by Caroline Lee
No, the only kind of man who dressed all in darkness and rode bleeding into strange barns was an outlaw, a bandit.
Hmmm. ‘Dressed in darkness’ was a good line. She’d have to remember that for one of her stories. Rose could just see Murderous Mitch—the villain in her latest—described as ‘dressed in darkness’. Maybe she could take notes on this villain, because he obviously fit the part, despite his obvious fondness for harmless pigs. He was big, hairy, and dark, his face all but covered in a thick beard and his hair going out in all directions from under a black hat. A black hat! She’d have to remember that little detail to include. Villains wore dark hats, didn’t they? In her stories, the Sheriff always had a white hat, and that was important.
“Ma’am?”
Rose startled, aware that she’d been staring at him too long. “What?” Her voice was a little higher than normal, but she didn’t know if it was fear or surprise or excitement. Imagine! A bandit in her very own barn!
“Well, nothing.” He had a nice voice. Warm, like the cocoa the ladies sometimes served at the Sunday socials. “But I’d just like some warning before you fetch that pitchfork, ma’am.”
“It’s miss, I’ll have you know.” Whoops, maybe she shouldn’t have admitted that to an outlaw. And why did she care what he thought?
But he only sighed. She watched his shoulders droop, and he released her hog. Surely a man who hugged animals like that couldn’t be all bad? Rose noticed for the first time that he was clutching his thigh. Is that where he was wounded? When he glanced down, she saw his wince. “Sorry, miss. And sorry for invading your barn. Me and the horse will be out of your hair soon enough.”
Well, that just wouldn’t do, would it? Here he was, a real live bandit, in her barn, and she was going to make sure that she took every advantage of the situation. He might be dangerous, but she was sure that if she was in charge—with his gun, say—that she could ask him all the questions she wanted.
Still holding the lantern in one hand, she crossed to the hog pen and upended the bucket of scraps into their trough. In response to dinner, the squealing reached record heights, and made Rose long for the warmer months when the animals could root around out in the open. Of course, they had quite a few more hogs then, before most were slaughtered.
Staring at the hogs wasn’t helping. She needed to figure out a way to keep the man here, even if she had to steal his gun, so that she could learn from him. Imagine what he knew! Her mind began to skip about, thinking about train robberies and horse chases and gunfights at high noon. She’d bemoaned the fact that she had no way of learning about the things she wanted to write, and then God just dropped this fabulous Christmas present into her path. Oh, yes, she was going to keep the man here, until she’d learned all that she needed. And then she’d take herself into town and tell Sheriff Cutter everything.
“Miss?” Was it her imagination, or did he sound a little anxious? Rose’s attention swung from the hogs rooting through the trough to the stranger sitting on her log pile.
“What’s your name?” Perhaps it wasn’t the most artful conversation starter, but explaining to the bandit that she’d captured him wasn’t going to work either.
He hesitated a moment, before answering. “Bear.” Bear? What kind of man was named Bear? He didn’t look like an Indian… But the name suited him. He wore a long black jacket, and was larger than any man she’d seen before. Yes, he looked like a bear alright.
“I’m Rose White.” Maybe she shouldn’t have told him that either. Hmm. Well, she was new to this whole law-enforcement thing.
“Miss White, I just needed a place to rest for a few hours. I’ll be out of here before morning, I swear.”
But when she saw him wince again, she knew that he was lying. He wasn’t going anywhere, not with the amount of blood pooling around him. And in that moment, she lost her fear of him. Well, maybe she’d never been really afraid—just excited and curious—but with him hurt so badly, she knew that she had the upper hand. That injury meant that she could keep him here, and learn from him, even if she couldn’t overpower him.
So she put down the bucket and marched over, all businesslike. “Don’t be stupid, Bear.” She fetched some of the moldy old blankets Papa had stacked in the barn years ago and forgotten, and laid them out near the log pile. “These might not smell the best, but they’re a sight more comfortable than cuddling with my hogs.” She heard him snort, and the sound made her lips turn up for some reason.
When she straightened, she swiped her palms down the front of her coat, and took a deep breath to steady herself. “Please remove your guns.” It was hard to see his expression under that hat and all that beard, but she swallowed and repeated herself. “I want to help you, Mr. Bear, but I just can’t if you’ve got a gun and are four times my size.” It was God’s honest truth.
Finally, he moved, slowly pulling his revolvers from his holsters—didn’t outlaws wear those fancy tooled-leather double holsters like that?—with two fingers. He didn’t drop her gaze while he tossed them lightly to the ground, or when he propped the rifle on the post beside him. When he nodded to let her know that he was unarmed, Rose breathed a silent prayer of thanksgiving. She hadn’t believed that she could be so bold as to demand an outlaw disarm himself, but it had worked! Maybe she had more steel in her than she’d realized.
…or maybe the man was just in enough pain that he’d give in to anything she asked.
Feeling guilty, now, that she’d delayed his treatment, she crossed to him, her hand out. “Come on, I’ll help you over to lie down. We need to look at that wound of yours.”
The way he stared at her made her mouth dry, and she had to swallow a few times. She’d never felt so…so looked at. His eyes were dark under his thick brows, and his lips—what she could see under that beard—were pulled down. Finally, his gaze dropped to her outstretched hand, and she breathed a little sigh of relief—why did his reaction matter?—when he accepted her assistance.
But in the few steps it took to get him to the pitiful pallet she’d created, she realized how heavily he was leaning on her. And realized how her arm tingled, for some reason, where his gloved hands touched it. What was wrong with her? Certainly, he was an intriguing, compelling man—he’d shown up in her barn, for goodness sakes! But why would she be attracted to him? Surely she was holding her breath now for some other reason? Some reason that didn’t involve his surprisingly clean scent and the way she shivered when he called her “miss”.
It was only a few steps from the log pile to the pallet, but it seemed to last much longer. Finally, he sunk down to the blankets with a groan, and she tightened her hold on the lantern. She had an outlaw in her barn, and she wasn’t about to let him get away.
“Well, let’s see that wound of yours, Bear.”
His sharp glance told her that she’d surprised him, and she set her jaw and tried to look firm. “Surely you didn’t think I was just going to let you walk—hobble—out of here, leaking blood?” No, she needed him here, to tell her all about being an outlaw. “There’s not a lot of medical supplies out here in the barn.” An understatement. “But by the time I get back with some from the house, I figure that you can have your pants off.”
The man on the ground made a sort of choking noise. “What?”
Rose felt her cheeks heat as she realized what she’d said, but was determined to push forward. She couldn’t let this man die, not when she planned to interview him…and then turn him over to the law. “I said that you need to take your pants off. That’s where the wound is, after all. No need to be squeamish, Mr. Bear. I’ll leave you alone to disrobe.”
“…Alone to…?”
“Disrobe.” Heavens, maybe he’d lost more blood than she knew. “To take your clothes off. Your pants, sir.”
Another choking noise. “You want me to take my pants off.” It wasn’t a question, and Rose didn’t bother repeating herself.
Instead, she clucked impatiently and crossed to his horse, praying
that she could remember what to do with the big animal. “I’ll leave you the lantern while I go back to the house for supplies. I expect to be able to examine and work on your wound when I get back.” She fiddled with the strap under the horse’s belly. “And just to make sure you’re still here…” She nodded, satisfied, when the saddle slipped off the gelding and hit the floor. He wouldn’t be going anywhere for a while. Not with a bum leg and a saddle-less horse.
And just to be doubly-sure, she scooped up the guns on her way past. He’d be defenseless without them, and she herself could use one to bolster her courage. Since she was taking on the role of lawman—law-woman?—after all.
As she hurried towards the barn door, she called back to the man who somehow managed to be a thick shadow in the middle of the pool of lantern light. “Your pants, sir. Remove them posthaste.”
She closed the barn door on his curse, and resisted the urge to do a little dance on her way up to the house. An outlaw! A real, live outlaw, in her very own barn! Soon, just as soon as he was stitched and not bleeding to death any longer, she’d have her answers! Already, new scenes for Murderous Mitch and his nemesis, the heroic and dashing Sheriff Caraway, were flitting through her mind. Her fingers itched to begin writing again…but first she had to ensure that her new source would survive the night.
CHAPTER THREE
Bear wasn’t about to admit that last night had been the most embarrassing moment of his life, but it’d been up there. When he’d had to rely on her to walk the few paces to the blankets she’d laid out, that had been embarrassing. But when she’d commanded him to remove his clothes? Well, he just hoped to God that none of the other fellas ever heard about it. He’d never live it down.
Because he’d done it. He’d taken off his pants, and cut off enough of his long johns that she’d be able to reach his wound. The hole in his flesh was gaping and ugly and still leaking at an alarming rate, and that was just the front side. Lord knew what the exit wound looked like.
He was lying on his left side by the time she returned, his jacket and hat off, his gun belt a respectable distance away. She’d taken his guns, which would’ve been galling if he wasn’t so near to fainting from the pain anyhow. Lord knows what she’d done with the Winchester, but he noticed the grip of one of his Colts sticking out of her coat pocket as she’d tended him. It wasn’t like he couldn’t take it by force, but why would he? The woman was kind and bossy and all sorts of sweet, and probably already thought the worst of him. But if she did, why did she treat his wound so efficiently, bullying him into rolling into whatever contorted position she imagined? She didn’t mention the Sheriff—this town had one, right?—and didn’t even suggest getting the doctor. Instead, she’d arrived with a big basket filled with blankets, medical supplies, and a book on home doctoring.
Bear almost spoke up, when he saw her threading that needle. If she was reading a book to figure out how to fix him up, surely it’d be better to go find a real doctor? But she’d been so efficient up ‘til then, and he just really couldn’t let word of his presence—wounded and vulnerable—get back to the gang. He needed to lie low, to let them think that he was dead, so they’d get over-confident. In the meantime, he just had to hope that Rose knew what she was doing.
And what kind of name was “Rose White” anyhow? I mean, look at her. All that thick red hair, flowing loose around her shoulders like that? She wasn’t a white rose, no. She was strength and intrigue and… Rose Red would’ve been a better name for her.
After she was through, he had to admit that he did feel a little better. Maybe it was the burning liquid she’d poured over his leg, or maybe the gin in the flask she’d confessed belonged to her mother, or maybe just the fact that she made him prop his leg on a rolled-up horse blanket. But when she’d tucked two more of those quilts around him, he was feeling a heck of a lot better than he’d felt a few hours before.
And then she’d fed him! Chicken broth and bread wasn’t too filling, but mighty tasty. To his dismay, she hadn’t let him sit up to eat, but had instead propped his head on her thighs when she held the bowl for him. In between gulps, he laid in her lap and stared up at her incredible profile and wondered what in the heck had happened to him.
In the lantern light, this close, she really was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. In fact, he was beginning to suspect that she was some sort of fairy, the little people his grandmother used to tell him about. She sure looked magical. Real woman didn’t have hair that red, and didn’t let it flow free around their perfect cheekbones like she did. Real women didn’t have eyes the color of topaz gems, and a smattering of freckles across their noses. Real women didn’t gently stroke strangers’ brows as they spoon-fed them sustenance, and alternated between sweet-talking and bullying when he got stubborn.
No, by the time Bear realized he was on the verge of sleep, he was convinced that his Rose Red was either a hallucination brought on by blood loss, or some kind of fairy godmother. She was still beside him when he’d closed his eyes, and he decided that he was probably dying. That was the only explanation for this vision of her.
Which made waking up this afternoon a bit of a surprise.
He was still in the barn, still covered by well-worn green and red quilts. Still surrounded by the stink of pigs and the unnatural silence of a lone building surrounded by snow. Still alive.
Beside him was the basket Rose must’ve left last night. After staring at the rafters of the barn for a while longer, Bear forced himself over to one elbow, and dragged the thing closer. The movement didn’t hurt his leg as much as he’d feared, but it wasn’t pleasant.
Inside the basket was a hunk of bread, rolled in a cloth, and he found the jug of water beside his head. It took too much coordination to pour into the nearby mug, so he drank directly from the jug, ignoring the ice that bumped against his mustache while doing so. He’d let his beard get too unruly again, but it was for the best. When a man spent his winters chasing down outlaws, his face needed all the protection it could get, from the weather and recognition.
Drinking left him exhausted, so he laid his head back down on the folded blanket she’d left him to replace her knees, and slowly ate the bread, pondering his situation. He was used to working alone, so it’d be a few more days before his supervisors started to worry. But in the meantime, he had a unique opportunity. Sure, his leg hurt like hellfire, and he had no idea if he’d be able to walk again, but Quigg and his boys didn’t realize that he was still alive. He’d stayed in that gully long after they’d high-tailed it after that coach, and then had forced his horse to walk along the snow-swollen creek to throw off any pursuit.
He was alive, and Quigg didn’t realize it. Even if he wasn’t on his feet in the next few weeks, if he could manage to contact his superiors, another Marshall might be sent after the gang. After all, he knew where they were headed, thanks to those hours spent on the frozen ground, eavesdropping on their conversations before the attack.
But the problem was that he needed to reach a town with a telegraph, and he had no idea where he was now. If they were anywhere close to civilization, wouldn’t Rose have sent for a doctor—and the Law—as soon as she found a near-dead could-be-an-outlaw-for-all-she-knew in her barn with her pigs? No, he had no reason to trust this mysterious savior of his.
But shoot, she was worth looking at, wasn’t she? Bear found that he didn’t mind thinking about her, either. He laid there with his eyes closed, chewing the stale bread and remembering the way her hair curled around her earlobes, and wondering what those red strands felt like.
It wasn’t a real intelligent train of thought, but it helped pass the time.
After a while—an hour?—though, Bear drifted off to sleep again, and woke in the evening, judging by the light coming in from the empty hayloft. It was going to be another cold one, but that wasn’t a surprise, this close to Christmas. He tried to sit up, but didn’t get too far. Guess it was too early to push his leg, yet.
Instead, he dragged the
basket closer, and found the two books Rose had left the night before, Dr. Gunn’s Domestic Medicine and one of those cheap dime novels. Well, he knew plenty of practical doctoring, and preferred to read the thick law tomes anyhow. Others might think them duller than Domestic Medicine, but he’d always liked learning the nuances of the Law. But, even as a kid, he could never pass up a good yarn about bad guys getting their due. That’s why he’d become a U.S. Marshall, after all. He’d never read this one—Black Bart’s Revenge—so he turned up the lantern and settled down to read.
He was only a few chapters into it, and Black Bart was about to kidnap the girl again, when the barn door opened. He resisted the urge to slap the book closed like some naughty school boy, instead carefully marking his place with a piece of paper he’d found in chapter fourteen, and set it beside him on the quilt.
“I was wondering where I’d left that book. Are you enjoying it?”
Bear watched her move across the barn to the pig pens—they were squealing and hollering again—to dump her bucket, and then float towards him. Still a little surprised that he hadn’t imagined her, Bear shrugged, not liking the pull in his shoulders that he felt all the way down to his thigh. “I am, yeah.” No need to deny the truth. “I think I lost your place, though.” He held the book out as a sort of apology, but she waved it away as she sunk to her knees beside him, the grip of his Colt again poking out from her pocket.
“I’ve read it dozens of times. I borrowed it from Mayor’s Books just because her latest delivery hasn’t arrived yet.” When she spoke, she began to peel away the quilts covering his wound, and Bear resisted the urge to move away from her prying eyes. And hands. Instead he licked his lips and stared at the underside of the hayloft. “I’m glad you like it. I’m a bit surprised, actually.”