The Marshal and Miss Merritt

by Debra Cowan

  “No, he never made it to White Tail while I was sheriff.” Ace pulled a rag from the pocket of his britches and wiped his hands. “You sure are curious.”

  “I think I should find out as much as I can about the woman whose house I’m living in.”

  His friend grinned. “If I weren’t married, I wouldn’t mind getting to know her better.”

  Bowie shot the other man a look. “Well, you are married.”

  “Doesn’t mean I’m blind.”

  Neither was Bowie and that was the problem. It was all too easy to recall the fine porcelain grain of her skin, the way her eyes had darkened to emerald when she’d caught him looking at her legs.

  After another couple of minutes of conversation, Bowie bid Ace goodbye and headed for Hell’s Corner. The saloon was one place that every man in town visited at some point. The bartender might remember more about Pettit than just seeing him. He might also know something about Huck Allen.

  Bowie angled toward the church, then crossed the dusty street. The saloon sat on the other side of the railroad tracks along with two other saloons, a dance hall, a gambling house and a few other businesses. He would visit them all to learn what he could about Pettit and Allen.

  This was what he should be doing, not thinking about his fancy landlady and her clean soap scent. Or how he could still feel the lithe tautness of her waist beneath his hold.

  From now on, he planned to keep his mind on his investigation and his hands off of Merritt Dixon.

  Chapter Three

  Bowie spent the rest of the day talking to people in town. Sid at Hell’s Corner Saloon said he had never seen Pettit and Allen together. After that, Bowie questioned all of the neighboring business owners on that side of the railroad tracks—the Whistle Stop Café, the billiard hall, Hobart’s Hotel, two more saloons, Monty’s Dance Hall and Pearl’s Palace.

  A man at the dance hall who remembered Pettit turned out to be the same man who had also met him at Hell’s Corner.

  By suppertime, Bowie was hot, grimy and as frustrated as a gelding in a mare corral. He may not have learned anything further, but he had done a darn good job of keeping Merritt Dixon out of his thoughts. He hadn’t thought about her once. Well, maybe once.

  He was thinking about her now as he walked up the boardinghouse steps because he was hungry. If supper was as good as what she’d fixed for breakfast, he was in for a treat.

  As he moved inside, he checked the mantel clock across the dining room. He had plenty of time to wash up before the evening meal.

  Starting up the stairs, he heard a bang and a clatter. Then a cry. A woman’s cry.

  He bolted up the steps to the second floor and turned right. The door to his room was open and he could hear something from there. As he neared, he realized the sound was a feminine voice. Muttering. What the hell?

  He rushed to his room, stopping in the doorway. Miz Dixon sat on the floor beneath the window, her blue calico skirts pooled around her.

  “Mr. Cahill.” She looked up, her voice angry. A tear rolled down her cheek.

  What was going on? Then he saw the blood on her temple. His chest tightened. He reached her in two strides and went to one knee in front of her. “What happened?”

  “The stupid window slammed on my hand.”

  A hammer lay beside her as well as a few twopenny nails. The back of her delicate hand, all the way across, was marked with a cruel red welt and beginning to swell. The blood on her temple was his immediate concern.

  She shifted as though to get up.

  “Don’t move.” He gave her his best lawman glare, then rose and went to his washstand, bringing back the basin filled with fresh water.

  He fished his one clean bandanna from his saddlebag and dipped it in the water. Wringing out the cloth, he knelt and reached toward her head.

  She drew back. “What are you doing?”

  “You’re cut.”

  “I am?” Her hand went to her temple and came away with a smear of blood. She was trembling and pain clouded her green eyes. “I didn’t know.”

  “I’m going to clean it.”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Merritt? Okay?”

  She nodded.

  He carefully moved a wisp of her dark hair back from her temple. Even though he was as gentle as possible, she winced at the first contact. He dabbed at the cut, glad to see the wound wasn’t deep enough to need stitches.

  With one knuckle, he angled her face toward him, keeping his touch light as he cleaned the wound. A sigh shuddered out of her and he felt the wash of her breath against his wrist. The day’s heat swirled around them.

  “Where’s Lefty?” Bowie asked.

  “He’s out back peeling potatoes for supper.”

  “And Mr. Wilson?”

  “I think he said he was working at the newspaper today.”

  Bowie didn’t need to ask what she had been doing. The hammer and window made it plain enough. He tried to keep his irritation in check. He’d told her he would fix the problem.

  She looked up at him, the wet green of her eyes dissolving his temper.

  “How bad is it?” she asked.

  “It’s not too deep, but your head’s gonna hurt like blue blazes, if it doesn’t already.” She nodded.

  “I’m concerned about your hand, too.” He dropped the bandanna into the water, then gingerly lifted her wrist, hating that she winced. “Can you wiggle your fingers?”

  She did, features taut with distress.

  “It doesn’t appear to be broken, but it’s going to bruise badly.”

  “Stupid window,” she muttered.

  The stark pain on her face had his gut knotting. “I don’t know what to do for your hand. I’m sending for Doc Lewis.”

  “That isn’t necessary.”

  “It’s a good idea.” He didn’t wait for her to agree, but got to his feet and opened the window all the way. He leaned out, spying a blond-haired boy sweeping the porch of the opera house next door.

  “You there, boy!” When the young man looked up, Bowie waved. “Could you fetch the doc? Miz Dixon has hurt her hand.”

  “Yessir!” The kid propped the broom against the wall and tore across the street toward the doctor’s office.

  Lowering the window, Bowie turned back to Merritt. “Clancy can at least tell us if your hand is broken.”

  “I don’t think it is.”

  “It won’t hurt to be sure.”

  She looked dazed and he wondered just how hard that window had hit her head. Easing down on the floor in front of her, he braced his shoulders against the bed and draped one arm over his raised knee. “Sit still for a minute, okay?”

  “All right.” She stared down at her hand, her forehead creasing in pain.

  Seeing that blood on her head had nearly made Bowie’s heart stop. Now that he had tended to her, he noticed other things. She was flushed, and a few tendrils of dark hair had come loose from her braid to curl against her elegant neck.

  He took in the tracks of tears drying on her face, the sweat-dampened collar of her dress and—

  He smiled.

  “What?” she grumbled.

  “You have some dirt on your face.”

  She sighed, reaching up with her uninjured hand.

  “I’ve got it.” He caught her hand and lowered it back to her lap. With his thumb, he wiped away the grime on the end of her pert nose, then the smear on her chin.

  Beneath his work-roughened hand, her skin felt as soft as down, tempting him to stroke her cheek.

  He pulled away. “There. All gone.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You were trying to fix the window.”

  “Well, yes, I was.”

  “I told you I’d take a look at it when I got back.” Her face had regained some color. “I certainly didn’t expect you to handle it.”

  “It’s my house and you’re my boarder.” Her jaw took on a mulish slant. “I don’t hold with my boarders doing repairs to their rooms.�
��

  “I don’t hold with my landlady getting her head and her hand slammed to bits.”

  “It was an easy repair.”

  He gave her a look.

  “Well, it was supposed to be.” Irritation flickered across her fine-boned features. “The window just needed to be fastened to the frame, which is what I was trying to do when the thing hit me in the head. Before I could grab it, the window slammed down on my hand.”

  “You should’ve let me take care of it.”

  “I already told you—”

  “Yes, you did.” Lord save him from stubborn women. “Your color’s better. Think you can stand?”

  She gave a little snort. “The window didn’t fall on my foot.”

  “Okay.” Grinning, he rose and held out a hand to her. She slid her much smaller one into his, slowly getting to her feet.

  “See? I’m all right. Thank you.”

  His gaze dropped to her mouth and he wondered what she would taste like. When he realized what he was doing, he quickly released her.

  She wobbled and grabbed for the wall behind her.

  He caught her, curling one arm around her waist to steady her. “You got up too soon.”

  “I was dizzy for a second. I’m fine.”

  He wasn’t so sure. Or maybe he just wasn’t ready to release her. He liked the way she fit against him, her soft curves against his hard frame. Liked the way her breasts brushed his chest and the gentle swirl of her skirts around his legs.

  Looking suddenly nervous, she licked her lips. “I’m really fine.”

  Her face was pale, the raw cut standing out in stark relief against her flawless skin. She still didn’t look steady. When he loosed his hold so she could step back, she swayed.

  He gently grasped her upper arm, urging her toward the bed. “Sit.”

  “But—”

  “Just until you get your bearings.”

  She eased down on the mattress, looking at once irritated and relieved. “I think I can walk.”

  “Maybe two steps,” he drawled.

  Her mouth tightened.

  “Wait there while I check the window.”

  She opened her mouth—to argue, he knew.

  “Please,” he said.

  There was a long pause. “All right, but I do so under protest.”

  He couldn’t stop a smile. “Noted.”

  A quick look at the window showed that the problem was with the track that guided the window. A portion of the wood strip had split and a nail had popped loose on the front. There was nothing to support that side.

  Bowie searched for a spot on the track where the wood hadn’t split. He found one and hammered in a new nail.

  When he glanced back to see how she was doing, she gave him a wan smile.

  “Almost finished,” he said.

  If he hadn’t mentioned this to her, she wouldn’t have been in here and wouldn’t have gotten hurt. At present, the window would raise only partially, but it went higher than it had last night.

  Steamy June air pushed into the room. Later, he would go to the general store and get a new strip of wood to replace the damaged one. Until then, the repair he’d made would hold.

  “Thank you,” she said softly. “I’m sorry you had to do that.”

  “I’m not. And from now on, if you need help with something, you should ask.”

  “I didn’t know I needed help.” She sounded irritated as all get-out.

  “Once I replace this strip of wood, the window should work just fine.”

  “Buy what you need at the general store and tell Mr. Stokes to put it on my account.”

  “I’ll take care of it. Are you still dizzy?”

  “No. I’m fine.” She got slowly to her feet.

  He looked her over, relieved to see she was steady.

  Still, if it weren’t for him, she wouldn’t be hurt. What if that window had knocked her out? Or broken her hand?

  “I really need to start supper.” She started for the door.

  He caught up to her in two strides and lightly cupped her elbow. He wasn’t supporting her, but he planned to stay close in case he needed to.

  “Thanks for doctoring me.” The sweet smile she gave him had his mind blanking for a moment.

  “Glad I was here,” he said gruffly.

  And he was. But it didn’t escape him that he’d only been able to keep his hands off her for all of an afternoon.

  Merritt had definitely needed Bowie’s help and she was grateful for it, but her resolve to remain unaffected by him was shot. It was difficult to not be affected by the man when he was close enough for her to feel the heat of his body and smell the purely male scent of him.

  By the time they reached the first floor, Dr. Lewis had arrived. After examining her hand, he gave her a smile, his brown eyes reassuring. Only a couple of years older than she, he agreed it wasn’t broken, but ordered her to wear a sling to limit the use of her hand for a few days. He checked the cut on her temple as well, seconding Bowie’s prediction that her head was going to hurt like the devil for a bit.

  Once he left, Merritt and Bowie made their way across the dining area to the kitchen.

  He stopped beside her in the kitchen doorway, glancing around. Late-afternoon sunlight filtered through the screen door, dotting the floor. A black Dutch oven sat on the cooktop and a skillet waited on the counter next to a covered plate.

  “Tell me what needs to be done and I’ll get busy,” Bowie said.

  Her head jerked toward him. “That isn’t necessary.”

  “You need help,” he pointed out.

  She didn’t want to need help, but she feared he was right.

  The fact that she had also needed assistance to fix the window vexed her.

  “It’s my fault that you’re hurt.”

  “It certainly isn’t. I don’t think of it that way.”

  “Well, I do,” he said stubbornly.

  She took a few steps into the kitchen, glad for the slight breeze coming through the screen door. “I may move a little slower, but I can manage just fine.”

  “Would you rather I get someone else to help?”

  “There’s no need to get anyone. There will probably only be four for supper. Mr. Wilson, you, me and maybe Lefty. I can handle that.”

  “Looks like you get me, then.” He spoke as if she hadn’t said a word.

  “Mr. Cahill.”

  “Miz Merritt, you don’t want me scrounging up something for supper,” he warned.

  She blew out a breath. “You’re my boarder. Meals are provided as part of your rent.”

  “Hmm, I think we’ll have collard greens and onions. Liver.”

  “Mr. Cahill.”

  “Hardtack, beans—”

  “Very well!” Despite the throbbing of her hand, a smile tugged at her mouth. “There’s chicken to fry and potatoes to mash.”

  “Done. I’ve never fried chicken. Successfully, anyway.”

  “Oh, dear,” she murmured.

  “You’ll have to supervise.”

  “All right.” She moved to the cookstove and checked the Dutch oven. “Lefty cubed the potatoes and put them in here. We’ll need to cover them with water, then add a little salt.”

  Bowie filled a large bowl with water, then poured it into the big pot.

  She added the salt. “Put that on the left cook lid and cover it.”

  He did as instructed.

  “While we’re waiting for the water to boil, we can batter the chicken.” She turned to get two medium-size bowls from the shelf above the counter. “Beat a few eggs in one bowl, adding some salt and pepper. Pour flour in the other bowl. I’ve already cut up the meat and it’s been soaking in a seasoning mixture. Roll the chicken in the flour, then the egg mixture and again in the flour.”

  After beating the eggs, he speared a fork into a piece of chicken. He rolled it in flour, then in the egg mixture. As he moved back to the flour, the meat slipped off the fork and plopped into the bowl, sending up a p
uff of white.

  He gave her a relieved look. “Good thing that didn’t fall on the floor.”

  As he continued, she watched a muscle flex up his strong bronzed forearm. Her gaze moved over his wide shoulders, then to his corded neck, lingering on the dark hair curled damply against his nape.

  Her skin was damp, too. The heat from the cookstove turned the summer air even hotter. She plucked at her bodice, staring at the way Bowie’s white shirt clung to the supple muscles in his back.

  She realized with a start that he had turned and asked her something. The glint in his eye told her that he had caught her staring.

  “Am I doing this right?” he asked.

  “Yes.” Looking away, she lifted the lid on the potatoes. They weren’t boiling yet so she moved to the pantry. Stepping just inside, she picked up a jar of green beans.

  “What are you doing?”

  She started, nearly dropping the glass container. “You’re entirely too quiet, Mr. Cahill!”

  “Bowie.” He took the jar from her. “You’re not supposed to be doing anything.”

  “One of my hands works perfectly fine.”

  “Does it still hurt?”

  She pursed her lips. “Yes.”

  “What about your head?”

  “A little, but I don’t need to be coddled.”

  He looked as though he might argue that, but instead asked, “How many jars of beans do you want?”

  “Just one more.”

  He carried the vegetables to the long counter, which was within easy reach of the stove. After opening the glass containers, he went back to battering the chicken.

  Merritt poured the green beans into a pot, then set it on one of the empty cook lids.

  “Okay, chicken’s done.” He sounded proud of himself.

  She nodded, peering into the Dutch oven. “The potatoes are ready. I can fry the chicken if you’ll take care of mashing the potatoes.”

  She spooned an amount of lard into the skillet. As she waited for it to melt, she glanced over just as he poured the drained potatoes into a bowl.

  “You’ll need to add butter and some milk.” She pointed him toward the crockery dish of butter on the shelf above him, then the milk jug in the pantry.

  Once the grease was hot enough, she forked in the chicken. She watched as Bowie mashed the potatoes. When she caught herself staring at him again, she knew she’d best focus on something other than the man’s physical attributes.