The stranger ignored the pregnant girl. He scooped both boxes of cartridges into one big hand and turned to a front window. His shrill whistle pierced the sound of screaming. He shoved his arm out the ruined curtain and held the boxes up as close to the roof of the stage as he could. The cartridges were taken from his hands instantly.
The stage lurched and staggered, slamming the man against his wounded arm. With a stifled curse he lowered himself to the seat, reached across his body awkwardly, and drew his six-shooter with his right hand.
Mrs. O’Conner kept screaming.
Jessica leaned past the broad-shouldered stranger and shook Mrs. O’Conner. When that had no effect, Jessica slapped her just hard enough to get her attention. The screams stopped as abruptly as they had begun.
“There, there,” Jessica said, hugging the terrified girl and stroking her disheveled hair. “Screaming doesn’t do a bit of good. It only makes your throat raw. We’ll be all right. There’s no finer rifleman alive than my husband.”
“I’ll second that,” the stranger said without looking away from the window. “He sat up there cool as a gentleman at a turkey shoot. And what he aimed at, he hit.”
Mrs. O’Conner cringed when Wolfe opened fire once more, but she didn’t scream again. She simply wrapped her arms protectively over her womb and trembled while the coach shook and bounced her around. Jessica smiled encouragingly before she turned back to the stranger.
“Let me help you, sir.”
“It’s been a long time since anyone called me sir,” he said, smiling oddly. “My name is Rafe.”
“Mr. Rafe,” she began.
“Just Rafe.”
He squeezed off a shot, then hissed through his teeth as the stagecoach lurched and banged against his wounded arm.
“Save your bullets,” Jessica said as she began undoing buttons on Rafe’s jacket. “Wolfe has enough for a time. Let me see to your wound.”
“Wolfe? Is that your husband?”
She nodded.
“Lucky man.”
Startled, Jessica looked up. Rafe was watching her with clear gray eyes. There was appreciation in his glance, but nothing impolite. She smiled uncertainly and went back to work removing Rafe’s jacket.
“Luck is a matter of opinion,” Jessica said. “Can you get your jacket off your right shoulder?”
Shots came from overhead. A few shots came in reply from the Indians, but they sounded distant. Rafe looked out the window, holstered his gun, and shrugged out of his heavy jacket. Jessica realized anew how big the man was. Were it not for the humor in his gray eyes, he would have been a rather fearsome presence.
“They’re still coming, but not for long,” Rafe said. “Your husband’s pure hell with that rifle. Besides, their horses can’t take much more. They ran me a good long ways before I cut the stage road.”
With his good arm, Rafe braced both Jessica and himself in the wildly jolting stage while she examined his wound. Her lips tightened as she saw the amount of blood covering his gray wool shirt. Saying nothing, she ripped more of the cloth away from the wound. After a better look at Rafe’s muscular arm, she let out a sigh of relief.
“It’s not as bad as I feared,” Jessica said as she pulled up the hem of her dress. “The bullet missed the bone. You lost a chunk of skin and some muscle, but you have plenty of both to spare. Do you have a knife?”
Rafe took a long knife from a sheath at his belt and held it out to her, haft first. “Watch out. I shave with it.”
She grasped the knife carefully, glanced quickly at the golden-bronze stubble covering his face, and smiled an almost hidden smile. “Do you? When?”
He chuckled, then shook his head and said wistfully, “You remind me of my sister. She was a sassy little thing, too. At least, she used to be. I haven’t seen her in years. Too many of them. Wanderlust is as bad as gold fever for keeping a man away from his family.”
Jessica sliced off strips of petticoat with remarkable speed. The knife was indeed razor sharp. It made quick work of the fine, ice-blue silk petticoat whose color matched the wool of her dress. As she began binding Rafe’s arm, rifle fire broke out again.
Rafe cocked his head, listening. No return fire came. “Sounds like they’re giving up.”
“Praise God,” Jessica said fervently. “Wolfe was so exposed up there.”
“You were hardly out of the line of fire, ma’am. The stagecoach isn’t thick enough to stop bullets at close range.”
“I hadn’t thought about that,” she admitted. “I was too worried about Wolfe.”
“Like I said, he’s a lucky man.”
“Maybe one day he’ll think so, too,” Jessica said under her breath. She ripped the trailing end of the silk down the middle and tied off the bandage. “There. That should help the bleeding. At the next stage stop, I’ll wash the wound with soap and clean water.”
“That isn’t necessary.”
“Yes, it is,” she said as she helped Rafe back into his jacket. “A man called Semmelweis discovered that the horrible infections of childbed fever could be prevented if the doctor simply washed his hands before he treated each patient. If one infection can be prevented by washing, it stands to reason that others can, too.”
“Are you a nurse?” Rafe asked, easing his arm into the coat with her help. “You have very good hands, gentle and quick.”
Jessica smiled. “Thank you, but I have no formal training. My guardian raised me to be able to handle the common emergencies of a country estate—broken bones, fevers, gashes, and such. I’ve also had experience with pregnancy and childbirth.”
Enough to know that I want no part of either, Jessica added silently as she turned away to check on the girl, who was still hugging herself. If I learned nothing else from my mother, I learned that.
“Are you all right, Mrs. O’Conner?” Jessica asked.
Numbly, the girl nodded.
“And the babe?” Jessica said bluntly, putting her hands inside the girl’s coat and pressing lightly against the womb. “Is it well, too?”
The girl stared, shaken out of her apathy by the gentle, unexpected explorations of the other woman’s hands.
“Is there any pain?” Jessica asked.
Mrs. O’Conner shook her head.
A soundless sigh of relief came from Jessica. The girl’s torso was supple and resilient rather than rigid with untimely contractions. Smiling reassuringly, Jessica arranged the girl’s coat snugly again and sat next to her on the bench seat, giving Rafe the opposite seat all to himself.
“Tell me if that changes,” Jessica said.
The girl nodded, then smiled hesitantly. “Thank you, ma’am. I’m sorry if I insulted your husband. It’s just…” Her voice died and she crossed herself with a trembling hand. “I’m so frightened of Indians. It sh-shames me.”
“Don’t worry yourself about it,” Jessica said. A feeling of sudden, overwhelming tiredness claimed her as the urgency of the moment passed, leaving her drained. “I understand nightmares and daytime fears better than most.”
The girl looked at Jessica’s hands, saw their trembling, and made a startled sound. “You’re afraid, too!”
“Of course I am. I’m not too stupid to know when I might be mauled or murdered. I’ve simply learned how to hide my fear.”
Jessica shoved her hands beneath her cloak, pulled the heavy folds tightly around her, and closed her eyes, fighting for control. It had been much easier when there had been something to do besides sit around like a chicken trussed for the spit.
Finally the sounds of gunfire faded, became sporadic, and stopped completely. The pace of the stagecoach didn’t slow. One of the jolts was so great that a rear wheel lifted completely off the ground, sending Jessica and Mrs. O’Conner tumbling across the narrow aisle into Rafe. Jessica’s head cracked against the side of the stage, stunning her for a moment.
Rafe caught Jessica with his right arm and braced her across his chest as the coach slammed back down onto all four whe
els.
“I’m terribly sorry, sir,” Mrs. O’Conner said, flushing as she righted herself and sat across the aisle once more.
“No problem,” Rafe said. “Ma’am? Are you all right?”
Dazed, Jessica shook her head, trying to clear it. Sounds seemed to come at her from all sides, battering her, making it impossible to think or speak. Darkness spun around her, closer and closer.
Struggling despite the certainty that she couldn’t win, Jessica fought the dark tide that was closing over her. Her last thought before she went under was a sick certainty that this was how her mother had felt each time the earl had dragged her into the marriage bed despite her screams and flailing fists, forcing her to accept the seed that one day would tear her apart.
Mrs. O’Conner made a horrified sound and went to her knees in the narrow aisle in front of Jessica. “Mrs. Lonetree?”
Rafe didn’t bother calling to Jessica. He had felt her body go utterly slack. He cradled her cheek against his chest, covered her exposed ear with his hand, and whistled shrilly enough to shatter glass, demanding the attention of the men riding on top of the stage.
“Slow down!” Rafe yelled. “One of the women is hurt!”
The words sent a chill through Wolfe. He grabbed the railing and bent down until he could look through a torn curtain into the stagecoach’s interior. At first he could see nothing. Then Mrs. O’Conner moved aside and he saw Jessica cradled in the big rider’s arms.
The stage was still rolling when Wolfe swung down, ran alongside, and opened the door. With catlike quickness, he leaped into the stage’s interior.
“Is she shot?” Wolfe demanded, setting aside the rifle he had kept in hand.
“No,” Rafe said. “The stage hit a bump and sent her flying. She hit her head so hard that it stunned her.”
Wolfe grunted. “Well, that explains why the screaming stopped.”
Rafe shot him a surprised look, but Wolfe didn’t notice. He was too busy lifting Jessica from the stranger’s big lap and onto his own. Mrs. O’Conner drew back to the far corner of the seat to make room for him. Wolfe barely noticed the girl’s retreat. He was too busy controlling the irrational anger that had seized him when he saw Jessica in another man’s arms.
“That was some fancy maneuver you pulled, mister,” Wolfe said as he examined the slight bruise forming on Jessica’s temple. “Don’t know as I’ve ever seen a man get on a stage like that.”
“The name is Rafe, and I wouldn’t have had a chance without your shooting and your wife’s quick thinking. If she hadn’t opened that door, I’d have had a hell of a time pulling myself up on top of the stage one-handed.”
“Thank Mrs. O’Conner. I’m afraid my wife was too gently raised to be of much use in a crisis,” Wolfe said curtly. He looked up at Mrs. O’Conner. “Allow me to thank you as well. If you hadn’t exposed yourself to fire long enough to pass up the rifle case, we all would have had a much worse time of it.”
“I…” The girl’s voice dried up as she looked at the fierce lines of Wolfe’s face, seeing the clear presence of the savage beneath. She looked away quickly. “I did nothing.”
Wolfe assumed the girl was simply being modest. He smiled at her and looked back down at Jessica. His smile faded. She appeared very small and fragile. Her face was bloodless. Even lips that were normally the color of ripe cherries had gone pale.
Now will you admit what I always knew? Wolfe demanded silently of his unconscious wife. You’re not the kind of woman who can survive the West, much less raise children in it. You’re a creature of lace and moonlight, an aristocrat who was never meant for hard use. You need a wealthy, titled husband who can wrap you in silk and satin and keep you from all harm.
I’m not that man. I never will be. I can no more change what I am than you can become a woman like Willow. 1 can only try to keep you alive until even your stubbornness has to give way before the truth.
We are all wrong for each other.
Silently, Wolfe held Jessica’s frail weight and cursed himself and her for the unholy tangle she had made of their lives; and beneath it all, he cursed the desire for her that gripped him even now, his body responding to the feel and scent of the girl he must not take, for then their marriage would be as real and final as death.
When Jessica’s eyes opened, the world swung dizzily around her, and the center of that world was a nightmare with dark eyes glowering fiercely down at her. With a stifled sound, she wrenched away. Wolfe’s hand came down hard across her mouth as he held her close. The ease with which he overcame her struggles would have panicked Jessica, had not her eyes finally focused enough for her to recognize Wolfe. Her struggles stilled instantly, for she knew Wolfe would never hurt her.
“Finished?” Wolfe asked.
Jessica nodded, for his hand gave her no way to speak.
“Good. We’ve heard quite enough of your screams of late.”
“She never screamed when I was around,” Rafe said evenly.
Wolfe gave the other man a look that would have frozen lightning.
Rafe gave the look right back.
“She’s a good hand at bandages, too,” Rafe added, opening his jacket enough to reveal his arm.
For the first time, Wolfe realized that Rafe had been wounded. Then Wolfe noticed that the bandage was made from an ice-blue silk that was the exact shade of Jessica’s eyes, which at the moment were quite icy indeed. He lifted his hand from her mouth.
“Thank you, my lord,” Jessica said in a voice as cold as her eyes.
“I’m not a lord.”
“And I’m not a screaming ninnyhammer.”
“Could have fooled me.”
“It is no great trick to fool a man who is deaf, dumb, and blind.”
Rafe hid his laughter behind a cough. “How is your head, ma’am?”
“Still attached.” Jessica closed her eyes for a moment. “As is my tongue.”
She looked up at Wolfe and remembered all her vows to be sweet, gentle, witty, and companionable. A wave of fatigue swept over her like another dark sea. It was very lonely being married to a man who looked at her with such unforgiving eyes.
“I’m sorry,” Jessica said unhappily, her voice too low for anyone but Wolfe to hear. “I’ve done nothing but displease you. I wish we could go back to the days when you would run through a violent storm to find me. But we can’t, can we? I’m sorry for that, too.”
“We can end it, my Lady Jessica. Just say the word.”
“Never, my lord bastard,” she said softly, remembering the horror of having Lord Gore’s teeth and hands raking her naked flesh. “Never.”
Unable to bear Wolfe’s eyes any longer, Jessica looked away. She had no more energy to fight him or the pain slicing through her temples with each jerk of the stage. Darkness tugged at her, a darkness it took all her strength to hold at bay. Yet it wasn’t the blow to her head that drained her, it was the need to stave off the terrifying blackness of her unremembered dreams.
Somewhere deep inside her, a child screamed terror into the wind…and was answered by a greater terror, memories condensing where none had been before.
“Jessica?”
There was no answer.
At first Wolfe thought she had fainted again. Then he saw that her eyes were open, fixed on something only she could see.
Something terrible.
A chill touched Wolfe’s spine as he realized how deep Jessica’s fear must have been during the attack. Despite his vow to wear her down until she agreed to an annulment, he couldn’t help but ease her closer to his body, cradling her, protecting her because at that moment she was too defenseless to protect herself.
“Jessi,” Wolfe said very softly against her ear, “let me go. Don’t make me hurt you any more.”
Although he was certain she heard, she didn’t answer him in any way.
“Is that what you want?” he asked roughly. “No quarter asked and none given?”
Jessica neither moved nor spoke. It was
as though nothing had been said between them.
“So be it,” Wolfe said, his voice bleak. “No quarter asked and none given.”
4
T HE Rocky Mountains rose steeply beyond Wolfe’s home. Their icy peaks were swathed in clouds, their broad shoulders streaked by the changing season, and their feet firmly rooted in the plains Jessica had learned to love while on safari with Lord Stewart. She had never been to Wolfe’s home, for Lord Stewart had preferred to hunt in Wyoming Territory. Even so, she hadn’t expected Wolfe’s house to be large, for she knew that most Americans couldn’t afford such splendor as Lord Stewart’s country mansions.
However, Jessica hadn’t understood what living in a small house meant in terms of day-to-day intimacy. Wolfe had. He had been anticipating her dismay with real pleasure, assuming that it would bring him a quick victory in the battle for annulment.
“Your house is quite handsome, but…” Jessica’s voice died.
“Yes?” Wolfe prompted, knowing very well what was bothering Jessica.
“There is only one bedroom.”
His black eyebrows lifted in silent, sardonic amusement. “Are you certain?”
“Quite,” Jessica said, slipping back into the clipped accents she had worked so hard to shed. “And there is only one bed in that room.”
He nodded.
Smiling, forcing her voice to be teasing, Jessica asked, “Are you going to make your bed in the willows with the birds?”
“Why would I do that? The bed is large enough for two.”
“Wolfe, I’m serious.”
“So am I. I’m not an aristocrat, your ladyship. I’m an untitled bastard. In America we have a quaint custom among the lower classes—husbands and wives share the same bed.”
Jessica’s heart began to beat frantically. She clasped her hands together to hide their trembling and smiled coaxingly.
“Surely you’re joking.”
He laughed and said distinctly, “No, I am not.”
“You must be,” Jessica said, her voice light despite the pleading in her eyes. “No woman would suffer a man every night.”
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