Patricia Potter (30 page)

He pulled out a blade of grass and stuck it in his mouth. Something to do besides think about things not worth thinking ’bout.

T
HE TOWN MEETING
started promptly. As usual, it began with a prayer before the room broke out into chaos.

“Miss Willow hired a gunfighter?” It was an exclamation full of doubt.

“That can’t be right. Miss Willow wouldn’t hurt a fly on a pie.” Sullivan identified the speaker as Bob MacIntyre.

“Heard it right from someone who wuz there.”

“Don’t care what anyone says. I don’t believe it.”

“Whole town gone plumb crazy. Wouldn’t doubt nothin’ anymore.”

“My wife can’t walk the streets anymore.”

“But Miss Willow and a gunfighter?”

“Ain’t right.”

“Damn sure well it ain’t right, beggin’ yer pardon, ladies. A schoolmarm associatin’ with the likes of that killer. Shameful. That’s what it is.”

“Well, Miss Willow weren’t never an ordinary schoolmarm.”

“That’s for true.”

“But what should we do?”

“We could tell her he ain’t welcome in this town.”

“That never done any good in the past. Lookit Estelle.”

“We could fire her.”

“Then whatta we goin’ do? Remember how much trouble we had getting a teacher. And say what you will ’bout Miss Willow’s peculiarities, she’s a fine teacher.”

“But what kind of example…”

“Now, you know Miss Willow’s a lady.”

“But it don’t look good. Her and that gunfighter.”

“But there’s chaperons.”

“Hell, a soiled dove and a drunk. What kinds of chaperons are those?”

“We’ll be the laughingstock of the territory.”

“Well, I don’t wanta go through trying afind a teacher again. ‘Member Abner? Took our money and ran off to the gold fields.”

“And that Sam Morgan. My six-year-old was smarter than he was.”

“Ain’t no one saying nothing about her teaching. It’s the company she keeps.”

Sullivan leaned back against a wall and listened. Willow, he was afraid, was in over her head this time. He could calm the qualms of these people temporarily, but he wondered whether he should. Perhaps their indignation would do what he couldn’t.

He was deeply worried about Willow. He’d seen the expression on her face when she’d said the name Jess. He hadn’t ever seen another like it. Willow, he feared, was falling in love, and he couldn’t imagine it happening with a worse person than Lobo. That gunslinger will break her heart, Sullivan mused.

But Sullivan seldom interfered in personal lives. He didn’t want any interference in his own, and he tried to respect others in the same way. Yet Willow still had a quality of innocence about her, despite her years in the West. She apparently believed that Lobo had a streak of decency someplace, but he was still a killer. And that took a particular type of hardness.

Sullivan’s thoughts were interrupted as the voices grew even more heated. “We oughta to tell her—the gunfighter or her job.”

“You know what she’d say,” the storekeeper said. “And I for one don’t want to lose her.”

“Besides,” said another, “she’d still have the ranch.”

“But she couldn’t keep it without—”

Mayor August Stillwater interrupted. “I think we’re all jumping the gun here. We don’t even know it’s true. Why don’t we send a delegation to find out. And see what she says.”

“But we ought to be prepared. Just in case…”

The mayor looked at the speaker. “You forget how she took care of your Jonathon when your wife was sick.” He turned to another one of the critics. “Or you. Your Ethan was headed straight for trouble till she straightened him out.” He turned to Sullivan. “Doc, you know anything about this?”

Sullivan shrugged. “Just that Lobo’s the stranger who’s been helping her out. She didn’t know who he was, though, until Saturday night.”

“Why d’ya suppose he’s doing it?” The question came from the back of the room.

Sullivan narrowed his eyes in thought. “You all know Willow. She has a way about her.”

A few heads nodded, then more.

“You think he might try to hurt her?” The question came from Mrs. MacIntyre.

No.
Not the way they meant anyway. Sullivan hesitated. It was strange how sure he was of that. He finally shook his head slowly.

“Then why…?”

He looked at them, at each individual face. “Why did you go out to help with the barn, knowing Alex would be angry?”

“But we’re not gunfighters.”

“You’re human beings,” he said as he shrugged. “I can only guess that he’s one, too.”

“But he lived with Apaches. Indians ain’t got no feelings. It must be a trick.”

All of a sudden Sullivan found himself defending Lobo. “He’s no different from anyone else. Willow said he was stolen as a child. He wasn’t Apache by choice.”

“That ain’t what I heard.”

“I think we’ve all heard a lot of things. Do you believe everything people say?”

“Wellllll…maybe not, but it still ain’t proper. A man like him at Willow’s place.”

“Any of you want to volunteer instead?” Sullivan’s voice was challenging. Sheepish faces looked up at him, though he still heard a few disgruntled mumbles.

“I’ll talk to her,” Sullivan said finally, “and express your concerns. And I’ll keep an eye on the place.”

Mayor Stillwater nodded eagerly. He hated dissension in his town, and now the whole valley was filled with distrust and rumors. Any small relief was welcome.

“Won’t do no good,” came a mutter from the back.

But everyone else was nodding their heads.

And Sullivan was wondering why in the hell he’d just done what he had.

An hour later he was still wondering. As he rode through the gates of Willow’s ranch, his gaze went to the silent barn, to the house still filled with light.

The door opened quickly when he knocked.

Willow stood there, some of the eagerness in her face fading slightly as she recognized her visitor. But a welcoming smile was almost immediately in its place.

“How did the meeting go?” she asked with humor in her eyes.

He shrugged. “They don’t like Lobo staying here.”

“His name is Jess.”

“Whatever the name is, they don’t think it’s right for a gunfighter to be staying with the schoolmarm.”

“But they didn’t fire me?” she guessed.

“I told them I would express their concerns.”

She giggled slightly at the solemn way he delivered the message, and he, too, had smiled. She was incorrigibly optimistic. “Consider them expressed.”

The smile almost immediately faded from his face. “It’s serious this time, Willow. They’re worried, not only about appearances but about the town.”

“I know,” she said. “I am, too.”

“He doesn’t help things, you know.”

“He’s been very kind. I won’t ask him to leave.”

Sullivan sighed. “I expected as much. Where is he anyway?”

“Out on the rise above the trail. He and Brady are taking turns, just in case Alex sends his men back.”

Sullivan nodded. “You’re all right?”

She nodded.

“Good night, then.”

“You won’t stay for coffee?”

“No,” he said. “I just wanted…”

“…to express concerns.” Her mouth twitched. “Thank you.”

He shook his head slightly, and left. He had one more thing to do.

L
OBO HAD WATCHED
with something akin to pain as the sawbones passed him by on the trail. It was obvious the man did not see him, and Lobo did nothing to attract attention.

Instead, he knew a pain that moved from his gut to his heart to his mind. The doctor was everything Willow should have. Educated. Apparently a gentleman. A man who cared about others, everything he wasn’t.

It didn’t matter, he told himself. He would be gone before long.

He shifted, rolling over slightly from his position overlooking the trail, the same place he’d first seen Willow. He saw her now, as she had been that day, her laughter floating in the wind.

Damn Newton. It was Newton keeping him there when he should leave. There was no telling when he might make another move. Lobo was only sure that he would.

Lobo heard the noise of hoofbeats long before he spied the rider. The sawbones hadn’t stayed long. Lobo was surprised at how pleased he was at the knowledge. He expected to see the rider continue on, but he didn’t. Instead, the horse and rider turned toward his direction and Lobo stood slowly and lazily as he understood the man was seeking him out.

Sullivan sat in the saddle and looked down on the gunfighter. He was tempted to stay astride, for although Sullivan was taller than most men, Lobo was taller still. But in the moonlight he could already see the cold amusement in the gunfighter’s eyes, and he knew that Lobo was aware of the brief feeling. He dismounted, holding the reins of his horse, and matched Lobo stare for stare.

“Need somethin’?” Lobo asked.

“You really think Newton will storm this place?”

“Sooner or later.”

“And you’re going to stay until he does?”

“Does that bother you?” Lobo’s question was lazy, without real interest.

Sullivan matched the cold stare. “Maybe it does.”

“Is that why you’re here?”

“No. I came to warn you.”

Sullivan received some reaction then: a lift of the chin, brow furrowed.

“Warn me? From who?”

“Something I heard in town. An ambush is being planned. I thought you should know.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t know or won’t tell?”

“Does it make any difference?”

“I guess not,” Lobo said, his mouth relaxing slightly. “I don’t suppose you can tell me more.”

Sullivan shook his head. He turned to mount again. He’d done what he’d come to do. He doubted he would accomplish anything more.

“You didn’t come to tell me to leave?”

The question came as a surprise to Sullivan, and he turned around. “Wouldn’t do any good, would it?”

“No.”

Sullivan met the icy blue-green eyes. “I won’t say I like you staying here. You’re causing Willow one hell of a lot of trouble.”

“There’d be more if I left.”

“I wonder,” Sullivan retorted.

Lobo shifted slightly, his stance tensing. “What do you mean?”

“Willow doesn’t see things like other people do. When she looks at you, she doesn’t see a gunfighter. She sees the man who saved Sallie Sue, a hero. Which are you, Lobo?”

Something like anguish flashed briefly in Lobo’s eyes. Then he turned away. “Thanks, Doc, for the warning.”

Sullivan knew he was dismissed. He mounted, wondering exactly which warning Lobo was referring to.

18

J
ess was already working early the next morning.
Willow wondered when he ever slept, if he ever tired.

She also wondered whether she would get used to going to the window and not seeing Jess there.

He appeared to be reenforcing the corral now, his movements quick and purposeful. She’d never seen anyone quite so capable at everything, nor one with whom she felt safer.

Her eyes feasted on him. He was standing in the sun, his hair reflecting gold and his skin bronze. He was all grace as he moved, the muscles in his shoulders bunching under the light cotton shirt. As usual, the sleeves of his shirt were rolled up and his hands were covered with leather gloves. Somehow the combination made him appear irresistibly masculine and appealing.

Willow’s face heated, knowing her thoughts were unbecoming to someone in her position. She had even wondered how someone like him, someone so incredibly vital, could be attracted, in even the smallest way, to an old-maid schoolteacher. Yet the attraction between them was obviously mutual, the sparks as much on his side as hers, and she had felt the need and want in his kiss. She didn’t know why he’d hesitated in taking it further; she should be glad that he did, but she wasn’t.

She had thought about him constantly since the first time she’d met him. She’d thought about what she was risking. Nothing less than her heart. Other things—her place in the community, her beloved job as a teacher—no longer mattered as much. She’d never known man-woman love, and she was too much the romantic to pass it by now.

In her own quiet, determined way, Willow had always grabbed life. She’d done it at the Boston school, almost forcing the headmaster to give her a position; she’d done it when she came west, and again when she’d decided to take on the ranch. She knew people considered her naive and often foolish, but she’d always known exactly what she was doing, and the risks involved. She thought that if you wanted something badly enough, and worked hard enough for it, you got it. It suited her that people thought her more flighty than she was, because then they allowed her more tolerance. She used that flight-iness shamelessly because she was a woman, and she needed every weapon she could get.