she interjected.
“Creative moms.” He amended the sentence with a flourish of his fork. “Speaking of kids, you might want to lighten my laudanum dosage. I’ve been seeing things.”
Mary moved toward the dresser, her back to him. For a moment, Lou was distracted by the waves of hair that fell like a silk waterfall against her shoulders. He’d forgotten how dark her hair was, thick, and blacker than a sky bereft of stars.
In all their years of knowing each other, he didn’t think he’d ever touched her hair before. In fact, he made certain not to unnecessarily touch her. To give her space and to help her feel safe. His general policy regarding women involved distance. Women were lovely creatures, interesting, a tad difficult, but getting mixed up with a woman took more stamina than Lou was inclined to expend.
Relationships meant pain. He’d learned that early on.
Clenching and unclenching his fingers, he willed the itch to touch Mary to leave.
“What have you been seeing?” she finally asked.
He studied her, noting the stiffness in her shoulders. “Things that shouldn’t be here.”
“Oh?” She pivoted toward him.
The look of obstinacy on her face might’ve made him laugh if he didn’t realize it meant something he wouldn’t like.
“A kid,” he said flatly.
She didn’t respond at first. Then a serene mask settled over her face. Her armor. Seeing it confirmed his suspicion that she was hiding something. A lead weight settled in his belly, feeling almost like disappointment.
“What’s going on?”
Her eyelids flickered. “You haven’t been seeing things. There is a child here, found abandoned by the lake. But she’s not staying long,” she rushed on. “I’ve made efforts to find her mother and hope to hear something soon.”
He groaned. Impatience and a different kind of pain burned through him. He wanted to leap off the bed and make her see reason. His limitations, this inconvenient injury, might prove to be his undoing. “The girl can’t stay. This place is too dangerous for a child. Take her to the sheriff.”
He waited for Mary’s reaction to his words. As usual, she withdrew. He could sense the retreat, see it in the way she backed up, eyes shuttered, face expressionless.
How many times had he seen this look of hers? From the moment she’d been brought to the ranch, bruised in spirit, a desperate eighteen-year-old in need of rescuing, he’d known she was different. Vulnerable. He’d taken her under his protection, watched out for her even though he’d only been twenty-four and dealing with his own sorrows.
Lou ground his teeth, trying not to scowl and failing. She met the look with a guarded demeanor.
“I know you’re angry.” Her voice came out tiny, quiet.
“I’m not angry, but it’s important for that little girl to be home. I can find her family within a day.”
“No.” She moved forward. “You have to stay in bed. Rest and recuperate.”
Suddenly the door to the room whipped open. James stood in the doorway, hair askew and whiskers bunching.
“Josie’s gone.”
Mary whirled, her hand to her chest. “You were supposed to watch her!”
“The little whippersnapper slipped out of my sight,” James grumbled. “She wanted cocoa.”
Mary picked up her skirts before casting Lou a worried look. “I have my own home now. You can’t tell me who’s allowed to stay there.”
He narrowed his gaze. It sounded as if she was referencing her mother, the only person she argued with him about. Otherwise she never spoke up, never acted feisty. His niece, Gracie, must’ve influenced her more than he realized.
It was a nice change from her natural timidity.
Almost smiling, he made to speak but was interrupted by a harsh knocking from below. The sound reverberated up the stairs. Every muscle in his body tensed. No one should be knocking on a secluded ranch’s door.
“Get me my derringer.” He pointed to his dresser, where he hid a backup.
“Where?” Mary moved toward the dresser.
“Behind, on the floor.”
She reached down and picked it up, then brought it to him.
Their fingers brushed when she set the heavy weapon in his hand. She was warm, gentle, and she shouldn’t be exposed to danger. His grip tightened as he drew the weapon from her and slipped it beneath the sheets.
Her eyes widened, never leaving his, irises dark with strain. “I have to find Josie.”
Lou nodded. “James,” he said without looking at his employee, “answer the door. Mary, find the girl and keep her safe.”
They rushed out, and Lou leaned back with a grunt. His head hurt. At least the butt of his gun lay solidly in his palm, cool to the touch, reassuring with its heavy weight and the promise of security.
He looked to the thick door, which remained cracked, and listened for sound from downstairs. If Mary and James needed him, he’d be useless. Did he even have the strength to stand? Shifting in his bed, he gingerly sat forward.
A rush of dizziness pressed in on his head, and the edges of his vision grayed. Groaning, he lay back. How could he have let this happen? He should’ve stayed away from the prohibition problems Oregon had. But he loved challenges, and aiding the local police gave him something to focus on.
Frowning, he cradled his gun and watched the door.
A rustle sounded. Voices drifted up, low tones, calm sounding. Maybe it was just a homesteader passing through. A lot of his neighbors were leaving their small ranches, abandoning them to the wild desert of Harney County.
The rustle caught his attention again. Ears perked, he held his breath.
A ball of pink rolled out from under the bed and into his line of sight.
Chapter Three
Lou jerked back, causing shards of pain to splinter across his chest. Gut tight, he eyed the little girl as she stood and brushed off her fluffy dress. Her hair was a mass of blond curls that framed a round face, complete with a dimple and a decidedly crooked smile.
“Hi, mister. My name’s Josie.” She skipped to him and shoved her hand in his face. “Nice to meet ya.”
He ignored her hand, giving her the darkest glare he could muster.
Her eyes were a deep blue, almost violet. He’d mistaken her for Abby, but now that she stood before him, in the light of morning, he could see the differences. Abby’s eyes had been a bright blue, like his.
A lump clogged his windpipe.
