An Outlaw's Christmas by Linda Lael Miller Read Free Book Online Page A

thin, lumpy mattress, the one she’d so often complained about, though only to herself and Dara Rose.
    She closed her eyes, depending on exhaustion to carry her into the unknowing solace of sleep, but instead she found herself listening, not just with her ears, but with all she was. A few times, she thought she heard small feet skittering and scurrying around her, which didn’t help her state of mind.
    At some point, however, she finally succumbed to a leaden, dreamless slumber.
    When she awakened on that frosty floor, sore and unrested and quite disgruntled, it took her a few moments to remember why she was there, and not in her bed.
    The bed was occupied, she recalled, with a flare of heat rising to her cheeks. By one Sawyer McKettrick.
    But the sun was shining, and that lifted her spirits considerably.
    She shambled stiffly to her feet, hurried to build up the fire in the potbellied stove, glanced with mild alarm at the big Regulator clock ticking on the schoolhouse wall. It was past eight, she saw, and she hadn’t rung the schoolhouse bell.
    A silly concern, admittedly, since her students weren’t likely to show up, even though the snow had stopped falling and cheery daylight filled the frigid little room, absorbing the blue shadows of a wintry yesterday and the night that had followed. At the front window, Piper used the palm of one hand, no longer sore, to wipe a circle in the curlicues of frost to clear the glass. She peered out, encouraged to see that the sky was indeed blue and virtually cloudless.
    Moisture dripped steadily from the roof overhead, and the road was taking shape again, a slight but visible dip in the deep, blindingly white field of snow that seemed to stretch on and on.
    The voice, coming from behind her, wry and somewhat testy, nearly caused Piper to jump out of her skin. For a few moments, glorying in the change in the weather, she’d forgotten all about her uninvited guest, her night on the floor, and most of her other concerns, as well.
    “Is there any coffee in this place, or would that be sinful, like keeping a stock of whiskey?” Sawyer McKettrick asked grumpily.
    Piper whirled, saw him standing— standing, under his own power—in the doorway to her private quarters. He was still bare-chested, his bandages bulky and his bad arm in the sling Doc had improvised for him the day before, but, thankfully, he’d somehow managed to get into his trousers and even put on his boots.
    He looked pale, gaunt, but ready for whatever challenges the day—or the next few minutes—might bring.
    She smiled, relieved. If Sawyer was up and around, he’d be leaving soon. Maybe very soon. “I’ll make some coffee,” she said. “Sit down.”
    He was leaning against the framework of the doorway now, probably conserving his strength, and he looked around, taking in the small desks, the benches. “Where?” he asked, practically snarling the word.
    Piper was determined to be pleasant, no matter how rude Mr. McKettrick chose to be. “There’s a chair behind my desk,” she pointed out. “Take that.”
    He groped his way along the wall, proof that he wasn’t as recovered as she’d first thought, pulled back the wooden chair and sank into it. “Where’s my shirt?” he asked. “And my .45?”
    Piper ladled water into the small enamel coffeepot that, like the three drinking mugs, her narrow bed and the rocking chair, came with the schoolhouse. “I burned your shirt,” she said cheerfully. “It was quite ruined, between the bullet hole and all the blood. And I put away the pistol, since you won’t have use for it here.”
    Sawyer thrust his free hand through his hair in exasperation. Clearly, the laudanum had worn off, and he hadn’t rested well. “I need that shirt,” he said. “ And the .45.”
    “I’m sorry,” Piper answered. “Perhaps Clay will bring you fresh clothes, when he comes to take you out to the ranch.” She refused to discuss the gun any further.
    Sawyer frowned. His chin