Flanna and the Lawman Read online

  But he hadn’t turned to solace in the arms of another. Instead, if her woman’s soul read the signs right, he’d been as bereft without her as she was without him.

  Flanna placed a lid on the stew pot, ready to move the warmed water off for washing, when she was struck by a revelation. Her eyes strayed again to the bed.

  Loveless was not for them. But here, on this blessed parcel of land, she and Trace could make a life for themselves. They could build something of substance. Together.

  All she had to do was convince him. She knew he’d forgive her, but would he give her another chance?

  Her first step, she decided, was to show him she had changed…and that she’d make a man a fine wife.

  Chapter Six

  TRACE DROVE HIMSELF HARD to get as much as possible done before dark—and to erase Flanna’s disturbing presence from the edges of his mind.

  He was too damn aware of her for his own good. She made his blood hot in a way no woman had before or after her. But he would leave her, as soon as he’d taken care of Slayton.

  Burned once, he wasn’t fool enough to let her close a second time.

  He wove the rope through the trees along the other side of the stream. The dog, a mottled-brown male hound with soulful eyes and a wagging tail, followed his every step. Inside the stable, Trace found two bottles from Rory’s medicine-show days and hung them in the tree branches close enough together for them clink quietly when the wind blew. If Slayton sent riders this way, the horses would hear the soft sound and grow skittish…or so Trace hoped.

  He loaded the lumber for the house into the wagon and then pulled it himself to a point halfway up the bluff. The dog tagged along, his tongue hanging loose.

  Trace’s plan was to make a makeshift barrier by stacking the lumber much like a split-rail fence below the bluff’s crest. Slayton’s riders would charge over the bluff and then be surprised. With a spade, he started digging into the hard earth to make a posthole to bury a footing.

  “I brought you water,” Flanna’s voice said from behind him. He turned and his breath caught in his throat. She’d braided her hair in a single plait that hung over one shoulder. The simple style made her look younger, vulnerable, except for where the tip of the braid brushed the crest of her breast.

  His imagination leaped to a picture of her without the calico dress, with them alone, together. At one time his body had burned for her to the point his nights had been restless.

  Now, as she dipped a ladle into the pail of fresh water, he wondered what she would do if he gave in to temptation and ran his hand along her clean, shining hair to the wayward tip of that braid.

  “This is from the spring,” she said, unaware of the lust drumming in his veins. “It’s the sweetest water you can imagine.”

  He grunted an answer, not trusting his voice, and tried to focus on anything but the curl resting on her breast. He was all too conscious of his own disheveled state. Lifting the ladle, he drank his fill. The water seemed to spread through his body, renewing him…and slowly, he let down his guard…just a little.

  After all, this was Flanna. At one time he’d shared his dreams with her.

  If she noticed a change in his stance toward her, she gave no indication. “I washed your shirt and hung it to dry.”

  He was conscious the shirt he was now wearing was filthy. “Thank you.”

  Almost shyly, she said, “I found a rip in the sleeve. I sewed it.”

  He nodded. This conversation about mundane things seemed intimate—like the sort of inconsequential conversation between a husband and a wife.

  Abruptly he backed away from the direction of his thoughts and picked up the shovel. “Thanks for the water.”

  She didn’t leave. He dug into the earth, giving her his back.

  “Do you think that running a rope through the trees will be enough?” she asked.

  “It’s the best we can do with what we have.”

  “I’ll help you dig,” she offered.

  “I’m fine, Flanna. Go back to your house.”

  “It’s no trouble. The stew is on and there is an hour or two before dark. We can get more done if we work together. I’ll fetch another shovel.” Before he could protest, she’d set down her pail and run down to the stable. The dogs loped along beside her.

  Trace swore under his breath. Stubborn. She was the most irritating woman—

  He dug his shovel into the earth, pushing it deep. If she thought he’d coddle her, she was wrong. He set a plank of wood in the shallow hole he’d dug and measured the distance for the next hole.

  “Here we are,” Flanna said, coming up the bluff carrying a short-handled spade. “What do you want me to do? Dig a shallow hole like you did this one?”

  He didn’t want her to do anything, and he would have told her so—except when he looked up, the words died in his throat. She stood, ready and willing with those two mixed-breed dogs flopped at her feet and happily panting. He tempered his words. “Yes. Like I am.”

  She nodded and set to work. As he stacked a set of “rails” on top of the other, she said, “Now I see. There’s no trick here. Together, we’ll have this done in no time.”

  Her attitude in the face of Slayton’s attack was cheerful. Trace didn’t know what to make of her, so he tried to ignore her.

  But no such luck.

  “Did I tell you the dogs’ names?”

  He wasn’t interested.

  “Samson and Delilah,” she said as if he’d asked. “They’re brother and sister, of course, but we thought the names fitting.”

  Delilah. Figures. He kept his opinion to himself but as she started sharing with him more details of her and Rory’s dreams for the ranch, he couldn’t help listening.

  Finally she asked a question he had to answer. “This barricade we’re building won’t be hurting the horses, will it? I wouldn’t want that on my conscience even if the animals are being ridden by the worst sort of pigs imaginable.”

  He smiled at her summation of Slayton’s men. Flanna never held back her opinion. “I’ve thought of the horses, too. They’ll be surprised but they should manage fine. Besides, the rails aren’t nailed. They will topple off each other.”

  “Spook the horses and break the necks of their riders!” she finished in triumph. In spite of himself, a rusty chuckle escaped. It had been so long since he’d laughed, the sound almost startled him.

  Flanna seemed to sense it, too. A quick, satisfied grin crossed her face before she changed the subject.

  “We’re almost done here since we’re about out of wood. What shall you do with the ground we can’t cover?”

  “I’m not worried. Slayton’s men will take the easy way, depending on speed for their attack. This should catch them. If they try the way of the barn, the animals will tip us off. I’ll roll the wagon over by the house and stand watch there. We should be ready for them tonight.”

  “I can stand watch, too.”

  He wasn’t about to let that happen. Women were to be protected, not to be protectors, but he’d not voice his opinion because he knew Flanna would argue. Instead he said, “Maybe.”

  She wiped her hands on her skirt. “There’s not much daylight left. I’d best check on my stew. You come down as soon as you’re finished and I’ll have a hot meal for you.”

  A hot meal. The smell of cooking meat wafted from the stove stack to where Trace stood. It had been a long time since he’d had a home-cooked meal. “Do you have any soap?”

  She lifted her shovel handle up to rest on her shoulder. “I do,” she said with cocky humor.

  “I could use a bit.”

  Her smile lit her face. “It’s scented with Attar of Roses, not eau de lillies.”

  He caught her joke, and managed a crooked smile. “I don’t suppose it would do me any harm.”

  She laughed, the sound as light as the wind skittering across water. “No, no harm at all. I’ll fetch it.” She headed toward the barn to deposit her shovel.

  Trace
watched her come out and then walk toward the soddy. The dogs trailed her heels, probably hoping for their dinner.

  The sun was setting and everything was bathed in a mellow, golden light. Even the humble soddy appeared grander than it was and in spite of Slayton, of the danger…for the first time in a long while, Trace felt a sense of peace.

  * * *

  FLANNA WATCHED TRACE sit quietly across the table from her, sipping his coffee, and realized how homey this scene was. The dogs rested on a rug before the stove.

  When he walked in for dinner, clean, shaved, his hair slicked back, his lean, muscular body smelling of roses, well, she’d felt a bit giddy, like a girl meeting her first beau. Every time she glanced at him, she was struck anew at what a fine and brawny man he was. A woman could do far worse.

  Through dinner, they’d wisely set aside the past and talked about the weather, the livestock and the search Flanna had made for her fifty head. She was certain Slayton had the animals. The hired hand Rory had brought on to watch the beasts had disappeared right after the shooting. Trace knew more about ranching and farming than she’d imagined.

  However, now, with their stomachs full, a companionable silence stretched between them. She picked up her darning basket, needing something to do with her fingers and to distract her mind.

  This was the way it was between married couples. This space of time in the evening when chores were done and dinner finished. If they really were married, they would blow out the lanterns and go to bed together.

  For a second Flanna couldn’t move. She could barely breathe at the image her mind conjured. Back in Harwood, during their kiss, she’d felt him, bold and hard.

  He wanted her.

  And, God save her, she wanted him, too.

  In spite of their vagabond existence, Rory had been an overprotective father. He’d not let anyone dally with his daughter and she’d not wanted to—until she’d met Trace.

  Now the fact that the two of them were alone fueled her imagination. Her inattention cost. Accidentally she stabbed herself with the needle. Raising her finger to her lips, she sucked the prick, lifting her gaze to see if he noticed—and then froze.

  Trace was sound asleep. He sat upright in his chair, his hand resting loosely curved around the tin coffee mug on the table.

  She set her darning aside and rose quietly. Moving around to the back of his chair, she gave in to temptation a moment and curled one strand of his hair around her fingers. “You need a haircut,” she whispered and then placed a hand on his shoulder. He didn’t move. The man was exhausted and who could blame him after the drinking, the fight, the trial and almost hanging? He’d not be happy he’d fallen asleep. He’d interpret his need for sleep as a sign of weakness…and yet to her it made him endearingly human. This was the side of him she liked best.

  “Come along, Trace,” she said in his ear. “It’s time for bed.”

  He mumbled something about needing to stand watch.

  “Yes,” she agreed. “You must stand watch. Here now, come over here.”

  In his sleep he was as compliant as a child. She easily directed him the few steps to the bed. “Rest here a moment while I check the horses.”

  He was so exhausted, he did as she asked.

  Flanna looked down at him and her heart filled with her love of him. Rory’s rifle rested in a corner, loaded and ready. She picked it up and with a soft command to the dogs to follow, went outside to take a post in the wagon to watch for Slayton.

  * * *

  TRACE WOKE with a start. He’d been dreaming that he had to stand watch and when he woke, he was disoriented.

  Slowly he took in his surroundings: the earth walls, the thin wood floor and the smells of coffee and the meal he’d shared with Flanna. The soddy he’d disdained when he’d first seen it had turned out to be a warm, hospitable home. He was in bed, comfortable and cozy.

  But Flanna. Where was she?

  He said her name aloud. No answer. The dogs weren’t there, either.

  Instantly alert, he sat up. His holster and gun hung from the bedpost. He pulled out his gun and cocked it. His boots were still on his feet but the fire was dying in the stove. He’d been asleep a few hours.

  Swiftly, he made his way across the soddy and opened the door. The light of a half moon bathed the landscape in shadow and silver. All seemed quiet. Samson slept on across the threshold. He wagged his tail in greeting and rose to all fours.

  His gun still poised, Trace searched for some sign of Flanna. He didn’t see her. He thought about calling out and decided against it. She shouldn’t have let him fall asleep. What if Slayton had come and taken her?

  He bit back panic.

  “Where is she?” he said in a low voice. To his surprise, Samson answered by taking off toward the wagon. At his approach, Delilah raised her head and Trace knew Flanna was there.

  He lowered his gun and hurried toward the wagon, determined to give her a piece of his mind for not waking him. Samson and Delilah both took off in another direction. “You’re right,” he whispered. “You don’t want to hear this.” He raised his voice. “Flanna!”

  No answer.

  His heartbeat kicked up a notch. What if she wasn’t there? He leaned over the edge of the wagon and found her sound asleep on the hardboard bed.

  Relief washed through him.

  She must have been as bone-tired as he’d been. Cradling the rifle to her, she slept with the weariness brought on by a day’s hard work.

  They were damn lucky Slayton hadn’t attacked.

  Trace glanced around. He saw no movement on the rise of the bluff or in the shadows of the trees around the stream. There was nothing but the call of a night bird and the music of insects. They could be the only two people in the world.

  He returned to the house, grabbed the quilt off the bed and then walked back to the wagon. Flanna didn’t even wake when he hopped up beside her on the wagon bed. He spread the quilt over her sleeping form and then settled himself beside her, his back against the wagon seat.

  For a second he sat quiet. Then, gingerly, he lifted her shoulders and placed her head on his thigh so she might sleep more comfortably. With a soft sigh, she eased deeper into sleep.

  He could have carried her inside…but he liked being with her this way.

  Carefully, reverently, he reached out and stroked the silken length of her braid. Her cheek appeared downy-smooth in the moonlight.

  And he faced the truth: he’d never gotten over her. Not really. He’d pretended but she was the only woman he’d ever loved.

  Love. Such a small word and, yet, he hadn’t been the same since she’d introduced him to its full meaning.

  He looked out into the night. Dawn was a few hours away. If Slayton hadn’t struck by now, he probably wouldn’t until later, but still Trace would be prepared for him. He had to protect Flanna.

  In the morning, he’d give her a tongue-lashing for not waking him. But for now, it felt good being this close to her. The terrible emptiness he’d felt when she’d left him back in Loveless eased.

  And as he stood guard the rest of the night, he wondered if maybe, just maybe, he should take another chance on Flanna.

  That is, if she’d have him.

  Chapter Seven

  FLANNA WOKE the next morning with the most wonderful sense of well-being. She’d not slept so hard since before her father’s death and Slayton’s threats.

  With a start, she remembered she was in the wagon and her purpose. She should not have fallen asleep.

  She scrambled up and was surprised by the quilt around her shoulders. And she was in bed.

  She looked around. Where was Trace? Had Slayton come?

  Spring sunshine formed a rectangular pattern on the floor. All was quiet. Her panic was eased by the gut feeling that all would not seem so peaceful if Slayton had attacked.

  To punctuate her thoughts, her rooster crowed and there was a meadowlark’s trill as if in answer. Lambert, the rooster, always strutted and crowed
midmorning. The day was well advanced. She’d slept late.

  Flipping her sleep-ragged braid back, she put her feet over the edge of the bed. Trace must have removed her shoes. She had a hole in the sock right over her big toe and her dress was hopelessly wrinkled. Trace couldn’t be more furious with her than she was with herself. How could she fall asleep during her watch?

  At that moment, as if she had conjured him, Trace appeared in the doorway. His tall, broad-shouldered frame blocked the welcoming sunlight.

  She came to her feet, covering one foot self-consciously with the other to hide the hole. “I know what you are thinking and I was wrong, wrong, wrong not to have woken you. And then to have fallen asleep myself! I’m so blessed sorry and I won’t let anything like that happen again—” She would have continued verbally flogging herself but he held up a hand for quiet.

  “Slayton didn’t come and no harm done. You didn’t do anything wrong. Besides, you must have needed the sleep.” He paused, his gaze studying her face, then followed the line of her neck, lingering over her breasts and down all the way to her toes. Her heart beat a funny little trip.

  “You look more rested,” he said. There was a warmth in his voice that made her toes curl.

  “I am,” she answered, her voice suddenly a husky squeak. She turned, needing to give herself respite from those silver eyes of his that seemed to see everything. He walked into the soddy, his bold, masculine presence filling the room…and she found it hard to breathe.

  Uncertain, she touched her braid. What had she seen in the depths of his eyes? Want? Hunger?

  No, something more. Something she’d thought never to see again. So filled with astonishment was she, she dared not put a word to it—yet.

  He moved toward the stove. “You were so tired, I made biscuits and you didn’t even move. Not even when they were baking.”

  She could single out the scent of biscuits now that he mentioned them. “You made them?”

  “And gravy.” He opened the lid of her iron skillet. “It’s not fancy but it’s pretty tasty.”

  Her stomach growled in response.