by Lori Wilde
But chained here, he couldn’t do anything to stop a bloodbath. A paid posse didn’t care who got in the way.
He believed in the law. It was his life. It was the only way to stop the kind of wanton killing that had taken his family. He hated criminals, particularly those who preyed on honest, hardworking people, and he despised murderers. Thornton/MacDonald had been on the top of that list for a long time.
He wasn’t ready to believe this new version of the man, nor would he dishonor his badge. Not even for a sprite of a woman who’d charmed herself into his heart.
AFTER SHE LEFT the marshal’s room, Sam checked on Mac. Asleep. She thought Archie had probably given him some laudanum to keep him still while they were gone. There wasn’t much left. She said a silent prayer that there would be no more injuries.
She carried the supplies out to the stable. Burley was gone, and Archie’s mule was in his stall. She quickly packed the mule and her own horse and left for the mine she’d selected as a possible hideout.
She knew it well. Mac had stored some supplies there years ago in the event he might need to disappear for a while.
It was one of the larger mines. Deep but with a relatively small opening that permitted horses to enter but could be easily concealed. After the nuggets ran out in the creek, groups of miners joined their claims and used dynamite to blast into the mountains. They dreamed of finding a vein, but they never did, and eventually, one by one, the shafts were abandoned.
She didn’t know how long they might have to stay—if they had to stay at all—but she figured five days for four to five people at most. She didn’t know whether that total would include Reese or the marshal.
There was still the possibility that Jared had been lying. Maybe no one was coming after Mac. Maybe he thought he could scare them into surrendering Mac.
When she reached the mine, she stood there for a moment, remembering all the hopes that had gone into this shaft and others. She could almost hear the sound of dynamite blasting into the mountain. See the anxious, expectant faces. But all hope was long gone. She placed the blankets as far back as she could and protected them with oilcloth. She did the same with the food items, then stacked some wood inside for a fire. She doubted it would be used. If someone was looking for them, a fire would be a reckless indulgence.
When she was satisfied that her hoard would be protected from rain and animals, she carefully placed branches at the entrance.
It would survive a quick look if not a longer one, but then anyone from outside the area would not be likely to know about the mines. She was gambling that the bounty hunters would look in town first and then leave when they couldn’t find Mac.
Which was why Burley had to come with them. Jake and Ike could easily fade into the mountains.
When she had arranged everything to her satisfaction, she rode back to the livery through heavy rain. Water leaked inside her slicker and pasted her hair to her head.
She shivered as she went inside. Mac’s horse was still missing. So Archie hadn’t returned yet. Neither had Burley. She unsaddled her horse and stabled Archie’s mule.
Where was Archie? She didn’t like him out in the rain this long. The path was slippery, and his legs gave him a lot of pain. Worry nibbled at her as she grabbed her rifle and walked rapidly to the saloon. She tossed the slicker on a chair and placed her rifle behind the bar.
The door to the marshal’s room was still closed. Nothing looked amiss. Sam hurried up to Mac’s room and opened the door. Chaos. Mac was on the floor, Dawg whining at his side. Shattered crockery surrounded both.
She stooped next to Mac and examined him. There was a bump on his head as well as new cuts on his good hand. His face was flush. He muttered something, then moaned. She examined Dawg briefly. His paw was bleeding from a cut.
“Mac,” she said. No answer. “Mac,” she repeated, this time insistently. She tugged at him, and his body jerked. His eyes opened.
“What happened?” she asked.
“Heard…something below. Dawg…he was barking. I called you and Archie…no one answered. I tried to get up…and fell. Knocked over…the damn pitcher. Must have hit my head. You were…right. I’m not strong enough…” He stopped. “Are you all right? You and…Archie?”
She nodded. “I had a few things to do.”
“I called…”
She put her hand on his shoulder. Inwardly she was shaking. What was the noise he’d heard? Had the marshal escaped? Had he gone for help? He was in no position to go far. Not with that leg.
Mac was bleeding. She wasn’t even going to try to lift him. He couldn’t afford another fall. She put a pillow under his head. “Don’t move,” she directed him. “Stay,” she told Dawg.
She hurried downstairs, fetched a broom and dustpan, and returned. In seconds, she’d swept up the pieces of broken crockery. Then she cleaned and bandaged two cuts and picked a piece of pottery from Dawg’s paw. She would have to wait for Archie to get Mac in bed again.
“I’ll be back,” she promised, then ran downstairs. Two men—deadly enemies—wounded and within a few hundred feet of each other. She and Archie had been foolish to think they could keep them from finding out about each other.
She also knew who Archie would protect if a decision had to be made.
The door to the marshal’s room was still closed. She heard nothing inside. Maybe he had fallen, too. Maybe that’s what Mac heard. But the fact he had heard something meant she needed to investigate.
She ran her fingers through her damp hair, then located the key to the room. She took the Colt from her holster and fitted the key in the lock. Then she opened the door, slamming it against the inside wall in case he’d somehow gotten loose from the handcuffs and stood behind the door. The marshal was sitting up. A broken chair lay beside the bed. Half of one of its legs was on the sheets next to his book. The bedpost was slightly bent but still intact. The cuff of the irons was still locked to it, and the other remained secure around the marshal’s right wrist.
She immediately knew what had happened. The marshal had managed to break the chair and tried to use one of its legs to bend the iron post. Or maybe he’d planned to hide it under the sheet and use it as a weapon. She should have known he wouldn’t give up easily.
“Throw that chair leg to the other side of the room,” she said.
He shrugged and obeyed. “I heard a noise upstairs,” he said, a question in his eyes. Then his gaze fixed on her wrist. “You’re bleeding.”
She looked down. She’d been in such a hurry she hadn’t noticed—or felt—the cut on her hand. She must have gotten it while handling the broken pieces of the pitcher.
It wasn’t that deep, but when she turned she saw drops of blood leading from the door. She felt it now. A sting. And the blood was warm. A glance told her it was only a surface cut.
“Let me see it,” he ordered.
She didn’t move.
“I can’t escape,” he said with sudden exasperation. “I won’t hurt you.”
She resisted. He would use any advantage. She knew that as well as she knew the sun would rise on the morrow.
“I can take care of it,” she said curtly, unsettled at how much she wanted to hold out her hand to him and have him care for it. She went outside and washed the small wound under the water pump. There were still strips of cloth on the table that Archie had left. She quickly tied one around the cut, then returned to the marshal’s room.
She couldn’t stay long, not with Mac awake upstairs, but she took the time to refill the metal pitcher of water and place it near him. “Looks like you went to war with the room.”
“I was bored.”
“Sleep would have been more beneficial,” she said drily. “Or the book.”
“I heard a crash above,” he repeated.
“That was Archie,” she said curtly.
“Was he hurt?”
“No.” It was only a partial lie. Archie hadn’t been hurt.
“He should be more care
ful.”
“Like you?” she shot back.
“Like me,” he confirmed, that half smile appearing again. “I thought you might return quicker if you thought I was up to mischief.”
A shiver ran down her back. The noise had aroused his curiosity, and she wasn’t sure he believed her explanation.
“I could use a shave,” he said, touching the bristles on his face with his free hand.
She was excruciatingly aware of that. The new beard gave him an even more compelling look that was more than a little unsettling.
“I think you could use those leg irons in your saddlebags, instead,” she retorted. “Maybe that would keep you still enough to heal.”
He smiled slightly. Damn him. It was as if he saw inside her. All the tumbling emotions and conflicting battles. Why did he always make her feel uncertain? Unsettled? “I’m glad you care,” he said finally.
“I don’t,” she protested. “Well, maybe I do, but only because I don’t want to be responsible for someone’s death. Or crippling. Doesn’t matter who. I would feel the same about any critter.”
“You would?”
“Even more so,” she said, lifting her chin in battle. She hated the smile that was spreading to his eyes. She hated it, and yet it was…riveting. She needed to leave. Now…while she still could. His effect on her was too powerful.
“Afraid I’ll kiss you again, Miss Sam?”
He was baiting her, and she realized that he had studied her, looking for a tactic that might work for him. And he’d succeeded, dammit. She was tempted to move closer to him. She wondered how it would feel to rub her hand over his face, to soap it, then use the razor across it. She had shaved Mac on occasion and had offered to shave Archie’s beard. She suspected shaving the marshal would be something entirely different.
“I’m not afraid of anything, Marshal.”
“Jared,” he reminded her as if he had been reading her mind. It annoyed her. “Then what about the shave?”
“I might cut you.”
“I’ll take that chance,” he said, stretching out, his body tightening under the cover.
Her stomach twisted into a hot knot. She took a steadying breath. She wasn’t going to let him bait her. He was enjoying it too much. It was giving him a measure of revenge.
She approached and kicked the pieces of wood away from the bed, then picked them up. “Archie…” She stopped herself. If Archie had walked in here, no telling what he would do.
She didn’t like lying to Archie, even by omission. She didn’t like the marshal for making her do it. But she kept remembering Archie’s words. Kill him. Death didn’t mean that much to Archie. She’d heard his war stories. She knew he’d killed as well as healed. She thought he probably did both with the same calm expertise.
“You’re a fool,” she said.
“You didn’t answer my question about a shave.”
“It wasn’t worth an answer, but if you really want one, no.”
“What about a deck of cards, then?” he persisted as she moved toward the door.
She turned around.
“You play poker.” It was as much question as statement.
“Some,” she replied.
“What about a game?”
“What stakes?” she replied recklessly.
“Well, you have everything of mine,” he said. “I don’t even have clothes to barter with, except this shirt, and these long johns.”
She refused to recognize the insinuation in his words. “We’re not thieves,” she said. “There’s always your horse, your saddle, the coins in that pouch in your saddlebags.” She hoped her voice was as relaxed and challenging as his own.
“Ah, you like big stakes, then?”
“Why play otherwise?” She needed to leave. Archie would be here any minute. And she should check on Mac again.
“What do you have to offer me?” he said lazily. “You know all my worldly belongings. What about Miss Sam’s?”
“Just plain Sam will do,” she corrected, just as he had corrected her.
“Doesn’t exactly fit,” he said, one bushy eyebrow raised. “Not the plain part, anyway.” He paused, letting his words echo in the dim room. “What about letting me see you in a dress?”
She’d expected something different. Something like letting him go.
“I don’t have a dress,” she lied. She did have one but it was buried at the bottom of a trunk.
“That’s just a pure damn shame,” he said.
“Another choice?” she asked, hoping her voice wasn’t trembling as much as her legs were. Why couldn’t he be as old as Archie?
He gave her a speculative look. “What about eggs and bacon?”
“Unfortunately our last chicken ran into a coyote,” she said. “Try again.”
“Another kiss? To start.”
Blood rushed to her face again, and her heart skipped a beat. Hell’s bells, but she wished that didn’t happen. She usually knew how to control her reactions, but this new rush of awareness went straight to her cheeks. She didn’t know how to hold it in check, or the other feelings that tormented her body.
“Let’s go back to you,” she said. “We don’t need another horse, and I don’t want your money.” She paused. “If I win, you forget about Mac.”
“Now, I would need equal collateral,” he replied. “How about you telling me where he is if I win?”
“Not bloody likely.”
He raised an eyebrow. “What about information?” he offered.
She looked at him skeptically. “I told you I wouldn’t talk about Mac.”
“Yourself. I want to know more about you.” His eyes were hooded.
“Why?”
“You intrigue me.”
Probably in all the wrong ways. But still her heart tripped dangerously. She wanted to know more about him, too. The more time she spent with him, the more she wanted to know what lay behind those inscrutable eyes. “I’ll take information, as well,” she said. She felt confident about her skills. During winter months, Reese taught her everything he knew about poker, and last spring had taken her on one of his gambling trips. She’d been dressed as a lad, binding her breasts, and every player had thought her easy pickings, only to discover their pockets emptying. Reese had said she was a natural.
She still played with Archie, Reese and Mac, sometimes all of them at one time, and she could hold her own.
At least the marshal was no longer asking about the noise he’d heard above. She needed to keep it that way.
Her eyes went to his hand, resting beside his head. If the chain bothered him, it didn’t show. But then she’d already learned that he seldom revealed any true emotion.
She wanted information she could use to bargain, maybe use against him. And he wanted the same. The challenge was irresistible, even though there were dangers. Not the least of which was her growing attraction to him. Hell’s blazes, more than that. What she felt was raw, naked desire. Even worse, she was beginning to like him. Maybe even…no, not possible. Not possible at all.
Her gaze met his, but she averted her eyes before he spun more magic. Before she succumbed to it again.
10
JARED’S GAZE FOLLOWED her as she left the room. He’d expected more reaction to the broken chair. But then she’d surprised him from the moment she’d confronted him in the street.
He’d challenged her to a poker game as a last-minute ploy to keep her from leaving. He told himself the longer she stayed, the more he would learn. But the truth was he didn’t want her to leave.
She lit the room with her very presence. She was such an appealing combination of grit and earnestness and loyalty that he ached in the area where his heart was located. He found himself missing her immensely when she was gone, and it had nothing to do with his damn leg.
Her wistfulness tied his stomach in knots. And her surprised response to his kiss had made his body stiff with want. That it did so despite the pain in his leg was nothing less than miraculous. H
e recalled when she came into his room, her hair and clothes wet and her hand dripping with blood. She’d been totally unconscious of both, worrying instead about him and, in truth, what he’d been up to.
He’d never met a woman so completely unaware of her appearance. Especially one as pretty as Sam. And she was pretty, even charming in a gamine way. But it was her innocence that struck him so strongly. He didn’t want her hurt, and yet he didn’t see any way of ending this without doing exactly that.
Thornton was a murderer, a cold-blooded killer, and Jared had no intention of letting the man’s crimes go unpunished. It would go against everything he was and had been for the past ten years. He’d given the law his life and what was left of his heart. He never killed when he could avoid it. He seldom judged the men he chased, only brought them back for trial. Twice he’d proved an accused man innocent. He seldom let personal feelings interfere with duty.
But Thornton was different. He’d been Jared’s crusade. The last thing he could do for his wife and sister-in-law.
Sam was just a momentary distraction. And it would be better for her if Thornton was gone. There was so much out in the world for her. He’d already noted in her an unquenchable curiosity, an interest in almost everything.
Restless, he glanced down at his book. He was three-quarters through Les Misérables, a novel he’d picked up in Denver. Books were good traveling companions, something to quell the loneliness of a campfire at sundown.
He picked it up. A tale of a convict’s redemption and a prison guard who hounded him. It struck him as a particularly unwise choice at the moment. But Thornton wasn’t wanted for stealing a piece of bread to feed a hungry family, and he—Jared—wasn’t Inspector Javert, intent on hounding him for one mistake.
He put the book down.
It occurred to him—and not for the first time—that he didn’t know Sam’s last name. Both she and Archie had avoided mentioning it. He understood why. She could be arrested and sent to prison for shooting a U.S. Marshal. No doubt Javert would have made sure of that.