“I think you should leave town, Lacy.” When Riley met her stare, he added quickly. “Just for a few weeks. Go see Sarah. Or maybe you have family back East you could visit.”
Lacy wanted to scream, ‘with what!’ There were times over the past few years when she didn’t have enough money left to buy food. Once she survived on a basket of apples Bailee brought in from their farm. The two friends never discussed how Lacy was doing, but Bailee always brought apples and eggs and more from the farm, claiming she wanted to trade them for a newspaper. More often then not, Lacy swapped a ten cent paper for a week’s worth of food.
Lacy didn’t want the sheriff, or anyone else in town, to know how little she had. They all seemed to think her invisible husband sent her money regularly. “I’ll be fine here, Sheriff, don’t worry about me.”
Riley shook his head. “I don’t know, Lacy. I’m not as spry as I used to be. I’m not sure I can face a man like Zeb Whitaker.”
“He’s aged too, you know. He’s probably barely getting around. Who knows, he might come back to say he’s sorry for causing us so much trouble five years ago.”
“Mean don’t age well.” The sheriff frowned. “I’d feel a lot better if your man were here.”
“Walker’s down on the border fighting cattle rustlers,” Lacy lied. She’d been using that excuse for months now; it was time she made up another reason. “I’ll be all right. I have the gun you gave me.”
Mumbling to himself, Riley turned and headed down the steep stairs. Lacy knew he wasn’t happy about her staying, but this was her home, her only home, and she needed to run the shop. None of the three men who worked for her could take over her job.
Duncan was almost deaf. Folks coming in to place an ad had to stand next to his good ear and yell their order. Eli’s bones bothered him so much in winter that he stayed on his feet most of the day. If he sat for more than a few minutes he seemed to rust. And, of course, Jay Boy was just a kid Lacy paid a man’s wages because he supported his mother and little sister. He might be learning the business between errands, but he couldn’t take over.
Lacy closed the back door and locked it. She had to stay. If Whitaker came, she’d fight. Maybe even die, but she wouldn’t run.
For the next few days Lacy carefully locked every door and made sure the old Colt was not far from her hand. She caught herself jumping at the jingle of the front bell and waking each night when the wind rapped at her upstairs windows. As the days passed, she calmed, telling herself she was in the middle of town and had nothing to fear from an old buffalo hunter like Zeb Whitaker.
If he did come to town, he would need but one look at her shop to see that she couldn’t have stolen the gold he said he had when he tried to take their wagon. Lacy remembered seeing coins spilling out of his saddlebags after she’d clubbed him, but she hadn’t taken a single one.
One week went by, then another. Winter settled in, turning the usual mud holes in the streets to ice and frosting the air. Lacy worked in the shop by day and quilted by candlelight late into the night. She hated winter, for she never felt warm. Even standing in front of her small fire, only one side warmed, the other chilled.
Around midnight, she gave up trying to work. While she dressed for bed, thin bricks heated by the fire. In her gown, Lacy carefully wrapped each brick and stuffed it beneath the covers near the bottom of her bed. Then she jumped in bed, laughing at her own attempts to keep warm.
The wind rattled the windows along the back of the apartment even more than usual with a promise of snow.
Lacy poked her head out from beneath the quilts. She listened. The alley behind her shop sometimes sounded like a wind tunnel, dragging a howling winter into the shadows. The wooden frame of the shop below groaned. Somewhere boards popped as they shifted.
She slipped back under the blankets, hoping her breath would warm the space between the sheets.
Just as her icy toes thawed, thanks to the hot bricks, the back door rattled. The sound was muffled by a towel she’d placed to keep out the draft, but she thought she heard the creak of the door handle.
Lacy hesitated, weighing fear against being cold. The Colt rested on the dresser not three feet away, but the journey would cost her the little body heat she’d managed to trap beneath the covers.
She told herself no one would try to break in tonight. It was too cold. In the years she’d lived alone above the shop no one had ever tried to break in. Once a drunk fell into the front windows downstairs, but he hadn’t intended to enter. This was a quiet little town most of the time where folks felt safe. Crime rarely paid a call.
But what better time than tonight, with the wind blowing and no one brave enough to investigate a scream?
At the third rattle of the door, Lacy jumped from the bed and ran for the Colt. As her hand touched the handle of the gun, a cold wind barreled through her apartment. The back door swung wide open, clamoring against the wall.
Lacy held the weapon in both hands and faced the wind. She might freeze, but she’d protect to the death what was hers.
A tall figure in a dark wool coat stood before her wearing a hat low, blocking his face from view. He filled the opening. The short cape of his coat flapped in the wind like a flag.
She raised the gun and tightened her finger around the trigger.
The stranger stomped into her kitchen as if he had a right to be there. Swearing at the storm, he raised a gloved hand to shove the door closed. The dove-colored gauntlet shone pale in the moonlight.
Leveling the gun to his chest, she stepped forward. Only the yellow braiding of his hat cords kept her from firing.
“Cavalry,” she whispered remembering that only army cavalry wore yellow on their uniforms. “Infantry wear blue, artillery wear scarlet,” she repeated her facts as if writing an article and not facing an intruder.
The trespasser glanced up. Icy blue eyes stared from beneath the shade of his hat.
“Walker!” She almost didn’t recognize him. His chin was covered by a short, black beard, but even in the shadow of his hat, she would never forget those eyes. Cold, heartless eyes, that asked nothing and gave even less.
He jerked his hat off and tossed it on the kitchen table. “Shoot me, Lacy, if that’s what you plan to do, or put that old cannon away. I’m in no mood to waste time being threatened by my own wife.”
Lacy blinked as if he might disappear.
Walker unbuttoned his coat and hung it on a peg behind the door as though he knew it would be there waiting for him.
He was slightly thicker, she thought. Ten pounds, maybe twenty. His hair was longer, curling over the stiff collar of his uniform jacket. But he was no less handsome, no less frightening.
“What are you doing here?” she asked without lowering the gun.
He glanced at the Colt, then faced her directly. “Let’s get something straight right now, dear wife. I have no desire to be in this town. In fact, if I had my way I’d never step foot within a hundred miles of Cedar Point.” He pulled off his gloves and tossed them atop his hat. “But it seems Sheriff Riley knows someone who is acquainted with my superior officer. He sent a letter demanding I come home to protect my wife from a man she has apparently confessed to killing once.”
Lacy wasn’t sure if she were more upset that he came home unwillingly to protect her, or that Sheriff Riley had interfered. At this point, if she had only one bullet it would be a toss up which one to shoot. “I didn’t ask him to have you come. I can take care of myself.”
Walker looked at the gun. “I can see that.”
She lowered the Colt. “You’ve no need to stay. You can return to your post, wherever that is. I’ll be fine.”
The deep frown didn’t lift. “Would that I could,” he answered as if arguing with her. “But it seems I’ve been given thirty days leave and was forced to take it.”
“Thirty days,” Lacy echoed. Thirty days with Walker would be an eternity. The few minutes she’d spent with him two years ago had taken her months to recover from. He hurt her. He humiliated her. And worst of all, he’d done exactly what she’d asked of him. He’d made her his wife in more than name.
“Don’t look so terrified. I spent three days getting here and it will take me the same amount of hard riding to return, so you’ve only got twenty-four days of the hell of my company.”
“You can’t stay here!” Lacy looked around her little apartment crowded with her things. With her life.
“I can’t stay anywhere else.” His gaze followed hers. He didn’t look any happier to be here than she was to have him. “What kind of guard would be posted outside the perimeter? Plus, if I remember this town, within hours everyone will know I’ve arrived and it would look strange for a husband to stay at the boarding house when his wife sleeps alone.”
The little warmth in her body turned to ice. “You’re not sleeping with me!”
For the first time, his frown spread into a smile. “I don’t remember your being of such a mind the last time we were together. If memory serves, you were the one who insisted on sharing my quarters.”
“The only time we were together,” Lacy corrected. “The only time we will ever be together. You don’t want a wife, remember?”
As he watched her carefully, she added, “Maybe we are divorced. Maybe I’ve told everyone you died.”
“You haven‘t,” he answered too matter-of-factly to be guessing. “And stop shivering with fright. I’m not here to attack you, Lacy. I’m here to protect you.”