The Lawman

by Patricia Potter

  A rare compliment from him.

  Mac winked at her. It wasn’t as good as his usual winks, but given the fact she’d thought she might lose him just hours earlier, it looked real good.

  “You’re still a…sight for sore eyes,” Mac said, each word an effort.

  To him, maybe, but he was prejudiced. She’d never cared much about her appearance.

  Now for the briefest of moments, she wished she’d taken a little more interest.

  Damn the marshal a thousand times over.

  She turned her attention back to Mac. It would be at least another day before he could stand. Probably two, and another before he could maneuver downstairs.

  And the marshal? How long before he would be well enough to cause a problem?

  “I’ll bring you something to eat,” she said. “And a shot of whiskey.”

  “Burley…hasn’t drunk it all yet?”

  “We kept some hidden from him.”

  “Is Reese back?” Mac asked.

  Sam exchanged looks with Archie. “No. He should be here any day.”

  “We need…to get started. You need…your chance. Not isolated up here with a bunch of old men.”

  “I like being isolated up here with a bunch of old men,” she retorted.

  She earned a bigger grin, and swooped down and hugged him. “I’m so glad you’re better.”

  There must have been something in the hug, because his eyes changed. Searched hers. “You seem…different.”

  She went cold inside. Was it that obvious? Had one kiss changed her? “I’m just glad to see you’re better,” she said, her gaze avoiding Archie’s. “And I’m ready to go as soon as you are.”

  “Soon,” he said. “A lot sooner than that old worrier, Archie, says.”

  She prayed Mac was right, now that there was a new urgency. They had all hoped Mac had been forgotten, that the law had lost interest. That folly was gone now.

  “I know,” she said. “I’m getting everything ready. We’ll leave as soon as you can travel. Reese can join us later.”

  “Don’t…want you hurt.” Mac looked so tired it scared her. He’d always been strong and sure.

  So was the marshal. The two men shared a similar presence. The kind that sent most people scurrying away. The aura of danger, of untamed vitality, oozed from both.

  Archie muttered under his breath as if he could read her very thoughts.

  “I’d better get the stew,” she said, and started for the stairs before he did.

  She hurried downstairs but realized quickly that she wasn’t going to avoid a conversation. Archie was behind her. “Now Mac’s on the mend, we won’t be able to keep him up here long.”

  “I know,” she whispered. “What will he do if he finds the marshal?”

  “I have no damned idea. Can’t figure him anymore. Don’t know why he felt it was so all-fired important to take the gold to Denver himself.”

  “He was restless,” she replied. But that wasn’t the real reason. Mac knew Archie’s rheumatism was painful. It would be bad enough on the trip north. He didn’t want to subject Archie to a trip to Denver, as well. Yet they would need cash along the way.

  Archie shrugged. “Don’t matter none now. What’s done is done. And now the law and others probably know we’re here.” His wrinkled face softened as he studied her. “I ain’t gonna let anyone take Mac.”

  She suddenly realized she hadn’t told him about Benson. It was a sign of how the marshal confused her.

  “I asked the marshal about who was after Mac. Name is Benson, Calhoun Benson. He said Mac killed Benson’s son. He’s hiring gunslingers.”

  Archie’s face creased into a worried frown, and she realized he knew the name. “You’re sure.”

  She nodded. “You know him?”

  “Ran into him a few years ago when I was carrying freight. Had a load for him. He tried to cheat me. Then threatened me. But, like some big men, he was a coward. Remember the kid, as well. Kept egging his pa on. Mean and sneaky as a snake, but his pa doted on him.”

  “Then you think the marshal told the truth?”

  “Could be. Don’t think Benson would come alone, but I can sure see him sending others.”

  She told him about her conversation with Jake. “They’ll watch the pass, let us know if anyone’s coming. If they do, we should have time to hide in one of the old mines. I have one picked out and I’ll take some supplies there tomorrow.”

  “Don’t like the idea of hiding. Could get trapped there, but Mac ain’t ready to ride yet.” He grabbed two bowls, ladled the stew into them and went upstairs before she could answer. Dawg went with him, his nose following the food.

  Sam looked toward the marshal’s room. Tempted. She was tempted every minute of every hour. No, she told herself. She had work to do. She spent the afternoon piling supplies on a table. Blankets. Matches. A lantern. Then food. Definitely the jerky and hardtack. They couldn’t take much. Just as much as the animals could carry in addition to their riders. Montana. She wanted everything to be ready the moment Mac could ride. And they would have to avoid most towns.

  Would the marshal be riding after them?

  She prepared another poultice for him. She wanted to check the wound, to make sure there was no infection, although she saw the irony in it. She was working to repair him, knowing that her success might well come back to haunt her.

  She’d just finished when she heard a muffled yell from the marshal’s room. She hesitated, then grabbed the key and entered. He was tossing in the bed, his eyes closed.

  His words were unintelligible. Sarah again? The woman apparently hovered in his nightmares.

  Sam approached the bed and leaned down. Light filtered through from the main room and she saw that his face was wet. Sweat or tears? She didn’t know what to do. Wake him? Or leave him tortured by nightmares?

  Don’t get too close to him!

  That didn’t matter now. She had to do something. She’d never seen such pain. Not physical, but gut-wrenching. It came from deep inside.

  It was dangerous waking a sleeping man, particularly one who lived a violent life. She owed him nothing, but she couldn’t watch anyone in that much pain.

  “Marshal,” she said in a soft voice.

  The thrashing continued, and so did the agony in his voice as he repeated, “Sarah.”

  She touched him on the shoulder, prepared to move back quickly if necessary. Instead, he quieted. He opened his eyes and stared at her as if he’d never seen her before. His breathing was labored. His dark eyes were red rimmed.

  They slowly focused on her. His tense body gradually relaxed.

  Archie had urged her to keep her distance. If he was feigning weakness, he could still grab her. He might be strong enough. But he couldn’t go more than a step, and her gun was in the other room. She touched his forehead. Hot.

  “You called out.”

  “Sorry…to disturb you,” he said in a tone that clearly implied he wasn’t sorry at all.

  “You called out for ‘Sarah’ several times.”

  His face hardened and she felt a new jolt in her stomach.

  A muscle flexed in his throat again. It was the only way she knew when she’d struck a nerve.

  “Who is Sarah?” She knew she shouldn’t ask. Shouldn’t take any kind of interest in him, but she couldn’t resist.

  His face froze. “My wife.”

  Wife? She hadn’t expected that. “She must miss you.”

  “She’s dead,” he said flatly.

  She didn’t know how to reply to that. She wished she hadn’t asked, but now that she had, she decided to continue. “Will you tell me about her?”

  He closed his eyes, and she thought she’d lost him, that he had drawn away into a dark place.

  Then he opened them. “She and I married at seventeen,” he said. “We were neighbors and…friends since we both could walk. I built a farm on some acreage in Kansas my father owned. And when the war started, I enlisted.”

&nb
sp; She saw his hand wrap around the side of the iron bed. She wanted to reach out and touch him, but she knew from his face he wouldn’t want that. Not now. He had something to say, and he was going to say it his way.

  “My brother stayed home. That was the agreement. I would go and my brother would watch over our farms. I didn’t know when I left that Sarah was with child. I didn’t know it until a year later when the mail caught up with me. We had a daughter.” She heard guilt in his voice. Guilt and rage and sorrow.

  “When I came home from war, all I found were three graves and a burned-out house. Southern renegades had raped and murdered her, and murdered my child and brother. There was no one left except my sister-in-law, who was teaching school in town.”

  She instinctively put her hand on his. Tears stung the back of her eyes. “I’m so sorry,” she said. Her heart cried for him, for the young soldier who returned home to unspeakable violence.

  “And that,” he said quietly, “is how I went from being farmer to a marshal. I hunted down the animals who killed Sarah. And I continue to hunt for Emma’s killer.”

  “It isn’t Mac,” she said.

  “Others say he’s the one. A trial will decide.”

  His voice was hard again. As hard as the stone on the mountain. As unforgiving. She knew why he’d told her the story. He was not going to give up his quest for Mac.

  Warning given. Warning taken.

  She wasn’t sure what to do next. Or say. She ached for him. She ached for Mac. She ached for herself.

  She resorted to medicine. “I have a fresh poultice,” she said, “and I want to see how the wound is coming.”

  Not waiting for an answer, she took off the old one. She washed the wound, being as gentle as she could, then put the new poultice on. “It looks good,” she said, glancing up at him.

  He was staring at her. “You do that well.”

  “Archie taught me well.”

  “Where’s the old man?” he asked gruffly.

  “He’s around.”

  “And MacDonald. Would he approve?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She saw the doubt in his eyes. He was still trying to figure out the relationships.

  “I think not,” he muttered, answering his own question.

  She decided to change the subject. “I made some stew. Can you eat?”

  He nodded.

  She left and quickly returned with a tin plate, setting it on the table. She’d already cut the meat in small pieces and mostly filled the plate with the thick broth.

  She leaned over him and helped him to a sitting position. The air was combustible as skin touched skin. He was wearing the shirt again, but it was unbuttoned and the now familiar ribbons of tingling warmth surged through her.

  Archie would not be happy if he knew she was touching the marshal, that she was this close to him. Close enough that she heard his heart beat. Close enough that the heat of his chest radiated through hers. Radiated and burned. She moved away as if scalded.

  Her hand was unsteady as she picked up the plate and spoon. She’d purposely not brought a fork. “I’ll feed you,” she said, pulling the chair over to sit on. “You’ll never balance the plate on that wounded leg, Marshal.”

  “Jared. My name is Jared.”

  She knew that. She knew it from the possessions she’d found in his saddlebags. She hadn’t wanted to use it. Too intimate. But that horse was already out of the barn. In fact, they were wrapped in intimacy.

  “You should know it if you’re going to feed me,” he persisted. His voice sounded stronger. She wondered if he was pretending to be more ill than he was. But no, she’d seen similar wounds. She knew the effects of horrific pain and the kind of loss of blood he’d suffered.

  “Jared, then.” She offered him a bite of stew and he ate it. She watched as he chewed, then he stared at her quizzically.

  “Is there anything you can’t do?”

  “Yes.”

  He looked perplexed when she didn’t continue, but she wasn’t planning to list her shortcomings.

  He ate the stew then. Slow but steady. Because he needed the strength to go after his quarry. To go after Mac.

  Conflict raged inside her. She wanted him to get better. She wanted Mac to live.

  When he finished, she placed the plate on the table and gave him a cup of water.

  “Who is Reese?” he asked.

  That surprised her. She’d hoped he’d forgotten about Reese.

  “You want to go after him, too?” she shot back.

  “Should I?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “This is a hell of a place to raise a girl. Thornton didn’t do you any favors.” It was as if he wanted to blank out what he had told her earlier, the bitter words that had obviously cost him much.

  “What do you know about it?”

  “I know you shouldn’t be hidden away in this sad excuse for a town.” He paused, then added, “I bet you would be real fine looking in a frock.”

  For the first time in years, she wished she was pretty and feminine like some of the girls she’d seen in magazines. She’d worn dresses as a young girl, but as her body began to fill out, Archie thought she would be safer in the mining town if she looked more like a lad. She’d grown used to the comfort of soft cotton shirts and pants, and boots were far better in the often muddy streets than regular women’s shoes. That would all change in Montana, she knew, but for the time being she was satisfied.

  “How many others live in Gideon’s Hope?”

  The question brought her back to the man in the bed. “A few.” She didn’t want to offer any information that would help him. “Are you finished?” she asked, reaching for his cup.

  “I need more water.” His voice was silky now, and he held the cup in his lap.

  She forced herself to stand. She took the cup and went over to the pitcher and poured more water. As she handed it to him, his fingers brushed hers, and the heat from his body flowed through her. The air between them was suddenly thick with tension.

  Prickly shivers ran up and down her spine, turning to a raw, ragged heat she felt all the way to her toes.

  She bit her lip, forced herself to move away, but the heat went with her. “I’ll…I’ll get Archie if you…need anything else.”

  She reached for the cup, and his free hand grabbed her wrist and pulled her down to him. “I meant what I said about Benson. You should get out of here.”

  “And you? What should we do with you?” she challenged.

  “I can’t come after you. Not now.”

  “But you will.”

  His clasp grew tighter and she was drawn toward him. Her wrist burned from his touch yet she didn’t pull away, couldn’t control the violent storm encompassing both of them. And, most frightening to her, she didn’t want to.

  His body was hard under hers, though she tried not to touch his wounded leg. She felt a tensing under her, and frissons of sensation ran riot through her. Wild, runaway emotions. And pounding need. Her face brushed his bristled cheek. Then his lips touched hers. Hard and angry.

  She tried to twist away but couldn’t. He was so much stronger than she thought. Worse, she found herself suddenly responding. Her lips softened for his, and the anger in him turned to hunger. Or was it she who was hungry? She should protest. Jerk away. Instead, the kiss deepened and his tongue plundered her mouth. She had no will of her own. Her skin was alive with feeling, with wanting.

  His left hand moved sensuously across the front of her shirt, and even through the material, she felt the fire of his touch. It seeped through her skin until it reached the core of her, taunting, teasing, arousing…

  Her leg touched his wounded one, and for the fleetest of seconds he stilled. She felt shivers in him as the pain flared, but he didn’t let go, and his lock on her arm was like a shackle.

  She felt his arousal against her tight britches and that ignited more explosions. She’d never known a craving so strong, a need so great.

  H
e’s the enemy.

  But, sweet Lucifer, how she wanted him.

  Then she looked up and saw bemused intent in his eyes, and the heat suddenly turned to ice.

  What was she doing?

  He let go and she stumbled backward. She regained her balance and stood, dazed. Her legs were weak, and her heart thundered.

  He looked as stunned as she felt. A muscle flexed in his neck. “Get the hell out of here,” he said. His words were raspy, intense. “There’s nothing more dangerous than hired guns after a bounty. They won’t care who gets in the way.”

  She stared at him for a long time. He wasn’t lying. “You care, Marshal?” she asked, raising one of her eyebrows as she’d seen him do.

  “I don’t want to see any woman caught in a crossfire,” he said as his features darkened.

  “I can take care of myself,” she said.

  “Not against a pack of killers.”

  She couldn’t answer that. What he didn’t know was the reason why she couldn’t leave.

  She swallowed hard. “You need some sleep,” she said. “I…I have to help Archie.” She heard the tremor in her voice and hoped that he attributed it to his warning and not the reaction of her body to his. He must think her wanton. She felt wanton.

  And, now, she felt afraid.

  But more of him than Benson. He might come with guns, but he wouldn’t take her soul. She was bitterly afraid this man would.

  8

  SAM STOPPED outside the room. Heat still churned inside her. Her fingers tingled from his touch. Her breasts were swollen, and strained against her shirt. Her heart…her heart was pounding in her chest.

  She wondered whether her mother had ever felt like this. Had she experienced this clawing need inside? The hot rush of blood through her veins? Had she allowed a few magical moments in the arms of a man to govern her life?

  Sam recalled how happy her mother had been when Mac was in town. She wore her best dresses and took her time braiding her hair and pinning it up.

  She wished her mother was still alive. She knew so little about what was happening inside her. She’d always believed love and sex went together. But she didn’t love the marshal, and he made the earth shake under her.