Rescuing the Pastor's Daughter Read online

  Rescuing the Pastor’s Daughter

  (Christmas Rescue Series Book 14)

  By

  Margaret Tanner

  Rescuing the Pastor’s Daughter

  Christmas Rescue Series

  Book 14

  Copyright © 2020 Margaret Tanner

  Thank you for downloading this e-book. It remains the copyrighted property of the author and may not be reproduced, scanned, or distributed for any commercial or non-commercial use without permission from the author and publisher. Quotes used in reviews are the exception. No alteration of content is allowed. If you enjoy this book, then please encourage your friends to purchase their own copy.

  This story is a work of fiction, and to enhance the story, some literary license has been taken regarding setting and geography. All characters are a figment of the author’s imagination.

  Many thanks to my friend and fellow author, Cheryl Wright, for all her help and support.

  To my loyal readers: Thank you so much for your support. You can’t know how much I appreciate it.

  Cover Artist: V. McKevitt

  Table of Contents

  Table of Contents 3

  Chapter One 4

  Chapter Two 7

  Chapter Three 12

  Chapter Four 16

  Chapter Five 21

  Chapter Six 25

  Chapter Seven 30

  Chapter Eight 34

  Chapter Nine 38

  Chapter Ten 44

  Chapter Eleven 48

  Chapter Twelve 53

  Epilogue 55

  About the Author 58

  Chapter One

  Colorado 1880

  “Father, this place has a bad aura. I don’t like it.”

  Pastor Wilhelm Schultz glanced at his daughter, Mary, who was the image of her mother, his dear Helga. The Lord had seen fit to send him an angel for a wife, then took her back to heaven far too soon.

  He had to do the best he could for Mary and marriage to Wolfgang Mueller was the choice he had made. Wolfgang was a wealthy man and a devout Lutheran, a perfect husband for her.

  Mary was twenty-one now and should have already been wed. Traveling from place to place, trying to spread God’s word, had limited her opportunities to meet suitable men. When Wolfgang had made contact to ask about marriage to Mary, he had readily agreed.

  He flapped the reins against the horses’ rumps to keep them moving. At fifty, Wolfgang was considerably older than Mary, which was of little consequence. Having never been married before, he was anxious to beget heirs. Mary, being young and healthy, could easily give him several sons. She in return would want for nothing.

  “I don’t want to marry an old man like Wolfgang,” she said. “I want to marry someone younger.”

  “It’s a good match, daughter. You will marry him, and I will hear no more of this nonsense.”

  “But, father….”

  “Enough. Do not defy me. You will marry Wolfgang, hopefully before Christmas. You will be a good and obedient wife and give him the children he wants. It is my wish, and that is the end of the discussion.”

  He stared straight ahead, and she knew it was useless arguing with him. I can’t marry an old man, she thought, he’s probably ugly as well. The thought of an old man’s wrinkled hands on her body filled her with revulsion. Wealth meant nothing to her; the love of a decent, God-fearing man was all she had ever wanted.

  “We’ll stop soon to have our midday meal and rest the horses,” he said.

  “All right. Shall I climb into the back of the wagon and sort out a few things?”

  When her father nodded his consent, she pulled the canvas flap aside and climbed in their small wagon. Everything was arranged in an orderly fashion, the foodstuffs in labeled barrels and tins. Their blankets were folded neatly, bedrolls aligned, pots and pans secured to the sides of the wagon. Father was meticulous with everything he did.

  The wagon suddenly lurched to a stop. “What can I do for you, Pilgrim?” her father said. “You’re welcome to share a meal with….”

  A shot rang out.

  Crawling forward, she saw her father tumble to the ground; shot between the eyes. She almost jumped out of the wagon, but realized there was nothing she could do for him. The desire to live suddenly kicked in and she shoved a fist in her mouth to stop from screaming and announcing her presence.

  A dust-covered man holstered his gun. He glanced around, then stepped over to their horses and started to unhitch them.

  If she made a sound the man would surely kill her, maybe even violate her first. She grabbed a blanket and hid under it behind a couple of barrels. At a single glance she had seen that her father was beyond human help.

  Her fear escalated as she heard the man rummaging around in the back of the wagon. If he climbed inside, he would have to be blind not to find her. A muttered curse filled her with dread. Perspiration broke out over her body; she could feel the clammy dampness. Scarcely daring to breathe she waited, praying desperately for the angels to take her father’s spirit home to God, and for him to save her from this murdering outlaw.

  The sheriff at Calico Corner, the last town they passed through a couple of days ago, had warned them not to travel alone while an escaped prisoner was still at large. He was dangerous and violent, having already killed a Federal Marshal and two other men who were escorting him back to the prison in Laramie.

  They could have taken another route, much longer, yet safer. Father had declined to take notice of the warning because he was anxious to get her to Wolfgang in Cheyenne.

  The outlaw was inside the wagon now as she could hear him opening the tins, dragging out bags of flour and sugar that had been stacked neatly along each side.

  Time ticked slowly by as she waited to be discovered. A sudden bang was immediately followed by shattering glass and the strong smell of kerosene. The man was going to burn the wagon with her inside it.

  She gritted her teeth to stop any sounds coming out of her mouth and debated about what to do. Declare her presence and risk violation followed by death, or stay where she was and hope the smoke killed her before the flames did. “God, help me,” she whispered desperately.

  The wagon moved and she realized the man had climbed out. She could hear him cursing and muttering as he passed close by.

  A sudden bright flash of flame was followed by searing heat. Terror filled her heart. What could she do? How could she survive?

  The heat became so bad it felt as if her skin was being seared. Above the noise of crackling flames, she heard the pounding of hooves on the rock-hard surface of the canyon. It appeared the man was riding away. She had to get out of the wagon before she perished.

  Kicking off the blanket, she saw smoke billowing around her. Feeling around for the back of the seat, she found it, and somehow managed to climb over and topple forward. Her last thought before her face slammed into the ground was that the flames would not devour her.

  Consciousness returned and on hands and knees Mary crawled away from the heat of the flames. Her head pounded, blackness surrounded her, yet she was not asleep, the throbbing in her face and arm attested to this. What was happening to her?

  Maybe it was a nightmare, that’s why everything appeared black. Father had said darkness fell quickly in the canyon country. It had been about midday when they drove through here. Where had all those hours gone? Where were the stars if it was nighttime? She could still smell the acrid smoke of burning canvas, wood, and food, yet saw nothing.

  Sharp stones dug into her hands and knees. The burning pain in one arm was excruciating, while the low guttural noise she could hear were coming from her own mouth. Father was dead, her body racked with pain. Death was pref
erable to this kind of torture.

  Chapter Two

  Finn Muir awoke with a start, his hands automatically going to the twin Colts he always wore. A shot rang out, seemingly bouncing off the walls of the cave he was hiding in. Was it Walter Clampett? By his calculations, the murdering outlaw would have to pass near here to get to the badlands so he could hole up until the heat was off.

  A five-hundred-dollar reward for his apprehension dead or alive. He preferred to take prisoners back alive, if possible. Every bounty hunter for miles around would be after this reward. He had the advantage of knowing the area like the back of his hand, having wandered around here for years with his prospecting father. Gold, silver, anything that could be dug out of the ground, his father had searched for it; the wealth he had dreamed of somehow always eluding him.

  He strained his ears, but no more shots came. No noise whatsoever. The silence spooked him, causing the hair on the back of his neck to stand on end. Something did not quite feel right. He could not put his finger on it. His instincts were acute because in his line of work they had to be. Surely Clampett had not got ahead of him?

  Maverick was a powerful horse in the peak of condition, and he had pushed him hard to arrive here quickly. At the very least, he figured he was at least half a day ahead of his quarry.

  This cave, where he had stayed before, was large enough for him and the horse to share. The entrance was hidden behind a huge boulder, with barely enough room for them to both squeeze through. Unless a man knew it was here, he would pass by without noticing it.

  Water was available in a rock pool not far away. He had filled his canteen and coffee pot before letting the horse drink his fill. He rarely slept during the day, but as he had traveled all night and half the morning to get here, they needed to rest. He had closed his eyes, thinking to ease the grittiness brought about by the swirling dust thrown up by Maverick’s hooves, when the shot had awakened him.

  Climbing to his feet, he stretched and yawned, before going outside to relieve himself. In the distance, smoke billowed skyward, and the acrid stench filled his nostrils. It was no campfire as Clampett would never be stupid enough to light a fire, especially one of that size.

  He pursed his lips. By his reckoning it was a mile or so away, deeper into the canyon, which ran for several miles. In some places the walls were sheer red brown rock, which finally opened into a narrow valley scattered with trees and bushes. The terrain was a freak of nature, he decided, or maybe it was caused by the hundreds of miners who had worked the area a few years ago. He was not superstitious, yet had never liked the place. It had a bad aura.

  Smoke still spiraled skyward, although it was starting to lessen. If it was Clampett, this would be as good a place as any to catch him unaware and capture him before any other bounty hunter caught up with him.

  He could almost smell the five-hundred-dollar reward. Another couple of big bounties and he could hang up his guns once and for all. At thirty-two, he was getting too old for this type of work. He was still lightning fast on the draw, even though he had slowed down a fraction. Eventually, he would have to give it up or end up in a pine box in some cemetery, mourned and remembered by no-one.

  Striding back inside the cave, he headed over to Maverick. The horse would not be pleased that they had to go out again so soon. Well, it did not particularly appeal to him after riding so long and hard to get here.

  The horse trotted up to him. “Sorry to interrupt your rest, boy.” He patted the chestnut’s neck. “We’ve got business to attend to.” He never unsaddled the horse in the daytime if he was on a job, in case he needed to ride off in a hurry, just loosened the cinch strap.

  Within a couple of minutes, he was mounted and heading toward the smoke. If Clampett had lit the fire and was so close, this could turn into an easy assignment. Five-hundred-dollars for a few days work was something which rarely happened to him. He was never that lucky.

  “About time I had a decent break,” he muttered.

  After riding for a while he dismounted and strode into a smaller canyon running off the larger one. Why a man on the run would light such a large fire in the middle of the day he had no idea. He was either careless, stupid, or maybe a combination of both.

  This was not the first time he had chased this evil varmint. He had tracked him for weeks after a bank hold up and brought him to justice. Within a couple of years he had escaped from the Laramie prison and run wild until he was captured a second time, and now had shot his way to freedom again. The fact he had killed two men was why the authorities had placed such a high reward on his capture. Dead or alive.

  He had been told this by Sheriff Tyson from Calico Corner, meaning they would probably prefer him dead. The man deserved to be killed, but not by his hand unless absolutely necessary. If Clampett only knew it, he was better off being caught by Finnigan Muir, who still had a few scruples left, whereas most other bounty hunters would take the easy option and bring in his corpse.

  Edging his way forward, he kept behind boulders and bushes. The late spring sun still had a little heat in it, although he knew from past experience how quickly the weather could change at this time of year.

  He inhaled a shocked breath on seeing a smoldering wagon. The horses were gone, thankfully. A quick glance around showed no sign of life. He stepped closer. An elderly man lay on his back with a neat bullet hole between the eyes. Keeping a sharp look out, he strode over to him. He knew the man was dead, yet instinctively checked the body. Already the buzzards were starting to circle. By the black suit and clerical collar that he wore, the victim was a preacher. What on earth had happened here?

  The buzzards seemed to be paying more attention to something a little further on. He strode closer. A horse lay dead on the ground. One glance at its foam-covered coat and he realized the animal had been ridden to death. Clampett, it had to be. No wonder he had gotten here so quickly. He had ridden his mount into the ground to do it.

  The wagon horses were gone, two by the looks of the harnessing. This evil varmint had shot dead a preacher man to steal his horses. Revulsion rose in his throat at such a cold-blooded act, one of the most despicable he had ever had the misfortune to come across.

  His first instinct was to race back to Maverick and ride after the vicious brute. In all good conscience, he could not leave the preacher lying there for the buzzards to pick his bones clean and leave them to bleach white by the elements, even if it meant letting his quarry get an even bigger head start.

  Striding back to the wagon, he hoped there would be something he could use to dig a grave. Attached to the side of the wagon was a shovel with half the handle burned away.

  Several boxes were strewn on the ground at the back of the wagon. Clampett had obviously helped himself to a few supplies before making his getaway.

  He checked inside the blackened remains looking for, but praying he would not find, any bodies. Thank the Lord there were none. What would a preacher be doing all the way out here on his own? There were few heathens to convert, few people out here at all. Maybe he was coming to save my black soul? It would have been fruitless, as he had lost his faith years ago when his father had been murdered by claim jumpers. It had been the only reasonable gold mine he had ever owned. Not to mention his mother dying in childbirth after giving birth to premature twin girls who had also died. Any wonder he had lost his belief in a fair and merciful God?

  A noise interrupted his musing. A sound like he had never heard before, making the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. His hand went to his gun, a reflex action. Some animal was in distress was his first thought, but what?

  The sobbing, muffled moans had him taking up a crouching stance as he inched his way forward, gun drawn. He stopped dead. His heart slammed against his ribcage with the force of a battering ram, punching the breath from his lungs. Sitting on the ground, face buried against her drawn up knees, was a young woman. Well, he guessed she was young. A long, honey-blonde plait, half undone, straggled to one side. The sl
eeve of her blue dress was burned.

  “Are you okay?” Stupid question because she was obviously hurt.

  Slowly she raised her head. “Are you going to kill me like you did my father?” There was no fear in her voice, only a sad resignation. “I don’t care if you do. I’ve been blinded, so I will die out here, anyway.”

  The hopelessness in her voice moved him as nothing had done in years. “I’m not going to kill you,” he said, squatting beside her and pushing her plait away. “I heard the shot and saw the smoke.”

  Her eyes were swollen shut, cuts and bruises covered the reddened skin on her face. “You’re not blind. Your eyes are swollen shut, is all. What’s your name?”

  “Mary Schultz.”

  “I’m Finnigan Muir, but most people call me Finn. You look as if you’ve been hit in the face by something hard.” A shocking thought had him blurting out. “Did the man force himself on you?”

  “No. I hid in the wagon, and he didn’t know I was there.”

  “Well, that’s something to be thankful for.”

  “Is it? My father has been murdered. I can’t see….”

  “Well, I shudder to think what would have happened to you had he found you.”

  “What about my father, can we take him to your place?”

  “I don’t have a place. The best I can do is bury him out here, and put a marker on his grave.” He did not feel too confident about being able to do that, if there was no soft patch of soil in which to dig. Maybe it would be better if he took her back to the cave first.

  “He was a good man, a pastor.”

  “A pastor?”

  “Yes, of the Lutheran church.”

  “Oh, I thought they were all called preachers. You’re injured. I’ll take you back to my campsite, then attend to your father. I’ll cover him over.” So the buzzards won’t get him. Thankfully, he stopped himself from uttering the last six words out loud. Mary Schultz had enough to deal with as it was, no point causing her further distress.