Elizabeth Lane - The Lawman's Vow

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.

Sylvie had left the bedclothes turned up to keep them dry. Now, with his inert body on top of the quilt, there was no easy way to cover him.

Racing into the next room, she pulled the quilted coverlet off her own bed and returned to lay it over him. His eyes were closed. His dry lips moved as if he were trying to speak.

“Don’t try to talk,” she soothed him. “You’ll be warmer soon, and I’ll get you some tea for the fever.”

The tone of her voice gave Sylvie pause. She was speaking as she might speak to Daniel. But this stranger was no child. He was a powerful male who might take advantage of a woman he saw as meek and tender. She needed to let him know who was in charge here.

And since she needed to strip him of his wet trousers and drawers, there was no time like the present.

The task she faced was a daunting one. She’d cared for Daniel since he was a baby, but she knew little about the bodies of grown men. Her father, mindful of a young girl’s sensitivities, had taken care not to expose himself. The very thought of seeing a strange man’s nakedness was enough to make Sylvie blush. But she had a plan. Under the cover of the quilt, she could work his garments down and pull them off his legs, leaving him modestly covered.

Crouching at the edge of the mattress, she steeled her resolve, reached under the quilt and began fumbling with his belt buckle.

Through a red fog of fever, Ishmael sensed that somebody was unfastening his trousers. The light touch suggested a woman’s hand. Ordinarily he wouldn’t have minded. But if the lady was bent on a bit of fun, why was she being so stealthy about it? Why not just wake him up and give him a chance to cooperate?

Only one thing made sense. The little slut was trying to rob him.

His hand flashed out and seized her wrist. With a cry she reeled back, struggling to pull away. But even sick, he possessed an iron grip, and he wasn’t about to release his hold.

“Let go of me!” she sputtered. “Don’t you know I’m trying to help you?”

He forced his eyes open. His vision swam, but the blurred image of her face bending over him confirmed that she was pretty. “Looks to me like you’re helping yourself to my pockets…” The words came out slurred and garbled. What was wrong with his tongue?

“You’re sick.” She sounded like a schoolmarm scolding a backward child. “I’m just trying to get you out of your wet clothes and into bed.”

“Seems t’ me you’d have better luck if you got out of your own clothes first.”

“Stop it!” she hissed. “If you weren’t out of your mind, I’d slap your face.”

“A l’il rough stuff might be fun, if that’s what you enjoy. I aim to please…” He could feel himself sinking again. It was hard to breathe, even harder to think. His fingers loosened around her wrist. He felt her pull free as the fog closed around him.

“Stay awake!” Her hand seized his jaw and gave it a firm shake. “Once I get your clothes off, you’ll need to get under the covers. After that I’ll dress your head wound and give you something for the fever.”

“Fever…?” He mouthed the word. Strange he should have a fever when his skin had shrunk to shivering goose bumps. And now the woman’s hands were fooling with his trousers again, her fingers undoing the buttons and untying the tape that held up his drawers. Not that he was in a mood to argue—the sensation was not the least bit unpleasant. But he was still uncertain whether she was a nurse, a pickpocket or a whore.

“Now!” She yanked the waist of his pants and drawers, peeling them down his body and off his feet in one wrenching motion. By the time she’d left him naked beneath the quilt she was winded from the effort. Ishmael could hear her breathy gasps from the foot of the bed. His head had begun to fog again—a good thing, that. The words his mouth was too muzzy to speak would probably have gotten his face slapped.

He heard the splat of wet clothes dropping to the floor. “I’m going to turn down the bed,” she said. “You’ll need to get up for a few seconds.”

“Try…” He could barely lift his head. He was as weak as a newborn kitten.

“Here.” She bent down and slid a hand under his bare shoulders. “You can move onto the stool by the bed. Hang on to that quilt.”

Yes, the damn quilt. It mattered to her that he stay covered, Ishmael realized. Whoever she was, she was a female of tender sensibilities. A lady? She looked too poor for that. More like an innocent, church-bred girl. He’d do well to curb his tongue.