Preacher's Pursuit. William W. Johnstone
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Lord, Preacher thought. Was this beautiful creature flirtin’ with him?
Corliss said, “I’ll get you that tea, Miss Mallory.” He went back into the store, leaving Preacher alone with Laura. Suddenly, Preacher was more nervous than if he’d been facing a horde of Blackfoot warriors after his scalp.
He wasn’t sure why he felt that way. It wasn’t like he was a boy anymore. He’d been with a number of women, including the beautiful young prostitute Jennie, who had taught him just about everything there was to know about what men and women could do together under the blankets, or the buffalo robe, as the case might be.
Of course, he wasn’t thinking about that sort of frolicking with Laura Mallory. He’d just met her, for goodness’ sake!
But since they were both still standing there on the trading post’s front porch, and she was smiling expectantly as if she were waiting for him to say something else, he figured he’d better come up with something. With the sort of life he led, alone most of the time with Dog and Horse, conversation wasn’t his strong suit.
“You, uh, come out here to settle, Miss Mallory?”
“That’s right,” she replied. “I came along with my brother Clyde.”
“Oh? Where’s he?”
“Over there with the wagons.” Laura pointed with a slender, graceful finger.
Preacher turned to look, and saw a man in a buckskin jacket and broad-brimmed hat bustling around, apparently supervising the unloading of goods from the wagons. Clyde Mallory also wore whipcord trousers and high-topped boots, and he packed a pistol on one hip and a sheathed knife on the other. In that outfit, and with his lean, weathered face, he looked more like a frontiersman than an expatriate Englishman.
“Appears he brought a whole passel of supplies with him,” Preacher commented.
Laura laughed, and to Preacher it sounded like the clear, cold water of a mountain stream flowing over a rocky bed. “Indeed he did,” she said. “Everything in the wagon train, in fact.”
Preacher frowned. “Folks gen’rally don’t bring that much with ’em when they come out here to settle.”
“But that’s not Clyde’s intention,” Laura explained. “You see, this is the first trip of the Mallory Freight Line.”
Preacher’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “I never heard of it before.”
“That’s because Clyde has just established it. Several settlements have been established between here and St. Louis. Clyde intends to provide freight service to all of them including this one, which is the westernmost settlement. As such, it will be one hub of the line, with St. Louis being the other, and I’ll be staying here to keep an eye on Clyde’s interests while he’s gone on the long trips back and forth.”
Preacher was dumbfounded. He had never heard of such a thing as a woman helping to run a business.
It was obvious to anyone who looked at her, though, that Laura Mallory wasn’t a typical woman.
She must have seen his response and recognized it, because she went on with a new note of crispness in her voice. “I assure you, I’m up to the task. I’ve been well educated.”
“Yes, ma’am, I reckon a whole lot better than me, more’n likely. I’m sure you can handle the job.” Preacher didn’t know what else to say.
Laura’s attitude eased a bit. “You’ve gathered by now that Clyde and I aren’t from around here.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Clyde is my father’s second son, you see. You know about the law of primogeniture?”
Preacher nodded in understanding. “Yes, ma’am. I never made much sense of it, but I’ve known some fellas who came over here because of it.”
Most of the Englishmen who made their way to the American frontier were so-called remittance men. Because they weren’t the firstborn sons, they could never inherit their fathers’ estates. As he had indicated to Laura, that seemed like a mighty odd law to Preacher, but the Englishers hadn’t asked his opinion before they came up with it.
And for some other equally odd reason, the Englishers seemed to be a mite embarrassed by those second sons and usually shipped them off somewhere. Out of sight, out of mind, as the old saying went. From what Preacher had heard, a lot of them went into the army and helped England preserve its far-flung empire. Others came to America to make new lives for themselves, often helped out in doing so by regular payments from home, the remittance that gave them their nickname.
Most of the Englishmen Preacher had met had been pretty good fellas, eager to learn the ways of the frontier and tough as nails when they had to be. Clyde Mallory looked like he might fit into that category.
“I’ll introduce you,” Laura said. She stepped to the edge of the porch and waved to attract her brother’s attention. “Clyde!” she called. “Clyde, over here, darling!”
Where Preacher came from, gals didn’t call their brothers darling, but he knew not to make anything out of it. For folks who shared the same language, those Englishers sure did talk funny some of the time.
Clyde Mallory turned to look toward the trading post in response to his sister’s summons, then spoke to one of the men who was unloading the wagons, probably giving him some instructions. Then he came toward the building, his long legs carrying him with confident strides.
“What is it, Laura?” he asked with a touch of impatience in his voice. “There’s still a great deal to do, you know.”
“Yes, of course,” Laura said, “but I wanted you to meet Preacher.”
“The local minister?” Clyde looked at Preacher’s buckskins, broad-brimmed felt hat, and bearded face, and seemed puzzled. “I’m pleased to meet you, Reverend, but I must say—”
Laura’s laughter interrupted him. “No, dear, not a preacher or the preacher. Simply Preacher.”
“It’s what they call me,” Preacher said. He went down the steps to the ground and extended his hand to Clyde Mallory. “Mighty pleased to meet you. Your sister’s been tellin’ me about your plans to start a freight line runnin’ betwixt here and St. Louis.”
Clyde took Preacher’s hand, and his grip had plenty of strength, as Preacher expected. “Those are my intentions,” he said. He let go of Preacher’s hand and turned slightly to gesture toward the wagons. “We’ll have to wait and see how things work out, of course. But I’m encouraged by the welcome we’ve received here.”
Corliss and Jerome Hart came out onto the porch in time to hear Clyde’s words. Jerome said, “We were certainly glad to see you, Mr. Mallory. Our stock shows signs of running low soon. One of us was going to have to go back to St. Louis, arrange for more supplies, and then bring them out here. Instead, you arrive unexpectedly with everything we’ll need to keep us in business for six months or more!”
Clyde smiled, although his eyes remained cool and reserved. “It was a gamble admittedly, but based on everything we heard back in St. Louis about what was happening out here, we felt that it was worth the risk, didn’t we, Laura?”
“Otherwise, we wouldn’t be here,” Laura said. “Ah, is that my tea, Mr. Hart?”
“Call me Corliss,” he said. He held out the paper-wrapped package to her. “This is all we have.”
“And we didn’t bring any more.”
“You can learn to drink coffee like a proper American,” her brother told her. “After all, that’s what we are now.”
Laura’s chin came up in a slight show of defiance. “We’ll always be citizens of the British Empire, Clyde, no matter what you say.”
Clyde’s mouth hardened under his sandy