The Lawman's Vow. Elizabeth Lane

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СКАЧАТЬ urgent, he sensed, that had to be done. If only he could remember what it was.

      Questions clamored in his head, beating like black wings. So many questions, all demanding answers.

      “Tell me where I am.” He raised his voice to be heard above the rushing waves below. “Does this place have a name?”

      “The only name we call it is home,” Sylvie replied. “It’s not any kind of town, just a cabin in the forest. Keep moving, and you’ll see it in a minute.”

      “No, I mean where is it? Where are we?”

      “You really don’t know?”

      “Would I be asking if I did?” His foot slipped on a clump of moss. He jabbed the stick into the trail, legs shaking as he righted himself.

      The next time she spoke she was closer, less than a pace behind him. “You’re two days’ wagon ride north of San Francisco. Since the boat we found with you is a small one, I’d guess that’s where you came from. Does that sound right?”

      “No more or less than anything else does.”

      “You don’t remember San Francisco?”

      He raked his memory, using the name as a trigger. San Francisco. Fog, rain and mud. The cry of a fish hawker. The smells of tar, salt and rotting garbage. He groped for more, but the impressions were dimmed, like something from his boyhood. He remembered nothing that made him think he’d been there recently. He shook his head. “It’ll come. Maybe after I’ve rested. What…what date is it?”

      “It’s Tuesday, the twenty-fourth of March. Living here, it’s easy to lose track, but I mark off each day on a calendar.”

      “What year?”

      He heard the sharp intake of her breath. “It’s 1858. You don’t even remember what year it is?”

      “I don’t remember anything.”

      “Except the name of a character in a book.”

      Ishmael had no answer for that. With all that remained of his strength, he dragged himself over the top of the cliff. Breathing like a winded horse, he leaned on his makeshift walking stick and filled his eyes with what he saw.

      Close at hand, anchored near the cliff’s edge, was a complex system of pulleys and windlasses attached to what looked like a harness for a horse or mule. Best guess, it was rigged to haul heavy loads up from the beach—most likely wreckage that had washed into the cove. In the near distance a low buck fence surrounded a cabin that was unlike anything his eyes had ever seen—at least, so far as he could remember.

      The roof and sides were all of a piece, fashioned of weathered oaken planks that were shaped and sealed to watertight smoothness. Seconds passed before Ishmael realized he was looking at the overturned hull of a schooner, mounted on a low foundation of logs to make a sturdy home. A nearby windmill, for pumping well water, turned in the ocean breeze.

      “My father built all this.” Sylvie had come up the path to stand beside him. “He cut a wrecked ship into sections and used pulleys like these to haul them into place. We’ve lived here for almost eight years.”

      “That’s quite a piece of engineering.” He willed himself to stand straight and to speak in a coherent way.

      “My father is a clever man, and a hard worker. He takes good care of us.”

      “And your mother?”

      “My mother died before we came here. Daniel’s mother died when he was born.”

      “I’d like to meet your father. Is he here?”

      Her eyes glanced away. Her fingers tightened around the driftwood club she’d carried up from the beach. “Not right now,” she said, “but we’re expecting him home at any time. He’s probably just coming up the road.”

      She didn’t trust him. Even through the haze of his swimming senses, Ishmael could tell that much. But how could he blame her? She and the boy were alone here, and he was a stranger.

      Surely she had nothing to fear from him. Only a monster would harm a woman and child. And he wasn’t a monster. At least he didn’t feel like one. But how could be sure, when he had no idea what sort of man he was? He could be a thief, a murderer, the worst kind of criminal, and not even be aware of it.

      He raised a hand to his temple, fingering the swollen lump and the crust of dried blood that covered it. Pain throbbed like a drumbeat in his head. He’d suffered one sockdolager of a blow. That would explain his memory loss. But would the damage heal? Would his memory return? For all he knew, he could live the rest of his life without remembering who he was or where he’d come from.

      Dizziness hazed Ishmael’s vision. He tried to walk, but stumbled on the first step. Only the stick saved him from falling headlong.

      “Are you all right?” Sylvie’s eyes swam before him. She had beautiful eyes, like silvery tide pools, their centers deep and dark. “Can you make it to the house?”

      “Try…” The ground seemed to be rolling like a ship’s deck under his feet.

      “Let me help you.” She thrust her strength under his arm, her slight body braced against his. Leaning heavily, he staggered forward. Her muscles strained against his side. Ishmael forced himself to keep going. If his legs gave out, he would be dead weight for her to move.

      “Just a little farther,” she urged. “Come on, you can make it.”

      But she was wrong. He knew it by the time he’d dragged himself a half-dozen steps. His legs wobbled; his gaze was a thickening moiré. As they passed through the gate in the fence, the blackness won the battle. His legs folded and he collapsed, carrying her down with him to the wet grass.

      Sylvie felt his legs give way, but she wasn’t strong enough to hold him. Still clutching his side, she went down under his weight. The grass cushioned their fall, but she found herself spread-eagle beneath him, pinned to the ground. For a moment she lay there, damp, exhausted and breathless. His head rested against her shoulder, stubbled chin cradled against her breasts.

      She could feel the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, hear the rasp of air in and out of his lungs. His eyes were closed, eyelids hooded by inky brows. Black Irish—the term flitted through her memory. She’d heard her father use it, and not in a complimentary way. Was this the sort of man he’d meant?

      Whoever he was, he was strangely, compellingly beautiful. But even in his helpless condition Sylvie sensed an aura of danger. A man wouldn’t sail this far up the coast on a pleasure outing. What if some dark intent had brought him this far? Whatever the circumstances, she had to get him up.

      Working one arm free, she jabbed a finger at his cheek. “Ishmael? Can you hear me?”

      He didn’t answer. Only then did she realize his body was unusually warm beneath his damp clothes. More than warm. Heaven save her, the man was burning up.

      Shoving his face away, she began to struggle. His limp frame felt as heavy as a downed elk, but she managed to roll him to one side. As she scrambled free, he sagged onto his back with a low grunt. When she pushed to her knees and bent over him СКАЧАТЬ