“The baby…Who’s the mother?”

       Joshua asked.

      Adie raised her chin. “I am.”

      The flash in his eyes told her that he’d assumed she’d given birth out of wedlock. Adie resented being judged, but she counted it as the price of protecting little Stephen. If Mr. Blue chose to condemn her, so be it. She’d done nothing of which to be ashamed. With their gazes locked, she waited for the criticism that didn’t come.

      Instead he laced his fingers on top of his Bible. “Children are a gift, all of them.”

      “I think so, too.”

      “He sure can cry. How old is he?”

      Adie didn’t like the questions at all, but she took pride in her son. “He’s three months old. I hope the crying doesn’t disturb you.”

      “I don’t care if it does.” He sounded defiant.

      She didn’t understand. “Most men would be annoyed.”

      “Crying’s better than silence…I know.”

      VICTORIA BYLIN

      Victoria Bylin fell in love with God and her husband at the same time. It started with a ride on a big red motorcycle and a date to see a Star Trek movie. A recent graduate of UC Berkeley, Victoria had been seeking that elusive “something more” when Michael rode into her life. Neither knew it, but they were each reading the Bible.

      Five months later, they got married and the blessings began. They have two sons and have lived in California and Virginia. Michael’s career allowed Victoria to be both a stay-at-home mom and a writer. She’s living a dream that started when she read her first book and thought, “I want to tell stories.” For that gift, she will be forever grateful.

      Feel free to drop Victoria an e-mail at [email protected] or visit her Web site www.victoriabylin.com.

      The Maverick Preacher

      Victoria Bylin

      Be kind and compassionate to one another,

       forgiving each other, just as God in Christ forgave you.

      —Ephesians 4:32

      To my husband, Michael…

       Your faith inspires me, and your love sustains me.

      Contents

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Chapter Eleven

      Chapter Twelve

      Chapter Thirteen

      Chapter Fourteen

      Chapter Fifteen

      Chapter Sixteen

      Chapter Seventeen

      Chapter Eighteen

      Chapter Nineteen

      Chapter Twenty

      Epilogue

      Questions for Discussion

      Chapter One

      Denver, Colorado

       July 1875

      If Adelaide Clarke had been asleep like a sensible woman, she wouldn’t have heard the thump on her front porch. As moonlight streamed through her window, she stopped breathing to block out the smallest sound. Last week a shadowy figure had broken the same window with a rock. She had an enemy. Someone wanted to drive her out of Denver and the boardinghouse called Swan’s Nest.

      Trembling, Adie listened for another noise. None came.

      The thump had sounded like a rotten tomato. The sooner she cleaned up the mess, the less damage it would do to the paint, but she worried about waking up her boarders. The women in her house would fill wash buckets and gather rags. They’d scrub the door with her, but all four of them would tremble with fear.

      Whoever had caused the thump could be lurking in the dark, waiting to grab her. Adie had been grabbed before—not in Denver but back in Kansas. Shuddering, she closed her eyes. If she’d been on speaking terms with God, she’d have prayed until she dozed. Instead she counted backward from a hundred as her mother had taught her to do.

      Before she reached ninety, she heard a low moan. The timbre of it triggered memories of gutters, bruised ribs and the morning she’d met Maggie Butler. Adie knew about moaning. So did the women in her house. Mary had arrived bruised and angry in the dead of night. Pearl, thin and sick with pregnancy, had appeared at dawn. Bessie and Caroline, sisters from Virginia, had arrived in Denver on a midday train. Bessie had served with Clara Barton in the War Between the States and suffered from nightmares. Caroline had seen her husband lynched.

      If a woman needed shelter, Adie opened her door wide, just as Maggie Butler had once opened her door to Adie.

      She slid out of bed and reached for her wrapper. As she slipped her arms through the sleeves, she looked at the baby in the cradle next to her bed. No matter how Stephen Hagan Clarke had come into the world, he belonged to Adie. Grateful he hadn’t been colicky as usual, she touched his back to be sure he was breathing. He’d been born six weeks early and had struggled to survive. Maggie Butler, his natural mother, hadn’t been so fortunate.

      Comforted by the rise of his narrow chest, Adie hurried down the staircase, a sweeping curve that spoke to the house’s early days of glory. She crossed the entryway, cracked open the front door and looked down at the porch, staying hidden as she took in a body shrouded in a black cloak. A full moon lit the sky, but the eaves cast a boxlike shadow around the tangle of cloth and limbs. Adie couldn’t make out the details, but she felt certain the person was a woman in need. She had owned Swan’s Nest for three months and word had spread that she rented only to females.

      She dropped to a crouch. “Wake up, sweetie. You’re safe now.”

      Her visitor groaned.

      Startled by the low timbre, Adie touched the dark fabric covering the bend of a shoulder. Instead of the wool of a woman’s cloak, she felt the coarse texture of a canvas duster. She pulled back as if she’d been scalded. In a way, she had—by Timothy Long and his indulgent parents, by the people of Liddy’s Grove, by Reverend Honeycutt but not his wife. Adie hadn’t given birth to Stephen, but she could have. Timothy Long had accosted her in the attic. If she hadn’t fought him off and fled, he’d have done worse things than he had.

      Moaning again, the man rolled to his side. Adie sniffed the air but didn’t smell whiskey. If she had, she’d have thrown water in his face and ordered him off her porch. Before meeting Maggie, she’d supported herself by cleaning cafés and saloons, any place that would pay a few coins so she could eat. The smell of liquor had turned her stomach then, and it still did.

      Adie worried that the man had been shot, but she didn’t smell blood, only dirt and perspiration. Judging by his horse and the duster, he’d been on the road for a while and had come straight to Swan’s Nest, not from a saloon in the heart of Denver. Maybe he was a drifter or even an outlaw on the run. Adie didn’t rent to men and didn’t want to start now, but her conscience wouldn’t let her close the door.

      Neither