In The Sheriff's Protection

From the looks of her leg, lockjaw was a real concern, and there was only one thing he knew to do about that. Tom turned Billy toward the doorway. “To start with, we’re going to need fresh water.”

“Ma already had me haul some in. Just a little bit ago. She set it on the stove to boil.”

Tom nodded. She’d probably been preparing to do just what he was going to do. Lance her leg.

Billy stopped in the doorway leading out of the bedroom. “Her name’s Clara. Clara Wilson. My pa’s name is Hugh. Hugh Wilson. He’s tall, but not as tall as you, and he has brown hair.”

If Tom had needed confirmation that he was in the right spot, he now had it. Hugh Wilson was the man he was after. The man who’d shot and injured one of the mail-order brides on her way to Oak Grove, Kansas. She’d been on the train Hugh and two other men had robbed. The other two had met their demise by bullets from passengers on the train, but Hugh had gotten away on a black-and-white paint horse. The only clue he’d had to go on had paid off.

“Mister?”

Reining in his attention, Tom patted Billy’s shoulder. “Let’s see if that water is boiling.”

The kettle was on the stove, but the fire needed to be stoked. She must have been about to do that, considering two logs lay near the stove door. Tom grabbed the poker to stir up the coals. “What did your ma cut her leg on?”

“The side barn door is broken. Nellie, she’s one of our cows, stumbled and pushed Ma against it, and the hinge cut her leg. Ma said it wasn’t bad. It didn’t even bleed much. She’s been boiling onions to put on it for the past couple of days. I tried to fix the barn door, but couldn’t. I did pound the hinge off and...”

As Billy talked, Tom’s thoughts bounced from Clara’s infected leg to why Hugh Wilson would take to robbery when he had a wife and son and a pretty decent chunk of property. The house was small and needed some work, but it was solid and clean. Clara’s leg wasn’t. She’d have been better off if that hinge had sliced her leg wide open—the bleeding would have cleaned away the bacteria. As it was, the closed wound had given the bacteria the perfect breeding ground, which could lead to lockjaw. His father, a surgeon who’d served in the army, had told him all about lockjaw, gangrene and a plethora of other infections and ailments that had affected men during the war. Enough so that even at a young age, Tom had realized being a doctor was not his calling.

There’d been a time he’d thought being a lawman hadn’t been, either. Until Julia had died and finding her killer and knowing justice would be served—and had been—had somehow eased the pain inside him, and the anger. Now being a lawman was his life. When he’d taken the oath to protect the citizens of Oak Grove, he’d meant it, and wouldn’t let them down. It may have been a coincidence that the shot mail-order bride’s name was the same as his little sister’s, but he considered it more than that. To him, it was proof that he’d chosen the right path. That while the other men in town were head over heels at the idea of getting married, he was right in not having anything to do with the entire Oak Grove Betterment Committee.

“It’s boiling.”

Tom turned about.

“The water,” Billy said. “It’s boiling.”

“That’s good.” Tom walked back to the stove. While his mind had been roaming, so had he. The house was in better condition than his first glance had let on, and fully furnished with store-bought items. Not overly expensive pieces, but considering they were a two-day ride from the closest town, several things had him thinking about how long Hugh Wilson had been in the robbery business.

A knife lay on the top of the cabinet near the stove, as did several neatly folded cotton towels and a tin of cayenne pepper. More evidence Clara had been about to lance her leg herself. His stomach clutched slightly, thinking of how difficult and dangerous that would be for someone. The pain could have caused her to pass out, leaving her to possibly bleed out. Which in hand would have left little Billy out here all alone.

Bitterness coated Tom’s tongue as his thoughts hopped to Hugh Wilson again. How could a man leave a woman and child out here alone for months on end? The same kind of man who didn’t care that his bullet could have killed a woman on her way to getting married.

Tom sucked in the anger that circled his guts and picked up the knife. Lowering the blade into the hot water, he nodded toward the door. “Do you know how to unsaddle a horse?”

“Yes, sir,” Billy answered.

“Unsaddle mine, would you? Put him in the barn and give him some feed if you have any to spare.”

“Sure. We got some. I’ll hurry.”

“No,” Tom said, walking toward the sink to wash his hands. “Take your time. His name is Bullet.”

“You want me to brush him down?”

“That would be good,” Tom answered. It wouldn’t take long to lance the leg, but he wanted Billy away from the house in case his mother woke up screaming.

“Then I’ll help you with Ma,” Billy said, already opening the door.

“I’ll be ready for your help,” Tom answered. “Shut the door.”

Billy did so, and Tom scrubbed his hands a bit longer, watching out the window until Billy led Bullet into the barn. Then he dried his hands with one of the clean towels, gathered the other towels and the knife, and walked into the bedroom.

Chapter Two (#u437de0cb-c7ec-5c07-a6bf-738c8b4ca527)

Struggling through an overwhelmingly thick fog almost wore her out before she’d even opened her eyes, and when she did, the man standing over her, one she’d never seen before, only made Clara close her eyes again. She must be dreaming. Had to be, because even though her leg ached, there wasn’t the intense pain of before.

“You feeling better, Ma?”

Billy’s voice was so clear in her dream it made her smile.

“You’re smiling, so you must be feeling better.”

The idea that she might not be dreaming had her pulling her eyelids open. That took effort because they fought her again. When she won the battle and saw Billy, her first instinct was to smile again. He was such a good boy, and she loved him with all her heart. Without him, she wouldn’t have a reason to live.

“You are feeling better, Ma. I can tell,” he said, grinning. “This here is Tom. Tom Baniff. He cut your leg and put cayenne pepper on it. Then he poured whiskey all over you.”

The stranger appeared again, standing next to Billy. This certainly was a silly dream. Only in a dream would a stranger cut her leg and put cayenne pepper and whiskey on her. Cut her leg... A cold shiver rippled over her entire being.

She forced her eyes to remain open, although she blinked several times to chase away the blurriness. Then, as the room became clearer, she glanced around, giving her mind time to catch up and solidify the fact that she wasn’t dreaming.

The man was tall and broad, with shiny black hair and eyes as brown as coffee. He was smiling, too. A friendly smile. He must be a doctor. The exact thing she’d needed.

“The infection?” she asked.

“Is clearing up nicely.”

His voice was deep but gentle at the same time.

“My leg?”

“Is almost back to being the same size as the other one,” he said. “That was quite the infection you had.”

Her thoughts became clearer with each minute that ticked by. “The cayenne pepper worked,” she said. “My uncle said my grandmother did that to him once. Put cayenne pepper on an infected wound. He said he screamed. That it burned.”

“You didn’t scream,” the man said.

She closed her eyes for a moment, as thankful for the fact that she couldn’t remember the pain as she was that she hadn’t screamed. That would have frightened Billy, which was why she’d been putting off lancing the leg herself. It would have scared the dickens out of Billy, and there had been the chance she may have passed out from the pain. As she lifted a hand to feel her forehead, the pungent scent of whiskey filling her nose made her cringe.

“I had to get your fever down,” the man said. “The alcohol in the whiskey did the trick.”

The sheet was tucked beneath her arms, but she could tell the only things she wore were her shift and bloomers. A heat as hot as her fever had been rushed into her cheeks.

“Nothing to worry about, ma’am,” he said. “Billy’s helped me take care of you the entire time.”

She released a breath, knowing such thoughts of decorum were insignificant. “How did you know I was ill?”

“You fell off the chair when I opened the door,” Billy said. “’Member? I thought it was Pa and you said it wasn’t.”