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romantic entanglements, be they physical or emotional—until Josie.
    He’d wanted Josie, and that was why he’d agreed to come to Blue River and fill in for Clay, as temporary marshal—to put some distance between himself and the sweet temptation to bed his boss’s wife, to burn in her fire, let lust consume him.
    He’d left in the nick of time.
    Or had he?
    Had the shooter been one of Henry Vandenburg’s hirelings, one of his own former colleagues, sent to make sure Sawyer stayed away from the old man’s wife—forever?
    It was possible, of course. Vandenburg was rich, and he was powerful, and he probably wasn’t above having a rival dispensed with, but even for him, ordering the murder of one of Angus McKettrick’s grandsons would have been pretty risky. His and Clay’s granddad, even at his advanced age, was a force of nature in his own right, owning half of Arizona as he did, and so were his four sons. Holt, Rafe, Kade—Sawyer’s father—and Jeb, who’d sired Clay, were all law-abiding citizens, happily married men with children and even a few grandchildren, money in the bank and a prosperous ranch to run. Still, the untimely death of any member of the clan would rouse them to Earp-like fury, and Vandenburg surely knew that. In fact, it was that dogged quality that had caused the old reprobate to hire Sawyer as a bodyguard in the first place.
    “Mr. McKettrick?” Miss Piper St. James was standing right beside the bed now, holding the lantern high. There was concern in her voice—enough to draw her to his bedside, thereby risking some nefarious assault on her virtue. “Are you all right? For a moment, you looked—I thought…”
    She lapsed awkwardly into silence.
    He might have reminded her, if he’d had the strength, that, no, actually, he wasn’t “all right,” because he’d been shot. Instead, he asked slowly, measuring out each word like a storekeeper dispensing sugar or flour, “Do you happen to have any whiskey on hand?”

CHAPTER 3
    “O f course I don’t have any whiskey,” Piper replied, with a little more sharpness in her tone than she’d intended to exercise. “This is a school, not a roadhouse.”
    “Well, damn,” Sawyer said, affably gruff and clearly still in pain. “I could sure use a shot of good old-fashioned rotgut right about now. Might take the edge off.”
    Having set the kerosene lantern on the nightstand so she wouldn’t drop it and set the whole place on fire, Piper took a step back. Rotgut, indeed. “Then I guess it’s too bad you fell off your horse here instead of in front of the Bitter Gulch Saloon.”
    He favored her with a squinty frown at this, and she wondered distractedly what he’d look like in the daylight, cleaned up and wearing something besides bandages, her quilts and the dish-towel sling Dr. Howard had put on his left arm. “Are you one of those hatchet-swinging types?” he asked, with a note of benign disapproval. “The kind who go around hacking perfectly good bars to splinters, shattering mirrors and breaking every bottle on the shelves?”
    Piper stiffened slightly, offended, though she couldn’t think why she ought to give a pin about this man’s—this stranger’s —opinion of her. “No,” she said tersely. “If some people choose to pollute their systems with poison, to the detriment of their wives and children and society in general, it’s none of my concern.”
    He laughed then, a hoarse bark of a sound, brittle with pain. “If you say so,” he said, leaving his meaning ambiguous.
    Annoyed, Piper was anxious to be gone from that too-small room. She wished she hadn’t approached the bed, if only because she could see so much of his bare chest. It was disturbing—though it did remind her of the gods and heroes she’d read about in Greek mythology.
    She gathered her dignity, an effort of unsettling significance, reached out to reclaim the lantern. “If you don’t need anything, I’ll leave you to get some rest,” she