The Lady and the Lawman (13 page)

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 was 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 leaning 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 y
ou
come to be
in
Cranston?”

She
recounted what happened to her on the stage and at Croft’s, as well
as how the
y
ended up i
n
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.”