of herself.”
“Tara can take care of herself,” Maureen interjected. “I saw her do it a couple of times back in—”
When Maureen shut her mouth so quickly that she nearly clipped off her tongue, John noticed the other children were staring at her in horror. Instinct and training told him that they had been instructed not to spill their life stories. He couldn’t help but wonder why.
“Is Tara your mother? Or…older sister?” John asked.
“No, she’s—ouch!” Little Flora yelped when Samuel trounced on her foot.
Yep, something was definitely going on here that angel face didn’t want John to know about. Which brought him around to posing the question he had intended to ask earlier. “How did you know my name?”
“That’s easy,” Flora gushed. “Tara found your horse and searched through your saddlebags. She said you were a marshal and that we should watch what we said around you.”
The other children groaned in dismay. There was definitely something going on here that a territorial marshal wasn’t supposed to find out about. But how bad could their secret be, considering that they were amusing, well-behaved children? John couldn’t imagine.
When he opened his mouth to fire another question about Tara, Maureen crammed a slice of bread in his mouth. Flora handed him a spoon so he could chase the bread with broth. John’s taste buds started to riot. Damn, he couldn’t remember eating such tasty food. By the time he slurped the last drop of the delicious broth and ate half a loaf of bread he was so exhausted he could barely keep his eyes from slamming shut.
“Tara said you needed plenty of rest,” Samuel said, hustling the children from the room. “Just give a holler if you need anything else.”
When the children filed out, John settled himself carefully in bed, then noticed the pallet near the south wall. He suspected his angel of mercy had camped out on the floor while he lounged in her bed. Well, enough of that. He wasn’t going to inconvenience angel face more than he already had. Hell, he was accustomed to sleeping on the ground—had done it for years.
Clutching the side of the bed, John dragged himself sideways until his feet were planted on the floor. He bit back a yelp when he eased down on his tender leg and strained the wound on his ribs. Huffing and puffing for breath, he dragged himself toward the pallet.
If he hadn’t felt so damn guilty about betraying Raven he’d curse that bitter Apache for shooting him to pieces. But Raven had been cornered and threatened with hated captivity. It was understandable that he’d react violently. John wondered if he would’ve reacted the same way, had he been in his adopted brother’s moccasins.
But damn it to hell, Raven would make things a hundred times worse for himself if he continued to scout for those cutthroats who were plundering the territory. However, John refused to believe Raven had stooped to killing the settlers and miners left in the outlaws’ wake of destruction.
Raven had only been desperate for a taste of freedom, John assured himself. He himself knew the feeling well. He remembered the sense of relief he’d experienced five years ago when Gray Eagle insisted that he cut his long hair, disguise himself in white man’s clothes and sneak away from the reservation. But John’s freedom had come at a steep price and carried a wagonload of tormenting guilt, awkward adjustments and excessive frustration.
He decided not to rehash his recent past. He was in serious pain and thoroughly exhausted. He definitely needed another nap. Everything else would have to wait until he felt better—if that day ever came.
Tara brought the roan mare to a halt beside the barn, then dismounted. She tugged at the torn waistband of her gown to conceal the damage. She refused to let Samuel and Derek know she’d encountered two drunken miners who tried to drag her into an alley.
Men! Honestly, there were times when Tara wondered why God had populated the planet with those heathens. No way was she going to allow Samuel, Derek and Calvin to grow up to behave so disrespectfully. Today’s incident stirred horrifying memories of that awful night in Texas when—
Tara refused to think about that again—ever. No one would find out what had happened, she reassured herself. She was safe with her secret—unless Marshal Wolfe started digging into her past. But he wouldn’t dare hold that incident against her, because she’d explain her situation with the children. Somehow she’d make him understand and forgive her for what she’d done.
Before Tara could fully regain her composure and stash away her unsettling thoughts, Samuel and Derek bounded off the front porch and dashed toward her.
“I’ll tend your horse,” Samuel volunteered.
“I’ll carry your knapsack,” Derek insisted.
Tara shook her head, helpless to understand why the boys—young men—were falling all over themselves to assist her. When Derek snatched up her knapsack, she settled her left elbow over the rip in her gown. “Thank you, boys…er, gentlemen.”
“You’re welcome,” they said in unison.
“John Wolfe finally woke up this afternoon,” Derek reported.
“Did he?” That was encouraging. Tara made a mental note to carefully inspect and cauterize his wounds if they hadn’t healed properly by now. She didn’t want to risk gangrene setting in. Her injured patient didn’t need any setbacks, especially one as dangerous as gangrene.
When she surged through the door, Maureen was at the stove stirring the stew Tara had prepared at dawn. The aroma tantalized her taste buds, reminding her that she’d skipped lunch and was ravenous. Nodding a greeting, she headed for the bedroom to change clothes.
Quietly, she inched open the door, then did a double take when she noticed the empty bed. To her shock and dismay, John was sprawled half on, half off her pallet in the corner. What in heaven’s name did he think he was doing? He was seriously injured and he needed the comfort of her bed.
Muttering silently at the sleeping invalid, Tara tiptoed across the room to shed her torn gown and don her usual attire of men’s breeches and shirt. She turned her back on John to pull on her shirt, then nearly came out of her skin—and there was a lot of it showing, blast it!—when his husky voice rumbled behind her.
“So you must be Tara.”
Tara clutched the shirt to her bare breasts and struggled to pull her sagging breeches over her hips. Her face flushed a dozen shades of red as she shoved one arm, then the other, into her shirtsleeves. “I didn’t realize you were awake,” she said self-consciously.
“You were halfway undressed before I could tell you.”
Tara glanced over her shoulder to see his lips quirk in an amused smile. Those captivating silver-blue eyes drifted from the top of her head to her feet, missing nothing in between. He deserved a good slapping for waiting until she was undressed to inform her that he was awake. But Tara figured he’d suffered enough pain for one week. She’d overlook the incident—this time.
“You must be feeling better if you managed to crawl onto the pallet. But I warn you, if you split a stitch I’ll be none too happy about it.”
“You’re Irish. The accent is unmistakable.”
She spun around as she
