A Lawman For Christmas. Karen Kirst
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over him.
“We’ll have to cut off your sleeve.” Hands on her hips, Honor considered his torn, bloodied shirt.
“As much as I’d love to stitch you up, I can’t stand the sight of blood.” Positioned beside her sister, Carmen’s brown eyes were apologetic. The cloud of chocolate-brown hair tumbling about her shoulders quivered with the shake of her head. “I’d wind up a puddle at your feet.”
“Not an uncommon occurrence where the deputy is concerned.” Isabel unbuttoned her cloak and hung it on a coatrack. When she intercepted her sisters’ disapproving stares, she shrugged. “What? It’s true.”
“You act as if it’s his fault he’s as handsome as they come,” Carmen retorted, then blushed to her hairline.
Ben ducked his head to hide his smile.
Isabel made a shooing motion with her hands. “Off to your room, both of you. I’ll see to the deputy’s wound.”
Their protests were met with a stern stare. “I won’t be able to concentrate with the two of you fussing over him.”
Grumbling to each other, they disappeared into a room on the far side of the cabin. Of modest size, their home boasted a cozy central space—the furniture arranged about a massive fireplace—a separate kitchen and two bedrooms. The sofa was, at best guess, two decades old. While the carved walnut frame was polished to a high shine, nothing could hide the sad state of the black-and-white upholstery. They’d placed brightly colored pillows along its length to mask the imperfections. Landscape paintings of winding rivers and fields dotted with bluebonnets and even one of a longhorn provided reminders of their home state of Texas. White, green and red paper chains hung from the mantel, a playful nod to the Christmas season.
“You own interesting artwork,” he said, indicating the brick-red ceramic animal perched on the small desk in between the bedroom doors.
“That’s a coatimundi.”
“A what?”
“It’s a raccoon-like animal that inhabits Central and South America. My great-grandmother brought it with her to Texas. That’s how we acquired it.”
There were other unique items harking back to their former home. There was a plate-size metal circle with a single star in the middle. Displayed on the coffee table was a hand-painted wooden bowl with brilliant blue, white and orange flowers on a black backdrop. Being in the Flores home was akin to being in a foreign marketplace surrounded by unique and interesting wares. He liked it.
Isabel picked up the scissors and moved beside him, close enough that her skirts whispered against his leg. Her fingers skimmed his shoulder in fleeting touches as she carefully cut away the sleeve.
Ben closed his eyes. He couldn’t recall ever being this close to her.
“I have to remove the material,” she warned. “I’ll try to be gentle.”
He opened his eyes and met hers, which unexpectedly mirrored concern. “The pain’s manageable,” he said.
“I haven’t gotten to the hard part yet.”
After discarding the tattered sleeve, she began washing the damaged area. Ben gritted his teeth and focused on his breathing.
He tilted his head back to get a better look at her. A tiny pleat had formed between her eyebrows as she worked, and her crisp plum-colored blouse whispered with her movements. Lace edging her cuffs and high collar was the only nod to whimsy. In spite of the late hour, her hair was tidy and neat, the glossy braid curving around to her front.
“You don’t have to shop odd hours, you know.”
“I prefer to shop in peace and relative quiet,” she retorted. “I’ve found that the hour prior to closing time is perfectly suited for my purposes. Most folks are preparing supper then.”
As the image of her at the thief’s mercy resurged, he clenched his fists. “You should stick to daylight hours, Isabel. Safer that way.”
Tossing the soiled washrag in the water bowl, she jammed one hand against her hip. “Are you implying it’s my fault I happened upon a bank robber?”
“Stop being so prickly,” he chided. “I’m simply doling out practical advice. It’s my duty as a lawman.”
Her frown deepening, she stepped around him and picked up a sewing needle.
He leaned the opposite direction. “I’m not sure I like the look in your eye. Maybe someone else should stitch me back together. Someone who doesn’t see me coming and flee.”
Isabel looked stunned he’d voiced what they both knew to be true. Her brows collided. “I would never intentionally hurt you. O-or anyone, for that matter.”
He righted himself in the seat. “I suppose I’ll have to trust you, seeing as how Honor is the only other option, and she was looking a bit green about the mouth.”
“Like Carmen, she has a weak stomach, but she would never confess to it in front of you.”
Her fingertips were cool and skittish against his skin as she took hold of his bare arm. Ben’s mouth went dry. He mentally clung to that touch as she began the painful and tedious process of mending him. At long last, her hand fell away, and his eyes blinked open.
“All done?”
She studied her handiwork with a faint grimace. “It’s not pretty, but as long as you keep it clean and dry, you should heal without any problems.”
“Scars are a sign of manliness.” He winked, then let out a slow, deep breath. “Now that you’re finished wielding that needle, I can tell you I’ll be sticking around until morning.”
* * *
“You will not be spending this night or any other on my property!”
Isabel’s hands, which had been steady throughout her task, began trembling. She washed and dried them and hid them in the folds of her skirt. Her rebellious gaze returned to his exposed limb. His skin was paler there, like rich cream, and incredibly pleasing to the touch, his flesh firm and warm.
Irritated with herself, she marched to the coatrack, retrieved his tattered coat and dropped it in his lap.
“You may have some bruising around the stitches. I advise you to have Doc Owens check it as soon as you’re able.”
“I’m confident you did a perfectly acceptable job.”
Ben stood and eased his arm into the sleeve, wincing as he did so. His color was good, she reassured herself. And he looked steady on his feet.
“He may have something to help dull the pain.”
He deftly buttoned his coat, starting from the bottom and working up. Lamplight glinted off his dark red hair. Cut short around his ears and along his shirt collar, the front strands were slightly longer and slipped forward into his eyes. He might be too handsome for words, but Isabel was immune. Did it matter if his classic features could’ve graced any of the world’s great sculptures? Or that his skin was smooth and sun-kissed, stretching over prominent cheekbones and chiseled jaw?
None of that mattered if his character was lacking.
“Pain will keep me alert tonight. I can stay in the warming hut,” he said, referring to the structure near the gristmill where customers gathered to wait for their corn or wheat to be ground. “It’s within view of the cabin. If our thief decides to pay you a visit, I’ll be here to protect you.”
“He doesn’t know my name or where I live.”
“I can’t be one hundred percent positive he didn’t follow us here.”
“He’s after the money, not me. Sleep in the bank.”
His lips thinned. “You’d rather take your chances with a dangerous criminal than have me on your property?”