Loving the Lawmen

by Marie Patrick

  Christie woke to the sound of bacon crackling. It smelled so good her mouth watered, but the warm cocoon of her blanket made her resist moving. She tried to imagine she was back home in Boston in her own bed. Soon Bess would arrive with her morning chocolate. She’d draw the drapes and the sunshine would stream in. After, Bess would lay out her clothes while they chatted about the day’s events. Perhaps they’d plan the menu for a dinner party that evening … Discuss the price of oysters.

  Nat’s brusque tone cut into her fantasy. “Breakfast is ready.”

  The thought of facing his anger again made her flinch. But there was no avoiding it. She uncurled her limbs, attempting to stifle an unladylike groan. A little sound slipped out just the same. Too many nights spent sleeping on the ground had left her body bruised. This morning, she felt especially stiff, after an entire night without fear interrupting her sleep.

  “Good Lord,” she murmured to herself more than to him. “I must look a sight.”

  “You do.”

  Her cheeks went hot. She turned away. Using her fingers, she proceeded to rake the knots from her hair.

  Nat shoved a plate of bacon and beans under her nose. “Here, eat. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover.”

  “Thank you.” She accepted the plate. “Thank you for everything. I mean, for rescuing me.” There, she’d said it. She’d wanted to express her gratitude last night, but his dark smoldering looks kept her silent.

  He regarded her steadily, then gave an imperceptible nod.

  Apparently he was still angry at the loss of his prisoner. Well, there wasn’t anything she could do about it, so he might as well get over it. She might have told him so, if not for the forbidding look on his face. “Where are we going?”

  “A place where you’ll be safe.”

  Safe.

  Perfect.

  Safe was good.

  That was all she wanted—safe from the Everetts, safe from the shame of her spoiled reputation. As long as there was water to wash with and a place to lay her head, she’d be content. She needed time to think.

  She nibbled on the bacon, but avoided the beans. She’d reached her bean limit two days ago when Cecil had burnt the whole skillet. To keep up her strength she’d forced them down, but she felt certain the taste of burnt beans would haunt her the rest of her life.

  When she finished, she licked her fingers one at a time—another bad habit acquired from necessity. If she wasn’t careful, she’d soon be licking her plate like Billy and Cecil. She rose to her feet, shuddering at the thought.

  By then Nat was mounted and ready to depart. He reached down to give her a hand up. As soon as she was seated in front of him, he clicked his tongue setting Diablo in motion.

  Funny what a little sleep would do. Yesterday, the touch of his hand seemed so casual, so unimportant. But this morning, without the threat of danger, her awareness of him grew stronger and stronger.

  Even the spectacular views as they descended into the foothills couldn’t distract her senses from him.

  She closed her eyes, hoping to shut him out and trick her mind somewhere else. But eventually the heat of the sun and the motion of the horse made her sleepy. She must have drifted off.

  She woke to the feeling of something soft against her cheek and a steady drumming sound. When she opened her eyes, she realized the softness was Nat’s buckskin coat, and the steady thump was his heart beneath her ear. She was plastered so tightly against him, she could feel his breath on her scalp.

  Heat rushed to her cheeks. She sat up, squinting against the hot, blazing sun. What she saw made her blink. A crude adobe-style building stood a few yards away. It was no bigger than a shack with a rough clay roof and a narrow plank door. A few horses stood tethered to hitching posts outside. A dozen or so chickens pecked in the dirt, then clucked wildly as they scattered, racing to get out of Diablo’s way.

  Her spirits sank. Was he leaving her here? This wasn’t the destination she’d had in mind. It didn’t appear very safe. Not that she could do much about it. She was at his mercy.

  Oh well, if it wasn’t suitable, she’d make her way to civilization at the first opportunity. In the meantime, she’d have to make do. If she could survive the Everetts, she could survive anything.

  Nat dismounted, then lifted her from Diablo’s back.

  She followed him inside to discover a saloon of sorts—a crude rest stop with a few tables where you could sit down and eat. Boxes of bullets and jars of beef jerky stood on crude shelves behind a plank counter held up by crates.

  Two rough looking men with thick side-whiskers lifted their heads from their plates.

  Christie didn’t like the look of either of them. The bigger of the two wore a crooked leering smile. The other squinted through beady, black eyes like a snake.

  She made a point not to look at them after that, staying as close as she could to Nat. He seemed not to notice the men, striding forward to speak to the old Indian woman behind the counter.

  “Nat Randall.” The woman spoke in halting tones. “Back so soon? You want my venison stew?”

  “Randall?” The beady-eyed man with red hair scraped back the bench he was sitting on and came to his feet. “I thought it was you.” He had the lazy speech of a southerner. “I knew we’d cross paths sooner or later.”

  Nat turned to face him. “Wait outside, Christie,” he said, never taking his eyes from the man. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

  Christie hastened for the door, but before she could reach it a shot rang out, shaking the saloon to its rafters. When she spun round, she was met with a horrifying sight. The beady-eyed man lay contorted over the bench, covered in blood from a hole in the chest. Smoke swirled like ghosts. The bitter smell of gunpowder choked the air, making her throw her hand up over her mouth.

  Nat stood at the counter, stuffing a box of bullets into the pocket of his buckskin coat. “Sorry about the mess, Susanne. This should cover it.” He tossed a few coins on the counter. “Tell Jeremy I was asking after him.” He tipped his hat, then headed for the door.

  Christie stumbled out the door ahead of him, too shocked to speak. But once outside in the bright light with the heat blasting down on her face, the shock quickly turned to revulsion. “My God! You killed him! You killed that man!”

  Nat sent her a hard look. “He drew first. If I hadn’t, he would have killed me.”

  When Nat reached out his hand, she cringed away from him, staring back at him as though seeing him for the first time. What kind of man killed another human being without hesitation, without any remorse? He was a savage—no better than the Everetts. She remembered the pool of blood in the shack when they’d rescued Leigh—Hank’s blood.

  At the time she’d thought Holt had done it, because that was what she’d wanted to believe. Now she realized it might have been either one of them.

  Her insides quivered.

  Her gaze darted toward the horses at the hitching post, as panic rose in her chest.

  All she could think of was getting away.

  But before she could take a step, Nat reached out to grab her by the arm.

  She tried to jerk away, but he held her tight. “Who was he? Who was that man?”

  “I’ll tell you on the way.” The cold look in Nat’s blue eyes made her tremble.

  How could she trust him?

  Then she remembered the other man—his sly smile, the way he’d looked her up and down. It struck her that being left behind with him might be worse. Numbly, she allowed Nat to help her up on Diablo’s back. What was the use? If she did manage to escape, where would she go? She didn’t even know where they were. These people were his friends. They wouldn’t help her.

  “Who was he?” she said again, once he’d swung up behind her. “Why would he want to kill you?”

  “Southern sympathizers.” He urged Diablo into a trot. “They rode with a man named William Quantrill.”

  Christie had heard of him. He and his group of vigilante raiders committed unspe
akable acts in the name of southern justice during the war. “But how do they know you?”

  “I was partly responsible for rounding them up.” His voice turned harsh. “But we didn’t get all of them.”

  So he’d fought in the war for the Union. No doubt life seemed cheap after all the bloodshed he’d seen. And how could she blame him? If that man was one of Quantrill’s raiders, a quick death was more than he deserved.

  She’d never seen anyone who had been shot. Nat had killed the man with cold efficiency. It would stick in her mind forever.

  That same cold efficiency had saved her from the Everetts.

  Kill or be killed—that was the way of things here.

  She’d already faced that with the Everetts. So what right did she have to judge Nat? Still, she’d never understand why he chose to live in this wild and violent place.

  As soon as she recovered, she planned to board the first train home.

  • • •

  Time passed in a blur.

  They rode hard without stopping.

  Although weak with exhaustion, Christie resisted the urge to lean back against Nat. When she began to slump forward, his arm tightened around her waist. Just when she thought she couldn’t take the jarring and pounding one more second, he reined Diablo in to slow their pace.

  She lifted her head to gaze at the land around them.

  Rolling green hills dotted with oak trees spread out before them. Up ahead in the distant valley, cattle grazed—hundreds and hundreds of cattle. To the right stood a sprawling orchard. It was spectacular, mesmerizing, the most beautiful country she’d ever seen.

  “Where are we?” she breathed.

  “Dos Almas.”

  When the house came into view she stared in amazement. She’d expected a Spanish style dwelling, but it looked nothing like its name. It resembled a large mansion, transplanted from a southern plantation. But somehow it all fit, like the words to a familiar song.

  Beautiful rosebushes surrounded it, drooping with pink and white blooms. An upper balcony ran along the second story, extending across the veranda below. Two green shuttered windows set in the front gable above peeked wide, like friendly eyes.

  To the left of it lay a cluster of outbuildings, including a larger two-story barn and a smaller stable with corrals attached. Two log cabins stood at a distance between the outbuildings and the main house, which she assumed belonged to the families of workers on the estate.

  “It’s lovely!”

  “It keeps the rain off.” He said it casually, but there was affection in his tone.

  She tilted her head, considering the white clapboard façade. “It reminds me of Charleston, Virginia.”

  Nat stiffened in the saddle behind her. “Who do you know in Charleston?”

  “No one, really.”

  “Why were you there?”

  “I don’t remember now.” The last thing she wanted was to discuss her future, or her father with Nat. He’d likely point out how foolish she’d been to leave the security of Boston and possibility of a good marriage for what had become her fate. She shrugged. “Something to do with my father’s business. He has business acquaintances everywhere.”

  Nat swung down from the saddle. “Maybe you’ll remember after you wash up some,” he said wryly.

  “Do you think they’ll let me have a bath?”

  “I’m sure that can be arranged.” He lifted her to the ground, then looked her over with a critical eye. “I don’t know if the well will hold out, though. It’s going to take a lot of water to get you clean.”

  She set her hands on her hips and quirked him a saucy smile. “Is that so! Well you’d better pray for rain then, or find yourself a stream, because I’m prepared to use as many buckets as it takes.”

  He chuckled. “Maybe I should wash you myself to make sure I get my fair share.”

  Her pulse quickened at his improper suggestion. If he’d planned to render her speechless, he’d certainly said the right thing. Envisioning him attending her during a bath conjured such sensual imaginings, her mind froze in mid-thought. The delicious possibility of his hands sliding over her wet skin sent her heart tapping against her breast. She had to look away in order to regain her equilibrium.

  His low chuckle as he headed for the house added to her disquiet.

  She followed him, all too conscious of her disheveled appearance. But she’d be darned if she’d let him know how she felt. Nat Randall was certainly no gentleman. But a lady could hardly choose her rescuer. She was stuck with him for better or worse.

  What would the owners think? Her cheeks heated at the thought of entering such a grand home in her filthy, bedraggled pink gown. But visions of a bathtub filled with steaming water propelled her forward.

  Nat mounted the red brick steps two at a time, crossed the veranda, and without even bothering to knock walked right in.

  “Li Ling!” He called. “Where are you?”

  A tiny Chinese woman in a short red jacket and black skirt with a neat coil of glossy black hair came rushing down the wide hall just as Christie stepped inside. “Mister! Why you here?” She spoke in a thick accent and so rapidly Christie had to concentrate to understand. “What? No telegraph before you come? You come to marry me now?”

  “No!” Nat let go a bark of laughter. “I’m never marrying you. I told you that when I paid off Quinn.”

  Li Ling shrugged.

  Nat heaved a great sigh. “Look, there’s no need to fuss. I won’t be here long. I’ve brought a guest with me though, and she will be staying.” He drew Christie forward. “Miss Wallace has been through a great deal, as you can see. But I know she’ll be safe in your care.”

  “What happen?” Li Ling shook her head from side to side, clucking her tongue. “What you do, drag her behind your horse?”

  “It’s been a long ride.”

  “No kidding, right.” She set her hands on her hips turning to Nat. “You marry her?”

  “I’m not marrying anyone.”

  “Good.” Li Ling turned back to Christie. “He no marry you.”

  Nat groaned.

  Christie shifted her gaze from Li Ling to Nat, not knowing what to think, then offered an awkward hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  Li Ling smiled and lifted one brow. “You like bath?”

  “Yes, please!” Christie said with as much dignity as she could, hoping she didn’t sound too desperate.

  “Come.” Li Ling motioned with a little wave of her hand for Christie to follow her up the wide, central staircase carved in oak.

  Christie followed close on her heels, anxious to make herself presentable before anyone else in the household clamped eyes on her or got a whiff of how badly she smelt.

  Soon she’d be back to her old self.

  And Nat Randall could eat his words.

  Li Ling turned right at the top of the generous landing, then proceeded down the hall. Her black cotton slippers swished against the polished wood floors as they sailed past gilt framed landscapes and mirrors, set against pale gold wallpaper.

  “Inez help you undress.” Li Ling opened the second door to the left. “Iago bring hot water.”

  “Thank you.”

  Li Ling shrugged. “You Mister’s guest. What else I do.” She hustled off down the hall.

  Christie couldn’t help but smile to find herself in such civilized comfort. The large, airy room with its butter walls was like a balm, exhausted and sunburnt as she was. A luxurious blue Persian carpet covered most of the floor, adding to the cool tones.

  A large wardrobe and dressing screen dominated one end of the bedchamber and a matching canopy bed the other. The mound of plump pillows and white coverlet appeared so inviting, had she not been so grimy, she might have crawled right in. The beige striped upholstered Lincoln rocker by the window looked just as tempting, but she dared not sit in it.

  Instead, she waited like a dust-ball rolled out from under the bed, enjoying the splendor.

  The sound o
f footsteps eventually spun her around.

  “Buens tardes, I am Inez.” A shy smile flashed bright against the young girl’s smooth olive skin. She wore a colorful skirt and white blouse. A long shiny black braid bounced on her back as she scurried to the screen in the corner of the room. When she moved it aside, a large slipper-shaped copper tub appeared.

  At the sight of it, Christie closed her eyes and sighed.

  Now she knew she was in heaven!

  A moment later a stocky Spanish gentleman dressed in white trousers and a white shirt came through the open doorway carrying two buckets of water.

  “Mi padre, Iago,” Inez said by way of introduction.

  He nodded, beaming a wide-toothed smile as he headed for the tub. After he’d left, Inez hustled to the wardrobe for towels, which she placed on a small table beside the tub.

  Christie watched as she poured scented oil into the steaming water from one of several bottles on the table. “Where is your mother?” she asked to distract herself from the urgent need to strip off her clothes.

  “In the kitchen.” Inez smiled. “She is the cook. Her name is Morena.”

  “Have you lived here long?”

  “Sí, since I am twelve. I am almost sixteen.” Golden flecks danced in her dark brown eyes. “Soon I will be old enough to marry. One more month, if Señor Randall approves. And I’m sure that he will. He is very generous and kind and would want me to be happy.”

  “Why must Señor Randall approve?”

  “My novito, Heriberto, works for him as well. We would not wish to offend him. He is very good to us. I like working in his house.”

  Christie blinked back at Inez, attempting to comprehend what she said.

  His house?

  Had she heard correctly?

  Iago arrived with more water, forcing her to stifle her curiosity for several long agonizing minutes.

  As soon as he left she said very carefully. “I’m sorry, I thought you said Señor Randall’s house?”

  “Sí, the rancho is his.” Inez began to unfasten the hooks on Christie’s gown. “He is very rich, very rich indeed.”

  Christie was grateful Inez was behind her and she couldn’t see her mouth drop open in amazement. Nat? Rich? Were they discussing the same man? The insolent bounty hunter she’d just seen kill a man in cold blood? The same man who spent most of his time on the back of a horse?