Patricia Potter (6 page)

The boy evidently saw his puzzled look and tried to explain. “I think sometimes he just remembers other days…and he misses Brady. He doesn’t really mean any harm.”

“Where’s…Miss Taylor?”

The boy shrugged. “She’s usually home by now, but sometimes she stays late at the school. She’ll be real grateful you helped Jupiter.”

Chrissakes. Lobo felt his gut tighten again.

“Will ya stay and have dinner with us?” The boy’s plea drifted awkwardly in the air. “I know Willow would be real happy.”

Damnation.

“Just stay the hell away from that bull,” Lobo said in his meanest tone. “Damn fool kid,” he muttered.

“Chad.”

Lobo raised the eyebrow again.

“My name’s Chad,” the boy said, obviously expecting a name in return.

Sending the boy a hard, baleful look, Lobo pulled back the reins of his pinto, and the horse moved backward with small dancing movements. When Lobo was well away from the fence, his knees tightened, and the horse exploded into movement, leaving dust in his wake.

Lobo had traveled a mile when he was suddenly struck by fear for the woman named Willow. Why wasn’t she back yet? Had Newton hired someone else and ordered an ambush?

He rode back to the grassy hill, his eyes intent on the trail, his mind cursing Newton, when he heard the sound of wheels and hooves. The buckboard appeared, and she was there, looking as fresh as she had the other day, with the two boys playing in the back.

As fresh and innocent and pretty.

With a relief he didn’t understand, he backed the pinto until he hoped he was out of sight. The sun was behind him, and its glare would blind anyone looking his way.

He would come back Saturday, when he knew she would be there, and convince her to leave. He would cite the events of the past few days as to why she couldn’t stay, even without Newton’s threats and determination. He would convince her in a bold, logical way.

He watched until the wagon disappeared down the road, and then he rode slowly back to where he had camped two days earlier, the sight of her haunting him. If he ever wished…

But he didn’t. Wishing was for fools.

W
ILLOW SAW THE
figure on horseback, just barely visible in front of the glare of the setting sun. Her eyes were very good despite all the reading she did, and they picked out the beautiful pinto and the lean graceful figure that sat so still in the saddle.

She’d never seen the horse before. She would have remembered its bold, striking colors. She couldn’t make out the face of the man or the color of his hair.

She thought briefly of the gunfighter, but this man seemed to have no hostile intent. A stranger?

Had Chad described the horse of the stranger who had helped Sallie Sue? No.

Coincidence, she thought. Just coincidence. Still he looked…like a guardian sitting there. Like a statue of an ancient and benevolent god.

As she drove the buckboard up to the house, Chad came flying out.

“He was here again,” Chad said, his eyes glowing. “Wait till I tell you what happened.”

W
ILLOW COULDN’T GET
the man out of her mind. Not that night or even the next day.

Even as she taught in the classroom, even as she assisted the twins through multiplication. Even as she related Coronado’s journey up through New Mexico, even as she led Robert, her prize pupil, through Latin.

What did he really look like?

She had just images, images of strength.

She had tried to get more information from Chad. He was blond, he’d told her. Well, not exactly blond. More sandy, maybe. And his eyes…well, he’d never seen anything like them before. A curious color. More blue than green, perhaps. Or more green than blue.

And what did he say?

Very little, according to Chad.

It was odd the way he turned up in times of need and then disappeared. She wished that he had stayed, or that he’d left his name so she could thank him. Since he’d mysteriously appeared days apart, he obviously wasn’t just passing through. Yet when she asked townspeople about him, no one else had seen anyone remotely resembling the description.

Sometimes she wondered if he even existed. And then she saw in her mind, as clearly as she had actually seen him that evening, the man and horse, as still as statues, silhouetted against the sun, and her heart thundered as it never had before.

Willow was not unaccustomed to the attention of men, particularly since she came west. There was scarcity of eligible women, and while not particularly striking in looks, she was reasonably desirable. Out west, almost any single woman with only one head was.

As a result, she’d been nearly trampled by a herd of men callers—from cowhands to the widowed banker—when she first came to Newton. It took months for the word to get around: The schoolmarm was eccentric and cold-natured. She apparently had no interest in men or marriage.

Neither was true. Willow would have liked very much to marry and have children of her own. But not just anyone would do. Somewhere in the back of her mind she knew she was unrealistic in her dreams. She had lived with Greek and Roman gods far too long, with their adventures and their bravery, and even their excesses. Mr. Folley, the potbellied banker, and the often unwashed and rough cowboys couldn’t compete.

Willow was not willing to compromise on the matter of marriage. It was white knight or nothing. Nothing, she’d conceded to herself, appeared much more likely.

And then, of course, there was the matter of her position. As a teacher, she had to be above reproach. She was an example, a figure on a pedestal, and, like Caesar’s wife, must be spotless in reputation. She had not always succeeded in this, particularly when she had taken in Estelle and Brady, but there had never been any rumor of sexual impropriety.

So at twenty-five she had resigned herself to spinster-hood and devoted the great well of love in her to anyone or anything in need. She did not feel deprived or unfulfilled. She was determined to live every minute of her life to the fullest, and she took great pleasure in the simplest delights—the touch of a fresh spring breeze against her skin, the smoky flavor of fall, the beauty of a sunset and the smile of a child. She loved gardening, enjoyed listening to the horses neigh in contentment when she fed them oats, and even relished challenging the staid and self-righteous townfolk.

That had been enough—until now. For the first time in her life she was filled with tingling anticipation whenever she thought of a man—the man on horseback.

The paladin.

The protector.

The white knight.

T
HE SUN WAS
halfway up in the east when the reluctant paladin heard hoofbeats.

He’d been up since sunrise. He’d curried and fed his horse, made coffee and cooked bacon, and he was considering how best to use the rest of the day when his ears picked up the sound of an approaching horse. His heart stopped when he saw the rider was a woman, but it quickly resumed beating when he recognized the girl from Newton’s house. He scowled.

Without giving her the merest sign of recognition, he poured himself a cup of coffee. Only after taking a sip did he look up at her, one eyebrow raised in question.

Her face flushed. “Papa thought you may have left.”

His eyes raked her slowly, from the hat that sat jauntily over dark hair to her neatly booted feet. “He send you here to find out?”

The flush on her face grew darker. “No.”

He took another sip of coffee. He could almost feel her puzzlement. She was, he guessed, used to getting her way.

“Can I have some coffee?” she finally said, unwilling to surrender to his indifference.

“This is the last of it,” he said, taking a long swallow. He wanted her to go. He sensed she was trouble, and he had enough of that already.

Though he didn’t look up, he knew she had dismounted. “I heard your name is Lobo,” she said.

Lobo continued to sit in silence.

“You’re staying, then?” she tried again.

He looked up. She was pretty enough. Her hair was the shade of mahogany and her eyes dark brown, but she didn’t interest him. She was obviously very young, young and foolish and willful. He had seen her type before, and it always meant the kind of complications he didn’t want.

Lobo stared at her with a studied insolence that was usually effective in driving people away. “What do you want, lady?” he asked.

She flushed even more, and he expected her to say something about going to her father and having him fired. It had happened before.

“To meet you,” she said instead. “I’ve never met a gunfighter before.

“You’re not scared?” A grim smile accompanied the question.

“Yes,” she admitted.

“You’re smart, then. Be smarter. Get on that horse and go.”

“Why?”

“Because I eat little girls like you for breakfast.”

She looked down at a dirty plate. “You’ve already had breakfast.”

“An unsatisfactory one.”

She smiled, her lips slightly trembling. “I didn’t know gunfighters had a sense of humor.”

“We don’t,” he replied.

She stood there studying him, and he returned look for look.

“There’s a dance tomorrow night. Saturday. In town.”

“I don’t have time for dances.”

“I’ll tell Papa you’re still here.”

He shrugged.

“He’s upset.”

Lobo shrugged again. “That’s his problem.”

“Have you met Willow Taylor yet?”

Lobo’s back stiffened. His eyes went even colder.

The girl hesitated. “I—I like her. You…wouldn’t hurt her, would you?”

“Is that why you came?”

The girl bit her lip and nodded slowly.

Lobo rubbed the back of his neck. This was the damnedest job he’d ever had.

“Will you?” she insisted.

“Go home and talk to your papa. Not me.”

“Please.”

“Go home,” he repeated, rising and splashing what was left of the coffee on the fire. Without paying any more attention to her, he saddled his pinto and swung up into the saddle. If she didn’t leave, he sure as hell was going to. He didn’t look back as he trotted away.

He’d slept uneasily the previous night, but he needed little rest. He’d always been able to snatch a few minutes here, a few there, even on horseback, and be as wide awake as someone who slept for several hours. Another legacy of his time with the Apache.

If he looked at those years objectively, he supposed he should be grateful. He had abilities few other men had or probably wanted.

But as he’d lain awake considering those talents and his life, he’d found them wanting.

He had never realized how much he was missing until he’d heard the Taylor woman’s laughter. He hadn’t known people laughed like that.

Lobo had heard laughter before, mocking laughter. Cruel laughter. Harsh laughter. But never the kind that made a man want to smile.

Christ, he would be baying at the moon next.

Lobo wandered down to the river that ran by the Newton and Taylor spreads. The water was low, only a few muddy inches, because of the drought.

He had been in fights over water before. Why should this one be different? But it was. And he realized how much when in the late afternoon he found himself returning to the grassy hill. He dismounted and settled himself to watch the road. He saw the buckboard approach, but this time a roan was tied to the back and a man sat beside the woman, his hands holding the reins.

Lobo drew back as if burned. He didn’t understand the stabbing pain in the pit of his stomach, or the hollow emptiness that reached from within him and swallowed him whole.

B
RADY CAME BACK
that night. Willow heard a horse ride up just after she’d extinguished the oil lamp in her bedroom. She quickly rose and went to the window. She thought about her rifle downstairs, but she doubted whether she could use it against a human being.

With a breath of relief she saw Brady lead his horse into the barn. She thought about going to talk to him, but decided to wait until the next day. His shoulders were slumped, and even from a distance he looked tired and defeated. He had been doing so well…. Worrying about him, she went back to her bed.

B
RADY LIT THE
oil lamp in the tack room. It took him several minutes, for his hands trembled.

He’d heard about the gunfighter, and he knew he was the only one who could protect Willow and the children. For five days he had stood at the base of the mountains and practiced with his Colt. Once, he had been fast and accurate. Now he could barely get his gun from the holster, and three out of four shots went far wide of their mark.

The gun, once his friend, was now like a rattlesnake in his hand. He hated it.

He had not used his Colt in four years, not since he’d killed the last of the murderers of his wife and son, shot him in cold blood as the man pleaded for his life. He’d thought there would be some satisfaction, some peace then, but there was not. He’d discovered he was no better than the men he’d hunted.