The Lawman

by Patricia Potter

  She saw the frustration in his face. She even enjoyed it a little, considering how he had rattled her last night.

  “I heard that one of those two men he killed wounded him,” he said.

  His words sent a chill through her. “Wouldn’t know anything about that.”

  “Why is his horse here, then?”

  “If you believe anything old Burley says, then that leg isn’t the only thing that has a hole in it. Mac has several horses. He traded me that paint last time he passed through. He took a bay. It was faster.”

  “What happened to your parents?” he asked, his voice suddenly softening.

  “My pa was killed by a claim jumper when I was real young. My mother had no family, no place to go, so she stayed here. She cooked meals for the miners and did their laundry. She eventually opened a boardinghouse but died of pneumonia when I was eleven.”

  “No other family?”

  She shrugged. “Both of them were orphans.”

  The marshal waited for her to continue.

  She wasn’t sure she wanted to, and yet she needed him to know that Mac wasn’t the man he thought him to be. “After my mother died, the miners held a meeting and were going to send me to an orphanage. Mac and Archie wouldn’t let them do it. They sort of adopted me.” She purposely left Reese’s name out.

  “So Thornton helped raise you,” he said, returning to the earlier subject.

  “Some,” she said, unwilling to give him any more information.

  He lifted a thick eyebrow. “He kept you here in the middle of nowhere. You…should be…” He moved slightly, then stiffened and she knew a wave of pain had just hit. He closed his eyes for a second. “Damn,” he muttered.

  She waited, not saying anything. She wanted to do something to soothe the pain. She forced herself not to go closer.

  Then his body started to relax slowly.

  “I’m here because I want to be here,” she said softly.

  “A ghost town these last five years? What about school?”

  “Reese…” she started, then caught herself. “I learned from books,” she said.

  “Reese?” The question was sharp, his eyes relentless despite the pain in his face.

  She snapped her mouth shut. Would Reese be held accountable for being Mac’s friend? Or even for being her friend? She was an outlaw now, too. She’d shot a marshal.

  Leave, she told herself. Leave now. But something kept her feet planted firmly where she was.

  “How long since your family came here?” he asked again, obviously intent on finding out whatever he could. Looking for a weakness, she supposed.

  He would find none in her, but there was no harm in this question. “Pa came here in 1858,” she said.

  Dear God, but his eyes were compelling. She knew what he was doing. Information was a weapon.

  “When did Thornton arrive?” he asked.

  Thornton. Not Mac. Cal Thornton. That was how she first knew him. When he stayed in her mother’s boardinghouse. She’d already said too much. The marshal was good at extracting in formation. Very good. She’d never known exactly how Mac had got his reputation, or why he’d been wanted. They didn’t talk about that. She did know, though, that his past was the reason he’d never married her mother. She also knew he’d been a hired gun on and off. But she would never believe he’d killed a woman as the marshal claimed.

  She didn’t answer. Instead, she defended Mac. “You’re wrong about him,” she said flatly.

  “Then he should go back with me. Prove the accusations false.”

  “You said he killed a woman. When?”

  “Ten years ago.”

  “How?”

  “He was robbing a stagecoach.”

  “Anyone see him kill her?”

  “The guy who rode with him. Before he hanged. And the coach driver heard his name.”

  “Ever consider he might have a reason for lying?”

  “Doesn’t matter. Thornton rode with him. He’s just as guilty. And guilty of a hell of a lot more, as well.”

  “You a judge as well as a lawman?”

  His eyes grew even colder, if that was possible. “You aren’t doing yourself or anyone here a favor by hiding him.”

  “Threats don’t scare me. They just make it more likely Mac will kill you.”

  “Your…Mr. Smith said Mac wouldn’t like you killing me.”

  “Me. He wouldn’t like me killing someone. Doesn’t mean he wouldn’t do it himself. He’s a ‘killer,’ remember.” Anger raised her voice, and she saw satisfaction deep in his eyes. He’d scored a small victory. He was pulling little nuggets of information from her, and she was allowing it. Turnabout was fair play.

  “And you? Have you always been a marshal?”

  “No,” he said.

  “Then what?”

  “A farmer,” he said softly.

  “What turned a farmer into a marshal?”

  “The war,” he said shortly.

  “Reb or Yank?”

  He searched her face again. “Does it matter?”

  “Not really. That’s one reason my father and mother left Illinois. They wanted no part of it. All those men killed…homes destroyed… Mac’s home was one of them.”

  His face tightened and his eyes were like black agates. That strange feeling kicked her stomach again. His gaze speared her as if he could see the very essence of her soul. “Mine was, too. I didn’t turn outlaw.”

  His tone sent shivers through her. Harsh. Unforgiving. Relentless. There was no gentleness in him. None of the wry humor she’d glimpsed a few times.

  “Maybe not, but it seems to me you’re as much a killer as you say Mac is.” She glared at him. “Are you always so certain you’re right?”

  To her surprise, he shook his head. Then he added, with the slightest hint of a smile, “But more often than not.”

  “I doubt that,” she muttered.

  He ignored the comment and held out his cup. “Any water left?”

  The pitcher was still on the table and she poured water for him. It turned brown from the remnants of coffee.

  He took it and drank deeply.

  She couldn’t keep her eyes from his face. From the lips that had covered hers yesterday. She could still feel them, and the reactions they had stirred in her. Damn him, why did he have to be even more appealing with the dark stubble on his cheeks. Maybe it was his confidence, even as a prisoner. He was a man used to being heeded and obeyed.

  Go. Go. Go. Go.

  But her legs didn’t move.

  “Sam?”

  Her name had never quite sounded like that before. The one syllable rolled lazily on his lips.

  “Yes?” she forced herself to reply.

  “I meant it when I warned you to leave. I wouldn’t like to see you hurt. If what you say about Thornton is true, he wouldn’t want it, either.”

  She heard the doubt in his voice about Mac, and it spoiled any concern she thought he might have for her.

  She walked to the door. “I’ll be back later with some stew and a fresh poultice for your leg.”

  “It’s comforting to know you’re so interested in my well-being,” he said in a soft, dangerous tone.

  “I’m not,” she replied. “I just don’t want you to die here.”

  “Why? There’s plenty of places to bury a body.”

  “I’m thinking about all of them at this moment,” she said.

  He closed his eyes, but the left side of his mouth drifted up.

  Damn the man. She didn’t understand why she was drawn to him. Or why she wanted to touch that hard face and make it soften.

  “A little gratitude would be nice,” she said, knowing it was a mistake to linger. “Archie did save your leg.”

  “He wouldn’t have needed to, if you hadn’t shot me,” he replied.

  There was some justification in his words, she admitted to herself. But then he shouldn’t have come after Mac.

  “Why are you so determined?” she asked. �
�It’s not just because Mac’s wanted. You’ve been looking for him for years.” It wasn’t exactly a stab in the dark. She’d detected something in his tone when he spoke Mac’s name. By the sudden chill in his eyes, she knew she was right.

  He stared at her, and she wished she saw something in his eyes. The nothingness was frightening. Far more frightening than the anger or contempt. There was a very personal motivation behind his hunt, and it was deep and strong. She knew then that he would never give up.

  She shook off the chill that ran through her and opened the door.

  “Samantha?” His words stopped her and she turned around.

  “Sam will do.”

  “I like Samantha better.” His eyes suddenly seemed to undress her with a lazy sensuality, removing her clothes piece by piece.

  Painfully exquisite sensations started to boil in her core. Sparks shot between them, live and biting. Intense. She knew she was losing control, floundering in depths she didn’t understand.

  She saw surprise in his eyes, as if he, too, felt something he didn’t want to feel.

  “You’d better go, Miss Samantha,” he said. His words were mocking, as if he knew exactly what was going on inside her.

  She swallowed hard and followed his advice. A little too quickly.

  Damn him.

  She went into the small kitchen off the bar. She was shaking, buffeted by conflicting emotions. She feared him for Mac’s sake, but something in her was reacting to him in a way she’d never reacted to a man before. She was drawn to him as if she were a piece of metal and he a magnet.

  She stirred the pot of venison stew hanging in the fireplace and added some water. She’d started it yesterday while the marshal slept and continually added water and spices, siphoning the broth for Mac.

  Then she found the key to the marshal’s room and turned it in the lock. No ordinary man would be walking for another week, but she knew now he was not like other men.

  He was an enemy. A danger to those she loved.

  She shouldn’t care anything about him.

  And, hell’s blazes, she didn’t.

  7

  JARED WATCHED her go, heard the key turn in the lock a few minutes later.

  He wanted to throw something, but there was nothing but the cup and a tin pitcher of water, and then he would be without. Dammit, she hadn’t listened to him.

  No doubt she thought he was lying. He wished to hell he was.

  Maybe he could talk some sense into the old man.

  Or maybe Thornton—MacDonald—was the reason she wouldn’t leave. Maybe he was nearby or due to be here soon. And where was the man called Reese? A woman and two old men—Archie and the stableman—alone, for God’s sake.

  He didn’t want her hurt. Despite the fact she’d shot him, he couldn’t avoid seeing the war being waged inside her. He was sure now that she hadn’t tried to kill him. She was too intent on saving him. She’d taken a hell of a chance in confronting him under those circumstances, and she’d tried to do what she could to fix his leg and alleviate his pain.

  She’d held a gun and shot well enough to have been taught by an expert. He had no doubt that the expert was Thornton. The outlaw must have told her that if she aimed a gun at someone, she had to be willing to kill. Thornton. She must care for him a great deal to do what she’d done—it so obviously went against everything she seemed to be.

  That notion ripped through his soul. Although she did her best not to show it, there was a gentleness—even tenderness—in her that made what she’d done a powerful testament to the bond between her and Thornton.

  He’d thought in the beginning she must be Thornton’s woman. Now he knew the outlaw had been a father-figure.

  It all fit. There was an innocence in her that touched something he thought firmly dead. She’d been completely unaware of how damn desirable she’d looked when she entered his room, a damp shirt and trousers pasted to her body and her hair swirling about her face in tiny ringlets. Another part of him had started to ache then. It made the pain of his wound minor in comparison.

  And when he’d kissed her last night…there had been no mistaking the shock in her eyes, and she’d responded so briefly with a mixture of instinctive need and curiosity that touched and fascinated him.

  This attraction was obviously new to her. And to him. For a moment last night he’d forgotten who and what she was. It had been a long time since he’d felt something more than a simple physical need for a woman. He’d seen too much tragedy and death not to barricade his heart. He hadn’t wanted to feel. Now was not the time to let someone tear down those barriers. But he had felt something. Then and now. She was such an intriguing combination of woman and girl. He discovered a new facet every time he saw her. She was smart and quick and competent in so many ways, and yet there was a beguiling naturalness about her.

  Now he knew at least part of her story. Losing a father, then a mother while still a child. Left orphaned in a lawless mining town with an outlaw as protector. Loving one, it seemed. He took a deep breath as the implication sank in. Nothing he’d learned so far fit the man he’d hunted all these years. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe this Mac wasn’t Thornton after all.

  None of it made sense to him. And he didn’t like things that didn’t make sense.

  He pictured her again as she’d left the room. How had he ever, even for a second, mistaken her for a boy? She was all feminine grace, and completely unaware of it. Those eyes took a man’s breath away when they focused on him. Even when she tried to conceal something, they gave her away. Except for that moment in the street, the moment when she had put everything she was into convincing him she meant to kill him. And that said something about her, too.

  He smiled inwardly at her headlong flight last night. He would wager she didn’t have much experience with men. And that meant Thornton wasn’t quite the rogue Jared had thought him to be. Maybe the man had done something decent, but that didn’t negate the fact he was a murderer.

  As for himself…

  He had to tamp down his attraction to her. Since his wife had died, he’d known women, but they had always been experienced, and none of them expected more than a few hours of physical pleasure. He’d never wanted to feel what he felt that day he’d returned from the war. He’d never wanted to feel that kind of pain again.

  He hadn’t imagined ever letting go of even a small piece of himself again, and yet Sam’s vulnerability threatened to snatch something no other woman had been able to touch.

  He changed positions, inviting pain. He needed reminders as to why the pain was there. He’d searched too long for Thornton, and the woman was his key to finding him. It was not only his job, but a debt he owed his wife and sister-in-law.

  He wasn’t going to let anyone stand in his way. Not even a bewitching little temptress named Sam.

  SAM TRIED not to think of the marshal as she went about her morning chores.

  Everything had been so different just a short while ago. They’d been getting ready to leave. She’d been canning vegetables and smoking meat and fish for their journey. She’d resigned herself to leaving the valley and was even feeling a bit of anticipation. Then Mac rode in, more dead than alive.

  And until Jared came four days ago, she hadn’t known she could tingle down to her toes when she was with a man. That her heart could beat so fast and her blood run hot. The marshal had awakened feelings and sensations she hadn’t known existed, a craving for some unknown yet irresistible wonder, an awareness of her own vulnerability.

  She finished washing the cloths they’d used on the marshal and hung them out to dry. When she’d done that, she prepared two more loaves of bread and placed them in the fireplace oven. Too much nervous energy left.

  She took Dawg and walked over to the livery, heading for the stall that housed the marshal’s horse.

  Burley approached her. “Been taking real good care of that horse,” he said.

  “I see that.” She took a good look at him. He was steady on his feet a
nd his eyes were clear. Apparently someone had put the fear of God in him. “Someone might come looking for Mac or the marshal. Jake and Ike are keeping watch at the pass. They may need your help.”

  “I’ll do anything. Mr. Mac, he said he would take me with you when you go.” He looked at her with pleading eyes. “I can still go with you…?”

  She nodded. “Just don’t sleep on your watch, and don’t take a drink. If you see any riders approach, get back here as fast as you can.”

  “I swear, Miss Sam,” he said.

  She peeked in on the marshal on her return and saw he was sleeping.

  A farmer. The marshal had been a farmer before going to war. What had changed him into a man hunter? He said he’d lost a home. Did he have a family? A wife waiting for him? Children?

  Somehow she didn’t think so. Yet the possibility sent an odd pang through her.

  She closed the door. Archie would be hungry. She hoped Mac would be, as well. He’d eaten next to nothing since he’d arrived. Just a spoonful of broth now and then.

  She realized she was trying to think of anything but the marshal and how inexplicably she was drawn to him. Inexplicably. Another Reese word. Now she fully understood its meaning.

  Stop daydreaming. She climbed the stairs to Mac’s room.

  Mac opened his eyes when she walked in. They weren’t as bloodshot as they had been. He tried to lift himself up on one arm, and the strain showed in his face. “Sam,” he said with a ghost of a smile.

  She grinned at him. “You’re feeling better.”

  He looked down at his bandaged hand and gave her a wry smile. “Looks like…my gun-fighting days are over.”

  “You wanted that for a long time.”

  “Not this way.”

  “Can’t go back now.”

  “No,” he admitted.

  She felt his cheek. Still warm. Too warm. But not as hot as it had been. “Do you think you can eat something? Jake gave us some venison, and I made a stew.”

  “Sounds good.”

  Archie jerked awake. He looked at her, then at Mac. He slowly got to his feet.

  “He’s better,” she said.

  Archie nodded. “The fever broke. All those poultices you made.”