to Lafferty. And after he had talked to Cally.
He looked down at his half-finished sketch. Were her lips really shaped like that? He had drawn them soft and full, extremely kissable. Her pert little nose, sprinkled with freckles, looked right, perhaps. But surely these weren’t Cally’s eyes? They were open wide with innocence and framed with beautiful dark lashes.
He had flattered her, he decided. He added a few more freckles, but it didn’t change the overall effect. He should have drawn her angry, spitting in his face, her eyes narrowed and glaring. That he would have recognized!
He didn’t know whom he had drawn, but it wasn’t Cally. He set the sketch aside unfinished. He should check on the weather before he turned in. There had been some dangerous-looking clouds gathering in the west when he came home.
Outside, he was hit by a chilly wind that carried the smell of rain. Lightning crackled constantly in the clouds in the west. They were in for a storm.
He pictured Cally alone in the leaky little soddy, hearing the thunder as the rain pounded relentlessly on her roof. A heavy enough rain would dissolve her house into a pile of mud!
Andrew had grabbed his coat and slicker from the hooks by the back door and started toward the corral before he was conscious of what he planned to do. He had known all along that she couldn’t stay on the farm alone. Tonight was his chance to prove it to her.
The mare pranced around the corral, avoiding Andrew’s loop. Her skittishness increased Andrew’s concern, making him more impatient to rescue Cally. Keeping his own feelings under control, he calmed the horse with his voice and soon led her into the barn. Once inside she settled down while he saddled her. Andrew heard the first drops of rain on the barn roof and slipped into his slicker before leaving the barn.
The wind was increasing at an alarming rate. Lightning flashed like Chinese firecrackers. Thunder had become a constant rumble over the sound of the wind. He made it halfway to the farm before the sky opened and drenched him, turning the road to a river of mud in a matter of minutes. The thought of poor Cally, terror-stricken, possibly drowning, kept him struggling onward.
By the time he rode into the farmyard, the mare was fighting not only the mud but panic as well. Relief at seeing the house still standing was followed by the conviction that his horse would bolt as soon as he was off her back. He rode her toward the barn and, keeping a tight hold on the rein, dismounted and opened the rickety door.
The interior of the barn was dark but relatively dry. Flashes of lightning could be seen through a hole in the roof where rain poured in, sending a little river of water across the floor and out under the door. Good heavens, the girl had dug a trench to channel the water out of the barn!
In the uncertain light he made out two large forms in the barn. One would be the mule, the other the cow he had seen. He had determined a dry place to leave his horse when something cool and damp brushed his hand. He jumped before he recognized the friendly whimper of a dog.
“Why aren’t you in with Cally?” he asked, scratching the dog’s head. Almost immediately, the dog moved slowly away. So, this wasn’t the friendly Royal. This was the old dog he had seen lying by the door. Cally must have left it in the barn to keep the animals calm. It seemed to be working. Even his horse was less skittish now.
Andrew tied the mare, hoping she wouldn’t panic and pull the barn down around her. He removed her saddle and rubbed her down quickly, anxious now to see about Cally.
Cally lay awake, listening to the thunder. She had done all she could to prepare for the storm. Now she had to wait it out. By morning, her root cellar would be wet. Her barn would be wet. Her house would be wet, no doubt leaking mud for days to come. By morning, more than likely, everything she owned would be wet. There was nothing she could do about it now. She rolled over, trying to ignore the howl of the wind.
Royal came to his feet and whimpered.
“It’s all right, boy,” she murmured, hoping to reassure herself as well.
Royal wasn’t to be calmed. He let out a sharp bark. Cally sat up in bed. “What is it, boy?”
Royal took up a position facing the door, barking insistently.
Cally swung out of the bed, making her way around Royal to grab the shotgun off the wall. She fumbled on the shelf for a tallow candle and her jar of matches, setting the shotgun on the table for a moment as she lit the candle. The soft glow filled the room when she heard a pounding on the door. She snatched up the shotgun. “The latch string’s out,” she called.
The door swung open, and a man filled her doorway. He stepped inside quickly, closing the door behind him. Royal, curse him, didn’t growl. It was Sheriff Haywood. He didn’t need to take off his hat and slicker and step into the candlelight for her to recognize him. He did it anyway.
And froze.
She had never seen anyone look so stunned. His eyes, staring first at her face, slowly trailed down her white nightgown to her bare feet and up again. He was obviously ignoring the shotgun. She considered lowering the gun now that she knew who the intruder was, but the look on his face was so strange she kept it where it was. “What are you doing here?” she asked, hoping to snap him out of his trance.
He didn’t answer. He was breathing hard, and she wondered if he had run some distance to seek shelter at her door. “Did you lose your horse?” she asked.
He blinked as if he had just awakened. “I put her in your barn.”
Cally scowled. He shouldn’t be out of breath from that short a run. Well, maybe if her yard was full of mud. She found herself disappointed in him, anyway. “Why are you out on a night like this?”
“I came to see you.” He spoke in a strange whisper. She wondered if he had caught cold.
“You’ve seen me. You can go.”
He was staring at her again. She decided he might be feverish. After a moment he spoke in that same strange whisper. “I’m not going back out in that storm.”
She nodded. Now she understood. He was afraid of storms. The shotgun was getting heavy, but she didn’t dare lower it. The look in his eyes made her stomach tremble. If he was afraid of storms why hadn’t he stayed home? “You expect to stay here?” That thought made more than her stomach tremble.
He took a step toward her. Her house was so small that he would be able to snatch her shotgun out of her hands if he moved any closer. “I’ll shoot!” she warned. She backed away as far as she could.
His expression changed from the strange fevered gaze to a flash of anger. “If you shoot me,” he said, his voice back to the one she recognized, “I’ll bleed. At this range, that shotgun will tear me in two and splatter blood and bone—”
He stopped abruptly, or she thought he did. The buzzing in her ears grew steadily louder as a black haze closed off her vision. Everything cleared just as quickly when she found herself leaning against Sheriff Haywood’s body, his arms wrapped around her. Her shotgun, of course, was gone. “That wasn’t fair,” she whispered.
“Hmm?” He drew away slightly and lifted her chin with his finger. “Are you all right?”
She could almost believe it was a sincere question. She found herself nodding. The odd fevered light was back in his eyes. It must be a catching kind of fever; she felt her own temperature rise.
“I’m all right. Just don’t talk about…you know.”
“Don’t threaten to shoot me,” he whispered, drawing closer as if he were afraid she couldn’t hear.
She knew she should pull away, but she wasn’t sure her legs were steady yet. She didn’t want to faint right here in front of him. She would let him hold her up a while longer. Meanwhile, she stared at him. How close did he think his lips had to be for her to hear?
Then his lips actually touched hers! It hadn’t occurred to her that he would want to