Elizabeth Lane - The Lawman's Vow

The water was fresh and cold. He craved more than the swallow he took, but she was right about getting sick. His throat and stomach felt as if they’d been scoured with a holystone. Best to take things slow.

Coming more awake now, he could hear the lap of the tide and the sharp mewl of seabirds. His skin, hair and clothes were gritty with sand. Had he been shipwrecked? It seemed likely enough, but he had no memory of being on a boat. The blankness was unsettling. But no doubt everything would come back once his head cleared.

Pouring water into her hand, she splashed the worst of the grit from his face. The palm that grazed his skin was callused. His mysterious rescuer was no lady of leisure. But there was an ethereal quality about her, like a fairy-tale princess dressed in faded calico. Nothing about her made sense.

She eyed him warily as he tested his hands and feet, stretching his arms and legs. He was sore all over, though nothing seemed to be broken. But his ears were ringing, and his head throbbed with pain.

Only as he shifted his shoulders did it dawn on him that he was lying with his head in her lap. His senses seemed strangely acute. He could feel the shape of her thighs through her thin cotton skirts. He could feel the flatness of her little belly and the warmth of her skin. He could hear the soft cadence of her breathing. The close contact was having a most ungentlemanly effect on him. At least he knew his body was functional. But he was well on his way to making a fool of himself.

With a grunt, he heaved to a sitting position. The dizziness that swept over him blurred his sight for a moment. As it cleared he saw that he was in a cove ringed by jagged rocks and pine-crested cliffs. Beyond the entrance, sunlight glittered on the open sea. Nearby, on the sand, lay the wrecked hull of a boat.

The beauty who’d awakened him knelt at his side, one hand resting on a club-shaped chunk of driftwood. Peeking around her shoulder with wide brown eyes was a small, black-haired boy.

Lord, who were these people? Where was he?

The boy stepped into full view. His feet were bare, but his clothes were clean and well mended. He looked the newcomer up and down, his eyes sparkling with childish curiosity.

“Are you a prince, mister?” the boy demanded.

He managed to find his voice. “A prince?” he rasped. “Do I look like a prince to you?”

“Maybe a little.” The boy frowned, then brightened. “If you aren’t a prince, where did you get that ring on your finger?”

He raised his left hand to look. The fathomless blue sapphire, framed in gold, gleamed in the sunlight. If the stone was real the ring could be worth a small fortune. It was hard to believe these people hadn’t stolen it from him.

“Well, what about it?” the boy demanded. “If you’re not a prince where did you get that ring?”

“Where are your manners, Daniel?” the young woman scolded. “The gentleman’s our guest, not our prisoner.” She turned, her expression still guarded. The sea wind fluttered tendrils of sunlit hair around her face. “I’m Sylvie Cragun,” she said. “This is my brother, Daniel. And who might you be, sir?”

Her speech was formal, almost schoolbookish. She seemed to be well educated, or at least well-read, he observed. Odd, given her faded dress and work-worn hands. His gaze flickered to the driftwood club. Her manner was friendly enough, but something told him that, at his first suspicious move, she’d crack it against his skull.

Her silvery eyes narrowed. “Your name, sir, if you’d be so kind. And it would be a courtesy to tell us where you’ve come from.”

“My name is…” He hesitated, groping for an answer to the question. But nothing came to mind—not his name, not his family or his occupation, not his home or his reason for being here.

She was watching him, her gaze growing stormier by the second. He shook his head, the slight motion triggering bursts of pain. “I don’t remember,” he muttered. “God help me, I don’t remember anything.”

Sylvie stared at the stranger. She’d read about memory loss. The medical book said it was most commonly caused by a blow to the head. The gash above his temple made that explanation plausible. But that didn’t mean it was true. Until she knew more, she’d be foolish to believe anything he told her.

“You can’t remember your own name?” Daniel asked in wonder.

“Not at the moment.” His wry chuckle sounded forced. “Give me a little time, it’ll come.”

“But if you don’t know your name, what can we call you?” Daniel persisted.

He shrugged. “For now, anything. You decide.”

Daniel pondered his choices. “Rumpelstiltskin?” he ventured. “I like that story a lot.”

“I was hoping for something shorter,” the stranger muttered.

“Can’t you think of an easier name, Daniel?” Sylvie asked.

The boy’s frown deepened. He pondered a moment, then sighed. “I can’t think of anything good. Will you help me, Sylvie?”

“Let me think.” As Sylvie scrambled to resolve the question, the opening line from the book she’d been reading flashed into her mind.

Call me Ishmael…

Ishmael, the wanderer cast up by the sea, with no last name and no home. What could be more fitting?

“We will call you Ishmael,” she said.

The scarred corner of his mouth twitched upward. “I take it you’ve been reading your Bible,” he said. “That, or Moby Dick.”

“Either way, I think it suits you.” Sylvie’s face warmed as their gazes met. Here was a man who’d read the same book she was reading. A literate man—a gentleman perhaps, who could teach her something about the world. True, he might be pledged or even married to someone else. But surely there could be no harm in a friendly exchange.

As she rose to her feet, the realization struck her.

The man who couldn’t remember his own name had remembered a book he’d read.

Memory loss could be selective, she supposed. But what if he was lying to hide his identity and win her trust? He could be a fugitive running from the law, maybe a ruffian who’d take cruel advantage of a woman and child. There were such men, she knew. Her father had warned her about them. “Keep the shotgun handy when I’m away, girl,” he’d told her. “If a stranger comes in the gate, pull the trigger first and ask questions later.”

The old single-barrel shotgun lay ready on a rack above the cabin door. Sylvie knew how to load the shot and black powder and set the percussion cap. Her aim was good enough to bring down ducks and pigeons for the cooking pot. But she’d never fired at a human target.

Could she do it if she had to? Could she point the weapon at this compelling stranger, pull the trigger and blast him to kingdom come?

She could, and she would, to protect her little brother, Sylvie vowed. Nothing was more important than Daniel’s safety.

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.