The Lawman's Vow. Elizabeth Lane
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a little.” The boy frowned, then brightened. “If you aren’t a prince, where did you get that ring on your finger?”
He raised his left hand to look. The fathomless blue sapphire, framed in gold, gleamed in the sunlight. If the stone was real the ring could be worth a small fortune. It was hard to believe these people hadn’t stolen it from him.
“Well, what about it?” the boy demanded. “If you’re not a prince where did you get that ring?”
“Where are your manners, Daniel?” the young woman scolded. “The gentleman’s our guest, not our prisoner.” She turned, her expression still guarded. The sea wind fluttered tendrils of sunlit hair around her face. “I’m Sylvie Cragun,” she said. “This is my brother, Daniel. And who might you be, sir?”
Her speech was formal, almost schoolbookish. She seemed to be well educated, or at least well-read, he observed. Odd, given her faded dress and work-worn hands. His gaze flickered to the driftwood club. Her manner was friendly enough, but something told him that, at his first suspicious move, she’d crack it against his skull.
Her silvery eyes narrowed. “Your name, sir, if you’d be so kind. And it would be a courtesy to tell us where you’ve come from.”
“My name is…” He hesitated, groping for an answer to the question. But nothing came to mind—not his name, not his family or his occupation, not his home or his reason for being here.
She was watching him, her gaze growing stormier by the second. He shook his head, the slight motion triggering bursts of pain. “I don’t remember,” he muttered. “God help me, I don’t remember anything.”
Sylvie stared at the stranger. She’d read about memory loss. The medical book said it was most commonly caused by a blow to the head. The gash above his temple made that explanation plausible. But that didn’t mean it was true. Until she knew more, she’d be foolish to believe anything he told her.
“You can’t remember your own name?” Daniel asked in wonder.
“Not at the moment.” His wry chuckle sounded forced. “Give me a little time, it’ll come.”
“But if you don’t know your name, what can we call you?” Daniel persisted.
He shrugged. “For now, anything. You decide.”
Daniel pondered his choices. “Rumpelstiltskin?” he ventured. “I like that story a lot.”
“I was hoping for something shorter,” the stranger muttered.
“Can’t you think of an easier name, Daniel?” Sylvie asked.
The boy’s frown deepened. He pondered a moment, then sighed. “I can’t think of anything good. Will you help me, Sylvie?”
“Let me think.” As Sylvie scrambled to resolve the question, the opening line from the book she’d been reading flashed into her mind.
Call me Ishmael…
Ishmael, the wanderer cast up by the sea, with no last name and no home. What could be more fitting?
“We will call you Ishmael,” she said.
The scarred corner of his mouth twitched upward. “I take it you’ve been reading your Bible,” he said. “That, or Moby Dick.”
“Either way, I think it suits you.” Sylvie’s face warmed as their gazes met. Here was a man who’d read the same book she was reading. A literate man—a gentleman perhaps, who could teach her something about the world. True, he might be pledged or even married to someone else. But surely there could be no harm in a friendly exchange.
As she rose to her feet, the realization struck her.
The man who couldn’t remember his own name had remembered a book he’d read.
Memory loss could be selective, she supposed. But what if he was lying to hide his identity and win her trust? He could be a fugitive running from the law, maybe a ruffian who’d take cruel advantage of a woman and child. There were such men, she knew. Her father had warned her about them. “Keep the shotgun handy when I’m away, girl,” he’d told her. “If a stranger comes in the gate, pull the trigger first and ask questions later.”
The old single-barrel shotgun lay ready on a rack above the cabin door. Sylvie knew how to load the shot and black powder and set the percussion cap. Her aim was good enough to bring down ducks and pigeons for the cooking pot. But she’d never fired at a human target.
Could she do it if she had to? Could she point the weapon at this compelling stranger, pull the trigger and blast him to kingdom come?
She could, and she would, to protect her little brother, Sylvie vowed. Nothing was more important than Daniel’s safety.
But she wouldn’t let things get to that point. She would keep the gun close and watch the man’s every move. At the first sign of suspect behavior she would send him packing. It sounded like a good plan. But she was already at a disadvantage. The stranger was bigger, stronger and likely craftier than she was. In saving his life, she’d already put herself and Daniel at risk.
Maybe she should have left him under the boat to drown in the tide.
But even as the thought crossed her mind, Sylvie knew she couldn’t have done such a thing. She couldn’t condemn a stranger who had not yet done them any harm. Every life was precious in its own way. How could she presume to judge who was worthy to live?
She could only do what was humane and what was reasonable—and what was prudent, which in this case meant staying on her guard.
“How did you two get here?” He squinted up at her, the sun glaring in his eyes. “You didn’t come out of nowhere.”
“Our cabin’s up there, at the top of the cliff.” She glanced toward the high-water line, where barnacles clustered white against the rocks. “The tide covers this beach when it comes in. You can’t stay here, and we can’t carry you up the trail. That leaves you with three choices—walk, crawl or drown.”
“Well, I don’t think much of the last one.” He shifted, wincing with pain as he struggled to get his legs beneath him. “Mind giving me a hand?”
She reached for his outstretched fingers. Glinting on his sapphire ring, the sun scattered rainbows over the white sand. The powerful hands that closed around hers were smooth and uncallused. Maybe he was a gentleman after all. Or, more likely, a handsome criminal who lived by his wits.
“Ready?” He pulled against her slight weight. Sylvie braced backward as he staggered to his feet. Standing, he was even taller than she’d realized. Swaying like a tree in the wind, he loomed a full head above her.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“Just dizzy,” he muttered. “Head hurts some.”
“Here, have some more water.” She handed him the canteen. “If you want to rest awhile, there’s time before the tide comes in.”
“No. Might get worse.” Lifting the canteen, he drank deeply, then returned it to her. “Let’s go now.”
Daniel had been standing to one side, watching wide-eyed. Their father was a small, wiry man, and the boy had seen only a few other adults. To him, this stranger must look like a giant.
“Take the canteen and go on ahead, Daniel,” Sylvie said. “Be careful, now. Wait for us at the top.”
As Daniel scurried toward the trail, she cast around the beach for a scrap of driftwood to serve as a walking stick. Finding a suitable length, she thrust it toward the man she’d named Ishmael. “This will steady you. If you get dizzy, drop to your knees. I’ll be right behind you, but if you fall, you’re on your own. I can’t hold your weight.”
“Understood.” She could feel his eyes taking her measure, perusing every curve