be rid of him. “My pleasure.”
The door banged open. Light spilled through the opening as her sisters, Honor and Carmen, emerged onto the porch and simpered over Ben’s presence like every other ninny-headed female who fell prey to his outgoing personality and winning smile. When Honor noticed his injury, Isabel knew getting rid of him wouldn’t be as easy as she’d thought.
* * *
Within a matter of minutes, Ben found himself seated at the Flores sisters’ table while they gathered the necessary supplies to tend his wound. Trying to shut out the burning sensation engulfing his arm, he focused on his surroundings. Two years had passed since he’d been inside this cabin. He’d come the night Manuel Flores was murdered. Thankfully, his boss, Sheriff Shane Timmons, had shouldered the unenviable task of informing Manuel’s wife and daughters of the events surrounding his passing.
Alma Flores had taken it the hardest, slumping to the ground and wailing as if her heart would never be mended. A mere month after the funeral, she’d gone to live with her sister in nearby Knoxville, leaving Isabel to care for her sisters and their small farm and gristmill.
His gaze sought her out, as it usually did whenever she was around. Unlike Honor and Carmen, who favored vibrant hues and rich fabrics, Isabel preferred somber, severe clothing. Ben surmised it was her way of trying to go unnoticed. He’d like to tell her the ploy was unsuccessful.
He tracked her movements about the central room as she lit multiple lamps. One she placed on the fireplace mantel, another on a squat table in between a pair of cushioned chairs. Still more she hung from pegs on either side of the door. Light flickered over her satin black hair, pulled away from her face in a thick, glossy French braid that curved around her slender neck and disappeared beneath her heather-gray fur-lined cloak.
All three Flores women were beautiful. Nineteen-year-old Honor was willowy and graceful, putting him in mind of a delicate bird. A year younger and the shortest of the three, Carmen had a healthy figure, and her round face was consistently animated. Isabel was different and, in Ben’s estimation, without rival. She possessed noble features, her Mexican heritage on proud display in her high forehead, distinct cheekbones, sleek jawline. Her olive skin was the perfect foil for arched dark brows, glittering black eyes and an apricot-hued mouth. His attention snagged there. Full and lush, her lips provided a soft counterpoint to her austere demeanor.
Ben sometimes contemplated different ways to provoke a smile from the elusive beauty. The usual methods wouldn’t apply to her, however. She hadn’t attempted to hide her disdain. He accepted how she felt about him. Understood her reasons.
She passed by his chair, Christmastime scents of cinnamon and other spices combined with tangy orange wafting 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
