"That good, was I?" he muttered.
The two women managed to get him tucked in.
"Thirsty," he complained.
"I'll get you some water." Priscilla hurried to the washstand and filled a glass from the pitcher.
When he took it from her, his hand shook, and he sloshed water onto his chest.
"Here, let me." Priscilla took the glass, sat on the bed to support his shoulders and helped him drink.
"Thanks," he murmured before his eyes closed and he went limp.
"Darn. He's passed out again."
"Priscilla." Etta stood with her hands on her hips. "May I speak with you downstairs?"
"Yes, of course." She knew what was coming. Etta wanted the whole story.
The marshal didn't stop until she reached the kitchen. "You have any coffee brewed?"
"Yes, I just made a pot." Priscilla filled two cups, set them on the table where Etta had already taken a seat.
"Well?" Etta prompted.
"When I got home from our ride to the springs, I found him passed out on my bed. He had a bullet in his shoulder and I took it out."
Etta's brows rose. "You cut out a bullet?"
"Yes."
"And he's been here since day before yesterday?"
Priscilla nodded.
"He could be dangerous. Did you think of that?"
"Of course. But he's been in no shape to harm anyone."
Etta scoffed. "You'd be surprised what some men can do in his condition."
Priscilla gave a helpless shrug. "Well, it's done now. He developed a fever after I took the bullet out. Then he became so cold I couldn't get him warm no matter how many blankets I put over him."
"So, you crawled in bed with him?"
"Nothing happened." Priscilla rose and fetched a plate from the pantry, hoping to distract the marshal. One could always count on cookies at Priscilla's house. She made them to keep busy and because sweets raised her spirits. The children in the neighborhood called her the Cookie Lady. What children remained in Wildcat Ridge.
Etta took one of the round pastries. "Did he tell you who shot him?"
"No, you need to talk to him. Find out what happened." Priscilla toyed with her spoon. "I think he was involved in a robbery."
"A robbery? And you didn't think he was dangerous? My lands, Priscilla."
She held up her hands. "He was forced or tricked into it, I'm sure. When he was delirious, he raved about an old woman he was trying to keep someone named Irish from killing."
Etta stared at her. "All right. I truly do need to talk to this guy. Let's see if he's awake."
They hiked up the stairs and entered Priscilla's room.
Her empty room.
"He's gone."
The wardrobe stood open and she noticed one of Robert's shirts was missing. She hadn't found the nerve yet to get rid of his things. Or Father's.
Etta bent to retrieve something from the floor. "Is this his saddlebag? He won't have gone far without it."
"Here's a note." Priscilla plucked a piece of stationary from her desk. "'See this money gets back to the bank in Curdy's Crossing.'"
Etta unfastened the flap and peered inside. Her eyes lit up and she laughed. "Well, well. Look at this." She ran her hands through the paper bills and metal coins as if glorying in the feel of them. "I'll bet this has something to do with the gunshot wound."
"Oh, my." Priscilla stared at the marshal, surprised by the woman's unexpected conclusion. "Why would he leave it behind?"
"Because it's stolen," Etta said.
"You mean he was a thief?" Priscilla went to the window and drew aside the lace curtain. "I don't see the horse you mentioned."
"Blazes!" Etta headed for the door, the saddlebag thrown over her shoulder. "He's escaped."
Chapter Five
Braxton woke with a moan and straightened in his saddle. Raisin had awakened him by shuddering his big body, almost throwing Braxton from his saddle. Not the first time the horse had done such a thing. How he could fall asleep in such fierce cold, Braxton couldn't say. If only his guardian angel with the pale hair and pretty, blue eyes were here to warm him up again.
He regretted leaving her but didn't want to put her in danger. Irish and Logan would be searching for him.
Damn but he felt tired. Not weak. He couldn't allow himself to feel weak. Not with killers after him. And maybe a marshal. He lifted his head and listened. Water meant a stream nearby. He kneed Raisin in that direction.
At the crest of a rise, he reined in and studied the icy, white world below. A small river flowed through an opening in the trees, creating a picture prettier than a gold nugget. Now, if he could find a deaf and blind rabbit sitting down there on the bank to make a meal of, he'd be a happy man.
No rabbit, but he did see fish jumping for freshly hatched flies above the river. After taking care of his horse, he dug into his possibles bag — a small leather pouch in which he kept the necessary tools for staying alive; flint and striker, matches, sewing needles, fish hooks and a large obsidian arrowhead he used as a knife. He yanked a long hair from Raisin's tail to use for fishing line, tied one end to a stick and the other onto a hook. Sweeping away snow with his boot and turning over a few rocks provided him with worms. After threading one of the squiggly critters onto the hook, Braxton laid the makeshift fishing rod on the bank, held in place by a rock, and allowed the bait to dangle in the water.
He'd had a fine, three-piece fishing pole, but it had been stolen a week ago, along with everything else he owned. He'd had just enough cash to enter a faro game and managed to win the funds to buy a horse, saddle, and a change of clothes — the sole sum of his current possessions.
While he waited for a fish to bite, he unsaddled the gelding. He spread the saddle blanket over a bed of pine needles under a tree and lay down on it to think about the angel who had saved his life. One glimpse and her beauty had almost knocked him on his rear. She must have a good heart, too, to take care of a stranger as she'd done.
He hoped she did as he'd asked in his note and took the stolen money to Curdy's Crossing. He knew a lot of people would keep the money. But something told him he could trust her.
After storing the stolen money in her office, Etta and Priscilla saddled two horses. Etta headed north, Priscilla south.
Guiding her mare into the thick snow along the creek gurgling down the mountain, Priscilla argued with herself about what she was doing there. The one reason the man would come up here would be to find a place to hide out, unless he intended to ride over the top of the mountain, which her patient was in no shape to do. As she rode, she watched for hoofprints in the snow.
Please, please, be somewhere I can find you.
Danger existed around every corner in forests like this. He might lose his way or fall from his horse. A branch could knock him from his saddle. If he lay unconscious somewhere, all kinds of things could happen. A rattler could find him. Cougar, coyote, bobcat, bear. Or Indians. What if a party of Utes came upon him? Gracious, he could even freeze to death.
After all the work she'd gone to digging out the bullet and keeping him alive, she felt as though she had an investment of sorts in his wellbeing. Silly, she supposed, but that's how she saw it. She didn't want her labor to go to waste. She wanted him to live.
Five hours later, tired, hungry, and discouraged, Priscilla rode back into town hoping Etta had found him. If not, they'd have to keep looking. The marshal's horse stood outside the jail. Priscilla tied her borrowed mare, Bossy, to the hitching post, stomped snow off her boots and went inside. The marshal sat at her desk drinking coffee.
"Did you find him?" Priscilla opened the door separating the marshal's office from the cells and looked inside. Empty.
"You didn't either, huh?" Etta said, putting down her coffee. "Where did you look?"
"Moose Canyon." Priscilla eyed the chair opposite the marshal. She felt ready to drop, but all the riding had left her backside sore. She decided to pass on the chair and lean
ed against the wall instead. "Thought he might go there to hide."
"Glad you did, so I don't have to." Etta stood. "This means he either went west or east to the mine."
"Or I missed him, although I saw no tracks to indicate anyone had been there. Maybe he's following the railroad line."
They walked outside, and Etta studied the mountain opposite them with its enormous snow-white tailings pile marking where the mine entrance had been. "I'll ride up to the Gold King."
"All right," Priscilla said. "I'll go west."
Etta nodded and walked to her horse. "See you back here."
Priscilla felt little hope as she rode up the hill dotted with tree stumps left behind when the men harvested the woods for lumber to build homes and shore the mine adits. Topping the rise, she detected the scent of smoke. The trees hid the smoke's source. She descended the hill and rode as close as she dared, then left her horse ground-tied and went the rest of the way on foot. The delicious scent of fish roasting over a fire teased her nostrils and reminded her she was hungry.
She stepped between two spruce trees and there he sat on the river bank, broiling a nice cutthroat trout over a fire on a stick close to bursting into flames. Her shoulders slumped as the air seemed to hiss out of her. Thank goodness she'd found him. Looking heavenward, she said a silent prayer of thanks.
"Sending up smoke signals so your friends can find you?" she asked, moving to stand behind him.
In the next moment, he had her beneath him on her back, a gun aimed at her head. He felt familiar and right laying atop her. She marveled at having such a thought at a time like this. Instead, she felt calm, relaxed. Almost eager.
"You!" he muttered and rolled off.
"Yes, me!" Already missing the warmth of his big body, she sat up, brushed snow from her split-skirt, and tried to instill anger into her voice. "You could have killed me."
"That's what you get for sneaking up on a man."
"It was rude of you to leave the way you did without letting me know. The marshal and I hunted for you all day. You never even thanked me for saving your life." He looked even more handsome in the sunshine than he had in her house. His color had improved, and the pinched expression around his mouth and eyes had lessened.
"I apologize. Thank you." He retrieved the fish before it could fall, and his coat fell open to reveal a bloody shirt. "What are you doing here?"
"You aren't well enough yet to go off on your own. Look. Your shirt is bloody. The wound must have reopened. Get the shirt off so I can check the bandage. And tell me who you are."
"Braxton Gamble." He removed his coat and pulled the shirt off over his head, dropping it to the saddle blanket he'd been sitting on.
Priscilla tsked like a schoolmarm with a naughty boy as she removed the bandage, trying not to admire more of his fine display of musculature. She checked the wound, decided it wasn't too bad but needed rebandaging. "I'm Priscilla Heartsel. This must be replaced."
"Heartsel," he said. "Suits you."
She picked up the bloody shirt and examined it, wondering just what he'd mean by her name suiting her. "Is this my father's? Or Robert's?"
"Hell, if I know. I found it in your wardrobe. Who's Robert?"
"My husband. You're obviously bigger than he was, which is no surprise. You're bigger than most men."
"You have a husband? Where is he now?" He glanced around as if expecting the man to jump out of the bushes and shoot him for touching his wife.
"He died in the mine, along with my father." She folded the ruined shirt and set it aside. With her back to him, she stood, lifted her split-skirt and tore a ruffle from her long linen drawers.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I heard what happened. Never would have gone into a person's house if I'd known it was occupied. I thought the town was abandoned. And since you aren't wearing a wedding ring, I assumed you were single."
"I lost my ring." She didn't mention where, not wanting to talk about that dreadful day. "The furniture didn't give you any hints that the house was occupied?"
"Furniture? Hell, all I noticed was the bed."
"It doesn't matter." She faced him, folding the bloody strip of cotton. "If you ran because of the money you left, Marshal Fawks has it. We figured you were in on a bank robbery. I think she believes you're probably innocent since you wanted the money returned."
"You gave it to the marshal?"
He sat still while she changed his bandage, but she heard his muttered oath.
"Wait." He took hold of her hand, preventing her from finishing with his bandage. "Who is he?"
"He who?"
"Your marshal."
"Oh." Priscilla laughed. "She's a woman, not a man."
"A woman marshal?" Incredulity filled his voice.
Priscilla bristled. "What's wrong with that? We women are as capable as you men, whether you want to admit it or not."
He was as ignorant about women as every other man. Breaking eye contact, she glanced away, lips pressed tightly together.
He shook his head. "A woman. Huh! Is she honest? Can you trust her with the money?"
"Of course, I trust her. Etta Fawks is a fine woman and an excellent marshal."
"If I were a gambling man, I'd wager you're a bit too trusting. After all, you didn't turn me in."
After securing the bandage with a knot, she sat back on her heels. At least he hadn't outright accused Etta of dishonesty. It raised him a couple inches on her status pole than most men could attain. "Are you saying you're untrustworthy?"
"No." Braxton Gamble slid the fish off the branch onto a rock and she shuddered at the thought of the dirt now imbedded in the meat. Even so, her stomach growled, reminding her she'd missed the noon meal. "Just wondering why you or your marshal would be willing to take a risk on me."
"Because you were shot trying to protect an old lady."
He gaped at her. "How could you know that?"
Her stomach growled again, and she decided to take a risk on the trout. "May I have a bite of fish, please? I missed dinner, thanks to you."
"First, tell me how you know about the old lady."
She removed a glove and reached for the fish, but he snatched it out of reach. "Tell me."
"After I removed the bullet from your shoulder, you contracted a fever and babbled in your delirium, enough for me to deduce you were involved in a robbery and terrified for the life of an elderly lady in the bank. You interfered, saving her life and, in the process, were shot for your trouble."
He sat there staring at her as if she were a purple five-foot beetle with apple-green antennae and orange eyes.
"Now, may I have a bite?" she asked.
He blew out a breath, his brows rising on his forehead. "Do you read minds too?"
"Of course not. No one can do that. The fish?"
"Help yourself."
"Thank you." She broke off a small piece and ate it, flake by flake.
The man, Braxton, gobbled up the rest. In seconds, nothing remained except a stain on the rock where the fish had lain. "Damn, but I was hungry," he said, wiping his hands on his dirty trousers. "Still am."
Priscilla took a hanky from her coat pocket and dabbed at her mouth. "So am I, but I very much appreciate you sharing your repast with me."
His brows lifted. "You're big on being proper, aren't you? Reckon I'm extra lucky you didn't turn me in."
"Why would I do such a thing, Mr. Gamble? You didn't participate in the robbery willingly, did you?"
"No, I did not."
"So. As I thought." She smoothed a wrinkle from her split-skirt. Her father hadn't owned a horse or buggy. Everything being as close as it was in Wildcat Ridge, he had walked wherever he wanted to go, and so did Priscilla. After she'd lost Father and Robert she'd taken to borrowing Bossy from Etta to explore the countryside. The split-skirt had been a secondhand gift from Thalia who had never worn it due to her fear of horses.
"And you say the marshal doesn't plan on arresting me?" he asked.
"Not unle
ss she finds out we were wrong in what we concluded from your unconscious ravings." She threw another log on the fire.
"Well, I'll be. Maybe my luck is changing." He poked at the log with a stick, adjusting its position among the flames.
Priscilla held out her hands to the flames, "I certainly hope so, Mr. Gamble. For your sake."
"So, what now?" He stood. "I suppose you want me to return with you and talk to the marshal?"
"What an excellent idea. Shall we go? It will be dark soon." She stood, realizing too late Braxton Gamble offered a hand to help her up.
"Can you cook?" he asked, putting out the fire.
"Yes, rather well, if I say so myself." She smiled. "Though I don’t do it often these days."
"All right then. Let's go. I'm still hungry."
Chapter Six
"What town is that, Irish?" Logan Cash pointed a gloved finger toward some scattered buildings in the distance barely visible in the snowy landscape. He'd grown tired of hiding in gullies and dense thickets of shrubs. He yearned for a real bed and some whiskey. Maybe a woman too. "You can see it through the trees."
Irish O'Malley peered over at the houses perched on the brow of a hill. "Probably Wildcat Ridge. I imagine it's abandoned."
"How come?"
"The mine there collapsed and killed 'bout everyone."
"Really?" Logan spit tobacco juice to the side and adjusted his hat. "If those houses are empty, maybe we could spend the night in one. You know, lay low for a day or two."
"We don't need to lay low, Logan. We're clear as birds in the sky, remember?" Irish went back to surveying the area with his magnifying glasses. "We fooled the idiot lawman in Curdy's Crossing. If he's out searching for anyone, it's Braxton."
Sometimes Logan wasn't sure Irish was as smart as the man thought. "What if the old lady gets brave and tells the marshal it was us what robbed the bank and not Brax? There could be a posse on our tails for all we know."
"Damn that Braxton. He's got a lot to answer for when we catch up to him."
Priscilla (The Widows of Wildcat Ridge Series Book 1) Page 4
