A Man for Annalee (2 page)

“Yes, my dear.” Words flowed from Cora Maguire’s lips in a syrupy, southern drawl. “You were most brave. We are deeply in your debt.”

Annalee couldn’t have spoken if her life depended on it. All the recent terrors and memories she’d fought hard to suppress moved in on her, squeezing her heart with an icy fist. She gulped large breaths of air, gasping, trying in vain to calm down. The physical pain from her burns was unrelenting. A ragged sob escaped the restricted confines of her corseted ribs. Dark spots danced in front of her eyes.

If there was one thing she’d learned this past week, it was that life was fragile. Precious. Fleeting. Blood colored the metal tip of the parasol she still grasped in her trembling hands. Horrified she’d physically hurt another human being, she did something she’d never done before in her twenty years—she fainted.

Chapter Two

Annalee didn’t know which was more disconcerting: the fact she’d fainted or that the marshal now held her like a baby. She shifted in his arms, nervous at being held this close. Her burns throbbed so badly, she could barely think. “I can walk, you know. I only fainted.”

“You might have hit your head. Caused an injury.” He tilted his head to the side and stared at her, unsettling warmth in his brown eyes. “No need to frown like that. You’re not heavy. As soon as the doc’s through with your shooting victim, I’ll carry you inside.”

“I did not shoot the driver.” She pursed her lips and glared at him. Up close, the marshal had an interesting face. A bump on his nose indicated it had been broken, probably in a brawl or two. His square jaw proclaimed stubbornness—something she could relate to—and a scar from the corner of his lower lip to the cleft of his chin no doubt signaled a life of violence. Dark, wavy hair hung over his jacket collar and nearly brushed his shoulders.

Boone cleared his throat, arching one dark eyebrow. “Are you through with your examination? I could take my boots off so you can count my toes.”

Her hackles rose at his remark. “Put me down, you annoying man.” She shoved at his hard chest. His hold tightened, increasing her pain. She gritted her teeth to keep from crying out.

The lawman tilted his head to the side again and his eyebrows furrowed in thought. “I wonder…”

“What?”

“Were you born cranky, or have you been practicing on a daily basis? Frankly, I’ve never met a more peevish woman. Now Widow Morrison, she’s a mite cranky, but rumor has it she’s got trouble with her bowels…”

Annalee gasped, her cheeks heating with the blush of embarrassment. “I’ll have you know there’s nothing amiss regarding my disposition. Why, I’m a graduate of Miss Feather’s Finishing School for Refined Ladies of Culture and Proper Decorum.” She gave an imperial sniff and hiked her chin a notch.

He grinned, a sight that made her insides flutter, before he inclined his head and whispered, “You flunked that part, didn’t you?”

His warm breath against her ear caused her toes to curl in her black leather, high-button shoes and a shiver to race through her system, reactions she found troubling. She pierced him with an imposing glare. “I beg your pardon?”

“The decorum part. You flunked that, didn’t you?” The corners of his mouth twitched as if he were fighting a smile. “Because every time you get riled, your mouth turns as nasty as a cowpoke with saddle sores.”

He had her there. Her “devil tongue,” as Miss Feather called it, had earned her more demerits and kitchen duty than she cared to admit. Thus she’d been dubbed with the disparaging title of the “Demerit Damsel.”

She’d not share that morsel of information with this infuriating stranger. She shot the marshal a sideways glance. For some reason, he grated on her nerves. “You, sir, have a brainless tongue that goes off half-cocked with what little sense God gave you.”

The marshal’s soft chuckle rankled, but for once she kept quiet.

Movement snagged her attention. She looked over his broad shoulder at Franklin Maguire, who waved his arms as he recounted the events of their harrowing ride to Cicero Creek to a group of men congregated next to the stagecoach. “The woman was like a tigress. Why, I’ve never seen anything like it. There’s no doubt in my mind she saved us.”

“If we had one a them train spurs comin’ from Ft. Laramie to Cicero Creek like Clarence keeps talkin’ ’bout, those stagecoach robbers be outta business.” The elderly speaker poked holes in the air with his cane.

A bearded man spat on the ground and crossed his arms. “Yeah, well, you know old man Tanner rejected that idea in a mighty big hurry, and whatever he wants, he gets.”

“Well, not anymore. Things have changed, and in a mighty big way.” This opinion was put forth by the cane-wielding man, whose voice was growing louder. “I say we need that railroad spur.”

Franklin Maguire placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Now, Simon, no need in your working yourself into a lather over this. I’m sure the marshal will round up those outlaws who attacked the stage.”

Annalee groaned. Once word of this reached her grandpa, he’d probably be humiliated beyond belief. His only granddaughter, a graduate of Miss Feather’s Finishing School for Refined Ladies of Culture and Proper Decorum, had bitten and fought her way to town. Now, thanks to a slight fainting spell, she was carried about like a bag of sugar by the town’s marshal.

Everyone’s tongues would be wagging. She’d never be able to show her face, but she must, for she planned to open a dress shop. Her heart twisted at the memory of her da saying, “No one ever claimed life was fair, me darlin’.” How she missed his wit and quick tongue. She missed both parents, who’d died in the fire. And home—her eyes swept around the small community with its frightening open spaces and huge snow-covered mountains looming in the distance—my, how she missed home!

“Boone, bring the little lady inside so I can examine her.”

The marshal pivoted, his hold on Annalee still firm, and nodded at a skinny man with a fringe of gray hair.

“All right, Doc. How’s Jake?”

“Mary Ellen is getting him ready for surgery. He’ll be laid up for a spell, being shot in his hindquarters and all.”

The marshal glanced at Annalee, humor dancing in his dark eyes. “See, you shot the stagecoach driver in his…”

She clapped her gloved hand over his mouth. “Now listen here, you lack-wit, I did
not
shoot the driver. That gun going off was as much your fault as mine.”

Doc Lufkin interrupted her tirade, a bemused expression on his face. “Bring her on in, Boone. I’ll take a couple minutes to see to your young lady.”

“Coming.” Boone walked through the open gate of the picket fence that leaned toward the house as if it hated being outside. “You know, Doc, probably be a good idea if you gave her a dose of laudanum to mellow out her moods a mite. She seems wound tighter than a cheap clock.”

Annalee made a fist. “You, sir, are an idiot.”

Laughter rumbled deep in his chest as he carried Annalee up the steps to the weatherboard house, moving lithely and handling her as if she weighed no more than a gnat. “You better toughen up if you expect to survive out here, lil’ greenhorn.”

Before she could respond that she detested being called a greenhorn, Doc Lufkin motioned to a room off the hallway. “Put her here in the parlor, Marshal. No need for her to see all the blood from Jake.”

Boone placed her on the divan with surprising gentleness. “She’s all yours, Doc. I need to round up a posse before the trail gets cold.” He trailed fingertips across her cheek, an odd expression in his eyes, his eyebrows furrowed. “Take good care of her.”

What was all
that
about? Annalee turned and narrowed her eyes on him as he sauntered out.

The doctor sat next to her on the divan. “How are you feeling, young lady?”

She shifted toward the kind-faced, elderly physician, smoothing her skirts and trying to regain a modicum of dignity. “I’m fine, Doctor, although I am most grateful for your concern.”

“Well, be that as it may, why not let me give you a quick going over? First, would you tell me your name please?”

“Annalee Gallagher, sir.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance. Allow me to examine you for signs of injury.” His fingers pressed her scalp and gently tugged the skin down below her eyes. “Are you having pain anywhere? Any headaches?”

“Just the one that walked out that door.”

Doc Lufkin chuckled. “Boone Hartwell walks his own path, that’s for sure. That fella has a way about him, like he can see into people’s souls. Been known to nettle folks when he feels the need.” He stuck the ends of the stethoscope into his ears. “Got a good heart, though. Takes care of everyone here in Cicero Creek, in one way or ta other.” He lifted her chin. “How did you come by this nasty lookin’ burn on your neck?”

“In Chicago, sir. That’s where I’m from.”

His eyes swept to hers and narrowed. “You don’t say.”

She responded to Doc Lufkin’s caring demeanor during his examination and before she knew what was happening, she told him about the horrors and losses she’d experienced.

From time to time, he asked her a question, but mostly he just let her talk. His sympathy was a welcome balm to her battered soul. “So you’ve come to Cicero Creek to live with your grandfather.”

As he patted her clasped hands, he had a resigned wretchedness in the tone of his voice, and she wondered at the cause. Maybe the man was always melancholy, a by-product of his profession, perhaps. “Yes, sir, I have. I haven’t seen my grandpa in years, but I’ve written him many times. His responses were always short and to the point.”

Her heart warmed at the memory of his terrible spelling and poor grammar. How she had cherished those letters. She’d kept them tied together with a yellow ribbon, tucked in a corner of her hope chest, another possession destroyed by the fire.

Now, after traveling for days and enduring so much, she was finally going to set her weary eyes upon him. A week ago, she’d wired her grandfather the devastating news of her parents’ death and the loss of her home. He’d wired her money for a ticket and a one-worded response: “Come.”

A welcome degree of hope and anticipation fluttered within and made her smile. “I’ve come to live with the only family I have left, my grandpa, Lee Tanner.”

Doc Lufkin sighed audibly and focused sad eyes on her. “My dear child, may God have mercy on your sweet soul.”

Chapter Three

Annalee sat on a bed at the Maguires’ house, trying to force down the broth Cora Maguire had brought her earlier. Listlessly stirring the soup and glancing around the beautiful room, she thought of her residence in Chicago. The narrow clapboard apartment, one of several above her father’s grocery store, had been her home since she was seven. Now it was charred rubble.

Grief had followed her to Cicero Creek as though it were a living creature, riding on her shoulder, plucking at her heartstrings, making a mournful tune that drowned the enjoyment of seeing new places and experiencing new things. Coming to Wyoming had been no escape, for more pain awaited her. Tears overflowed her eyes and moistened her cheeks.

“How are you doing, dear?” Cora poked her head in the room. “Feeling any better?”

Annalee swiped at tears. “I’m too tired to notice if I am or not.”

Cora stepped farther into the room, taking the bowl Annalee held out to her. “Well, it’s no wonder. Doc Lufkin said you were running a fever. Drink this. It’s chamomile tea.” Her hostess handed her a cup and saucer.

Annalee sipped the hot brew and wiped more tears. She’d fought to hold them back for so long. Weakened by the constant throbbing of her burns and the harrowing ride into town, being brave was currently out of her reach.

“Now, now, have a good cry. It’s all part of grieving and coping. I should know.” Cora bustled to a highboy and opened a drawer. She returned with a lavender-scented handkerchief. “Here you are.”

Annalee set the cup and saucer on the bed table before taking the square of embroidered linen and dabbing her eyes. “Thank you.”

“My, my, what you’ve had to endure.” Cora twisted her own handkerchief between her hands. “We just had no clue, until Doc told us, of all you lost in that great fire. Every time I think of it, I just cry.” She dabbed at her eyes and clucked her tongue.

“Then when you came here to be with your grandfather—the only family you have left—you find out he was buried two days ago.” She blotted her teary eyes and blew her nose in an unladylike manner. “Why, it just doesn’t bear thinking about.” Her hand flitted through the air as if to wipe the thought from her mind.

Annalee closed her eyes, still trying to come to grips with this latest calamity. She’d lost everything and everyone. A sob escaped, and Cora enveloped Annalee in her arms. “I…I’m all alone, Mrs. Maguire.” She sobbed as if to wash away the grief with tears. “I was very close to my parents.”

The older woman gently rocked her to and fro. “There, there, my child, you’re not alone. You’ve got Franklin and me. And once you make some friends here in Cicero Creek, life will get better, I promise you. What you need is sleep. A good nap cures most ills, I always say.”

“I’m sorry to impose on you like this, Mrs. Maguire. I was hoping to go to my grandfather’s home today, but the doctor felt I needed rest.”

Cora plumped Annalee’s pillows. “Now, first things first. You call me Cora. Friends call each other by their first names, after all. And you are no bother. I know my Franklin is delighted that you’re staying with us. When he told you he’d be forever grateful for your bravery during the stage attack, he meant every word. And lastly, Doc Lufkin is right, you need rest to heal. Perhaps in a few days we’ll make plans to take you across the creek. There’s no rush, is there?”