The Man from Stone Creek by Linda Lael Miller Page B

books, teetering in piles and taking up most of the tabletop. He crossed to the middle of the room, selected a favorite, sat in the solitary wooden chair and flipped through the thin leaves, but his mind wouldn’t settle on the familiar words. It kept straying, like a calf separated from the herd, to the mercantile on the main street of town and thence to the woman he’d glimpsed at that upstairs window.
    Like as not, Maddie was getting ready to turn in right about now. Taking off her clothes, putting on a nightgown, maybe letting down her hair. He wondered if it reached to her waist, and if she plaited it before getting into bed.
    Sam’s throat constricted, and his groin ached.
    He slammed The Odyssey shut, rousing the pup from its slumbers, and set the volume aside, to rest beside his .45.
    Neptune let out a little whimper of concern.
    â€œIt’s all right, boy,” he told the dog. It was a pitiful thing, when a man was glad for the company of a pup that had been foisted off on him.
    Usually, reading settled Sam’s mind and made it easier to sleep. Tonight, the time-worn way of corralling his thoughts was not going to work, so with a sigh, he left his chair, ladled some water into a basin and washed up for the night. He used his toothbrush and powder, spitting out the back door, turned down the wick on the lamp, stripped to the skin and crawled under the covers of his narrow, lumpy schoolmaster’s bed.
    It didn’t surprise him much when the pup jumped onto the foot of the mattress and settled himself, with a dog sigh, between Sam’s feet. He cupped his hands behind his head and stared up at the dark ceiling, reviewing the events of the evening in his mind.
    It took some doing to get past Maddie—the way she’d looked in her go-to-supper dress, the gleam of her hair when it caught a stray glint of moonlight, the way she’d told him about Warren Debney’s death and her suspicion that one or all of the Donagher brothers had been behind it, or even Mungo himself.
    Maybe, Sam thought, not for the first time, the old man had ordered the killing, out of spite. He’d wanted Maddie for a wife, and even now, when all danger of that was past, the mere idea turned Sam’s stomach sour. Come to that, he didn’t care much for the idea of that Debney fellow touching her, either, God rest his soul.
    Deliberately he shifted his mind back to the Donaghers, where it belonged.
    Garrett was a charmer, and perhaps a little too fond of his stepmother, if appearances were to be credited. Mungo’s eldest might or might not be part of the gang Sam and Vierra wanted to rein in; dishonorable as it was, outlawry was rough, dirty work, requiring some hard riding and a modicum of grit. Garrett seemed the kind to take the easy route. His kind weren’t usually good for much when it came to ranching, either, in Sam’s experience. They always had one eye out for a lady and one ear cocked for the dinner bell.
    Landry and Rex, now, they were different. Tear off those homespun, misbuttoned shirts they’d been wearing at Undine’s elegant supper and you’d probably find a mean streak painted down their backs. They’d recognized Sam, sure enough, as the man they’d meant to harass the night before, over on the Mexican side of the river, and he’d kept his coat pushed back, so his .45 would be handy, all the way back to Haven.
    He figured it was Maddie that had kept them from coming after him, as soon as supper was ended and he’d driven out of sight of the ranch house. If her company hadn’t been so downright pleasant, he might have regretted having her along for just that reason. He wouldn’t have minded a little set-to with one or both of the Donaghers, but he was a patient man.
    He could wait.
    Neptune gave a low growl and got to his feet.
    Sam reached for the .45.
    Maybe he wouldn’t have to wait.
    The door latch rattled.
    The dog let out a sharp