Her Sheriff Bodyguard. Lynna Banning

stood next to him, waiting for the last of her audience to squeeze into a pew. She took his breath away in that yellow dress. Hell, she’d have every man in the church in love with her before she even opened her mouth.

      She, too, looked calm. Resolute. Suffused with soldierly purpose. He’d seen lieutenants with less steel in their spine.

      She also looked female as hell and too vulnerable. His chest tightened just a fraction more than he liked.

      Beside him, she drew in a shaky breath and started forward.

      “Wait.” He laid his hand at her waist and pulled her to a stop beside him, then slipped the small pistol he’d bought out of his vest and pressed it into her hand.

      “What is this?” she whispered.

      “It’s a pistol. It’s lighter than my revolver. Carry it in your skirt pocket.”

      “I—”

      “Careful,” he said. He closed her fingers around the gun butt. “It’s loaded.”

      She snatched her hand away, then nodded. “Thank you.” He watched her slip it into her pocket.

      “Ready? Let’s go.”

      As he had instructed, she moved through the doorway and quickly placed herself behind the minister’s solid oak lectern. Hawk followed, seated himself on a side chair just behind the pulpit, and scanned the crowd. Quietly he laid his revolver across his lap.

      The audience couldn’t see the weapon; besides, every eye was glued to the vision in yellow standing at the front of the church.

      “Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Caroline MacFarlane.” She kept her voice low and even, not a hint of harangue or inflammatory words. Good girl.

      “I want to tell you about my mother, Evangeline MacFarlane. When I was old enough to notice such things, I became aware that my—” she hesitated and Hawk tensed “—my father struck my mother. He did this often, almost every night, and he made no attempt to hide from me what he was doing.”

      She paused and Hawk focused on the men in the crowd. Some looked angry; some looked a little guilty; but most bore a look of concern.

      “When I was twelve years old my mother took me away from our home. She said she could not live like that any longer, and no matter how my father begged and pleaded, she refused to go back.”

      The women in the audience nodded and murmured to each other. A few even dabbed at their eyes.

      “But my father went to court. And the judge—” Again she stopped and this time she swallowed hard. “The judge said my mother had to return to my father, had to live with him even though he mistreated her. He said it was the law in Massachusetts, that if a woman left her husband, she forfeited her right to her children.”

      Hawk studied the faces of the men. No doubt some of them beat their wives. Maybe they felt they were justified; maybe a few felt guilty. But not one of them challenged Caroline or shouted an insult. Instead, they waited to hear her next words.

      “My mother decided this was wrong, that forcing a woman to live with an abusive husband was wrong. She moved us into a room at a boardinghouse. Later, to save herself—and me—she left him for good and took me with her. She joined a group of women and spoke out against this injustice, and other injustices against women. We traveled all over the country, and everywhere we went, my mother spoke out to support women.”

      In the uneasy silence, Hawk finally began to breathe easier. It was not an unruly crowd; the men were stirred up, he could see that, but they weren’t violent.

      Caroline went on, her voice still soft. “Did you know that here in Oregon a woman cannot divorce a man for cruelty or abandonment? And that if a woman earns any money of her own, it goes to her husband?”

      She paused again. “Ladies and gentlemen, do you think this is fair?”

      There was a sudden commotion at the back of the church. Hawk lifted his revolver, shielding it from view with his hand, and thumbed back the hammer. But the cause of the disturbance was a young boy of about eight or nine, who darted up the aisle to where Caroline stood and thrust a folded piece of paper into her hand.

      “Man said to give you this,” he panted.

      She unfolded the note and gasped. Then she looked over at Hawk.

      Her face had gone white as milk.

       Chapter Six

      Hawk didn’t much care what the note said, but it told him Caroline’s speech was over. He lifted his Colt and stepped past her. “That’s all, folks. Miss MacFarlane just got some bad news and she has to leave.”

      Behind him he heard the paper rustle and knew her hand was shaking. He ached to turn back to her, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the crowd.

      The church began to empty. Women chattered excitedly to each other, the men picked up their sidearms under Deputy Saunders’s watchful gaze and went out.

      Fernanda edged past him and reached out to Caroline. “Mi corazón, you look like ghost. Que pasa?”

      Finally the last man left, followed by the deputy, and Hawk reholstered his revolver. The Mexican woman stood patting Caroline’s trembling hands, her face bleached of color. She held the note out to him. “Here, señor. You read.”

      Hawk had the sinking feeling that the contents were going to tie him into something he wanted no part of. Long ago he’d learned to watch his back when something didn’t feel right, and this sure didn’t feel right.

      He glanced at the paper Fernanda had stuffed into his hand. Crudely printed in red crayon were the words “I WILL GET YOU BITCH.”

      He looked up to find Caroline staring at him like she’d been poleaxed, her widened eyes darkening to blue-violet and her mouth clamped shut so tight her lips formed a thin unsmiling slash in her pale face.

      He stepped forward and laid his arm around her shoulders.

      “D-don’t,” she whispered. “I need to be strong.”

      He could feel her whole body shaking. “Don’t be a fool. You need to stop trying to be brave.”

      She jerked her head up. “Don’t tell me what to do! If I p-pretend, it gives me courage. I grew up pretending.”

      Hawk snorted. “Someone just threatened your life, Caroline. You should be damn scared, not playacting.”

      Fernanda nodded emphatically. “Always she pretend.”

      Suddenly Hawk wanted to fold her into his arms, but he figured that would frighten her even more. He settled for tightening his arm about her shoulders and gently tugging her toward the doorway behind the pulpit.

      “Come on. You need to go back to the hotel and lie down. Maybe have some coffee brought up.”

      “I n-need something stronger than coffee.” Her voice was less shaky, but she was still trembling like she’d taken a bad chill. He guided her to the back entrance, but before stepping through the door he pulled her to a stop.

      “Wait.” He withdrew his revolver and inched out the doorway far enough to see both sides of the street. Not a sign of a living soul. A faint light shone in the window of the sheriff’s office, but no horses were tied at the hitching rail in front of Polly’s Cage. Tinny piano music drifted from the saloon. He moved to the corner and studied the buildings on both sides of the main street—still nothing.

      He stepped back inside. “Looks clear.”

      Caroline drew a deep breath and started forward, but Hawk reached out and yanked her close to his side, then motioned to the Mexican woman hovering behind him. “Fernanda, stay on the other side of her.”

      “Si,