CHAPTER 3.

"Of course I don't have any whiskey," Piper replied, with a little more sharpness in her tone than she'd intended to exercise. "This is a school, not a roadhouse."

"Well, d.a.m.n," Sawyer said, affably gruff and clearly still in pain. "I could sure use a shot of good old-fashioned rotgut right about now. Might take the edge off."

Having set the kerosene lantern on the nightstand so she wouldn't drop it and set the whole place on fire, Piper took a step back. Rotgut, indeed. "Then I guess it's too bad you fell off your horse here instead of in front of the Bitter Gulch Saloon."

He favored her with a squinty frown at this, and she wondered distractedly what he'd look like in the daylight, cleaned up and wearing something besides bandages, her quilts and the dish-towel sling Dr. Howard had put on his left arm. "Are you one of those hatchet-swinging types?" he asked, with a note of benign disapproval. "The kind who go around hacking perfectly good bars to splinters, shattering mirrors and breaking every bottle on the shelves?"

Piper stiffened slightly, offended, though she couldn't think why she ought to give a pin about this man's-this stranger's-opinion of her. "No," she said tersely. "If some people choose to pollute their systems with poison, to the detriment of their wives and children and society in general, it's none of my concern."

He laughed then, a hoa.r.s.e bark of a sound, brittle with pain. "If you say so," he said, leaving his meaning ambiguous.

Annoyed, Piper was anxious to be gone from that too-small room. She wished she hadn't approached the bed, if only because she could see so much of his bare chest. It was disturbing-though it did remind her of the G.o.ds and heroes she'd read about in Greek mythology.

She gathered her dignity, an effort of unsettling significance, reached out to reclaim the lantern. "If you don't need anything, I'll leave you to get some rest," she said, speaking as charitably as she could.

"I do need something," he told her quietly.

Piper took another step back. The lantern light wavered slightly, and she renewed her grip on the handle. "What?" she asked cautiously.

"Company," Sawyer replied. "Somebody to talk to while I wait for this bullet hole in my shoulder to settle down a little-it feels like somebody dropped a hot coal into it. Why don't you take a chair-if there is one-and tell me what brings a proper lady like you to a rough town like Blue River."

Was he making fun of her, using the term "a proper lady" ironically?

Or was she being not only harsh, but priggish, too?

She set the lantern back on the night table and drew her rocking chair into the faint circle of light, sat down and folded her hands in her lap. For the moment, that was all the concession she could bring herself to make. And it seemed like plenty.

"Well?" Sawyer McKettrick prompted. "I can tell by the way you talk and carry yourself that you're an Easterner. What are you doing way out here in the wilds of Texas?"

"I told you," Piper said distantly, primly. "I teach school."

"They don't have schools back where you came from, in Ma.s.sachusetts or New Hampshire or wherever you belong?"

"I'm from Maine, if you must know," she allowed, suppressing an urge to argue that she "belonged" wherever she wanted to be. "Dara Rose-Clay's wife-is my cousin. She persuaded me to come out here and take over for the last teacher, Miss Krenshaw."

"Dara Rose," he said, with a fond little smile. "Clay's a lucky man, finding a woman like her."

"I quite agree," Piper said, softening toward him, albeit unwillingly and only to a minimal degree.

He studied her thoughtfully in the flickering light of the lantern. "Does it suit you-life in the Wild West, I mean?" he inquired politely. She saw that a muscle had bunched in his jaw after he spoke, knew he was hurting, and determined to ride it out without complaint. Like Clay, he was tough, though Clay wore the quality with greater grace, being a more reticent sort.

Piper paused, considering her reply. "It's lonely sometimes," she admitted, at last.

"Everyplace is lonely sometimes," he answered.

This was a statement Piper couldn't refute, so she made one of her own. "It sounds as if you speak from experience," she said carefully.

He grinned a wan shadow of a grin, lifted his right hand in a gesture of acquiescence. "Sure," he replied. "Happens to everybody."

Even in his weakened state, Sawyer McKettrick did not strike Piper as the kind of person who ever lacked for anything. There was something about him, some quality of quiet sufficiency, of untroubled wholeness, that shone even through his obvious physical discomfort.

"I do enjoy spending my days with the children," she said, strangely fl.u.s.tered, sensing that there was far more to this man than what showed on the surface.

"I reckon that's a good thing, since you're a teacher," he observed dryly.

A silence fell, and Piper found herself wanting to prattle, just to fill it. And she was most definitely not a prattler, so this was a matter for concern.

"I might be able to handle some food, after all," Sawyer ventured presently, unhurriedly. "If the offer is still good, that is."

Relieved to have an errand to perform, however mundane, Piper fairly leaped to her feet, took the lamp by its handle. "There's bean soup," she said. "I'll get you some."

When she returned with a bowl and spoon in one hand and the lantern in the other, she saw that her visitor had bunched up the pillows behind him so he could sit up straighter.

She placed the lantern on the night table again and extended the bowl and spoon.

He looked at the food with an expression of amused wistfulness. "I've only got one good arm," he reminded her. "I can feed myself, but you'll have to hold the bowl."

Piper should have antic.i.p.ated this development, but she hadn't. Gingerly, knowing she wouldn't be able to reach far enough from the rocking chair, she sat down on the edge of the mattress, the bowl cupped in both hands.

The sure impropriety of the act sent a little thrill through her.

Deep down, she was something of a rebel, though she managed to hide that truth from most people.

Sawyer smiled and took hold of the spoon, tasted the soup. Since the fire in the stove had burned low while they were talking earlier, the stuff was only lukewarm, but he didn't seem to mind. He ate slowly, and not very much, and finally sank back against the pillows, looking exhausted by the effort of feeding himself.

"Would you like more?" Piper ventured, drawing back the bowl. "I could-"

Sawyer grimaced, shook his head no. His skin was a waxy shade of gray, even in the thin light, and he seemed to be bleeding from his wound again, though not so heavily as before. "That'll do for now," he said. "I might take some laudanum, after all, though."

Piper nodded, put the spoon and the bowl down, and reached for the brown bottle Dr. Howard had left, pulled out the cork. "I'll just wipe off the spoon and-"

Before she could finish her sentence, though, he grabbed the bottle from her hand and took a great draught from it. The muscles in his neck corded visibly as he swallowed.

Piper blinked and s.n.a.t.c.hed the vessel from him. "Mr. McKettrick," she scolded, in her most teacherly voice. "That is medicine, not water, and it's very potent."

"I hope so," he said with a sigh, closing his eyes and gritting his teeth. Waiting for the opium to reach his bloodstream. "I'd have preferred whiskey," he added, moments later.

Soon, he was fast asleep.

Piper made sure the bottle of laudanum was out of his reach and rose to carry the lantern and the bowl and spoon out of the room, walking softly so she wouldn't wake him-not that there seemed to be much danger of that, from the steady rasp of his breathing.

Once she'd set the bowl and spoon aside, along with the lantern, she wrapped one of the extra blankets Dr. Howard had brought around her shoulders, in lieu of a cloak, and marched herself outside, into the snowy cold, carrying the lantern again now, lighting her way to the outhouse. Normally, she would have used the enamel chamber pot tucked beneath her bed, but not this time.

The going was hard, though not quite as arduous as when she'd gone out for wood and water before, and to take care of Mr. McKettrick's horse. She heard a rea.s.suring dripping sound-snow melting off the eaves of the schoolhouse roof, probably-and the sky was clear and moonlit and speckled with stars.

For the time being at least, the storm was over, and that heartened Piper so much that, after using the outhouse, she went on to the shed, where the big buckskin gelding stood, quietly munching hay.

She spoke to him companionably, stroked his st.u.r.dy neck a few times, and made sure he had enough water. Clay had filled the trough earlier, instead of just setting a pail on the dirt floor of the shed, so there was plenty.

Returning to the schoolhouse, Piper set the lantern down, put the covered kettle of boiled beans on the front step, so the cold would keep its contents from spoiling. Then she shut the door, lowered the latch, and went over to bank the fire for the night.

The lamp was starting to burn low by then, so she quickly made herself a bed on the floor, using the borrowed blankets, washed her face and hands in a basin of warm water, and brushed her teeth with baking soda. Donning one of her flannel nightgowns was out of the question, of course, with a man under the same roof.

Resigned to sleeping in her clothes, she put out the lamp and stretched out on the floor, as near to the stove as she could safely get, and bundled herself in the blankets. The planks were hard, and Piper thought with yearning of her thin, lumpy mattress, the one she'd so often complained about, though only to herself and Dara Rose.

She closed her eyes, depending on exhaustion to carry her into the unknowing solace of sleep, but instead she found herself listening, not just with her ears, but with all she was. A few times, she thought she heard small feet skittering and scurrying around her, which didn't help her state of mind.

At some point, however, she finally succ.u.mbed to a leaden, dreamless slumber.

When she awakened on that frosty floor, sore and unrested and quite disgruntled, it took her a few moments to remember why she was there, and not in her bed.

The bed was occupied, she recalled, with a flare of heat rising to her cheeks. By one Sawyer McKettrick.

But the sun was shining, and that lifted her spirits considerably.

She shambled stiffly to her feet, hurried to build up the fire in the potbellied stove, glanced with mild alarm at the big Regulator clock ticking on the schoolhouse wall. It was past eight, she saw, and she hadn't rung the schoolhouse bell.

A silly concern, admittedly, since her students weren't likely to show up, even though the snow had stopped falling and cheery daylight filled the frigid little room, absorbing the blue shadows of a wintry yesterday and the night that had followed. At the front window, Piper used the palm of one hand, no longer sore, to wipe a circle in the curlicues of frost to clear the gla.s.s. She peered out, encouraged to see that the sky was indeed blue and virtually cloudless.

Moisture dripped steadily from the roof overhead, and the road was taking shape again, a slight but visible dip in the deep, blindingly white field of snow that seemed to stretch on and on.

The voice, coming from behind her, wry and somewhat testy, nearly caused Piper to jump out of her skin. For a few moments, glorying in the change in the weather, she'd forgotten all about her uninvited guest, her night on the floor, and most of her other concerns, as well.

"Is there any coffee in this place, or would that be sinful, like keeping a stock of whiskey?" Sawyer McKettrick asked grumpily.

Piper whirled, saw him standing-standing, under his own power-in the doorway to her private quarters. He was still bare-chested, his bandages bulky and his bad arm in the sling Doc had improvised for him the day before, but, thankfully, he'd somehow managed to get into his trousers and even put on his boots.

He looked pale, gaunt, but ready for whatever challenges the day-or the next few minutes-might bring.

She smiled, relieved. If Sawyer was up and around, he'd be leaving soon. Maybe very soon. "I'll make some coffee," she said. "Sit down."

He was leaning against the framework of the doorway now, probably conserving his strength, and he looked around, taking in the small desks, the benches. "Where?" he asked, practically snarling the word.

Piper was determined to be pleasant, no matter how rude Mr. McKettrick chose to be. "There's a chair behind my desk," she pointed out. "Take that."

He groped his way along the wall, proof that he wasn't as recovered as she'd first thought, pulled back the wooden chair and sank into it. "Where's my shirt?" he asked. "And my .45?"

Piper ladled water into the small enamel coffeepot that, like the three drinking mugs, her narrow bed and the rocking chair, came with the schoolhouse. "I burned your shirt," she said cheerfully. "It was quite ruined, between the bullet hole and all the blood. And I put away the pistol, since you won't have use for it here."

Sawyer thrust his free hand through his hair in exasperation. Clearly, the laudanum had worn off, and he hadn't rested well. "I need that shirt," he said. "And the .45."

"I'm sorry," Piper answered. "Perhaps Clay will bring you fresh clothes, when he comes to take you out to the ranch." She refused to discuss the gun any further.

Sawyer frowned. His chin was bristly with beard stubble, and he narrowed his blue-green eyes practically to slits. "When will that be?" he growled. "My trunk is over at the train depot. Plenty of clothes in there."

Piper didn't reply right away, since she didn't know precisely when Clay would return, and fetching Sawyer's baggage from the depot was not presently an option. Instead, she put some coffee beans into the grinder and turned the handle, enjoying the rich scent as it rose to entice her. Coffee was normally a treat for Piper, though she'd been drinking more of it lately, being snowed in and everything. Since the stuff wasn't considered a staple, like canned goods and meat, potatoes and b.u.t.ter, the town didn't provide it as a part of her wages. Since she saved practically every penny toward a train ticket home to Maine, Dara Rose bought it for her, along with writing paper, postage stamps and bathing soap.

G.o.d bless Dara Rose's generous soul.

Sawyer cleared his throat, a reminder, apparently, that she'd neglected to answer his cranky question. "Clay will be coming back-when?"

"I don't know," Piper said honestly. "Soon, I hope."

His frown deepened as he looked around again. "Where did you sleep last night?"

She measured coffee into the pot and set it on the stove to boil. "You needn't concern yourself with that," she said sunnily.

He gave a gruff chortle at her response, completely void of amus.e.m.e.nt. Then he pushed back the chair and stood, with an effort he clearly wanted very much to hide. "I suppose the privy is out back?" he asked.

Piper kept her face averted, so he wouldn't see her blush. "Yes," she said. "But the snow is deep and the path hasn't been cleared yet." She paused, mortified. "There's a chamber pot under the bed."

"I'm not using a chamber pot," he informed her, each word separated from the next by a tick of the Regulator clock. Slowly, he crossed the room, s.n.a.t.c.hed up the same blanket she'd used earlier, in lieu of a coat, wrapped it around his mostly naked upper body like an enormous shawl, and left the schoolhouse.

The door slammed behind him.

Piper hoped he wouldn't collapse in the snow again, because she wasn't sure she'd be able to get him back inside the schoolhouse if that happened. She waited tensely, added water to the coffeepot when it bubbled, and resisted the urge to stand at the window and watch for his return.

He did reappear, after a few minutes, and he kept the blanket around him as he made his way back to the desk chair and sat down.

Piper poured coffee for him-the grounds hadn't settled completely, but that couldn't be helped-and set the mug on the surface of the desk.

"Breakfast?" she asked.

He finally smiled, though grudgingly. "More beans?" he countered.

"I have some salt pork and a few eggs," Piper responded. "Would that do, or should I risk life and limb to fetch something more to your liking from the hotel dining room? I could just hitch up the dogsled and be off."

He laughed, and it seemed that his color was a little better, though that could probably be ascribed to the cold weather outside. "You don't lack for sa.s.s, do you?" he said.

"And you don't lack for rudeness," Piper retorted, but, like before, she was softening toward him a little. There was something about that smile, those intelligent, blue-green eyes, that supple mouth...

Whoa, ordered a voice in her mind, bringing her up short. Forget his smile, and his mouth, too. Silently, Piper reminded herself that, to her knowledge, Sawyer McKettrick had just one thing to recommend him-that he was Clay's cousin-which most definitely did not mean he was the same kind of man. Families, even ones as ill.u.s.trious as Clay's, did have black sheep.

"Sorry," he said wearily, with no hint of actual remorse.

She fetched the salt pork and the eggs, which were kept in a metal storage box in the cloakroom, that being the coldest part of the building, and proceeded to prepare breakfast for both of them.

"There's a little house for the marshal to live in," she said busily, after a few stiff minutes had pa.s.sed. "The town provides it."

"I know," Sawyer said. "I was here in Blue River once before." Now that he had coffee to drink, his temperament seemed to be improving. A hot meal might render him tolerable. "Dara Rose lived there at the time, with her daughters."

"Oh," Piper said, apropos of nothing, turning slices of salt pork in the skillet, then cracking three eggs into the same pan, causing them to sizzle in the melted lard.