Only Mine

by Elizabeth Lowell

  Motionless, barely able to breathe, Tree That Stands Alone watched while Jessica pirouetted slowly, curtsied, then held out her arms as though to a dance partner. As she glided, dipped, and turned with the grace of flame, Strauss’ latest waltz melody floated above the wild land, sung by a resilient elf whose beauty and cruel words were a knife turning in Wolfe’s heart.

  No wonder you were called the viscount’s savage. You are unspeakable. If I had thought you would ever do anything so vile to me, I would never have sought a marriage.

  Bitterly, Wolfe turned away from the sundrenched vision of an elf dancing; but there was nowhere he could turn away from the words echoing in his mind, cutting him in ways he couldn’t comprehend, only feel. Working by habit alone, he prepared for the trip ahead. It was too soon to risk the passes, but it was safer than staying trapped in his own house with Jessica burning like a flame locked within ice, forever beckoning, forever beyond his reach.

  What am I complaining about? Wolfe asked himself ruthlessly. If she offered herself, I wouldn’t take her.

  Wouldn’t you? countered another part of himself.

  Not on a golden platter with an apple in her mouth.

  How about in bed with her softness parting for you like the petals of a rose?

  No.

  Like hell.

  Hell is an apt description of what my life would be like afterward. No matter how hot Jessica makes my body, she isn’t the wife I need.

  The sardonic catechism ringing in Wolfe’s mind wasn’t new, but it had the desired effect. By the time he walked through the sunlight back to the house, no trace showed of the unruly desire and painful yearning that had twisted through him. His face was impassive as he went to the bedroom and found Jessica standing amid a tumult of satins and silks.

  The valises were open on the bed. One was full of books, a spyglass, small boxes of fishing lures, the segments of her split bamboo fly rod, a packet of embroidery needles and floss, and other items. Curious, Wolfe began lifting the books one after another.

  “Coleridge, Burns, Blake, Donne, Shakespeare…” Wolfe set the heavy volume aside. “Leave this here. Willow has the Bard’s complete works.”

  “I should have guessed a paragon would.”

  “Leave the good clergyman behind, as well.”

  “John Donne?” Jessica lifted dark mahogany eyebrows. “The paragon is well read.”

  “The paragon’s husband, in this case. When you meet Cal, you’ll understand. He is a dark angel of retribution. Messrs. Donne and Milton suit him quite well.”

  “Then ’tis fortunate Caleb married the paradigm of paragons,” Jessica said dryly. “What of the rest?”

  “The poets?”

  “Yes.”

  Wolfe shrugged. “Bring them, if you must.”

  “I thought you liked poetry.”

  “I do. I happen to have a good memory.” Wolfe touched the volumes with gentle fingertips. “I can visit caverns measureless to man whenever I turn my mind to it. I can see the tiger’s fearful symmetry burning in the forest of the night whenever I like. And I can do it without giving my packhorse galls.”

  Jessica smiled almost shyly at Wolfe. “If you’ll recite my favorite poems to me over the campfire, I’ll leave the books behind.”

  He flashed her a black, sideways glance and saw the memories of other campfires in her aquamarine eyes, of the happy times when he and she had laughed together and traded lines of poetry while Indian guides and hunters alike crowded around, held by the rhythms and visions of men long dead.

  “If you want poetry, you’d better take the books,” Wolfe said, turning away. “My days of reciting verse are over.”

  Jessica’s smile faded. She turned back to packing. When she hesitated between two riding outfits, Wolfe took the heavier one and put it in the valise.

  “You’ll need your warmest underwear,” he said. “The high country will be cold.”

  “I looked for the trail clothes I left here years ago, but couldn’t find them.”

  “I gave them to Willow last summer.”

  Jessica’s mouth flattened. “Generous of you.”

  “I gave her the boy’s saddle you used, too. Riding astride in buckskins is fine for a Western woman or a headstrong Scots child, but you’re neither. You’re the Lady Jessica Charteris, daughter of an earl. You will ride sidesaddle as befits your exalted station.”

  “I’m Jessica Lonetree.”

  “Then you’ll ride as your husband thinks best.”

  “Sidesaddle? Through those vast mountains I’ve heard so much about?” she asked, flinging an arm out to the west, where the Rockies thrust steeply into the sky.

  “Exactly.”

  “That’s unreasonable.”

  “So is our marriage.”

  “Wolfe,” she began softly.

  “Say the word, lady Jessica. It has only three syllables. Say it.”

  He waited for her to say annulment.

  There was a pause before she said distinctly, “Sidesaddle.”

  “What?”

  “Sidesaddle. Three syllables, I believe?”

  Quickly, Wolfe turned away before Jessica could see the reluctant flash of humor in his eyes. He sorted through the piles of finery with ruthless hands, trying not to notice the gossamer pantelets and camisoles, trying not to remember how Jessica had looked with her ruined peignoir torn away from her breasts, revealing the marks of a man’s brutality on her luminous skin.

  Odd that I didn’t hear Jessica screaming down the house that night, Wolfe told himself sardonically. But then, it was a bloody lord’s teeth raking her rather than a halfbreed bastard’s hand discovering how soft she was. All the difference in the world.

  With a vicious word, Wolfe threw the undergarments into the valise. Another riding outfit followed. Jessica added woolen stockings. The valise was full to overflowing.

  “You’d better throw some stuff out of the other valise,” Wolfe said, fastening straps. “You have only two changes of clothing.”

  “Excellent. There will be that much less to wash.”

  Wolfe smiled fleetingly, knowing Jessica couldn’t see his face. When he looked up from the valise, no trace of the smile remained on his face. His elfin enemy was entirely too good at finding chinks in the armor of his anger.

  “I’m serious about the clothes,” he said, gesturing to the mounds of fine wool and silk dresses and dainty satin shoes that lay at the foot of the bed. “Wouldn’t you rather have these along than a fishing rod and books?”

  “My silk dresses don’t know a single poem, and I doubt that I could catch even one of the fabled Rocky Mountain rainbow trout by casting a shoe at it.”

  At first, Wolfe thought Jessica was teasing him again. Then he realized she meant it. She would rather take her poetry and fishing gear than one of her elegant outfits. It was the kind of choice the old Jessi would have made, but not one Wolfe had expected from the aristocratic creature who had been so perfectly coiffed and perfumed for her twentieth birthday ball.

  “Change into your riding clothes while I see to the rest of the preparations,” Wolfe said.

  He turned away, paused, then came back and jerked the fur cover from beneath the heaped dresses. When he looked up, Jessica was watching him with curious, wary eyes.

  “We might have to sleep in snow,” Wolfe said curtly. “If you put this inside your sleeping bag, you should stay warm enough.”

  Jessica blinked, surprised by Wolfe’s thoughtfulness when he was so obviously out of sorts with her. “Thank you.”

  “You need not look so shocked, your ladyship. I want an annulment, not a funeral.”

  She stared at Wolfe’s broad, retreating back and let out a long breath she hadn’t even been aware of holding. Frowning, she reached around behind her back to undo the infuriating buttons. There were less of them than on her travel dress, yet the fastenings were still too many and too inconveniently placed for a woman dressing alone. She thought of calling upon Wolfe for h
elp, but discarded the idea instantly. Though she knew little about men and lust, she had gathered that the less clothes a woman had on, the hotter a man’s blood ran and the more angry he became if rutting was denied him.

  Memories of the past night raced through Jessica, making her tremble with more than fear. The pleasure Wolfe had given her was unique, exquisite. If rutting gave him a similar pleasure, it was no wonder he was so angry at being denied. Living with him, forcing him to breathe the very air she breathed, was unfair. She hadn’t known that before, but she knew it now.

  We can’t spend a lifetime like this.

  Then Jessica thought of what the alternative was if she agreed to an annulment and returned to England and Lady Victoria’s well-meant, relentless attempts to marry off her ward to whatever minor lord was old enough, wealthy enough, and eager enough for children to overlook Jessica’s common Scots mother.

  The thought of enduring such a marriage brought to Jessica a chill determination to be free that no amount of reason or coercion would change. Wolfe may have preferred an annulment to a funeral, but Jessica did not.

  There were worse things than death. She was as certain of that as she was of her own heartbeat. She visited those things in her sleep, where forbidden memories and horrible nightmares intertwined, and the inhuman voice of the wind promised her hell on earth.

  With a small sound, Jessica put her face in her hands. “Dear God,” she whispered, “let Wolfe relent, for I cannot.”

  8

  U NCERTAINLY, Jessica stood in front of one of the mercantile’s many counters. She was accustomed to having bolts of cloth and seamstresses brought to Lord Stewart’s home, or perhaps she would visit an especially popular dress designer in her shop. The idea of buying clothes already made both intrigued Jessica for its speedy practicality and baffled her as to how to go about it.

  “Mrs. Lonetree? Is that you?”

  The deep, gentle drawl told Jessica who the man was before she turned around. Her eyes sparkled with pleasure at the sight of the big blond man with his hat in his hands and a smile on his face.

  “Rafe! What a wonderful surprise. What are you doing in Canyon City? Is your arm all right?”

  He flexed his left shoulder. “It’s a bit stiff and itches like the very devil, but otherwise everything is fine. I’ve never healed so fast. Must have been your hands and the fancy silk bandage.”

  “And soap.”

  “And soap,” Rafe agreed with a wink.

  “What are you doing in Canyon City?” Jessica asked again without thinking. Then she remembered. “Oh dear, I’m sorry. That was rude of me. It’s the one thing Betsy didn’t tell me about the United States.”

  Rafe’s sun-bleached eyebrows lifted. “Betsy?”

  “My American maid. At least she was, until we got to the Mississippi. She taught me many of your customs, but not the most important Western one.”

  “Maybe you’d better tell me about that one. I’m new to the West.”

  Jessica gave a sigh of relief. “Oh, good, then I didn’t insult you by asking you why you’re here. Wolfe was quite clear about that. One never asks a Western man for a full name, an occupation, or a reason for coming or going as he pleases.”

  “Australia is like that, too,” Rafe said, smiling, “so is a lot of South America.”

  “England isn’t, except for certain people, of course.”

  “Criminals?” he asked blandly.

  “Oh, dear, I did insult you.”

  Rafe’s laughter was instant and unrestrained. “No, ma’am, but you’re a delight to tease.”

  If another man had said it, Jessica would have withdrawn with the cool hauteur that had been taught her by Lady Victoria. It was impossible to do that with Rafe, however, and unnecessary as well. His eyes were admiring without being in the least impolite.

  “I don’t mind talking about what I’m doing here,” Rafe said. “I was waiting for the pass to open again. I got here just before the last storm closed it.”

  “Then you’ve been here long enough to see the town. Wolfe said we wouldn’t be staying long.”

  “Smart man, your husband. Too many drifters are holed up here, gambling and waiting for the passes to open.”

  “If what Wolfe says is true, they won’t have long to wait.”

  “Folks tell me Wolfe Lonetree knows the mountains between here and the San Juan country like the back of his hand,” Rafe said.

  “It wouldn’t surprise me. Wolfe has always loved wild places. From what I’ve heard, the mountains out there are about as wild as anything on earth.”

  For a moment Rafe looked through the mercantile’s dusty windows, but it was other mountains he saw, other wild places. Then his gray eyes focused and he turned back to the delicate girl whose light blue eyes held more shadows that they should.

  “Are you here for supplies?” Rafe asked.

  “After a fashion. Wolfe is buying something he calls ‘Montana horses.’ They’re large, I gather. Big enough to stand up to the snow drifts we might find in the passes.”

  Rafe’s gray eyes widened, then narrowed with concern. “What lies west of here has the look of hard country, Mrs. Lonetree. Too hard for a girl like you.”

  “Have you ever been to Scotland?” Jessica asked rather grimly.

  He shook his head.

  “Go there sometime in the winter,” she said, “when the gale winds scream down from the Arctic Circle. Then you’ll see waves higher than a mounted man break against black rock cliffs that are wrapped in ice. That’s when sheep with wool thicker than your arm freeze upright in the lee of solid stone fences. Men freeze much more quickly.”

  “You were born there,” Rafe said, for there was no mistaking the dark memories drawing Jessica’s face taut.

  “Yes.”

  “Even so, ma’am, you’re looking hard used at the moment. I hope your husband’s wrong about the passes opening soon. You could use a few nights of sleep.”

  Jessica smiled reassuringly, though she knew she would sleep no better in the coming night than she had any night since the terrible argument with Wolfe.

  He had not relented one bit. No matter how hard she tried to be a good companion, he still treated her as an enemy, or worse, as a traitor who had betrayed him.

  “My husband assures me the passes are open,” Jessica said.

  “Has he talked to one of the gold hunters?”

  “No. He watched the peaks all the way from his—our—home. When the new snow melted back up the slopes so quickly, he said the pass would be open by the time we were ready to leave Canyon City.”

  “He’s certain?”

  Jessica slanted Rafe an odd glance. “You met Wolfe. Did he strike you as an indecisive sort?” Shaking his head, Rafe laughed, remembering the uncanny precision of Wolfe’s rifle work, men falling like dropped cards, one after another, with no break in the relentless rhythm of Wolfe’s shots.

  “No, ma’am. That’s one hard man you married.”

  Jessica’s smile thinned and turned upside down.

  “Don’t take me wrong,” Rafe continued. “I meant no insult. In wild country, a hard man is the best kind, whether it be for a husband, a brother, or a friend.”

  Rafe looked out the window again. The group of men who had been lounging in front of one of the three saloons on the main street had drifted over to the wagon, where a sidesaddle was perched on top of a sack of grain.

  “Ma’am, is your husband in the saloon?”

  “No. He has a rather low opinion of the local whiskey.”

  “Smart man. Matt had almost as many warnings about Taos lightning as he did about the Utes.”

  “Matt?”

  “Matthew Moran.” When Jessica looked thoughtful, Rafe added, “Maybe you’ve heard the name?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “How about Caleb Black? His friends call him Cal.”

  “Ah, yes,” Jessica said with soft bitterness, “that name I’ve heard. The blasted paragon.”


  “I wouldn’t know,” Rafe said, amused. “I’ve never met the man.”

  “Not Caleb. His wife. She’s a paragon, Wolfe assures me.”

  “Must be the wrong Caleb Black, then. Willy was a lot of things, but a paragon wasn’t among them.”

  “Willy?”

  “Willow Moran. At least, she used to be a Moran. Now she’s Willow Black.”

  Jessica’s mouth curved into a rueful smile. “Poor Rafe. You’ve had a long stage ride and a bullet wound for nothing. The paragon is already wed.”

  “It’s not what you think.” Rafe settled his battered hat onto his head with a tug. “Willy is my sister.”

  “Uh-oh.” Jessica flushed. “I’m sorry. I meant no insult to her. That is, I—oh, blazes, when will I learn to bridle my galloping tongue?”

  “Don’t worry,” Rafe said kindly. “Willy would laugh as hard as anyone at the thought of being a paragon. She’s as sassy as they come. But, Lord, can that girl cook. I’d go halfway around the world for some of her biscuits.” He grinned. “In fact, I did.”

  “It appears the para—er, your sister-and I have something in common.”

  “Biscuits?”

  “In a manner of speaking. Wolfe has traveled half the earth and talked of little else but my biscuits in comparison to Willow’s.”

  Rafe’s gray eyes lit with inner laughter. “Don’t feel bad about your own cooking, ma’am. Bride’s biscuits are famous the world over.”

  “Mine are infamous. Even Messr. Skunk turned up his pointy black nose at them.”

  Rafe tried not to show his amusement, but the thought of a skunk passing up food was too much. He threw back his head and laughed.

  Jessica smiled up at him with real pleasure. It was good to hear a man’s laughter and know there was one soul in the West who enjoyed her company. Then her smile faded as she remembered how she once had been able to amuse Wolfe. Once, but no longer. Now all he wanted from her was the sight of her back as she walked out of his life.

  “Don’t look so down, Red—er, Mrs. Lonetree,” Rafe corrected quickly.

  “Please call me Red,” she said, sighing, “or Jessica or Jessi or whatever suits.”