In The Sheriff's Protection

He will protect her

But can the sheriff resist his forbidden desire?

Oak Grove sheriff Tom Baniff might be hunting Clara Wilson’s criminal husband, but that doesn’t mean he won’t help protect Clara and her young son from the outlaw’s deadly threats. When he invites Clara to his hometown, Tom is determined to keep her safe. But with her so close, can he resist the allure of the only woman he’s ever wanted?

“A delightful, charming and gasp-filled romance.”

—RT Book Reviews on Winning the Mail-Order Bride

“Robinson’s new book is enjoyable and endearing... [A] classic western adventure with strong characters, authentic setting and quick pace.”

—RT Book Reviews on Unwrapping the Rancher’s Secret

A lover of fairy tales and cowboy boots, LAURI ROBINSON can’t imagine a better profession than penning happily-ever-after stories about men—and women—who pull on a pair of boots before riding off into the sunset...or kick them off for other reasons. Lauri and her husband raised three sons in their rural Minnesota home and are now getting their just rewards by spoiling their grandchildren. Visit: laurirobinson.blogspot.com, Facebook.com/lauri.robinson1 or Twitter.com/LauriR.

Also by Lauri Robinson

Saving MarinaWestern Spring WeddingsHer Cheyenne WarriorUnwrapping the Rancher’s SecretThe Cowboy’s Orphan BrideMail-Order Brides of Oak GroveWinning the Mail-Order BrideWestern Christmas BridesMarried to Claim the Rancher’s Heir

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

In the Sheriff’s Protection

Lauri Robinson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-07361-5

IN THE SHERIFF’S PROTECTION

© 2018 Lauri Robinson

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

® and ™ are trademarks owned and used by the trademark owner and/or its licensee. Trademarks marked with ® are registered with the United Kingdom Patent Office and/or the Office for Harmonisation in the Internal Market and in other countries.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To my husband, Jess.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Extract

About the Publisher

Chapter One

“Ma, a rider’s comin’ up the road!” Billy exclaimed, his legs going the same speed they always were. At a run. “A man on horseback! Maybe it’s Pa, Ma! Maybe he’s come home!”

Clara Wilson squeezed the edge of the table, willing the fire-hot pain in her leg to ease while trying to find the wherewithal to respond to her son. “Shut. The. Door. Billy,” she forced out.

“No, Ma! It’s Pa! It has to be.”

“Shut the door. Now!” A moan followed her command. One she’d tried to keep down but couldn’t stop. The pain was too strong. So was the excitement in Billy’s voice, hoping the rider was his father. Hugh had let her down too many times to show up now, exactly when she needed him.

Billy did as instructed, and rushed to the table where she sat with her left leg propped up on another chair. “Is it your leg, Ma? Is it hurting again? Pa will be able to help you. I know he will. That’s him coming up the road. I just know it.”

And she knew it wasn’t. It would be nice if she could believe differently, if things could be different, but they weren’t and never would be. Her instincts were too strong, her life too true to form for anything to be different. “Yes, it’s my leg. Bolt the door.”

“Why? If it’s Pa—”

“That’s not your father riding in,” she said between clenched teeth.

“You don’t know that. You ain’t even seen the rider.”

She wiped at the sweat rolling down her temples and covering her forehead. Why now of all times did someone have to ride in? She could hope it was Donald Ryan, their closest neighbor, but he’d stopped by last week, along with his wife, Karen, on their way back from Hendersonville, a long journey that they wouldn’t be making again anytime soon.

Pulling up enough fortitude to talk while fighting the pain was hard, but she had to. “Do as I say and bolt the door.” Drawing another shaky breath, she said, “Then bring me the gun out of the drawer.”

“But I ain’t allowed to touch that gun.”

“You can this time.” Talking was stealing her strength, making her dizzy, and the flashes of light and dark spots forming before her eyes made it hard to concentrate.

Billy bolted the door and then ran to the cupboard where she kept the good napkins, folded neatly atop the pistol. “Can I get my gun, too?” he asked while closing the drawer.

“Yes.” She wanted to say more. Tell him to be careful, but needed to reserve enough strength to address whoever was riding in.

Billy laid the gun on the table. She grasped the handle, pulled it across the table and then dropped it onto her lap, covering it with the corner of her apron. Billy had run into his bedroom and was already returning with the old squirrel gun he’d found last year. It was covered with rust and the trigger was broken off, but he carried it like it could take down an elk if need be.

“Look out the window, but stay back,” she instructed.

He did so, peering over the back of the chair. The way his shoulders dropped told her exactly what she’d already known. It wasn’t Hugh.

“It’s not Pa,” Billy said. “This man’s got black hair. He’s giving his horse a drink out of the trough, and he’s taking one, too.” A moment later, he said, “He’s walking toward the house.”

Clara wrapped her hand around the gun handle. “When he knocks, you say your pa’s out checking cattle.” She pressed her hand to her head, fighting the dizziness and the nausea that had her hands trembling. Her entire body trembling.

The knock sounded. Billy spoke. And the world went black.

* * *

Ready for action, for he’d expected some, Tom Baniff had his gun drawn before he heard the familiar sound of a pistol hitting the floor. The young boy, whose thick crop of blond hair looked as if it hadn’t been combed in a month, shot a startled look around the edge of the door that was only opened wide enough for the little guy to fit in the opening.

When the boy had opened the door, he’d instantly claimed his pa was out checking cattle and now, at the sound behind him, boasted he knew how to use the old squirrel gun in his hand.

Pushing the door open wider, Tom said, “Put that gun down before you hurt someone.”

“It’ll be you I’m hurting,” the boy said, holding his stance.

No more than seven, maybe eight, the boy had guts, and that almost made Tom smile. Until he got a good look around the door, at the woman at the table. She wasn’t sitting; she was slumped. No, she was falling off the chair.

Tom shot forward, arriving in time to save her head from banging against the floor. She was warm, and breathing, but out cold. “Who else is in the house?” he asked the boy while glancing toward the open doorways of two side rooms.

“No one.”

“Your pa’s not out checking cattle, either, is he?”

“No, sir,” the boy answered, his voice quivering. “Is Ma all right?”

Never one to lie, not even to a child, Tom replied, “I’ll figure that out in a minute. Get me a pillow for her head.”

The boy was back in a flash. Tom pulled out his handkerchief and used it to wipe away some of the sweat covering her face before lowering her head on the pillow. She was burning with fever. “How long has she been sick?”

The boy shrugged. “Couple days. She cut her leg out in the barn going on a week ago.”

“Which one?” Tom knew which one as soon as he pulled aside the layers of her skirt. Her left leg was swollen twice its size, and a jagged and clearly infected gash marred the side of her calf. “Where’s her bed?”

“This way,” the boy said. “She told me her leg was getting better, just sore.”

“I’m sure she did.” Tom hoisted her off the floor. Out here alone, she wouldn’t want the boy to worry. “Bring the pillow.”

She moaned slightly, but didn’t regain consciousness as he carried her into the room and laid her on the bed. “Where is your pa?” Tom asked the boy while folding back her skirt to examine the gash thoroughly.

“Don’t know,” the boy admitted. “Ain’t seen him in months.” As if realizing he shouldn’t have said that, the boy added, “But he’ll be back. Soon, too.”

“I’m sure he will be,” Tom answered drily. That was the reason he was here. “What’s your name?”

“Billy. What’s yours?”

For half a second he contemplated using an alias, but since this was Wyoming, a place he’d never been before, he doubted anyone had heard of him. However, he did leave the title of Sheriff off because much like the pin he’d taken off his vest and put in his pocket, the title could cause some people to clam up. “Tom Baniff.” Resting a hand on Billy’s shoulder, he added, “I’m going to need your help. Infection has set in your ma’s leg.”

“Is it bad?”

There was worry in the boy’s blue eyes, but Tom still had to be honest. “It’s not good,” he said. “But once we’re done, it’ll be better.”

“What are we going to do?”

From the looks of her leg, lockjaw was a real concern, and there was only one thing he knew to do about that. Tom turned Billy toward the doorway. “To start with, we’re going to need fresh water.”

“Ma already had me haul some in. Just a little bit ago. She set it on the stove to boil.”

Tom nodded. She’d probably been preparing to do just what he was going to do. Lance her leg.

Billy stopped in the doorway leading out of the bedroom. “Her name’s Clara. Clara Wilson. My pa’s name is Hugh. Hugh Wilson. He’s tall, but not as tall as you, and he has brown hair.”

If Tom had needed confirmation that he was in the right spot, he now had it. Hugh Wilson was the man he was after. The man who’d shot and injured one of the mail-order brides on her way to Oak Grove, Kansas. She’d been on the train Hugh and two other men had robbed. The other two had met their demise by bullets from passengers on the train, but Hugh had gotten away on a black-and-white paint horse. The only clue he’d had to go on had paid off.

“Mister?”

Reining in his attention, Tom patted Billy’s shoulder. “Let’s see if that water is boiling.”

The kettle was on the stove, but the fire needed to be stoked. She must have been about to do that, considering two logs lay near the stove door. Tom grabbed the poker to stir up the coals. “What did your ma cut her leg on?”

“The side barn door is broken. Nellie, she’s one of our cows, stumbled and pushed Ma against it, and the hinge cut her leg. Ma said it wasn’t bad. It didn’t even bleed much. She’s been boiling onions to put on it for the past couple of days. I tried to fix the barn door, but couldn’t. I did pound the hinge off and...”

As Billy talked, Tom’s thoughts bounced from Clara’s infected leg to why Hugh Wilson would take to robbery when he had a wife and son and a pretty decent chunk of property. The house was small and needed some work, but it was solid and clean. Clara’s leg wasn’t. She’d have been better off if that hinge had sliced her leg wide open—the bleeding would have cleaned away the bacteria. As it was, the closed wound had given the bacteria the perfect breeding ground, which could lead to lockjaw. His father, a surgeon who’d served in the army, had told him all about lockjaw, gangrene and a plethora of other infections and ailments that had affected men during the war. Enough so that even at a young age, Tom had realized being a doctor was not his calling.

There’d been a time he’d thought being a lawman hadn’t been, either. Until Julia had died and finding her killer and knowing justice would be served—and had been—had somehow eased the pain inside him, and the anger. Now being a lawman was his life. When he’d taken the oath to protect the citizens of Oak Grove, he’d meant it, and wouldn’t let them down. It may have been a coincidence that the shot mail-order bride’s name was the same as his little sister’s, but he considered it more than that. To him, it was proof that he’d chosen the right path. That while the other men in town were head over heels at the idea of getting married, he was right in not having anything to do with the entire Oak Grove Betterment Committee.

“It’s boiling.”

Tom turned about.

“The water,” Billy said. “It’s boiling.”

“That’s good.” Tom walked back to the stove. While his mind had been roaming, so had he. The house was in better condition than his first glance had let on, and fully furnished with store-bought items. Not overly expensive pieces, but considering they were a two-day ride from the closest town, several things had him thinking about how long Hugh Wilson had been in the robbery business.

A knife lay on the top of the cabinet near the stove, as did several neatly folded cotton towels and a tin of cayenne pepper. More evidence Clara had been about to lance her leg herself. His stomach clutched slightly, thinking of how difficult and dangerous that would be for someone. The pain could have caused her to pass out, leaving her to possibly bleed out. Which in hand would have left little Billy out here all alone.

Bitterness coated Tom’s tongue as his thoughts hopped to Hugh Wilson again. How could a man leave a woman and child out here alone for months on end? The same kind of man who didn’t care that his bullet could have killed a woman on her way to getting married.

Tom sucked in the anger that circled his guts and picked up the knife. Lowering the blade into the hot water, he nodded toward the door. “Do you know how to unsaddle a horse?”

“Yes, sir,” Billy answered.

“Unsaddle mine, would you? Put him in the barn and give him some feed if you have any to spare.”

“Sure. We got some. I’ll hurry.”

“No,” Tom said, walking toward the sink to wash his hands. “Take your time. His name is Bullet.”

“You want me to brush him down?”

“That would be good,” Tom answered. It wouldn’t take long to lance the leg, but he wanted Billy away from the house in case his mother woke up screaming.

“Then I’ll help you with Ma,” Billy said, already opening the door.

“I’ll be ready for your help,” Tom answered. “Shut the door.”

Billy did so, and Tom scrubbed his hands a bit longer, watching out the window until Billy led Bullet into the barn. Then he dried his hands with one of the clean towels, gathered the other towels and the knife, and walked into the bedroom.

Chapter Two

Struggling through an overwhelmingly thick fog almost wore her out before she’d even opened her eyes, and when she did, the man standing over her, one she’d never seen before, only made Clara close her eyes again. She must be dreaming. Had to be, because even though her leg ached, there wasn’t the intense pain of before.

“You feeling better, Ma?”

Billy’s voice was so clear in her dream it made her smile.

“You’re smiling, so you must be feeling better.”

The idea that she might not be dreaming had her pulling her eyelids open. That took effort because they fought her again. When she won the battle and saw Billy, her first instinct was to smile again. He was such a good boy, and she loved him with all her heart. Without him, she wouldn’t have a reason to live.

“You are feeling better, Ma. I can tell,” he said, grinning. “This here is Tom. Tom Baniff. He cut your leg and put cayenne pepper on it. Then he poured whiskey all over you.”

The stranger appeared again, standing next to Billy. This certainly was a silly dream. Only in a dream would a stranger cut her leg and put cayenne pepper and whiskey on her. Cut her leg... A cold shiver rippled over her entire being.

She forced her eyes to remain open, although she blinked several times to chase away the blurriness. Then, as the room became clearer, she glanced around, giving her mind time to catch up and solidify the fact that she wasn’t dreaming.

The man was tall and broad, with shiny black hair and eyes as brown as coffee. He was smiling, too. A friendly smile. He must be a doctor. The exact thing she’d needed.

“The infection?” she asked.

“Is clearing up nicely.”

His voice was deep but gentle at the same time.

“My leg?”

“Is almost back to being the same size as the other one,” he said. “That was quite the infection you had.”

Her thoughts became clearer with each minute that ticked by. “The cayenne pepper worked,” she said. “My uncle said my grandmother did that to him once. Put cayenne pepper on an infected wound. He said he screamed. That it burned.”

“You didn’t scream,” the man said.

She closed her eyes for a moment, as thankful for the fact that she couldn’t remember the pain as she was that she hadn’t screamed. That would have frightened Billy, which was why she’d been putting off lancing the leg herself. It would have scared the dickens out of Billy, and there had been the chance she may have passed out from the pain. As she lifted a hand to feel her forehead, the pungent scent of whiskey filling her nose made her cringe.

“I had to get your fever down,” the man said. “The alcohol in the whiskey did the trick.”

The sheet was tucked beneath her arms, but she could tell the only things she wore were her shift and bloomers. A heat as hot as her fever had been rushed into her cheeks.

“Nothing to worry about, ma’am,” he said. “Billy’s helped me take care of you the entire time.”

She released a breath, knowing such thoughts of decorum were insignificant. “How did you know I was ill?”

“You fell off the chair when I opened the door,” Billy said. “’Member? I thought it was Pa and you said it wasn’t.”

She balled her hands into fists to hide how they instantly started shaking at the memories coming forth. Thankful it hadn’t been Hugh riding in, she glanced at the window, the east window where the shining sun showed it was still on the rise, making it no later than midmorning. Confused, she asked, “Was that yesterday? I—I was out all night.”

“No,” the man said, “that was four days ago.”

She bolted upright, and the blood rushing to her head had her grasping her forehead.

“Whoa, there,” the man said, gently forcing her to lie back down.

Once her head was on the pillow again, and the room stopped spinning, she said, “Surely not four days. You must be mistaken.”

“I’m not mistaken.”

Covering her eyes with one hand, hoping that would somehow help her to remember, she shook her head. “I couldn’t have slept for four days.”

“You were really sick, ma’am,” he said. “Really sick. Would you like to see your leg?”

She removed the hand from her eyes. “Yes, please.”

He flipped the bottom corner of the sheet aside and mixed emotions filled her. The swelling was considerably less, as was the pain, but the healing that had clearly taken place confirmed what he’d said. She’d been asleep for four days. Billy had been alone with a stranger for four days. Her skin quivered as she glanced toward her son, who was grinning from ear to ear.

“It looks much better than the last time I saw it,” she said.

“Like four days of healing?” the man asked.

She pinched her lips together. There was a hint of teasing in his tone, but also affirmation that he hadn’t been lying when he said how much time had passed. The yellow color of the bruising confirmed it was old, as did the scabs that now covered her first wound as well as the two slashes that had been made to drain the infection. “Yes,” she admitted. “It looks like it’s been healing for a few days already.”

“Healing nicely,” he said. “But now that you’re awake, we need to get some food in you.”

“We have some eggs boiling,” Billy said. “Tom can cook, Ma. Almost as good as you. And we’ve kept the cows milked and skimmed the cream off the top, just like you always do.”

“I’ll make you some tea to go with your eggs,” the man said. “Do you think you can sit up? Slowly this time?”

She nodded, and carefully sat up enough for him to put another pillow behind her. Having a man be so caring was uncomfortable, yet she was grateful. Without him, she may not be here. “Thank you.”

He gave her a nod, and winked one eye that was charming enough it made her heart thud unexpectedly.

“We’ll be back shortly with that tea and an egg,” he said, laying a hand on Billy’s shoulder. “Won’t we, Billy?”

“Yes, sir. We’ll be right back, Ma.”

The heartwarming sensation that washed over her was one she hadn’t experienced in a very long time. So long she couldn’t remember the last time. Years. She was still contemplating that when Billy and the man appeared again, along with a tray that the man set down on her lap.

“I made the tea weak,” he said. “Your stomach might not tolerate much yet.”

She glanced at the tea and the hard-boiled egg that had been peeled and quartered. No one had ever gone to such lengths for her. Ever. A lump formed in her throat that she had to swallow before admitting, “I’m sorry—I don’t remember what Billy said your name is.”