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riled over the natives.”
    She was ashamed to admit it wasn’t only horror over what the sheriff and Crawford were planning to do that had her so boiling mad, but Crawford himself. If he hadn’t been invited to Red Creek, he never would’ve been in the clearing this morning. John White Horse would never have been shot, and Moira’s own ear wouldn’t be notched, as Crawford had put it. Red Creek, as a growing mining town, may have its share of problems, but random violence by strange gunslingers wasn’t one of them. For all that this was the wild frontier, Moira felt safer in this little mountain community than she often had in Boston, even before the…incident.
    The fact was, Crawford unsettled her. She could still feel the bristles of his beard as he whispered his apology to her. She could, if she inhaled deeply, take that strange, warm scent of his into her nostrils, where it would wend around her senses like cold water over a creek bed, wearing down her rough edges to compliant smoothness. She couldn’t allow it. She barely knew the man, but she already knew his presence here was a harbinger of dark times ahead, for her.
    The other, less damning half of the truth was what she’d offer Sheriff Nelson. “You know how hard Mr. White Horse has worked with the Cheyenne, trying to encourage them to trade in Red Creek. And the children—we’re so close to getting them into the classroom. Wasn’t that part of the future you promised Mr. White Horse? That if he could successfully integrate them into our culture, even if they live outside the town proper, you would make certain the government didn’t extract them from the Territory?”
    “I—”
    “Miss Tully.” Crawford’s green gaze snared hers, holding her unwillingly captive. “I’m here to prevent atrocities, not cause any. I won’t lift a hand against the tribe over the hill.”
    “A bit too late for that, isn’t it?” She sneered as she folded her arms across her chest, feeling the need for armor every time she looked at him. That, itself, was the most unsettling sensation—because for all that he’d shot part of her ear off, she didn’t for a moment feel in physical danger in his presence. She suddenly recalled when she’d run across the clearing and he’d chased after her, only to snatch her back against him when he caught her. Protecting her. He’d been trying to protect her.
    She forced herself to look at him, to see him as he was, framed in the bright splash of sunlight the open doorway let in with dust motes swirling madly between them on the cool breeze. Dirty, yes, but likely from days of travel on horseback without a chance for real rest. He needed fresh clothes, a bath and a shave, but mostly the man needed sleep. He appeared exhausted, more so by the moment, and she wondered how he managed to rein in his temper, given her sniping.
    Just as she was about to apologize, her ear throbbed, reminding her of the injury and his starring role in its causation. “I need to get on to the schoolhouse, but, Sheriff, I want you to know how…how utterly disappointed I am in you, for turning to violence when you should be promoting peace.”
    When the man didn’t respond, only frowning disapprovingly at her, she turned on her heel with a nod to him and a smaller nod to Crawford.
    She was halfway down the boardwalk when she heard the heavy tread of booted feet behind her, and a rusty, masculine voice saying, “Miss Tully, wait.”
    Her legs had already halted before her mind made the decision to, responding to the soft entreaty in his words. “Captain,” she muttered, not turning around.
    His body came even with hers, a tall drink of water in her peripheral vision that made her skin tingle and her breath stutter annoyingly in her throat. “Can I walk you to your destination?”
    “There’s no need.” What she did need were the intervening minutes to clear her head of him before she could hope to successfully wrangle the energetic children