Explaining Herself by Yvonne Jocks

sordid, Garrison-girl custom. Mr. Laramie showed no sign of being sweet on her, except for sometimes staring. And that could have something to do with her staring first.
    Not that she was sweet on him, either. Just intrigued.
    Victoria picked her way along Goose Creek —rushing with cold water from the looming Big Horn Mountains—for no worse reason than to discover things. Who Ross Laramie was. Why he'd come here. What he knew about train robbers and rustlers.
    She would stay in shouting distance of the house. What could go wrong?
    Still, when she reached the willow grove and heard a splashing over the gurgle of the creek, she slowed her step enough to carefully peek around the big rock first.
    Ross Laramie's long form crouched on the dirt bank, his dark shirt wetly reflecting the sheen of purple light still in the sky, his black hair dripping. As she watched, he scooped a hatfull of mountain water and poured it down his chest. Head bowed and shoulders sinking, he sighed.
    Vic cocked her head, noting how his clinging shirt defined the long line of his back. His hair dripped into a curled point between his shoulder blades.
    He did it again, this time pouring water over one shoulder, and she finally understood. His injuries, the ones she'd seen bandaged, must be hurting him.
    "Hasn't the salve —" she started to ask.
    But he spun, dropped onto his flank, and in a snap aimed a derringer at her before she could get "helped" out.
    Victoria had never had a gun pointed at her in her life, much less one that came right out of a man's sleeve. For a long moment, it downright silenced her.
    Laramie opened his mouth as if to say something — a defense, or an apology—even as he slanted the weapon downward. She saw that of course he hadn't intended to shoot her, even though he made no sound. And in the meantime—
    "Your hat!" she exclaimed, and started down the creek bank after the Stetson he'd dropped during his quick draw. She knew it was silly. She should take him to task about the derringer, not try to fetch his hat.
    But hats were necessary. She doubted he had more than one. And this was, at the moment, the easier choice.
    The hat spun and bobbed like a black felt boat while she skirted the edge of the creek. In a moment, Mr. Laramie strode past her on those long legs of his. He glanced over his shoulder as he did, his eyes questioning and silent and ... apologetic?
    The gun had vanished again. But she noticed that, unlike die rest of his shirt, his left sleeve was dry.
    And diere went the hat! Vic pointed. Laramie broke into a run. She picked up her skirts and ran after him, remembering a fallen log farther downstream.
    Laramie waded in, tfien went down on one knee with a splash and a grunt. The current swept him several feet before he could brace to a stop. The hat dodged him.
    Victoria balanced her way out onto the log and knelt precariously. Almost as a gift, the creek twirled the hat right to her. Snatching it from the water, she grinned at Laramie, wading toward her, knee-deep in rushing creek.
    He ducked his head with somediing like chagrin. As he got closer he said, "Figured you weren't coming."
    Which only explained the wet shirt. "Who did you think I was, that you might have to shoot?"
    He lifted his gaze to study her face, looking up at her for once. "No one person," he admitted.
    Then his eyes went cold and he lunged at her.
    He pulled her off the log and into the creek —in her white shoes!—and swept her behind him with one wet arm. His hip felt hard and wet against her mos tl y dry dress. The current swirled her skirt tight against her leg on one side, floated it up around her knee on the other. With what felt like impossible slowness, Victoria realized that Mr. Laramie was not hurting her at all.
    Then she recognized the echo of the clicking she'd already heard earlier that evening —a drawn derringer.
    Slowly, she peeked around Laramie's side and followed the point of his aimed weapon to a dusty, skinny