Jillian Hart Page 8

  "Are you coming next Thursday?" Susan asked after she'd cut a length of cloth for Mrs. Halverston. "We've missed you. Now that you have that big, strong husband of yours to run the ranch, maybe you'll have time for us now and then."

  "I would love to." How she had missed the Sweetwater Gulch Ladies' Club meetings. With Michael gone, it seemed she'd never had one spare minute to herself. "Jack is still so injured. I'm not sure if I can leave him this week."

  "Already planning on leaving me, huh?" His voice rippled across her like ice water, invigorating enough to make her shiver. "I thought you'd give me at least a week."

  He winked and made Susan flutter in appreciation. Lissa took a deep breath, sizing up the man she had married—not bad, not bad at all.

  "Mama, Pa likes peppermint too," Chad said, his eager gaze already fastening on the colorful glass jars decorating the counter.

  "Aren't we lucky?" She laughed as Susan reached for a small paper sack. Candy crinkled and cascaded into the bag, drawing more delight from Chad.

  "I'm gettin' a hammer all my own." Pride lifted the boy up, made him seem so changed, and all for the better.

  Whatever Jack Murray was, whatever he wanted, she owed him much more than she could ever repay.

  "Give me some of those cinnamon ones, too," he told Susan. "Now, when's this get-together?"

  "Thursday afternoon. Every Thursday afternoon." Susan handed him the bag with a grin. "If you're the man I think you are, you'll want your wife to be there. We raise money for many important projects right here in town."

  "Susan," Lissa scolded. "Don't mislead the poor man."

  "Well, we raised all the funds for the new schoolhouse. And last year we bought the bell."

  "My wife will be there," he promised.

  The look he gave her made Lissa's toes curl. She could read it in his eyes—how he wanted her to go, simply because she wanted to.

  "I'll be just fine, Lissa," he said low, so close that only she could hear the rich timbre of his voice, smell his wood and man scent. "I know these past few months have been hard without Michael. But all that's changed now. I'm here. You go to your meeting. You have fun. It's what I want."

  Tears filled her eyes, and gratefulness that this man she hardly knew understood.

  She let him take her hand when they left the store, Chad munching on his candy. When Jack helped her up into the wagon, she felt the strength in him, the ease as he nearly lifted her, and her pulse fluttered. She felt all aglow.

  "Murray." That lone, cold voice could only belong to one man.

  Lissa turned to see Ike Palmer, his sheriff's badge winking in the low sunlight. In a flash she saw the hard set of Ike's eyes, his fists and the wide-legged stance that meant trouble.

  Jack faced the lawman with apparent ease. "What can I do for you, Sheriff?"

  "I've been meaning to come out to the ranch and talk with you."

  "About what?"

  "The man you shot and killed."

  Jack considered the sheriff's words. He did not miss the double holstered Colt Peacemakers strapped to Palmer's thighs, loaded and ready, or the glint of dislike in the man's steely eyes. "That criminal was on my property, shooting at me and attempting to steal my cattle."

  "It didn't take you long to push your way in and take over." A blood vessel stood out in the lawman's forehead.

  "That land was legally mine the moment I married Lissa. It's one reason why I came to Montana." Jack wondered what the lawman was up to. "Have I broken the law?"

  He heard the shuffling of Lissa's skirts. "Ike, I don't like this. You know those rustlers have targeted my ranch. Why—"

  "It's my job," Palmer interrupted, his jaw clenched. "Catching those rustlers is my responsibility. Not yours, and not some man you married for his gunpower."

  Jack didn't like the sheriff's insinuation—Lissa was his wife, and she deserved respect—yet his guts told him Ike Palmer was just waiting for an opportunity, just waiting.

  Jack refused to give Palmer the fight he was looking for. He held his anger in check and purged it from his voice before he spoke. "I used to wear a badge, same as you, Ike. I'm not looking for trouble."

  "Then you will come with me now. We can talk."

  "Ike—" Lissa protested.

  "It's fine. The sheriff and I will talk. I imagine he wants to know what I can remember of those rustlers, since he's so eager to hunt them down."

  "That's right, Murray." A smile twisted along the lawman's face, but it wasn't pleasant. "Let's go."

  Jack had no choice. He told Lissa to drive the wagon around to the back, of the store, where Susan's husband had promised to load up their newly purchased guns and lumber.

  Worry lined her pretty face and made everything he was trying to accomplish fade.

  "I won't be long," he promised. "Take Chad home. I'll find my way there."

  "Jack."

  He turned around.

  "Ike wanted to marry me. I never told you. I guess he's mad because I turned him down so many times."

  "I can handle him." He took a step. "You really turned him down, huh?"

  "I did. For you."

  Her smile touched him, soft as rain, as gentle as dreams. So she hadn't married him out of desperation. She had married him out of choice.

  All in all, that was good to know, very good indeed. As he strode after the sheriff, his heart felt lighter.

  The inside of the jail looked familiar, not this particular building but the barred windows and stone walls and the feel of the office. He saw edges of memories, but nothing more.

  A positive sign. He knew he'd been a deputy before. Perhaps it was only a matter of time until he remembered.

  "Sit," the sheriff bellowed, rough and hard.

  Jack didn't like Ike Palmer's attitude, but he sat down, anyway—best to get this ordeal over with. "What do you want to know, Sheriff?"

  Palmer's boots rang with each step. "I want to know about this man you killed."

  "I don't know who I killed. I was told no one recognized him."

  "Did you shoot first, or did he?"

  "I did." Jack formed fists, refusing to be intimidated by the lawman's cold stare. "He was on my land and stealing my cattle."

  "It wasn't self-defense."

  "Cattle rustling is a hanging offense in these parts."

  "So's murder."

  Jack's patience snapped. "We both know I'm no murderer. I stopped a crime."

  "You killed a man."

  "I only meant to unseat him from his horse. I only wanted to stop the rustling, and bring the men to justice. There's no law against that, as far as I know."

  A muscle jumped along Ike's clenched jaw. He curled beefy fingers around the back of a wooden chair and pulled it out from beneath his desk with a splintering scrape.

  "Now you listen up, Murray. I don't care if you once were a deputy. I'm the law around here. And I do things my way. It isn't your job to bring in those rustlers. It's mine. Got it?"

  "Then do your job, Sheriff." Jack bolted out of the chair. Anger licked through him. "There are men stealing from an innocent woman. If you don't put a stop to it, I will."

  His threat lingered in the room, echoed in the single, empty cell.

  Palmer's eyes hardened. "Then we're in agreement. Do you remember what the men looked like?"

  "They were too distant to see well."

  "You weren't close enough to see their faces?"

  "No. Nothing stands out in my mind. If I remember anything, you will be the first to know. I want those men caught."

  "So do I." Unrelenting, the sheriff didn't blink or move. "I am working to catch those rustlers."

  Jack felt some of the anger ease from his tight chest. "Let me know what I can do to help."

  "The next time you have trouble, you send for me instead of taking after them yourself."

  There was no chance of that, though Jack nodded and tipped his hat. Sunshine blinded him when he stepped out into the street. He felt Palmer's gaze,
felt the hard, hot fury of the sheriff's jealousy.

  "Jack!" Lissa's voice spun him around. There she stood, haloed by the long, lean rays of a golden sun near to setting. Her checked skirts flicked in the breeze, the same one that tossed fine, gold curls across her pretty, heart-shaped face.

  "Pa!" Chad dashed across the street, hat brim flapping with each bounding step.

  Jack knelt down to greet the boy. "What have you and your mother been up to?"

  "Lookin' at the feed store." Chad sighed.

  Apparently that place wasn't fun to shop in. "Feed store? I thought buying feed was my job."

  Lissa swept closer. "No, it's mine. I thought since I had the wagon already here, I would load up on more grain."

  Running the ranch was his job. Jack held back the words because he didn't want to argue. Lissa brushed those curls from her face, and the way she looked made him feel changed and new—as if he was looking upon paradise for the first time and liked the view.

  "Is there a good place to eat around here?"

  "Maggie's Diner." She lifted one graceful hand and gestured, palm up, toward a neat little blue building.

  Chad tugged on Jack's hand. "They got good pie there."

  "Good pie. There's nothing more tempting than a good piece of pie." His gaze fell on Lissa, and on the way her eyes sparkled so blue and merry. "Well, almost nothing as tempting."

  It was true—Lissa Banks Murray tempted him far more than a plate of sweets ever could.

  "Behave yourself," she admonished, but she laughed, too.

  He couldn't help but wish away the sharp blows of pain in his skull. He couldn't help wishing he was well enough to show her just how tempting she was.

  "Ouch." He jumped beneath her touch.

  "It's just an herbal salve." Lissa fingered a blob of the mashed, crisp-smelling yarrow leaves over the entire length of the stitches on his chest.

  His hot, hard, very well-made chest.

  She swallowed and dipped her finger into the small jar.

  "It stings." He gazed up at her from his perch on the kitchen chair, broad shoulders washed by steady lamplight. "Doc didn't say I needed any of that."

  "He wouldn't. It's a Crow Indian cure." Lissa snatched up a fresh strip of cloth and pressed it over his wound. Her hand buzzed from contact with his skin. Sensation telegraphed through every part of her body.

  Goodness. Lissa took a deep breath and tried to calm her beating heart. She was not looking for love, not even sexual pleasure. Heavens. The thought of being pleasured by her masculine, hard-bodied husband left her blushing.

  That was no way to think about an injured man. Determined, Lissa wrapped strips of cotton around the breadth of his chest to hold the medicine and bandage tightly in place. "What did Ike want?"

  "The sheriff is not a friendly man." Jack breathed in, hiding his pain, but she could feel the tension in his ribs.

  "Ike Palmer isn't known for his good humor." Lissa tied the end of the bandage tight. "Did he give you a hard time?"

  "Something like that." Jack caught her hand. His fingers, strong columns, heated her skin. "Don't worry. I can handle the likes of him."

  As dangerous as any outlaw, Jack rose from the chair with lethal grace and raw power. He snagged his shirt and slipped into it, wincing when he moved his chest, then his arm.

  Lissa watched the fabric cover his exposed body from sight, felt regret as he fumbled with the buttons. "I can help," she offered, stepping forward.

  "I appreciate it. My arm hurts."

  The buttons felt smooth against her fingertips. As she fit button to stitched buttonhole, she lost her concentration. He towered over her, so close she could feel the heat from his body, see the stubble rough on his jaw, so close their breaths mingled.

  She remembered the kiss they'd shared, the warm, velvet brand of his mouth, and how her heart had stopped beating. Now it drummed fast and hard, anticipating the dip of his head, the drawing closer of his lips, the closing of the distance between them.

  He tasted like sweetened coffee. He felt like a late night dream, all sensation and a whirling, out of control, feeling. She gave up her task and laid her hands flat against the breadth of his chest. Beneath the layers of cotton and sun-browned male skin and steely muscles beat his heart, as fast and furious as her own.

  She wasn't ready for this—It was too soon, it was too much—but she closed her eyes and gave in to the dizzying heat of his kiss. It felt so good she wanted him to never stop. She curled her hands in the fabric of his shirt and held on.

  His thumb brushed the curve of her chin, sweet and tender, the way a lover's would. She opened her eyes to see him watching her, dark shadows haunting his eyes.

  "I was afraid that you might not want me, but after kissing you I know I was wrong. You are a passionate woman, Lissa Murray."

  Lissa Murray. It was the first time anyone had called her that. It felt strange, as if she were a whole new person, someone who could leave the past in the grave, where it belonged. Yet she was afraid, as if letting go of Michael would erase all the happiness they had shared—when her love for him dimmed he would be gone as if he'd never lived.

  "You promised me hot chocolate," he whispered in her ear, the brush of his breath meant to tickle her ear and make her shiver deep inside.

  It did.

  "I'll put more wood on the stove," he offered.

  "Your injuries are never going to heal if you keep moving around."

  "I don't want you packing wood, Lissa. It's my job now."

  That was another thing. Jack's opinion of what his duties were had changed drastically since the letters he'd sent her.

  "It can be your job later, as soon as those stitches come out," she argued.

  "Forget it I'm getting the wood, and that's that. The man of the house has spoken," he said roughly, but his blue eyes twinkled, and she wasn't fooled.

  "Well, the woman of the house says you had better watch your step, or you'll be sleeping out with the cows."

  "That's where you're wrong." Dimples flashed in his cheeks as he headed for the backdoor. "I'm never sleeping anywhere but at your side for the rest of my life. You can count on it."

  He strode out into the darkness, leaving her alone with the cat and the rise of Chad's voice as he played with his toy horses.

  Winston hopped onto the table, hoping to find the lid to the cookie crock ajar. Lissa took a while to notice. She shooed the cat back onto the floor, but she couldn't seem to take her gaze from the door, and she couldn't breathe quite the same when Jack ambled back into the room, handily balancing several sticks of cut wood in his muscle-hewn arms.

  The memory came to him in dreams.

  The burning heat of a late summer Montana sun, the crisp scent of sage, baked earth, and browned bunchgrass. A rock had found its way into his boot, and it bit at the ball of his left foot every time he stepped. He kept low, running on bent knees beneath the cover of scrub brush. The rustling whisper of cottonwood leaves hid the sound of his steps.

  Danger. It thinned his blood and sharpened his senses. He heard the low buzz of voices at the water's edge, the almost silent rush of a deep, flowing river, and the twitter of larks swooping low in the grass made heavy by full, dried seeds. He held a rifle in one hand and a Colt Peacemaker in the other.

  "Jack." A touch to his shoulder, and he jerked upright, bounding out of the chair.

  The sense of danger faded. Lamplight surrounded him, illuminating the front room of his new home. The sofa behind him bore a small, hand-worked pillow and a closed child's storybook.

  "You fell asleep reading to Chad. I put him to bed." Lissa reached for the book and hugged it to her chest. Her uncertain gaze met his. "It's only nine o'clock. I think you're not doing as well as you keep pretending."

  Jack rubbed his forehead. A deputy from St. Louis—that's what he was. He'd never been in Montana until now. What he'd remembered, that had been a dream, not a memory—not like Lissa.

  She laid a gentle hand on
his shoulder and steered him toward the hallway. Nighttime made the cabin cozy, the dancing light from the lamps felt like a warm hug.

  Home. He'd come home. That was all that mattered—not the past, not the man he had been, but the man he was now, and Lissa, who left fire everywhere she touched him, who made desire burn in his blood.

  She was his wife. And he wanted her. How he wanted her.

  Chapter Eight

  "Look who decided to join us," Blanche greeted from her place at the James's kitchen table. "Is that your apple pie I smell?"

  "The one and only." Lissa laughed, careful to keep her pie plate balanced while she accepted hugs from Maggie and Felicity. "I had to bake one for Jack and Chad so I could take this one out of the house."

  "How is married life treating you?" Susan asked from her place at the table beside Blanche.

  "Tell us all about it." Maggie lifted one brow.

  "If I had a handsome man like that, I couldn't keep my hands off him," Felicity teased.

  "We know." Maggie rolled her eyes, making everyone laugh.

  "Being newly wed means being short of sleep," Sophie Johanson added.

  "She looks well rested to me," Blanche observed.

  Why, they all thought—Lissa blushed. Her friends assumed she and Jack had consummated their marriage.

  "Let me take that pie off your hands," Maggie offered. She stole the plate and scurried off to the kitchen counter. Delicious treats sat on pretty plates awaiting consumption.

  "I guess we're all here." Felicity pulled out the chair at the head of the table. "Let the Sweetwater Gulch Ladies' Club meeting begin."

  Susan Russell produced a new box of playing cards. Maggie circled the table with a teapot and a coffeepot, one in each hand. Cups were filled, sugar and cream stirred, and the desserts distributed, all while the shopkeeper's wife dealt.

  "Five card stud, aces wild," she called. As always, at the end of the game, all winnings would be donated to the club's latest cause.

  Lissa reached into her reticule and pulled out her bulging coin purse. She emptied shiny coins onto the crisp, lace tablecloth.