The Lawman

by Patricia Potter

“I think you’re strong enough to hold that little cup,” she replied.

  He finished the whiskey, then handed the cup back to her. She tried to avoid his touch, but somehow…

  His fingers covered hers, the heat from his hand scorching her skin and traveling like a brush fire through her bloodstream. For a moment, she thought he might try to grab her again, but his hand fell back. The half smile grew wider, and the dimple in his chin deepened. He looked…rakish.

  Except there was no laughter or light in him. Even when he flashed that smile, she sensed it was all on the surface.

  You shot him. Why should he have any joy or laughter?

  She put the cup down, then removed the loose bandage around the wound. It was raw and seeping. She winced. Maybe she should wait until the morning.

  “What’s in the poultice?” he asked.

  “Turpentine and moss and some of Archie’s Indian herbs.”

  He nodded as if that was enough explanation.

  “It’s going to burn,” she said, hesitating.

  His gaze met hers. “I know the effect of turpentine. Go ahead.”

  “Do you need a piece of wood, something to bite on?”

  “No,” he said flatly.

  She placed the poultice on the wound. His body tensed and his hands balled into fists. “Christ,” he said.

  She knew it had to be agonizing at first. The turpentine would draw out any poison, and then the moss and herbs would soothe, but that would take a while. Archie had used the same combination on her when she’d ripped her leg open after falling from her horse. “It’ll keep the wound from putrefying,” she tried to explain.

  “If it doesn’t kill me,” he replied darkly.

  “More whiskey?”

  He nodded. She left the room, refilled the cup and returned. He drained it.

  “Anything else I can do?” she asked.

  “Another kiss, perhaps.” His voice was slurred but his eyes were clear. And piercing.

  A taunt? Or simply male reaction?

  Ignore it. “I don’t think so,” she said, trying to keep her voice even. “Sleep well.”

  She grabbed the lantern and left, closing the door behind her and remembering to lock it this time. She was trembling. What frightened her more than anything was that she hadn’t wanted to leave.

  She wanted that kiss. Wanted it to the tip of her toes. She wondered whether it would be like the other one. Did kisses get better?

  As hurting as he must be, he was still defiant. And dangerous. She suspected that he would not let her stand in the way of getting what he wanted. Even as she went up the stairs to get some sleep, she kept reliving that earlier kiss, the moment of magic when the world stopped turning for a fraction of an instant. Her body tingled with the remembrance of it, and she wished her mother was alive, that she had someone to talk to about it.

  Was this the way her mother had felt when Mac kissed her? Had he turned her mother’s life inside out? She tried to remember, but the two of them had been very careful around her. Very proper for the other boarders. But sometimes Sam caught them in an embrace. Had her mother felt this hunger inside? And where did it lead? The need to know more, to feel more, to experience more gnawed at her heart.

  But the marshal didn’t love her, and she certainly couldn’t feel anything for him.

  When she reached her room, she tried to ignore the ache deep within her, the sudden loneliness she’d never felt before.

  She hadn’t realized something was missing in her life. And there was nothing she could do about it.

  6

  AT FIRST LIGHT, Sam rode in a driving rain down to the stream about a half mile from town. Dawg ran alongside her horse, happy to be out for a run despite the rain.

  Unfortunately, all Sam’s thoughts were of the marshal.

  She hadn’t slept well. In fact she’d had little rest since his arrival. But she’d kept turning in bed. Wondering how it would feel to lie next to him. Wondering why her body was responding in such rebellious ways.

  She’d checked on the marshal before leaving. He was sleeping, thank God. No dark eyes to probe straight to her core…

  She stopped at one of the four cabins that had survived the fire and knocked on the door. A lanky old trapper in buckskins opened it. “Miss Sam, a pleasure for sure.” He led the way inside, inviting Dawg, as well. “Now, what can I do for you?”

  She quickly explained what had happened three days earlier, though she suspected Burley had already told Jake everything.

  “Can you and Ike watch the pass?” she asked.

  “Yeah, I’ll take a turn at watching,” Jake agreed. “So will Ike. He’s out hunting now, but he should be back soon.”

  “Burley will relieve you, too,” Sam said.

  Jake snorted. “Can’t depend on Burley.”

  “You can, if he says so,” she replied. “He feels really bad that he admitted to the marshal that Mac might be in town.”

  Jake grumbled under his breath. “Damn fool.” Then he turned his attention back to her.

  “You really leaving Gideon’s Hope?” he asked. “Archie said you plan to head north.”

  “When Mac’s well enough. Maybe a week or so.”

  “We sure will miss you. You and Mac and Archie. Even Reese, damn his soul. No one left to win what little gold I pan.”

  “Come with us.”

  “No, Miss Sam. Been in these mountains too long. When I die, I want to be looking at them peaks. Like they’re reaching up to heaven, they are. I can just follow them up.”

  She loved the mountains, too, and would miss them bitterly.

  “You shoulda gone ahead and killed that marshal,” Jake muttered. “Save you a lot of trouble. I ain’t got no use for most of them.”

  Of course he didn’t. Jake didn’t like authority of any kind, which was why he and Archie got along so well. The mountain man had come to Gideon’s Hope seven years ago with a load of furs and a body racked with pneumonia. Archie had treated him with some of his Indian remedies, and Jake gradually regained his strength. He’d returned the next four winters. When most of the population left, he’d appropriated one of the few remaining cabins. Getting too old, he said, to live up in the mountains alone year-round.

  He was in his seventies now, a thin, wiry man but still strong enough to stay in the mountains by himself for months. If he said he would watch the pass, he would. Ike had been his friend for a long time, and he, too, had settled in an abandoned cabin next to the stream, mainly, she thought, to look after Jake. Neither one of them liked people much, and Gideon’s Hope with its permanent population of seven suited both just fine. They hunted, fished and trapped. Archie was there if needed for healing, Mac to take a drink with and Reese to gamble with. No man needed more, he said.

  It was a small ragtag group. Ike and Jake, Burley, Archie and herself. If an army of gunslingers came for Mac, the five of them would have a hard time fighting them off. But they had an advantage. They knew every inch of the area. They could always hide Mac in one of the abandoned mines carved out of the rock. Not particularly healthy for him, but better than being hanged or shot.

  “I’ll go on up there now,” Jake said. He looked down at his feet. “Maybe you can leave a note for Ike. Tell him to meet me there.”

  She gave him a quick hug and left. She’d offered to teach Jake to read and write, but he’d refused. Too old to learn new tricks, he always said. The rain had slackened slightly by the time she’d left a note in Ike’s cabin and stopped to gather moss from around the trees along the creek. She would need it for the poultices; her supply was running low. Behind her were more mountains and an overgrown trail that led east through a narrow and steep pass. It was the only way into Gideon’s Hope when the creek ran strong and deep as it did now. The pass was both their protection and their weak spot.

  She stood a moment longer, drinking in the peace. She never grew tired of the view, especially in winter when the water glistened with ice and the trees with snow. But
spring was grand, too, with its wildflowers and tender new shoots. Sometimes the landscape was so lovely it hurt.

  She would miss it, but she also looked forward to a new adventure.

  Sam went up to Mac’s room. She knocked but opened the door before anyone answered.

  Archie gave her a tired smile and nodded his head toward the bed. Mac’s face was pale under its deep tan, but when she felt his cheek, it wasn’t as hot as it was yesterday.

  “His fever went down this morning,” Archie said. “He’s still damned weak, but I think he’ll make it.”

  “He’s conscious?”

  “On and off. Mostly off. Still not making much sense. Muttering about your ma.”

  “I’ll put some stew on. Just let me know when he wakes again.” She leaned over and touched Mac’s good hand, taking it in hers, willing her strength into him.

  “The marshal?” he asked.

  “I put the poultice on the wound last night. I checked early this morning and he was asleep. His breathing was ragged, but he wasn’t hot.”

  He nodded. “Strong as a damned mule. Damn if I know what we’ll do with him.”

  She wondered the same thing. “I think he might be on his feet faster than we thought.”

  Archie muttered under his breath.

  “I’ll make some biscuits for breakfast.”

  “Naw, just some bread and that jam you made,” he said. “And coffee.”

  “I’ll have it here in a minute.” She regarded Archie for a moment, then Mac, and her heart filled with love for both of them. They were all in danger. And the danger was downstairs in the form of a tall, taciturn man who set her whole being on fire.

  She went over and gave Archie a rare hug. Clung to him, in fact. She couldn’t talk to him about what was going on inside her, but she could absorb his affection, the acceptance of who and what she was.

  “I don’t know what I would do if I lost any one of you,” she said before stepping back.

  “One day…” he started to say, but she darted out the door before he could finish. She didn’t want to hear about one day.

  Her shirt was still damp, but she decided not to take the time to change it. Instead, she went directly to the kitchen and made coffee. She took one cup along with a plate of bread and jam up to Archie. Then she cut three more thick slices from the loaf and spread them with jam.

  The marshal had been too weak to take anything but broth in the past few days, but she suspected that was changing.

  She unlocked the door to his room and glanced inside. He was still sleeping. Or pretending to sleep. The sheet had fallen away from him.

  She moved closer and put the food and coffee on the table. Then she studied him, particularly the scars she’d noticed yesterday. The war? How and when had he been hurt? His life obviously hadn’t been easy.

  The sheet was tangled, and he’d taken off the shirt again, probably because of the heat in the small, stuffy room. There was no way of getting pants over his wound and the poultice, and he was magnificent in his nakedness. She reached down and covered him as well as she could, forcing herself to concentrate on his face. His face only.

  She longed to make him smile. Even laugh. Don’t lie. She wanted more than that. She wanted him to touch her. Slowly. Seductively.

  “Marshal?” She said the word softly. If he didn’t wake, she didn’t intend to rouse him. He needed rest.

  He opened his eyes and rolled on his back. She didn’t know whether he had been feigning sleep or whether her voice had awakened him.

  He didn’t reply. Instead he fixed her with that steady gaze of his. Waiting. He seemed to be a patient man. A man who waited for the right moment. A shiver ran through her.

  “I’ve brought coffee and food.”

  He moved up in the bed to lean against the iron posts. A muscle worked along his throat as he made the effort.

  “How’s your leg?” she asked.

  “Still hurts like hell.”

  Well, she’d asked. She decided to ignore the answer. “Want some coffee?”

  He nodded even as he regarded her with an unblinking stare. There was calculation in his eyes, although the side of his lips had a quizzical turn to them. The dimple in his chin appeared to be deeper. He took the coffee and held it in both hands as he sipped.

  The bristle on his face was darker, a little heavier, and he looked more bandit than lawman. For a split second, she saw a simmering anger behind his dark eyes before they went blank. She remembered the image she’d had before of a wild animal waiting to pounce.

  She prayed her face didn’t give her wayward thoughts away. Instead she concentrated on the fact that he was a marshal. And not just any marshal. She took a deep breath and tried to understand why it was catching in her throat.

  Sam suddenly remembered the bread on the table. She practically stumbled over herself to hand the plate to him. He put it in his lap and balanced the cup of coffee in one hand. He picked up a slice of bread and bit off a large chunk, leaving jam smeared over his lips. For a moment, he looked like a lad, and she grinned at the incongruous sight.

  He seemed perplexed for a moment, then he used his tongue to wipe his lips clean. Slowly. Seductively. Her pulse quickened and her legs felt boneless.

  “I didn’t realize how hungry I was,” he said, taking another bite as something like satisfaction spread over his face, giving it life for the first time.

  Something shifted inside of her as an almost palpable attraction leaped between them, filling the air with its intensity. Maybe Reese had been right. Maybe she had been here too long. Maybe she would have felt the same no matter who rode into their town.

  But she really didn’t think so.

  She glanced down and immediately wished he still wore the shirt. His shoulders were wide and his chest was corded with muscle.

  Strength and power. And will. They were in his face, evident in the lack of emotion he showed. Drat him. How could he be so controlled when her stomach was churning and her heart rocked back and forth? She looked up to meet his eyes again. Nothing in them but a cool, calculating perusal, and yet she sensed danger, the way one senses the approach of a death-dealing storm.

  When he finished, she took the empty plate from him. It was warm from his hands. “I’ll…I’ll be making some stew later,” she said.

  “I’ll be waiting,” he replied. Invitation was in his voice, but she wasn’t exactly sure what kind of invitation it was. Maybe a cat’s to a mouse.

  She tried to ignore it, tried to avoid his eyes, which seemed to focus on the still-damp shirt that clung to her. She removed the poultice from his leg and studied the wound. It was still seeping, but she saw no sign of infection. She was only too aware that he wasn’t looking at it; instead his eyes were fixed on her face.

  “Looks like it’s beginning to heal.” Sam tried to make the words matter-of-fact, but she feared there was a breathless quality to them. “I’ll bring a fresh poultice later.”

  “You like torturing people, then?” he said with a twist of his lips that belied the words.

  “You can die, instead,” she offered amicably.

  He mulled that over for a moment. “Not much of a choice.” He shrugged. “You can have your way with me.”

  An innuendo. She decided to ignore it.

  “Where’s the old man—Smith?” he asked suddenly.

  The question took her by surprise. “Busy,” she said after a few long seconds.

  “He was…so protective,” he observed. “I wonder why he’s leaving you alone with me.”

  His voice was stronger than yesterday, although she knew from the muscle in his throat that every movement was an effort.

  “I don’t think you’re going anywhere for a while,” she said. “Unless, of course, you want to damage that leg permanently. Maybe lose it.”

  Speculation was still evident in his gaze. “I have to admit you’re easier on the eyes than Smith.”

  She didn’t know how to reply to that.

&
nbsp; “You didn’t say where he is,” the marshal persisted.

  “He has better things to do than treat a marshal,” she replied, trying to keep her voice steady, not let him know how much he affected her. “And he trusts me. I’ve been assisting him for years.”

  “So many talents,” he said. “I’m impressed. You can shoot. You can nurse. You can cook. You’re even a prison guard. What more do you do?” The tone was light, even bantering, but she didn’t miss the dangerous glint in his eyes.

  “More than you’ll ever know about,” she retorted as the air grew denser between them.

  “Maybe,” he said. Then, as he’d done before, he abruptly changed the subject. She wondered whether he’d felt the heightened temperature as she did. “Where’s that huge beast of yours?”

  “Dawg?”

  “Do you have another one?”

  “Not at the moment.”

  “What else do you do in this town besides look after an old man and the assorted marshals who wander in?”

  “A lot of things, and you ask way too many questions.”

  “I’m a curious man.” He smiled then. It was a crooked smile, but she detected a real one behind it this time.

  “Sam?” he said. “It’s taking me some time to get used to that name. You’re much too…pretty for it.” The pretty word again.

  She suspected he meant to throw her off balance, to discover something he wanted to know. Yet he said her name as though he was tasting the sound of it on his tongue, letting it linger in the air. “Sam what?”

  She remembered what Jake had told her about not revealing any information. “Just Sam,” she said.

  “Tell me more about Thornton.”

  She shrugged. “He helped raise me. He protected me. And if there’s anything I can tell you, it’s that he would never, never hurt a woman.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Nothing else?”

  She felt blood rising to her face. That he thought…

  “He’s family. And a friend. If you know what that means?”

  “A friend doesn’t use a friend to do his dirty work.” He was pushing for information again and not being very subtle about it.

  “No,” she replied agreeably.