Patricia Potter by Lawless Page B

said loud enough to stop him.
    He turned, his soot-covered face impassive.
    “Please don’t go.”
    Willow stood. She had no doubt that this was the man who had saved them twice before, and somehow she knew that he meant to disappear as he always had. She also knew in some unexplainable way that if he left now, she would never see him again. And she couldn’t allow that to happen.
    Her gaze locked on him. Chad had been correct in one thing: This man was taller than Sullivan, taller than anyone she knew. His hair, though sprinkled with soot, shone when the morning sun hit it, and his eyes blazed with an inner fire, like rare fine stones.
    His face was partly covered with blond bristles, and the strong angular features, though harsh, had a touch of vulnerability. Perhaps, she thought, it was caused by his indecision, a kind of bewilderment as if he didn’t really understand what he was doing there.
    “Please help me get him inside,” she said, using the only excuse she knew would make him stay. She instinctively realized that if she’d used his own wounds as reason, he would continue his escape.
    And escape was how he considered it. She could tell from the way he looked toward the horse, and the horizon beyond it, before lowering his head in a gesture of defeat.
    “He’s not worth your trouble,” the stranger said harshly.
    “Of course he is,” she replied. “He’s my friend.”
    “Then, lady, you sure as hell don’t need any enemies.” His voice was gravelly and harsh, even condemning, and yet Willow felt an inexplicable attraction to him.
    Lobo was caught in the silent intensity that seemed to encompass him and hold him motionless. He closed his eyes against the unwanted, unexpected explosion of need within him, against the strange suspension of time that locked them together. He felt like an actor in a play, a puppet directed and controlled by others. Yet he didn’t want to break that hold. Yes, he did, but he didn’t know how.
    He opened his eyes again and met her gaze directly. Her eyes were blue, as he’d thought. But he’d never thought they could be this blue. They were like the mountain sky on a warm summer afternoon just before dusk. Deep and rich and glorious, a color that made him ache inside because it was so damned pure.
    She continued to level a look at him that seemed to reach straight inside him. For one of the few times in his adult life he saw no fear, no revulsion for what he was. He felt as if a damned twister had invaded his usually disciplined mind and body. His hand went to his gun, as it always did in moments of confusion. His gun was the only sure thing in his life, his only ally.
    He saw her eyes follow the movement, but instead of terror, there was awareness and even understanding that his intent wasn’t to do harm. His hand fell away.
    “Please.” Her soft plea broke the silence, and he remembered her request. A damned drunken ex-sheriff, for chrissakes. She wanted him to help a man who years earlier would have run him out of town on a rail.
    He looked around. Twins, barely distinguishable from each other, stared at him with wide, awe-struck eyes. The child Sallie Sue struggled to get down from the thin woman’s arms. The woman set her on the ground in an unexpectedly graceful movement, and the little girl ran to him.
    She looked up from her small height. “Thank you for thaving Jup’ter. And me.” She turned and ran back to the woman, who regarded him steadily for a moment before turning toward the house.
    The schoolteacher waited patiently by the side of the silent man. He hadn’t known women who had such patience. She would have made a passable gunfighter with those level eyes and quiet doggedness. She was waiting for his move, not pushing, just waiting, as if she knew that pleading would drive him away.
    His gloved hand went to the back of his neck and rubbed it absently, and he was only barely aware of the burning pain in his fingers. His attention was riveted on the