An Outlaw's Christmas Read online

  The sight touched Sawyer—he thought of how differently this night could have ended. What if Duggins had been startled, and swung that rifle in Piper’s direction when she came running out of the schoolhouse door? He might have panicked, pulled the trigger, and killed her.

  A headache pounded between Sawyer’s temples, and his stomach did a slow, backward roll.

  “Let’s get you on home now,” Doc said to Bess, blinking at the way she was dressed. Evidently, he hadn’t noticed until then.

  She set aside her cup, smiled graciously, and stood up. “I’ll just fetch my shotgun,” she said, turning to Piper. “Thank you very kindly for the tea, Miss St. James. I do appreciate your hospitality.”

  “You’re—you’re sure you’re not hurt?” Piper asked the other woman.

  Bess nodded again, looked briefly at Sawyer. “I’m sure,” she told Piper.

  Doc had averted his gaze to Piper, but it immediately bounced away again, landing square on Sawyer’s face. “I’ll stop by in the morning,” the dentist said. “Have another look at that shoulder. You in any pain right now?”

  “No,” Sawyer lied. He wanted to be alone with Piper, that was all, and reflect on the glorious fact that they were both still alive.

  Doc looked skeptical, but he escorted Bess and her shotgun out into the night, resigned to walking her home.

  Sawyer latched the door behind them, turned, leaning against it, and closed his eyes for a moment, willing himself to stay upright.

  “Sawyer?” Piper said, very softly. “You look terrible. I’m going to call Doc Howard back.”

  But Sawyer shook his head. “I’m just—tired.”

  She slipped an arm around Sawyer, as if to hold him up, which might have been laughable, given her small stature, if the act itself hadn’t eased so many things rioting inside him.

  “I’m going to require a lot of answers in the morning,” she warned, as they made their slow but steady way across the schoolroom.

  Sawyer chuckled at that. “And I’ll give them to you,” he promised. “In the morning.”

  * * *

  SAWYER LANDED HEAVILY on the bed, and barely objected when Piper pulled his boots off his feet and covered him, fully dressed, with the quilts she’d once prized so greatly. She smoothed his hair back from his forehead and bent to kiss his eyelids, first one, and then the other.

  He fell asleep so quickly that she worried he’d lost consciousness again, but his breathing was steady and deep, and when she laid her head against his chest, she heard his heart beating with a rhythmic thud-thud-thud.

  She left him just long enough to put out the lanterns still burning in the schoolroom and bank the fire for the night. He’d set his pistol on one of the desks when he came in earlier, after the shooting, and she picked it up carefully, carried it into the bedroom, and set it on the night table.

  For a long time, she sat on the side of the bed, watching him sleep, periodically checking his bandages to make sure he hadn’t reopened the wound in his shoulder, but there was no bleeding.

  The little room grew colder, and then colder still, and Piper knew she ought to get some sleep herself, but she found she couldn’t leave Sawyer, even for the other bed, near as it was.

  Finally, shivering, she crawled in beside him, on his right side, snuggling up close for warmth, resting one hand on his strong chest. Again, she felt the thump of his heart against her palm, matched her breathing with his.

  And after a while, lulled, she drifted off into sleep, a sound one this time.

  The next thing she knew, morning light flooded the room.

  Remembering the events of her wedding night, Piper sat bolt upright.

  She’d thought Sawyer was still asleep, but she knew by the slow curve of his lips and the way he eased an arm around her that he was very much awake.

  “Good morning, Mrs. McKettrick,” he said.

  “Who was that man and why did he want to kill you?” Piper replied.

  Sawyer chuckled and opened his eyes. His chin was stubbly with gold. “I can’t say you didn’t warn me you’d have questions,” he said, “but I did expect we’d both be dressed at the time.”

  Piper clutched at the quilts, drew them up to her chin in a belated effort at modesty, but did not relent. “Tell me,” she said.

  Sawyer sighed. “His name was Chester Duggins,” he said. “He and I worked together once.”

  “Why did he want to kill you?” Piper reiterated.

  “He was sent by a man named Henry Vandenburg—my former employer.” He paused, sighed again, but, to his credit, he held her gaze. “Vandenburg believed—mistakenly, as it happens—that I’d enjoyed a dalliance with his wife.”

  “Josie,” Piper breathed, troubled. She couldn’t help recalling the way Sawyer had said the other woman’s name, like a plea, in the hours after he was hurt.

  “Josie,” Sawyer confirmed.

  “You cared about her,” Piper said.

  “I was beginning to,” Sawyer replied. “That’s why I decided to accept Clay’s invitation and come to Blue River.”

  The admission caused Piper a distinct pang, but she found comfort in one thing: Sawyer was telling her the blunt, unembroidered truth. “Do you still care for Josie?” she asked bravely. “Because, if you do, we can have our marriage annulled. Since we haven’t—consummated it yet.”

  He reached up, stroked the line of her cheek very gently with the back of his right hand. “Is that what you want?” he asked quietly. “An annulment?”

  Piper considered that. “I don’t know,” she said, when a few moments had passed. Then, primly, she added, “Answer my original question, please.”

  Sawyer grinned, like a choirboy caught being wicked. “I do not hold any tender feelings for Josie,” he replied.

  “But you were beginning to—”

  He sighed again. As he lowered his hand from her cheek, it brushed briefly over her flannel-covered breast, causing the nipple to turn button-hard and bringing a flush to her cheeks. “There have been other women in my life, Piper,” he said. “I don’t deny that. But you’re the only one I’ve ever married.”

  She blinked. Was that supposed to be reassuring? Was it reassuring?

  “How do I know—?” she began.

  He laughed. “‘What if’?” he teased.

  “Are there other jealous husbands out there who want to have you killed?” Piper persisted.

  “A few rejected suitors, maybe,” Sawyer conceded. “But no husbands, at least as far as I know.”

  “That isn’t funny,” Piper objected, flustered.

  “If they’d wanted to call me out,” he said reasonably, “they would have done it by now.”

  “What happens next?”

  Sawyer’s mischievous expression turned more serious. “I get well, and then I deal with Vandenburg,” he said.

  “Let Clay do that,” Piper said quickly, though she knew even as she spoke that it was a futile request.

  “It’s not Clay’s responsibility,” he answered, regretful but earnest. “It’s mine.”

  “No,” Piper argued, in the face of certain defeat. “It isn’t. This is why there are laws, Sawyer, and men sworn to enforce them—”

  “This is my problem,” Sawyer said, “and I’ll be the one to set it right.”

  Piper was almost breathless with panic. She’d thought this waking nightmare was over, now that Duggins was dead, but it clearly wasn’t. “By doing what?”

  “Never mind that,” Sawyer told her, drawing her down beside him, holding her close. She resisted at first, but he felt so warm and strong and solid, and she lost herself in that.

  They lay together for a long while, both of them engulfed in a kind of sad silence, thinking their own thoughts.

  CHAPTE
R 8

  Clay showed up at the schoolhouse soon after the morning fire was built up and the coffee was brewing on the stove, aghast at the news of last night’s shooting. Piper and Sawyer were both fully clothed when he finally arrived, she in another inadequate calico, he in trousers and a shirt from his travel trunk.

  Having ridden to town on his own gelding, Sawyer’s horse, Cherokee, trotting alongside on a lead rope, the erstwhile marshal of Blue River, Texas, left both animals standing in the muddy yard, among ragged patches of dirty snow. A vivid blotch of red remained on the ground where Mr. Duggins had been felled by Bess Turner, making Piper wish for more snow to cover it up.

  Sawyer’s cousin barely paused to knock, bursting through the front door before Piper could call out a “Come in.”

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t get here before now,” Clay announced, passing right on over “good-morning” or even just a “howdy” in his hurry to get Sawyer’s report on the events just past. His gaze moved over both of them, probably in search of fresh injury. “It was late when Pete brought word of what happened, and I was tending a sick calf—”

  Sawyer, standing near the stove, interrupted with a chuckle. “You might want to hire Bess Turner as marshal, instead of me,” he said. “She’s mighty good with a shotgun.” With that, he poured coffee into a mug and extended it to Clay, who accepted it gratefully.

  Piper, wearing an apron to protect her dress, blurted, “Sawyer’s got his mind set on going after the man who hired that killer.”

  “Hold on, now,” Clay said, lowering the coffee to look from one of them to the other in plain consternation. “We’re getting ahead of ourselves, here. Tell me what happened, and don’t leave anything out.”

  Sawyer, after slicing a mildly reproving glance at Piper, gave a brief but complete account of all that had happened the previous night.

  When he’d heard the whole story, Clay gave a long, low whistle of exclamation, and took a thirsty sip from his coffee mug before saying, “Damn. And here it is, almost Christmas.”

  Piper wasn’t sure what the approach of the holiday had to do with anything, but she wasn’t clearheaded enough to pursue the matter at the moment.

  Sawyer stood calmly, his own coffee in hand, the mug raised almost to his mouth but not quite there. “It was an eventful day,” he said. “Piper and I got married.”

  Clay fairly choked on a mouthful of coffee, but he was grinning when he caught his breath. “What?” he said.

  “I believe you heard me the first time,” Sawyer replied. “Given what my staying here has done to the lady’s reputation, there didn’t seem to be any other course of action.”

  Clay peered at Piper, who blushed. “You agreed to this?”

  Glumly, twisting her wedding band round and round with the fingers of her right hand, Piper nodded. “Yes,” she murmured.

  Clay gave a burst of delighted laughter but just as quickly sobered again, his expression turning watchful and wary. “Is this marriage real, or just some kind of ruse to keep the townspeople from gossiping for the rest of the school term?”

  There was no need to say that Piper wouldn’t be teaching at Blue River again in the fall. For all the good it seemed to be doing her, she was married. The school board would probably hire a man to replace her, if they could find one. Failing that, they’d settle for a single woman but, either way, she was as good as out.

  “It’s real,” Sawyer said.

  “Sort of,” Piper clarified.

  “Which is it?” Clay asked, somewhat impatiently, once again looking from one of them to the other. “Real, or ‘sort of’ real?”

  Piper couldn’t have answered to save her life. Her throat had closed off and her face felt like it was on fire.

  “My wife,” Sawyer explained, “is probably referring to the fact that we’ve yet to consummate the marriage.”

  Piper’s blush deepened. How could the man speak so casually of something so intimately personal? She wanted to throttle him, then and there.

  “Oh,” said Clay, blushing a little himself. “Well, anyhow, congratulations. Of course Dara Rose will have a thing or two to say about missing out on the wedding, but she’ll be pleased, too.”

  All of them were quiet for a while.

  Piper, desperate for something to do, proceeded to walk over and ring the schoolhouse bell, pulling vigorously on the rope, though she knew no one would come to class that day despite the fact that the weather had turned and the trails, if muddy, were passable. There had, after all, been a death, right out there in the front yard, and while the danger was past, folks would probably need a day or two to get used to the idea before they sent their children back.

  Clay and Sawyer talked quietly all the while, though the bell drowned them out, which was fine with Piper.

  “You brought Cherokee,” Sawyer said to Clay, after the last peal died away. He was standing at the front window then, looking out, and there was no mistaking the relief in his voice. This only underscored Piper’s fears—Sawyer would be leaving Blue River, and her, soon.

  “I was thinking you might be ready to come out to the ranch with me,” Clay admitted to Sawyer, looking a little sheepish when Piper caught his eye. “That was before I knew about the wedding, you understand.”

  Sawyer smiled. “I’ll be staying here until after the Christmas program,” he said. “Then, if it’s feasible, Piper and I will both head out to your place.”

  Clay nodded, but he still seemed befuddled. “Shall I take the horse back with me, then?” he asked.

  But Sawyer shook his head, turning again to admire the magnificent animal through the grubby glass in the window. “I can’t ride much, but I ought to be able to handle a few minutes in the saddle, now and then, just so I don’t forget how.”

  Clay smiled at that, but when he looked Piper’s way again, she saw concern in his handsome face. “Well, then,” he said, just a little too heartily, “I guess it’s a good thing I brought that hay and grain in the other day, on the sledge. One question, though, cousin—how are you going to manage that saddle with only one usable arm?”

  “I’ll find a way,” Sawyer said, without a trace of doubt.

  Clay finished his coffee, set his cup down alongside the basin, on the small table near the stove. “You say this Duggins yahoo’s carcass is laid out over at the jailhouse?”

  Sawyer nodded. “Doc Howard wants him buried right away,” he said dryly. “Figures a funeral might put a damper on Christmas.”

  Clay nodded, rubbing his chin. Unlike Sawyer, he’d shaved recently, and there was no visible stubble. “That wouldn’t do,” he murmured thoughtfully. “Wouldn’t do at all.” He crossed to the door, took his hat from the peg where he’d hung it up coming in. “I’ll send a wire to the federal marshal in Austin,” he said. “Just a formality, really.” He paused, cleared his throat. “Of course I’ll be mentioning Henry Vandenburg’s part in this.”

  Piper saw a muscle bunch in Sawyer’s jaw, even under his thickening beard. “Nobody can be arrested on mere hearsay, Clay. You know that.”

  “The federal marshal still has to be told,” Clay said. Although his manner was cordial, there was steel in his tone. “What he does with the information is his concern, not ours.”

  “I want to handle this,” Sawyer said, glaring at his cousin.

  “Fine,” Clay retorted, on his way out. “If there’s anything left to handle by the time you’re fit to travel, you just have at it with my blessing. In the meantime, I’m still marshal and I’ll do what needs doing.”

  Sawyer started to argue, Piper saw, but he ended up giving an exasperated sigh and shoving the splayed fingers of his good hand through his hair in frustration. “All right, then,” he said, “but I’m going to the jailhouse with you.”

  Evidently, Clay was willing to concede that much, if nothing mo
re. “You say Bess Turner shot this fella?” he asked, refraining from helping as his cousin struggled halfway into his coat. Sawyer had a harder time buckling on his gun belt but, somehow, he managed it, and slipped the .45 deftly into the holster.

  Chilled, and not by the weather, Piper hurried to the window when the men went outside, watched as Sawyer put a foot in the stirrup of Cherokee’s saddle, gripped the horn, and hauled himself up onto the horse’s back. She saw him clench his jaw again, once he was in place, and close his eyes briefly, but other than that, he seemed steady.

  Clay and Sawyer were gone upward of an hour, during which time Piper hoped in vain for a pupil or two to wander in, hungry for learning. Because she believed with her whole heart and mind that idle hands were the devil’s workshop, she polished all the desks, swept the floors, made up the two beds and fussed with the straggly Christmas tree, with its burden of unassuming decorations.

  When the men returned, Doc Howard was with them, on his mule. All three of them looked grimly introspective, and little wonder.

  A man was dead.

  In the schoolyard, Sawyer dismounted on his own, but he leaned against Cherokee’s side for an extra second or so before stepping back and surrendering the reins to Clay, who led the animal around back to the shed.

  Doc walked up to the patch of bloody ground and scuffed at it with one foot, as though to kick dirt over the place where death had left its distinctive mark. He conferred with Sawyer for a few moments, then followed Clay to the shed, returning with a rusted shovel in one hand.

  While Sawyer watched, his feet planted a little wider apart than usual as if in an effort to maintain his balance, Doc used the shovel to turn up enough ground to hide the blood spot.

  Piper stepped back from the window just as Sawyer turned and started for the door. She tried to look surprised when he came inside, closely followed by Doc, but she knew by Sawyer’s wry expression that she hadn’t fooled him. He’d never glanced in her direction even once, but he’d known she was at the window, watching, just the same.