Elizabeth Lane - The Lawman's Vow

“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.

“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.

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?