaze sweeping the invisible congregation before landing on her with a wink, “how blessed we are to come together on this Lord’s Day, sanctified by the blood of Christ. But there are others outside these walls whose souls are perishing. Men and women, neighbors, friends, even members of our own families who are in desperate need of the living water that only Christ can provide. Their souls are parched and withering away, yet they don’t admit their thirst.”
    The parson’s eyes glowed with compassion as they met hers; however, the ache that usually came when she contemplated the state of her father’s soul did not come. For there was passion inCrockett Archer’s eyes, too—fiery passion that filled her with hope, with purpose.
    He didn’t speak with religious rhetoric designed to impress and elevate his standing as a holy emissary of God. Nor did he shout out condemnation and dire warnings in order to frighten his listeners into obedience. No, Crockett Archer spoke in the same charismatic manner that had endeared him to her yesterday when he’d disarmed Jackson Spivey with friendly banter and genuine concern. His voice carried authority, but more than that, it carried authenticity. And it was the latter that held her enthralled.
    She followed where he led, opening her Bible to 1 Peter and reading along as he quoted verses that brought evangelism into a new, more personal light. In chapter two he emphasized how all of God’s people are a royal priesthood, not just the ministers in the pulpit or the missionaries in foreign fields. And as such, they are called to live holy lives so that others might see and be influenced. Like the wives in chapter three who won over their husbands, not with words but with chaste and reverent behavior. Yet verse fifteen also spoke of the need to always be ready to give an answer as to the reason for the hope evident in one’s life.
    The parson’s words penetrated her heart on a level so personal, so deep, it was as if God himself were speaking truth into her soul. Crockett Archer might have written this sermon for a church dozens of miles away, but in that moment Joanna knew that the Lord had intended its message for her.

10
    S ilas Robbins reined in his gray, dismounted, and walked the beast to the barn. He and Jasper had gotten caught wrangling one of his heifers out of a mud pit in the far west pasture. Thanks to the stubborn gal’s refusal to cooperate, it’d taken longer than expected to haul her sorry hide out of the mire, leaving him late for lunch and wearing more dirt than a wallowing hog.
    Some prize of a father he was turning out to be. First his birthday present ran off to Deanville without granting his little girl’s wish, then he’d run off himself this morning to avoid the daughter he loved more than life.
    Silas’s jaw clenched as he hefted the saddle from Marauder’s back and slapped it onto the half wall that marked the edge of the first stall. After dragging the blankets off as well, he grabbed a strip of toweling and rubbed down his horse.
    Why couldn’t he