Elizabeth Lane - The Lawman's Vow

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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