Jillian Hart Read online

  Shots tore through the grove of alder and maple. John slid from his mount and ducked behind a solid tree trunk. Will, safe behind a moss-covered boulder, fired in return. John thumbed bullets into the empty chamber, spun it, and waited. The gunfire grew nearer.

  "See to the other men," he shouted to Will. "They are going to ride straight into this."

  With a nod, Will disappeared on foot, the brush and thick limbs obscuring him within seconds. John listened and waited before he wove through trees and bushes, and listened again.

  A snap of a twig came from ahead of him, and to his right. He thumbed back the hammer, holding the revolver steady with both hands, and closed one eye. The world spun with his dizziness, but he concentrated hard.

  Then he saw the slant of a cowboy hat and the flash of a rifle. His finger squeezed the trigger, then froze. He wanted to see the man before he brought him down. He didn't know if the men from the wedding party had caught up with them. He didn't want to shoot one of the good men.

  A slant of shadowed twilight, dispersed by wind-tossed leaves, shivered over the man—not friend, but foe, rough, ugly, unkempt, unwashed, and dangerous. John fought to keep the gun steady, then fired.

  Missed.

  "Damn."

  The dizziness was only getting worse, but it was no excuse. He thumbed back the hammer, and the gun jammed. He slammed it hard against his palm. Then, when the chamber didn't turn, he banged it against the side of a tree trunk.

  His heartbeat tripled. Worry licked at his spine. His mind remained clear and calm, though, as he tried to spin the stubborn chamber. It turned, but already he saw the shadows in the underbrush. He dropped to the ground as fire flashed. A bullet bit into his flesh along the outer edge of his bicep, enough to make the arm hurt too much to use.

  Angry now, John rose up and aimed with one hand. The rustler was already running, and John did, too. He crashed through fern and flower, tripped over rocks and rotting logs. Holding the gun steady, he squeezed off a single shot and grazed the rustler's hat. He aimed again, his last bullet, as the toe of his left boot caught in a rotten log and he tumbled forward.

  The gun flew from his hand, hitting the ground and firing wild. John held out both hands, but he was already falling.

  "Jeremiah!" Lissa called out as she swung down from Charlie's broad back. Twilight began to deepen, but even in the dimness she could see the devastation on the man's face.

  "Lissa, you shouldn't be here. Not with those rustlers on the loose." Jeremiah strode toward her, his hand extended, as if to turn her and lead her from the meadow.

  "I heard gunfire." Cold fear banded her chest. "Where is John?"

  Jeremiah stared off at the horizon where night began. "I'm sorry, Lissa. Callahan and Miller are carrying him out."

  "He's dead?" Her body failed her. She rocked against Charlie's flank, and the big horse held her up as shock turned her limbs and mind numb. Dead. "But he—"

  "No." Jeremiah's hands caught hers, but she couldn't feel them. "He's been shot, Lissa. He's pretty weak—"

  The doctor had warned against further injury. She tore away from her old friend's grip, hampered by the bothersome skirts of the fashionable dress. "Where is he? I have to see him."

  "He's—"

  Movement in the wooded grove sent Lissa racing across the wildflower dotted field. Will Callahan emerged from the shadows, striding alongside a tall, wide-shouldered man. Dark hair blowing in the wind, John faced her, a wry pinch to his mouth.

  "I'm sorry, Lissa. I almost had them."

  "Looks like you put a bullet in half the gang." Will swept off his hat. "Lissa, your groom is quite a shot."

  John shrugged, lifting one shoulder, then wincing with pain. "It wasn't so hard. Next time I'll be well enough to bring those outlaws down, and that will be the end of their raiding."

  "And harming innocent ranchers." Or killing you. Lissa bit back the angry words. "You're bleeding."

  "Took a bullet in the arm. Nothing serious."

  "Nothing serious?" Really? He could barely stand up. Crimson seeped through the bandage across his forehead, and spots of red stained his shirt. "You've torn your stitches."

  "Good thing we invited Doc to the wedding," he said in that voice—low, not flip, strong and deep and confident.

  She caught his injured arm. "That's no excuse, and you know it."

  "You're in trouble now." Jeremiah winked at him across Lissa's blond head.

  Big trouble—he gazed down into her fiery eyes and saw the hidden fury. So, the quiet little sparrow had passion. That intrigued him. He would have figured her for a warm sort of woman, cozy and comforting, not a steel-spined spitfire.

  She kept it well hidden. He could see that. She shielded that fury behind concern for his arm. She tugged the seared cloth away from the bullet wound.

  "Ow," he hissed.

  "Sorry." He didn't think she was. "That bullet didn't just graze you. Doc needs to take a look at this."

  "No more doctors." He meant it, even if the pain in his head threatened to bring him to his knees. "I just need to lie down for a bit."

  "You need stitches." Jaw tight, Lissa wrestled a folded handkerchief from her pocket. Her full skirts swayed with her savage steps. "Stand still, John."

  "Why are you so angry?" he whispered, aware of the dozen men watching him, curious about the newlyweds' first fight.

  "I'm not angry." She avoided his gaze as she tied the cloth tight around his injury, then knotted it.

  Sharp pain sliced through his biceps. John, sensing he shouldn't argue, clenched his teeth. She was afraid. Anyone could see it. Tears glittered in her eyes, unfallen and stubborn, as she reached up to check the bandage at his brow.

  "You've torn open the wound, but these stitches might have held." She stepped back. "Can you make it back to the house?"

  He caught her hand between his, felt her trembling. She'd been afraid for him. She'd been afraid for herself and her son. He could guess why. She needed him. She needed a man's protection in this rugged country.

  "Don't worry, Lissa. I won't get myself killed." He offered his hand to help her up onto her broad-backed Clydesdale.

  "You'd better not." She smiled thinly through her worry. "Michael doesn't have any more unmarried cousins."

  She mounted with a rustle of satin and a whisper of lace, her graceful beauty striking against the raw power of the surrounding wilderness.

  She was no delicate flower, easily battered by a hard north wind. She was like a willow, able to bend but not break.

  Warmth expanded in the center of his chest He liked this woman and her combination of fragility and strength.

  Chapter Six

  "I made you some fresh tea." Lissa stepped into the room—her bedroom—and was startled to see John shirtless before the window.

  "Tea sounds great." He turned, appreciation tugging at his mouth. The sheen of lantern light caressed the sun-kissed skin of his back, illuminating delineated muscle and spine.

  "I brought a slice of wedding cake, too." She set the tray on the bureau, her pulse thundering in her ears.

  She saw the reflection of the bed in the mirror. The big, four-poster frame dominated the room. Her colorful garden basket quilt seemed to draw attention to the soft expanse of feather ticking and plump pillows.

  "After enduring Doc James's stitches a second time, I could use some sweets." He spoke over the clatter of the flatware and tin dishes.

  "You have a sweet tooth?" she found herself asking just to cover the nerves clenching around her stomach.

  "I must. I'm awful partial to that cake."

  "You didn't mention it in the letters."

  "I guess I didn't mention a lot of things." He nodded toward the window, darkly reflecting the room. "This is really something, this place you have here."

  "I'm glad you think so." She saw the lift of his chin, the gleam of satisfaction in his gaze. "You said you've always wanted a ranch of your own. Are you disappointed?"

  "In
this spread?"

  She nodded, nerves clenching more tightly until she couldn't breathe. So much depended on this man—her happiness, her son's, their very future.

  "How could any man want more?" Sincerity rumbled in his voice. "I never imagined a place like this could be mine."

  "You like it, then? The barn's roof needs repairs, and—"

  "I'll fix it." He let the curtain fall.

  "The house is small."

  "I like small." Lamplight shifted across the planes and contours of his face, masculine and striking, and kind as the night was long—so kind. "I'm happy I'm here."

  "So am I." Her heart thudded. Kindness in this man, practically a stranger, came as a surprise. He'd been cool in his letters. Perhaps, she thought now, his emotionless tone in his writing had more to do with his losses and grief.

  "How are you feeling?"

  "You mean the stitches? They're sore, but I'm tough." His arm brushed hers. Awareness skidded across her skin. "Judging by the scars all over me, I'm used to a few scrapes."

  "A few scrapes? You were shot. Twice."

  "I wish I could remember the man who gave me this." He rubbed his forehead. "I'd like to haul him in to the sheriff."

  "No one recognized the man you shot today." She watched him spoon sugar into his tea—such strong hands. "He isn't from around here. At least, not that anyone knows."

  "The rustlers must avoid town. Probably wise." He set down the spoon, leaving the tea swirling in the simple tin cup.

  For the first time, Lissa truly wished she had nice dishes, something fine for this man to drink from. Michael's family came from money, and the scent of fineness clung to John, in the straightness of his posture, in his easy command of those around him.

  She'd come from plain people herself, and later, as an orphan, she'd had even less. Now, she wished she could give her new husband all he deserved. He had risked his life today, when he could barely walk, to protect what was theirs.

  "I suppose a lot of the folks around here knew when I was arriving." He sipped the hot, soothing tea, his gaze watching her over the rim of the cup—intelligent eyes.

  Lissa wondered what he was thinking. "Why, yes. The wedding was planned ahead of time. We agreed."

  He set the cup down. "And by the looks of things, the entire town was invited."

  "Times have been hard around here. With the diphtheria passing through this last winter and the drought before that, people deserved a good party." She avoided the bed and pulled the hardwood rocker out from the corner.

  She thought of offering it to him, but he reached for the plate and fork and turned toward the window. His limp was more pronounced. She remembered the doctor mentioning a cracked ankle.

  She settled her weight in the rocker, and a joint in the wood creaked.

  "Maybe I wasn't robbed," he said, so grim that even the ticking of the clock seemed to still.

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean, maybe someone was waiting. Maybe someone wanted to kill me. Why else would I have a bullet wound in my forehead? Maybe it wasn't a robbery attempt Maybe those rustlers figured they didn't want a man with a gun running them off. Cattle can be a valuable business, especially rustled cattle."

  Lissa paled. "But there was a mountain lion. Surely that wasn't planned."

  "It was common knowledge when I was supposed to arrive, and where I would be riding." He set down the plate with the cake half-finished, with a clank on the bureau's edge. "From what I hear, half the town had an opinion about you marrying a city dweller you'd never even met."

  "You think the men stealing my cattle tried to kill you?"

  "They've killed before."

  She said nothing. He watched her stare hard at her hands, her face a hard line. "And they thought they could steal my heifers while we were getting married."

  "Looks that way to me." He couldn't tell if she was angry or frightened. He didn't know her well enough to interpret the stiff line of her jaw. He knelt beside her and covered her hands, so tightly clenched, so surprisingly strong, with his. "Don't you worry, Lissa. I know one end of a gun from another. No outlaw has killed me yet. I'm not about to let that happen now."

  "I want your word." Her chin lifted. Fire flashed in her eyes, that passion he'd seen a hint of before. "I don't want you to risk your life over this."

  "You could lose this place. We could lose it." He squeezed her hands gently. They felt cool against his skin. "We're in this together now, Lissa. You and me. I don't want you to worry. I'm not a reckless man, but I am a damn good shot."

  "That's what Will said." She breathed the words, soft as music, drawing like melody. "Whatever you did out there, you impressed him."

  "He's young."

  "He thinks you can rid this place of those violent rustlers." Something attractive, something that looked like pride, glimmered in her eyes, strengthened her voice. "I don't want to bury another husband. I want you to remember that the next time you race off with a gun."

  "I'll remember." He ached to brush away the curled tendrils of gold that brushed the sweet skin of her brow, but he held back. "I want this to be a good marriage. A real one."

  Her throat worked. "So do I."

  Her gaze traveled to the bed, neatly made and waiting, and guessed her anxieties. "Is Chad in bed for the night?"

  "He was hoping you could come read to him, like you promised in your letters. But I told him you didn't feel well tonight."

  His brows knit together. "What other promises did I make?"

  "To build him a tree house. To take him riding."

  "Easy enough promises to keep." Good humor tugged at his mouth, warmed his words. "What promises did I make you?"

  Her gaze strayed to the bed. "You said you'd give me time."

  "I see." He paused, silence falling between them. "That's one promise I don't want to keep for too long."

  She blushed. So male-hot and iron hard, he squeezed her fingers gently, the way a lover might. She had hoped some memory would return to him so that they would not have to discuss this. Again, she stared at the bed.

  "It's late." He stood, moving away with his limping gait, head held high despite the pain. "I'm going to go to sleep. Which side of the bed should I take?"

  Her throat closed. "The left side."

  Michael's side. As if he heard her thoughts, he said nothing. The knell of his boots stopped at the bureau. Light brushed across the muscular planes of his back and highlighted the crisp white bandage on the outer edge of his upper arm. At least he understood she needed time before they...before they were...intimate.

  Still, that bed was small. The thought of lying beside him made her breath catch.

  She heard the sound of fabric hitting the floor and leaped from her rocker. He was undressing! She caught a flash of white drawers, lean hips, and bare thighs. She headed straight for the door.

  "I guess I should have warned you." His voice trailed out into the hall. "I just figured you'd seen more of me than this when I was unconscious."

  "I didn't." The words tangled in her throat. She watched his hands hesitate at the waistband of his drawers, as if he were thinking twice about slipping them down. "Did you happen to buy a nightshirt when you went to the store today?"

  "I don't wear one." His eyes sparkled.

  Goodness. That meant... His hands stayed on his hips, ready to whisk those drawers off at any moment. Flustered, she fumbled for the doorknob. "I don't think I'm ready for this."

  "Then you'd better leave." He winked.

  Her face grew heated. She closed the door. John Murray was much more of a man than she had anticipated—maybe even more than she wanted.

  He expected a real marriage. She was afraid, because he wanted what she could not give.

  "Jack."

  He spun away from the steel bars of the jail, the ring of keys in one fist. Sunlight slatted through the open door, offering a glimpse of the dusty street. A tall man filled the threshold, a badge on his chest. "Here's another reason why y
ou can't leave. You'll miss locking up the criminals. Face it. You like the power. "

  "I would like something different." His own voice and the yearning for wide open spaces.

  Jack, Jack, Jack...

  He sprang up in bed. Pain drummed in his head, making the dream fade. He tried to snatch back the pieces, tried to remember. He'd almost had it—the sliver of an image, of something tangible. What was it? He was in a jail. He was locking up a criminal. He was leaving his job. Yes, that was right.

  Was the dream a piece of true memory? It had to be. He had read in Jeremiah's letter how he had once been a deputy, and he already knew he wanted his own ranch. This only confirmed it, and made something more important clear.

  Jack, Jack, Jack... The name echoed in his head, cracked with the pain through his skull. He tried to remember, but there was only blackness and a void.

  His breathing slowed. Moonlight peeked through the edges of the curtains, painting the room with a pale glow. The room felt silent. He turned and saw the bed beside him was empty.

  Lissa filled his mind—her cinnamon scent, her musical voice, the light of her smile. He could relax now. All the pieces fit. The troubled feeling in his gut was better now. He knew what was wrong. He knew what was right. Finally.

  A floorboard creaked in the hallway. He waited as the doorknob turned and Lissa's presence filled the room. The swirl of cotton, the pad of quietly placed feet, the sweet rhythm of her movements. "You're awake."

  "Yep." He rubbed his brow, wishing away the pain. He needed a clear head. He had the rustlers, this new marriage, and this woman to figure out—no easy task. "I remembered my nickname."

  "John is a pretty hard name to shorten." She reached for her buttonhook, and it rattled against the wooden surface of the bureau.

  "I know my own name when I hear it. Call me Jack."

  "Jack? That doesn't sound right." She leaned forward to unbutton her shoes. "Michael always referred to you as John, although your father is also named John. You mentioned it in one of your letters."

  "That explains it, then. It's awkward having two Johns in the same family." Yes, that explained it, all right, and he was glad.