The Sister and the Sinner Read online

  "Now, sister, are you going to listen to me!"

  "I'll try, sir," she promised.

  He chuckled. She couldn't possibly imagine what it was that he found so funny, but it infuriated her. Maybe she'd stuff hot peppers in his wound, instead of garlic mash! Oh! Oh! He was the most awful person she'd ever met!

  There was a slight hiss of air before his belt struck yet again. Her anger dissipated immediately, and only misery remained.

  "You'd best be remembering, sister," he warned. "Now get dressed."

  * * *

  Her bloomers were made from course homespun, but that had never bothered her before. Now, though, the fabric hurt. Her bottom was ablaze, slightly swollen and quite red indeed. Every movement hurt. Every pain reminded her that the brute of an outlaw had seen her naked, had punished her - had spanked her! And slept in her bedroom! Heat, embarrassment, and wicked thoughts plagued her. She tightened her cincture another notch. The discomfort of it might help take her mind off other things. After adjusting her veil, she knelt before the bed and prayed. She prayed the Our Father, several Hail Marys, and then added a few words of her own.

  He waited just outside her door, although he poked his head in several times urging her to hasten. Then, the brute asked her to help him with his belt!

  Heat flamed her face as she touched the supple leather. "But sir, it isn't right," she blurted.

  He swatted her poor bottom; she felt it even through the heavy robe. "Obedience," he reminded her. She threaded his belt through the loops, and fumbled with it awkwardly as she fastened the buckle. If his arm were hurting him that much, maybe he shouldn't even be wearing a belt, she thought angrily. Unless, of course, he only wore it so he would have it handy when he wanted to spank her again! Oh!

  "Your face is an open book," he said. "You'd best be getting that red-headed temper under control right quick, sister."

  "I'd best-." She stopped herself from uttering the hurtful words she'd meant to say. Then, taking a deep breath and letting it out, a gesture Sister Brigit had taught her to try when her temper threatened to get the best of her, she tried again. "I'd best be checking in on Mother Agnes."

  He followed her into the bedroom. Mother Agnes was still asleep, her face relaxed and peaceful in a way that it had not been for many months. Perhaps she was starting to feel better? Mary Francis could hope. She would make a meaty broth for both her patients today. Then, slipping quietly from the room, she led the way downstairs.

  * * *

  "I'll tend to your wound first, sir," she said, directing him to sit at the table again. "Then I'll fix us something to eat."

  He sat, shrugging out of the soiled shirt without her assistance, for which she was truly thankful. Still, that vast expanse of male chest was disconcerting. She didn't know where to focus her gaze. Heat crept up her neck, reddening her cheeks.

  "Jeez, sister," he grunted. "You embarrass easily."

  "That sounded almost like a curse, sir."

  "But it wasn't. I'll behave."

  "I doubt that. Now, stop talking so I can concentrate."

  She removed the soiled bandages, nodding in satisfaction that there was no sign of infection. She'd done a thorough job of cleansing the wound. She mashed some more garlic cloves and applied the poultice to the wound, wrapping it in clean bandages. Then she tossed the shirt and soiled bandages into the washtub to be dealt with later. She searched through the mission barrel for yet another shirt. This one was not quite big enough, and fit his broad chest like a second skin. It did little to keep her from blushing, but it would have to suffice.

  She built up a small fire from the coals in the wood stove, and soon had a pot of oatmeal and another pot with coffee simmering. She spared a bit of honey to flavor the oats, and asked the outlaw if he'd like some cream for his coffee. He declined. She added cream to hers, then gingerly sat at the table with him. She bowed her head to say a prayer, ignoring the scrape of his spoon in the bowl.

  "Dear Lord, for what we are about to eat, make us truly thankful, Amen."

  "I'm not sure he could," the outlaw said, smirking.

  "The Lord can do all things," she replied, quoting from the Bible.

  He scooped a glob of oatmeal onto his spoon and let it plop back into the bowl. "I don't know," he drawled. "I'm not sure I could ever be truly thankful for oatmeal."

  She smiled. She'd felt the same way many a time. She'd learned that it tasted better if she ate it quickly. Once it cooled and thickened, it was almost inedible. At least it was plentiful. They still had a few chickens, a dairy goat, and the vegetable garden. There were apple trees, and wild plum trees. She had a few raspberry and blackberry brambles that she cultivated. But their diet was sorely lacking in meat. It had never bothered Mary Francis, as one day soon she would be making a vow of poverty, chastity, and obedience. She suspected, though, that the mostly vegetarian diet might annoy her outlaw.

  Her outlaw... that had a nice sound to it!

  Chapter Three

  Mary Francis gazed out of the window longingly. She had hoped that she might convince her outlaw that she needed to work in the garden, or at least inspect the ground to see if he'd left a bloody trail for his pursuers to follow, but the thickening clouds and the darkness of their color convinced them both that rain would soon follow.

  "I need to bring in more firewood," she tried.

  "Nonsense, sister. There's enough in here for days."

  "But it needs to dry out, sir, and... and I always bring in an armload in the morning. It's part of my daily routine!"

  He shook his head, tugging on the end of his belt. "Do you need another lesson in who's the boss?"

  Mary Francis fell silent, chewing on her lower lip. Obedience had always been the hardest for her. She had no problem with the vow of poverty. The convent was the only home she knew. She'd never been to a city, never seen anything fine or fancy that she would long for it. The vow of chastity had to do with being pure, and until last night, she had never known an impure thought. Now, it was a tossup between the thoughts he inspired in her, or her temper, that would be most likely to get her in trouble.

  "May I do the dishes, then, sir?"

  He nodded, with a hearty chuckle that irritated her. She rinsed out the dishes, swept the floor, started a batch of bread dough, and puttered as much as she could, all with him watching her intently. Her nerves were frayed and her temper simmering... it was so annoying to have someone looking over her shoulder while she worked! She was used to being alone.

  Still, he was wounded, and he wouldn't be much help even if he had offered. Which he didn't. He did let her tend to Mother Agnes alone, but only because she told him she was going to give her a sponge bath and change the linens. He hovered at the base of the stairs, no doubt watching out the windows to see if she risked breaking her legs by jumping. Which she didn't. Maybe it was sinful of her to stay, but she didn't want to try to run away. Mother Agnes needed her, she told herself. And in a way, so did the outlaw.

  * * *

  "Mary, is that you?" Mother Agnes whispered. "Mary, have you returned? Tell me about California! Is it all you hoped for?"

  Mary Francis's brief elation that the Reverend Mother recognized her was quickly dashed. More often than not, the old woman was lost in some earlier, happier time. Mary Francis helped her to a semi-sitting position, so she could spoon feed her the broth. Slowly, patiently, she bathed her, helping her to don a clean gown, and changing the linens one side at a time with a tricky maneuver that did not require the Reverend Mother to get out of bed at all. She plumped her pillows, and opened the window slightly to let in some fresh air, in spite of the summer downpour.

  She gazed out of the window, taking a moment for herself. The garden needed this. Even the pigweed had been drooping yesterday. More often than not it had snapped off at the base instead of coming up roots and all, which infuriated her as it meant she would be pulling that same weed in the near future. She imagined the potatoes and squash joining their leaf hands
together in praise and thanksgiving for this morning's shower. She smiled, lifting her own arms as she offered God a quick prayer of her own. But then, something on the horizon caught her attention. She stared, trying to discern what it was as it darted about between the trees and prairie grass.

  Three, four... no, five men on horseback! They were not charging straight towards the convent, but instead they zigzagged back and forth, a sixth one walking and leading his horse, as though searching for a trail. These men were undoubtedly the ones who had shot her outlaw! She gasped, and fled down the stairs.

  "What is it, sister? Is it your Reverend Mother?" the outlaw asked tenderly.

  "No! It's your pursuers! They're coming!"

  He nodded brusquely. He reached for his guns and strapped them low on his hip, then tucked his knife into the top of a boot. "Go upstairs, and don't come down until it's over," he warned.

  "I will not! You cannot possibly expect to survive against seven men! You must hide, but help me move the highboy away from the door first. Quickly!"

  "I will not give up, sister, although it pains me to think I have put you in danger. They are not good men - they will hang me on sight, if they don't shoot me first."

  "They cannot know for certain that you are here. The rain has surely washed away your trail. I will talk to them, and send them on their way."

  "Why? Why would you do that?"

  "They shot you in the back, sir. And, I believe God has a reason for sending you here. Now stop jabbering and help me!"

  He shook his head disbelievingly, but he helped her slide the highboy away from the door, and unblock the front one as well. Then he went upstairs to hide. It galled him to do so, but he was still too weak from his injury, and the sassy little sister was right. He couldn't take them all on and expect to come out the victor. But if they tried to harm a single hair on her head, well... some things were worth dying for.

  * * *

  Mary Francis took a hold of the door handle and turned it, but not in time, apparently for at least one of the men had lost patience with waiting for her to respond to their knock and kicked the door in, slamming her up against the wall as if she'd been shot out of a cannon. The men poured into the convent then, tramping in mud and rain. Except for the impatient one, they were actually quite apologetic, helping her up and leading her to the dining room to sit down. They could see that she'd had quite a bump to her head.

  The man who said his name was Frank Mills, the oldest of the group judging by his long white beard, began softly, "We're sorry to bust in here like this, Sister, but we're looking for someone."

  "Where is he? I'll skin him alive when I find him!" the impatient one was yelling as he strode through the house scouring behind every door he found.

  "He's a big fella, about six-foot-three or so, broad as a barn, hair black as coal and dead blue eyes. Smart as a whip, too, he is, the bastard." This man was small and wiry, and he blushed an unbecoming shade of red at his use of profanity in front of her. "Pardon me, Sister."

  "You're excused, of course." Katie maintained an air of quiet dignity, if she did say so herself.

  "Have you seen anyone like that around here, Sister . . . ?"

  "Sister Mary Francis. We are not in the habit of giving shelter to criminals," she said archly. She would try to keep from telling an outright lie, although she knew in her heart that sins of omission were just as bad. Still, she would try to stick to the truth as much as she was able.

  "I'm sorry, gentlemen, but the Reverend Mother is quite ill and not in her right mind. I have devoted these many months entirely to her care - I have not been to town or anyplace where I might have met this man you mention."

  "He ain't here?" the obnoxious one snarled.

  She straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin proudly. "This is a convent, sir! Not a bordello!"

  He associates guffawed, and one slugged him in the shoulder. His expression darkened. Sister Mary Francis feared that he might be pushed to violence at any moment. She tried to diffuse the situation.

  "May I be so bold as to ask a question?"

  Mills nodded.

  "Why is it that you want this man? Is he a thief?"

  It was the man's reaction to her query that aroused her suspicions. His eyes darted to his friends before he answered, and they all looked as if they wished they weren't in a convent and didn't have to lie to a nun. "Of sorts, Sister."

  "Well, then, shouldn't you get Mr. Bullock involved? After all, he is still the sheriff, isn't he?" Mary Francis asked the question specifically so that she could watch their reactions. They all looked a heap more guilty than her outlaw ever had.

  "No, no, we don't want to bring the law into this situation, ma'am. We'd rather settle things ourselves. Man to man, don't you know."

  "Well, I really wouldn't know, now, would I?" she smiled beatifically at them all. "Could I offer you gentleman anything in the way of refreshments? Perhaps a cup of tea?"

  "No, thank you, Sister," the older gentleman replied for the rest of them, who were shuffling about awkwardly. By way of apology, Mills offered, "Higgins was the only one who wanted to come. He was just sure that Holt was hiding here somewhere. We had to come and make sure you was alright."

  The angry man, Higgens, finally came back downstairs, and Katie felt as if she could breathe again. How could it possibly be that he hadn't found her outlaw! She'd grown up in this place; she thought she knew all of the hidey holes, and none of them were upstairs!

  When she'd seen them all out and put the front door back in place - if a bit askew since it had been knocked entirely off its hinges - she turned and ran upstairs, scouring the place the same way that nasty man had, looking for her outlaw... Mr. Holt. At least she had half a name for him now.

  "Where are you? They're gone. You can come out now."

  He appeared behind her as stealthily as if he had been an apparition.

  "Where were you? I was so worried he was going to find you - oh, those men are not nice people!"

  "I figured that he wouldn't search Mother Agnes's room too carefully, her being sick and all. So I just hid behind her door. He wouldn't risk catching whatever she's got to search too carefully."

  "But she's not contagious."

  "You know that, and I know that. He doesn't."

  They shared a bit of a chuckle together, but then his face darkened. "There was quite a commotion downstairs, too. What happened?"

  Katie's eyes slid to the floor, the wall, the ceiling - anywhere but him. "Oh, nothing much. One of the men - Higgens, I think he said. He kind of - sort of - kicked down the door rather than waiting for me to let them in."

  "He what?" Her outlaw was already halfway down the stairs, as he dashed to view the ruined door. He was cursing under his breath, although she noted that he did not use the Lord's name in his litany.

  "And you - are you all right? Did any of them hurt you?"

  "It is just a bump," she insisted.

  He turned to look at her, his eyes wide with shock. Then he gathered her into his arms, gently, as if she was made of the finest crystal and held her to him, asking softly, as if the answer meant the world to him, "Where does it hurt?"

  His hands traveled up her sleeves, down her back, searching for whatever injury the heavy black robe concealed. Only when he touched the back of her head did she elicit a yelp. He tugged off her veil and probed the area around the knot. "Do you have some ice to put on this?"

  "It's just a bump. I'll be fine, we don't need to waste the ice," she insisted.

  He set her down at the table, parting her hair to view the injury more closely. "It's a large bump, and I know you'll be fine. But we need to put ice on this to keep the swelling down."

  He opened the icebox in the kitchen, but just as Mary Francis had suspected, there was no ice remaining. Fetching ice was yet another of the chores she had not finished last night after her outlaw arrived.

  "Where do you keep the ice?"

  Thick chunks of ice were cut from
the pond every winter, carted to a sod house and covered with saw dust to keep from melting. One block at a time was brought inside and placed in the ice box in the kitchen. If she went through her ice too quickly, she would not be able to chill her goat milk or food supplies until winter returned. For that reason alone, she balked. He made a spanking motion with his hands. Mary Francis sighed, and gave him directions to the soddy, behind the convent and to the west of goat house.

  While he was gone, she gathered a bucket of water, rags and soap and went to work scrubbing up the mud her visitors had tracked in. She was on her hands and knees when her outlaw returned. He dropped the precious block of ice and yelled at her.

  "What do you think you're doing?"

  "What does it look like?" she replied tartly.

  His grip on her arm was not as gentle as before, as he directed her back to the chair. "You, young woman, have earned yourself another spanking."

  "I have not!"

  "You knew I was getting ice for that knot on your head. Head wounds can be serious! I've seen fellas survive gunshot wounds, only to die from a bump on the noggin. Have you no sense?"

  "More than you, apparently. I'm fine. Honestly," she replied. She winced as he pressed a wedge of ice that had broken away from the main block onto her sore spot. "You forget, I have some skill as a healer. Look into my eyes. If the iris is the same size in both, it's not a concussion."

  He tipped her chin up and gazed into her eyes, studiously at first, and then some other emotion came over him. She watched as his eyes dilated. His breath came faster, and he leaned closer to her. She resisted the urge to back away but stared at his lips and he moved closer still. Then he pressed a kiss to the knot at the back of her head, flooding her heart with a warmth she just couldn't find within herself to reject.

  Then he hugged her, gently and genuinely, rocking her slowly back and forth, almost as if they were dancing. "I'm so sorry you were hurt, sister. I'm truly sorry."