The Sister and the Sinner Page 2

  "Enough, wench!"

  "It's Mary Francis," she corrected him.

  "Sister Mary Francis," he amended, although he said the word "sister" without an ounce of respect.

  God would just have to forgive her, for she wasn't going to enlighten the outlaw on her status within the convent.

  "And you? Who are you?" she asked. "And what are you doing here?"

  "It's better you don't know," he said.

  "Better for whom?" she whispered, but he ignored it.

  She took him upstairs then, to the first bedroom, where her patient lay. Mother Agnes looked so small and frail, her now shrunken body weakened by age and illness barely making a bump in the heavy quilts spread over her. The room was spartan, as all the rooms in the convent were, with only a small end table by the bed, a well-used Bible on the table, and a crucifix on the wall at the foot of the bed where it would be the first thing seen upon rising, and the last thing seen before going to sleep each night.

  "Mother Agnes? It's Mary Francis... are you awake?" She tip-toed into the room and perched lightly on the edge of the bed. She took one cold, frail hand in hers and patted it gently.

  Mother Agnes had been a powerful woman in her day. Though she'd never quite made it to five feet in height, no one ever thought of her as tiny. She'd been nearly as wide as she was tall, with thick arms and strong hands that could wield a hairbrush with as much accuracy as a sharpshooter wielded his guns. Mary Francis felt a strange tingle flush through her as she recalled the many times she'd bent over a chair or table to feel that hairbrush on her bared bottom for some infraction, venial or mortal. She knew that the Reverend Mother punished her only because she loved her, for she had often been directed to copy chapter and verse from the Bible after a thorough chastising, pertaining to the rod of correction. Even now, those familiar verses echoed in her mind...

  "He who spares the rod hates his son, but he who loves him is careful to discipline him."

  "Folly is bound up in the heart of a child, but the rod of discipline will drive it far from him."

  "The rod and reproof give wisdom: but the child that is left to his own will bringeth his mother to shame."

  Perhaps the outlaw behind her was the very example of an undisciplined youth. The thought of him draped over Mother Agnes's lap made her smile.

  "Mary Francis? Is that you?" the old voice crackled.

  "Yes, Mother," she answered, still massaging the cold, stiff fingers.

  "Have you heard from Father Michael yet? Surely he has heard of our plight... and sent help. We cannot minister to the community, just the two of us. We need experienced sisters, teachers, and healers! Deadwood will recover... there will be children here again. Mark my words, Katie dear. Mark my words!" The sick woman began to cough, at first just a little, but then once begun it was as though she could not stop. Mary Francis helped her to sit, and pounded gently on her back to loosen the congestion. Mother Agnes coughed into her kerchief, and it was stained with red when the fit passed. Mary Francis tucked the bloody kerchief into her robe and offered the old woman a fresh one.

  "Yes, Mother. I know. There will be children here again. But I'm afraid something must have happened to Father Michael. I have not heard from him in months. It is not like him to stay away so long."

  "He must have gone back east, to speak to the Bishop about sending reinforcements. That's it. That's what he's doing," Mother Agnes crooned, although her voice was fading.

  The outlaw cleared his throat then, startling them both. Mary Francis had almost forgotten he was there, with her concern for the Reverend Mother.

  "Um, excuse me, ma'am," he mumbled, extending a hand awkwardly.

  Mother Agnes's eyes grew large, and a rare smile spread across her face. "Jake! My boy! You've come back! You've forgiven me after all of these years! I can die peacefully now. Glory be to God!"

  Her outburst caused the coughing to return with a vengeance. The outlaw sat on the other side of the bed and held her, patting her back as he had seen Mary Francis do moments before, with all the tenderness that a son would show his own mother. Mary Francis gaped stupidly. How could this be? Not the holy Reverend Mother! No!

  The outlaw looked at her then, and his expression was just as perplexed. He shook his head, silently answering her unasked question. He was not this 'Jake' that the old woman spoke of.

  Mary Francis refilled a glass with water and offered it to her to help calm the coughing spasm. When Mother Agnes returned to her pillow, she was exhausted. Her eyelids drooped, and her hand was limp in Mary Francis's hand. Alarmed, Mary Francis pressed a finger to the vein at the base of her jaw and waited. She relaxed when she found a pulse.

  "How long has she been like this?" the outlaw whispered.

  "Too long, I'm afraid," Mary Francis answered. "She survived so much - measles, fire, hunger, poverty - perhaps if I'd been able to get her proper medical care, she might have recovered, but I fear it's too late for that now."

  He didn't answer, but backed out of the room and waited for her. Mary Francis rinsed a cloth with water and wiped the perspiration from Mother Agnes's brow. Then she straightened the blankets and tenderly kissed the only mother she had ever known.

  Chapter Two

  Reluctantly, Mary Francis returned to the outlaw in the hallway. She clenched her hands inside the folds of her black robe, praying for strength for whatever evil he had planned for her. Tears filled her vision and trailed down her cheeks. She had been holding so much inside for so long: worry for Mother Agnes and Father Michael, a bit of envy for the sisters who had gone on to California, grief for the sisters she had buried. And loneliness! Oh, there were days when the silence was almost more than she could bear! Sometimes, outside the convent walls she would sing at the top of her lungs, as she tried to drive away the aching loneliness that was her constant companion.

  And now, for whatever reason she could not comprehend, God had sent this outlaw to her. She murmured the words to her favorite prayer, as they seemed most appropriate now. "Holy Mary, Mother of God, Pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death..."

  All of the bedroom doors were open. He must have checked each of the rooms while waiting for her. Now he leaned against the wall, his face ashen and beads of sweat plastering tendrils of dark hair to his face. Perhaps he would also be facing the hour of his death? Fear lanced through her chest. He couldn't die! Not now! Not after she'd treated him... she felt responsible for him. And she'd be so alone. More tears ran down her face, but these were for the outlaw and his immortal soul.

  "Which room is yours?" he barked, with a gesture toward the row of bedrooms.

  Hers was not among them. First as a child, and later as a novice, she had occupied a tiny room in the attic, away from the sisters and the Reverend Mother. Even now, with all the bedrooms empty and Mother Agnes ill and infirm, she had not felt bold enough to move her meager belongings down into the sisters' quarters. "You may choose any of these rooms," she offered. "No one uses them now."

  "You didn't answer my question, and I'm not in the habit of repeating myself."

  She gulped anxiously. "No, sir. I'm sorry, sir. My bedroom is upstairs in the attic. But I think I should stay down here closer to Mother, in case she calls for me tonight."

  "Fine," he snapped.

  Didn't the man ever just speak in a normal voice? She wondered what his voice would sound like, if he weren't in pain, or angry, or both.

  He snatched her wrist and tugged her into the bedroom closest to Reverend Mother's, then kicked the door closed behind him. He leaned against the door, breathing heavily as though he'd run a great distance.

  "Take off your clothes," he demanded.

  This was it. This was the moment she had feared, although she wasn't even certain what it was that she was afraid of. Everything she knew about the relationships between men and women was what she could learn in the Bible. "And Adam knew Eve and she bore him a son..." Somehow, that little word "knew" must encompass quite a lot! Was the outlaw going to "know" her now? She would be ruined, defiled. Did not Dinah's brothers slaughter an entire community after the king's son raped her?

  "Please, sir, please don't do this," she begged.

  "I have had it with you! As soon as I'm able, I'm going to put you over my knee and give you the spanking you so justly deserve! I am not going to rape a nun, Jesus, Mary and Joseph! What sort of man do you think I am!"

  "The sort of man who tackles a nun to the ground, drags her around by her wrist, and threatens her, sir," she retorted tearfully.

  "All right. I had that coming," he said quietly. "I am not going to hurt you tonight. But I need to sleep, and I need to know where you are, and that you aren't going to try to leave here and tell someone where I am. So I plan to take your clothes from you, and hope that if you're naked, you'll stay right here."

  She quivered, making the sign of the cross repeatedly. What he said was shocking! She never went naked. Never! Why, Mother Agnes had even insisted that she leave on a slip when she took a bath! Just once she'd been caught bathing in the altogether, and had been quite thoroughly chastised for it! It was the only time she had ever had to cut a switch. And while the welts were still swollen and painful, she'd had to sit at her desk and copy pages and pages from the Holy Scripture. It wasn't that the human body was believed to be sinful or ugly, only that the urges of the flesh were the way to wickedness. If he saw her naked, both of them might be tempted to sin.

  "You have a choice," he growled impatiently. "You can take off your clothes and give them to me, and I'll let you sleep alone tonight. Or I'll rip your clothes from you, and you can go naked for days."

  Her shoulders shaking as she wept, she began to remove the layers of clothing. First the black rosary with an ebony cross, which hung from the cincture around her waist. She kissed the rosary, then set it on the bedside table. Removing the cincture - a tight, leather girdle - usually brought a breath of relief, but not today. No longer bound at the waist, her black wool habit fell in loose folds from the throat to the floor, and longer in the back. Gingerly, she dropped the habit, stepping from the voluminous fabric with growing trepidation. Next came her slip, the white cambric veil, and finally, the binding and bloomers. For the first time in many years, Katherine Mary Francis Geraud was naked.

  She stooped and gathered her garments in her arms, holding them in front of her as though they could provide her a modicum of modesty.

  "Your hair," he whispered, his voice thick and gravelly.

  Her hand went straight to her hair, tugging at the shorn locks. "It is customary to cut one's hair," she stammered, "as a sign of our humility before God. Thankfully, women don't tonsure their heads, as monks do."

  "No, it's just, it's... God! It's red!"

  Her chin thrust up, and her eyes narrowed. "The Lord's name!"

  He approached, his gait uneven, and yanked the ball of fabric from her. "Sorry, sister. It's just, well, I've always been partial to redheads. You'd better get yourself into bed now."

  Mary Francis did as she was told.

  He limped to the doorway and tossed her clothes onto the floor. He stretched out on the floor, using her robes for a pillow.

  "You - you can't sleep in here," she blurted.

  "I can, and I will."

  "But, but the floor is uncomfortable, and there are many beds to chose from!"

  "Sister, I can't remember the last time I slept in a bed, and I won't start now, unless you're inviting me into yours."

  "No!"

  "Then please, do us both a favor, and shut up!"

  Mary Francis closed her mouth, although she was screaming on the inside. She glared at him. He had the audacity to wink at her. She gave a most unladylike huff, then pulled the thin covers over her face.

  Before long, the outlaw was snoring. It wasn't noisy, like Sister Mary Margaret used to snore, loud enough to rattle the floor boards. It was just a quiet sound, a constant, soothing sound that let her know she was no longer alone.

  And he hadn't hurt her... much, she amended, as she rubbed the bruises on her wrists. He hadn't defiled her. He hadn't known her, in the biblical sense. He had threatened to spank her, which got her dander up. Mother Agnes had stopped spanking her when she'd transitioned from postulate to novice. She wasn't sure if it was because the Reverend Mother finally felt she was too mature for such childish punishments, or because the older woman was no longer physically able to administer them. She hoped it was the former, but suspected it was more the latter.

  Would he really do it? Would he spank her?

  Why did that thought not strike terror into her heart? Instead, she felt strangely warm. She fanned her quilt, trying to cool her naked flesh, until she remembered that she was not alone. She rolled over, trying to find a spot where the sheets were still cool. Still, it was awkward sleeping naked. Her senses were heightened. Her breasts ached and touching them did nothing to ease the discomfort.

  "Oh God," she whispered. "What lesson is it that You wish me to learn from this?"

  It was a long, long time before she was able to sleep.

  * * *

  Mary Francis was surprised that she awoke before the outlaw, for as little sleep as she'd been able to grab during the night. He lay perfectly still, no longer snoring... not even moving. Was he... was he alright? Had he succumbed to infection in the night, and passed away while a healer was not more than an arm's length away? Oh God! Please, don't let him be dead!

  She flew from the bed, grasping the sheet around her, and tiptoed to the outlaw. She pressed two fingers to his throat to feel for a pulse, but seconds later she was tossed flat on her back, pressed into the floorboards by his great weight, his fist around her neck cutting off her air.

  He looked furious, then a little confused, then hurt. It was strange how easily she read his emotions when he was still half asleep. The fury she could understand. The hurt upset her, and she felt strangely compelled to explain herself.

  "I'm sorry for waking you, sir," she whispered, forcing the words out in spite of his firm grip. "I was worried, and only meant to find your pulse. I would not have harmed you."

  He loosened his grip slightly. "You weren't looking for my knife?"

  She shook her head. "And what would I have done with it? I treated your wounds; I could not have given you more."

  He released her throat, then rolled off her, a gasp of pain escaping. The bandages had soaked through the shirt during the night. She'd have to do some laundry today, or the stains wouldn't come out.

  "Let's go downstairs, and I can see to your injury," she said.

  He wasn't listening to her, though. Instead, his eyes had darkened to a smoky blue, as he stared at her. Not at her face, but at her breasts now exposed, for the sheet she'd clutched had dropped a notch. She tugged it back up.

  "It seems to me we have the matter of your spanking to attend to," he said hoarsely.

  She rose to her feet, wrapping the sheet about her with as much dignity as she could muster. "You will not lay a hand on me, mister!"

  He chuckled. "Is that so? You, little sister, need to learn that when I say something, I mean it. When I tell you to jump, you'd better be already jumping before you ask me how high."

  "And you, sir, are too full of yourself!"

  "You are the sassiest nun I ever met!"

  "And how many nuns do you know?" she countered angrily.

  He lunged for her, snatching the sheet from her hands. She screamed, grasping for it, without success. Furious, scared, embarrassed, and overwhelmed by the many emotions flooding through her, Mary Francis ran towards the outlaw instead of away. She pummeled his chest with her fists.

  "I am going to give you your spanking, Sister. And then, and only then, will I allow you to get dressed. Do you understand?"

  "You're a beast! A brute!"

  "I never said I was otherwise. Now stop this at once, and get yourself down on that bed."

  She stopped hitting him, and took a step back. She could resist him, for he was injured. He couldn't wrestle her to the bed with only one arm. But, there was the matter of her clothes... he was powerful and big, and fast, and she really did want to put her robe back on. She was exhausted from lack of sleep, and still much too hot for the time of year. And for some perverse reason she could not understand, she actually did want him to spank her!

  She'd imagined it most of the night. His big hand on her bottom... it would hurt, no doubt. Mother Agnes had once been able to deliver a stinging swat and he was much bigger than the Mother Superior had ever been. But, after a punishment, Mother Agnes always held her and hugged her and told her how much God loved her. Would the outlaw hold her, too?

  He took a menacing step towards her. Mary Francis scurried toward the bed. She lay down as he directed, with just her body and head on the mattress, her legs still on the floor. He put a leg between hers and tapped her ankles, to make her widen her stance. She grabbed fistfuls of the quilt in her hands and clenched her teeth. He was looking at her! He was seeing parts of her that she'd never looked at. This was wrong... sinful, and yet, utterly interesting. She prayed God would forgive her.

  There was a sound, she couldn't place it, and glanced over her shoulder to see what it was. He had removed his belt! For a moment, she feared he would defile her, but then she saw that he folded the belt in his right hand and swung it down. She arched her back and cried out at the sudden blaze of pain it wrought.

  "No, sir, please, no!"

  "Hold still, or it might hit you someplace more painful than your pretty bottom," he warned.

  "Please, don't!"

  "A man is only as good as his word," the outlaw insisted, bringing his belt down again and again.

  Mary Francis cried, not caring if the Reverend Mother heard her or not. She kicked, she twisted, which was a mistake, for the belt wrapped around her hipbone and it was much worse, just as he'd promised. Twenty times or more that wicked belt snapped at her viciously. She yelped and sobbed and begged him to stop. Until finally, he did.

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