Her Cold Revenge

Chapter 4

As Grace led Bullet into the alley by the stable, someone shouted her name. Few people in town knew it, and those who did either wanted payment or planned to cause trouble. She continued leading the horse, quickening her steps and fixing her gaze straight ahead, pretending she hadn't heard.

"Grace? Grace Milton, wait."

This time she recognized Reverend Byington's voice. She stopped and turned to him with a smile as the preacher hurried toward her.

"I thought that was you," he said breathlessly, reaching out to stroke Bullet's nose. "And I'd know this gorgeous palomino anywhere."

Bullet snorted and flicked his head, but when the preacher extended his other hand with a slice of apple on his palm, Bullet gobbled it and let Reverend Byington pat his neck.

He laughed. "I'd been planning to give that treat to my own horse, but it went to a worthy cause." He focused on Grace. "So you're staying in Bisbee? I wondered why I hadn't seen you in Tombstone for some time."

Grace scuffed the toe of her boot in the dirt. "Yes . . . I, uh . . ." She didn't want to share that her main reason for leaving was to avoid seeing Joe when he came into town for supplies.

The preacher held up his hand.

"Why don't you get your horse settled for the night, then we can meet for dinner at the hotel and you can tell me how you've been?"

Grace hesitated. She had no money for a meal, and even if she had, she couldn't waste it at such a fancy establishment. She'd been planning to eat the few crumbs of pemmican left in her pouch.

"My treat, of course," the preacher added, seeming to sense her hesitation.

"Oh . . . I-I couldn't."

"Nonsense." He waved his hand to brush aside her protests. "I insist."

Although she hated to be beholden to anyone, she knew she could do with a good meal. Someday, though, she'd find a way to pay back all of Reverend Byington's generosity.

A short while later, Grace sat in the elegant dining room across from the preacher, closing her eyes and inhaling the aromatic steam from a bowl of beef stew. Her stomach growled, but she waited patiently if a little skeptically until Reverend Byington had asked the blessing. Then, finally, she dipped her spoon into the thick, dark broth and savored this bit of heaven.

The balding man with the scruffy gray beard sitting opposite her didn't resemble the angels described in his Bible — and given all that had happened to her, she wasn't sure she believed in such things anymore. But if they did exist, then to Grace, Reverend Byington had been an angel and more. Somehow he always caught her at her lowest times and offered aid. When she'd almost died of dehydration in the desert and he'd come to her aid with water and food. When he'd found the photograph of her family she'd thought was lost forever. And later, when he'd strode into the saloon and championed her cause after she'd shot Doc Slaughter. Now he was feeding her? Sometimes his kindness was overwhelming, but it served as a healing balm, soothing the frustration and fear balled up inside her. Every muscle in her body, taut and alert against sudden attacks, unknotted. Even if she didn't believe the preacher's message, his caring and generosity touched her spirit.