Oh no. Not now. She struggled to stand straighter and was thankful that whoever had her seemed to be helping and not hindering her attempts. After a moment the constriction around her lungs eased for one breath but then clamped down with even more fury.
She tightened her fingers into a handful of the shirt beneath them and did her best not to panic. But as the fist around her chest clamped down until only the barest amount of air could get in, she felt the tremble of terror on the verge of taking over. Had she truly heard Waddell falling into the river and being swept away? Yes, she was quite certain of that. Relief eased some of her tightness.
“You’re all right now, miss. I’ve got you. Just breathe easy.” The voice floated around her, a soothing tenor. Fingers brushed her hair back from her face with gentle caresses. And the tender ministrations kept her from tipping over the edge of panic. A hand massaged softly up and down her back.
“Breathe in with me. Ready? One. Two. Three.”
The chest beneath her cheek lifted in a deep inhale. She tried to follow the example.
“That’s right. Good. Now out. One. Two. Three.”
Charlotte pursed her lips and forced herself to breathe out.
“Beautiful. Again. With me now. Breathe in. One. Two. Three… And…out. One. Two. Three.”
And just as quickly as the attack had come upon her, the band around her lungs released, and blessed oxygen streamed in.
She took several more breaths, afraid to move for fear of reinstigating the attack.
“Are you okay now, miss?” The tenor voice was less ethereal. The muscled chest beneath her cheek and the scents of leather and spice, more tangible. The gentle hand sweeping over her spine, more concrete and comforting. She could contentedly remain exactly where she was for the rest of the afternoon.
Her thoughts flitted to home and settled on Kent. At this very moment she could be back in Boston declining yet another call from that man. She could be safely ensconced in the parlor near a warm fire while sending James to the door with her regrets. Why oh why had she given all that up? And yet, she was honest enough to admit that what brought Mr. Covington to mind at this precise moment wasn’t regret—it was comparison.
She took herself back to the last time she’d been this close to Kent. Had she ever stood quietly in his arms, just so, and let him hold her? She couldn’t recall. And now as the cozy scent of leather and spice wafted all around her, she tried to recall what exactly the cloying odor that always followed Kent had been. Something acridly sweet and touched with the smell of tobacco from the club he frequented—a smell that repulsed her each time he drew near, yet somehow she’d never realized.
But this fragrance that now enveloped her… She pulled in another slow inhale. It spoke of comfort and home and protection. An aroma she could revel in all day long and never tire of! But suddenly the impropriety of the fact that she was alone in the woods, wrapped in a strange man’s arms, washed over her. Alluring scent or not. Asthma attack or not. Neither Mother nor Miss Gidden would allow for such a contravention of the rules.
Forcing herself to step back, Charlotte smoothed her hands down her skirt and then lifted her focus to take in her rescuer. Her breath threatened to stop again, but not because of her asthma this time.
The man’s eyes were the bluest of blues, and a scruffy stubble along his jaw that should have made him look unkempt did no such thing. The scruff only added to his attractiveness, heightening the pleasant angles of a handsome face and drawing her attention to full lips that made her fingertip itch to trace them.
At this very moment those lips quirked up at the corners in curiosity and humor.
Charlotte felt the burn of humiliation that she’d been caught staring. She spun away from him and did her best to straighten her appearance. She gathered her tresses into one hand at the back of her head and lifted her chin as she worked as much debris as possible from her hair and knotted it into a quick bun with the few remaining hairpins left to her.
All the while, her rescuer stood off to one side, his Stetson pushed back on his head and his arms folded across a broad chest.
Finally put together the best she could be under such circumstances, Charlotte looked to the man and offered a slight curtsy. “Miss Charlotte Brindle, sir. And might I have your name also, for I’m sure Mr. Zebulon Heath will want to be thanking you in a monetary way for coming to my rescue and facing such danger to your person.”
The man snorted. “Zeb would have had my hide if I didn’t come to your rescue, ma’am.” He stretched out one hand. “Name’s Reagan Callahan. I’m the sheriff in Wyldhaven.”
Charlotte placed her hand in his and was dismayed to note that her hand was practically engulfed by his broad muscular one. She glanced around, but there was not a building or another living being in sight. How could she have been so negligent? What if the man whose arms she’d been reveling in had been one of the outlaws who had attacked their coach? She could have been in rampant danger, and all she’d been able to think about was the alluring scent of him!
Her pique with herself spilled over onto the man. “Sheriff of Wyldhaven, you say? So it’s likely your fault that I find myself in this situation at all, isn’t it? Why were those men allowed to roam the countryside and shoot at people!? You surely knew what they were up to, or you wouldn’t have been so near!”
The sheriff’s brows lifted, and his arms settled into a tighter fold across his chest, which irritatingly drew her gaze to the bulge of strong biceps and made her mouth even more dry than it already was.
The sheriff’s lips thinned. “Had we known you were on the coach, miss, rest assured we would have handled things differently.”
She tipped up her chin, not entirely sure that fact should let the man off her hook. But for the moment she was too tired to carry on the argument. “You didn’t know I was coming?”
The sheriff shook his head.
Charlotte’s chin lifted a fraction higher, if only to keep the tears of weariness—and relief at her sudden safety—away. “Well, Mr. Zebulon Heath has hired me as the new schoolteacher. I wonder if you might be so kind as to show me to my place in town, Sheriff Callahan? I’m dreadfully parched and could really use a spot of tea. And thank you, by the way, for…” She swept a gesture toward the place where only a moment ago he had smooth-talked her lungs into cooperating.
He dipped a nod and turned to his horse, which Charlotte just now noticed had stood quietly behind him the whole time. He withdrew a canteen. “I’m happy to show you into town, Miss Brindle. But there’s no need to wait to slake your thirst.” He thrust the container toward her.
Charlotte eyed it dubiously. How many other people had the sheriff rescued and allowed to drink from his canteen? She studied it for so long that the man finally withdrew it, uncorked it, and then offered it back to her, giving it a little tantalizing shake before her face. The water sloshed temptingly inside.
“The water’s perfectly safe, I assure you.”
Charlotte’s thirst finally outweighed her worry over cleanliness, and she took the canteen. The first drops of water to cross her tongue were like the first breaths of air she always felt the moment her lungs released a clench. Heavenly. She tipped the canteen higher and guzzled so thirstily, she was embarrassed when some drizzled out the corner of her mouth and cascaded off her chin. She caught the drips and swiped them away as she held the canteen back toward him. “Many thanks, Sheriff.”
There was a hint of humor in his gaze when he banged the cork back into place. He only dipped a nod of acknowledgment to her appreciation, but he did stretch one hand toward his horse. “Shall we head into town, then?”
She eyed the regular saddle with a twist of her lips. Were she to try and ride the horse, her humiliation would be complete. Just the thought of how she would look astride the large black set her cheeks to blazing. “I’ll just walk back to the stagecoach, Sheriff.”
“I’m afraid the stagecoach won’t be going anywhere until they are able t
o bring in another harness and track down the loose horse. And it’s a fair piece on into town. Five miles or better.”
“Five miles? But the stage driver said Wyldhaven was just over the next ridge.”
The sheriff tilted his head and rubbed a hand over the stubble of one cheek. “That’s true, I suppose. You’d have been in town in less than thirty minutes traveling by coach as you were.”
Something inside her tightened up in dread. “And on foot?”
The sheriff propped his hands on his hips, a gesture that said he was doing his best not to lose his patience. “Depends on how fast you walk. But with you riding and me walking…a little over an hour or so.”
Charlotte considered her options. Her shoes were highly inappropriate for a long walk such as that. She’d wanted to arrive in the height of fashion to give the best impression possible. As it was, she would already be arriving in town with her head most improperly bare, her hair likely far short of passable, and her skirts as dusty as a maid’s apron. So what was one more black mark on her good name? She gave a huff. “Fine. I’ll climb aboard. But I’ll need to ride sideways. Will your mount tolerate that?”
The sheriff’s lips twitched in a most ungentlemanly way. “He won’t throw you, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Very well. I’ll need a stump or a hillside or—”
Her sentence cut off in a squeak as the sheriff’s hands settled around her waist, and he practically tossed her up into his saddle. His horse shied to one side, and she felt herself starting to slide off the far side.
“Oh!” She was saved from a tumble by the sheriff’s hand wrapping around her ankle.
Her face heated at the shocking feel of it. Impropriety seemed to be the order of her day.
She grasped the saddle horn with both hands and scooted herself into a position that offered the best balance available to her without the aid of the leg hook that a sidesaddle would have.
Sheriff Callahan kept hold of her ankle and maneuvered her foot into the stirrup before he stepped back. “All set?”
She lifted her chin. “I will be lucky not to tumble off and break my neck.”
He offered not the slightest hint of sympathy. “Yes. Well, let’s wait to do that till we are closer to town and our Dr. Griffin. Out here you’re likely to die before I can return with help.”
She gasped her outrage.
He gave her a startled look. “It was meant for humor, Miss Brindle. I apologize if I offended.”
“How about we just get me to my cottage, Sheriff, where I can have a nice hot cup of tea?” And a bath. But she wouldn’t mention such a thing out loud to the man. Even if “faux pas” did seem to be on today’s menu.
He blinked at her. Opened his mouth. And then must have changed his mind about whatever he’d planned to say, because after that he merely bent and retrieved his horse’s reins and started at a good clip down the trail.
Chapter Six
For nearly the whole hour into town, Reagan considered, and then tossed aside, all manner of explanations to prepare the teacher for the fact that she would have no cottage. But blamed if he knew where Zeb planned to house the woman, and none of his conceived explanations seemed as if they would adequately satisfy the elegant, and obviously entitled, woman riding so primly, and with such careful balance, on his mountain-bred mustang.
About halfway back along the trail he found her hat, but it appeared that the Clydesdale had stepped on it. Whether that was when it was coming or when it had fled after bucking Waddell, he couldn’t tell. He picked it up and tried to reshape it, but one of the feathers was broken in the middle. When he handed it up to her, she sucked in a small breath.
Her lips that had just a few minutes ago been blue enough to bring to mind death were now more the color of ripe raspberries—the kind that made a man want to taste and see if they were as sweet as they looked.
Startled yet intrigued by the thought, he folded his arms and studied her. She futilely attempted to prop the broken feather up, but the moment she pulled her hand away the shaft flopped to the side again. A shimmer crept into the vibrant green of her eyes, and when she blinked, one tear caught in her long dark lashes. He had a feeling her tears were less about the ruined hat than about the culmination of what must have been one very bad day.
He plucked the hat back out of her hands and shucked his Bowie. A quick slice severed the shaft of the broken feather at its base. He tossed it aside, fluffed the feathers that remained, and offered it back to her with a little bow meant to lighten the moment. It took a few moments for her to respond, but as she accepted the hat from him a second time, her lips did curve into a soft smile. Their hands brushed against each other, and her skin was smooth and soft beneath his fingers. He swallowed and pulled away lest he be tempted to linger.
Her eyes shimmered again, but she bit that pretty bottom lip of hers and lifted her chin, and this time no tears spilled over. He was glad at least for that fact. Because he’d been trying to comfort her, not make her cry again. Guilt pressed in. Maybe tears in a woman of her breeding were inevitable after a day such as this?
The trouble was, her near future held more bad news. He turned and started off toward town again, unable to voice something that would only bring her more disappointment.
So it was that the outskirts of the livery yard had come into view before he’d so much as said two further words to the lady. But when he led her into full view of the main street, which stretched off to their left, he heard her give a sound that was half gasp, half grunt.
He tried to put as much enthusiasm as he could muster into his next words. “Welcome to Wyldhaven, Miss Brindle.”
Her horror was evident in the widening of her eyes and the gape of her jaw. “There must be some mistake, sir!”
He almost chuckled at her propensity for sounding so arrogant, when he had a feeling that was the furthest thing from what she actually was. “No mistake, miss.” He turned to look up at her.
Face pale, she had one hand pressed to her collar and wore a look of such stricken shock he feared she might at any moment lack the strength to maintain her balance.
He reached up and plucked her from the back of his steed, feeling his concern mount. “Are you well?”
She blinked, rubbed the hollow at the base of her throat, and glanced at him as if to acknowledge that in some nether region of her mind, she’d heard him speak, but her focus returned immediately to the town.
He followed her gaze, scrubbed the back of his neck, and tried to see the place as she might be seeing it. He supposed Wyldhaven did fall a little closer to the side of “wyld” than “haven.” Zeb had only decided he had need of a town for his logging crews this past spring. Reagan had arrived when both the post office and the mercantile were still nothing more than floor joists on foundation, and each building had gone up in record time. Other than those two buildings, the only other three in town besides the livery were his jail, McGinty’s Alehouse, and the boardinghouse—each of which had also been quickly erected with an eye for service rather than aesthetics.
The town was not without its softer touches, however. Why, Dixie Pottinger even had curtains at the windows of the boardinghouse, and Ben King had hung a flag outside the post office. Though now that Reagan looked at it closely, the flag had seen better days. He probably ought to recommend Ben replace it with a new one.
“I fear there has been some mistake, Sheriff.” The woman’s voice was barely audible.
He frowned down at her, wondering whatever she could mean.
“This can’t possibly be the right place. You see, I was to be the teacher for a town called Wyldhaven. In the newly formed state of Washington?” She said the words slowly, as though speaking to a simple-minded child.
Reagan’s frown deepened. Had the woman gone addlebrained? He stretched a hand out to indicate the buildings on either side of the street. “Yes, ma’am. As you see before you.”
“Oh mercy.” She made a funny little whimperin
g sound. “There’s not possibly another town called Wyldhaven around these parts, is there?”
Reagan propped his hands on his hips. “Miss, I assure you this is the town founded by the very man you mentioned earlier, Mr. Zebulon Heath.”
“But…” Words seemed to have failed her, and the starch seeped out of her spine.
His dread of leading her to the boardinghouse grew stronger. But there was nothing for it but to do so. He’d already been out of contact with Joe for too long, and he needed to send a wire reporting the possibility of Waddell’s death or escape to the towns downriver. He also needed to round up a group of men to ride downriver with him to see if they could find the outlaw, whether dead or alive.
So dread or not, he forced himself to action. He placed a hand gently on Miss Brindle’s back and nudged her forward, gesturing down the street to the boardinghouse. “I’ll escort you down to the boardinghouse now. That’s where you’ll be staying until Zeb gets back to town and can determine a more permanent residence for you.”
The woman muttered something under her breath, snatched up two fistfuls of skirts, and stepped out ahead of him in the most graceful fit of anger he’d ever had the privilege to witness.
Reagan resisted the humor that begged to lift his lips. He was just glad to see that the starch hadn’t gone out of her for too long.
Charlotte didn’t care if Miss Gidden would call her footfalls “less than delicate” right at the moment. She didn’t care that the sheriff had said something about a boardinghouse and not her cottage. She could settle into her cottage tomorrow. All she cared about was putting an end to this never-ending nightmare of a day.
Halfway down the street, she realized she didn’t know where she was going. She stopped so abruptly that the sheriff, who had been keeping pace behind her, almost ran into her. Angling out of his way, she motioned for him to take the lead.
Not a Sparrow Falls (Wyldhaven Book 1) Page 7
