The Lawman's Vow. Elizabeth Lane

but I don’t care if you’re the emperor of Japan. You work or you don’t eat.”

      “Fair enough. Is that all?”

      “Just one more thing. You’re free to go anytime you wish. But I want to watch you leave. No sneaking off in the night with the jewelry and silverware.”

      Her feeble attempt at humor wasn’t lost on him. He gave her a wry smile. “In other words, I’m to conduct myself as a decent, responsible human being. You saved my life, Sylvie. I’m not ungrateful.”

      Color flashed in her face. “Fine. I’ll get that coffee now.” She spun away and dashed for the kitchen, pausing to snatch up the shotgun she’d propped next to the door.

      The room seemed strangely empty without her.

      The coffee splashed onto the stovetop, hissing as droplets danced on the hot iron surface. Sylvie steadied the aim of the spout into the chipped porcelain mug. Did Ishmael like cream in his coffee? She should have asked, instead of making that silly joke about the jewelry and silver. He probably thought she was an empty-headed little bumpkin.

      At least he’d accepted her rules, almost as if he’d found them unnecessary—as if the courtesies she demanded were actions he’d have performed anyway as a matter of course. Maybe she should’ve just kept her mouth shut and assumed he’d behave himself. After all, what did she know about proper manners? She’d lived in this isolated spot since her girlhood. Most of what she knew about dealing with strange men she’d learned from books. Clearly it wasn’t enough.

      Finding a saucer on the shelf, she nested the mug in its center. The saucer was chipped, too, and the pieces didn’t match. For all she knew, her patient was accustomed to gold-rimmed china, but this was the best she had. Heaven save her, it had been less wearing to deal with the man when he was out of his head.

      She returned to the bedroom to find him propped against the pillows with the quilt over his legs. At the sight of her, or perhaps the coffee, one black eyebrow quirked upward.

      “If you’d like cream I can get you some,” she said. “I’m afraid we’re out of sugar.”

      “Black is fine.” He took the cup and saucer. “And if you wouldn’t mind getting my clothes—”

      “You just fainted. You need to stay in bed.”

      “Let me be the judge of that, Sylvie.” His eyes narrowed, giving him a wolfish look. “You can bring me my clothes, or I’ll get up and find them myself.” He paused, his look making it clear that he’d tear the place apart if need be—and that he’d have no scruples about displaying himself in the altogether until the clothes were found.

      Sylvie met the challenge in his gaze. For an instant she was tempted to call his bluff. Then she imagined the chaos of a naked madman staggering through the cabin. “I’ll get your clothes,” she said. “Then I’ll leave you to finish your coffee while I go out and milk the goats.” She turned toward the door.

      “Sylvie?”

      Her pulse skipped. She glanced back at him.

      “I don’t enjoy drinking alone. The goats can wait while you pour yourself some coffee and join me.”

      An excuse sprang to her lips. She nipped it back. The goat shed might give her a respite from those probing sapphire eyes and that sardonic manner of his. But she needed to learn more about her unexpected guest. Flee the cabin, and she’d be passing up her best chance.

      “I suppose I can spare a little time,” she said. “But only a few minutes. The goats are used to being milked early, and they’ll be getting anxious.”

      The scar twitched at the corner of his mouth. “Don’t worry, I won’t keep you long. I don’t want to take the blame for curdled milk.”

      “It doesn’t—” Sylvie began, then realized he was teasing her. Crimson-faced, she dashed into her room, found the clothes and returned long enough to drop them at the foot of his bed. In the quiet of the kitchen, she poured herself a mug of strong coffee and added a bit of the cream she’d set aside for the butter churn. Stirring it, she waited for her pulse to calm.

      What a dolt she was, too bashful and addlepated to hold up her end of the simplest social exchange. Why couldn’t she be like Elizabeth Bennett in Pride and Prejudice, tossing off witty repartee and clever little barbs that left the cynical Mr. Darcy begging for more?

      As she’d read that book, she’d tried to imagine what it would be like, meeting a man, holding him spellbound with her charm. What a joke. She seemed to have only two modes of expression when dealing with Ishmael—either she was railing at him like a shrew, or she was barely able to meet his eyes. Either way, she was sadly lacking in anything intelligent or charming to say to him.

      But it was silly, letting him unsettle her like this. Ishmael was no Darcy and certainly no fairy-tale prince. He was just a man, perhaps not even a good man. The sooner she got him on his feet and on his way, the sooner she could get back to her safe, predictable life.

      Setting her mug on the counter, she took a moment to replace the shotgun on its rack above the door, out of Daniel’s reach. Ishmael had probably laughed behind his teeth when he noticed she’d brought the weapon into the bedroom. But even if it meant looking like a fool, it was her job to protect Daniel and their home.

      Taking her mug, she returned to her patient. He was sipping his coffee, already looking brighter than she’d left him. Gesturing toward the stool, he motioned for her to have a seat.

      “No memory yet?” she asked him.

      He shook his head. “Maybe if you tell me about this place, and how you found me, it might spark something.”

      “I’ll tell you what I can.” Sylvie glanced down into her mug. She had yet to bring up Catriona. She wasn’t sure why she’d waited, but she probably shouldn’t wait much longer.

      He studied her as she sipped her coffee. She looked ill at ease, like a tethered kestrel straining for flight. “Where would you like me to start?” she asked.

      “You told me this place is north of San Francisco. What brought you here? Maybe I can figure out why I might’ve come this way.”

      “It’s a simple story. We lived in Indiana till my mother died. Then my father caught gold fever and the two of us joined a wagon train for California.”

      “I take it he didn’t find much gold.”

      “Not a grain. But while he was looking, he stumbled across this cove. He soon discovered he could make a better living from salvage than from prospecting. We’ve been here ever since.”

      “And your brother?”

      “My father remarried. Daniel’s mother died here, birthing him.”

      “So you raised the boy yourself?”

      She nodded. The girl hadn’t had it easy, he thought. Losing her mother, getting dragged across the country by a gold-hungry father, living under conditions no young girl should face and taking on responsibility for a motherless baby when she was little more than a child herself. Sylvie Cragun looked as fragile as a violet. But she possessed a core of tempered steel.

      She lowered her eyes, as if trying to mask her thoughts. Ishmael was suddenly struck by another aspect of her situation—its isolation. It had to be lonely here, especially for such a pretty young woman. Lonely, and perhaps dangerous.

      “This place seems pretty secluded. Do you any have neighbors? Any friends who come to visit?”

      Her eyes narrowed. He caught a flicker of distrust.

      “We’re not talking about me. I’m only telling you about this place to help you remember.”

      “All right, I just thought you might be able to tell me if there was anyone else out here I might have been coming to visit. Since you and your brother clearly don’t know me, it hardly seems likely