Wild Burn by Edie Harris Page A

face. “Spreading your legs for the red man, Miss Tully?”
    The sheriff coughed into his fist. “Jacob, that’s enough—”
    “Why does it matter so much to have these things ”—Matthews jerked his thumb toward the Indian children—“come to school? Are they your little pets? Oh, no, I know,” he said with an ugly smirk. “You want one of your own. Well, you just keep on letting White Horse fu—”
    The ominous double click of a pistol being cocked pierced the tension between Moira and Matthews. “I’d think carefully on those next words of yours, mister, because I’ve been itching to use this damn thing all day.”
    Matthews straightened, an incredulous look on his anger-reddened face, and Moira saw a deadly Delaney Crawford standing in the doorway, his gun pointed right at the man’s head. Standing a few yards beyond his shoulder was an equally grim John White Horse, whose expression said he’d heard every word of Matthews’s rant.
    “Who the hell are you?” Matthews demanded.
    Her mind reeled from the heinous accusations thrown at her, and she struggled to breathe even as relief consumed her for the second time that day. When Maahe slipped his small hand into Moira’s, though, she found her voice, managing a cold smile as she answered for her rescuer.
    “Oh, him? That’s Captain Crawford. And he’s a very good shot.”

Chapter Twelve
    Whoever this pompous, well-fed bastard was, Del was going to kill him.
    “Crawford, put the gun down,” the sheriff said in a placating tone.
    Del didn’t take his eyes from the piece of filth who had just called Moira Tully a whore. “Don’t think so.” He may have calmed down somewhat from his chest-beating argument that morning with John, but that didn’t mean he was feeling anywhere close to controlled on the subject of Moira.
    And this was, undoubtedly, on the subject of Moira.
    “Outside,” he bit out. “Now.”
    Surprisingly, the wealthy-looking man, along with the sheriff, carefully stepped through the doorway of the schoolhouse and out into the bright noontime sunlight. Though his focus was on the two men in front of him, he heard the low, lilting murmur of Moira’s voice and the hurried scuffle of small feet. A flood of children spilled from the building and out into the main street, scattering in various directions as they made their way home, obviously dismissed. He waited a beat for her to appear, and when she did, she was holding the hands of two Indian children. The third—a rather tall girl—gripped the free hand of the shorter girl.
    “Mr. White Horse,” Moira said firmly, “would you be so kind as to escort the children back across the hill? I would do it myself, but it seems I have a discussion to finish.”
    “Yes, Miss Tully.” John held out his hands to the three children and spoke quietly, rapidly, in his own tongue. They went to him, but Del noticed the little boy looked back over his shoulder worriedly at Moira.
    She gave him an encouraging smile that softened the faint lines of tension bracketing her mouth. That brave smile did something twisty to Del’s insides.
    I am in so much trouble.
    The thought popped into his mind, ricocheting back and forth like a bullet in an iron box, and he swallowed, uncomfortable. His reaction to her was too much, too fast, but he was helpless to stop it…or so he told himself. Because, in truth, he wasn’t sure he wanted to stop it. His reaction to her felt a bit like salvation.
    So. Much. Trouble.
    As was this man. “Who’re you?” he asked tightly, returning his attention to Pompous Bastard.
    The man, hatless, squinted in the sunlight, his face flushed with righteous anger and the sort of condescension only money could buy. “I’m Jacob Matthews, and I own this town.”
    “Own it, do you? Didn’t know Red Creek was bought and paid for.” Oh, yes, Del was very familiar with this kind of man, the inimitable Pompous Bastard.
    “It might as well be. I own majority shares in four of