The Lawman. Patricia Potter
crash jerked her back to the moment. Dawg’s ears pricked and he ran to the back room.
She hurried after him and opened the door. She hadn’t locked it, thinking the marshal was far too weak to move. Anyone else would still be unconscious.
He lay sprawled on the floor. It was obvious he’d tried to stand. Darn fool. His leg was bleeding again. Blood spread across the bandage.
She heard a noise behind her and spun around. Archie was in the doorway.
“What happened?” he asked.
“He must have tried to get up.”
“More trouble than he’s worth,” Archie mumbled.
She couldn’t have agreed more. Yet there was something about the man—the uncompromising set of his mouth, the hank of dark hair that fell over his forehead.
He was unconscious. And naked except for a scrap of bloody long johns.
Archie took one of his arms and she took the other. Together they got him back on the bed. She quickly pulled the sheet over his near-nakedness.
She averted her eyes, but she couldn’t stop the warmth creeping up her neck. And other places. It’s just the summer heat. It had been warm all day and was particularly so in the small, windowless room.
“Maybe he needed water,” she said.
“Damn fool shoulda waited.”
Archie unwrapped the bandage from his leg and frowned. The burn looked wicked and blood seeped around it. He muttered about wasted effort and damn fools.
“I’ll make a poultice,” Sam said.
Archie rewrapped the marshal’s leg.
He signaled her to go outside. He followed and closed the door behind him. “Best make it two,” he said.
“Is Mac worse?” she asked.
“He ain’t no better. He’s having those nightmares again. Some one has to be with him all the time or he might start thrashing about and hurting hisself again. I don’t even want to be gone now, but I heard the crash. You gonna have to see to the marshal yourself.” He paused and looked at the saddlebags on the table. “Anything in ’em?”
“A shirt and a pair of trousers. Undershirt. Wrist and leg irons. A book.”
“Get that shirt on ’im. And keep him covered with that sheet. Don’t like him being so naked.”
“I’ve seen men before,” she said. “You let me help you doctor them.”
“Mebbe so, but that was then and this is now,” he said grumpily, and looked at Dawg, who was at her heels. “And take Dawg with you. Hound ain’t good for nothing ’cept looking after you.”
She nodded. She didn’t tell Archie that Dawg had already made an overture to the marshal. It wouldn’t sit well at all.
“Manacles may come in handy,” Archie continued. “He ain’t going no place now, but we might need them later. He seems like a mighty determined man.” His frown deepened. “I don’t like leaving you with him but Mac needs me. You watch out for yourself.” He took a step toward the stairs, then turned back. “You don’t tell him nothing,” he said. “Nothing at all. If he lives through this, I don’t want him to be able to find us.”
She nodded, a chill settling in her. She was an outlaw now, too, and she’d made Archie one, as well. She’d shot a marshal and was holding him captive. She swallowed hard. “I’ll let you know if he worsens.”
Archie gave her a long, measured look. “You might want to put a drop or so of laudanum in the whiskey.”
She stared at him in surprise. She knew they were running low.
“It will keep him quiet,” Archie said. “That’s what he needs, and what we need.” She nodded.
He gave her a sharp look. “We shouldn’t have kept you here, girl.”
She made a face. “You didn’t keep me. My decision, remember.”
“Mac should have insisted you go off to one of them fancy schools in Denver,” he grumbled.
But Mac hadn’t, not when she threatened to jump off the train and come back. She’d gotten all the schooling she needed from Reese and Mac.
“They would have tried to turn me into a lady.”
He muttered something inaudible, then sighed heavily. “If he tries anything…”
She nodded. She was probably safer than Archie would be with the marshal. Archie had never been good with a gun. He could use a whip like it was part of his arm, but he’d never liked guns. He wasn’t a fast draw or, with his fading sight, a good shot.
“And keep the door locked when you ain’t there. Leave the key under the sack of coffee beans. We don’t want anyone wandering into town and finding him.”
“Not likely,” she replied.
“He found his way here,” Archie retorted. “Might be others comin’ behind him.”
Sam watched him as he moved slowly up the stairs. She found a tin cup and followed him up. He poured several drops of laudanum into it, then she left, hurrying down to the kitchen. She added a little whiskey to disguise the laudanum, then filled the cup with water from the pump.
The marshal was still unconscious, or seemed to be. She used some water in the pitcher to dampen a cloth, then sat in the chair and wiped the sweat from his face.
He groaned. His eyes flickered, then opened, and he stared at Sam. A muscle moved at the edge of his throat.
She studied him for a long moment, noting again the dark, taut skin stretched over high cheekbones, the thick eyebrows framing midnight-blue eyes.
A hard face with hard eyes. A face that looked as if he didn’t smile much. Or laugh. A sudden empathy filled her, and she had the most ridiculous need to see him smile.
Remember Mac. Remember why this man came here.
Their gazes caught, and again she felt something new and powerful spark a response in her body.
She felt rooted to the floor, though her legs were trembling.
He tried to move, and a muscle tightened in his neck as he fell back. “I was trying to get some water….”
“You were on the floor,” she said. “You must have fallen.”
“Did you get me up…by yourself?”
“Archie and me.”
“Where is he?”
She tried to fight off the intimacy that unexpectedly heated the room. “He had better things to do than nursemaid you.”
He didn’t reply, but suddenly his body tensed. She knew pain had struck again.
She offered him a drink from the tin cup. “I put a little whiskey in it,” she said. He took it in his two hands, but they were unsteady and he spilled some despite what seemed to be an intense concentration. She leaned over and steadied his grip. He drank the cup dry.
She felt his forehead. Hot. He was too hot.
“Trying to get up was a damn fool thing to do,” she said.
“Not as foolish…as shooting a marshal,” he shot back.
“Brave words in your position,” she replied. “I can always finish what I started.”
He tried to move again and succeeded this time, but only a few inches. He sank back against the pillow and closed his eyes as if he was too tired to keep them open. The attempt to stand had taken everything left in him.
His breathing was ragged, then calmed. The whiskey was getting