“Go home, Clay,” she said gently. “Give Dara Rose my best regards. Edrina and Harriet, too.”
Clay’s expression was even more serious now, and he looked at her for a long time before giving a reluctant nod and promising, “I’ll come back for Sawyer as soon as Doc decides he can travel. I appreciate this, Piper. I wouldn’t ask it of you, but—”
“I understand,” she said, when words failed him again. And she did understand. Clay and Sawyer, like Piper and Dara Rose, were first cousins, the next best thing to siblings, and the bond was strong between them.
The snow came down harder and then harder still, and Doc Howard finished his coffee, collected his bag and took one more look at Sawyer, then headed out, after assuring Piper that he’d return before day’s end and asking what he ought to bring back.
Blankets, she’d said, flustered, and kerosene, and whatever medicine the patient might need.
Clay attended to Sawyer’s horse, said goodbye, and left for the ranch.
Watching him disappear into a spinning vortex of white, Piper felt a lump rise in her throat.
Once again, she was alone, except for Sawyer McKettrick and he, of course, was a hindrance, not a help.
True to his word, Doc was back within the hour, despite the increasingly bad weather, bringing a fresh supply of laudanum, a jug of kerosene, more carbolic acid and several warm blankets, wrapped in oilcloth so they’d stay dry.
He examined Sawyer again—reporting that he was still sleeping but that his heartbeat was stronger than before and he seemed to be breathing more easily—gave Piper a few instructions, and quickly left again, because nightfall would be coming on soon, making the ordinarily short journey home even more difficult than it already was.
Piper thanked him, asked him to give Eloise and Madeline her best, and watched through the front window until he and his mule were gone from sight.
Then, feeling more alone than she ever had, she got busy.
She washed down the already clean blackboard.
She dusted every surface in the schoolroom and refilled the kerosene lamp.
She drank more coffee and fed more wood into the stove.
Before he’d gone, Clay had assured her that Sawyer’s horse would be fine until morning, which meant she could stay inside, where it was comparatively warm, so that was one less worry, anyhow. Gaps between the floorboards let in some of the cold, but that couldn’t be helped. Using the spare blankets Doc had brought, she made a bed on the floor, close to the stove and hoped all the mice were hibernating.
She lit the kerosene lamp as the room darkened, and tried to cheer herself up by imagining the Christmas tree, still in its pail of water and leaning against the far wall, glowing with bright decorations. She took comfort in its green branches and faintly piney scent and thought, with a smile, of the recitations her students were memorizing for the school program.
Christmas Eve, just ten days away, fell on a Friday that year, so school would be in session until noon—weather permitting—and the recital would be presented soon after. After the poems and skits, everyone would sing carols. The owner of the mercantile had promised to donate oranges and peppermint sticks for the children, and the parents would bring pies and cookies and cakes.
This gathering represented all the Christmas some of the children would have, and all thirteen of them were looking forward to the celebration.
She moved, quiet as a wraith, to the window, and glumness settled over her spirit as she looked out.
And still the snow fell in abundance, unrelenting.
* * *
IT WAS THE pain that finally roused him.
Sawyer came to the surface of consciousness with a fierce jolt, feeling as though he’d been speared through his left shoulder.
His stomach lurched, and for a moment he was out there on that snowy street again, unable to see his assailant, reaching in vain for his .45.
He went deliberately still—not only was there no Colt at his hip, but he’d been stripped to his birthday suit—and tried to orient himself to reality.
The room was dark and a little chilly, and it smelled faintly of some flowery cologne, which probably meant there was a woman around somewhere.
The thought made him smile, despite the lingering pain, which had transmuted itself from a stabbing sensation to a burning ache in the few minutes since he’d opened his eyes. There weren’t many situations that couldn’t be improved by the presence of a lady.
He squinted, managed to raise himself a little, with the pillows behind him providing support. Snow-speckled moonlight entered through the one window, set high in the wall, and spilled onto the intricate patterns of the several quilts that covered him to the waist.
“Hullo?” he called into the darkness.
She appeared in the doorway then, carrying a flickering kerosene lamp, a small but well-made woman with dark hair and a wary way of carrying herself.
She looked familiar, but Sawyer couldn’t quite place her.
“You’re awake, then,” she said rhetorically, staying well away from the bed, as if she thought he might grab hold of her. The impression left him vaguely indignant. “Are you hungry?”
“No,” he said, because his stomach, though empty, was still reacting to the rush of pain that had awakened him. “How’s my horse?”
In the light of the lantern, he saw her smile slightly. Decided she was pretty, if a mite on the scrawny side. Her waist looked no bigger around than a fence post, and she wasn’t very tall, either.
“Your horse is quite comfortable,” she said. “Are you in pain? The doctor left laudanum in case you needed it.”
Sawyer guessed, from the bitter taste in his mouth, that he’d already had at least one dose, and he was reluctant to take another. Basically distilled opium, the stuff caused horrendous nightmares and fogged up his brain.
“I’m all right,” he said.
She didn’t move.
He had fuzzy memories of being shot and falling off his horse, but he wasn’t sure if he’d actually seen his cousin Clay or just dreamed he was there. He did recollect the doctor, though—that sawbones had poured liquid fire into the gaping hole in his shoulder, made him yell because it hurt so bad.
“Do you have a name?” he asked.
She bristled, and he guessed at the color of her eyes—dark blue, maybe, or brown. It was hard to tell, in the glare of that lantern she was holding. “Of course I do,” she replied primly. “Do you?”
Sawyer gave a raw chuckle at that. She was an impertinent little dickens, he thought, probably able to hold her own in an argument. “Sawyer McKettrick,” he conceded, with a slight nod of his head. “I’m Clay’s cousin, here to take over as town marshal.”
“Well,” she said, remaining in the doorway, “you’re off to a wonderful start, aren’t you?”
He chuckled again, though it took more energy than he felt he could spare. “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “I reckon I am.”
“Piper St. James,” she said then, without laying any groundwork beforehand.
“What?”
“You asked for my name.” A pause, during which she raised the lantern a little higher, saw that he was bare-chested, and quickly lowered it again. “You can call me ‘Miss James.’”
“Thanks