Wild Burn (4 page)

“But you work for the Army.”

“I’m a contractor.” It was as good an answer as any.

Silence reigned between them as the sheriff considered Del’s words. He was a tall man, taller than Del, and lean. His unbuttoned vest hung loosely on narrow shoulders, his tarnished badge pinned to one lapel. His brown hair was trimmed short above his ears and at his nape, and his mustache lay neatly groomed beneath a large nose. The lines around his eyes were tight, his thin lips pinched, as he studied Del. “A contractor.”

Del’s aim stayed steady, the Remington an extension of his arm. “Do you want my help or not?” It would be no skin off his nose to kick up his heels in Red Creek for a few days, perhaps in one of the rooms on the second level of the Ruby Saloon. Perhaps in one of those rooms with a certain freckled redhead—

“Yes.” The sheriff interrupted Del’s thoughts, leaning over the desk with his hand extended. “Hank Nelson.”

Sliding the pistol back into its holster, Del shook Nelson’s hand. The government paid Del good money to take care of the violent Cheyenne tribes, Cloud Rider’s band among them, so he’d do what needed to be done here, regardless. And as Nelson’s request came with the promise of a reward in return for his assistance, Del wasn’t about to turn down a little extra coin for his pocket.

Four years ago he’d never have been so mercenary.

Four years changed a man, indelibly.

“We’re glad to have you, Crawford. Most of the savages have been extracted from the Territory, but there are still a few tribes here and there.”

He remembered Miss Tully vouching for the peaceful Cheyenne. “What about the settlement nearby?”

Nelson settled back in his chair, rubbing a rueful hand over the back of his neck. “It’s a tricky business. If the Indians can successfully integrate, they can stay.”

“That’s progressive of you.”

The sheriff shrugged. “Like I said, it’s tricky. But that’s why you’re here.”

Del shook his head. “I don’t kill innocent people.”

“I understand.” Nelson lifted his hands placatingly. “The tribe over the hill is led by an old man called Walking Bear. He’s never given us any real trouble. But then we heard about the burnings in Rock Pass and Millerstown, and a couple of the families living nearby spotted savages in their war paint, carrying torches.”

“Not part of Walking Bear’s tribe, I take it.”

“No. I don’t want any trouble, not with anyone.” Nelson’s eyes were stormy as he met Del’s gaze. “
Anyone
. Not the Cheyenne, not the people of Red Creek. I can’t make ’em all happy, though, and if you could just take care of the violent ones—”

“Then you can keep things peaceful,” Del finished for him. “You better be paying me well for making me a scapegoat.”

“We will.” Nelson paused. “Walking Bear knows the savages you’re after, I’m sure of it. But they’re not staying on the hill—I’ve done some reconnaissance. Still, things could get ugly for you if you hurt the wrong Indians.”

“Then I’ll make sure I hurt the
right
ones,” Del responded mockingly, trying to ignore the ball of unease making a home for itself in his stomach. Shooting John White Horse was a mistake he likely couldn’t afford, and he had to let Nelson know about it before things went any further. “Speaking of, I need to tell you—”

The door behind him opened with a bang, knocking into the hall tree and sending it crashing to the floor. Del whirled to see Moira Tully standing there, both hands raised and mouth open as if she couldn’t quite believe the commotion she’d caused in the space of a second.

Her blue eyes narrowed on him. “
You
,” she said between clenched teeth.

He still didn’t know what it was about her that made him want to smile. Until this morning, he’d almost wondered if he’d forgotten how to smile at all. “Ma’am.” He touched a respectful finger to the brim of his hat. “How’s your ear?” he asked before he could rein in the words.

She glared at him.

He stared calmly back at her, though truth be told, there was nothing calm going on inside him. She’d freshened up in the past half hour, and the change in her appearance was a surprise, in more ways than one. Not only did she wear a day dress as proper as any Southern belle’s, but she also wore it with confidence and modesty.

Miss Tully was no whore.

As his gaze took in the fresh bandage wrapped tightly around her skull, Del couldn’t decide whether or not he was disappointed. The cream blouse clung to her small, high breasts and skimmed down into the green silk belt at her slim waist. A layered skirt as blue as the mountain sky rested over a hooped frame, though not as wide as the fashions worn by the young women of Savannah.

Her skin had been scrubbed clean of blood, and beneath her freckles her flesh was a pale rose. Thick auburn lashes framed her Irish eyes, matching her curved brows and the sleek, damp braid coiled at her nape. Her lips were pursed in a disapproving frown, but it didn’t make her any less beautiful.

Because she
was
beautiful, he realized. Beautiful, with her freckles and her frowning and her accusatory glare.

And decidedly not a prostitute.

“Sheriff Nelson,” she said as she settled her hands on her hips, never taking her eyes off Del. He didn’t mind.

Footsteps sounded as the sheriff moved from behind his desk. “Miss Tully. What can I do for you this morning?”

A self-satisfied smirk curled her mouth, and dread trickled down Del’s spine.

“You can arrest this man for shooting John White Horse.”

Chapter Five

Moira was tired of seeing Delaney Crawford’s scruffy face every time she turned around.

“John’s been shot?” Sheriff Nelson moved to stand next to the captain.

“Yes. By
him
.” She lifted her chin as she stared down her new nemesis. He looked even worse for wear than he had earlier, though she berated herself for noticing.

“Miss Tully.” The sheriff’s tone was equal parts confusion and condescension. “This is Captain Crawford. He just arrived this morning. He couldn’t possibly have shot John.”

“No, I did,” cut in Crawford, surprising her with his admission. “I was in the clearing to the west of town, and I…reacted without thought.”

“Is John all right?”

She turned her attention to the sheriff. “Doc’s been to see him already. Mr. White Horse will recover.” She lifted a finger to point at Crawford. “But that shouldn’t excuse the fact that a crime was committed.”

“Miss Tully—”

“No.” Her finger switched to stab at the sheriff’s chest, but she didn’t touch him. Hank Nelson repelled her, in a way that Crawford couldn’t, even after he’d shot her. “Mr. White Horse was assaulted, with deadly force. The perpetrator must be punished.” She ignored the fact that she was shaking, telling herself she shook merely with the force of her convictions.

She refused to acknowledge the fear tying her stomach in knots.

The sheriff closed his eyes briefly, as if for patience, which annoyed Moira to no end. He may have been the reason she’d settled in Red Creek, albeit indirectly, but their relationship remained contentious from the day she’d arrived almost half a year ago. Working with Sheriff Nelson on the native inclusion efforts proved a constant battle, until she had begun to doubt he wanted the Cheyenne to integrate in the first place. “Miss Tully, this ain’t Boston, and your fancy jargon doesn’t much matter in my jail. All I need to know is if someone died.”

She scowled at him.

“Well? Did anyone die, Miss Tully?”

Crawford simply watched her, composed and unblinking as he waited for her to fit his jail cell for a shiny new lock. It was a strange sort of trust he put in her, though he could have been spewing self-righteous indignation in his defense, bumping shoulders with the sheriff in that conspiratorial way men had—the bonds of some invisible brotherhood linking them all and making sure that the bitter, weaker woman didn’t get her skirts in a twist. She’d seen it before, and it wouldn’t have shocked her. But his green eyes, suddenly so readable to her, told her he knew she wouldn’t attempt to lie.

“No,” she grated, not liking the flush she felt creeping up her neck. “No one died.” Mr. White Horse wouldn’t be on his feet for a day or so, as he risked infection and fever, and she was
missing
part of her ear
, but no one had died.

Evidently that was enough for Sheriff Nelson. With a patronizing smirk, he said, “There now, it’s not all so bad, see? Just a little misunderstanding.”

Moira fumed. She didn’t care if he was the Mother Superior’s nephew and had offered her the teaching job when she most needed it—Hank Nelson was a pompous ass.

But she still needed to know if he’d truly summoned Crawford to their town, knowing it would create strife between the Indians and the people of Red Creek. “Is having
him
here just a little misunderstanding?”

The sheriff sighed heavily. “Surely you’ve heard the talk about the Indians going about and burning down houses.”

“That hasn’t happened here.”

“It’s only a matter of time, Miss Tully. They’ve either got to be driven out or…” He trailed off as his eyes found a spot over her head upon which to focus.

Her stomach churned. “Or murdered. Is that what you’re saying?”

“Only before they murder us,” returned the sheriff, glaring at her beneath his thin dark brows. “What’s got your dander up? I’ve never seen you so riled over the natives.”

She was ashamed to admit it wasn’t only horror over what the sheriff and Crawford were planning to do that had her so boiling mad, but Crawford himself. If he hadn’t been invited to Red Creek, he never would’ve been in the clearing this morning. John White Horse would never have been shot, and Moira’s own ear wouldn’t be notched, as Crawford had put it. Red Creek, as a growing mining town, may have its share of problems, but random violence by strange gunslingers wasn’t one of them. For all that this was the wild frontier, Moira felt safer in this little mountain community than she often had in Boston, even before the…incident.

The fact was, Crawford unsettled her. She could still feel the bristles of his beard as he whispered his apology to her. She could, if she inhaled deeply, take that strange, warm scent of his into her nostrils, where it would wend around her senses like cold water over a creek bed, wearing down her rough edges to compliant smoothness. She couldn’t allow it. She barely knew the man, but she already knew his presence here was a harbinger of dark times ahead, for her.

The other, less damning half of the truth was what she’d offer Sheriff Nelson. “You know how hard Mr. White Horse has worked with the Cheyenne, trying to encourage them to trade in Red Creek. And the children—we’re so close to getting them into the classroom. Wasn’t that part of the future you promised Mr. White Horse? That if he could successfully integrate them into our culture, even if they live outside the town proper, you would make certain the government didn’t extract them from the Territory?”

“I—”

“Miss Tully.” Crawford’s green gaze snared hers, holding her unwillingly captive. “I’m here to prevent atrocities, not cause any. I won’t lift a hand against the tribe over the hill.”

“A bit too late for that, isn’t it?” She sneered as she folded her arms across her chest, feeling the need for armor every time she looked at him. That, itself, was the most unsettling sensation—because for all that he’d shot part of her ear off, she didn’t for a moment feel in physical danger in his presence. She suddenly recalled when she’d run across the clearing and he’d chased after her, only to snatch her back against him when he caught her. Protecting her. He’d been trying to protect her.

She forced herself to look at him, to
see
him as he was, framed in the bright splash of sunlight the open doorway let in with dust motes swirling madly between them on the cool breeze. Dirty, yes, but likely from days of travel on horseback without a chance for real rest. He needed fresh clothes, a bath and a shave, but mostly the man needed sleep. He appeared exhausted, more so by the moment, and she wondered how he managed to rein in his temper, given her sniping.

Just as she was about to apologize, her ear throbbed, reminding her of the injury and his starring role in its causation. “I need to get on to the schoolhouse, but, Sheriff, I want you to know how…how utterly disappointed I am in you, for turning to violence when you should be promoting peace.”

When the man didn’t respond, only frowning disapprovingly at her, she turned on her heel with a nod to him and a smaller nod to Crawford.

She was halfway down the boardwalk when she heard the heavy tread of booted feet behind her, and a rusty, masculine voice saying, “Miss Tully, wait.”

Her legs had already halted before her mind made the decision to, responding to the soft entreaty in his words. “Captain,” she muttered, not turning around.

His body came even with hers, a tall drink of water in her peripheral vision that made her skin tingle and her breath stutter annoyingly in her throat. “Can I walk you to your destination?”

“There’s no need.” What she did need were the intervening minutes to clear her head of him before she could hope to successfully wrangle the energetic children that automatically became hers from nine in the morning until two thirty in the afternoon.

“I’d like to, anyway.” He offered her his arm, then paused. “You’re all cleaned up. You don’t wanna touch me.”

“I…” She stared at the coat sleeve covering his forearm. He was substantial, taking up more space and air than was his fair share with those broad shoulders and thick arms. He was tall, too, nearly half a foot over her own unladylike five feet and seven inches. With sudden clarity, she knew she
did
want to touch him, regardless of the dirt on his clothes. Regardless of her disfigured ear.

It was confusing. Being a nun hadn’t often put her into contact with the opposite gender. Part of why she’d so easily taken the veil was because she had never felt drawn to a man. Attraction had rarely been present in her life. The incident in April had changed that, of course, putting her needs and emotions on starkly painful display. In mere minutes, she’d been shown what she might once have been able to crave, and then had it snatched from her in the most heinous manner possible. Men were not a factor for her, past, present and future.