Prologue Page 3

  Her moment's hesitation brought her a quizzical look from Doc and then, with a slap on his knee, he said, “That's right, you're alone here now.”

  “That doesn't matter. I'm not worried about it.”

  “No, no, this isn't a good idea. When folks around town learn of it, there's bound to be talk.”

  Her decision made, Chloe pushed back a straggling curl. “They talk about me already, and it's the least of my troubles. This man needs my help.”

  “Evan will hear about it.”

  “Doc, I don't need a devil's advocate. Certainly, Evan will understand.”

  She felt Doc's eyes scan her dishevelment and knew she must look ridiculous in her wet, muddy dress and ruined hair. But she lifted her chin with stubborn determination.

  “The matter is settled. I'll keep this man here until he's well,” she affirmed.

  Nodding, Doc began issuing instructions to her. “And for the next few hours put a pinch of salt in the water you give him. Are you sure you can handle all this?”

  “Yes, I can manage,” she answered, lifting her chin again.

  After a half hour had passed Doc suggested, “Let's see how he's doing.” He put a hand on the forehead and then grasped the lifeless wrist.

  “We can move him now He's cooler and his heartbeat is slower and stronger. I think he'll mend.”

  While Chloe made up the sickbed, Doc cut off the stranger's shirt and jeans with her sewing scissors, then covered him with a clean white sheet. She decided to put him in the little nursery adjoining her room, thinking it would be easier to tend him there. Between them, Doc and Chloe managed to get him upstairs, but the task was much harder than the trip from the yard had been. Chloe almost lost her hold on the stranger's ankles once and nearly sent the three of them rolling back down to the parlor.

  When they finally had him on the bed, another groan sounded from the man.

  “I don't know what you're complaining about,” Chloe huffed breathlessly to the still form. “We've been doing all the work.” She pushed aside her old rag doll sitting on the rocker and lowered herself to the seat.

  Doc dropped into a chair that faced the window. “I'm getting too old for this kind of thing.” After a moment he got back to his feet and stepped over to the bed, flipping the light blanket over the sheet-clad body

  “I'll come by tomorrow morning to check on him. He'll probably survive.”

  “I thought you said he'd get well!”

  “Yes, I did say that and I believe it. His face is too banged up for me to tell, but judging by the general appearance of his body and hands, I'd guess that he's young—maybe twenty-six or twenty-seven. And that helps. But sunstroke is a tricky thing and he's still unconscious. Now, do you remember everything you are to do?”

  She recited the instructions he'd given her.

  The doctor nodded, satisfied, and patted her arm. As they headed downstairs he gave her a measured look and said, “Don't forget to look after yourself, too. You're quite a sight, child.”

  For the first time since the man lying in bed upstairs had walked into her backyard, Chloe stopped to think about mending her appearance. “Yes,” she agreed, looking down the front of her dress. “I guess I am.”

  “No, I don't mean your clothes,” he said. “You look worn out. I want you to start being a little kinder to yourself, Chloe.”

  Her heart lifted with his thoughtfulness and she smiled. As many worries as she had to handle, no one fretted about her. "Thanks, Doc."

  After Doc left, she pumped water into a pitcher and put a spoon of salt in it. Then she stood in the center of the kitchen contemplating the mess they'd made.

  Nothing worth saving was left of the drifter's clothes; Doc had hacked them to ribbons. His boots were soaked from the dunking in the tub, and probably ruined. Chloe was putting them on the back porch to dry when she heard a crash overhead. Grabbing the water pitcher, she ran through the parlor and up the stairs. In the nursery she found her guest in the grips of delirium. A candlestick lay on the floor, apparently knocked off the nightstand by his outflung arm.

  She hurried over to the bed and pressed hard against his shoulders to keep him from rolling off the mattress. At her firm touch, he reached up and threw off her hands. He jerked bolt upright to a sitting position, the sheet and blanket sliding down to reveal nearly all of his lean torso, his eyes open but unseeing.

  “Let me go!” his hoarse voice snarled angrily. “I didn't do it. You know I didn't, you lousy bastards. You've got the wrong man.”

  Chloe was horrified at the ease with which he'd flung her off. Somehow, he seemed bigger now that he was moving and closed in this room with her than he had at any earlier moment, even when he'd walked into the yard. His clothes had camouflaged the broad sweep of his shoulders and furred chest and the narrow strip of dark hair that shot down the center of his flat belly.

  There was only one way out of this room, through her bedroom and down the stairs. She poised in the corner, watching him, ready to jump. Glancing at the distance between herself and the door, she wondered if anyone would hear her scream from this lonely end of town.

  The weak and sick patient she'd so stubbornly insisted on taking care of had suddenly become unpredictable. And in a flash of insight she remembered one of the first rules in dealing with any threatening creatures: never show fear.

  She swallowed hard and approached the bed, putting her hands on his shoulders to press him against the mattress again. “Don't fight like this. You're very ill and you have to lie quietly and rest.” How was she going to control this fever-crazed man? “Stop it!” she demanded firmly. “Stop it right now and lie down!”

  Either her commanding voice penetrated the deep recesses of his brain or fatigue conquered him once more because his eyes closed and he flopped against the pillow, breathing as though he'd been running for his life.

  She yanked the sheet back over him. Then, watching for a moment to be sure he was going to stay put, she hurried to her room and got a glass to pour a drink for him. Maybe she could coax him into taking a sip.

  Bending low, she slipped her arm beneath his pillow to raise his shoulders, but his size and weight made that impossible. The most she could manage to do was lift his head, then she tipped the glass to wet his lips. She pulled it away to see if he swallowed and when he did, she let him sip again.

  His puffy eyes opened the merest slit and fixed on her face. Beyond his confusion and disorientation, his piercing, intelligent gaze grasped her.

  As he continued to stare at her, she asked quietly from a drying throat, “Who are you?”

  His look of bafflement increased at her question and he did not respond.

  Oh, God, she fretted, thinking of what Doc had said about this man turning into an imbecile. Doesn't he remember his name?

  His frown deepened, as though he were trying to decide if he should say. “Travis,” he finally murmured wearily. “Travis McGuire.” His eyes closed again and she watched his injured face grow slack before she lowered his head.

  * * *

  It was slow in the Queen of Hearts Saloon, with only one card game going in the corner and no customers at the bar. Ben Winstadt didn't much care for hot, quiet days like this—it made time drag and left him with not much to do but polish glasses and refill the pickled egg jars.

  But this sleepy afternoon made it easy for Ben's attention to stray from the pickled eggs to a man who appeared at the doorway. The stranger wasn't a big man—he was just tall enough to be seen over the swinging doors. He walked in, spurs ringing faintly, and stood there for a moment, perhaps waiting for his eyes to adjust to the smoky gloom.

  Nobody from the corner table bothered to look at him, but he coolly surveyed each face there from under the wide brim of his hat.

  Ben gaped, the egg in his hand forgotten. He didn't get too many of this type in the Queen. In fact, none of Prineville saw many bounty hunters. But this man's profession was as unmistakable as was Lottie's, upstairs. He moved with a
watchful deliberateness that was inborn, not learned. He wore a long duster that reached nearly to his heels and when the coat parted, it revealed a big gun belt, another unusual sight in this town. His dark hair fell below his shoulders and while his face was surprisingly young, he had cold blue eyes that looked as old as the grave.

  It was that contrast of innocence and iniquity that gave the man away and Ben suddenly realized who had just walked in. Wait till he told the boys about this—Jace Rankin was in his saloon.

  Rankin made his way to the empty bar where the bartender stood watching him.

  “A shot and a beer,” he ordered, pushing money toward Ben. His voice was husky, his tone, low.

  “Yessir,” Ben replied, swamped with a primitive sense of danger. He set the mug of beer, a bottle, and a glass in front of the bounty hunter. He wished there was a way to get the card players to look over this way, but they showed no interest.

  Rankin took a tentative sip of the whiskey and scowled at its raw edge.

  “That's prime whiskey,” Ben offered nervously. “Comes all the way from Portland.” He swallowed. The blue eyes resting on him were unforgiving, remorseless.

  “Yeah, in kerosene barrels,” Rankin grumbled. He dropped the shot glass into the mug to kill the taste, then swallowed half the beer. Pulling a silver dollar from his pocket, he became absorbed in balancing it on its edge on the countertop. “I'm looking for someone. Maybe you've seen him. A tall man, probably a good head higher than me. He's thin, dark hair, light eyes, pale as a fish belly—prison does that to a man.” Rankin looked up from the stabilized coin. “He's a woman-killer.”

  * * *

  When Chloe went outside to collect the laundry she'd begun earlier, she found the tablecloth where she had dropped it. Bertha Preston's beautiful tablecloth! It was her best and it was covered with mud, most of which had dried. It will never come clean, Chloe despaired, trying to imagine how she might pay for it if it didn't. She put it back in the washtub and scrubbed until her hands were raw. Then she re-washed the sheet she'd used to cover McGuire.

  When both were rinsed, she hung them on the clothesline and gathered the dry wash. Walking back across the yard, her arms full, she tripped over the saddlebag McGuire had dropped when he collapsed. Putting the laundry in the wicker basket, she picked up the saddlebag and slung it over her arm so she could carry both inside.

  In the kitchen she stared at the saddlebag, battling with her conscience. Don't snoop, she told herself. It wasn't right to go through the man's personal belongings. But she only wanted to find his extra clothes. Practicality won out and she emptied the bag on the table. She found a razor and a shaving brush, a gun belt with a long-barrel Colt revolver, a box of shells, half a bottle of whiskey, a ten-dollar gold piece and change, and a comb, but no clothes. Not even extra underwear.

  What kind of man came to a town like this on foot, with no possessions, willing to work for room and board? A man who had nothing, she realized.

  She shook the bag again and heard something metallic clanking at the bottom. She pulled out the object. What she saw nearly took her breath and she reached for a chair to sink into. In her hand were a pair of heavy manacles with a two-foot length of chain connecting them. The locks were smashed. The last wearer of these restraints had broken them off rather than opened them with a key. She dropped them on the table and recoiled.

  A dozen thoughts collided in her mind. An outlaw? An escaped prisoner? Who was this man? What had he done?

  Chloe had never met anyone who had even been arrested. Since Misfortune's decline the jail had stood empty. Oh, there was Morris Caldwell, the town drunk who was sometimes kept overnight on Saturdays by Sheriff Winslow. But that was only to prevent Morris from sleeping on the porches of the town's residents, which he was apt to do if not supervised. For the past eleven years, Morris had been the only person to occupy the jail cell in Fred's office. But Fred didn't put handcuffs or leg irons on Morris.

  They put manacles on criminals, dangerous criminals.

  Her gaze fell to the big revolver laying on the table in front of her. Had this McGuire shot someone? Stolen something? Or—real terror nudged her—raped a woman?

  She rose and paced in circles around the table, alarm and a sense of vulnerability rising in her. Fear of another person was an alien emotion for Chloe and she didn't like it. Her first impulse was to run back to Doc's office and tell him she couldn't keep this man in her house, that he'd either have to put Travis up himself or find other accommodations for him. She felt foolish for her earlier bravado when she'd insisted that Travis stay, especially when Doc had given her an opportunity to back out of her offer. Of course at the time, she rationalized, she'd had no way of knowing such a nasty skeleton hung in McGuire's closet. She'd only known that he was sick and shouldn't be moved.

  Chloe remembered what McGuire had shouted upstairs when she'd tried to subdue him—that he didn't do it, whatever it was, and that he was the "wrong man."

  Her conscience stirred as she recalled him collapsing at her feet and the deathly look to his unconscious face as he'd lain in the bathtub while she and Doc ministered to him. Doc had said McGuire was too sick to be moved. He had even implied that the man might die if he couldn't stay here. Chloe glumly accepted that she couldn't demand that the drifter be removed from her house. Not yet. Not while his condition was still so uncertain. For the time being, she'd have to risk her safety with him.

  Smothering her fear, she stopped pacing and returned McGuire's belongings to his saddlebag. When only the Colt and its box of bullets were left, she paused. Picking up the heavy revolver she flipped open the chamber. It had been fired. Four, not six, rounds were in it. She unloaded the bullets and wrapped them in her handkerchief and hid the small bundle and the box in the pantry behind the rows of jars on the shelf. The gun she locked in her father's desk in the parlor. Removing the key, she put it in her pocket, deciding to keep it with her. Risk was one thing. Complete foolhardiness was another.

  Satisfied with the weapon's hiding place, she climbed the stairs and went to sit with McGuire.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The day was nearly gone when Travis McGuire came swimming back to consciousness with a sluggish jolt. Jesus, what horrible dreams he'd been having.

  In his disjointed nightmare, he'd been arrested and dragged away to prison in the worst snowstorm he'd ever seen. It was bitterly cold and he'd had no coat or hat. The way the guard had prodded him along made him slip and fall into a slushy puddle that immediately soaked his hair and light clothing, freezing him to the bone. The guard had jerked him upright by his belt and thrown him into a chair where he shivered in misery.

  Even now Travis wasn't certain he was awake. The first thing his eyes focused on when he opened them was a barred window. A cell? He fought the confusion clouding his brain. After a moment he realized he was looking at a window through a spindle-back chair.

  Where was he? He surveyed the room and saw flowered paper on the walls and lace curtains at the windows. The bedding smelled like sachet. No prison was decorated like this. Even he felt washed.

  Laboriously, he rolled to his side, the effort bringing sharp pain to every muscle in his body. His head ached so much he wondered if he'd been horse-kicked. And thirst—his tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth.

  When he looked past the edge of the mattress his gaze came to rest on what appeared to be a pair of knees covered by a dirty gray skirt. Glancing up, he saw a middle-aged woman asleep in a rocking chair beside the bed, her work-reddened hands folded around a rag doll that sat on her lap. She was a God-awful plain-faced thing and her dress was covered with dried mud. Her straggling hair looked as though birds had been nesting in it and there were purple shadows beneath her eyes.

  Panic momentarily seized him. He jammed his hand under the pillow, looking for the gun he always kept with him when he slept. It wasn't there, and he felt defenseless and naked without it. He groped around in his mind trying to unravel the puzzle but his mem
ory failed him. Where the hell was he and how had he gotten here? And why did he feel so rotten? This was worse than any hangover and he couldn't recall getting drunk.

  He saw a glass of water on the nightstand and was sure if he didn't get a drink, he'd shrivel up and die. Hoisting himself up slowly on one elbow, he grasped the glass and took a sip. He frowned at the salty taste but drank it anyway. A wave of dizziness washed over him and when he tried to set the glass down it fell and shattered on the hardwood floor.

  Chloe woke with a start. For a moment her eyes locked with his. Those eyes were as gray and threatening as a winter sky, she noticed. She had to look away from their dark scrutiny.

  “I'm sorry,” she began, “I guess I fell asleep.” Now that he was awake she felt uncharacteristically timid.

  Her statement told him nothing except the obvious. “Who are you?” he demanded, his voice still hoarse. “Why am I being kept here? As a matter of fact, where is 'here'?”

  Conquering her reluctance to get too close to him, Chloe knelt and picked up the broken pieces of glass. “You don't remember what happened to you?” Putting the shards on the nightstand, she perched nervously on the edge of the rocker. She couldn't forget how quickly he'd moved earlier, or how easily he'd pushed her away.

  “If I did would I be asking?” he snapped, a sharp frown creasing his scraped forehead. He felt he should recognize her but couldn't imagine why.

  His rude hostility tweaked Chloe's temper. “Mr. McGuire, I don't like your attitude. I'm only trying to help you.” Where was the polite man who had begged for water in her backyard only a few hours ago?

  He shot her a flinty, suspicious glance. “How do you know my name? Damn it, lady, I want some answers!”

  The severity of his furious gray stare pinned her to the rocker. She remembered the manacles in his saddlebag, that he was a dangerous man, and her anger faded to apprehension, which she knew showed plainly on her face.

  That look both annoyed and satisfied Travis. He'd get to the bottom of this damned quick.