Her Sheriff Bodyguard

by Lynna Banning

  Ilsa turned away from the bowl of apples she was peeling. “Oh, go on, Caroline. This batch is almost done. Fernanda can help me fill the jars.”

  “Oh, no, Ilsa, I—”

  Fernanda made shooing motions with her hands. “Go, hija. You are, how you say, under the foot!”

  Billy tugged at her gingham apron. “The river’s only a couple of miles from town, an’ it’s real pretty. Uncle Hawk won’t mind.”

  That decided the matter. She needed some time away from the tall, blunt-spoken sheriff of Smoke River. Not only was he at her side almost every hour of every day, he was beginning to invade her dreams, as well.

  She was seeing another side to Hawk Rivera, one she would never have suspected from the first eight days she had known him. Here in Smoke River, where he wasn’t on constant alert every minute of the day and night, she was learning that Hawk could be lighthearted and jovial as at the dance, even playful. She hated to admit it, but she liked his teasing, even when it concerned her underclothes.

  She liked dancing with him, too, being close to him and feeling his arms around her. No man had ever breached the defenses she had erected after her father had ruined her.

  “Billy,” Ilsa said. “I put a jar of lemonade in your lunch basket. When it’s empty, bring home some blackberries in it.”

  “Miss Caroline, are ya comin’ or not?” Billy demanded.

  “Well, I suppose…yes, all right, Billy. You can teach me how to fish.”

  Billy grabbed his pole and the bait bucket and bolted for the front door and Caroline reached behind her to untie her apron. At that moment the screen door wheezed open.

  “Whoa,” Hawk said. “Where are you off to in such a hurry?”

  “Miss Caroline and I are goin’ fishing!”

  Hawk shot a look at her and his dark eyebrows rose. “You are, are you?”

  She caught her breath at his expression. “Yes, I thought—”

  “No, you’re not.” His voice was quiet but there was no mistaking his intent. “Not unless I come along.”

  “Sure, Uncle Hawk. I got plenty of hooks.”

  Over his shoulder Caroline saw Ilsa and Fernanda exchange a look. Ilsa’s lips thinned. Fernanda just threw up her hands and shook her head, but Ilsa kept studying the paring knife in her hand. “Don’t be late for supper.”

  “Hurry up, Uncle Hawk. The fish’ll be sleeping by the time we get to the river.”

  Hawk snatched the picnic basket off the kitchen table. “All right, let’s go wake ’em up.”

  They tramped an hour and a half through the woods before they reached the river, clear and gently flowing except where the blue-green water rippled over half-submerged boulders. As usual, Hawk carried his rifle, and his Colt was strapped to his hip.

  The sun was hot, but it was cool and pleasant under the canopy of willow and vine maple trees along the bank. Billy dumped half the worms and three hooks out onto the grass for Hawk and Caroline, then disappeared around a bend.

  Caroline averted her eyes from the crawling mess, but Hawk stood his rifle against a tree trunk, slid his jackknife out of his jeans pocket, and cut two thin branches for fishing poles. He tied a length of string onto the ends and attached the other end to a hook, then speared a worm and handed the pole to Caroline.

  “What d-do I do with it?” she sputtered.

  “Fish,” he said drily. “Like this.” He baited his own hook and swung it out over the water, where it landed with a soft plop.

  Caroline tossed her hook out and waited. After a few minutes she decided her line wasn’t reaching far enough, so she yanked it in, took a step toward the river bank and flung it out again. Still not far enough. She pulled it in once more and tossed it out even farther. Then she leaned forward to watch it land and she lost her balance. With a cry she splashed into the water.

  Hawk dropped his pole and strode into the chest-deep river, grabbed the waistband of her skirt and hauled her upright. Water streamed off her face, and her shirtwaist and skirt were plastered to her body.

  He reached to steady her, but she grabbed onto his forearm and unbalanced him. The next thing he knew he tipped sideways and they both tumbled into the river. He managed to regain his footing and grasped Caroline’s shoulders. They both struggled up the bank and onto dry ground.

  “Hey,” Billy called. “You guys okay?”

  “We’re fine,” Hawk shouted. “Wet, but fine,” he added quietly. Water sluiced off his chest and his jeans, and his holster and revolver were soaked. To his surprise, Caroline was laughing.

  He helped her over to a thick patch of camas grass. “Stretch out here in the sun and let your clothes dry out.” He unstrapped his gun belt, sat down beside her and began to wipe down the Colt using the gingham tablecloth Ilsa had packed in the picnic basket.

  “I don’t think I like fishing,” Caroline said. “It’s dangerous. We could drown.”

  Hawk had to laugh. “You ladies from Boston never fall in rivers, huh?”

  “Never.” She spread out her skirt and folded her hands over her midriff. “How long will it take for me to dry out?”

  “About half an hour. But…”

  She gazed up at him. “But?” Her dark lashes were wet, he noted. Made her eyes look bigger and bluer. Her hair had come loose from the twist at her neck and it now fell to her shoulders in soft waves.

  “But,” he continued with a chuckle, “if you want your underwear to dry, it’ll take longer. Of course you could just leave them kinda wet and squishy if you’d rather.”

  “How much longer?”

  “Maybe an hour.” He checked the chambers on his revolver and shook out the water, reloaded it and laid it aside. Then he stretched out beside her in the hot sunshine and closed his eyes.

  All it took was five minutes lying next to her, smelling the lemony-rose fragrance of her hair, before he decided this was going to be the longest hour in his life. He glanced sideways at her.

  Her eyes were closed, so he felt free to watch her breasts rise and fall with her breathing. He liked that. Even better, her nipples showed where the wet fabric of her shirtwaist clung.

  He forced his gaze away, studied the trees growing along the bank, the huckleberry bushes, the flat-topped boulder in the shallow part of the river—anything to keep from looking at her.

  Yeah, you’ve got one hell of an itch, and an overwhelming urge to scratch it. He ached with it. But Fernanda was right; he couldn’t scratch it with Caroline.

  Damnation. She was the only woman he’d felt anything for since the long-ago marriage of his youth. He’d thought his scars were so deep he’d never feel anything again, but here it was, plain as warts on a frog. Caroline MacFarlane made him feel alive again. Made him feel that maybe life might be worth living after all.

  He glanced again at her face, her wet wavy hair, her small delicate hands folded primly on her stomach and felt an unfamiliar lurch inside his chest. He wanted to hold her. Continue to keep her safe.

  The realization stopped his heartbeat. This was more than an itch. More than wanting her. Much more. What he wanted was more than he could ask of a woman who had her own scars and was determined to keep on traveling around the country and making speeches to avoid them. He had absolutely no place in her life.

  “Hawk?” Her voice sounded drowsy. “What is it? I can hear you thinking.”

  “Yeah? How can you tell?”

  “Your breathing is getting jerky. Is it about the trap you plan to set?”

  He snorted a laugh. “In a way, I guess.”

  “Are you getting dry? Your clothes, I mean?”

  Hell, no, he wasn’t getting dry. He was getting wet and hard and desperate. He couldn’t go on like this much longer.

  “Sure, I’m getting dry.”

  She sat up suddenly and leaned over him. “You’re lying.” Her hair brushed his face and he opened his mouth to catch a strand. It tasted of rosewater, he guessed. Something sweet and a little spicy.

  “I have an idea,�
�� she announced.

  “Oh, yeah? I’m listening.”

  “First we tell the newspapers that I’m going to give a speech about women and the vote. Then we ask them to wire other newspapers in the state to spread the word. That sh-should attract whoever it is who hates me enough to want me dead, don’t you think?”

  He looked up at her. She was so animated by the plan it sent a pain into his gut. “No.”

  “Why not? Don’t you think it’s a good idea?”

  He groaned. He didn’t want to think about a plan or a trap or anything else but her. “It’s a good plan, Caroline. But right about now I don’t want to think about it.”

  He curved one hand around her neck and pulled her down so her mouth brushed his. At the first touch of her lips he reached his other hand to her head, laced his fingers in her still-damp hair, and made it a real kiss.

  She didn’t pull back, and that surprised him. Without breaking contact he half sat up and went on kissing her, deepening it until his blood thrummed in his ears and he felt like he was going to explode.

  With his thumb he gently touched the hollow of her throat. Her pulse was racing and her breathing grew uneven as his kiss stretched on and on.

  Damn, what was happening?

  He lifted his mouth away from hers and relaxed his hand, but she didn’t jerk away as he expected. Instead she brought her fingers to lightly graze his cheek.

  “What are we doing?” she said, her voice shaky.

  “Damned if I know.” He thought a minute. “Fernanda told me…”

  “And Ilsa said things, also.”

  “Do you want me to stop?”

  “No,” she breathed. “I do not.”

  He reached for her again just as Billy’s voice rang out. “I caught ten fish!” The boy trotted around the bend, his face flushed with success. “Uncle Hawk, can we eat ’em for supper?”

  Hawk blew out a long breath, sat upright and drew apart from Caroline. “Sure, Billy. You clean ’em, and we’ll eat ’em.”

  “Uncle Hawk, I’m hungry! Let’s eat lunch.”

  “Yeah,” Hawk said quietly. “I’m hungry, too. Guess lunch will have to do,” he murmured.

  Without a word Caroline unpacked the wicker basket and handed out four chicken sandwiches. “There is a bowl of potato salad but only two forks, so we will have to share.” Her voice shook slightly and her lips tingled from Hawk’s kiss.

  She wondered at herself, ignoring Ilsa’s warning so blatantly. Ever since Ilsa told her about the tragic death of Hawk’s family, she couldn’t look at him without wondering how he had survived. Did he have nightmares, too? Did he relive the awful parts about what had happened over and over in his mind, as she did?

  No wonder he could be brutally direct at times. It was a miracle he could even smile.

  She would not hurt Hawk, she resolved. He was showing her something about herself, helping her heal, helping her conquer her fear of men. In exchange she would give him something that he needed, something she wanted to give him. He was healing her scars; maybe she could heal his.

  The three of them devoured the contents of the picnic basket, right down to Eli’s sugar cookies and the jar of lemonade, which they passed back and forth.

  “You catch anything, Uncle Hawk?”

  Hawk chuckled and ruffled his nephew’s russet hair. “You ask too many questions.”

  Billy paused, a cookie halfway to his mouth. “Huh?”

  Caroline smiled at the boy. “Your uncle means he will answer you when he has something to say.”

  “You guys are sure weird today,” Billy observed. “You haven’t caught any fish and you’re both all wet, and… Oh, well, all grown-ups are a little strange, I guess.”

  He grabbed the fishing pole he’d laid beside the picnic basket and marched off to the edge of the river. “I can see the trout even from here!” he yelled. “Guess you just didn’t know how to catch ’em, huh, Uncle Hawk?”

  “Guess so,” Hawk called. He caught Caroline’s eyes and held them until she thought she would melt from the heat in his gaze.

  He touched her arm. “I can’t sit here close to you with Billy ten yards away.”

  Caroline nodded. “Let’s look for blackberries,” she suggested. “Ilsa told Billy to bring some back.”

  “Yeah,” he said, his voice rough. “Maybe if I keep busy, I can keep my hands off you.”

  Maybe.

  *

  Hours later, when they returned to the house, Ilsa marveled at the lemonade jar and the picnic basket overflowing with ripe blackberries. “And twelve big trout. My, you all have been busy.”

  Caroline was afraid to look at Hawk, afraid Ilsa would see her kiss-swollen lips. Fernanda took one look at her and simply folded her into an embrace.

  “You have sunburn, mi corazón. And your hair it flies away. I will fix.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The Smoke River summer chautauqua fell on the following Sunday. Caroline had never heard of a Chautauqua, in Boston they held summer concerts and operettas in the park, and sometimes a troupe of actors performed one of Shakespeare’s comedies. But she had to admit she was curious about what a little town like Smoke River could produce in the way of entertainment.

  It had been a blistering hot day, the kind that kept her camisole damp with perspiration and made her long to lift up her skirt and petticoat to let the air cool her legs. By evening, the entire town had collected at the tiny tree-studded park to sit on the grass and drink lemonade or smoke pipes and slap at the occasional mosquito.

  Seated on a blanket in the shade between Hawk and Billy, Caroline fanned herself with one of the pleated squares of paper Fernanda had fashioned into fans for Ilsa and herself.

  “Sure is hot,” Billy complained, tugging at the tight collar of his best Sunday shirt. Caroline offered her fan, but he pushed her hand away. “Fannin’ my face like that’d make me look like a sissy or an old lady.”

  Caroline smiled. “Do you think I am a sissy or an old lady? Or Fernanda or your mother?”

  “Naw. Girls are already sissies.”

  She laughed. “We are, are we? What makes us sissies?”

  Billy’s rust-colored eyebrows drew into a frown. “’Cuz girls don’t like to get dirty or pick up worms or clean fish guts.”

  Caroline flinched at the word guts and heard Hawk’s chuckle. “You are quite right about worms and fish…um…entrails.” There was an element of truth to Billy’s philosophy; however, she wanted to point out that girls were also good at things like public speaking, and writing, and music. “Girls are good at many other things, Billy, such as playing hopscotch and baking pies and knitting scarves.”

  “But—”

  “And thinking fast on their feet,” Hawk interjected.

  “But—”

  “Let it go, Billy,” Hawk said.

  “And,” Ilsa said with a severe look over her shoulder at her son, “let’s not spoil this lovely summer evening with quarreling. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Aw, Ma…”

  While Billy wrangled with his mother, Caroline studied the surroundings. A wooden stage had been erected on the lush grass, with a theater curtain that looked suspiciously like four quilted bedspreads gathered onto a pole. Kerosene lamps arrayed at the front of the platform provided footlights of a sort, and Carl Ness, acting as a master of ceremonies, welcomed the crowd to the festivities.

  “Tonight, the citizens of Smoke River present our third annual summer musicale, and the show will include the fine talents of town folk you all know.” He retired to a spattering of applause, and the quilt curtain opened to reveal four men, all dressed in red shirts and blue suspenders.

  “Why,” Ilsa exclaimed, “there’s the barber, Whitey Poletti. I didn’t know he could sing.”

  Hawk leaned close to Caroline and spoke in her ear. “Hope he can sing better than he can cut hair.”

  The quartet launched into “Home, Sweet Home.” Whitey Poletti’s rich, honey-sweet tenor so
ared over the rapt listeners, and Caroline sent Hawk an I-told-you-so look.

  “He’s Italian,” he intoned.

  Thunderous applause greeted each of the quartet’s songs, and finally after two encores, the curtain was pulled closed. Hawk subtly positioned himself so his shoulder touched Caroline’s, then bent his head to whisper near her ear.

  “Remember your idea for laying my trap?”

  Her heart began to pound. “Will it be soon? I am getting jittery just thinking about it.”

  “Soon enough. Tomorrow I’ll contact both newspapers in town to spread the word.”

  She sucked in her breath. She was frightened. Even more than that, Hawk’s nearness, and the soap and bay rum scent of his skin, was sending shivers up her spine.

  “What’s wrong?” he murmured.

  “N-nothing, I guess.”

  “Want to change your mind?”

  “No. I know the feeling of safety I have here cannot last. I must move forward.”

  “Damn,” he breathed. He increased the pressure of his shoulder against hers. “Kinda figured as much.”

  The curtain parted again and a small figure in a starched pink pinafore stood alone on the stage. Billy jerked upright, his brown eyes riveted on the girl.

  “Manette Nicolet,” Hawk breathed. Eli reached out a bony hand and poked Billy in the ribs.

  Manette looked like a small, dainty angel with pink ribbons in her blonde hair. She waited until quiet descended over the audience, and then she began to sing.

  “Au clare de la lune, mon ami Pierrot…”

  Her voice was exquisite, a clear, high soprano that brought tears to Caroline’s eyes. Billy sat with his mouth hanging open until the end of the third verse, and when the crowd erupted into cheers and clapping, the boy looked as if he’d been poleaxed.

  “He’s in love,” Hawk muttered. “Poor kid.” He hadn’t meant for Caroline to overhear and her response surprised him.

  “He is not ‘poor.’ He is fortunate.”

  He blinked at that. “Thought you didn’t think much of love,” he said quietly.

  “I—”

  The curtain jerked open once more, and now the little stage was crowded with musicians—Thad MacAllister playing the fiddle, along with a banjo player and someone plucking away on the washtub bass Caroline had wondered about at last Saturday’s barn dance. They roared through “Turkey in the Straw” and “Camptown Races,” trying to outdo each other with runs and flourishes and little unexpected turns.