Saints and Sinners

Chapter One

The walls of the small church pressed in on Eliza Hargreaves. In the front pew, her father leaned down to whisper something to the woman sitting next to him. The widow Redwood smiled, a coquettish smile that didn’t soften the hard glint in her calculating eyes.

Worry threaded through Eliza, mixed with relief. At least her father wasn’t using her as bait in his latest swindle. The dying desert town of Lone Gulch had no rich bachelors to lure, only a wealthy widow.

Since she’d turned sixteen two years ago, Eliza had done her best to make herself invisible. It hadn’t worked. Instead, she’d managed to become drab. Clothes hung on her thin frame. Her anxious expression invited no conversation. An ugly brown bonnet hid the thick chestnut hair that she always pulled into a severe knot.

If no man desired her, she couldn’t be asked to lead them to their ruin.

The preacher opened his hymnal. Joy crept over Eliza, like a ray of sunshine. Her eyes fluttered shut. True and strong, her voice would echo from the rafters if she let it soar. But she only mouthed out the words, hiding behind the silence.

Inside her head, she sang, free and pure. Something she’d never be.

When the voices of the congregation faded, Eliza bolted to her feet. She’d taken the end seat in the last pew. Her father expected her to keep out of the way, in case the widow Redwood disliked the idea of a stepdaughter.

The church door clattered against the wall as she flung it open. Terror at having drawn attention to herself twisted in her heart. Eliza spun back. God be praised. Her father hadn’t noticed. Tall and lanky, he was busy helping up the widow, trying to make the robust woman feel delicate.

As if a beanstalk could make a pear appear less round.

The thought drew a smile to Eliza’s lips. The faint sign of rebellion lingered, even as she took a shortcut across the dusty bank beside the church. If she hurried, she might get home before anyone else came out. Glancing back toward the entrance, she checked to make sure that she remained safe, unnoticed.

A hard slam against her shins sent her tumbling in a flurry of petticoats. Her bones jarred as she hit the ground, but she didn’t dare to make a sound. She’d learned not to. Her father demanded that she suffered punishments without complaint, and he liked to beat her with a wooden stick on her arms and legs, where the bruises wouldn’t show.

“Are you all right, Miss Eliza?”

Warmth surged inside her when she heard the rich voice with a lilting Spanish accent. The man she’d crashed into rose from where he’d been sitting beside the whitewashed timber wall. Lean and dark, dressed in solid black, he looked like the devil’s own. Every Sunday, when Eliza rushed out after the service, she’d seen him sitting near the church.

As if he wanted to listen, but didn’t like the idea of going inside.

Maybe he truly was the devil’s own. The thought sent a shiver of apprehension down her skin. With an alarmed glance at the church door, Eliza flapped away the man’s hands as he tried to help her up.

“My father will see,” she warned him, her voice so low it caught in her throat.

Joaquin Pereira nodded. “Sorry. I tripped you up.”

“You usually sit under the tree.”

Knowledge flashed in his dark eyes. Hot color washed to Eliza’s cheeks. She’d revealed how aware she was of him. Her jaw lifted in a stubborn angle. She might have no life, but she was allowed to dream. Dreaming was all she’d ever do, and if some of her dreams included a young Mexican with a flashing smile that contradicted the sadness in his eyes, it was her business, and only hers.

“I wanted to watch you sing.” He gestured at the small window that cast a shaft of sunlight into the church. Then he returned his gaze to her. His eyes lingered, intent and burning as he studied her features. Not her body, and not with a look of lust, but as if seeking to learn her secrets.

Eliza took a step back. “I have to go. My father will see.”

His straight black brows drew together. “And he’ll disapprove?”

She didn’t reply. Slowly, her feet dragged down the slope as she retreated without turning her back on him. She swept one last glance over Joaquin Pereira, and whirled and fled. The reply she should have made to him pounded in her head. Not disapprove. If you show any interest in me at all, he’ll calculate how much that cantina of yours is worth, and force me to try and swindle it from you.

Saints and sinners.

Her footsteps pounded the words on the hard baked earth as she ran home. The town had it all backwards. They saw her reading the bible and thought her good and saintly. If only they knew. She was merely trying to wash off the coat of sin, so she wouldn’t end up in hell.

Either in this world or the next.

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