The Lawman's Vow

Pulse hammering, he opened the bedroom door.

Sylvie lay in a spill of moonlight on the double bed. She smiled, turned onto her back and held out her arms—an innocent temptress in a muslin gown she’d unfastened all the way to her belly.

He knew what would happen if he got into that bed. She had to know it, too. But he needed to be sure she understood the consequences.

ELIZABETH LANE has lived and travelled in many parts of the world, including Europe, Latin America and the Far East, but her heart remains in the American West, where she was born and raised. Her idea of heaven is hiking a mountain trail on a clear autumn day. She also enjoys music, animals and dancing. You can learn more about Elizabeth by visiting her website at www.elizabethlaneauthor.com

Previous novels by this author:

 ANGELS IN THE SNOW

 (part of Stay for Christmas anthology)

 HER DEAREST ENEMY

 THE STRANGER

 THE BORROWED BRIDE*

 HIS SUBSTITUTE BRIDE*

 THE HOMECOMING

 (part of Cowboy Christmas anthology)

 THE HORSEMAN’S BRIDE*

 THE HAND-ME-DOWN BRIDE

 (part of Weddings Under a Western Sky)

 ON THE WINGS OF LOVE

 *linked by character

Did you know that some of these novels are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

The Lawman’s Vow

Elizabeth Lane

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To my readers—your inspiration keeps me writing.

Author Note

We all make vows and promises. Many are swiftly broken or forgotten over time. But some vows are as binding as chains of iron.

This is the story of one such vow.

When his sister is found murdered in an alley, San Francisco lawman Flynn O’Rourke promises to find the man seen pocketing her jewellery and bring him to justice at the end of a rope.

Flynn’s journey will test that vow to its limits. Deprived of his memory and transported to a lonely, almost mystical place, he will fall under the spell of an innocent beauty. Will he keep his vow—even though it means betraying the woman he loves?

Untouched by sensual love, Sylvie wakes to desire in the arms of a stranger with no name. Little does she suspect that the man she calls Ishmael harbours a dangerous secret—one that will tear her fragile world apart.

The idea for this book came to me when I was visiting my daughter in Northern California. Standing on a rugged cliff top with the dark pine forest behind me and the sea pounding the rocks below, I imagined a wild storm, a boat shattering against those rocks and a man with a mysterious ring flung onto the sand, more dead than alive. The rest of the story almost told itself.

I love hearing from my readers. You can contact me through my website, www.elizabethlaneauthor.com

Happy reading.

Prologue

Northern California Coast, March 1858

The storm had slammed in from nowhere, howling with the fury of a banshee run amok. Lightning cracked across the dark night sky. Thunder echoed like mortar fire through the blackness. Lashed by a screaming wind, waves crashed over the fifteen-foot sailboat, threatening to crush its fragile hull.

Wrestling with the tiller, San Francisco police detective Flynn O’Rourke swore into the storm. He cursed the wind and the sea and the hell-damned boat. And he cursed himself for thinking he could sail up the coast to Aaron Cragun’s cliff-top hideaway and catch the murdering little weasel unaware. As a sailor he was competent enough; but he was no match for a storm like this one. The sails were gone, clawed away by the wind. Worse, in the swirling darkness, with no stars to guide him, he had lost all sense of direction.

A lightning flash illuminated the sapphire signet ring on the middle finger of his left hand. The ring was the one thing Flynn had inherited from his father—the younger son of Irish nobility, who’d died penniless in the New World, leaving his son and daughter to make their own way. Both had managed well enough. Flynn had recently made the rank of lieutenant in San Francisco’s police department. His sister had used her voice and her beauty to become a music-hall star.

Now his sister was dead, strangled in a filthy dark alley after a performance. A shabbily dressed man had been seen crouching over her body, pocketing her jewelry. Witnesses had identified him as Aaron Cragun, a human vulture who collected and sold salvage from shipwrecks up the coast.

Cragun was nowhere to be found. But a police informant had drawn Flynn a map of the coast, showing the remote cliffside aerie where the man lived. When the storm struck, Flynn had been on his way there, bent on dragging the bastard to the gallows or gunning him down on the spot.

Now he found himself fighting for his life.

The hull was filling with water. Abandoning the tiller, Flynn grabbed a bucket and began bailing like a madman. But it was no use. Anytime now, if it didn’t capsize first, the sloop would founder and sink.

Flynn was a strong swimmer. If the storm hadn’t carried him too far out, he might have a chance of getting to shore. But in the howling blackness, he had no idea which way to go. He could just as easily swim out to sea and drown. Until he could see land, he’d be better off staying with the boat. But as a precaution, he unbuckled his gun belt from around his hips and stowed the .36 Navy Colt in the bow compartment with his store of powder, caps and balls. If he ended up in the water, the added weight could be enough to drag him down.

Sea spray battered his face, the taste of it as salty as the tears he’d devote himself to shedding for Catriona once her killer was brought to justice. His sister had been young and beautiful, eager to laugh, too quick to love and far too young to die. But he couldn’t allow himself to mourn her until he’d avenged her murder.

A blinding flash interrupted his thoughts. Stunned by the ear-splitting boom of thunder, Flynn could only be half sure of what he’d glimpsed yards ahead. It had looked like a sheer cliff, towering above rocks that jutted out of the water. Now, high in the darkness, he could make out the faintest flicker of light.

That light was the last thing he saw before the boat shattered against a rock, flinging him over the side. Something struck his head, and the world imploded into darkness.

Chapter One

“I can’t sleep, Sylvie. I’m scared.” The boy stood trembling in the lamplight. Dressed in a ragged flannel nightshirt, he was small for his age. His long-lashed eyes, the color of new copper pennies, were filled with anxiety that went straight to Sylvie Cragun’s heart.

“Come here, Daniel. I’ll rock you awhile.” Sylvie put down the novel she was reading and gathered her six-year-old half brother onto her lap. He snuggled against her shoulder, his black hair and tawny skin a rich contrast to her porcelain fairness.

Outside, though the storm battered the quaint cabin they called home, Sylvie had no worries for their safety. Their father had fashioned the outer walls and roof from the inverted hull of a wrecked schooner he’d sawed into sections and windlassed up the cliff. It was sound enough to hold up under any deluge. But the wind was ferocious tonight. It howled like a chorus of harpies, shrieking among the ancient pines that sheltered the clearing. Lightning flashed through the porthole windows. Rain beat against glass that was thick enough to withstand an ocean tempest. She couldn’t blame the boy for being frightened.

Daniel stirred on Sylvie’s lap. “Papa’s been gone a long time. When’s he coming home?”

“He’ll be here as soon as he can.” Sylvie’s arms tightened around her little brother. She was worried, too. Their father had left two weeks ago with a wagonload of salvage to sell in San Francisco. It wasn’t like him to be gone so long. She could only hope he wasn’t caught somewhere on the road in this awful storm.

“Will you tell me a story, Sylvie?”

Her breath teased his hair. “What kind of story?”

He mulled over his answer for a moment. “A story about a prince. I like your prince stories.”

“All right, let’s see…” Sylvie enjoyed telling stories almost as much as Daniel enjoyed hearing them. She usually made them up as she went along, spinning out whatever came to mind. Sometimes her stories surprised even her.

“Once upon a time there was a prince,” she began. “A prince who lived at the bottom of the sea.”

“How could he breathe?”

“He just could. It was magic.”

“Oh.” Daniel snuggled closer. Sylvia rocked the chair gently, her voice soft and low.

“This prince was the son of the great sea king. They lived in a palace with gold and jewels and all sorts of treasure. It was a beautiful place. But there was just one thing the prince wanted—and it was the one thing he couldn’t have.”

“What was that?” Daniel asked.

“He wanted to walk on land. He wanted to see mountains and rivers, birds and animals and everything that was there. But the prince couldn’t walk. Instead of legs, he had a tail like a fish. He could only swim, so he had to stay in the water.

“One night, while the prince was swimming, a storm blew in. A huge wave picked him up and swept him right onto the beach. When he opened his eyes, he was lying on the sand. Where his tail had been, he had two fine, strong legs. The prince was delighted. He stood up, took a few practice steps and set out to explore the land.”

“But he wouldn’t have any clothes on,” Daniel muttered drowsily.

“Oh, dear, you’re right!” Sylvie exclaimed. “Maybe he could make some out of seaweed. Or just say a magic word, and the clothes would be there. What do you think?”

But there was no answer from Daniel. He had fallen asleep.

Brushing a kiss onto his forehead, she lifted him in her arms and carried him to bed. She’d been a girl of thirteen when her father’s second wife, a sweet-faced Mexican woman, had died in childbirth. Sylvie had taken the tiny black-haired baby and kept him alive on goat’s milk. Now, after six years, she couldn’t imagine a real mother loving her child any more than she loved Daniel.

With a sigh, she settled back into the rocking chair and picked up her book. Her father usually brought her a used book or two each time he returned from San Francisco. By now, the books filled several shelves on the far wall. Tonight she was reading Moby Dick, a weighty novel about hunting whales. The book was filled with enthralling description, but Sylvie wasn’t sure she liked it. She had glimpsed whales from the top of the cliff. For all their great size, they’d seemed as peaceful as grazing cows, nothing like the monsters in Herman Melville’s book. And the story was all about men! The only women in it were the ones who stood on the dock with mournful faces, watching their menfolk sail away.

It wasn’t fair. Why couldn’t women travel the earth and have adventures, too?

Sometimes when Sylvie gazed into the ribbed ceiling of their ship-turned-house, she wondered where it had journeyed before the sea cast it into the cove below the cliff. Had it beat the battering waves around Cape Horn? Sailed into Canton for a cargo of tea? Brought fortune seekers to the California gold fields?

Through the pages of her books, Sylvie had traveled the world. Paris, New York, Cairo, Zanzibar, Bombay…The names sang like music in her head. She could almost imagine herself strolling the bazaars, fingering silks, sampling exotic foods, wandering through ancient palaces. But she knew it was only a dream. Even if she had the money to travel, how could she ever leave Daniel or take the boy away from his father?

Even a visit to San Francisco would ease her wanderlust, she thought. She remembered the place dimly from her childhood, but she hadn’t been there since before Daniel’s birth. Judging from the occasional newspaper she saw, the sprawling settlement had grown into a vast wonderland of mansions, docks, businesses, fine restaurants and theaters. She yearned to see it for herself. But her father refused to take her and Daniel along on his trips. “San Francisco’s a wicked place,” he was fond of saying. “There’s danger around every corner and sights not fit for a young girl’s eyes. Better you stay safe at home.”

Restless, Sylvie laid her book aside, rose and walked to the door. Sliding back the bolt she stepped out onto the porch. Wind lashed her flannel wrapper. Rain streamed off the low eave. From far below, at the foot of the cliff, surf thundered against the rocks.

Heaven help anyone who had to be out on a night like this.

Shivering, she moved back inside, barred the door and prepared to go to bed. Maybe tomorrow their father would be home. They would hear the creak of wheels on the bluff road, the jingle of harness and the wheezing bray of the tired old mule. If the trip had been a good one, their father would be singing in his hoarse, off-key voice. Then Sylvie would grab Daniel’s hand and they would run down the trail to see what he’d brought them. Aaron Cragun might not be the most sober of men or the most honest. But no one could deny that he loved his children. And they loved him.

What if something had happened to him?

What would they do if he didn’t come home?

By the time Sylvie awoke the next morning, the storm had passed. Dawn shone through the porthole windows in shades of pewter and rose. A crested jay squawked in the crown of a pine tree.

Pulling on a faded gingham dress and a clean apron, she pattered into the kitchen, added a few sticks to the potbellied stove and put some barley coffee and cornmeal mush on to boil. While breakfast was cooking, she made the bed, splashed her face and pulled her pale hair back into a braid. Then she went outside to milk the three nanny goats.

By the time she’d finished, Daniel was up and dressed in a shirt and overalls Sylvie had remade from some old clothes of her father’s. After sending him out to feed the chickens, she sliced some bread and set the table for breakfast.

“Did you wash your hands?” she asked when he appeared at the door a few minutes later.

“Yup, and my face, too.” He sat with her at the table and bowed his head until Sylvie had murmured a few words of grace.

“Can we go down to the cove?” he asked. “You can find the best stuff after a storm.”

“We’ll see. Maybe there’ll be time after we’ve weeded the garden.”

“But I want to go now, while the tide’s low,” he argued. “Why can’t I just go by myself?”

Sylvie spooned fresh cream over his mush and poured him some barley coffee. “It’s too dangerous,” she said. “You could fall, or a big wave could wash you out to sea. And you never know what might be down there. Once I stepped on a sea-urchin spine. My foot was so swollen I couldn’t walk for days. I certainly wouldn’t want that to happen to you.”

“Then come with me. Please, Sylvie. The weeds will only grow this much before we get back.” He indicated a tiny space with his thumb and forefinger.

Sylvie had to laugh. “All right. But just for a little while. Now, finish your breakfast.”

When breakfast was done and the dishes washed, they set out down the zigzagging cliffside trail. Sylvie carried an empty basket to hold any treasures they might find—delicate shells, chunks of coral, jars and bottles washed up from distant shores. Once, they’d found a brass sextant from a wrecked ship. Another time they’d found a sea chest filled with bolts of soggy cotton fabric, which Sylvie had washed, dried and saved. It troubled her when she thought of it—profiting from shipwrecks in which people had lost their lives. But as her father always said, the things they found would only wash back out to sea and be lost if they left them. How could making use of them be wrong?

His rationale made perfect sense. But there were times when she yearned for a different kind of life—a blessedly ordinary life in a town with friends and neighbors, tree-lined streets, churches, schools and stores. She’d known such a life in the years before her mother died and her father caught gold fever. But now those days seemed as distant as the stars.

Sylvie loved her father and her little brother. And she knew better than to pine for what she couldn’t have. But at times the weight of loneliness threatened to crush her. Most girls her age had friends, relatives and beaux around them. Many of them were even married, with families of their own. Not that she was asking for someone to marry. Not yet, at least. Just to have someone she could talk to—someone real to share her thoughts and dreams—would make all the difference in a world peopled by characters from novels and fairy tales.

As for romantic love, she’d read about it in books, mostly the ones written by her favorite author, Jane Austen. But here, in this isolated spot, the notion seemed as fanciful as the tales she made up for her little brother.

“Hurry, Sylvie!” Daniel called over his shoulder. “I see something down there! It looks like a boat!”

“Stop right there, Daniel Cragun! Wait till I catch up!” Sylvie quickened her pace. The trail was narrow, the sheer cliff more than eighty feet high. Ferns and cascading flowers dotted the rocky face, forming a lush hanging garden. Beyond the black rocks that jutted at the foot of the cliff, a pale crescent of sand, exposed by the low tide, rimmed the cove.

The place was as dangerous as it was beautiful. A fall could mean almost certain death. Daniel was never allowed down the trail without supervision, but the boy always seemed to be testing his limits.

“What did I tell you about running ahead?” Sylvie seized his bony little shoulder. “Do that again, and we’ll go right back to the house.”

“But look, Sylvie! There’s a wrecked boat down there with a big hole in the bottom! Maybe it’s pirates!”

Sylvie peered cautiously over the side of the trail. “It’s just a sailboat, not a pirate ship, silly. But stay behind me until we know what else is down there.”

With Sylvie leading, they wound their way down the trail and over the barnacle-encrusted rocks to the beach. A red crab scuttled beneath a chunk of driftwood. A flock of sandpipers, skimming along the water’s edge, took wing at their approach.

The overturned boat lay on the wet sand. Its hull was smashed along the starboard side, leaving a jagged hole. Since the boat hadn’t been here yesterday, it must have been cast against the rocks in last night’s storm.

Sylvie couldn’t imagine anyone surviving such a wreck. But there were thieves and smugglers operating along the coast, and caution was never a bad idea. Dropping her basket to pick up a hefty stick of driftwood, she approached warily.

Not so Daniel. Pushing ahead of her, he raced around the boat, then stopped as if he’d run into a wall. For the space of a heartbeat he stood frozen. When he turned back to face her, his eyes were dollar-size in his small face.

“Sylvie, there’s someone under the boat,” he whispered. “It’s a man! I can see his legs!”

“Get back here, Daniel! Right now!” Sylvie braced herself for what she was about to find. This wouldn’t be the first body to wash ashore in the cove. But Aaron Cragun had always taken pains to shield his children from the sight of death. He never let them near a wreck until he’d disposed of any remains, either by burial or by rowing out past the point and dumping them where the current would carry them away. Now, with her father absent, Sylvie would be duty-bound to bury this poor drowned soul. But first she wanted to get Daniel away.

“Go up to the garden, find that small shovel and toss it down,” she told her little brother. “Then stay up top and wait for me. Careful on the trail, now. No running.”

He took off like a young goat, agile and confident. “I said no running!” Sylvie shouted after him. He slowed his pace, but she continued to watch until he was safely up. Only then did she turn her attention to the wrecked sailboat.

Daniel’s feet had left prints in the wet sand. Still clutching the driftwood, she followed their trail around the side of the boat. Just as Daniel had said, a pair of muscular legs jutted heels up from under the hull. The trousers were sodden and caked with sand, but Sylvie had learned to recognize fine wool. The waterlogged brown boots were likewise of excellent quality and little worn. Her father, she knew, would expect her to salvage them. But she couldn’t bring herself to rob the dead. She would bury the man clothed, as the sea had left him.

The hull of the wrecked sloop was heavy, but years of hard physical work had left her strong. Grunting with effort, Sylvie managed to lift it by the edge and drag it to one side, exposing the full length of the prone body.

He was tall—much taller than her father. And he appeared younger, too, not much beyond his twenties. His shoulders were broad beneath his tattered white shirt, his haunches taut and muscular. His hair was dark, though not as dark as Daniel’s. A few strands fluttered in the sea breeze, catching the sunlight.

He lay with his head turned to one side. Sylvie’s gaze was drawn to his profile—sun-burnished skin against the pale sand, black lashes crusted with salt, classic features like the pictures of the gods in her book of Greek legends. He appeared far too young and vital to be dead. But the world was a cruel place. Every piece of wreckage the tide swept into the cove was a testament to that cruelty.

Such a man would be missed, she thought. Somewhere he was bound to have family, friends, maybe a wife or sweetheart. If she could find any information on him, a name, an address, she would write a letter and send it with her father the next time he went to San Francisco.

But the stranger had no coat or vest. Whatever he’d worn against the weather, the sea must’ve torn it away. That left his trouser pockets as the only place to look.

Leaving the driftwood chunk within reach, she crouched next to him and worked her fingers into his sodden hip pocket. As she’d feared, it was empty. Groping deeper to make sure, she gasped and drew back. One hand reached for her makeshift weapon. A corpse would be cold and rigid. But her fingers had sensed living flesh.

Trembling, she worked her hand under his collar to touch the hollow alongside his throat. The faintest throb of a pulse ticked against her fingertip. Heaven save her, the man was alive!

“Look out below!” Daniel shouted a warning from the top of the cliff, alerting Sylvie that he was about to fling the shovel down to her.

“No, wait!” she shouted back. “Never mind the shovel. Get some water in the canteen. Close the stopper tight and toss it down.”

“Is he alive?”

She hesitated. “Barely.”

“Can I come down?”

“No. He might be dangerous. Hurry!”

The silence from above told her Daniel had gone to fill the canteen. Turning back to the stranger, she dropped to her knees and scooped the sand out from under his face to give him more air. He was utterly still, no movement, no sound, but the breath from his nostrils warmed her wet fingers.

What now? With effort, she could probably move him. But what if he had broken bones or internal injuries? Pushing and pulling would only make them worse. Still, there was little she could do without turning him over.

For now, he was lying to one side, his left arm pinned under his body. Maybe she could hollow out the sand on that side and use his sinking weight to help her roll him over. That would be the gentlest way to turn him. What happened after that would depend on how badly he was hurt.