Robin Lee Hatcher (3 page)

Remington heard her sigh.

“Yes, it is up to me, Sawyer.” She was silent a moment. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll come have a look at that pup as soon as I’m finished here.”

“How’s he doin’?”

Remington sensed Olivia looking at him during the pause that followed.

“As well as can be expected. But I wish he’d wake up. He needs nourishment.”

“He’s gonna be okay, Libby. You’ll see. God’ll take care of him.”

“I hope so,” she whispered. “I truly hope so.”

Remington hoped so too. He needed to send a telegram to New York City.

Libby worked with deliberate care as she cleansed the stranger’s wounds, then replaced the soiled bandages. When she finished, she picked up the basin of water and bloodstained strips of linen and rose from the chair beside the bed. Only then did she allow her gaze to return to the man’s face.

Lord, let Sawyer be right. Let this man be okay. Let him
wake up soon.

It was her fault he was lying there, unconscious and in pain. It was her fault he was wounded, perhaps crippled for life. How would she ever make it up to him—
if
he survived?

Another thought plagued her. Did he have a wife, a worried wife who waited to hear from him?

Unable to stop herself, Libby reached forward and brushed his black hair away from his forehead. The moment her fingertips touched him, unease coiled in her stomach. She pulled back her hand and hurried from the room.

Father God, heal him and take him away. I feel like we’re
in danger as long as he’s here. Is that Your Spirit or my lack
of faith?

Libby carried the bowl of water to the kitchen and set it on the counter. She dropped the soiled bandages into a basket, then went out to the barn as she’d promised. She found Sawyer in a far corner, kneeling in the straw. He held the black-and-white runt of the litter in his arms. Misty, the puppy’s mother, lifted her head as Libby approached. The dog’s big, round eyes begged for relief from the eight rambunctious pups latched onto her belly.

Libby knelt beside Sawyer and stroked Misty’s head. “Poor girl,” she crooned. “Can’t wait until they’re weaned, can you?”

Misty licked her hand.

Libby pulled two of the plump three-week-old pups away from their breakfast, setting them behind her in the thick straw. Then she took the runt from Sawyer’s hands and pressed the pup’s nose against Misty’s belly, holding him there until he grabbed hold. “Sawyer, let’s try helping him out this way for a while. It’ll be better for him if he gets his food from his mother.”

“Okay.” His voice revealed disappointment.

She was tempted to tell him he could bring the puppy into the house, but old habits die hard. She could hear Amanda’s voice in her head:
“These dogs work for their keep.
They ain’t pets. They’re here to tend the flock and send up an
alarm if there’s trouble
,
and for no other reasons than that.
Don’t you go makin’ pets of ’em
,
Libby. You hear me?”

She smiled at the memory. Against Amanda’s orders, Misty became Libby’s pet. But Amanda hadn’t really minded. She understood Libby’s loneliness, a loneliness the collie helped to fill.

Libby glanced at Sawyer, her smile fading. The boy was lonely too. He missed his father. Libby understood. She knew all about missing someone until a body thought it might die from the missing. She’d felt that way about her mother. She still did sometimes, even all these years later.

“You’re kind of partial to that runt, aren’t you?” She wanted to put her arm around Sawyer, wanted to show him she loved him.

He shrugged.

“How about if we make the pup yours?”

The boy’s brown eyes widened as he looked up at her.

“It’ll be your job to train him, see that he learns to earn his keep. Can you do that?”

Sawyer nodded, and his shaggy hair fell into his eyes.

“All right, then. He’s yours.”

She thought for a moment he might hug her, but he caught himself in time.

“Thanks, Libby. I’ll make him a good sheepdog. I promise. We’ll take care of the sheep for you. You’ll see.”

“I know you will.”
It’s okay to be a little boy, Sawyer.
You don’t have to take your father’s place.
She rose from the barn floor. “Don’t forget you’ve got other chores to do.”

“I won’t.” His gaze remained locked on his puppy.

Libby headed for the barn door, thinking it likely she would find Sawyer right where she left him come lunchtime. As she stepped through the opening, she squinted her eyes against the bright midmorning sunlight. It was going to be another hot day.

“Mornin’, Miss Blue.”

She stopped short, and her breath caught in her chest.

Timothy Bevins sat astride his horse, his mouth curving in a mockery of a smile. Some women might have found him appealing, but Libby saw only the smallness of his soul behind his hazel eyes. Amanda had said he was a coward without enough gumption to stand up for himself unless he knew for certain he was stronger than his victim.

“What are you doing here, Mr. Bevins?”

He leaned his forearms on the pommel of his saddle, his body relaxed yet somehow threatening. “Now, that don’t sound neighborly. I come by to see how you’re doin’. I’m worried about you bein’ here all alone, now that your foreman’s dead and old McGregor’s gone with the sheep.”

She held herself straight. “You needn’t be worried about me. I can take care of myself.”

“This ain’t friendly country. You know that, Miss Blue. Just about anything can happen.” He dismounted and took one step toward her.

Bevins wasn’t a tall man, perhaps three or four inches taller than Libby, but he was all muscle, his body sculpted by years of working the range. It wouldn’t take much for him to overpower her.

Libby glanced toward the house, longing for the shotgun that rested against the wall inside the doorway. She was angered by the threat she perceived in his words, in his actions. He had no right to come on her ranch and make her feel helpless.

Bevins moved into her line of vision. “Have you given more thought to sellin’? You don’t belong on a place like this, Miss Blue. You should get yourself a man t’care for you. Think how much happier you’d be. It’d be better for that boy too.” He shook his head. “Anything could happen to him out here. Why, he could get hurt real bad just any old time.”

Libby forgot her uneasiness. She forgot the shotgun in the house. She stepped forward, her head held high, her hands balled into fists at her sides. “Get off my land. And don’t you try to hurt Sawyer again.”

“Now, Miss Blue”—he smiled a smile that made her stiffen with fury—“don’t go gettin’ yourself in a tizzy. I’m just sayin’—”

“I know what you’re saying, Mr. Bevins. And I’m saying,
Get off my land
.”

He grabbed her by the arms. His smile vanished. “I do believe you need someone to show you your place.”

“Let go of me.” She tried to pull free, but his grip only tightened.

“Maybe I’m just the man to show you.”

She was too angry to be afraid. “Let go of me.” She tried again to pull free.

Instead of letting go, he yanked her closer. She smelled his hot, unpleasant breath on her face.

Realizing her vulnerability at last, fear replaced rage, turning her mouth dry and her knees to water. “Let go of me,” she whispered.

Bevins laughed, low and ugly.

“The lady said to let her go.”

Libby gasped, and Bevins took a half step back, although his grip remained firm. In unison, they looked toward the house. There, standing outside the door, leveling a rifle at Bevins, was the stranger she’d left unconscious not fifteen minutes ago. He wore the trousers Libby had mended and patched, but his chest and feet were bare. Despite that, he looked surprisingly capable of taking on Bevins.

“Who’re you?” Bevins demanded.

“That’s
none of your business. Now, let the lady go.”

Bevins’s hold on her arms loosened, and she pulled away, stepping out of his reach, surprised that her legs held her upright.

The man motioned with his Winchester. “Get on your horse and ride out.”

Bevins glared at him, then at Libby.

“Now.”

Bevins apparently believed the warning sincere. He swung onto his horse’s back and kicked the roan into a canter, riding into the thick grove of trees.

Libby stared after him. It took an effort to breathe, and her legs were still shaking. If not for the stranger, Bevins might have done more than frighten her. She turned to look at her rescuer again just as his Winchester clattered to the earth. She saw him grab for the doorjamb, miss it, then slump down beside the rifle.

Libby rushed across the barnyard. As she knelt on the ground, she noticed a red stain darkening the leg of his trousers. He opened his eyes. Blue eyes, the color of the Idaho sky before a thunderstorm blew through.

“Is he gone?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Good.” The word came out on a sigh as his eyes drifted closed.

Six hours later, he regained consciousness.

Relief flooded Libby. “Hello. I’m glad to see you’re back.”

His eyes focused on her face, but he didn’t speak.

“Thank you for what you did.”

“How long have I been unconscious?” His brows drew together in a frown of concentration.

“Since this morning. About six hours.”

“No. How long since I was shot?”

“Five days.”

He closed his eyes. “How bad is my leg?”

She hesitated. “I think it will be all right.” She sank onto the chair near the bed, her guilt returning. “There doesn’t seem to be any infection. Of course, it would have been better if you hadn’t walked on it”—he opened his eyes again, his disconcerting gaze locking with hers—“but I’m very glad you did.”

“He was disturbing my sleep.”

She ignored his weak attempt at humor. “I’m in your debt, sir, especially since I’m the one who . . . especially after I . . .” She let her words drift away, uncertain how to continue.

His blue gaze studied her for a long time before he said, “I take it you had something to do with my injuries.”

Her mind replayed the moment she’d shot him. She could so easily have killed him.

“Why’d you shoot me?”

“I thought you were Bevins.” She tilted her head toward the window. “The man who was here today.”

He released a sigh. “I guess I can understand then.” He winced. “I’d have shot too if I were you.”

This time, his wry tone made her smile.

Remington had thoroughly studied the portrait of Olivia Vanderhoff during his visit to Rosegate, the Vanderhoffs’ Seventy-second Street mansion in Manhattan, but clearly the artist failed to capture the real essence of his subject. The girl in the portrait had no sparkle in her green eyes, nor promise of laughter around her pretty mouth. At seventeen, she’d posed for the portrait in a gown of white lace and satin, her hair dressed with pearls, her throat accented with a gold locket. Now she was twenty-five, clad in a man’s shirt and trousers. She wore no pearls, no locket, no jewelry of any kind.

What made you choose this stark life, Miss Vanderhoff?
Why this?

But the why wasn’t of any real importance. The only thing that mattered was he’d found Northrop Vanderhoff’s missing daughter. With the money he would collect for locating the beautiful heiress, Remington might be able to keep his promise to avenge his father’s death.

He saw a flush of pink steal into her cheeks and realized he was staring. All traces of her smile and suppressed laughter vanished. She straightened her back, lifted her chin, and held out her hand toward him.

“Introductions are past due, sir. My name is Libby Blue. I’m the owner of the Blue Springs Ranch.”

He took hold of her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Blue. My name’s Remington Walker.”

“It’s
Miss
Blue.”

So there wasn’t a husband after all. That was good news.

“What brought you to my ranch, Mr. Walker?”

Only a very few folks had ever fooled Remington. Libby Blue, as she called herself, wasn’t going to be one of them. He called upon his ability to read people and saw intelligence in her eyes, as well as a healthy dose of caution and a dash of distrust. He also sensed an innate honesty.