The Lawman's Vow

He stood and stretched the agony out of his leg. He’d been hard on the girl. Too hard, given that she’d probably saved his life. But if she thought she was going to keep him locked up and buck naked, she had a few things to learn. He was getting out of here even if he had to wrap up in the sheet like a damn Roman.

Now that he was up, the dizziness had come back. His head felt as if hammer-wielding gremlins were pounding on his skull. But he was on his feet to stay, he vowed. And he wouldn’t rest until he knew all there was to know about this place and what had happened to him.

Legs quivering, Sylvie sagged against the closed door. For someone who’d resolved to take charge, she was off to a pitiful start. All the wretched man had to do was snap at her and bare his splendid back, and she was out of the room like a scared rabbit.

But that was about to change. He wouldn’t be getting his clothes, or his breakfast, until he’d agreed to her rules.

Moving deliberately, she added kindling to the coals in the stove and put some coffee on to boil. Two nights ago she’d bundled his clean clothes and dry boots and tucked them under the bed in her own room. They were still there, hidden from sight. And she didn’t plan to give them back until she felt it was safe to do so.

After taking a moment to check on the sleeping Daniel, she returned to the closed door. From the room beyond, there was no sound. Sylvie hesitated, one hand on the latch. Was Ishmael waiting to ambush her, maybe lock her in and steal everything he could carry off? Even sick, he appeared strong enough to overpower her.

Walking to the front door, she lifted the loaded shotgun off the rack. Better safe than sorry, she told herself as she thumbed back the hammer, returned to the door and opened it.

Her breath caught in a gasp.

Ishmael lay across the bed, wrapped in the sheet and passed out cold.

Chapter Four

Fog and drizzle blended with the dank smell of the harbor. Behind him, lanterns flashed in the night. Crowds of theatergoers surged against the cordon of police officers that kept them from rushing into the narrow alley.

Recognizing him, the police had let him through at once. Now he was plunging through the murk toward a form sprawled on the grimy cobblestones. His eyes glimpsed a rumpled satin cloak trimmed in ermine, then the flutter of dark hair. A single silver kidskin slipper lay soaking up the rain…

No! Lord have mercy, no!

“Ishmael! Wake up!”

He was being shaken with a force that triggered sparks of pain. He opened his eyes to the glare of sunlight. Sylvie was bending over him. Her hands gripped his shoulders. Her gray eyes were storms of worry that cut through the remaining fog of sleep.

“What…?” He jerked himself awake.

“Thank goodness!” She drew back, releasing him. “The way you were thrashing and moaning, I was afraid you were having some sort of apoplexy.”

Sun dazzled, he raised his head. “Bad dream, that’s all. Must’ve blacked out.” His hand moved to his head. The wrapping had come loose, and the soggy poultice was threatening to slide down his face. “If you wouldn’t mind…”

She saw the problem. “Of course not. In any case, I’ll want to check that head wound. But I’ll need you sitting up.”

Pushing with his arms, he hoisted himself until the pillow was at his back. Before passing out, he’d used a bedsheet to wrap himself toga style from chest to knee. At least he was decently covered.

He sniffed the morning air. “Glory be, is that coffee I smell?”

“Hold still.” Bracing his head, she unwound the bandage and peeled off what remained of the poultice. “It’s looking better,” she said. “No festering, and the swelling’s down. But there’s no telling what’s happened underneath. Since you just fainted, I’d say you need to stay in bed for a day or two.”

“I asked you a question.”

“I know you did.” She picked up a strip of clean flannel and began winding it tightly around his head. “We’ll leave the poultice off for now. And yes, it’s coffee you can smell. I’ll bring you some after we’ve had a chance to talk.”

He scowled up at her, but she didn’t seem to notice. She was focused on her task, her deft fingers tightening the bandage and tying the ends in a sturdy knot. Her spunk had surprised him. Little as he remembered about himself, it felt natural to be giving orders. Clearly, Sylvie wasn’t impressed. She had put him neatly in his place.

“Some breakfast would be good, too,” he groused. As if to underscore the words, his stomach gave an audible growl.

“So you’re hungry, are you? That’s a good sign. When Daniel’s up and the chores are done, I’ll make us all some cornmeal mush. Nobody eats till the animals are taken care of. That’s my father’s rule, and it’s mine, as well.”

She was rolling up the leftover wrapping when he noticed the old single-barrel shotgun leaning against the door frame. His hand flashed out to catch her wrist. “What were you planning to do with that gun, Sylvie? Shoot me?”

Her eyes held a glint of steel. “Yes, if it came to that. I have property and a young child to protect. A woman alone can’t be too careful. Now, let go of me this instant.”

He released her wrist. She snatched her hand away and spun toward the door.

“You said we needed to talk,” he called out, stopping her in her tracks. “How about now?”

She turned back, her eyes wary.

“That is, unless you’re planning to shoot me in the next couple of minutes,” he added, his mouth tightening in a twitch of a smile. “Don’t be afraid, Sylvie. I’m so weak I can barely stand. And even if I could hurt you, I wouldn’t.”

“How do I know that? And how do you know that? You don’t even remember who you are.” She hesitated, her gaze narrowing. “Do you?”

He shook his head. “Not yet.”

“Then please understand if I don’t trust you.”

“Not sure I even trust myself. But I can’t believe I’d harm you or your little brother. If I’m wrong, you’re welcome to use that shotgun. Now, what is it you want to talk about?”

Her small hands bunched the hem of her apron. She cleared her throat. “Just this. Until my father comes home, I’m the one in charge here.”

“I’m aware of that.” He also sensed that part of the picture was missing. Did she even have a father, or had she invented him as a means of protection? Clearly, the girl hadn’t built this cabin by herself. But there had to be more to the story than what she’d told him.

Sylvie Cragun…Why did the name sound familiar? Blast it, why couldn’t he remember?

“There are rules,” she was saying, “and as long as you’re here, you’re to follow them. First of all, you’re not to lay a finger on Daniel, or on me, or on anything that doesn’t belong to you.”

As if he would. “What else?”

“Once you’re strong enough to be up and around, you’ll be expected to earn your keep. Daniel may believe you’re a prince, but I don’t care if you’re the emperor of Japan. You work or you don’t eat.”

“Fair enough. Is that all?”

“Just one more thing. You’re free to go anytime you wish. But I want to watch you leave. No sneaking off in the night with the jewelry and silverware.”

Her feeble attempt at humor wasn’t lost on him. He gave her a wry smile. “In other words, I’m to conduct myself as a decent, responsible human being. You saved my life, Sylvie. I’m not ungrateful.”

Color flashed in her face. “Fine. I’ll get that coffee now.” She spun away and dashed for the kitchen, pausing to snatch up the shotgun she’d propped next to the door.

The room seemed strangely empty without her.

The coffee splashed onto the stovetop, hissing as droplets danced on the hot iron surface. Sylvie steadied the aim of the spout into the chipped porcelain mug. Did Ishmael like cream in his coffee? She should have asked, instead of making that silly joke about the jewelry and silver. He probably thought she was an empty-headed little bumpkin.

At least he’d accepted her rules, almost as if he’d found them unnecessary—as if the courtesies she demanded were actions he’d have performed anyway as a matter of course. Maybe she should’ve just kept her mouth shut and assumed he’d behave himself. After all, what did she know about proper manners? She’d lived in this isolated spot since her girlhood. Most of what she knew about dealing with strange men she’d learned from books. Clearly it wasn’t enough.

Finding a saucer on the shelf, she nested the mug in its center. The saucer was chipped, too, and the pieces didn’t match. For all she knew, her patient was accustomed to gold-rimmed china, but this was the best she had. Heaven save her, it had been less wearing to deal with the man when he was out of his head.

She returned to the bedroom to find him propped against the pillows with the quilt over his legs. At the sight of her, or perhaps the coffee, one black eyebrow quirked upward.

“If you’d like cream I can get you some,” she said. “I’m afraid we’re out of sugar.”

“Black is fine.” He took the cup and saucer. “And if you wouldn’t mind getting my clothes—”

“You just fainted. You need to stay in bed.”

“Let me be the judge of that, Sylvie.” His eyes narrowed, giving him a wolfish look. “You can bring me my clothes, or I’ll get up and find them myself.” He paused, his look making it clear that he’d tear the place apart if need be—and that he’d have no scruples about displaying himself in the altogether until the clothes were found.

Sylvie met the challenge in his gaze. For an instant she was tempted to call his bluff. Then she imagined the chaos of a naked madman staggering through the cabin. “I’ll get your clothes,” she said. “Then I’ll leave you to finish your coffee while I go out and milk the goats.” She turned toward the door.

“Sylvie?”

Her pulse skipped. She glanced back at him.

“I don’t enjoy drinking alone. The goats can wait while you pour yourself some coffee and join me.”

An excuse sprang to her lips. She nipped it back. The goat shed might give her a respite from those probing sapphire eyes and that sardonic manner of his. But she needed to learn more about her unexpected guest. Flee the cabin, and she’d be passing up her best chance.

“I suppose I can spare a little time,” she said. “But only a few minutes. The goats are used to being milked early, and they’ll be getting anxious.”

The scar twitched at the corner of his mouth. “Don’t worry, I won’t keep you long. I don’t want to take the blame for curdled milk.”

“It doesn’t—” Sylvie began, then realized he was teasing her. Crimson-faced, she dashed into her room, found the clothes and returned long enough to drop them at the foot of his bed. In the quiet of the kitchen, she poured herself a mug of strong coffee and added a bit of the cream she’d set aside for the butter churn. Stirring it, she waited for her pulse to calm.

What a dolt she was, too bashful and addlepated to hold up her end of the simplest social exchange. Why couldn’t she be like Elizabeth Bennett in Pride and Prejudice, tossing off witty repartee and clever little barbs that left the cynical Mr. Darcy begging for more?

As she’d read that book, she’d tried to imagine what it would be like, meeting a man, holding him spellbound with her charm. What a joke. She seemed to have only two modes of expression when dealing with Ishmael—either she was railing at him like a shrew, or she was barely able to meet his eyes. Either way, she was sadly lacking in anything intelligent or charming to say to him.

But it was silly, letting him unsettle her like this. Ishmael was no Darcy and certainly no fairy-tale prince. He was just a man, perhaps not even a good man. The sooner she got him on his feet and on his way, the sooner she could get back to her safe, predictable life.

Setting her mug on the counter, she took a moment to replace the shotgun on its rack above the door, out of Daniel’s reach. Ishmael had probably laughed behind his teeth when he noticed she’d brought the weapon into the bedroom. But even if it meant looking like a fool, it was her job to protect Daniel and their home.

Taking her mug, she returned to her patient. He was sipping his coffee, already looking brighter than she’d left him. Gesturing toward the stool, he motioned for her to have a seat.

“No memory yet?” she asked him.

He shook his head. “Maybe if you tell me about this place, and how you found me, it might spark something.”

“I’ll tell you what I can.” Sylvie glanced down into her mug. She had yet to bring up Catriona. She wasn’t sure why she’d waited, but she probably shouldn’t wait much longer.

He studied her as she sipped her coffee. She looked ill at ease, like a tethered kestrel straining for flight. “Where would you like me to start?” she asked.

“You told me this place is north of San Francisco. What brought you here? Maybe I can figure out why I might’ve come this way.”

“It’s a simple story. We lived in Indiana till my mother died. Then my father caught gold fever and the two of us joined a wagon train for California.”

“I take it he didn’t find much gold.”

“Not a grain. But while he was looking, he stumbled across this cove. He soon discovered he could make a better living from salvage than from prospecting. We’ve been here ever since.”

“And your brother?”

“My father remarried. Daniel’s mother died here, birthing him.”

“So you raised the boy yourself?”

She nodded. The girl hadn’t had it easy, he thought. Losing her mother, getting dragged across the country by a gold-hungry father, living under conditions no young girl should face and taking on responsibility for a motherless baby when she was little more than a child herself. Sylvie Cragun looked as fragile as a violet. But she possessed a core of tempered steel.

She lowered her eyes, as if trying to mask her thoughts. Ishmael was suddenly struck by another aspect of her situation—its isolation. It had to be lonely here, especially for such a pretty young woman. Lonely, and perhaps dangerous.

“This place seems pretty secluded. Do you any have neighbors? Any friends who come to visit?”

Her eyes narrowed. He caught a flicker of distrust.

“We’re not talking about me. I’m only telling you about this place to help you remember.”

“All right, I just thought you might be able to tell me if there was anyone else out here I might have been coming to visit. Since you and your brother clearly don’t know me, it hardly seems likely that I came this way to see you.” He sipped the hot black coffee, taking time to think out the next question. “Would I know your father?”

“You might, if you’ve come from San Francisco. He drives his wagon there every few months with a load of things to sell. That’s where he’s gone to now.” A worried look passed across her face. “He should be home any day now. Maybe he’ll recognize you. His name’s Aaron Cragun.”

“Aaron Cragun.” He repeated the name aloud, wondering at the dark flash of memory, like distant lightning through a storm. He’d heard the name before. If only he could remember where. “What does your father look like?” he asked.

“About five foot six, red hair, red beard. Drives a homemade wagon with a lop-eared mule. You’d remember him if you’d met him.”

Remember? He mouthed a silent curse. “So far I can’t remember a blessed soul I’ve met. Tell me how you found me.”

“You don’t even recall that?”

“Not all of it. Tell me.”

“It was pure chance. Daniel and I went down to the cove to see what the storm had washed up, and there you were, your legs sticking out from under a wrecked sailboat. You had no identification on you, only your clothes and that ring.” Her gaze brushed the sapphire framed in gold. “Do you remember Daniel asking you whether you were a prince?”

“Barely,” he muttered. “Don’t tell me you’re thinking the same thing.”

“Of course not. But that ring had to come from somewhere.”

He shrugged. “I’m guessing it was made for someone with a bigger hand than mine. If it had been made, or bought, for me it would fit my ring finger, not the middle one. That’s the only clue I have.”

“And you don’t remember how long you’ve had it?”

He shook his head. “For all I know, I could’ve had it all my life. Or found it in the street last week.”

Thoughts chased each other across her expressive face, like light through a stained-glass window. She was as transparent as a child, he thought, and yet not a child at all. “I have an idea,” she said. “Take the ring off.”

He met her gaze, hesitating for half a heartbeat before he did as she asked. His first thought was to check for engraving inside the ring. But as he worked it up over his knuckle, he realized what she was looking for.

Where the gold had circled the base of his finger, the flesh was slightly recessed, the skin as pale and smooth as ivory. Wherever the ring had come from, he’d worn it a very long time.

“That ring belongs to you,” she said, “and I think it must be very important. If you asked me, I’d guess it’s something from your family.”

“And what else would you guess, Miss Sylvie Cragun?” He checked the ring’s inner surface for engraving. Finding none, he pushed it back into place on his finger.

“I would guess that your family is wealthy, or would have been at the time they acquired the ring. And I would guess that you’ve never been in dire need of money. Otherwise you’d have sold it. Am I right so far?”

He had no idea. But she looked so fetching next to his bed, with sunlight making a halo of her hair, that he found himself wanting any excuse to keep her with him.

But even from where he sat, he could sense the strain in her—the hands that gripped the mug a bit too tightly, the taut posture of her body, the eyes that darted toward the door as if seeking escape.

“What is it, Sylvie? What’s bothering you?” The question came out sounding harsher than he’d meant it to.

She glanced down at her hands, then looked straight into his eyes. “There’s one thing I haven’t told you. On the beach, when we were trying to wake you, and then again last night, you spoke a name—a woman’s name. I’m thinking she might be your wife.”

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