Table of Contents

Cover Page

Excerpt

Dear Reader

Title Page

About The Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Copyright

Cally’s shotgun, of course,
was gone.

“That wasn’t fair,” she whispered.

“Hmm?” Andrew drew away slightly and lifted her chin with his finger. “Are you all right?”

She could almost believe it was a sincere question. She found herself nodding. The odd fevered light was back in his eyes, and she felt her own temperature rise.

“I’m all right. Just don’t talk about…you know.”

“Don’t threaten to shoot me,” he whispered, drawing closer as if he were afraid she couldn’t hear.

She knew she should pull away, but she wasn’t sure her legs were steady yet. She didn’t want to faint right here in front of him. She would let him hold her up a while longer. Meanwhile, she stared at him. How close did he think his lips had to be for her to hear…?

Dear Reader,

Sheriff Andrew Haywood was determined to carry out his promise made to Cally’s dying father that he would look out for her. But the Kansas lawman was in for a surprise when he discovered that Cally didn’t want anything to do with him, despite her father’s wishes. Cally and the Sheriff do eventually work things out in Cassandra Austin’s delightful new Western. Don’t miss the fireworks.

Judith Stacy is back this month with The Marriage Mishap, the story of virtual strangers who wake up in bed together and discover they have gotten married.

In Lord Sin by Catherine Archer, a rakish nobleman and a vicar’s daughter, whose lack of fortune and social position make her completely unsuitable, agree to a marriage of convenience, and discover love. And in Elizabeth Mayne’s Lady of the Lake, a pagan princess surrenders her heritage and her heart to the Christian warrior who has been sent to marry her and unite their kingdoms.

Whatever your tastes in reading, we hope you enjoy all of our books, available wherever Harlequin Historicals are sold.

Sincerely,

Tracy Farrell

Senior Editor

Please address questions and book requests to:

Harlequin Reader Service

U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

Cally And The Sheriff
Cassandra Austin

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CASSANDRA AUSTIN

has always lived in north central Kansas, and was raised on museums and arrowhead hunts; when she began writing, America’s Old West seemed the natural setting. Now she writes between—and sometimes during—4H, school events and the various activities of her three children. Her husband farms, and they live in the house where he grew up.

For Dad,

for lots of reasons

Chapter One

Salina, Kansas 1877

Cally slid off the mule and brushed at the dust on her oversize pants. She didn’t like to come to town and neither did Royal. The poor dog tried to look in every direction at once and wouldn’t get farther from Cally’s side than the long hairs on his back.

Cally tied her father’s mule in front of Mr. Lafferty’s feed store as she always did when she was forced to come to town. She trusted Mr. Lafferty. He didn’t look at her funny the way other people did. Of course, Mr. Lafferty was nearly blind.

She noticed with a little disappointment that Mr. Lafferty had already closed up his store. She hadn’t meant to stop and visit him, but it was always nice to see a friendly face. And he usually fed her mule a little grain while she was gone. “Sweepings,” he would explain. “Spilled the stuff and can’t sell it now.”

She rubbed the old mule’s nose. “Don’t worry, Jewel, I won’t be long,” she said softly. Squaring her shoulders and drawing herself up to her full five feet two inches, she headed purposefully toward the sheriff’s office. Royal trotted at her side.

Her eyes narrowed when she thought of that low-down sheriff. He had found every weapon she had tried to sneak in to Pa, but he wouldn’t find this one. She had wrapped the butcher knife in leather and tucked it in her pants. He wouldn’t dare find it. Somehow, she would slip it to Pa, or she would use it on that sheriff herself!

She prayed that tonight’s plan would work. The only weapons left at home were the shotgun and the ax. They would be hard to sneak in to Pa.

Outside the sheriffs office, she motioned Royal to stay. He whimpered but complied. She pulled her hat down securely and pushed the door open, letting it slam behind her as she entered. The room was lit only by fading sunlight through the windows and one lamp on the sheriff’s desk. Cally stood for a moment while her eyes adjusted to the dim light.

Sheriff Andrew Haywood was sitting with his long slender legs propped lazily on his desk, his head bent over a book in his lap. His straight dark hair, she noticed not for the first time, was ridiculously neat. He raised his head reluctantly, and snapped the book closed, bringing his boots to the floor with a bang. The cool gaze he leveled on her revealed nothing.

But he didn’t frighten her. “I came to see Pa,” she announced in a firm voice, sending a quick glance toward the cell where her father slumped against the wall.

“What a pleasant surprise.”

Cally sneered at his sarcasm. She watched him come to his feet and walk slowly toward her, his broad shoulders blocking out the rest of the room. She wouldn’t be intimidated by his air of authority or his size. When he stopped two feet in front of her, she was forced to tip her head back in order to look him in the eye. She was proud of her own cool, steady stare.

His chest beneath the perfectly laundered shirt expanded as he took a deep breath. “Hand it over.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I’m unarmed,” she said, perturbed at the way his gaze probed hers. It was all she could do not to look away.

He shook his head slowly. “You’re never unarmed, Miss DuBois.” He pronounced her name the way Pa did, “du Bwah.” Most people said “boys.” He did it to flatter her, to put her off guard.

She gritted her teeth as he continued. “You can’t break your father out of jail. You’ll go to jail yourself. Just give me the gun or knife or whatever you’ve brought this time, and make it easy for both of us.”

Right then she decided she hated his voice. It was smooth and self-assured, deep and soft at the same time. A tempting voice, her mind warned. She could almost believe he really cared.

She stood her ground and watched him look her over. His searching eyes made her want to laugh. He would learn nothing from looking at the baggy clothes.

Abruptly he moved forward. She drew back involuntarily, but only a step. His hands dug into the huge pockets of her overcoat, then searched the hidden ones inside. She almost relaxed. Did he think she was stupid enough to try the same thing twice?

She smirked until his hands settled on her waist. A jolt like lightning charged through her with his warm touch. She gasped, a combination of surprise and fear. He was so close she could smell the soap his laundress used on his shirt. She watched his eyes light with understanding and tried too late to pull away.

Strong fingers locked around her slender arm while he grabbed a handful of britches that included the knife. She had no choice but to give it up. He wasn’t even gentleman enough to turn his back while she loosened the rope belt and retrieved the leather-wrapped weapon.

She felt her cheeks burn and knew they were fiery red as she readjusted her clothes. She looked up to find his attention elsewhere. He was carefully unrolling the leather. She was pleased, at least, to see his face register some shock at the huge knife.

“I liked it better during the trial when you brought your father pies and such,” Haywood said, carrying the knife to the desk and jerking open a drawer. “What did you plan to do with this?”

Cally looked longingly at the drawer’s contents— Pa’s razor, three knives and a pistol. The butcher knife clanked on top of the others, and Haywood slammed the drawer shut.

He straightened to look her in the eye. She squared her shoulders. “I was going to bury it in your gut.”

Pa spoke for the first time. “Cally girl, I thought I taught you better. That’s no way to talk to an officer of the law.”

Cally exploded. “An officer of the law! He’s a nogood, bushwhacking, bloodthirsty snake!”

Royal’s concerned whimper could be heard through the door.

“Now Cally,” Pa admonished, resting an obviously aching head against the bars.

“Now Cally! Pa! He’s going to hang you!” Saying it aloud brought a sudden lump to her throat. She barely heard Royal as he whined and scratched at the door. She all but forgot about the lean lawman propped against his desk, watching her. Her attention centered on poor Pa behind bars.

“What am I gonna do?” she whispered. She walked slowly toward him.

He took her hand and pulled her into his arms as much as the bars would allow. “Ah, Cally girl, I’m so sorry. But you can’t keep trying to bust me out.”

She wanted to tell him she had to, but she didn’t want the sheriff to overhear. It would be better if he thought she had given up. She tried to fake a sob and it came out a hiccup.

Pa patted her shoulder. “Have you thought about it, Cally? We’d have to run, and what would you have then? You can’t think you could just take me home.”

Of course she had thought about it. It wouldn’t be easy, but she couldn’t just let her father hang. She tried for a more realistic sob.

Andrew leaned against his desk, watching the pair. His desire to give them a few moments in private warred with his conviction that he didn’t dare take his eyes off the girl. From where he stood, he couldn’t see Cally’s face; it was hidden under the brim of her absurd hat. He heard her sniff as she drew herself out of her father’s arms.

When she reached into her hip pocket, Andrew came automatically to his feet and started toward her. She withdrew a jackknife, snapping it open an instant before he could stop her. Menacing him with it, she demanded, “Get the keys.”

“You’re not serious?” Andrew was more disgusted than frightened.

“Get the keys,” she screamed.

The dog’s bark caught the girl’s attention for an instant. Andrew took the last step that separated them, grabbing for her wrist. Her arm swung up to ward him off, and the blade sliced into his upper arm. Andrew gave a startled grunt as he drew back.

High on Andrew’s right sleeve a red streak appeared and slowly spread downward. Andrew gave it barely a thought. Cally stared at it in horror. She started to sway and the knife clattered to the floor.

With a muttered curse, Andrew caught her shoulders. “You can’t be a killer if you faint at the sight of blood,” he said, leading her to his chair.

“Ah, Cally girl, you know how you are,” moaned the prisoner. “She can’t even kill a chicken, Sheriff. She couldn’t have meant to hurt you.”

“Pa!” Cally wailed, burying her face in her hands.

Andrew planted himself between the trembling girl and the drawer full of weapons, being careful his own holstered gun was beyond her reach. The girl’s dog was putting up such a commotion he was a little concerned it would come through the door. He pulled his handkerchief out of his pocket and wrapped it around his arm. “Damn,” he muttered. “I should have known she’d eventually think of hiding two knives.”

At the sound of his voice, she raised her head, her green eyes bright with hatred. The freckles across her nose stood out in stark relief against the too-pale skin. “I have to help Pa,” she whispered.

“I know.” The acknowledgment surprised even him. He couldn’t get soft with this little hellion. He tried to keep his voice stern, but the girl was already about to cry. It tempered his tone more than he expected. “Please try to understand. There’s nothing you can do. I could arrest you, too, for attempted—”

The sound of sobbing cut him off, this time from the cell. Emerald eyes shot daggers at him as Cally came to her feet and hurried to the bars. “Don’t cry, Pa,” she soothed.

Andrew retrieved the knife from the floor and tossed it in the drawer with the others. “You better go home, Miss DuBois.” His prisoner was huddled on his bunk, shaking and sobbing. The waif that came to see him every day clung to the bars.

“Miss DuBois.” She ignored his gentle touch on her shoulder. “You better go home. It’ll be dark soon.” He tugged her lightly. Her grip on the bars tightened. “Do you really want a test of strength, Miss DuBois?” He had intended for it to sound threatening, but it came out more a plea.

Cally turned and spit, hitting him squarely in the face, then marched out of his office, holding her head high. Royal growled at Haywood as she gave the office door an extra tug to be sure it slammed. She heard an answering thud and knew one of Sheriff Haywood’s precious pictures had hit the floor.

“Good,” she muttered as she stomped down the street. What kind of bloodthirsty killer framed the pictures of men he had killed and hung them where he could look at them all day? At least that was what she guessed they were. She hadn’t asked him about the four Wanted posters that decorated the office wall. She didn’t talk to him any more than she had to!

Royal ran beside her, head turned to watch her face, as she stormed down the street. The poor dog nearly fell over himself trying to keep up and watch her at the same time.

“Maybe he likes looking at ugly pictures of ugly men,” she suggested to Royal and Jewel as she untied the reins. Swinging onto her mule’s back, she realized she had let her anger at the sheriff get the better of her. Desperation settled heavily on her, and she hung her head. How was she going to get Pa out of jail? Sheriff Haywood ruined every plan. She couldn’t let her own father hang! She was running out of ideas, and Pa was running out of time.

Andrew wiped his face with the back of his hand as he watched the baggy clothes and hat flounce out of his office. He never saw that coming! Twice now, she had actually spit in his face! Why did his guard seem to slip a little when he was around Cally DuBois?

He cringed when the door slammed and the picture of Wade Terris hit the floor. He stood still for a moment, getting his temper under control before he retrieved the picture.

The joints of the frame had been loosened by the fall. He slipped the poster out, grateful at least that he hadn’t put glass in front of the pictures. He would be cussing little Cally DuBois for sure if he was forced to clean splintered glass off his floor.

He set the frame and poster on his desk and studied his prisoner. The sobbing had stopped with the slamming of the door. DuBois huddled on the bunk, asleep perhaps, but still shaking slightly. Trying to fix the frame would disturb the old man. He would leave it until later.

The cut on his arm stung like the devil. He probed it to be sure it wasn’t bleeding and sat down at his desk with a sigh. He would have liked a doctor to stitch it closed, but he couldn’t leave his prisoner unattended, not with his crazy daughter on the loose.

One of his deputies had quit and the other’s wife was down with the flu. That meant he was here for the night, and the little cut didn’t qualify as an emergency. It could wait until one of the volunteers checked with him in the morning.

He settled back in the chair. It still seemed like a foolish arrangement. Why couldn’t Bill have found volunteers to look after his wife while he did his job? Granted, the couple had only been married a few months, and if Bill had come to work, he would probably have spent all his time worrying about his wife. Andrew wasn’t entirely sure Bill wouldn’t have given in to the temptation to leave his post to check on her.

To Andrew, the situation reinforced a long-held belief that lawmen shouldn’t be married. It ruined their edge. And furthermore, he believed that most people, especially voters, agreed with him. They liked to know that nothing was more important than the job.

However, that hadn’t discouraged Bill. Andrew had never seriously considered firing him for getting married either, though the thought was appealing at the moment.

Andrew smiled to himself. Bill’s job was secure, at least for now. He was having enough trouble finding a replacement for one deputy. So far, no one he had interviewed had come close to being qualified. Bill had suggested he was too particular, but he hated to settle for mediocrity.

Andrew turned down the flame in the lamp and closed his eyes, determined to rest while he could. Settling back in his chair, he slept, but not for long. The vision of a butcher knife flying in his direction brought him instantly awake.

He shook the sleep from his head, got up and locked the door. The office was nearly dark now, and he lit the gaslight on the wall by the door, keeping the flame low.

DuBois sat up, rubbing his face as if he were trying to get feeling back into it. Andrew hadn’t meant to disturb DuBois, but since the old man was awake anyway, he decided to take a look at the damaged picture frame. He kept a hammer and other basic tools in his office. Turning up the wick in the lamp on his desk, he studied the joints of the frame.

“Why do you keep that dodger on the wall, son?” DuBois asked.

“I drew the picture,” Andrew answered, then laughed at the pride he heard in his own voice.

“Ugly cuss.”

“But a fair likeness.” Andrew made short work of the frame as he talked. “I was working for the federal marshal then. I was their unofficial artist, you might say. The drawing helped catch the man, I believe.” He returned the picture to the nail.

“Drew them other fellas too, did ya?”

Andrew nodded as he studied his prisoner. The man didn’t look well. His face was pale, and, though he tried to hide it, his hands shook.

“Sheriff?”

“Yes, Mr. DuBois?”

“Might I have…?” He ran his hand across his mouth and shook his head, withdrawing the request. “I ain’t been sober this long since the missus died. You remember her?”

DuBois looked up then, and Andrew saw the tears in the old man’s eyes. Not so old, he corrected himself. He had discovered during the trial that Francis DuBois was barely past forty. “I’m sorry. I don’t remember her.”

DuBois hung his head, his shaking hands dangling between his knees. “You wouldn’t,” he muttered. “Pretty Irish lass, she was. Deirdre Calloway. Still can’t believe she’d love me.”

Andrew returned to his chair behind his desk. He shouldn’t feel sorry for the man. DuBois had spent most of his time drunk, pulling crazy stunts during the worst of it. It had only been a matter of time before someone got hurt. True, the dead man wasn’t much better, but that wasn’t the point. The jury had found Francis DuBois guilty of manslaughter, and he would hang on Saturday.

Still, Andrew couldn’t help but wonder. If the incident had had the opposite outcome, if Louis DuBois had been the one to die, would the banker’s drunken brother-in-law have received equal justice?

“I like you, Haywood,” DuBois said abruptly. “Always have. Do you know my Cally?”

Andrew came to stand beside the cell, studying the broken man. “Cally comes to see you every day,” he said, absently rubbing the wound on his arm.

DuBois stared at the floor. “I remember the day she was born. I looked down at that red hair and turned-up nose, and I said to Deirdre, ‘She’s a Calloway.’ And that’s what we named her.” His haggard face rose slowly. “Will you look out for my Cally, Sheriff?”

Andrew stared a moment. That was most certainly not part of his job! “There’s got to be some family,” he suggested.

DuBois shook his head. “I got none. Deirdre’s…well, ya see, they never took to me. I’m afraid I lost track of them long ago.”

Andrew turned away. He paced across the office and back. DuBois wiped his mouth with a shaky hand, no longer looking at him. After considering a moment, Andrew went to the desk and pulled out a flask and shot glass. He filled the glass half full and handed it through the bars to DuBois.

DuBois looked at it, licked his lips and glanced at Andrew. “Obliged,” he said, reaching for the glass. He drank it back in one swallow. “Ain’t been worth much since—”

His watery eyes turned to Andrew again. “She’s right pretty, really. Always been a hard worker and not one to complain. Cooks real good, too. If you don’t want her for yourself, you could see she hooks up with someone decent. I’d a done it afore now, but she never showed no inclination to marry and, well, I wanted her around.”

Andrew turned away from the cell. He didn’t see how he could refuse. The damnedest thing was he did feel responsible. He had arrested the old man. He was going to lead him to the gallows.

He shook his head abruptly. That little wildcat could take care of herself!

DuBois persisted. “I’d rest easier, knowin’.”

Andrew cursed himself even as he answered, “I’ll look out for her.”

The ride back to the farm had seemed long and dismal. Cally couldn’t enjoy the quiet that settled around her as she left the town behind. She couldn’t take any pleasure in the lovely sunset or the light wind that rustled the dry leaves. She had left Pa behind. She had failed again.

He had been right, of course. She had known all along that she couldn’t just bring him home if she broke him out of jail. They would both have to run. Jewel was a wonderful mule, but her running days were over. They would have to trade her for something better as soon as possible.

And Queen, Royal’s old mother, wouldn’t want to leave the farm. Every evening when Cally went to see Pa, she told the old dog goodbye and prayed someone would come by and find her and the cow and the chickens soon.

Tears were threatening again, and she bit her lip. She didn’t want to give up! Pa hadn’t meant to hurt anybody. She had promised the judge that she would watch him better if they would let her take him home. Even as she had pleaded, she had known he wasn’t listening. What was done, was done, and Pa wasn’t going to get a second chance.

The road dropped down to ford a small creek and Jewel and Royal splashed across the little trickle of water. Once they were away from the trees Cally could see the apple tree on the hill silhouetted in the distance, then the dark shape of the barn. As she rode closer the farmstead seemed to welcome her.

The little sod house Pa had built so long ago when Ma was still alive was the only home Cally could remember. She knew it wasn’t fancy or pretty, but it was the best soddy there ever was. People didn’t expect a soddy to last nearly as long as this one had. Pa had talked of building a real cabin, but she had never counted on it. This had been enough for the two of them.

The old barn had a leaky roof and the tiny chicken coop was barely tight enough to keep critters out, but this was home. This was where she was safe and happy, tending her garden and her animals, which were her only friends. That was as much as she had ever expected to do. But she had always expected Pa to be here with her.

Cally slid off Jewel’s back and led her into the barn. She had already done the chores, but she checked on Belle, the milk cow, and made sure the barn door was securely closed.

Royal was beside her as she walked to the house. Queen came to her feet at the threshold, and followed them inside. As soon as the door was closed, Queen spread herself out against the door, resuming her previous position, this time inside.

Cally moved a chair out of her way and sat down on her bunk. Its side and head were against the paper-covered dirt wall, and Pa’s bunk was across from it. The two were so close, a tall man might sit on one and rest his feet on the other. The trunk under the window barely fit between the two bunks. Clothes hung from pegs above the beds and on either side of the window.

A woodstove, table, two chairs and some crate shelves filled the rest of the house. Once in a while Cally noticed how tiny and crowded it was. Not lately, though. Lately it seemed almost empty.

She shook herself and rose, quickly getting ready for bed. As soon as she blew out the lamp, Royal came to lie on the floor beside her bed. The two dogs made her feel safe, and she slept almost instantly.

Early in the morning, Cally opened the door, letting the dogs out and the fresh air in. She dressed in the same clothes she had worn the day before and started her morning chores. By the time the sun was completely over the horizon, she had milked Belle and staked her and Jewel in grass for the day. She had fed the chickens, letting them out of the little coop into the pen, and had checked the fence, as she did every morning, for any signs that a raccoon had tried to find a way in.

Her own breakfast came last. She fixed a small bowl of corn meal mush, adding fresh cream. She carried it outside and sat in the old rocker to eat it. She liked to think of the little area in front of the house as her front porch, though its floor was dirt like the rest of her yard—and house, for that matter. Pa had built a little sunshade above the door, and set out an old table. Since the house was so crowded, Cally worked outside as much as possible. She would be confined enough to the small space inside all winter.

She thought of Pa, confined to his tiny cell, and gritted her teeth. It had been weeks since his arrest, but she still expected to find him sleeping on his cot every time she stepped into the cabin.

With a sigh she looked out at her garden. That and the animals would be the hardest things to leave. She loved her garden, and it had been good to her this summer. Her vines were loaded with ripe tomatoes waiting to be picked, and she had several jars of cucumber pickles, corn and beans already stored for winter.

“Stored away for whoever finds them,” she said aloud. “‘Cause we ain’t staying.” Last night she had almost given up, but this morning she was as determined as ever to save Pa. There wasn’t anything else a daughter could do. She would go into town again toward evening.

But what weapons did she have left? The ax? The shotgun? The one knife she used to cut her food?

Royal sprawled on the ground and yawned noisily. She turned to stare at him. He twitched his ears at her scrutiny. “You wanna take on that coldhearted sheriff, boy?” she asked. She tried to picture it but couldn’t. Sure, the dog could be threatening enough if she was in danger, but she wasn’t sure he would actually attack.

Royal yawned again, giving her a good look at his sharp white teeth. The thought of them sinking into somebody’s—anybody’s—flesh made her shiver. Could Royal just scare the sheriff into letting Pa go? She remembered Haywood’s cool gaze. He was so sure of himself, she couldn’t imagine him scared. She was afraid she knew what he would do. He would shoot poor Royal, cold-blooded killer that he was.

She couldn’t put Royal in danger. She would have to think of something else. Maybe she was going about this wrong. Maybe she should burn down the sheriffs house at the edge of town to create a distraction. She shook her head. She couldn’t quite see herself being that destructive.

With a sigh, she got up to take her bowl inside. Queen raised her head, and Cally stopped to ruffle her soft brown fur. Queen let her tongue fall out of her mouth to show her pleasure.

She was about to step over Queen when Royal barked. The dog was watching a tiny figure leave the road at the creek.

“Early for company,” Cally commented, stepping over Queen and entering the soddy. She didn’t look toward the empty cot. In a moment, she stepped outside carrying Pa’s double-barreled shotgun. Pa had taught her that she could never be too careful, and she had no reason to expect friendly callers.

Cally returned in the rocking chair and laid the gun across her lap. She watched the figure become a horse and rider and eventually Sheriff Haywood on his sorrel mare. The moment she recognized him, she stood, bringing the stock to her shoulder.

Andrew pulled the mare to a stop at a respectful distance. “Morning, Miss DuBois.”

Cally didn’t answer.

Andrew took in the shotgun and the steady hands that held it. “Mind if I light down?”

“No need. You ain’t staying.”

Andrew wasn’t surprised at the unfriendly words. The gun he hadn’t counted on, though he probably should have. He would have to get it out of her hands before he told her what he had come for. He caught himself rubbing the cut on his arm and slowly settled his hand on the pommel.

“Miss DuBois, I’ll only keep you a moment. If you like, I’ll stay in the saddle, but I’d appreciate it if you would put the shotgun down.”

It seemed to take the girl forever to decide. Andrew was almost tempted to smile at the picture she made. The squat little soddy seemed a perfect backdrop for the ragamuffin and her long-haired dogs, which could nearly pass as coyotes. The girl’s face was hidden by the brim of the floppy hat, but he would bet she had him sighted down the barrel of the gun.

He found himself wanting to sketch the scene and mentally shook himself. It had been too long since he had indulged in his favorite hobby. How could he possibly want a picture of this scruffy trio?

Finally Cally lowered the shotgun and leaned it against the wall behind her. He knew she didn’t trust him and had a feeling she would stay within easy reach of the gun. “State your piece,” she said.

Andrew took a deep breath. “It’s your father, miss. I came to tell you he…died last night.”

Chapter Two

Andrew watched Cally stare at him. She had gone as pale as she had in his office when she nearly fainted. “Miss?” he asked. He wanted to rush to her side, but he didn’t want to be shot.

“It…it’s not Saturday. Why? I…I don’t understand.”

The stammered words helped him make up his mind. Andrew swung off his horse and strode to her, ignoring the dog’s low growl. “I’m sorry, miss. You better sit down.”

“You better explain, mister.” Cally straightened and looked him in the eye. Andrew blinked at the change. Her face was still pale, but the green eyes gazed steadily into his. He had been inches away from taking her in his arms, prepared to comfort a weeping child. He eased back a little instead.

“We’re not sure what happened, miss. I got Dr. Briggs as soon as I knew something was wrong. Doc said he thought it might have been his heart.” The doctor had also said the old drunk might have been so used to alcohol he couldn’t live without it, but Andrew didn’t think that would be much comfort to the daughter.

Cally stared hard at him as if trying to determine if he told the truth. “I’ll drop over to the doctor’s when I’m in town. Hear what he has to say,” she said.

Andrew watched her. She was trying to be brave, but he wasn’t fooled. The poor girl shouldn’t be alone at a time like this. “You could ride into town with me.”

“I got work to do. I’ll be along later.” She was suddenly occupied with the larger of her two scruffy dogs. “Where is he?” she whispered.

“He’s laid out it the back of the Furniture House.” Andrew considered her a moment. “Miss, can I send for anyone? A friend?”

“Got none. You can leave, now. I won’t shoot you as you go.” Her voice was soft but it didn’t crack.

With a nod, Andrew walked to his horse, but turned back. “Miss, your father asked me to look out for you. I hate to leave you alone.”

“I was alone before you came. I’ve been alone for weeks.”

She spoke without looking at him. The hat brim hid her entire face, and all Andrew could see of Cally besides the ill-fitting clothes was the small rough hands that rubbed the dog’s neck.

“I’ll be out tomorrow,” he said. He wasn’t sure she had heard. He mounted and turned the mare toward town. One of the dogs barked once to encourage him on his way.

Cally didn’t look up until she knew he had left. She watched his horse become a blur as her eyes filled with tears. “We won’t need a plan now, will we, Royal?”

Royal leaned against her leg to offer comfort. She rubbed the soft warm head. “It don’t hardly seem possible, Pa’d just die.”

Cally brushed at her tears with her shirtsleeve. Turning, she lifted the shotgun and carried it inside, hanging it in its place above the door. Back outside she slumped into the rocking chair.

She stared at the ford over the creek where Haywood had disappeared. This was somehow his fault. A sheriff was supposed to take care of his prisoners, not let them die in their cells.

The tears were forming again, and she squinted her eyes to try to stop them. The realization that she wouldn’t have to leave her home came to her and she brushed it away guiltily.

Royal’s whine drew her attention. The dog slunk to her side, cautiously placing his head on her lap. She ruffled his fur and looked into the big, sad eyes. “I gotta talk to the undertaker,” she muttered. “And the doctor.” Her tears dried quickly. “Yes, I want to talk to that doctor.”

When Cally rode into Salina an hour later, she wondered if she shouldn’t have waited until evening. There was much more activity than she was used to. The little two-wheeled cart Jewel pulled bounced noisily over the rutted streets, drawing even more stares in her direction.

When she slid off Jewel’s back in front of Lafferty’s, Royal crowded her against the mule, and Cally had to push the dog out of the way before she could reach the hitching post.

The door to the feed store stood open, and Cally stepped inside. “Mr. Lafferty?”

“Would that be Cally, come to visit an old man?” Mr. Lafferty walked slowly toward her from the darkness of the back of the store.

Royal barked a cheerful greeting.

“Heard about yer papa, lass,” the old man said. “‘Twas a sorry thing.” He laid a bony hand on her shoulder and added softly, “Still, I’m glad he didna hang.”

Cally felt the tears sting her eyes and pretended it was the oat dust that caused it. “I’ve come to town to see him. Sheriff Haywood says he’s at the Furniture House.”

She was grateful Mr. Lafferty knew her well enough to realize that was a question. “It’s just three doors down from me, lass. It has the tall red sign. The carpenters are undertakers as well, y’see, and they’ll fix yer papa up nice. Would ye want me to be goin’ wi’ ye, lass?”

“No, thanks,” Cally said quickly. The fewer witnesses, the better.

Mr. Lafferty’s weak eyes narrowed, and she wondered what he was thinking. After a moment he patted her shoulder. “Ye know ye can be countin’ on me if’n ye need anythin’.”

“I know,” was all she could say before the lump in her throat choked off her voice. She touched the old hand briefly then hurried into the sunlight. The brightness brought more tears to her eyes, and she hid beside Jewel as she brushed them away.

Rubbing the mule’s nose, Cally looked up and down the street, quickly locating the tall red sign. She studied it and felt a wave of dread. Once she saw Pa’s body there could be no more hoping he wasn’t dead.

It would make more sense to talk to the doctor first, she decided quickly. Cally had been to Dr. Briggs’s home after a couple of Pa’s fights and knew it was just a few blocks away. She started down the street with Royal trying valiantly to turn her back.

“It’s all right, boy,” she murmured, patting Royal’s head. The dog relented but growled low in his throat whenever someone passed too close to his charge. Several ladies stepped clear off the boardwalk to let them pass.

Andrew saw the little scarecrow and her dog as soon as they came into town. He had been expecting her and had positioned himself casually across from Lafferty’s feed store. Cally was at least predictable.

He wasn’t sure why he felt the need to watch her. He told himself his job included protecting Miss Cally DuBois from the rougher element of town. And protecting the gentler element from Miss Cally DuBois. He felt guilty even as he thought it. She was harmless now, surely.

When she left the feed store, Andrew guessed she was headed for the doctor’s. He let her get well ahead of him before he angled across the street, stepping around a corner in time to see her enter the small frame house that belonged to Dr. Briggs. A moment later, the door reopened, and the huge dog was virtually pushed out.

Andrew smiled as he remembered the first time Cally had come to visit her father. His reaction to Royal inside his office had been immediate and severe. He could imagine the doctor’s was at least as strong.

The huge dog whimpered and turned in circles on the porch. Finally he sat, his eyes fixing squarely on the sheriff. Andrew had never intended to interrupt the girl’s conversation with the doctor. He had only wanted to see to her safety and offer to help her any way he could. For one brief moment as he looked at Royal, it seemed presumptuous to the point of stupidity to think she needed his protection.

He decided to wait for Cally across the street from the doctor’s office. He took one step toward a shade tree, and the dog came to his feet. One more step and the hairs on the dog’s back bristled as his shoulder muscles tensed.

Andrew stopped. Royal relaxed.

Andrew took another step, and the dog bared his teeth, a low growl rumbling in his throat.

Andrew felt a surge of anger. He wasn’t even walking toward the dog! Cally was inside, certainly out of his reach. He wondered, irrationally, if the dog recognized him, if Cally had given Royal orders to attack him on sight.

“It would be just like that little hellion,” he muttered under his breath. Well, he wasn’t going to let a dog keep him from doing his job! If he wanted to march up to the doctor’s door and wait for Cally DuBois on the front steps, her trained beast wasn’t going to stop him.

He took three determined steps directly toward the dog before he stopped. There was nothing like a snarling dog, poised to spring, to cool a man’s anger and remind him of the advantages of patience.

Andrew took a step backward. He and the dog stared at each other and waited for Cally to finish her conversation with the doctor.

When Cally first heard Royal’s reaction to danger she worried that a patient was being kept from the doctor’s door. She hurried to a window in time to see the sheriff stop in his tracks. It almost made her smile.

“And that’s when Haywood came to get you?” she prompted, turning back to the doctor.

“Yes. I did try to revive him, Miss DuBois. But when the heart stops…” He shook his head.

Cally couldn’t bear the pity on the man’s face. She turned and opened the door, mumbling, “Thank you, Doctor,” as she went. She had to nudge Royal out of her way before she could step out of the house.

Without a word to Royal, she walked toward the sheriff, knowing her dog would keep himself between her and any stranger. She wanted to see the cool, self-assured sheriff back away.

The closer they got to Haywood, the more Royal bristled, barking a warning between deep menacing growls. The poor dog was trembling when Cally finally stopped, laying a hand on the dog’s back to reassure him. She felt guilty for using Royal that way. Especially when it hadn’t worked.

Haywood removed his hat. “Miss DuBois,” he said softly.

“Sheriff,” Cally said, trying hard to sound as calm as he did.

“I wanted to offer my assistance.”

Cally wanted to scream. She looked directly into the sheriffs eyes and decided they were the color of dirt. The thought gave her enough strength to accuse him. “You killed my father.”

He had the grace to look surprised—for a second, anyway. Then he looked angry. She had to admit it was quite a thing to say, but, oh, how she wanted to hurt him! She was prepared for him to answer in kind, some cutting remark that she could use to feed her anger.

He disappointed her again.

“Is that what the doctor told you?”

“Yes,” she lied, telling herself it was a small lie and didn’t really count. “You gave him a drink. That’s what killed him.”

Haywood blinked. That was all. Blinked! She had watched his dirt-brown eyes as long as she could. The cool gaze was giving her the chills. She lifted her chin with the last of her courage and went around him, walking purposefully toward the Furniture House.

Royal gave the sheriff a parting glance before joining her.

Cally wanted to mutter her frustration aloud to the dog as she walked, but the streets were too crowded. She didn’t need to attract any more stares than she was already getting. Men and women in all manner of fine clothes were walking on the boardwalks or crossing the street, and they all seemed to think she was the most interesting thing to look at. Hardly any of them spared a glance at the tall buildings, wagons and horses or each other.

Under the tall red sign, Cally stopped and braced herself. With squared shoulders, she stepped through the open door of the big furniture store. A man with a drooping mustache hurried to meet her. “Young man! Leave that dog outside!”

Cally glared at him for a moment. With a wave of her hand and a soft word, Royal returned to the threshold and sat, effectively blocking the doorway.

The mustachioed man scowled. “What can I do for you?”

His tone implied he hoped it wouldn’t take long. So did Cally. “Sheriff Haywood said my pa’s here.” The man’s scowl deepened. “I’m Cally DuBois,” she added.

His demeanor changed drastically. “Oh, Miss DuBois. I’m so sorry. Please, come this way. We’ve laid the poor soul out in the back.”

The dog growled, and they both turned to see two ladies hurry away. The undertaker glared at the dog but smiled sympathetically when he turned back to Cally. “We have a nice selection of coffins, and you’ll be wanting the services of our hearse.”

Cally’s irritation at the man’s phony thoughtfulness made her bold enough to ask, “Will the county pay for it?”

The man’s mustache drooped a little lower. “I wouldn’t think so.” He opened a door and led her into a storeroom. Lighting a lamp, he crossed to a long narrow table where the body lay covered with a sheet.

Cally barely glanced at it. She felt her stomach tremble and wanted to run away. But this was what she had come for, and there were things to be settled. “If he’d hanged, would the county have paid then?” she asked.

“Perhaps. Now, our services can include mourners if your father wasn’t…ahem…well, if he didn’t…”

Royal growled again, and the man leaned to the side, trying to see the front room.

Cally knew he imagined more potential customers scurrying down the street. She was as eager as he was to have this done. “He died in jail,” she persisted. “Why won’t the county pay for his funeral?”

“Look, Miss, if the man was a derelict, the county will bury him in potter’s field. But I can’t imagine a good daughter letting such a thing happen. I am more than willing to discuss some financial arrangement so your father can be buried properly.”

Cally’s eyes narrowed at the man’s harsh tones. “Maybe the sheriff killed him so the county wouldn’t have to pay for his funeral.”

The mustache twitched. “That’s an outrageous accusation! The sheriff wouldn’t be paying, in any case.”

Cally shrugged, as if dismissing a small matter. “I’ll take Pa home,” she said. “My cart’s outside.”

The mustache seemed to take on a life of its own. “Why, you can’t. That is—you’ll still need a coffin.”

Cally had already turned to go. “I’ll make him one…from his cot. He won’t be needing it anymore.”

Cally marched out of the Furniture House, hoping her courage would last until she left town. She untied Jewel from the post in front of Lafferty’s, barely noticing the trace of oats on the mule’s nose, and led her forward until the cart was directly in front of the furniture store.

The undertaker watched her from his threshold, sputtering. Finally convinced of her determination, he drafted a passerby to help and went back inside. Cally rubbed Jewel’s nose while she waited, trying not to think.

In a few minutes they returned and loaded the body into the cart. If the stranger spoke to Cally or even tipped his hat, she didn’t notice. The sheet had slipped to reveal one worn boot hanging over the end of the cart. Cally stared at it, swallowing hard.

The undertaker delivered a parting shot. “I daresay you’ll regret this, Miss DuBois.”

It brought Cally back to her senses. Without responding, she swung onto Jewel’s back, turned the mule in a wide circle and headed out of town.

Andrew watched her go, fighting the urge to follow. The girl intended to take her father’s body home for burial. She intended to dig the grave herself, wrap the body, toss dirt on her own father’s chest. He couldn’t picture it. In fact, he couldn’t allow it.

He had other responsibilities, however, and couldn’t simply leave town. First, he would have to let his deputy know where he was going. Sick wife or not, the man could relay a message if someone needed to find him. And he would leave a note on his office door as well.

In less than half an hour, Andrew was on his way to the DuBois farm. He wanted to kick his horse into a run. It was a ridiculous notion, he knew. He needed to arrive in time to help her, but there was no need to beat her home. As slow as that mule was, he could almost do that anyway.

But he hated to think of Cally making the trip alone, even though it was scarcely two miles. His concern for the girl perplexed him. She had been riding into town every day for weeks, and he had never once worried about her safety. What had caused the change?

Will you look out for my Cally, Sheriff?

He heard the words as if they were spoken by a ghost. Was that really all it took to make him feel so protective, or had something about the girl touched him? He felt a twinge in his upper arm and muttered to himself, “Yeah, the tip of her knife is what touched me.”

In a manner of speaking, as sheriff he looked out for everyone in the county, but he had never been anyone’s guardian. He didn’t know where to begin. Exactly what were his responsibilities to Miss Cally DuBois? It would surely take some time to decide, but for now he knew he couldn’t let her bury her father by herself.

Cally rode the mule to a little rise near her house. A weathered wooden cross barely marked her mother’s grave. All the way home, she had tried to remember what had happened when her mother died. Had neighbors come? Had Pa sent for a preacher? Had he bought a coffin? Or had he made one? It was all a little hazy.

She decided it didn’t matter. She had no choice but to do this herself. When she had unhitched the cart in the shade of the apple tree and led Jewel to grass nearby, she decided it didn’t seem right to leave Pa alone while she went for the spade. “Royal, stay with Pa,” she said.

As she walked the short distance to the barn, she decided nothing seemed right. Her whole world was upside-down, and she was supposed to make decisions she had never before thought about.

Was it wrong to bury Pa wrapped only in a sheet? Should she try to make a coffin from his cot? She had said it only to shut up the undertaker, but now she wished she could really do it.

She was at the barn door when Royal’s warning bark brought her quickly around. Anger helped her forget all her questions. Sheriff Andrew Haywood was riding toward her.

He drew up a short distance away and dismounted. Why hadn’t Royal warned her? As she turned toward her dog, her eyes widened in horror. As this most hated of men walked slowly toward her, Royal, her trusted friend and protector, left his post on the hill and went wagging to meet him.

She stared as Haywood and the dog greeted each other like long-lost friends. How had this happened? Then she remembered leading the snarling Royal toward the sheriff and laying her hand on the dog’s head for reassurance as they stopped in front of Haywood. She groaned, closing her eyes in disbelief. Royal had misunderstood.

Well, there was little chance of explaining to the dog now. She decided her best reaction was to ignore him—them! She wouldn’t so much as nod to the sheriff. She certainly wasn’t going to call her dog! She spun around and went into the barn, grabbed her garden spade and walked back to the little cemetery without another glance in Haywood’s direction.

Haywood had the nerve to mutter something to Royal as they followed her up the hill. She picked the spot and pushed the spade into the dry earth. Her tiny feet inside her father’s old work shoes could barely press the spade into the ground. This would be harder than she’d thought, especially with Haywood watching.

“Do you have another shovel?”

She turned to discover that Haywood had removed his coat and was rolling up the sleeves of his starched white shirt. She lifted another puny spadeful of dirt. “It won’t work any better than this.”

“Go get it.” His voice was soft, but she heard it as a command. She thought she would enjoy telling him where he could go when his hand came down on hers, warm and gentle. It reminded her of her father’s loving touch and tears blurred her vision. She let go of the spade and escaped to the barn.

When she had herself under control again, she took the shovel to the rise, surprised at how much sod Haywood had broken in her absence. The shovel, though not as sharp as the spade, was wider, and she tried to use it to scoop up the dirt as Haywood loosened it. She only succeeded in bumping her shovel against the spade.

“I’ll take care of this,” he said gently.

Cally glared at him a moment. She hated to have any decision taken out of her hands, especially by Haywood, but it would be stupid to turn down his offer. She shrugged as if it made no difference.

After a moment of glaring at his back, she stalked to the barn, glancing over her shoulder once to see Royal lie down in the shade of the cart. Her dog’s defection rankled as much as the sheriffs interference. Muttering to herself, she found a hammer and knocked two short boards off a stall divider that she never used. With the old nails, she fashioned the boards into a cross. It wasn’t much, but it went with the cross at her mother’s grave.

By the time she returned, Haywood had made considerable progress. It would have taken her forever to dig the grave. She would bite her tongue off before she admitted it to Haywood, though. She leaned the cross against the cart and sat down under the apple tree near Royal. Haywood didn’t seem to notice that she had returned.

It was impossible to watch him work and not see the play of muscles across his back and shoulders as he broke dirt loose with the spade and tossed it aside with the shovel. A strong back like that could have the barn roof mended in no time, she thought. If the man felt guilty about Pa, maybe she shouldn’t discourage him. All manner of odd jobs came to mind, and she bit her lip to keep from grinning.

With Pa gone, the farm was all she had. Somehow, she would keep what was left of it and survive with it alone. The weather was warm for September, but she knew there wouldn’t be many more days before frost. She couldn’t help feeling regret and resentment for the days she had wasted while she dreamed of rescuing Pa.

She tried to shake such thoughts away by concentrating on her future. She had yet to dig the potatoes, and, after the first frost, she would have to carry all the pumpkins and squash into her cellar. The hayloft would be a better place to store some of these things but the roof leaked. She watched Haywood’s muscles flex as he shoved the spade into the dark earth, and imagined the roof repaired.

Besides harvesting her garden produce, she would have to chop enough wood to last through the winter. She watched Haywood send another shovelful of dirt onto the pile. It was easy to picture him replenishing her woodpile.

Somehow, watching him too closely made her stomach nervous and her cheeks warm. Deliberately, she pulled her thoughts back to her plans.

She needed to put up as many jars of tomatoes from her neglected patch as she could. The money she made selling her pies and bread paid for flour, sugar and a few other supplies, but mostly she had to live through the winter on what she saved from the garden.

Cally was used to hard work and deciding upon a plan felt better than the persistent hopelessness of the weeks since Pa’s arrest. In a way, she knew life would be easier. Pa, bless him, wasn’t really much help. Cally scolded herself for the disloyal thought. Poor Pa was right beside her!

Haywood’s shirt had become soaked with sweat, defining those useful muscles even more. Yes, her best bet was to humor the sheriff and play on his guilt as long as it lasted. With that in mind, she scrambled to her feet. She walked to the well and brought back a tin cup full of water. She didn’t speak but stood in front of Haywood until he looked up.

He eyed her speculatively.

“It ain’t poisoned,” she said, thrusting the cup toward him.

“Thanks,” he murmured. He tried to hide a grin as he brought the cup to his lips.

That grin made Cally furious. Her one act of kindness was suspect! Well, sure, it was more an act of encouragement than kindness, but he wasn’t supposed to see it that way. Shoot! It was hard to be nice to this man! Maybe the barn roof wasn’t worth it.

He handed the empty cup to her, and she snatched it out of his hand. She couldn’t stay here and watch him anymore. Waiting for him to dig the grave was worse than digging it herself. She stomped back to the well and hung up the cup. At the house she took her bucket from its hook on the side of the house and went to the garden.

With a sigh she surveyed the tomatoes. Lately she had been picking only what she wanted to eat. “There are more rotten ones than good ones,” she said to Royal before she remembered that Royal hadn’t followed her. She looked toward the little hill where Royal lay in the shade of the cart, guarding Haywood while he worked. There was another mark against that interfering sheriff.

She picked overripe tomatoes and dropped them into her bucket, muttering to herself. She almost called Queen over so she would have an excuse to grumble aloud. She had tossed the second bucketful of spoiled tomatoes to the chickens when she saw Haywood approaching.

He had unbuttoned the damp shirt halfway to his waist revealing glimpses of his hairy, muscular chest. Dirt smudged his face and once-white shirt. His hair was in complete disarray. This, Cally decided, was the way she would remember Sheriff Andrew Haywood next time the always-perfect sheriff tried to tell her what to do!

Chapter Three

“The grave’s dug, Miss Dubois.”

It took Cally a moment to realize that Haywood had spoken.

He eyed her curiously as he went on in that soft voice, “I thought you’d want to say a few words over the body.” He paused, waiting, but she didn’t know what to do. “Do you have a Bible?”

Cally fought down a moment of panic. Nodding, she hurried to the well to wash. Inside the soddy, she found her mother’s Bible and, hugging it to her breast, walked to the grave. Haywood had rebuttoned his shirt and was shrugging into his coat. He looked oddly formal for as dirty as he was.

He had laid Pa’s body out on the ground and wrapped him more neatly in the sheet. She couldn’t help staring at it.

“Do you want one last look?” he offered.

Cally shook her head. Haywood jumped easily into the hole, lifted the body gently, and laid it in the grave. He pulled himself back out and stood beside Cally, his hands clasped in front of him. And waited. “Go ahead,” he urged gently, indicating the Bible.

Cally swallowed. “I…can’t.” She sniffed. “Would you?”

Haywood nodded and took the Bible. Cally watched his hands as he turned the Bible over then leafed through it. In a moment, he found what he was looking for. His soft, warm voice read some verses that sounded faintly familiar to Cally. When he was done, he closed the Bible gently. “Did you want to say anything else?”

Cally shook her head, unwilling to look at him.

After what seemed like a long pause, he said, “It’s sometimes customary for a family member to—”

Cally looked up as his voice trailed off. He held the small shovel toward her. The look on his face was more upsetting than the thought of throwing dirt on Pa’s body. Compassion. Sympathy. She straightened her shoulders. If that was the custom, she didn’t want to disappoint him. And she didn’t want him thinking she was about to fall apart!

As calmly as she could, she took the shovel and slid it into the pile of dirt—dirt the color of his eyes, she reminded herself. Using all her irritation at Sheriff Haywood to give her strength, she lifted as large a load as she could handle.

As she let it fall into the grave, Haywood spoke gently, “Dust to dust. Ashes to ashes. We commit this body back to the earth from whence it sprang. Amen.”

Cally watched him for a long moment before his eyes met hers again. “Are you a preacher?” she asked.

“No,” was all he said. He took the shovel from her hands, handing her the Bible, and nodded toward the cart. “Why don’t you hitch the mule to the cart and take it back to the barn? I’ll finish up here.” He was already removing the coat.

There he was, telling her what to do again! He turned his back on her as if he expected her to do just what she was told. Well, maybe she wanted to finish up here.

She watched those fascinating muscles flex as scoop after scoop of dirt fell on the corpse. Maybe she was being ridiculous. She hurried to Jewel, brought her to the cart and hitched her up. She called to Royal, and this time the dog followed her to the barn.

When the cart was put away and Jewel was staked once again, this time on grass as far from the grave as was practical, Cally walked slowly toward the house. She knew she should return to her garden. The tomatoes needed to be picked before they all rotted. Instead, she sat down on her rocker.

“He’s truly gone,” she whispered to herself. Royal whimpered in response to her sorrow and settled down beside her, his head resting on his paws, watching her with sad eyes. “I should have saved him.”

Her eyes turned to the hill where Haywood worked steadily. Soon he would be done, and she would be alone again. He was the reason Pa was dead! When he left, things would be closer to normal. She would be glad when he was off her farm and out of her sight!

That didn’t explain the stab of panic when she watched him drive her crude little cross into the fresh earth and, retrieving his hat and coat as well as the shovels, start toward the house. She didn’t think he so much as glanced in her direction but left the tools beside the barn and walked slowly to the well. He splashed water over his face and neck, revealing his fatigue as he leaned against the low rock wall.

Cally’s own stomach rumbled, and she glanced at the sun, now directly overhead. He could ride that horse into town and have a fancy meal at a restaurant, she told herself. And I can eat alone.

“I’ll be on my way, Miss DuBois.”

She had watched him walk toward her so wrapped up in her thoughts that she hadn’t realized he watched her, too. She simply nodded, letting the chair rock gently.

He took a deep breath. “Miss, I hate to leave you out here alone. Won’t you come into town with me? I could help you find someplace….”

“No!” She cut him off. “I have a place. Right here.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He stood quietly for a long moment as they watched each other.

He started to turn away.

“Do you—?” Cally stopped herself too late. She had caught his attention. She swallowed. “Do you want something to eat?” There. She had said it. Now what was she going to do?

“I need to get back into town. But thanks just the same.”

He strode toward his horse, placing his hat on his head as he went. He tied the coat behind the saddle and sprang aboard. In a moment he was out of the yard.

How could he dare turn down her offer of a meal! Who did he think he was? Too good to eat with her? She was the best cook in the county. Everybody said so. Didn’t folks always snap up her pies and breads when she brought them to town?

“He better not ever show his face around here again,” she told Royal. Feeling indignant was much more comfortable than feeling grateful. With renewed energy, she got up to fix herself some lunch.

Andrew rode into the barnyard of his rented house feeling nearly overwhelmed with pity for little Calloway DuBois. He had tortured himself all the way home wondering if perhaps he should have accepted her invitation to dinner. God knew he was hungry enough, but at the time he had thought he was saving the poor girl the trouble of cooking for someone after the ordeal of the funeral.

For nearly anyone else, the neighbors would have come with food enough to fill her larder for days. But few neighbors knew Cally or her father, and most that did weren’t fond of them, especially since the trial. And, of course, this wasn’t a publicized funeral.

So he had turned her down. Now he wondered if eating with her wouldn’t have given him an opportunity to convince her to come with him to town. Clearly she couldn’t stay on the farm by herself.

He led his horse to the barn and rubbed her down before turning her into the corral. He flexed his sore shoulders as he walked to the house. After some food and a hot bath, he would make inquiries about a position for Miss Cally DuBois. There must be employment for her somewhere, but if not, he would see to her needs while he continued looking for a job.

Or a husband. That, he admitted, would be the most thorough solution. By the time he had cleaned up and dressed in a fresh white shirt and twill trousers, he had virtually dismissed the idea. Considering the girl’s disposition, finding a husband might prove impossible, even though men far outnumbered women in the community. For a moment he considered the man who would welcome the little hellion as a bride, and shuddered. She would need considerable training if she were to snare a man this side of a barbarian.

And training, of course, was another matter. How far, exactly, did his guardianship responsibilities go? Should he use some of his inheritance to send her to a school somewhere? The idea of Cally DuBois in a finishing school stretched the imagination.

By the time he left the house, he had a mental list of people to visit, but his first stop was Bill’s house. The deputy answered his knock, looking somewhat haggard. “I wanted to let you know I was back in town,” Andrew said, eyeing his deputy critically. “You aren’t coming down with something now, are you?”

Bill sighed, running his hand through his already rumpled blond hair. “No, and I think she’s a little better than she was this morning.”

Andrew couldn’t suppress a grin. “You look awful, friend.”

Bill stepped out onto the porch, letting the door close behind him. “Just between you and me, looking after a sick wife is hell. I could chase a bandit clean to Mexico and not be so worn out. She keeps thinking of housework that needs to be done or she says it’ll keep her awake.”

“You made your…”

“Don’t say it! Look, Andrew, three more days, tops. If she isn’t better I’ll see if some of her women friends can’t take turns sitting with her. I’ve got to get out of this house.”

Andrew gave his deputy a reassuring thump on the shoulder before he stepped off the porch. It was hard to build up much sympathy for the man. But then, he reminded himself, he wasn’t really in a position to understand.

He tore his note from the nail beside his office door and started toward Dr. Briggs’s house. A few steps down the boardwalk, he heard someone hail him and turned to see an elderly gent hurrying toward him.

“Mr. Sweeney,” Andrew said as the man huffed up to him. “Is something wrong?”

“No, no,” Sweeney said, reaching out to Andrew to steady himself while he struggled for breath. “I just…wanted to…catch you.”

Andrew supported the old man as best he could and looked around for a place for him to sit. “Are you all right?”

With one last deep breath, Sweeney straightened. “Fine, fine. Can we go inside?”

“Of course.” Andrew unlocked the door and motioned Sweeney in ahead of him. When the door was closed and the lamp on his desk lit, Andrew moved his chair near the one the old man had taken and sat. When he was sure Sweeney was recovered he asked, “What can I do for you?”

Sweeney smiled. “Why, I’m here about the deputy’s job, of course.”

Andrew hoped his jaw hadn’t actually hit his chest. “Mr. Sweeney,” he began, searching for the most diplomatic words, “I was thinking of someone more…vigorous.”

“Vigorous?”

“Well, sir, a deputy’s job could get somewhat… strenuous.”

Sweeney scowled at Andrew. “You saying I’m old?”

“Ah, no, sir, but—”

“Well, see here, young man, don’t dismiss me because I’ve lived a few years. I could teach you a thing or two.”

“I’m sure you could, sir, but—”

“Well, that’s better. I was thinking I could start tomorrow. No sense wasting any time.”

Andrew cleared his throat. “Mr. Sweeney…” He hesitated. How should he put this? He tried to be gentle. “I don’t believe I can hire you as deputy.”

Mr. Sweeney seemed completely surprised. “Why ever not? You just admitted I know more than you do.”

“Yes, sir, but…you’re not…I mean…you’re—” Mr. Sweeney wasn’t taking the hint. “Old,” he finished.

Mr. Sweeney came to his feet. “I don’t think I’d care to work for someone who has no respect for his elders.”

Andrew rose and followed the old man out the door. “Sir, I don’t want you to take this personally.”

“No other way to take it, boy,” Sweeney said, stalking away.

Andrew pulled the office door closed. He stood for a moment looking after the would-be deputy. The old man barely made it off the boardwalk without stumbling. Unfortunately, he had been one of the better applicants.

Andrew shook his head and turned in the other direction, toward Dr. Briggs’s house. His run for the doctor the night before was fresh in his mind. He had been hesitant for a second about leaving DuBois alone but knew he could do nothing for him. By the time he and the doctor had returned, the old man was nearly gone.

Dr. Briggs answered the knock. “Good afternoon, Sheriff. What can I do for you?”

Andrew stepped inside and considered for a moment how best to approach the subject. He couldn’t very well demand that Briggs tell him exactly what he had said to Cally. “I have a few questions about Mr. DuBois’ death,” he said.

The doctor offered him a chair and once they were seated, Andrew continued. “You suggested last night that it was his heart. Is that still your assumption?”

The doctor nodded. “Maybe.” Dr. Briggs was a tall, thin, middle-aged man, friendly and usually straightforward.

“Maybe?” Andrew prompted.

“Well—” the doctor shifted in his seat “—the man was a drunkard. All that time since his arrest without a drink was giving him the shakes. The one drink he had that night might have been what stopped his heart.”

Andrew grew very still. “You mean the drink I gave him killed him?”

“It’s possible.”

Dr. Briggs did not seem to realize how horrifying this news was to Andrew. “You didn’t mention this last night,” he said.

“Things got a little hectic last night.” The doctor seemed to finally notice Andrew’s expression. “Look, Sheriff, it’s just a theory. Even if it’s true, no one could think it was anything but an accident. Besides, the man was going to hang in a few days.”

Andrew nodded and rose to go. Sure, it was a minor detail. It wouldn’t matter to anyone—but him and Cally.

He thanked the doctor and headed back downtown, hoping his visit with the attorney would be more rewarding. He climbed the stairs to Mr. Cobb’s office and, after waiting a few minutes, was ushered into the inner office.

Cobb stood and shook his hand motioning him to a seat. “What can I do for you, Sheriff?”

“I need some advice,” Andrew said as he was seated.

Cobb smiled. “That’s what I’m here for.”

“A dying man asked me to look after his daughter,” Andrew said. “What are my legal obligations?”

Cobb stared at him a moment, and Andrew wondered if this sounded foolish to the attorney. Finally Cob asked, “Were there witnesses?”

“No.” Andrew shifted forward in the seat. “I’m not trying to get out of this. I want to do right by her.”

A feral smile slowly formed on Cobb’s lips. “The DuBois girl, right?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “There’s a little land involved, if my memory serves. As her legal guardian you would control that.”

Andrew was too surprised to object.

Cobb pulled a sheet of paper from a drawer and began making notes. “Is there family likely to come forward and challenge your right of guardianship?”

“No. You don’t—”

“How old is the girl?” Cobb didn’t look up from his notes. When Andrew didn’t answer, he prompted, “Marriageable age?”

“Perhaps. Mr. Cobb, I’m not trying to steal the girl’s land. I—”

“Of course you’re not.” Cobb finally looked up and winked. Andrew wanted to close the eye with his fist. “My suggestion is to see the girl married and demand a percentage for looking after her affairs. Forty is reasonable.”

Andrew made one last effort to explain. “I simply want to know what my responsibilities are to the girl.”

Mr. Cobb shook his head. “Not many, really. You’ll want to do a few conspicuous acts of guardianship for this to hold up in court should someone challenge it. But DuBois was poor white trash. It doesn’t take much to convince that kind you’re on their side.”

Andrew gritted his teeth. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell the attorney what he thought of his advice. Swearing at attorneys—or anyone else—wasn’t his normal behavior. He took a deep breath. Perhaps the man could still be of help. “I thought, perhaps, I’d help the girl find a job.”

“Oh, that’s a good start.”

Andrew tried to ignore the interruption. “Have you heard of any openings?”

Cobb was making notes again. “You might try the saloons. Is the girl at all pretty?”

Andrew had to get out of there before he did hit the man.

“Thank you, Mr. Cobb. You’ve been very informative.”

As he rose to go, Cobb said, “I can have the papers drawn up for you and signed by a judge in just a few days.”

“Don’t bother.”

“But—”

Andrew closed the door, cutting off the attorney. He started through the outer office then turned back to the clerk, who eyed him curiously. “Are you aware of anyone looking to employ a young woman?” he asked. “Domestic help, perhaps?”

The young clerk considered a moment. “Seems like there hasn’t been much in the paper lately, except your search for a deputy.” He grinned and Andrew pictured Cally applying along with every other misfit in town.

Andrew had turned to go when the clerk spoke again. “Wait. The Gwynns. I heard them talking to Mr. Cobb some time ago. They didn’t want to advertise it, but they need a housekeeper. They’re getting on in years and the house and meals and all are too much to handle. I’m surprised Mr. Cobb didn’t mention them.”

“I’m not,” Andrew mumbled. “Thanks.” He returned the clerk’s smile and left, walking thoughtfully down the stairs. So much for learning his legal obligations. He would have to follow his own instincts. And his instincts told him a young woman, marriageable age or not, could not take care of herself on a farm two miles from town. He headed straight for the Gwynn sisters’ home.

“Why, Sheriff Haywood. What brings you here?” The short stocky Easter Gwynn had opened the door. Noella appeared behind her, looking over her sister’s shoulder.

“I understand that you ladies are interested in hiring a housekeeper.”

Easter opened the door a little wider. “Why, yes, we are. Come in. Can we fix you some tea?”

“No, ma’am.” Andrew followed the sisters into the parlor and sat on the edge of an uncomfortable but elegant chair. “I know of a girl who’s been recently orphaned. She needs to find a position.”

Easter smiled. Noella frowned. “Who is this person?” the latter asked.

Andrew almost cringed. “Cally DuBois.”

The women looked at each other. No shock or horror was visible on their faces. Andrew wondered if they might not know who Cally was. That would make it easier, he thought, then felt guilty. He shouldn’t be deceiving little old ladies.

“Isn’t that the waif that sells the pies?” Easter asked.

“I believe so,” said her sister.

“Imagine,” breathed Easter.

“How soon can she start?” Noella asked, folding her hands primly on her narrow lap.

Andrew was surprised enough to ask, “You know her?”

“We know of her,” Noella corrected.

“She’s the best cook in the county,” Easter said. Andrew was sure she started to lick her lips.

Noella spoke again. “I believe my sister asked when she could start.”

“I don’t know.” Andrew felt a need to caution the ladies. “Cally—” What did he plan to say? Cally’s a hellion? He grimaced. “Cally…hasn’t agreed to it yet.”

“Well.” Noella came to her feet. “I will show you around, and you can convince the girl for us.”

He followed the woman into a large modern kitchen, with Easter right behind him. “We will expect her to cook and clean,” Noella said. “It won’t be hard work. We’re both healthy and don’t need to be waited on hand and foot.”

“Her room will be back here,” said Easter, opening a door off the kitchen.

“It’s very nice,” he said. He had to tell them. He took a deep breath. “In fact, it’s much nicer than what she’s used to. Ladies, Miss DuBois has grown up in a soddy. I’m afraid she’s…got a few rough edges.” Did that really say what he meant?

Noella and Easter exchanged a look again. “Don’t worry, Sheriff. We’ll civilize her,” Noella asserted.

Early in the evening, Andrew decided to lock up his office. He was still on duty, but almost anyone looking for him would know to come to the house on the edge of town. With no prisoner in the cell, he could spend the night in his bed, a luxury he hadn’t experienced since his deputy’s wife had taken sick three days before. In all that time, he hadn’t been home except to feed his horses and to wash and change clothes. While he regretted the circumstances that made it possible tonight, he was more than ready for a quiet evening alone with his books or his sketch-book.

As he locked up the office and started down the darkening street, he realized he had waited longer than necessary, half-expecting to see Cally. Her visits had become a habit—like a toothache.

At home, he settled into a comfortable chair, gathering his sketchbook and pencils from the nearby table. In spite of the shock of his visit with Dr. Briggs and his frustration with Mr. Cobb, he wasn’t totally unhappy with his afternoon’s accomplishments. He had found a home for Cally.

He began sketching the women’s faces as he remembered their conversation. Easter and Noella Gwynn seemed willing to overlook her lack of social graces. It was more than he had hoped for.

“We’ll civilize her,” Noella had said. He wondered if she realized the magnitude of that particular task.

Though it wouldn’t necessarily impress Cally, the cozy room off the kitchen would be far more comfortable than her old sod house. Between the Gwynn’s modern kitchen and large but tightly built house, the work would probably be easier than what the girl experienced now. Certainly, the gentlewomen would be far better influences on her developing mind than her drunken father!

Her father. As he continued to sketch, Andrew recalled Dr. Briggs’s revelation. The fact that he had had no way of knowing the danger when he gave DuBois a drink was little comfort. He reminded himself that it was merely a possibility but still had trouble shaking off the guilt. He felt even more responsible for the girl than he had after DuBois’ request.

He looked down at the picture he had drawn. The women that looked back at him seemed uncommonly stern. Had he seen them that way this afternoon? He tried to soften their features with a few light strokes, but they changed very little. The sisters’ haughty noses and pursed lips defied his gentle efforts.

Poor Cally.

Andrew shook himself and tossed the sketchbook aside. She had spit in his face twice. His arm still smarted where she had cut him. She had threatened to stab him with a butcher knife. Which reminded him of a drawer full of weapons he had forgotten to return to her. Forgotten! He was almost afraid to return them to her.

He should be feeling sorry for the ladies. Stern was the least of what Cally DuBois needed.

Wasn’t it?

The sun was streaming into the soddy when Cally fixed her breakfast. She had rescued her tomato patch the day before, washing and canning the ripe fruit and throwing the rotten ones to her chickens. She had been certain that she would sleep soundly after working so hard, but her night had been filled with strange dreams.

Of course, she had buried her father yesterday; she might have expected some unsettling dreams. But not like these. These had nothing to do with her father. The first dream, at least the first one she remembered, was the worst Haywood had driven her away from her farm.

“It was a bad dream,” she told Royal, feeling a need to hear a human voice. “He took the farm same as he took Pa.” What she couldn’t say aloud, not to her trusting friend, was that in the dream Royal had stood beside the sheriff. She was just feeling abandoned, she decided.

When she had fallen asleep again, she had watched Haywood walk toward her, tired and dirty as he had been after burying her father. Instead of inviting him to dinner, she had pulled a knife from her back pocket and slashed him with it. In the dream, it hadn’t cut just his arm as it had in his office, but clear across his chest.

There was no need to let that dream make her feel bad, she told herself. However, her knees trembled and her head spun when she thought of the bright blood pouring down his white shirt. She had to banish the picture from her mind before she fainted. Her breakfast was ready, and she carried it to her rocking chair, turning her mind to the third dream.

In some ways, it was the strangest. She tried to remember it exactly. She was in her little cart under the apple tree. Strong arms had lifted her. She remembered a starched white shirt that smelled of laundry soap. She felt like a little girl being carried, but she knew she wasn’t a child in the dream. Then he laid her…where? In the grave? She didn’t think so.

She had jerked awake, to find her heart racing. Whatever it was, it still frightened her. Yet, unlike the first two dreams, it intrigued her. She wanted to remember it, relive every detail even as they seemed to fade away.

She finished her breakfast quickly, disgusted with herself for wasting time worrying about dreams that had already made her late since she had overslept because of them. She was taking the empty bowl into the house when Royal barked. A glance out the door told her she was about to have a visitor. She grabbed the shotgun and carried it outside.

Chapter Four

Sheriff Haywood cantered into her yard, and Royal went to meet him. For one brief moment, Cally considered the leaky barn roof and the dwindling woodpile. Then she remembered his efforts to get her to leave her farm. She weighed the shotgun in her hand as she considered. Its purpose was to discourage strangers, which Haywood wasn’t—exactly. She had a feeling he wasn’t frightened by it anyway. Still it let him know he wasn’t welcome. She kept it in her hands as she watched him dismount.

“Surprised to see you back so soon,” she said.

Haywood lifted a bag that had been tied to his saddle horn and started toward her. If he thought she was inhospitable after his help the day before, he didn’t mention it.

“I didn’t invite you in,” she said, pleased with the chill in her voice.

He stopped. “These are yours,” he said.

“Leave ‘em where you stand.”

He took his time, as if trying to decide if he should defy her. She wondered if he was gauging his own speed against her ability to swing the shotgun to her shoulder. No, that was foolish. He wasn’t here to hurt her, just annoy the hell out of her. She gripped the shotgun tighter, wishing she knew what to say to make him leave her alone.

Haywood let the bag drop from his fingers. It hit the ground with a clatter. “Miss DuBois,” he called louder than he needed to. She was supposed to feel guilty for making him stay so far from the house. “I’d like to talk to you.”

“So talk. I can hear you.”

She watched the sheriff clench his jaw. She had made him mad. She was elated. She bit her lip to keep him from seeing her grin.

Royal sniffed the discarded bag and turned in a circle to sit at the sheriff’s feet. Cally wondered what would happen if she commanded her dog to kill. Sometime she was going to try it.

Haywood removed his hat, an odd gesture, it seemed to Cally. “I found a job for you in town,” he said.

“I don’t need a job.”

“Miss DuBois, you can’t stay out here by yourself all winter. There are two ladies who are willing to give you a home in exchange for housework. They’re nice ladies, and I’m sure you’d—”

“I got my own housework.”

“But surely you can’t mean to stay.”

Cally lost her patience. “Get on your horse and head on back to town now, Sheriff.”

He didn’t budge. “Your father asked me to look out for you.”

Cally considered that for the briefest of moments. “You sure that wasn’t a warning?” She couldn’t stop herself from grinning but was surprised to see Haywood do the same. She didn’t think she had ever seen him smile. It made him look…different. She realized she had let her arms relax and brought the shotgun to chest level again. Just because he looked…different, didn’t mean he was. She concentrated on glaring at him.

His smile faded, but he didn’t look particularly worried. “Miss DuBois, what are you going to do when winter comes?”

A touch of arrogance in his tone made her certain he had seen her drop her guard. She glared all the harder. “I’ll get by, I reckon.”

He looked toward her woodpile. “How are you going to chop enough wood to keep from freezing? Do you plan to wade through the snow to do your chores morning and night?”

Cally was a little concerned about the wood, but she had him on this last argument. “Do you really think Pa ever did the chores?”

Unfortunately, he didn’t seem to realize she had him. “If you don’t freeze, you’ll starve. Even a grown woman wouldn’t try to make it by herself out here, and you’re a child.”

“I’m what?” Cally really considered swinging the shotgun to her shoulder. A child?

Haywood took his own sweet time deciding what to do. Was he wondering if she would really shoot him? She hoped he didn’t push her that far; Pa’s old shotgun hadn’t been reliable in years. When she saw his stance relax, she hoped she had won—at least for now.

“You know where to find me if you need me,” he said.

“I won’t need you.” Her voice, she noted with satisfaction, was as cold as ever.

Haywood rubbed Royal’s ears, and the traitor leaned into his leg. “I’ll check on you from time to time,” he said, donning his hat before swinging into the saddle.

He turned the sorrel toward town, and Cally hollered after him, “I’ll keep the shotgun handy!”

Andrew had the nerve to turn and wave at her to let her know he had heard—and didn’t care.

She glared at the horse and rider until they disappeared, then at the sack in her yard. She knew it contained all the weapons he had taken away from her. She was glad to have them back. She really was. She just didn’t want to look at them right now.

She took a deep breath and stomped across the yard, grabbed up the sack and stomped back to her house. She deposited the sack on the table, then turned and put the shotgun in its place.

She would dig her potatoes today. She would dig them all and take them to her root cellar. She marched to the barn to get the spade. “I’ll boil a potato for dinner,” she told the dog. “There’s nothing better than fresh dug potatoes. I might even boil two. Too bad you don’t like potatoes. Seems like you should since you like apples.”

She knew she was babbling and to a dog even, but it was either that or think about that insufferable sheriff. “I’ll check on you from time to time,” she mocked.

Royal twitched his ears at the change in her tone.

“Meddling sheriff,” she muttered, shoving the barn door open with more force than necessary. “Found me a job, did he? Like I have time for a job!”

She grabbed up the spade and left the barn. “Why, I’ve got so much to do here, I hardly know where to start.”

She had stomped half the way back to her garden when she glanced down at the spade and stopped in her tracks. She stared at a small clump of dried mud that clung to the blade. Haywood had cleaned the spade and shovel before he brought them back to the barn, but a tiny bit of earth had remained to remind her of how the spade had been used. Yesterday.

Cally found herself sitting on the ground, her knees drawn up to cradle her face. In spite of how upset she had been, she hadn’t cried the night Pa had been arrested. She couldn’t remember even wanting to cry before that, though tears had threatened a few times since. But now the floodgates had opened, and she was powerless to stop the tears. Sorrow, loneliness and fear washed over her in turns.

Once she raised her head to let the breeze cool her damp face, hoping that would help her regain control. Royal, responding to what he saw in her face, whimpered, nuzzled her shoulder and licked at her ear, causing her to burst into fresh tears.

She didn’t know how long she sat like that, in the middle of her yard with the offending spade discarded half a pace away, but in the end exhaustion won where willpower had failed.

She awoke later from a light doze and raised her head. “Potatoes,” she reminded herself, stretching her stiff shoulders. “Lord, Royal, what if Haywood had ridden in and seen that? He’d be hauling me off to town hog-tied to the saddle, I reckon.”

She came unsteadily to her feet and took a deep breath. “If that wasn’t the silliest thing.” She rubbed her cheeks to make sure there were no more tears and brushed at her damp knees. She felt foolish, but in a strange way it had been good to cry. She felt released from a kind of tension that she had felt since Pa had been arrested.

The spot of dirt from her father’s grave didn’t bother her when she caught up the spade and headed for the garden. Digging the potatoes felt good, too. She inhaled the scent of the rich soil as she brushed it away from each one. Big ones and little ones went into the bucket, and she carried them to her cellar where she spread them on a piece of woven wire. Then it was back to her garden for another bucketful.

The soil in her garden was much more mellow than where Haywood had dug the grave. Of course the garden was fertilized and cultivated every year, and there was no apple tree sapping the moisture like on the hill. For some reason, it didn’t hurt to make comparisons now. The cry and her garden had healed her, she decided.

She dipped the spade into the edge of the hole left by the last plant she had dug and lifted another clump of potatoes, watching them separate from the rich, dark brown dirt. Dirt the color of Haywood’s eyes.

The thought startled her. This garden that she loved so much shouldn’t remind her of him! He should have been the furthest thing from her mind.

She sat down beside her half-filled bucket to rest. She looked toward the hill where the two crosses stood. “Did you really ask him to look out for me, Pa?” she whispered. “Him? Pa, I can’t believe you’d do that to me.”

But in her heart she knew he had. Haywood wouldn’t lie about that.

Andrew settled into his comfortable chair. He eyed his sketchbook but it didn’t even tempt him this evening. It had been three days since he had visited the DuBois farm. The Gwynn sisters had come by again today asking when he would bring Cally in to meet them. He had hedged a little, not wanting to admit how obstinate the girl was. He had been certain she would come in herself by now.

He kicked a footstool into position and propped up his heels. Why did he keep thinking Cally would behave the way a normal young lady would? If he expected her to cooperate, he should have asked about a job at the livery.

He sat up suddenly. Or Lafferty’s feed store! Why hadn’t he thought of that sooner? He would ask tomorrow and, with any luck, could ride out to the farm with a new, perhaps more tempting, offer.

Smiling, he grabbed the sketchbook, turning the picture of the Gwynn sisters to the back, and started a quick sketch of Cally with baggy clothes and floppy hat The outline complete, he concentrated on her face.

His mind had been occupied too much lately with Miss Cally DuBois. He hadn’t even had more applicants for deputy to fill up his time. What he needed was a good long ride through some of the little communities in the county. While his deputy was home with his sick wife, it wasn’t wise to leave the office for any length of time unless something specific called him away. He found himself wishing for a little trouble to have something new to think about.

Finally, this evening, Bill had come in saying his wife seemed to be through the worst of it. Andrew had wondered if the threat of having her women friends staying with her instead of her solicitous husband might have had some healing effect. At any rate, tonight Andrew had come home much relieved. Tomorrow he would make a wide swing though the county.

After he had talked to Lafferty. And after he had talked to Cally.

He looked down at his half-finished sketch. Were her lips really shaped like that? He had drawn them soft and full, extremely kissable. Her pert little nose, sprinkled with freckles, looked right, perhaps. But surely these weren’t Cally’s eyes? They were open wide with innocence and framed with beautiful dark lashes.

He had flattered her, he decided. He added a few more freckles, but it didn’t change the overall effect. He should have drawn her angry, spitting in his face, her eyes narrowed and glaring. That he would have recognized!

He didn’t know whom he had drawn, but it wasn’t Cally. He set the sketch aside unfinished. He should check on the weather before he turned in. There had been some dangerous-looking clouds gathering in the west when he came home.

Outside, he was hit by a chilly wind that carried the smell of rain. Lightning crackled constantly in the clouds in the west. They were in for a storm.

He pictured Cally alone in the leaky little soddy, hearing the thunder as the rain pounded relentlessly on her roof. A heavy enough rain would dissolve her house into a pile of mud!

Andrew had grabbed his coat and slicker from the hooks by the back door and started toward the corral before he was conscious of what he planned to do. He had known all along that she couldn’t stay on the farm alone. Tonight was his chance to prove it to her.

The mare pranced around the corral, avoiding Andrew’s loop. Her skittishness increased Andrew’s concern, making him more impatient to rescue Cally. Keeping his own feelings under control, he calmed the horse with his voice and soon led her into the barn. Once inside she settled down while he saddled her. Andrew heard the first drops of rain on the barn roof and slipped into his slicker before leaving the barn.

The wind was increasing at an alarming rate. Lightning flashed like Chinese firecrackers. Thunder had become a constant rumble over the sound of the wind. He made it halfway to the farm before the sky opened and drenched him, turning the road to a river of mud in a matter of minutes. The thought of poor Cally, terror-stricken, possibly drowning, kept him struggling onward.

By the time he rode into the farmyard, the mare was fighting not only the mud but panic as well. Relief at seeing the house still standing was followed by the conviction that his horse would bolt as soon as he was off her back. He rode her toward the barn and, keeping a tight hold on the rein, dismounted and opened the rickety door.

The interior of the barn was dark but relatively dry. Flashes of lightning could be seen through a hole in the roof where rain poured in, sending a little river of water across the floor and out under the door. Good heavens, the girl had dug a trench to channel the water out of the barn!

In the uncertain light he made out two large forms in the barn. One would be the mule, the other the cow he had seen. He had determined a dry place to leave his horse when something cool and damp brushed his hand. He jumped before he recognized the friendly whimper of a dog.

“Why aren’t you in with Cally?” he asked, scratching the dog’s head. Almost immediately, the dog moved slowly away. So, this wasn’t the friendly Royal. This was the old dog he had seen lying by the door. Cally must have left it in the barn to keep the animals calm. It seemed to be working. Even his horse was less skittish now.

Andrew tied the mare, hoping she wouldn’t panic and pull the barn down around her. He removed her saddle and rubbed her down quickly, anxious now to see about Cally.

Cally lay awake, listening to the thunder. She had done all she could to prepare for the storm. Now she had to wait it out. By morning, her root cellar would be wet. Her barn would be wet. Her house would be wet, no doubt leaking mud for days to come. By morning, more than likely, everything she owned would be wet. There was nothing she could do about it now. She rolled over, trying to ignore the howl of the wind.

Royal came to his feet and whimpered.

“It’s all right, boy,” she murmured, hoping to reassure herself as well.

Royal wasn’t to be calmed. He let out a sharp bark. Cally sat up in bed. “What is it, boy?”

Royal took up a position facing the door, barking insistently.

Cally swung out of the bed, making her way around Royal to grab the shotgun off the wall. She fumbled on the shelf for a tallow candle and her jar of matches, setting the shotgun on the table for a moment as she lit the candle. The soft glow filled the room when she heard a pounding on the door. She snatched up the shotgun. “The latch string’s out,” she called.

The door swung open, and a man filled her doorway. He stepped inside quickly, closing the door behind him. Royal, curse him, didn’t growl. It was Sheriff Haywood. He didn’t need to take off his hat and slicker and step into the candlelight for her to recognize him. He did it anyway.

And froze.

She had never seen anyone look so stunned. His eyes, staring first at her face, slowly trailed down her white nightgown to her bare feet and up again. He was obviously ignoring the shotgun. She considered lowering the gun now that she knew who the intruder was, but the look on his face was so strange she kept it where it was. “What are you doing here?” she asked, hoping to snap him out of his trance.

He didn’t answer. He was breathing hard, and she wondered if he had run some distance to seek shelter at her door. “Did you lose your horse?” she asked.

He blinked as if he had just awakened. “I put her in your barn.”

Cally scowled. He shouldn’t be out of breath from that short a run. Well, maybe if her yard was full of mud. She found herself disappointed in him, anyway. “Why are you out on a night like this?”

“I came to see you.” He spoke in a strange whisper. She wondered if he had caught cold.

“You’ve seen me. You can go.”

He was staring at her again. She decided he might be feverish. After a moment he spoke in that same strange whisper. “I’m not going back out in that storm.”

She nodded. Now she understood. He was afraid of storms. The shotgun was getting heavy, but she didn’t dare lower it. The look in his eyes made her stomach tremble. If he was afraid of storms why hadn’t he stayed home? “You expect to stay here?” That thought made more than her stomach tremble.

He took a step toward her. Her house was so small that he would be able to snatch her shotgun out of her hands if he moved any closer. “I’ll shoot!” she warned. She backed away as far as she could.

His expression changed from the strange fevered gaze to a flash of anger. “If you shoot me,” he said, his voice back to the one she recognized, “I’ll bleed. At this range, that shotgun will tear me in two and splatter blood and bone—”

He stopped abruptly, or she thought he did. The buzzing in her ears grew steadily louder as a black haze closed off her vision. Everything cleared just as quickly when she found herself leaning against Sheriff Haywood’s body, his arms wrapped around her. Her shotgun, of course, was gone. “That wasn’t fair,” she whispered.

“Hmm?” He drew away slightly and lifted her chin with his finger. “Are you all right?”

She could almost believe it was a sincere question. She found herself nodding. The odd fevered light was back in his eyes. It must be a catching kind of fever; she felt her own temperature rise.

“I’m all right. Just don’t talk about…you know.”

“Don’t threaten to shoot me,” he whispered, drawing closer as if he were afraid she couldn’t hear.

She knew she should pull away, but she wasn’t sure her legs were steady yet. She didn’t want to faint right here in front of him. She would let him hold her up a while longer. Meanwhile, she stared at him. How close did he think his lips had to be for her to hear?

Then his lips actually touched hers! It hadn’t occurred to her that he would want to kiss her! It was a strange sensation, his lips right against hers like that. They felt cool in spite of his fever and he smelled like the rain. She felt her stomach quiver while little shivers went down her legs and up her body.

He must have felt her legs shudder because now he held her much tighter. She clutched his coat, trying to still the trembling in her hands. Very slowly, he raised his head. She followed it up as far as her toes would stretch but eventually her lips were free.

He cleared his throat as he loosened his arms. “I can’t stay here.”

He released her rather suddenly, and she grabbed a chair to steady herself. Without looking at her again, he threw on his slicker and hat and vanished into the storm.

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