Isabel had started to gather her belongings. All but one of the prized oranges had been spared. At the odd sigh in Ben’s voice, she straightened and scrutinized him. He didn’t look right.
“Why not?”
His eyes, which in daylight were the color of sunlight striking sea-green glass, gleamed in the darkness. “Because I’m likely to bleed out before I catch him.”
He indicated his upper right arm.
“You’ve been shot?” Guilt punched a hole in her annoyance. Here she’d been berating him when he was in pain.
“Feels like a flesh wound.” He inclined his head toward the bank. “Let me return this money to its rightful place, and I’ll escort you home.”
“You have to see Doc.”
“Later.” He disappeared inside the bank for a brief minute, then used his master keys to lock it up tight. When he reached her, he removed the neckerchief from around his throat. “Tie this off for me, will you?”
“I can get home by myself,” she protested, concern for the Debonair Deputy at odds with her usual antipathy. “You need to get that wound cleaned and stitched.”
“I happen to know that Doc Owens is out at the Barton farm, assisting in the delivery of their latest child. The sheriff has a steady hand and a cast-iron stomach, but he’s taken Allison and the kids to Norfolk for the month. Besides, you heard the thief. You’re a liability. Who’s to say he’s not lying in wait, intending on following you and making sure you can’t talk?”
Suppressing a shudder, she seized the cloth and quickly wrapped it around Ben’s thick biceps.
He grimaced. “A shame about the coat. My mother gave it to me before I took this job. It’s kept me warm through four Tennessee winters.”
“Our winters are typically mild.”
He flashed a smile, the lopsided one that had slain countless hearts. “Not compared with my hometown in southern Georgia. Besides, according to the almanac, we’re in for more snow than usual this year.”
“So get it patched. Nicole Darling can have it repaired in less time than it takes you to make a girl swoon.” Isabel snatched up a forgotten sachet of cloves.
“When was the last time that happened?” he challenged, laugh lines crinkling the corners of his eyes.
“I don’t keep detailed records of your romantic exploits, but I seem to recall hearing about Edith Pulaski at the harvest festival. And Josie Strutin embarrassed herself during the annual August social.”
“Edith fainted because she was ill with a fever. As for Josie, I choose to believe she was overwhelmed by the prospect of singing a solo in front of a crowd and not because I was nearby.” He started for the boardwalk, his stride even and decisive, though he seemed to hold his injured arm close to his body. “Did you walk or ride?”
“I walked.”
“You can ride with me, then.”
She put her shaky legs in motion, unhappy with the prospect of spending any amount of time with him. Isabel went out of her way to avoid the shallow charmer. Ben MacGregor’s reputation was a two-sided coin. While a respected lawman who’d committed his life to protecting Gatlinburg’s citizens, he was also a confirmed bachelor who trifled with women’s emotions. Isabel couldn’t respect a man like that, not after living with the consequences of her father’s repeated infidelities.
He led her to his grand sorrel horse whose copper-red coat mimicked Ben’s hair. One of the most recognizable animals in town, his name was Blaze. Ben mounted first and, taking her basket, let her use his good arm to pull herself up behind him. During the first part of the slow journey, she utilized her leg muscles for balance. She soon tired, however.
“You can put your arms about my waist,” he quipped over his shoulder. “I promise I won’t get ideas.”
“Like I’d ever be interested in you,” she muttered.
His deep, husky laugh mocked her. “Every man in town is aware of your aversion to romance.”
Isabel didn’t care that she was considered a prude or that folks whispered she was destined to be an old maid. Better that than they think she shared her father’s lack of morality.
The deserted lane on which they traveled crested a small incline. During the descent, Isabel had no choice but to use Ben as a support. He said nothing when she slid her arms around his waist. His body heat seeped into her, helping stave off the chill December air. Unaccustomed to this degree of closeness to a man, she became acutely aware of the play of muscles across his broad back, the solid leanness of his flanks and his flat stomach. He wasn’t tall—average, really—but he had a stocky, honed build.
Thankfully, her family’s property was situated only a mile from the heart of town. The gristmill and stream edged the woods to their left. A modest-size clearing surrounded by more woods contained the cabin, barn and outbuildings, space for a vegetable garden, and pasture for their livestock.
When he halted Blaze beside her porch, Isabel wasted no time scrambling to solid ground.
“Thank you for the ride.” She stretched out her hand for the basket. “I’ll take that.”
An infuriating grin curved his generous mouth. He was well aware of her eagerness to be rid of him. “My pleasure.”
The door banged open. Light spilled through the opening as her sisters, Honor and Carmen, emerged onto the porch and simpered over Ben’s presence like every other ninny-headed female who fell prey to his outgoing personality and winning smile. When Honor noticed his injury, Isabel knew getting rid of him wouldn’t be as easy as she’d thought.
* * *
Within a matter of minutes, Ben found himself seated at the Flores sisters’ table while they gathered the necessary supplies to tend his wound. Trying to shut out the burning sensation engulfing his arm, he focused on his surroundings. Two years had passed since he’d been inside this cabin. He’d come the night Manuel Flores was murdered. Thankfully, his boss, Sheriff Shane Timmons, had shouldered the unenviable task of informing Manuel’s wife and daughters of the events surrounding his passing.
Alma Flores had taken it the hardest, slumping to the ground and wailing as if her heart would never be mended. A mere month after the funeral, she’d gone to live with her sister in nearby Knoxville, leaving Isabel to care for her sisters and their small farm and gristmill.
His gaze sought her out, as it usually did whenever she was around. Unlike Honor and Carmen, who favored vibrant hues and rich fabrics, Isabel preferred somber, severe clothing. Ben surmised it was her way of trying to go unnoticed. He’d like to tell her the ploy was unsuccessful.
He tracked her movements about the central room as she lit multiple lamps. One she placed on the fireplace mantel, another on a squat table in between a pair of cushioned chairs. Still more she hung from pegs on either side of the door. Light flickered over her satin black hair, pulled away from her face in a thick, glossy French braid that curved around her slender neck and disappeared beneath her heather-gray fur-lined cloak.
All three Flores women were beautiful. Nineteen-year-old Honor was willowy and graceful, putting him in mind of a delicate bird. A year younger and the shortest of the three, Carmen had a healthy figure, and her round face was consistently animated. Isabel was different and, in Ben’s estimation, without rival. She possessed noble features, her Mexican heritage on proud display in her high forehead, distinct cheekbones, sleek jawline. Her olive skin was the perfect foil for arched dark brows, glittering black eyes and an apricot-hued mouth. His attention snagged there. Full and lush, her lips provided a soft counterpoint to her austere demeanor.
Ben sometimes contemplated different ways to provoke a smile from the elusive beauty. The usual methods wouldn’t apply to her,