Jillian Hart Read online

  Not many men could shoot and kill a mountain lion at close range. Admiration for this stranger flowed into her chest. Maybe she'd been right in bringing this man into their lives. If he could face down a wildcat, maybe he could scare off a band of pesky rustlers.

  "Here, Ma." Chad ran up with both little arms clutching the bulky, wool blanket to his chest, eyes worried. "Is he dead yet?"

  "Not in the last few minutes. He'll be fine." She somehow knew deep down inside that he would be. "I have to wrap his injuries first. Will you help me?"

  A solemn nod. Chad's eyes were pinched with uncertainty. He'd lost one pa. He looked scared that he might lose another.

  Mr. Murray looked seriously injured, no doubt about that. Lissa untied her petticoat and slipped out of the simple muslin garment. Kneeling beside Mr. Murray, she began tearing the fabric in long, fat strips. "Hold these high, out of the dirt," she instructed Chad.

  Mr. Murray didn't move. Lissa couldn't help noticing the handsome, square cut of his face or the golden lashes curved against his cheek as she laid a hand gently beneath his head and began wrapping the vigorously bleeding wound. His blond hair felt thick and soft. He'd journeyed so far, only to be injured two miles from her ranch—all this way, just as he promised.

  Hope burned in her heart. Accepting his offer of marriage had been the right thing to do. Caring for him now, well, it already made her feel like his wife—as if they could build some kind of a life together.

  First, she had to get him to the doctor—but how? This fine specimen of hard male muscle looked far too heavy for her to carry.

  "Chad, help me slide this blanket beneath your new pa. We'll have to drag him. There's no other way."

  "How are we gonna get him into the wagon?"

  "I'll think of something." Lissa gently lifted John's bandaged head in both hands, vowing to do her very best by him.

  The doctor stepped into the sedate, dark, wood-accented parlor and adjusted the top button of his collar. "Mrs. Banks? Your groom is going to be just fine."

  "Thank you, Doc." Lissa rose from the sateen-upholstered divan, smoothing her skirts to hide the way her hands were shaking. As the hours passed, she'd regretted her promise to Chad. She'd been afraid John Murray would not live. "Can I see him?"

  "Of course." The stout, balding man gave her a serious nod before leading the way down the hall. "Mr. Murray woke up a few minutes ago, but he's sleeping now. I'm going to keep him here overnight A skull fracture is nothing to take lightly."

  "A skull fracture?" Dear God. Her knees shook. Her heart rocketed against the confines of her chest. The injury was much worse than she'd guessed.

  Holding tightly to Chad's hand, Lissa managed to make it down the hall and into the dark, quiet room without stumbling. She'd known several men who'd died of the same injury. Surely, it was a good sign John had woken up.

  If only she could talk to him now, ask what might make him more comfortable.

  "He's still sleepin', Mama." Chad's face twisted as he stood at John's bedside, one hand wrapped tightly in hers.

  "The doctor says he's going to wake up tomorrow and go home with us." Lissa brushed her son's frowning brow, wishing she could soothe away his grief as easily. Michael's death had been hard on her, too, but she was an adult not a child who couldn't understand the cycle of life with the same experience.

  "Your new father is going to be fine, I reckon." The doctor stepped into the room and managed a meager but worried smile. "Come with me, Chad. Let's ask my wife if she can find you a glass of apple cider. If it's all right with your mother."

  Lissa nodded. She waited until she was alone with John before she pulled over the plain wooden chair and sat beside the sleeping man, just as a wife might.

  "You gave us a real scare." She gripped the string handle of her reticule tightly, staring hard at her white knuckles.

  "I'll forgive you this once, but you're never allowed to hurt yourself like this again. Ever."

  "Who are you?" His words came like a low, deep rasp, grating across the stillness of the room, startling her.

  "You're awake." The room was dim. She could hardly see his face.

  "I guess so." He tried to sit up and groaned.

  She laid one hand against his chest to stop him. "Lie still. Doctor's orders."

  "I don't care much for doctors." His voice was warm and low, but not harsh, pleasant as twilight, deep as night.

  Her hand still lay on his chest. She felt the solid heat of his bare male skin, and the hard strength of the layers of muscle beneath her fingers. Her pulse skipped. This magnificent man of steel and strength was hers?

  John rubbed his forehead with one hand, encountering bandages. "Tell me, how did I get here?"

  "You were thrown from your horse."

  "I was?" He moaned and leaned back into the fluffy pillows.

  "A mountain lion must have jumped you. You took a bad blow to your head, too, but you'll be fine." Lissa waited. "You don't know who I am?"

  "Should I?"

  Her heart skipped a beat. Perhaps he was more injured than the doctor had first thought. Perhaps—well, she shouldn't borrow trouble with worry. She had more than she could deal with already. "I suppose we don't need to settle things between us right now. You need to rest."

  "But I—"

  Footsteps knelled on the floor behind her. "Your bride is right, Mr. Murray. What you need most is to heal. Everything will look clearer in the morning."

  Lissa watched John's face, shadowed and drawn. Pain etched lines around his eyes and mouth, drew a hard frown to his intelligent forehead. Was it normal he couldn't remember how he'd been hurt? That he didn't know who she was?

  Fear sluiced over her like cold water. Whatever was wrong, she would stand by him. She would take care of him until he was well.

  "Let's step out into the hall, Mrs. Banks." Doc's voice dipped low as he gestured toward the lighted corridor.

  Lissa followed him and closed the door so John could sleep.

  "Confusion isn't uncommon after such a trauma," Doc said now, tugging at his high-collared shirt. "How long it will last is anyone's guess. If that bullet had been any lower, it would have killed him."

  "Bullet?" That made no sense. She'd seen the mountain lion—

  The doctor continued. "As it was, it cracked his skull without entering his brain. I can't really tell you more. If his memory is impaired, then the damage may be more than I first feared."

  "I see." Lissa's stomach gripped. Suddenly the problems with her ranch seemed small compared to John Murray's prognosis. "Would you mind if I stayed at his side tonight? Perhaps just having someone with him would help."

  "That would be fine. It seems to me he's one lucky man to be getting a wife like you."

  Lissa blushed, unsure of what to say. She only knew the doctor was wrong. She was the lucky one. She owed John Murray—who'd come to protect her ranch and help raise her son—more than she could ever repay.

  "First let me find someone to watch Chad for the night and check on my stock," she said. "Then I'll be back."

  Dizziness nauseated him as he stepped away from the closed door. His head hurt more than if six oxen had stampeded right over the top of his scalp. Every breath he took stabbed pain through his skull.

  His mind—his memory—was one unending, gray fog. No images could penetrate it. He'd learned two things about himself. He had a serious injury. And the pretty, softspoken woman who'd sat beside him was his bride.

  Did that mean he was already married?

  Just trying to remember shot a throbbing spear of pain across his skull.

  He inched to the bed and lay down, more afraid than he'd ever been. He couldn't think. He couldn't remember.

  Darkness nudged his vision. He leaned back into the pillows and fought to stay awake. His eyes closed.

  "But what about the wedding tomorrow?" Blanche took down china cups and saucers from her sideboard.

  Good question. Lissa stared down at her hands, then at
the crocheted lace cloth covering the carved round table. "I don't want to rush him. He's had a bad injury. We'll probably postpone the wedding."

  "I'll let the reverend know." Blanche sounded sad. "You must be disappointed. You've been counting on your Mr. Murray to help you. You need him very much."

  Lissa blushed. "Well, I—"

  "I know you haven't said one word of complaint, but it can't be easy trying to keep up with the work on your ranch." A kettle rumbled on the polished black stove.

  "It isn't so bad." Lissa set her chin. Her troubles and her burdens were nothing she intended to lay on anyone's shoulders, no matter how close they were or how good a friend. "Besides, John Murray is Michael's cousin. It's not as if he's a perfect stranger. Michael knew him well growing up."

  Michael had always been fond of John, and they'd corresponded over the years. When she'd written Michael's family telling of his death, John had offered whatever help she needed. He'd lost his wife and son the previous year and felt as if he needed a change, a place to escape his memories and grief.

  "I didn't say one word of criticism." Blanche set the steeping tea on the pretty table, her face kind, her eyes shadowed. "A woman in these parts needs help just to survive."

  "I know what others are saying." Why did it hurt so much? Why did it matter what people thought? "That I'm desperate enough to marry any man sight unseen."

  "I'm not judging you, Lissa." Blanche sat down beside her, the scrape of the chair against the wood floor, the scent of an apple crisp cooling, the comfort of friendship making it easier to accept what had to be done.

  "I can't defend the ranch myself." Lissa heard the ripple of Chad's laughter just outside the window as he played with Blanche's son in the grass yard. "It won't be the first time I married without love. Michael was good to me. We had a fine marriage. I got a close look at John Murray while he was unconscious. He has an honest face and laugh lines around his eyes, so I know he isn't harsh. I have hopes he'll make a kind husband."

  "You don't have to convince me."

  No, but I need to convince myself. Lissa's throat hurt. Sure, she had other options, but she wanted to keep her home. She'd promised Michael.

  "It's the right thing to do." There could be no room for doubts. She would believe it with all her heart, and make this marriage work. "That apple crisp sure smells good."

  "Go ahead and change the subject," Blanche teased, the same gentle light present in her voice that surrounded their friendship. "But it won't change my mind. I don't know what I would do if I lost my Jeremiah, but I tell you this—I'd keep right on living. You and I are mothers. We have no other choice."

  Lissa's heart twisted. "True. I'm doing this for my son." For Michael's son.

  "Besides, I heard from young Betsy—you know, she's Doc's nurse—that your John is a very handsome man." Blanche wriggled her eyebrows. "Heard tell he was one fine specimen, with shoulders to make a full-blooded woman swoon."

  "Stop that," Lissa blushed. "You're talking about my husband-to-be."

  "Lucky you." Blanche chuckled. "Now, how about a nice cup of tea before you head back over to the doctor's?"

  Even in the dark, he was an impressive man. Just enough light from the lamp turned down low brushed across his pillow, washing his face. And what a strong face it was: Straight nose, not too large, but not small; thick, curly, blond lashes in half-moons against his cheeks; high cheekbones; a strong, square jaw; a dimple in the center of his chin.

  Most of all, she liked the lines drawn into the skin beside his eyes and cut around his mouth, as if he were a man who knew how to smile and laugh.

  Please, let him be a good husband.

  She'd not confided her fears to anyone, not even Blanche. What was he like inside, past the handsomeness of his face? Was he fair, or judgmental? Did he have a quick temper, or a slow, steady patience?

  At least she'd made the decision to come to town when she did, and found him. Her heart clenched, remembering how vulnerable this big man had looked, sprawled unconscious on the road. She tried to quiet her uncertainty about how he'd come to have a bullet wound at all.

  He'd come. He kept his promise. Surely that was a good sign.

  John moaned low in his throat, then rolled his head on the pillow, his face contorting with pain.

  "Easy, now." She laid a hand on his cheek. The heat of him, the rough feel of the day's stubble whiskering his jaw, made her pulse jump.

  His hand closed around her wrist. Such well-shaped fingers, tanned by the sun, callused as if he knew how to work, and work hard. He twisted on the pillow to look up at her. Shadowed eyes met hers, glazed with pain. "Thirsty."

  "Let me pour you some water." She lifted her hand, and his grip fell away. Lissa stood, nervousness flowing through her veins.

  If only she weren't so shy, perhaps it would be easier. She feared he would find her less than he hoped—less pretty, less desirable, less everything. Lissa knew he was a man tough enough for the job ahead of him. She so wanted him to be pleased with her, too.

  Her hand trembled as she filled the tin cup. She clinked the pitcher against the basin accidentally. When the intensity of his gaze latched onto hers, though, she felt surer. His steady presence felt like strength. John Murray was a substantial man. Hope warmed her like sunshine.

  "Here. Don't sit up." Lissa lowered the cup to his lips, but his hand caught the cup, as if he weren't used to being waited on.

  He sipped, the relief audible in his sigh after he swallowed. "Thank you."

  At least he was polite. That's a very good sign, right? "Would you like more?"

  "Later, perhaps." He sank back into the fluffy pillows. "Has the doctor been in to check on me?"

  "Less than twenty minutes ago." Lissa found the edge of the chair and eased into it.

  "What did he say? Am I going to be all right?"

  "Yes. He said you must have a harder head than most men. In this instance, that's a good thing."

  A smile stretched across his generously cut mouth. An attractive smile, simple and easy, brought out twin dimples in his cheeks.

  Warmth bubbled in Lissa's chest. "You're looking better than you did when I found you."

  "You brought me here?" His interest was quick and sharp.

  "Yes. You must have fallen off your horse."

  "Must have?" Frown lines puckered between his eyes. "Were you there?"

  "No, I found you lying on the road leading to my ranch."

  "And you brought me here all by yourself?" His blue gaze fastened on hers, curious, measuring.

  She felt the impact like a touch to her face. "Yes. I laid you on the blanket I keep beneath the seat and dragged you to the tailgate. Then I hoisted you up into the bed of the wagon."

  "You're strong for such a little thing." He had a gentle voice, gentle eyes.

  "I'm a country girl." She shrugged, uncomfortable with his compliment. She wasn't used to them. "Lucky for you I am fairly strong, or I never would have managed to pull and push you into the wagon. My son is too small to help."

  "Your son?"

  "I suppose you don't remember anything about him, either." Sadness crept into her voice, and she couldn't stop it.

  "No. I'm sorry."

  Somehow that made the situation worse, more hopeless. Chad was one of the reasons she had even considered John Murray's offer of help, why she'd written him about the towheaded little boy so different from Michael, a child who needed a father, a home, someone to help protect and provide for him.

  John had answered with a promise to bring his guns and his might. He'd worked as a deputy for years. He knew how to fight for what was right. He also vowed to love Michael's son as he had once loved his own.

  "How old is he?" A quiet question.

  "He'll be five this July." She dipped her chin and stared hard at her hands, folded tightly in her lap.

  "You love him. You're a good mother." He rubbed his forehead, encountered the bandage. "It's in your voice."

  "Oh." She blush
ed, a pretty wash of pink across her delicate nose and cheeks.

  "It's a nice thing to see, a woman who loves her child. Not all families are that way." His voice rumbled pain through his head, and just saying the words made him hurt.

  How did he know about families? Maybe the doctor was right—he would be fit as a fiddle come morning. All he needed was sleep. How could he rest, though, when so much troubled him? The gray, painful fog of his mind beat through him. The questions he wanted to ask speared like lances through his rib cage.

  The doctor had called this woman his bride. So, were they married? Did her son call him father?

  Pain jammed through his skull. He gritted his teeth. He watched her rise from the hard-backed chair, her gray-checked skirts rustling around her ankles as she carried the tin cup back to the pitcher and filled it.

  For him. She did this for him.

  What was their relationship? How much did he care for her? He tried to remember any detail at all as she strolled toward him. This bride of his was a fragile-boned woman, lean and petite, and graceful. Kind, too—he could read it in her face, see it in her movements. He knew nothing else about her, other than that she loved her son.

  Did she love him?

  "Would you like more water?" Her voice was soft as a creek singing over stones.

  "Yes." He was damn thirsty, even if the water upset his stomach.

  She leaned toward him again, and he breathed in the scent of her—faint cinnamon and sunshine. His heart kicked in his chest.

  He wished he could remember her, remember anything. All he felt was loneliness, and a painful blackness he couldn't think past.

  The water tasted cool, and it wetted his throat and all the way to his twisting stomach. Pain rocketed through his head. He leaned back into the pillows.

  She touched his cheek, her fingers gentle. How many times had she touched him like that? His eyes fluttered shut. He could not keep them open. He wanted to. He needed answers. He had to know who the hell he was.

  There was only darkness.