Free Sketch a Falling Star by Sharon Pape Page B

fight back into his court.
    “Threatening? I’ll have you know, Aurora, that there ain’t a soul on this earth who’s ever scared me. I just don’t cotton to folks who can read my mind. It’s unnatural.”
    “You know I don’t like being called ‘Aurora’,” she reminded him. It had been awhile since he’d used her full given name, and it was clear he was doing it now just to irritate her.
    “I know,” he said, a smile cracking his stony expression. “I’m fairly sure that’s why I find it so charmin’.”
    “Really?” She shrugged. “Well, that’s fine, because I’ve decided I don’t care anymore.” She made the statement out of pure pique, but as she said the words, she realized they were actually true. “You have my blessing to call me ‘Aurora’ whenever you like.” She watched the smile desert him, leaving bewilderment in its wake. She could even feel a subtle shift in the balance of power that was always seesawing between them. When she’d told him she hated the name, she’d basically handed him a weapon with which to needle her. Disarming him was so simple—why on earth hadn’t she thought of it months ago?
    “Now,” she went on, since he still seemed at a loss for words, “regardless of whether or not I have your permission to see my aunt Helene, I have an appointment with her in a few minutes, and I fully intend to keep it.”

1878
     
    The New Mexico Territory
     
    M arshal Ezekiel Drummond made his way to the Albuquerque blacksmith’s shop on legs that threatened to give out at any moment. When he’d been brought in to Dr. Walter Abbott more dead than alive, his horse had been taken to the smithy, where it was stabled to await the marshal’s eventual recovery or demise. Although still weak from the gunshot that had nearly killed him, Drummond had insisted on leaving his sickbed within hours of regaining consciousness. To his way of thinking, he had no choice. Too many days had already passed, and once again, the unthinkable had happened. While he’d lain senseless in bed, another young girl had been abducted. He knew without a doubt that John Trask was responsible. Only one question remained—was she still alive, or had Trask already killed her?
    Dr. Abbott was a pragmatist as well as a quick study. He’d realized that no matter what he said, he would not be able to change the marshal’s mind. So he’d seen to it that his patient ate a decent meal before he left, and he sent his son, Henry, along to carry the marshal’s saddlebags down to the stable. At first, Drummond had declined even that help, announcing that he was perfectly capable of managing the bags himself. But Mrs. Abbott had stocked them so full of provisions that when he’d tried to lift them, he’d fallen back against a conveniently situated wall. Acknowledging that pride alone wouldn’t get the job done, he’d finally accepted Henry’s help.
    The two-block walk to the smithy was difficult for Drummond, who was winded before he even left the house. It took every bit of his concentration to plant one foot in front of the other and remain upright. Every rock in the road, every rut could easily prove to be his undoing. Henry walked close beside him, brows pinched with concern, ready to jump into action if the marshal should stumble or otherwise require his assistance. Under most circumstances, the marshal would have chafed at being the focus of such attention, but it was somehow more palatable in that young Henry was himself training to be a doctor.
    Although the day was not overly warm, by the time they reached the smithy, a fine sweat coated Drummond’s body and glistened on his face. Nausea had set his stomach to roiling like a boat riding heavy seas, and it was questionable whether his lunch would stay with him. He stopped to lean against a wall of the smithy until his body reached a decision.
    “Mr. Drummond, is there something I can do for you?” Henry asked, clearly troubled by his patient’s