In The Sheriff's Protection

Clara quickly ate the egg and took a gulp of tea, and then had to press a hand to her stomach as it revolted, having been empty for so long. She took a couple smaller sips of tea, hoping that would help her stomach accept the food.

It appeared to. When Billy and Tom appeared in the doorway, she no longer feared the egg would find its way back up her throat.

“How are you feeling?” Tom asked. “The egg wasn’t too much for your stomach, was it?”

“No, no, thank you,” she said. “It was perfect. I’m sorry that—that you’ve been detained here for so long. Now that I’m awake...” She glanced at Billy and the shine in his eyes as he looked up at Tom. “Billy and I will be fine. I’m sure you’ll want to be on your way.”

“Tom can’t leave yet,” Billy said. “Can you? Tom, tell her why.”

Her stomach threatened to erupt again and she pressed a hand to the base of her throat while swallowing hard. She didn’t have the right to pray that he hadn’t told Billy the truth, but sincerely hoped he hadn’t.

“We are in the middle of a project, ma’am,” Tom said. “One that will take at least another day to complete.”

“A project?” Flinching at how fearful she sounded, she pulled up what she hoped looked like a smile, and asked, “Wh-what sort of project?”

Tom’s smile was far more genuine as he ruffled Billy’s hair with one hand. “When Billy showed me where you cut your leg, we discovered the entire door frame on the barn was rotted.”

“Tom used some wood from the corral to fix the door, but first we had to cut down some trees to make poles for the corral,” Billy said excitedly. “And guess what, Ma? We got enough poles to use more wood off the corral to fix the porch. Those boards that are missing. But Tom said we couldn’t start pounding on the roof until you were awake.” As a frown formed, Billy looked up at Tom. “That’s important stuff for a man to know, ain’t it, Tom? How to fix a corral and a house. And a barn and how to cut down trees to make poles, and—”

“Yes, it is, Billy,” Tom replied, with a wink at her son. “Real important stuff. Now that your ma has eaten, let’s go get busy. We have plenty of work to do.”

He stepped up to the side of the bed, and as he reached down to take the tray off her lap, Clara willed the tears to remain at bay. Billy had never been treated so kindly, nor had she.

“Thank you, Mr. Baniff.” Her throat burned too hotly to say much more.

“You’re welcome, ma’am. You have a good boy here. A real good boy.”

She nodded but didn’t look up. Her eyes were once again staring at the two miniature holes in his vest. If only she could... She closed her eyes to stop the thought.

“Do you need anything else?” he asked.

Pulling her eyes open, she nodded, then shook her head. “No, no, thank you. I’ll be fine.”

“Just yell if you do. We’ll be right outside.”

“Yeah, Ma, we’ll be right outside,” Billy said.

Anger welled inside her as they left the room. That was how it should be. How a man should show a boy what was important in life. How to take care of his property and his family. Hugh had never done that. Would never do that. Whenever he was around, the few days a year he stopped long enough to drop off stolen items and money, he barely had the time of day for Billy.

And he was never alone.

Urgency rose up inside her then. Hugh was rarely alone. If he rode in, Tom wouldn’t stand a chance against Hugh and his cohorts.

She pushed aside the sheet and cautiously swung her legs over the edge of the bed. There wasn’t a lot of pain, for which she was thankful, but by the time she’d managed to get dressed, she felt as if she’d just run a mile or more. Exhaustion and weakness were expected after being in bed so long. If it was anyone else, she’d tell them to lie back down. She didn’t have that choice. Hugh could show up at any time and she had to make sure Tom wasn’t here when that happened.

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

“You shouldn’t have done so much work,” Tom told her quietly. He’d struggled saying anything, seeing that Clara was clearly used to working from sun up to sun down. Despite all the work he’d found to keep him and Billy busy the past few days, she’d taken remarkably good care of the property and animals, and her son. Billy was not only well behaved, he was eager to please. From all he’d learned while she’d been asleep, Hugh Wilson deserved no credit when it came to this homestead or Billy.

“I didn’t,” she said. “I’d canned the venison earlier this year and the vegetables last fall. All I had to do was dump them together and heat it up.” She lifted her head from the back of the rocking chair she was sitting in on the front porch, and looked at him. “You, on the other hand, have been extremely busy. I expected the kitchen to be in shambles when I walked out of the bedroom. You must have had a very strict mother.”

The serene smile that had appeared on her lips made his heart hammer inside his chest. To the point he had to look away. He’d never taken to a woman before and wouldn’t now, but there was something about her that made him want to care. More than he should.

“Or is it a wife I owe the credit to?” she asked.

“No,” he said, keeping his gaze locked on the barn. “It would have been my mother. I was the oldest and had to watch over the younger ones plenty, which included cleaning up after them.” That had been years ago, long before arriving here, and he’d forgotten what it had been like.

“How many?”

“Four. Three boys and a girl.”

“You were lucky.”

“Yes, I was,” he said truthfully. Though Julia’s death had affected all of them, he now appreciated the fact he’d known her. She’d been eleven years younger than him and the apple of everyone’s eye. Including his. From the day Julia had been born, he’d felt a deep sense of responsibility toward her that he’d honored. He’d shifted that responsibility to the law after her death, and that was where it would remain until his dying day.

“Where did you live?”

The sun was setting, so he kept his eyes on how the fading rays lit up the rolling hills. “Alabama,” he said. “Until we moved to Kansas. My father was a surgeon in the war. The side that lost.” That didn’t bother him at all; it was just how his father always said it and it was now habit. He stopped there, avoiding telling her about being a deputy in the small town his folks still lived in before moving to Oak Grove and accepting the position as sheriff there.

“My father fought on the other side, but I still don’t know if there was a winner or loser. Just lots of lost lives.”

He showed his agreement with a nod. Her voice was soft and easy to listen to and that bothered him. Everything about her bothered him in ways he shouldn’t be bothered. Mainly because they weren’t bad ways. Just unusual. He noticed things about her he shouldn’t. Things that shouldn’t be any concern of his. Like the sadness that seemed to surround her when she thought no one was looking.

“A surgeon,” she said. “That explains your doctoring abilities.”

“He’s still a doctor. So is my brother Chet.”

“My father worked in the salt mines in Iowa before the war, but couldn’t afterward.” She sighed and her chair creaked as it rocked back and forth. “Perhaps if the North had had a surgeon like your father, mine might have come home with two arms.”

Not sure why, except he’d never been one to look at the bad side, he said, “At least he came home.”

“You’re right,” she said. “That’s exactly what my mother said. She always said things would work out, too. So when he decided we should move out here, to his brother’s place, we packed up and left Iowa.”

He pushed a foot against the porch floor, keeping his rocker in motion as he turned her way. “That would be Walter?”

She was staring toward the sunset and didn’t look his way, but nodded. “Billy told you this is his place.”

“He did. Said Walter died a while ago.”

“Three years.” She sighed heavily. “I’m not sure Billy really remembers him. He was only four.”

“He remembers Walter went out to round up cattle and fell in a ravine. That he’s buried out there.” The story had come from a seven-year-old, so it could be as off-kilter as a three-wheeled wagon, but Tom sensed even the boy didn’t totally believe the Uncle Walter death tale. A man who’d lived here most of his life didn’t just fall into a ravine.

He should flat out ask her about that. Normally he would. Normally he’d ask where her husband was, too. Or have already left to keep tracking Hugh Wilson. Instead he’d been here for the better part of a week, mending barns, corrals and roofs, doctoring her and looking after Billy. He couldn’t have just ridden on, though, not in good conscience, but now that she was up and showed no signs of the infection returning, he should leave.

Would leave.

“What else did Billy tell you?”