Jillian Hart Page 4

  "No, I don't." He winced as pain cracked his skull in two. He laid his hand against the side of his head. "But I'm not afraid. I made a vow to you, Lissa, a vow I will keep. Even if I can't remember. Even if men have died fighting those criminals."

  "Why aren't you afraid?" Her words, whispered now, were almost lost on the rustle and clatter of last minute worshipers clamoring for seats, but he sat so close to her— head tilted, almost touching hers—that he couldn't miss a single word, a single breath, a single look.

  Her soft, bow-shaped mouth quirked at the corners with her concern for him, a stranger. A shivering, hot glow began deep in his chest. He could not seem to force his gaze from the shape of her mouth or stop breathing in her sweet, cinnamon scent.

  "Do you know what I'm more afraid of?" he confessed as a single note whined from the pipe organ and a cacophony of notes formed the introduction to a hymn.

  Her eyes widened in silent question.

  "Having nothing."

  "Why, you don't have nothing. You have us."

  "Exactly. Right now that's all I do have. That's everything. You and your boy. I have no other future, no other life." His voice caught, and he was thankful the congregation rose with the spirit of the hymn, leaving him some privacy. "Don't take that away from me. Marry me today. Get it over with."

  "It's a wedding, not a hanging."

  "That's a matter of opinion." He winked, so she knew he was joking, and he was rewarded with the sight of humor sparkling in her eyes, crisp and clear. "Is that a yes?"

  "It's a yes," she breathed. "As long as you're certain."

  "I'm certain."

  "And as long as your condition doesn't worsen. I'll not have you fainting at the altar, John Murray."

  "I'll be sure to wait until after we seal our vows with a kiss." He liked the thought of brushing her soft lips with his. He liked it very much.

  Blushing, she bowed her chin, hiding her face and eyes beneath a veil of curls which escaped from her braids.

  Chad leaned against his knee. John looked down. The small boy looked up, his neatly combed hair rippling back from wide, happy eyes. Although he didn't appear to know the words, that small detail did not keep Chad from singing along—loudly and off key. John rumpled the boy's hair, and was rewarded with a broad grin.

  He felt her gaze on him, and he bit his lip to keep from laughing. Lissa covered her mouth with one slim hand. Merriment sparkled in her eyes.

  "Do you know the words to this?" he whispered.

  "Try looking in the hymnal."

  He fumbled with the book. He wasn't sure what he was supposed to be looking for on those red-trimmed pages.

  Apparently, in the life he couldn't remember, he wasn't a churchgoer.

  Lissa reached for the hymnal and belatedly searched through the pages. She glanced over another woman's shoulder for the correct number.

  "Sorry," she whispered, half giggling.

  She must not be a regular churchgoer, either.

  Even though he had the lyrics in front of him, he didn't sing. His head pounded with a fury that made him weak, that sickened his stomach. He was content to listen to Lissa's soft, sweet soprano, and Chad's singing the wrong words half a beat late.

  When the hymn was finished the congregation fell silent, and so did Chad, pleased with his vocal performance.

  The minister's voice rose in prayer. John stood silent, aware of the boy gazing up at him, aware of Lissa at his side. Every time their gazes met, her eyes lit with silent amusement.

  Just looking at her made him hope. She was a better woman than most. He didn't know how, but he knew. Her face was delicately formed by a small, straight nose and high cheekbones. The tiny lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth had to have been etched there by a million smiles.

  She was his future now. He took solace in that.

  "Looks like there will be a wedding, after all." Blanche wrapped her up in a hug while a crowd gathered on the church lawn. "See, I told you everything would work out. And I was right. He's a handsome one."

  "Yes, he is." Lissa's gaze fell on her husband-to-be. Her heart clenched at the sight of his strong shoulders braced against what had to be enormous pain, pain he endured in silence while he spoke with Blanche's husband. "Chad likes him, too. That's the most important thing."

  Blanche's smile was pure happiness. "I'm so glad. Look, there's so much to do if we're going to get you married this afternoon."

  Lissa's pulse skipped. A wedding. That's what she wanted and needed, yet it felt so final. By tonight she would be John Murray's wife.

  Again, she turned to study him, the length of the crowded churchyard between them, and met John's smile. His gaze warmed her and gave her courage. He didn't look panicked, the way she felt. He looked calm, confident, without doubts.

  If only she could feel the same.

  He strode toward her, his face pale and drawn but determined. "Doc said I had to see him before I left town."

  "Are you sure you're feeling up to a wedding?" Lissa held back her hand, uncertain whether she should act on the urge to touch him. He wasn't her husband yet. "You're looking ashen."

  "I feel fine, considering."

  He wasn't fooling her—he was seriously injured. Yet he was determined to keep his word, to marry her.

  She realized that he might be doing this as much for himself as for her. What would it be like to wake up with no memory, with only emptiness? Did he feel lost and alone? Perhaps marrying her gave him somewhere to belong, someplace to be needed.

  He leaned close, smelling of clean man and sweet pine forest "I'll get your horse and wagon ready."

  "You don't have to—"

  "Yes, I do. I'm your husband now, remember?" His eyes seemed to smile, flickering midnight blue like the deepest part of dreams.

  "I'm not likely to forget." And how could she? He towered above her, all solid man and determination. Beneath his warm demeanor, she sensed John Murray was a man who got what he wanted.

  "Neither am I. You saved my life, Lissa." He squinted down at her, the sun in his face.

  Her heart twisted, and she heard what he did not say. "I was just protecting my best interests," she answered instead, meaning to tease when she felt otherwise.

  He smiled, and she knew he understood.

  Footsteps pounded on the earth behind them. The tightness in Lissa's throat eased when she saw her son dashing toward her, his hat brim flapping in the wind, his smile wide as the sky.

  "Mama!" He launched himself against her skirts and held her tight. "We were playin' tag."

  "It looks like you were having fun." She tugged on his hat brim and earned his chuckle.

  "Yep." Then Chad tilted his head and gazed up at John. "You got a big owie. Does it hurt lots?"

  "Not too bad." The big man gazed down at the boy with kindness in his voice, in his eyes, on his face.

  "You fought a big, mean mountain lion." Pride held up the boy. "Everyone said you were brave."

  "I guess I was probably pretty afraid, too." He had no memory of battling the wild cat. Only the deep claw marks on his chest testified to the struggle.

  "I get afraid sometimes, too." Chad shrugged and looked down at the ground. "My pa died."

  Sadness twisted through her, leaving her weak. But then John knelt down, one knee in the dirt, to look at her son on his level.

  "A pa is mighty important to a boy."

  "He sure is." Chad rubbed his eyes. "Mama said you're my pa now. You're gonna make the nights better."

  John glanced up at her, a question written plainly on his honest face.

  "Nightmares," she mouthed.

  He placed one capable hand on the boy's little shoulder. "I'm going to make the nights better, partner."

  And in that moment, when trust shone through Chad's grief like morning sunshine through fog, Lissa knew she would always be in debt to this man who could make such promises. She believed he would keep them.

  John halted his horse after he circled the
last bend in the road. Aspen and cottonwood leaves rustled in the wind, and the boughs of pine and fir swayed, scattering moving patches of shadow on seed-tipped grass. The scents of pollen and pine blended on the prairie fresh air.

  A yellow-throated lark zipped past, wings spread. John watched as the bird darted amid meadows thick with purple and gold wildflowers. Lissa's ranch—the land he'd traveled so far to protect, to claim.

  His breath stilled at the sight of neat rows of split rail fences marching across flat expanses of field and then climbing rolling hills into the far distance. Well-groomed horses stood drowsy in the hot afternoon shade. All this was framed by dense green forest and pastures where, in the distance, dark spots of cattle napped in the afternoon sun.

  He looked to his left and saw a neatly built, whitewashed barn. A tidy log home was at the center of the scene, facing west and the setting sun to take in the distant view of the blue tinted, snowcapped mountains.

  Speechless, he sat atop the bay and stared at the land— his land, his and Lissa's. Ever since he'd opened his eyes in Doc James's clinic, nothing had felt right, not his name, not this convenient marriage. But this—this rugged and beautiful land—did.

  Somewhere down deep where dreams lived, past the bleak fog of his memory, something sparked to life in his chest. A recognition, a piece of emotion, one that twisted hard in his throat and left him weak. He remembered a yearning for endless meadows and fresh air and a ranch of his own.

  Whatever had happened to him, he remembered that. It only proved how right his decision was, his determination to marry Lissa.

  Slowly sounds tore him away from admiring the view, the land that would be his. John headed the bay up the drive and took it all in—the parked buggies, wagons, and buckboards. Trestle tables were set up in the clipped grass yard. He heard the ring of children's voices laughing, playing a game, somewhere out of his sight.

  While he'd seen the doctor and bought necessities at the store, Lissa and her friends had been busy.

  That was all right with him. His gaze missed nothing, not the neat, solid build of the cabin or the glass panes so clean that they reflected the sun's rays like glints of fire. Not the neat yard and the organized beds of well-tended flowers, or the garden patch stretching out behind the clothesline, small plants reaching toward the Montana blue sky.

  "Are you Mr. Murray?" A lean, bearded young man strode close. "I'm Will Callahan, Lissa's ranch hand. It's a pleasure to know you."

  John dismounted and shook the man's hand. "Good to meet you, Will. Need any help?"

  "Nope. Got the horses tended to, and the chickens roasting. I will take your gelding, though."

  John handed over the reins, then swung the stiff new saddlebags from behind the worn saddle. He thanked the hand and headed toward the house.

  A woman nearly crashed into him and almost lost her plate of fragrant cornbread. "My goodness, excuse me!"

  He let her pass through the doorway before he dared step foot inside the house.

  Neat and cozy—he'd expected that much. Lissa's caring hand was everywhere. The polished furniture shone. Colorful, hand-braided rugs brightened the honey wood of walls and floor. Touches like a colorful quilt hung on the front room wall, the cloth over the table, and the crocheted lace at the windows all whispered the same word: Home. John's chest tightened. He suspected he hadn't had a place to call home for a long time.

  "The bridegroom is here!" Blanche Buchman emerged from the hallway, dressed in ruffles and lace. "John, you aren't dressed. And look—" She craned her neck to see out the window. "The reverend just pulled in. Quick, step into Chad's room and get into your good clothes."

  He didn't argue, didn't see how he could. He swung the saddlebags over his shoulder and stepped into the small, sun-filled bedroom.

  The trill of women's laughter and the scents of competing perfumes faded when he closed the door. He took in the room. He was glad to see Lissa's touches there, too. A handmade quilt with fabric cowboy hats and horses decorated the corner bed. Matching curtains framed the small window. A cat reclining on a pillow stopped licking, studied him, found him wanting, and resumed her grooming.

  John set his bags on the floor. He needed to get ready for his wedding. Lissa was counting on him. So was Chad.

  He had discovered something today that troubled him. When he mounted his horse at the livery stable, the stirrups were a few inches too short. He'd dismounted and looked at the buckles. A crease worn into the leather showed the stirrups had been at the shorter length for a long time.

  Odd—the livery owner had sworn it was John's horse and saddle. Not wanting to argue, he'd thanked the man and headed home, all the time wondering why he had a horse that wasn't his. The animal shied from him, didn't nicker or show signs of recognition.

  Had he been robbed? Had the robber taken his horse and left him with a lower quality animal? The gelding was no expensive horse, but worthy. His billfold was still thick with money.

  John unbuckled his packs. Inside were the clothes he'd purchased for his wedding—a white shirt, a black tie, trousers to match. He laid the garments on Chad's bed and considered them.

  He could hear Lissa's voice, muffled by the thick wood walls, low and pleasant as she talked with her friends. The anticipation in her voice was unmistakable. He couldn't burden her with his worries. They weren't worries, really— just questions needing explanations.

  There was a logical explanation. He felt certain of it He was just nervous, that was all. Any man would be. Besides, if he wasn't John Murray, then the real one would have shown up for the wedding. As far as he could tell, he was the only John Murray in attendance.

  Just nerves, he told himself. Someone had tried to rob him, failed, and shot him in the head. It wasn't the first time such a crime had happened in this frontier land.

  As far as husbands went, Lissa knew she couldn't find a better candidate than John Murray. Blanche squeezed her hand. "Nervous?"

  "Very." Lissa ran her hands down the rich satin overskirt of her dress, smoothing the expensive fabric. The garment had been an impulse purchase during her and Michael's last trip to Billings, and it hurt to remember.

  "You look beautiful, just the way a bride should." Blanche sighed, the brush of her hand on Lissa's that of comfort. "You're doing the right thing. You know that."

  "I do." Think of the future. Think of what's at stake. She and Chad needed John, and she had the feeling John needed her. Why else would he insist on marrying her, just as they had planned? Nerves clamped in her stomach, leaving her nauseated and unsteady. "I need to be alone for a few minutes."

  "Of course." Blanche stepped back. "I'll be waiting for you. In front of the minister. With your handsome groom. I'll try to keep my hands off him."

  "You're a married woman," Lissa teased. "Behave."

  "I'm not making any promises." Blanche pranced from the room.

  Alone, Lissa studied her reflection in the bureau's beveled mirror. A pale face stared back at her, and she winced. She was not at her best. Exhaustion bruised the skin beneath her eyes. Tension crinkled around her eyes. Goodness, it was a wonder John hadn't taken one look at her and run for Canada.

  Lissa turned to study her room—the bureau with half the drawers empty and waiting for her new husband's clothes, the bed made crisp and neat, all ready for tonight, where they would sleep together. Her stomach flip-flopped.

  She was ready for this. She was. In a few minutes she would become John Murray's wife. She would have a new name, a new husband, and a new future.

  There was only one last thing to do.

  She grabbed the bouquet she'd picked from her garden, a collection of white-petaled daisies, purple asters, and yellow-centered sunflowers. The house felt empty as she ambled down the hall. Everyone was outside, anticipating the wedding, and she wanted it that way. She needed to do this alone.

  On a sigh, Lissa pushed open the kitchen door and stepped out into the late afternoon sun. Sunlight slanted through the gracefully l
imbed pines, and she hurried through the dappled shade, past the vegetable garden, to the rising hill beyond.

  Michael's headstone faced the sun and the distant peaks of the mountains. Her feet felt heavy as she approached.

  She shifted her stiff skirts and knelt before the grave. Like this marriage today, hers and Michael's had been a practical one, but love had grown from it.

  She would not make that mistake a second time. Over the years of her life, she'd buried those she had loved one by one: her parents, her brothers, her babies, and her husband—everyone but Chad. After the grief and heartache, Lissa had to face the truth. She had no more pieces of her heart to spare.

  "Forgive me." She knew it was time. She had to let go, move forward, but she would not forget.

  She laid the flowers on Michael's grave and blew him a kiss. It was the last time she would visit this site, the last time she would let herself ache for what might have been.

  Love was unnecessary to survival, but one's heart, that was very important, indeed.

  Lissa rose and headed back to the house. Her skirts rustled in the seed-tipped grasses as she walked. Larks and finches and blue jays chirped in the meadow and up high in the trees. As she tried to leave her grief behind, the birdsong felt encouraging, a sign that she was doing the right thing.

  She looked up, startled to find John leaning against the side of the house, hands tucked in his trouser pockets, waiting for her. How handsome he looked, how dependable. His shoulders were straight and unbowed, his chin cocked, his mouth looking ready to smile. She blushed, hoping he couldn't guess her thoughts, and lowered her gaze.

  "Saying good-bye?" he said, that gentle and low voice beckoning her close.

  His understanding touched her, and she could only nod.

  "I'm glad to know you loved your husband so much. That's something a man wants in a wife." He held out his hand. "Come, our guests are waiting. Unless you've changed your mind?"

  "No. Have you?"

  "Not a chance." He knelt down and lifted a bunch of flowers from the ground, a spray of wild roses. "I picked these for you."