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His eyes, which in daylight were the color of sunlight striking sea-green glass, gleamed in the darkness. “Because I’m likely to bleed out before I catch him.”
He indicated his upper right arm.
“You’ve been shot?” Guilt punched a hole in her annoyance. Here she’d been berating him when he was in pain.
“Feels like a flesh wound.” He inclined his head toward the bank. “Let me return this money to its rightful place, and I’ll escort you home.”
“You have to see Doc.”
“Later.” He disappeared inside the bank for a brief minute, then used his master keys to lock it up tight. When he reached her, he removed the neckerchief from around his throat. “Tie this off for me, will you?”
“I can get home by myself,” she protested, concern for the Debonair Deputy at odds with her usual antipathy. “You need to get that wound cleaned and stitched.”
“I happen to know that Doc Owens is out at the Barton farm, assisting in the delivery of their latest child. The sheriff has a steady hand and a cast-iron stomach, but he’s taken Allison and the kids to Norfolk for the month. Besides, you heard the thief. You’re a liability. Who’s to say he’s not lying in wait, intending on following you and making sure you can’t talk?”
Suppressing a shudder, she seized the cloth and quickly wrapped it around Ben’s thick biceps.
He grimaced. “A shame about the coat. My mother gave it to me before I took this job. It’s kept me warm through four Tennessee winters.”
“Our winters are typically mild.”
He flashed a smile, the lopsided one that had slain countless hearts. “Not compared with my hometown in southern Georgia. Besides, according to the almanac, we’re in for more snow than usual this year.”
“So get it patched. Nicole Darling can have it repaired in less time than it takes you to make a girl swoon.” Isabel snatched up a forgotten sachet of cloves.
“When was the last time that happened?” he challenged, laugh lines crinkling the corners of his eyes.
“I don’t keep detailed records of your romantic exploits, but I seem to recall hearing about Edith Pulaski at the harvest festival. And Josie Strutin embarrassed herself during the annual August social.”
“Edith fainted because she was ill with a fever. As for Josie, I choose to believe she was overwhelmed by the prospect of singing a solo in front of a crowd and not because I was nearby.” He started for the boardwalk, his stride even and decisive, though he seemed to hold his injured arm close to his body. “Did you walk or ride?”
“I walked.”
“You can ride with me, then.”
She put her shaky legs in motion, unhappy with the prospect of spending any amount of time with him. Isabel went out of her way to avoid the shallow charmer. Ben MacGregor’s reputation was a two-sided coin. While a respected lawman who’d committed his life to protecting Gatlinburg’s citizens, he was also a confirmed bachelor who trifled with women’s emotions. Isabel couldn’t respect a man like that, not after living with the consequences of her father’s repeated infidelities.
He led her to his grand sorrel horse whose copper-red coat mimicked Ben’s hair. One of the most recognizable animals in town, his name was Blaze. Ben mounted first and, taking her basket, let her use his good arm to pull herself up behind him. During the first part of the slow journey, she utilized her leg muscles for balance. She soon tired, however.
“You can put your arms about my waist,” he quipped over his shoulder. “I promise I won’t get ideas.”
“Like I’d ever be interested in you,” she muttered.
His deep, husky laugh mocked her. “Every man in town is aware of your aversion to romance.”
Isabel didn’t care that she was considered a prude or that folks whispered she was destined to be an old maid. Better that than they think she shared her father’s lack of morality.
The deserted lane on which they traveled crested a small incline. During the descent, Isabel had no choice but to use Ben as a support. He said nothing when she slid her arms around his waist. His body heat seeped into her, helping stave off the chill December air. Unaccustomed to this degree of closeness to a man, she became acutely aware of the play of muscles across his broad back, the solid leanness of his flanks and his flat stomach. He wasn’t tall—average, really—but he had a stocky, honed build.
Thankfully, her family’s property was situated only a mile from the heart of town. The gristmill and stream edged the woods to their left. A modest-size clearing surrounded by more woods contained the cabin, barn and outbuildings, space for a vegetable garden, and pasture for their livestock.
When he halted Blaze beside her porch, Isabel wasted no time scrambling to solid ground.
“Thank you for the ride.” She stretched out her hand for the basket. “I’ll take that.”
An infuriating grin curved his generous mouth. He was well aware of her eagerness to be rid of him. “My pleasure.”
The door banged open. Light spilled through the opening as her sisters, Honor and Carmen, emerged onto the porch and simpered over Ben’s presence like every other ninny-headed female who fell prey to his outgoing personality and winning smile. When Honor noticed his injury, Isabel knew getting rid of him wouldn’t be as easy as she’d thought.
* * *
Within a matter of minutes, Ben found himself seated at the Flores sisters’ table while they gathered the necessary supplies to tend his wound. Trying to shut out the burning sensation engulfing his arm, he focused on his surroundings. Two years had passed since he’d been inside this cabin. He’d come the night Manuel Flores was murdered. Thankfully, his boss, Sheriff Shane Timmons, had shouldered the unenviable task of informing Manuel’s wife and daughters of the events surrounding his passing.
Alma Flores had taken it the hardest, slumping to the ground and wailing as if her heart would never be mended. A mere month after the funeral, she’d gone to live with her sister in nearby Knoxville, leaving Isabel to care for her sisters and their small farm and gristmill.
His gaze sought her out, as it usually did whenever she was around. Unlike Honor and Carmen, who favored vibrant hues and rich fabrics, Isabel preferred somber, severe clothing. Ben surmised it was her way of trying to go unnoticed. He’d like to tell her the ploy was unsuccessful.
He tracked her movements about the central room as she lit multiple lamps. One she placed on the fireplace mantel, another on a squat table in between a pair of cushioned chairs. Still more she hung from pegs on either side of the door. Light flickered over her satin black hair, pulled away from her face in a thick, glossy French braid that curved around her slender neck and disappeared beneath her heather-gray fur-lined cloak.
All three Flores women were beautiful. Nineteen-year-old Honor was willowy and graceful, putting him in mind of a delicate bird. A year younger and the shortest of the three, Carmen had a healthy figure, and her round face was consistently animated. Isabel was different and, in Ben’s estimation, without rival. She possessed noble features, her Mexican heritage on proud display in her high forehead, distinct cheekbones, sleek jawline. Her olive skin was the perfect foil for arched dark brows, glittering black eyes and an apricot-hued mouth. His attention snagged there. Full and lush, her lips provided a soft counterpoint to her austere demeanor.
Ben sometimes contemplated different ways to provoke a smile from the elusive beauty. The usual methods wouldn’t apply to her, however. She hadn’t attempted to hide her disdain. He accepted how she felt about him. Understood her reasons.
She passed by his chair, Christmastime scents of cinnamon and other spices combined with tangy orange wafting over him.
“We’ll have to cut off your sleeve.” Hands on her hips, Honor considered his torn, bloodied shirt.
“As much as I’d love to stitch you up, I can’t stand the sight of blood.” Positioned beside her sister, Carmen’s brown eyes were apologetic. The cloud of chocolate-brown hair tumbling about her shoulders quivered with the shake of her head. “I’d wind up a puddle at your feet.”
“Not an uncommon occurrence where the deputy is concerned.” Isabel unbuttoned her cloak and hung it on a coatrack. When she intercepted her sisters’ disapproving stares, she shrugged. “What? It’s true.”
“You act as if it’s his fault he’s as handsome as they come,” Carmen retorted, then blushed to her hairline.
Ben ducked his head to hide his smile.
Isabel made a shooing motion with her hands. “Off to your room, both of you. I’ll see to the deputy’s wound.”
Their protests were met with a stern stare. “I won’t be able to concentrate with the two of you fussing over him.”
Grumbling to each other, they disappeared into a room on the far side of the cabin. Of modest size, their home boasted a cozy central space—the furniture arranged about a massive fireplace—a separate kitchen and two bedrooms. The sofa was, at best guess, two decades old. While the carved walnut frame was polished to a high shine, nothing could hide the sad state of the black-and-white upholstery. They’d placed brightly colored pillows along its length to mask the imperfections. Landscape paintings of winding rivers and fields dotted with bluebonnets and even one of a longhorn provided reminders of their home state of Texas. White, green and red paper chains hung from the mantel, a playful nod to the Christmas season.
“You own interesting artwork,” he said, indicating the brick-red ceramic animal perched on the small desk in between the bedroom doors.
“That’s a coatimundi.”
“A what?”
“It’s a raccoon-like animal that inhabits Central and South America. My great-grandmother brought it with her to Texas. That’s how we acquired it.”
There were other unique items harking back to their former home. There was a plate-size metal circle with a single star in the middle. Displayed on the coffee table was a hand-painted wooden bowl with brilliant blue, white and orange flowers on a black backdrop. Being in the Flores home was akin to being in a foreign marketplace surrounded by unique and interesting wares. He liked it.
Isabel picked up the scissors and moved beside him, close enough that her skirts whispered against his leg. Her fingers skimmed his shoulder in fleeting touches as she carefully cut away the sleeve.
Ben closed his eyes. He couldn’t recall ever being this close to her.
“I have to remove the material,” she warned. “I’ll try to be gentle.”
He opened his eyes and met hers, which unexpectedly mirrored concern. “The pain’s manageable,” he said.
“I haven’t gotten to the hard part yet.”
After discarding the tattered sleeve, she began washing the damaged area. Ben gritted his teeth and focused on his breathing.
He tilted his head back to get a better look at her. A tiny pleat had formed between her eyebrows as she worked, and her crisp plum-colored blouse whispered with her movements. Lace edging her cuffs and high collar was the only nod to whimsy. In spite of the late hour, her hair was tidy and neat, the glossy braid curving around to her front.
“You don’t have to shop odd hours, you know.”
“I prefer to shop in peace and relative quiet,” she retorted. “I’ve found that the hour prior to closing time is perfectly suited for my purposes. Most folks are preparing supper then.”
As the image of her at the thief’s mercy resurged, he clenched his fists. “You should stick to daylight hours, Isabel. Safer that way.”
Tossing the soiled washrag in the water bowl, she jammed one hand against her hip. “Are you implying it’s my fault I happened upon a bank robber?”
“Stop being so prickly,” he chided. “I’m simply doling out practical advice. It’s my duty as a lawman.”
Her frown deepening, she stepped around him and picked up a sewing needle.
He leaned the opposite direction. “I’m not sure I like the look in your eye. Maybe someone else should stitch me back together. Someone who doesn’t see me coming and flee.”
Isabel looked stunned he’d voiced what they both knew to be true. Her brows collided. “I would never intentionally hurt you. O-or anyone, for that matter.”
He righted himself in the seat. “I suppose I’ll have to trust you, seeing as how Honor is the only other option, and she was looking a bit green about the mouth.”
“Like Carmen, she has a weak stomach, but she would never confess to it in front of you.”
Her fingertips were cool and skittish against his skin as she took hold of his bare arm. Ben’s mouth went dry. He mentally clung to that touch as she began the painful and tedious process of mending him. At long last, her hand fell away, and his eyes blinked open.
“All done?”
She studied her handiwork with a faint grimace. “It’s not pretty, but as long as you keep it clean and dry, you should heal without any problems.”
“Scars are a sign of manliness.” He winked, then let out a slow, deep breath. “Now that you’re finished wielding that needle, I can tell you I’ll be sticking around until morning.”
* * *
“You will not be spending this night or any other on my property!”
Isabel’s hands, which had been steady throughout her task, began trembling. She washed and dried them and hid them in the folds of her skirt. Her rebellious gaze returned to his exposed limb. His skin was paler there, like rich cream, and incredibly pleasing to the touch, his flesh firm and warm.
Irritated with herself, she marched to the coatrack, retrieved his tattered coat and dropped it in his lap.
“You may have some bruising around the stitches. I advise you to have Doc Owens check it as soon as you’re able.”
“I’m confident you did a perfectly acceptable job.”
Ben stood and eased his arm into the sleeve, wincing as he did so. His color was good, she reassured herself. And he looked steady on his feet.
“He may have something to help dull the pain.”
He deftly buttoned his coat, starting from the bottom and working up. Lamplight glinted off his dark red hair. Cut short around his ears and along his shirt collar, the front strands were slightly longer and slipped forward into his eyes. He might be too handsome for words, but Isabel was immune. Did it matter if his classic features could’ve graced any of the world’s great sculptures? Or that his skin was smooth and sun-kissed, stretching over prominent cheekbones and chiseled jaw?
None of that mattered if his character was lacking.
“Pain will keep me alert tonight. I can stay in the warming hut,” he said, referring to the structure near the gristmill where customers gathered to wait for their corn or wheat to be ground. “It’s within view of the cabin. If our thief decides to pay you a visit, I’ll be here to protect you.”
“He doesn’t know my name or where I live.”
“I can’t be one hundred percent positive he didn’t follow us here.”
“He’s after the money, not me. Sleep in the bank.”
His lips thinned. “You’d rather take your chances with a dangerous criminal than have me on your property?”
She sighed. “You want proof I can handle myself?”
Lowering one knee to the floor, she removed the small dagger from its sheaf below her calf and, with deadly accuracy, hurled it through the air. The pointed end dug into her bedroom door frame.
Ben shot her a disbelieving look before striding across the room to retrieve it. “You had this on you the whole time?”
“I would’ve utilized it if I’d had the chance.”
“But I foiled everything by coming to your aid.” Sarcasm laced his voice. He bent his head and studied the carving in the wooden handle. “Expert craftsmanship.” He tested the blade. “I wouldn’t mind having one like it. Where did you get it?”
She extended her hand. He placed it in the center of her palm, curiosity making his eyes appear a shade lighter. Isabel was loath to reveal the truth, but she wasn’t going to lie. “I made it.”
His brow furrowed in disbelief. “You cut and carved the wood and forged the steel?”
“Why is that so hard to believe?”
“Not for the reason you’re thinking,” he said drily. “You can obviously do whatever you put your mind to. You’ve looked after your sisters’ well-being and managed this farm, all while operating a gristmill. I simply haven’t heard a whisper of your skills.”
“That’s because very few people know.”
“I assure you, a man would pay a high price for one of those.”
“I do sell them, just not in Gatlinburg.” Returning to the table, she cleared her sewing supplies. “I knew when my mother left that I’d need additional income. My uncle, my mother’s brother, is a blacksmith. He stayed with us for about a year when I was sixteen, and he taught me many things, the art of knife making among them. Papa hated the idea of one of his daughters learning a man’s job.” She smirked, remembering his tirades. “That’s probably why Uncle Alejandro did it. They despised each other. Small wonder.”
“You turned a valuable skill into a moneymaker.”
