The preacher glanced down at her, his ebony hair falling into eyes that were grave-dark in the flicker of torches. “Is your father ill?”
Her nod was jerky. “I am afraid for him.”
The preacher returned his attention to the crowd. “Making tea? Singing? Having a pet? This is why you accuse a young woman of consorting with the devil? My own mother is skilled with medicinal herbs. And did your mothers never sing to you when you were ill? Do you also accuse them?”
Maggie felt some of the frenzy leave the crowd, their zeal waning as the sense in the preacher’s words seeped into them.
“What about my hand?” Jones cried. Like fresh tinder on a dwindling fire, the muttering increased again.
“I did nothing to your hand, Mr. Jones,” she argued, stepping up beside her protector.
“That’s a lie! I touched you and my hand’s been aching something fierce ever since. You hexed it! That’s what you did.”
Growls of agreement grew in volume and were quickly followed by calls for the girl—and a bonfire.
“Enough!” The preacher’s voice carried out into the night, silencing the mob.
“Is there a problem, Reverend Oltmann?”
From Maggie’s left, a tall, powerful blond man moved into view. The torchlight glinting from the silver badge on his vest nearly had Maggie’s knees buckling, at last.
“Good evening, Sheriff Tate. And Marshal Hawken. It’s good to see you both.”
Maggie followed the preacher’s gaze to the right, where another, equally tall and forbidding man stood. From the scowl on his handsome face, he was not pleased to be there.
The crowd seemed to sense their prey was escaping. They fidgeted and shuffled, some easing away, others pressing forward, intent on reaching her. Reverend Oltmann pinned them in place with a glare.
“I was about to prove to these people that having a talent with herbs and animals is a gift from God, not Satan.”
Maggie looked up, hoping for a clue of his intentions, but his face showed only quiet determination.
The preacher offered his arm. “If you’ll come with me, miss?”
Left with no choice, Maggie laid her fingertips on his sleeve. His warmth on such a cold night drew her closer. When he took a step, she stumbled against him, her strength draining away just when she needed it most.
“Don’t worry,” he whispered. “Everything will be fine.” Patting her hand, the preacher led her through the middle of the mob and up three steps, stopping before the doors of a church. A single lantern sat to the right of the door, giving illumination to the entrance. “Mr. Jones, as you’re so knowledgeable on the subject, you must know a witch cannot enter a church.”
His mumble of agreement was nearly lost in the ceaseless muttering about hallowed ground and ashes.
“If she enters my church, and she isn’t turned to dust, you will all agree a mistake was made.”
Maggie caught the steel in the soft emphasis. The preacher was none too happy about the situation, either.
When no one argued with his pronouncement, he gave her a slight bow and motioned to the two narrow doors. “After you.”
Maggie stared at the whitewashed wood, her body spent and her mind whirling. How had it come to this? First, the long trip from New York to Saint Louis, then spending the last of their money on the wagon and supplies to travel with people she thought she could trust. And every day, her father grew more and more ill in spite of her efforts...
“Miss.”
She jumped at the impatience in that one softly spoken word. A part of her mind wondered how he would sound when he spoke to a room full of the faithful.
“Is something wrong?”
“Yeah, Preacher. She’s not ready to burn alive!” Hate-filled laughter echoed Jones’s sentiment.
That was all she needed to steel her resolve. She would finish this nonsense and get back to her father. Grasping the tiny gold cross she always wore, the only bit of her mother she owned, she gathered her cloak closer, pushed open a door, and walked inside.
****
Reverend Kristoph Oltmann stayed close enough to catch the young girl if she stumbled again. He could tell she was stretched nearly to the breaking point. In truth, he should have ordered the mob away immediately, but they would have only lain in wait for her to return to her father. This way, even the most superstitious among them would be forced to accept she posed no danger to anyone.
When she entered his church with a decided lack of thunder, smoke or ashes, the mob’s convictions—and interest—waned, just as Kris expected. From his vantage point on the steps, he could tell many had already faded into the night. Only a few of the men offered any resistance when Sheriff Tate and Marshal Hawken ordered them back to their wagons.
“Matthew?” He motioned Sheriff Tate over. “The girl’s father is ill. She was forced to leave him when these people harassed her through town. Would you see that he’s taken to Doctor Bittner’s? I will bring her along shortly.”