The Lady and the Lawman

by Jennifer Zane

  “Yes, you do. Why’d you come back?” His voice was soft, yet deep.

  She remained silent for several minutes before she spoke. “I couldn’t leave you behind, not knowing how badly you were hurt.”

  “So you chose to come back to help me? Even though it’s just a scratch?”

  She nodded her head against his shirtfront. “It’s more than a silly little scratch. It seems we’re even, doesn’t it?”

  ***

  Grant knew better. They definitely weren’t even. It wasn’t tit for tat. He’d saved her so she saved him? Was that what the woman thought? That’s not how things worked. It was his job to find the men who’d kidnapped her from the stage. His work had just begun. She was now his responsibility.

  His leg hurt like hell, fighting with the bullet he knew was still lodged there. He'd lied to her about the injury so she didn't worry. “It’s all over now. Close your eyes and rest,” he said, gritting his teeth through the pain. Her shaking quickly subsided once she settled in his arms with her head against his shoulder. She’d taken quite a chance coming back for him, not knowing if Dalton and his men were still shooting up the night.

  Hell, she’d taken quite a chance climbing up on Dalton’s horse in the first place! He hadn’t known her plan when she’d slid off his lap. She’d been safe enough in his arms, but obviously hadn’t believed it. She’d swung gracefully up on Dalton’s mare by grabbing hold of its long mane like an Indian maiden, stunning him. When she rode off into the night, long hair flowing about her, he hadn’t known what to think. The way it took Dalton and his men long minutes to chase after her, they hadn’t, either.

  He should’ve listened to her, believed her when she’d said she could ride. But he hadn’t. There weren’t too many women he could think of who could ride bareback.

  And damn, could she ride!

  Now, he was indebted to her even more. She’d actually accomplished what she’d set out to do. She’d been right. Dalton wasn’t interested in him. The man wanted her, and the horse she rode. After they realized she'd sprinted off, Dalton and his gang chased her, leaving him alone to lick his wounds. Or at least tend to the wound in his leg, which now throbbed painfully, blood continuing to trickle down his thigh.

  Thank God the ranch hands had seen Dalton's anger, knew the history and sent for help. Tom and several of his men hadn’t been far off when all hell broke loose. If they hadn’t heard the gunshots and been quick to help, Dalton wouldn’t have given up his chase and returned to town empty-handed. The thought of the bastard’s meaty paws on her made Grant irate.

  He now owed much to the woman asleep in his arms. He’d never be able to pay off his obligation to her. In a few short hours after meeting her, he felt a fierce protectiveness he’d never known before. No other woman had done that to him. Ever. Hell, no other woman had risked her life to protect him, either. Maybe that’s why he’d bristled when she’d wanted an admission from him. He was the one who was supposed to protect her, to protect everyone in Cranston.

  He sighed. What was he going to do with her? After that first kiss in the saloon, the first time he'd touched her smooth skin, seen her perfect body, he’d known he wasn't going to let any other man touch her. He wanted to keep her safe, this woman whose curly hair came up to tickle his chin as he rode. She was going to be his, and his alone. That scared him, but he'd have it no other way.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Margaret stirred and rubbed the sleep from her eyes when the horse slowed. An hour or more must have passed, because the sun was making its daily climb over the open prairie. They rode up in front of a large white clapboard house and she shifted to look up at Grant. He brushed a curl from her face before he climbed down stiffly from the saddle.

  “Here, let me help you.” His hands circled her waist and lifted her off of his mount as if she weighed nothing. She felt the warmth of his hands through the light material of her dress. They were big and rough, but his hold gentle.

  “Your leg!” she tried to break out of his grasp, afraid she’d hurt him.

  He placed his hand over the blood soaked pant leg. “It’s fine.”

  “But the blood!”

  “It’s fine!” He hissed the last word through his teeth.

  Seeing the sheriff sway on his feet, she screamed and tried to hold him up with her shoulder, but he passed out before she could get a solid grip on him. His dead weight was more than she could handle. They crumpled to the ground, and a cloud of dust stirred as they landed. She was once again on her bruised bottom, with Grant heavy on top of her.

  Tom came running, his long legs eating up the distance. “What’s wrong?”

  “His leg,” she gasped. By now, her hands and the front of her dress were stained red with his seeping blood as she tried to extricate herself from beneath him.

  Squatting down, Tom rolled the sheriff off of her and assessed his damaged leg. She pulled herself up and knelt next to Tom. The bleeding was fresh. His pant leg clung to the sticky wound.

  “Let’s get him upstairs into bed.” He struggled to lift the sheriff's dead weight. Tom was slighter than his brother, which wasn't saying much as he was built like a barrel. “I’m going to need your help.”

  “Yes, all right.” Squatting down, she looked to Tom for instruction.

  “Grab his feet and together I think we can get him upstairs.”

  She nodded and grabbed hold of the sheriff's dusty boots and struggled with Tom to get him into the house, upstairs and into bed. It took several minutes, with periods of quick rest. The man was huge—and heavy! He didn’t stir even with their struggles, and the blood continued to flow in a steady trickle from his thigh.

  Once they settled the sheriff on the bed, Tom ripped his pant leg open to see the wound more clearly.

  “Bullet’s still in there.”

  Oh God. He'd spent the past few hours holding her tightly against him all the while a bullet had been lodged in his leg. Petrified, she said, “What...what do we do for him?”

  “I need to get the bullet out. Thankfully, he’s passed out. I’ll be back in a few minutes. Holler if he stirs.”

  Left alone with the sheriff's unconscious form, she surveyed his wound. Blood oozed from the jagged hole. He was slowly dying. It had been her fault. The man had been protecting her, keeping her safe and he'd been the one injured. Possibly mortally. She tried desperately not to cry but was soon lost to the tears as they coursed down her cheeks.

  Tom returned with a large bowl of water, several cloths and a pair of tweezers. “He’ll be fine. We just have to get the bullet out before it gets infected. Then we can get this blood under control.”

  Wiping her tears away with the back of her hand, she nodded and resolved to be optimistic. Tom sure was.

  It took a few tense moments to dislodge the bullet. When the metal hit the china bowl on the nightstand it made a loud racket, startling her.

  “There now.” Tom's dark eyes settled on her and he smiled. “Let’s get him bandaged up.”

  She helped to wrap the long strips of cloth around the wound, finishing with tight knots to staunch the flow of blood.

  “He looks a mess, but he’s alive. Let’s let him rest and when he’s up again, we can get him cleaned up.”

  “All right.” She wasn’t as sure as Tom, but if he believed the sheriff would be well again, who was she to argue?

  “I’ll stay with him for a while. You should get cleaned up, then get some sleep. Follow me.” Tom led her into a bedroom across the hall. “There's a pitcher of water and a cloth to wash off the blood. In the chest at the foot of the bed you’ll find a few things of our sister's you might be able to wear.”

  “Thank you,” she replied, looking down at her bloody hands and dress. She’d forgotten her attire during the surgical ordeal.

  Tom nodded and pulled the door closed behind him.

  Walking numbly to the nightstand with the pitcher, she poured some into the bowl and scrubbed the sheriff's blood off. When done, she w
as too weary to take in her surroundings except for the large, inviting bed. Afraid the bloodstains would ruin the crisp, clean bedding, she stripped off her dress before climbing under the cool sheets, asleep just seconds after her head touched her pillow.

  ***

  Margaret awoke to soft light streaming through the window. It took a moment to realize where she was. The bedroom Tom had shown her was painted a pale yellow, like early morning sunshine. An oak dresser and chair rested against one wall. The water pitcher and basin still sat atop the nightstand next to the brass bed.

  All was quiet except for the soft drone of grasshoppers outside. A slight breeze through the open window put the white curtains in motion. She stretched lazily and wiped some stray curls off her face as she climbed out from beneath the covers.

  She tidied the bed by pulling up the handmade quilt and smoothing out any wrinkles. She went to the mirror above the dresser and stooped to see her reflection. The last person to use this room must have been a child or a petite woman.

  Seeing her own reflection, she gasped. She had bright red lips, cheeks stained a rosy red. Her hair was a riot of curls, tangled and snarled about her. She’d forgotten her appearance after the wild events of the previous night.

  Finding a piece of ribbon, she tied her hair back loosely at the nape of her neck. She sighed. There was no real way to tame her curls without at least a comb or brush. Bits of loose tendrils fringed around her face.

  Rummaging through the oak chest at the foot of the bed, she found a few feminine items. Holding them up to herself, they were too small for her, the owner’s figure several inches shorter and much smaller in the bust. The only items of a suitable size were a pair of pants in soft cotton and a white, buttoned shirt.

  She quickly donned the new items. The pants, although a bit short, fit her narrow waist and round hips perfectly. The shirt, she had to admit, was a bit small. Her full figure strained against the mother of pearl buttons. Plain and simple, both items were better than her old dress, so badly torn and stained with Grant's blood.

  Walking across the hall, she peeked in to the other bedroom to see how Grant had fared while she slept.

  “Did you have a good rest?” Tom asked quietly, sitting in a chair next to the bed reading.

  Tom looked much like his brother. They were both tall and had a solid build. Tom’s hair was darker than the sheriff's, probably the same color as if his were wet, but the most obvious difference was their temperaments. While the sheriff appeared to have a short fuse, Tom’s demeanor was calm and patient. Quiet. One had the knack to ruffle her feathers, the other soothed.

  No. It was more than that. The sheriff didn’t just “ruffle” her. Her palms became sweaty and she felt her cheeks flush. Embarrassingly enough, her nipples tightened at his slightest touch. With Tom, she felt...nothing. Thankful, maybe. But who wanted to feel thankful when they kissed you?

  She smiled. “I did rest well, yes.” Her eyes turned to the still form in bed. Had fever set in? Had the wound started to bleed again? “How is he?”

  “Sleeping still. No fever. I think he’ll be fine, but I would expect he’ll need to remain in bed for several days to let that wound heal up.”

  She closed her eyes in relief. “I'm so glad he'll be all right.”

  Tom patiently nodded. “Hungry?”

  Thinking of food, her stomach gave a decidedly loud rumble. Embarrassed, she looked to Tom.

  “Come on, let’s get something to eat,” he replied, laughing.

  She waited by the door. “What about the Sheriff?”

  “I’m sure he’ll sleep for a while yet.” Tom looked to his brother. “Don’t worry.”

  Tom led her downstairs and washed up at a white china basin in front of the window. She followed his lead, then sat down at a weathered wooden table clearly used for more than meals. It was the focus of the room, and its worn patina added warmth.

  Sunlight streamed into the kitchen from three windows. The open door let in warm, fresh air. Tom took two plates covered with dishtowels from the stovetop, placed one in front of her, then joined her at the table. “I hope this is still good.” Eggs, ham and biscuits filled each tin plate. It was hard not to lick her lips in anticipation.

  “When did you make this?”

  “The foreman brought it for us, leftovers from the men’s breakfast.”

  He began eating and she followed suit. They ate in silence, but once their plates were empty, he sat back in his chair, holding his coffee cup. “What brings you here, Maggie?”

  She dabbed her checked napkin at her lips. She knew the inquisition had to start sometime. His brother had been shot, she'd been in his lap on the horse, her dress had been ripped with the sheriff's badge holding it closed. It was impressive he'd had enough patience to wait this long for details. “It's quite a long story. I'm not exactly sure where to start.”

  “Your name’s Maggie. That, I know. How about your family name?”

  “Atwater,” she answered.

  “Atwater.” He thought for a moment, took a sip of coffee before continuing. “I can’t recall any Atwaters from around this area.”

  She shook her head. It was clear he was trying to wheedle information from her, but he was being subtle about it. Not subtle enough, as shr was a master at ways to pull details out of the most reluctant of ladies at an afternoon tea. Was it worth sharing her woes with this man? The brother of practically a stranger? She didn't have anything to lose. Here, she was safe from William and his plans for her. Taking a deep breath, she replied, “I'm from Philadelphia.”

  He smiled. “Nice city. But that's a long way from here.”

  “The sheriff didn’t tell you anything?” She took a turn of her own cup of coffee, hot and black.

  “He’s been unconscious since you rode up. Besides, I think you can tell your own story better than he could.”

  She bit her lip, debating. “I was on my way to California when my plans changed...unexpectedly. Now, I'm here.”

  “That’s a long way to travel all by yourself. Isn’t someone missing you? A husband, perhaps?” Tom wondered.

  A fiancé in California, a fiancé in Philadelphia. She had two more than she ever wanted.

  “No, I’m not married,” she replied.

  “Someone has to wonder where you are,” he countered, calmly pushing her for answers she loathed to share. He emptied his coffee cup in one big swallow. “Maggie, you’re safe here with us, from whatever trouble you're in.” His reassurance was backed up with a smile. He was clearly no dummy, and well aware there was more to her story than she shared.

  She was still wary. William was definitely a problem, but she had a new one, specifically named Dalton, that she had to worry about first. “What about Dalton and his men? We certainly weren’t safe when he attacked us. He won't be deterred.”

  “True, but that wasn’t about you.”

  Shaking her head vehemently, she answered, “No, you’re wrong. He wanted to win me last night in that poker game. Grant ruined that for him. They followed me away from where Grant had been shot.”

  He leaned forward and put his forearms on the table. “Dalton and Grant have issues that go way back. Years. Well before this poker game you're talking about. You weren’t the reason for last night’s activities.”

  “Are you sure?” It might not have been about her to begin with, but Dalton's focus had definitely been turned her way. She didn't like it one bit.

  “What’s done is done. As sheriff, Grant could bring charges against Dalton if he wanted to. Dalton knows that. He’s not going to be bothering anyone again for a while.”

  She wasn't so sure. Just the very thought of being touched by Dalton, being used as his plaything that he’d be ready to toss aside after he’d had his fun, had her shaky hands sloshing hot coffee onto the table. Quickly wiping it up with her napkin, she apologized.

  “Like I said before, you’re safe here. So tell me, why isn’t anyone looking for you?” He hadn't moved, still lean
ing against his chair, his full attention on her.

  He was like a dog with a bone, not letting go. “All right, people are probably missing me,” she finally admitted, “but they don't know where to look. I ran away.”

  He didn’t look too surprised. Actually, his expression didn’t change at all. “You ran away from Philadelphia.”

  She nodded, staring at the sodden napkin in front of her.

  “How did you come to be in Cranston?”

  She recounted what happened to her on the stage and at Croft’s, as well as how they ended up in a gun battle with Dalton.

  “I think you were very lucky Grant played in that card game.”

  Merciful heavens, was she ever. She refused to think of the alternative.

  “Yes, the sheriff was kind enough to help me once he learned of my...difficulties.”

  “What were your plans once you reached California?” he asked.

  “I found an advertisement for a mail-order bride.”

  “So a future husband is going to be wondering where you are.” He acted as if he had breakfast with women who were mail-order brides all the time.

  She felt guilty about the man who’d written the advertisement. “He sounded honest, decent enough. When the stage passes through Sacramento in about a week, you’re right, he’s going to be one disappointed gold digger. I sent a letter back to him, but it’s possible the note didn’t reach him. Maybe in all this time, he's found someone else even.”

  “It’s certainly possible,” he repeated. “You seem somewhat of a reluctant bride. You’re pretty and seem very nice. I’d bet men were pestering your father day in and day out for your hand in marriage instead of traveling across the country to marry a complete stranger.”

  She pursed her lips. If the man only knew. “Quite the opposite, in fact. My parents are both dead.”

  “I’m mighty sorry to hear that.”

  She smiled at his kind words, although without any feeling. She’d never really known her mother, since she died when she was two. Her father, however, had been a tyrant and ruled over her every breath, her every move up until the day he died. Sad to say, she didn’t miss the old man at all. “Thank you.”