sudden desperation in the schoolteacher’s very blue eyes, and something in him couldn’t deny her.
He strode to where she still knelt and stooped over who had to be Brady Thomas. Roughly he rubbed Thomas’s face, trying to bring some life back into it. Thomas moaned and opened his eyes, squinting against the morning sun.
Lobo put his arm under the man’s shoulders and pulled him up. “Walk, damn you,” he ordered.
Brady attempted to put one foot in front of the other, often stumbling as they slowly moved to the ranch house. Lobo knew it would have been easier to carry the man, heavy as he was, but he wasn’t going to make it easy for Thomas. The man had nearly killed good animals, not to mention destroying the barn. Lobo had no sympathy even though the loss of the barn would make existence on the ranch all but impossible. Brady Thomas had done his job for him, and all he felt was a slow, burning anger against the man.
He didn’t understand why the woman didn’t feel a similar resentment. As he stole a glance at her, all he saw was concern for Thomas.
They reached the house, and he looked at her for directions. She led the way to a small room with one large bed and two smaller ones. Lobo dumped his burden on the large one and started out the door, more aware now of the pain in one of his arms and both hands.
Just outside the bedroom door he looked down at his hands, the half-burned gloves sticking to the skin, the scorched shirt-sleeve barely covering a red arm. He had ignored the pain; it was another matter of concentration. But he knew he had to do something about the wounds before they became infected.
The woman was studying them too. “Those are bad burns,” she said.
He shrugged. “It’s nothing.”
Her blue eyes filled with concern. It was unsettling, and he moved toward the front door.
“No,” she said in an authoritative schoolteacher voice. “We have to do something about those burns.”
Lobo didn’t know why he stopped.
Her voice softened. “And I want to thank you. You must be our guardian angel.”
Guardian angel. For chrissakes!
“Chad has told me all about you,” she continued as if she didn’t notice the glower on his face. “And I’ve been wanting to thank you. I’m Willow. Willow George Taylor.”
That name wasn’t much better than his own or Sallie Sue.
“But everyone calls me Willow,” she added with a brilliant smile that could melt snow.
She waited for him to proclaim his identity, but there was only silence.
She appeared unfazed. She stepped closer to him and reached out to take his arm, frowning as she studied the small blisters. He felt something other than pain run down his spine.
She looked up at him and smiled slowly. “I’m not going to allow you to leave the house until I see to those burns.”
Lobo hesitated. He didn’t want to leave. He didn’t want to lose that smile. He wanted to prolong the cool touch of her fingers on his skin, the concern in her eyes for him. For him.
He swallowed, knowing he should get the hell out of the house, out of Newton, out of the territory, probably out of the country.
“I’ll get some salve for those burns, and you can have one of Jake’s shirts.”
“Jake?”
Relieved that he had finally uttered a word, she smiled again. “He left the ranch to me. He died eighteen months ago.”
“He didn’t do you a favor, lady,” Lobo said. “This place is a disaster.”
She suddenly looked wistful and incredibly appealing. Burns or not, he had an enormous urge to take her in his arms. How would she react when she discovered who he was? A gunslinger. A man decent people crossed the street to avoid. Fool! he called himself.
“I know,” she admitted softly. “But we’ve made it this far.”
Lobo raised his eyebrows. Now was the time to make her see reason.
“Lady, two kids and a drunk would be dead if I hadn’t shown up.”
“But you did,” she said with indisputable reason.
Frustrated, he stared at
He strode to where she still knelt and stooped over who had to be Brady Thomas. Roughly he rubbed Thomas’s face, trying to bring some life back into it. Thomas moaned and opened his eyes, squinting against the morning sun.
Lobo put his arm under the man’s shoulders and pulled him up. “Walk, damn you,” he ordered.
Brady attempted to put one foot in front of the other, often stumbling as they slowly moved to the ranch house. Lobo knew it would have been easier to carry the man, heavy as he was, but he wasn’t going to make it easy for Thomas. The man had nearly killed good animals, not to mention destroying the barn. Lobo had no sympathy even though the loss of the barn would make existence on the ranch all but impossible. Brady Thomas had done his job for him, and all he felt was a slow, burning anger against the man.
He didn’t understand why the woman didn’t feel a similar resentment. As he stole a glance at her, all he saw was concern for Thomas.
They reached the house, and he looked at her for directions. She led the way to a small room with one large bed and two smaller ones. Lobo dumped his burden on the large one and started out the door, more aware now of the pain in one of his arms and both hands.
Just outside the bedroom door he looked down at his hands, the half-burned gloves sticking to the skin, the scorched shirt-sleeve barely covering a red arm. He had ignored the pain; it was another matter of concentration. But he knew he had to do something about the wounds before they became infected.
The woman was studying them too. “Those are bad burns,” she said.
He shrugged. “It’s nothing.”
Her blue eyes filled with concern. It was unsettling, and he moved toward the front door.
“No,” she said in an authoritative schoolteacher voice. “We have to do something about those burns.”
Lobo didn’t know why he stopped.
Her voice softened. “And I want to thank you. You must be our guardian angel.”
Guardian angel. For chrissakes!
“Chad has told me all about you,” she continued as if she didn’t notice the glower on his face. “And I’ve been wanting to thank you. I’m Willow. Willow George Taylor.”
That name wasn’t much better than his own or Sallie Sue.
“But everyone calls me Willow,” she added with a brilliant smile that could melt snow.
She waited for him to proclaim his identity, but there was only silence.
She appeared unfazed. She stepped closer to him and reached out to take his arm, frowning as she studied the small blisters. He felt something other than pain run down his spine.
She looked up at him and smiled slowly. “I’m not going to allow you to leave the house until I see to those burns.”
Lobo hesitated. He didn’t want to leave. He didn’t want to lose that smile. He wanted to prolong the cool touch of her fingers on his skin, the concern in her eyes for him. For him.
He swallowed, knowing he should get the hell out of the house, out of Newton, out of the territory, probably out of the country.
“I’ll get some salve for those burns, and you can have one of Jake’s shirts.”
“Jake?”
Relieved that he had finally uttered a word, she smiled again. “He left the ranch to me. He died eighteen months ago.”
“He didn’t do you a favor, lady,” Lobo said. “This place is a disaster.”
She suddenly looked wistful and incredibly appealing. Burns or not, he had an enormous urge to take her in his arms. How would she react when she discovered who he was? A gunslinger. A man decent people crossed the street to avoid. Fool! he called himself.
“I know,” she admitted softly. “But we’ve made it this far.”
Lobo raised his eyebrows. Now was the time to make her see reason.
“Lady, two kids and a drunk would be dead if I hadn’t shown up.”
“But you did,” she said with indisputable reason.
Frustrated, he stared at
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