The Lawman's Vow

“My father is a clever man, and a hard worker. He takes good care of us.”

“And your mother?”

“My mother died before we came here. Daniel’s mother died when he was born.”

“I’d like to meet your father. Is he here?”

Her eyes glanced away. Her fingers tightened around the driftwood club she’d carried up from the beach. “Not right now,” she said, “but we’re expecting him home at any time. He’s probably just coming up the road.”

She didn’t trust him. Even through the haze of his swimming senses, Ishmael could tell that much. But how could he blame her? She and the boy were alone here, and he was a stranger.

Surely she had nothing to fear from him. Only a monster would harm a woman and child. And he wasn’t a monster. At least he didn’t feel like one. But how could be sure, when he had no idea what sort of man he was? He could be a thief, a murderer, the worst kind of criminal, and not even be aware of it.

He raised a hand to his temple, fingering the swollen lump and the crust of dried blood that covered it. Pain throbbed like a drumbeat in his head. He’d suffered one sockdolager of a blow. That would explain his memory loss. But would the damage heal? Would his memory return? For all he knew, he could live the rest of his life without remembering who he was or where he’d come from.

Dizziness hazed Ishmael’s vision. He tried to walk, but stumbled on the first step. Only the stick saved him from falling headlong.

“Are you all right?” Sylvie’s eyes swam before him. She had beautiful eyes, like silvery tide pools, their centers deep and dark. “Can you make it to the house?”

“Try…” The ground seemed to be rolling like a ship’s deck under his feet.

“Let me help you.” She thrust her strength under his arm, her slight body braced against his. Leaning heavily, he staggered forward. Her muscles strained against his side. Ishmael forced himself to keep going. If his legs gave out, he would be dead weight for her to move.

“Just a little farther,” she urged. “Come on, you can make it.”

But she was wrong. He knew it by the time he’d dragged himself a half-dozen steps. His legs wobbled; his gaze was a thickening moiré. As they passed through the gate in the fence, the blackness won the battle. His legs folded and he collapsed, carrying her down with him to the wet grass.

Sylvie felt his legs give way, but she wasn’t strong enough to hold him. Still clutching his side, she went down under his weight. The grass cushioned their fall, but she found herself spread-eagle beneath him, pinned to the ground. For a moment she lay there, damp, exhausted and breathless. His head rested against her shoulder, stubbled chin cradled against her breasts.

She could feel the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, hear the rasp of air in and out of his lungs. His eyes were closed, eyelids hooded by inky brows. Black Irish—the term flitted through her memory. She’d heard her father use it, and not in a complimentary way. Was this the sort of man he’d meant?

Whoever he was, he was strangely, compellingly beautiful. But even in his helpless condition Sylvie sensed an aura of danger. A man wouldn’t sail this far up the coast on a pleasure outing. What if some dark intent had brought him this far? Whatever the circumstances, she had to get him up.

Working one arm free, she jabbed a finger at his cheek. “Ishmael? Can you hear me?”

He didn’t answer. Only then did she realize his body was unusually warm beneath his damp clothes. More than warm. Heaven save her, the man was burning up.

Shoving his face away, she began to struggle. His limp frame felt as heavy as a downed elk, but she managed to roll him to one side. As she scrambled free, he sagged onto his back with a low grunt. When she pushed to her knees and bent over him she saw that his eyes were open, but fever-glazed. She’d nursed her father through a couple of bad spells and she knew the signs.

Heavy-lidded, he gazed up at her. “Whatever we were doing down here, it was nice,” he muttered groggily. “Wouldn’t mind a bit more…”

“Hush. You’re ill. We’ve got to get you to bed.” She scanned the yard. Where was her brother? Why was the little imp always disappearing at the wrong time? “Daniel!” she called.

The boy trotted around the corner of the house, followed by the young spotted goat he’d adopted as a pet. “Where have you been?” she scolded him. “I told you to wait for us.”

“Ebenezer was hungry. I was getting his breakfast.”

“Ebenezer’s big enough to eat grass. Give me the canteen. Then go and fetch the flat cart. We need to get this man in the house.”

The canteen was still slung around Daniel’s neck by its woven strap. Slipping it over his head, he tossed it toward her, then scurried off to get the two-wheeled cart their father used for hauling salvage from the cliff top to the shed.

She lifted Ishmael’s head then tilted the canteen to his lips. He drank as greedily as caution would allow, gulping the water down his throat. Lowering the canteen, Sylvie dampened her hand and brushed the moisture over his face. The coolness startled him. He jerked, blinking up at her.

“Can you get to your knees? My brother’s bringing a cart, but we can’t lift you onto it.”

“I can walk.” His voice was slurred. “Just need a little help…”

He began to struggle. Sylvie seized his hands, bracing until he could get his legs beneath his frame. He staggered to his feet, clinging to her for balance. Again she was struck by his height and size. Such a man could be formidable. But right now he was as helpless as a newborn lamb.

Until she knew more about him, it might be smart to keep him that way.

Chapter Three

Sylvie slumped on the bedside stool in her father’s room. Getting the stranger to bed had been all she could do. He’d insisted on walking, but he’d reeled like a drunkard all the way. Only her support had kept him upright. Now he sprawled on the patchwork coverlet where he’d fallen like tall timber under a lumberman’s ax. His sand-encrusted boots dangled over the foot of the too-short mattress.

Now what? Sylvie’s muscles were jelly. Sweat plastered her dress and her muslin chemise against her skin. Uncertainty gnawed at her mind. Letting this man die was out of the question. She would do everything in her power to save him. But how would she deal with him if he survived?

Like a sick and injured wolf, he was helpless now. But once he recovered there was no guarantee he wouldn’t turn on her, with no more gratitude than a wild beast.

If only her father was home. Aaron Cragun understood things that couldn’t be learned from books. He would know how to handle this situation. But until he returned, she was on her own. And her first priority was to make him well again. Worrying about protecting herself from him could wait until then.

“Is he going to die?” Daniel stood in the doorway, his small face sad and puzzled.

“Not if I can help it.” She willed herself to stand. “Keep an eye on him while I put some willow bark tea on to boil. Then we’ll get him out of his wet clothes and under the covers.”

She kept a supply of dried willow bark in an empty coffee tin. Daniel’s mother had taught her there was nothing better for fevers, and Sylvie had made good use of it over the years. Adding some bark strips to a kettle of water, she set it on the stove to boil and hurried back to the bedroom.

She found Daniel at the foot of the bed, straining to pull off one of Ishmael’s waterlogged boots. The boy was leaning backward, about to topple.

“Here, we’ll do it together.” Sylvie reached around her brother to work one stubborn boot loose, then the other. As she peeled the wet woolen stockings off his feet, Sylvie noticed the hole in one toe.

A wife would have mended it… But what was she thinking? Married or single, it was no business of hers. Right now her only concern was saving his life.

“Wash these out in the trough and hang them up where the goats won’t get them,” she said, handing the stockings to Daniel. “Then you can rinse out the boots under the pump and stick them upside down on the fence posts. Make sure they’re in the sun, all right? We don’t want them getting moldy.”

He scampered off to do her bidding. Such a happy little boy, so full of life and mischief. She would die before she let anything happen to him.

But right now there was Ishmael, half out of his mind and soaked to the skin. She needed to get him out of those wet clothes.

His teeth had begun to chatter. Sylvia darted into the kitchen to check on the willow bark. The water was just beginning to simmer. It would need to come to a full boil, then steep for a few minutes before it was strong enough to do any good. That would just give her time to get her patient undressed and under the covers.

Returning to the bedroom, she resolved to start with his shirt. Cutting it off would be the easiest way. But he would need his clothes when—she wouldn’t say if—his condition improved. He was too long of limb to wear anything of her father’s.

His eyes were closed, his breathing a shallow rumble. Pneumonia from the chilly water, most likely, but she couldn’t be sure. She only knew enough to keep him warm, dose him on willow bark and maybe steam him to clear his lungs.

That, and pray.

Her fingers shook as she freed his shirt buttons. The sun had dried the fine linen fabric on the way up the trail, but the woolen undershirt beneath was wet from seawater and sweat. He moaned incoherently, barely aware of her as she worked the garment off him, pulling it over his arms and his dark head. His pale gold skin was nicked with scars, his chest dusted with crisp black hair. But this was no time to pay attention to such things. He was shivering. She needed to get him warm.