The Lawman's Vow

But she wouldn’t let things get to that point. She would keep the gun close and watch the man’s every move. At the first sign of suspect behavior she would send him packing. It sounded like a good plan. But she was already at a disadvantage. The stranger was bigger, stronger and likely craftier than she was. In saving his life, she’d already put herself and Daniel at risk.

Maybe she should have left him under the boat to drown in the tide.

But even as the thought crossed her mind, Sylvie knew she couldn’t have done such a thing. She couldn’t condemn a stranger who had not yet done them any harm. Every life was precious in its own way. How could she presume to judge who was worthy to live?

She could only do what was humane and what was reasonable—and what was prudent, which in this case meant staying on her guard.

“How did you two get here?” He squinted up at her, the sun glaring in his eyes. “You didn’t come out of nowhere.”

“Our cabin’s up there, at the top of the cliff.” She glanced toward the high-water line, where barnacles clustered white against the rocks. “The tide covers this beach when it comes in. You can’t stay here, and we can’t carry you up the trail. That leaves you with three choices—walk, crawl or drown.”

“Well, I don’t think much of the last one.” He shifted, wincing with pain as he struggled to get his legs beneath him. “Mind giving me a hand?”

She reached for his outstretched fingers. Glinting on his sapphire ring, the sun scattered rainbows over the white sand. The powerful hands that closed around hers were smooth and uncallused. Maybe he was a gentleman after all. Or, more likely, a handsome criminal who lived by his wits.

“Ready?” He pulled against her slight weight. Sylvie braced backward as he staggered to his feet. Standing, he was even taller than she’d realized. Swaying like a tree in the wind, he loomed a full head above her.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

“Just dizzy,” he muttered. “Head hurts some.”

“Here, have some more water.” She handed him the canteen. “If you want to rest awhile, there’s time before the tide comes in.”

“No. Might get worse.” Lifting the canteen, he drank deeply, then returned it to her. “Let’s go now.”

Daniel had been standing to one side, watching wide-eyed. Their father was a small, wiry man, and the boy had seen only a few other adults. To him, this stranger must look like a giant.

“Take the canteen and go on ahead, Daniel,” Sylvie said. “Be careful, now. Wait for us at the top.”

As Daniel scurried toward the trail, she cast around the beach for a scrap of driftwood to serve as a walking stick. Finding a suitable length, she thrust it toward the man she’d named Ishmael. “This will steady you. If you get dizzy, drop to your knees. I’ll be right behind you, but if you fall, you’re on your own. I can’t hold your weight.”

“Understood.” She could feel his eyes taking her measure, perusing every curve and angle. He’d made no move to touch her, but the intimacy of that gaze sent a thread of heat through her body. She lowered her eyes, staring down at her feet. There was a beat of silence in which nothing moved. Then he took the stick from her, tested it in the sand and turned away to follow Daniel up the cliff.

The trail was slippery from last night’s downpour. It was so narrow that in some spots, Ishmael, who was still getting used to his new name, had to turn sideways to fit his shoulders between the cliff and the trail’s sheer edge. He couldn’t recall having been afraid of heights, but looking over the side was enough to make his stomach lurch.

Well ahead of him now, the boy climbed with the easy confidence of a monkey. A prince, the child had called him. It struck Ishmael as an innocent joke. Right now, the last thing he felt like was a prince. He was damp and filthy, with waterlogged boots, salt-stung skin, a bruised body and a throbbing head that couldn’t remember a damn thing worth knowing. So far, all he’d recognized was a name from a book about a white whale and a one-legged captain. He could remember the entire story, but he couldn’t remember reading it.

Call me Ishmael…

It was the name that had triggered his memory. Maybe, given time, more names would spark more memories until they came together like the pieces of a puzzle, to make his mind whole again.

Meanwhile, it was as if he was wandering blindfolded through a maze with nothing to guide his way.

The sapphire ring could be the key to his identity. But so far it meant nothing to him. He’d been startled, in fact, to see it on his finger. Did it mean he was wealthy? Or that he belonged to an important family? Ishmael grimaced, half-amused at such grandiose ideas. He could just as easily be a thief who’d stolen the damn thing. He’d probably been shipwrecked while running from the law.

From the trail behind him came the light sound of breathing and the swish of calico against bare legs. He checked the urge to turn and look at his pretty rescuer. Dizzy as he was, a backward glance could send him pitching off the trail. The temptation wasn’t worth the risk. But that couldn’t stop him from thinking about her.

Was she wearing anything under that calico skirt? He imagined those legs walking, thigh brushing satiny thigh…

Damnation! He couldn’t let himself get distracted by those thoughts when every step took so much concentration. A fine thing that would be, to survive shipwreck only to tumble down a cliff from fantasies about a woman’s skirts. He willed the image away but allowed her eyes to linger in his memory. Framed by thick mahogany lashes, they were the color of a dawn sky in the moment before the sun’s rays touched the clouds.

Sylvie. The name was as innocent and elusive as she was. He liked the sound of it. He liked her. Memory or no memory, it was clear that he had an eye for the ladies. But he’d be a fool to start anything with this one. She was young, not much more than twenty by his reckoning. And she probably had a daddy with a shotgun waiting to blast any man who laid a hand on her. Even if she didn’t, he would keep his proper distance. Trifling with such a creature would be like crushing a butterfly.

Ishmael was surprised to discover that he had a conscience. It was puzzling, given that he had no idea who he’d been before he opened his eyes on the beach. Did he have manners? Principles? Was he honest? Had he been taught to respect women?

He could be married, he realized. He could have a wife and children waiting for him, back wherever he’d come from. All the more reason to keep his distance from the intriguing Miss Sylvie Cragun.

The boy had reached the top of the trail and vanished above the rim. Ishmael willed himself to keep plodding upward. The dizziness seemed to be getting worse. Cold sweat trickled down his face. His breath came in labored gasps, but he pushed himself to keep moving. He hadn’t come this far to die falling off a blasted cliff. Besides, there was something else driving him forward, something urgent, he sensed, that had to be done. If only he could remember what it was.

Questions clamored in his head, beating like black wings. So many questions, all demanding answers.

“Tell me where I am.” He raised his voice to be heard above the rushing waves below. “Does this place have a name?”

“The only name we call it is home,” Sylvie replied. “It’s not any kind of town, just a cabin in the forest. Keep moving, and you’ll see it in a minute.”

“No, I mean where is it? Where are we?”

“You really don’t know?”

“Would I be asking if I did?” His foot slipped on a clump of moss. He jabbed the stick into the trail, legs shaking as he righted himself.

The next time she spoke she was closer, less than a pace behind him. “You’re two days’ wagon ride north of San Francisco. Since the boat we found with you is a small one, I’d guess that’s where you came from. Does that sound right?”

“No more or less than anything else does.”

“You don’t remember San Francisco?”

He raked his memory, using the name as a trigger. San Francisco. Fog, rain and mud. The cry of a fish hawker. The smells of tar, salt and rotting garbage. He groped for more, but the impressions were dimmed, like something from his boyhood. He remembered nothing that made him think he’d been there recently. He shook his head. “It’ll come. Maybe after I’ve rested. What…what date is it?”

“It’s Tuesday, the twenty-fourth of March. Living here, it’s easy to lose track, but I mark off each day on a calendar.”

“What year?”

He heard the sharp intake of her breath. “It’s 1858. You don’t even remember what year it is?”

“I don’t remember anything.”

“Except the name of a character in a book.”

Ishmael had no answer for that. With all that remained of his strength, he dragged himself over the top of the cliff. Breathing like a winded horse, he leaned on his makeshift walking stick and filled his eyes with what he saw.

Close at hand, anchored near the cliff’s edge, was a complex system of pulleys and windlasses attached to what looked like a harness for a horse or mule. Best guess, it was rigged to haul heavy loads up from the beach—most likely wreckage that had washed into the cove. In the near distance a low buck fence surrounded a cabin that was unlike anything his eyes had ever seen—at least, so far as he could remember.

The roof and sides were all of a piece, fashioned of weathered oaken planks that were shaped and sealed to watertight smoothness. Seconds passed before Ishmael realized he was looking at the overturned hull of a schooner, mounted on a low foundation of logs to make a sturdy home. A nearby windmill, for pumping well water, turned in the ocean breeze.

“My father built all this.” Sylvie had come up the path to stand beside him. “He cut a wrecked ship into sections and used pulleys like these to haul them into place. We’ve lived here for almost eight years.”

“That’s quite a piece of engineering.” He willed himself to stand straight and to speak in a coherent way.