Piper's hands trembled as she set her coffee mug down on her desk. Doc's reply to Clay's statement about taking his cousin out to the ranch echoed in her mind. Better wait a few days.

All well and good, she thought fretfully, but what was she supposed to do in the meantime? There was only one bed, after all, and she couldn't sleep in a chair until the man was well enough to be moved, could she?

Mr. McKettrick was indeed badly injured, but this was a schoolhouse, frequented by children five days a week-children who would go home after dismissal and tell their parents there was a strange man recuperating in Miss St. James's room. She wouldn't be able to hide him from them any more than she could hide that enormous gelding of his, quartered in the shed out back. Even unconscious, Sawyer filled the place with his presence, breathed up all the air.

Clay emerged from her room just then, took a second mug from the shelf near the stove and poured himself some coffee. He was probably cold, Piper realized with some chagrin, having ridden in from the ranch, proceeded to Doc Howard's, and then made his way back to the schoolhouse again.

"I guess we've got a problem," he said now. Was there a twinkle in those very blue eyes of his as he studied her expression?

"Yes," Piper agreed, somewhat stiffly. Maybe Clay found the situation amusing, but she certainly didn't.

Clay took another sip, thoughtful and slow, from his mug. He'd shed his long coat soon after he and Doc arrived, and his collarless shirt was open at the throat, showing the ridged fabric of his undergarment. Like Sawyer, he wore a gun belt, but he'd set the pistol aside earlier, an indication of his good manners. "You probably heard what Doc Howard said," he told her, after a few moments of pensive consideration. "I could stay here with Sawyer and send you on out to the ranch to stay with Dara Rose and the girls, but it's hard going, with the snow still so deep."

Jim Howard came out of Piper's room, wiping his hands clean on a cloth that smelled of carbolic acid. "I gave him some laudanum," he told Clay. "He'll sleep for a while."

Piper propped her own hands on her hips. She'd spent a mostly sleepless night hoping and praying that someone would come to help, and she'd gotten her wish, but for all that, the problem was only partially solved.

Perhaps she should have been more specific, she reflected, rueful.

"Must I point out to you gentlemen," she began, with dignity, "that this arrangement is highly improper?"

Clay's grin was slight, but it was, nonetheless, a grin, and it infuriated her. She was an unmarried woman, a schoolmarm, and there was a man in her bed, likely to remain there for the foreseeable future. All her dreams for the future-a good husband, a home, and children of her own-could be compromised, and through no fault of her own.

"I understand your dilemma, Piper," he said, sounding like an indulgent older brother, "but you heard the doc. Sawyer can't be moved until that wound of his mends a little."

"Surely you could take him as far as the hotel without doing harm," Piper reasoned, quietly frantic. She kept her hands at her sides, but the urge to wring them was strong.

Dr. Howard shook his head. Helped himself to the last mug and some coffee. "That could kill him," he said bluntly, but his expression was sympathetic. "I'm sure Eloise wouldn't mind coming over and helping with his care, though. She's had some nursing experience, and it would temper any gossip that might arise."

As far as Piper was concerned, being shut up with Eloise Howard for any length of time would be worse than attending to the needs of a helpless stranger by herself. Much worse.

"I couldn't ask her to do that," Piper said quickly. "Mrs. Howard has you and little Madeline to look after." She turned a mild glare on Clay. "Your cousin needs male a.s.sistance," she added. She'd dragged Sawyer McKettrick in out of the cold, cleaned his wound, even taken care of his horse, but she wasn't about to help him use the chamber pot, and that was final.

"I'll do what I can," Clay said, "but Dara Rose is due to have our baby any day now. I can't leave her out there alone, with just the girls and a few ranch hands. Once the weather lets up, though..."

His words fell away as Piper's cheeks flared with the heat of frustration. She could demand to be put up in the hotel herself, of course, until Sawyer McKettrick was well enough to leave the schoolhouse, but that would mean he'd be alone here. And he was in serious condition, despite Doc's cheerful prognosis.

What if something went wrong?

Besides, staying in hotels cost money, and even there in the untamed West, many of them had policies against admitting single women-unless, of course, they were ladies of the evening, and thus permitted to slip in through an alley door, under cover of darkness, and climb the back stairs to ply their wretched trade.

"You do realize," Piper persisted, "that I have nowhere to sleep?" And no good man will ever marry me because my morals will forever be in question, even though I've done nothing wrong.

Dr. Howard walked over and laid a fatherly hand on her shoulder. "I'll bring over anything you need," he a.s.sured her. "And stop in as often as I can. I'm sure Clay will do the same."

Clay nodded, but he was looking out the window, at the ceaseless snow, and his expression was troubled. "I've got to get back to Dara Rose," he said.

Piper's heart went out to him. As untenable as her situation was, Dara Rose needed Clay right now, and so did the children. Edrina and Harriet, though uncommonly precocious, were still quite small, and they couldn't be expected to know what to do if their mother went into labor.

"Go home, Clay," she said gently. "Give Dara Rose my best regards. Edrina and Harriet, too."

Clay's expression was even more serious now, and he looked at her for a long time before giving a reluctant nod and promising, "I'll come back for Sawyer as soon as Doc decides he can travel. I appreciate this, Piper. I wouldn't ask it of you, but-"

"I understand," she said, when words failed him again. And she did understand. Clay and Sawyer, like Piper and Dara Rose, were first cousins, the next best thing to siblings, and the bond was strong between them.

The snow came down harder and then harder still, and Doc Howard finished his coffee, collected his bag and took one more look at Sawyer, then headed out, after a.s.suring Piper that he'd return before day's end and asking what he ought to bring back.

Blankets, she'd said, fl.u.s.tered, and kerosene, and whatever medicine the patient might need.

Clay attended to Sawyer's horse, said goodbye, and left for the ranch.

Watching him disappear into a spinning vortex of white, Piper felt a lump rise in her throat.

Once again, she was alone, except for Sawyer McKettrick and he, of course, was a hindrance, not a help.

True to his word, Doc was back within the hour, despite the increasingly bad weather, bringing a fresh supply of laudanum, a jug of kerosene, more carbolic acid and several warm blankets, wrapped in oilcloth so they'd stay dry.

He examined Sawyer again-reporting that he was still sleeping but that his heartbeat was stronger than before and he seemed to be breathing more easily-gave Piper a few instructions, and quickly left again, because nightfall would be coming on soon, making the ordinarily short journey home even more difficult than it already was.

Piper thanked him, asked him to give Eloise and Madeline her best, and watched through the front window until he and his mule were gone from sight.

Then, feeling more alone than she ever had, she got busy.

She washed down the already clean blackboard.

She dusted every surface in the schoolroom and refilled the kerosene lamp.

She drank more coffee and fed more wood into the stove.

Before he'd gone, Clay had a.s.sured her that Sawyer's horse would be fine until morning, which meant she could stay inside, where it was comparatively warm, so that was one less worry, anyhow. Gaps between the floorboards let in some of the cold, but that couldn't be helped. Using the spare blankets Doc had brought, she made a bed on the floor, close to the stove and hoped all the mice were hibernating.

She lit the kerosene lamp as the room darkened, and tried to cheer herself up by imagining the Christmas tree, still in its pail of water and leaning against the far wall, glowing with bright decorations. She took comfort in its green branches and faintly piney scent and thought, with a smile, of the recitations her students were memorizing for the school program.

Christmas Eve, just ten days away, fell on a Friday that year, so school would be in session until noon-weather permitting-and the recital would be presented soon after. After the poems and skits, everyone would sing carols. The owner of the mercantile had promised to donate oranges and peppermint sticks for the children, and the parents would bring pies and cookies and cakes.

This gathering represented all the Christmas some of the children would have, and all thirteen of them were looking forward to the celebration.

She moved, quiet as a wraith, to the window, and glumness settled over her spirit as she looked out.

And still the snow fell in abundance, unrelenting.

IT WAS THE pain that finally roused him.

Sawyer came to the surface of consciousness with a fierce jolt, feeling as though he'd been speared through his left shoulder.

His stomach lurched, and for a moment he was out there on that snowy street again, unable to see his a.s.sailant, reaching in vain for his .45.

He went deliberately still-not only was there no Colt at his hip, but he'd been stripped to his birthday suit-and tried to orient himself to reality.

The room was dark and a little chilly, and it smelled faintly of some flowery cologne, which probably meant there was a woman around somewhere.

The thought made him smile, despite the lingering pain, which had trans.m.u.ted itself from a stabbing sensation to a burning ache in the few minutes since he'd opened his eyes. There weren't many situations that couldn't be improved by the presence of a lady.

He squinted, managed to raise himself a little, with the pillows behind him providing support. Snow-speckled moonlight entered through the one window, set high in the wall, and spilled onto the intricate patterns of the several quilts that covered him to the waist.

"Hullo?" he called into the darkness.

She appeared in the doorway then, carrying a flickering kerosene lamp, a small but well-made woman with dark hair and a wary way of carrying herself.

She looked familiar, but Sawyer couldn't quite place her.

"You're awake, then," she said rhetorically, staying well away from the bed, as if she thought he might grab hold of her. The impression left him vaguely indignant. "Are you hungry?"

"No," he said, because his stomach, though empty, was still reacting to the rush of pain that had awakened him. "How's my horse?"

In the light of the lantern, he saw her smile slightly. Decided she was pretty, if a mite on the scrawny side. Her waist looked no bigger around than a fence post, and she wasn't very tall, either.

"Your horse is quite comfortable," she said. "Are you in pain? The doctor left laudanum in case you needed it."

Sawyer guessed, from the bitter taste in his mouth, that he'd already had at least one dose, and he was reluctant to take another. Basically distilled opium, the stuff caused horrendous nightmares and fogged up his brain.

"I'm all right," he said.

She didn't move.

He had fuzzy memories of being shot and falling off his horse, but he wasn't sure if he'd actually seen his cousin Clay or just dreamed he was there. He did recollect the doctor, though-that sawbones had poured liquid fire into the gaping hole in his shoulder, made him yell because it hurt so bad.

"Do you have a name?" he asked.

She bristled, and he guessed at the color of her eyes-dark blue, maybe, or brown. It was hard to tell, in the glare of that lantern she was holding. "Of course I do," she replied primly. "Do you?"

Sawyer gave a raw chuckle at that. She was an impertinent little d.i.c.kens, he thought, probably able to hold her own in an argument. "Sawyer McKettrick," he conceded, with a slight nod of his head. "I'm Clay's cousin, here to take over as town marshal."

"Well," she said, remaining in the doorway, "you're off to a wonderful start, aren't you?"

He chuckled again, though it took more energy than he felt he could spare. "Yes, ma'am," he said. "I reckon I am."

"Piper St. James," she said then, without laying any groundwork beforehand.

"What?"

"You asked for my name." A pause, during which she raised the lantern a little higher, saw that he was bare-chested, and quickly lowered it again. "You can call me aMiss James.'"

"Thanks for that, anyhow," he said, enjoying the exchange, however feeble it was on his end. "Thanks for looking after my horse, too, and, unless I miss my guess, saving my life."

Miss St. James's spine lengthened; she must have been all of five foot two, and probably weighed less than his saddlebags. "I couldn't just leave you lying out there in the snow," she said, with a sort of puckish modesty.

From her tone, Sawyer concluded that she'd considered doing just that, though, fortunately for him, her conscience must have overruled the idea.

"You'd have had to step over me every time you went out," he teased, "and that would have been awkward."

He thought she smiled then, though he couldn't be sure because the light fell forward from the lantern and left her mostly in shadow.

"What is this place?" he asked presently, when she didn't speak.

"You're in the Blue River schoolhouse," Miss St. James informed him. "I teach here."

"I see," Sawyer said, wearying, though he was almost as much in the dark, literally and figuratively, as before he'd asked the question. "Was Clay here?" he threw out. "Or did I imagine that part?"

"He was here," Miss St. James confirmed. "He's gone home now-his wife is expecting a baby soon, and he didn't like leaving her alone-but he'll be back as soon as the weather allows."

Sawyer was quiet for a while, gathering sc.r.a.ps of strength, trying to breathe his way past a sudden swell of pain. "You don't have to be scared of me," he told her, after a long time.

"I'm not," she lied, still cautious. Still keeping her distance.

"I reckon I can't blame you," Sawyer said, closing his eyes to regain his equilibrium. The pain rose to a new crescendo, and the room had begun to pitch and sway.

"The laudanum is there on the nightstand," she informed him helpfully, evidently seeing more than he'd wanted her to. "And the chamber pot is under the bed."

He felt his lips twitch. "I'll keep that in mind," he said.

"You're certain you don't want something to eat?"

"Maybe later," he managed to reply.

He thought she'd go away then, but she hesitated. "You were asking for someone named Josie," she said. "Perhaps when the weather is better, we could send word to her, that you've been hurt, I mean."

Sawyer opened his eyes again, swiftly enough to set the little room to spinning again. "That won't be necessary," he bit out, but he felt a certain bitter amus.e.m.e.nt imagining what would happen if word of his misfortune were to reach her. Josie was his last employer's very fetching wife, and she'd made it clear that she wanted more from Sawyer than protection and cordial conversation. He'd had the same problem before, with other wives of men he worked for, along with their sisters and daughters in some instances, and he'd always managed to sidestep any romantic entanglements, be they physical or emotional-until Josie.

He'd wanted Josie, and that was why he'd agreed to come to Blue River and fill in for Clay, as temporary marshal-to put some distance between himself and the sweet temptation to bed his boss's wife, to burn in her fire, let l.u.s.t consume him.

He'd left in the nick of time.

Or had he?

Had the shooter been one of Henry Vandenburg's hirelings, one of his own former colleagues, sent to make sure Sawyer stayed away from the old man's wife-forever?

It was possible, of course. Vandenburg was rich, and he was powerful, and he probably wasn't above having a rival dispensed with, but even for him, ordering the murder of one of Angus McKettrick's grandsons would have been pretty risky. His and Clay's granddad, even at his advanced age, was a force of nature in his own right, owning half of Arizona as he did, and so were his four sons. Holt, Rafe, Kade-Sawyer's father-and Jeb, who'd sired Clay, were all law-abiding citizens, happily married men with children and even a few grandchildren, money in the bank and a prosperous ranch to run. Still, the untimely death of any member of the clan would rouse them to Earp-like fury, and Vandenburg surely knew that. In fact, it was that dogged quality that had caused the old reprobate to hire Sawyer as a bodyguard in the first place.

"Mr. McKettrick?" Miss Piper St. James was standing right beside the bed now, holding the lantern high. There was concern in her voice-enough to draw her to his bedside, thereby risking some nefarious a.s.sault on her virtue. "Are you all right? For a moment, you looked-I thought..."

She lapsed awkwardly into silence.

He might have reminded her, if he'd had the strength, that, no, actually, he wasn't "all right," because he'd been shot. Instead, he asked slowly, measuring out each word like a storekeeper dispensing sugar or flour, "Do you happen to have any whiskey on hand?"