Only Mine

by Elizabeth Lowell

  He reined in and looked over his shoulder.

  “I…” Her voice died. She made an uncertain gesture with her hand. “Be careful.”

  He nodded, lifted the reins again, and sent his horse ahead on the trail at a ground-eating trot.

  Fifteen minutes later, Jessica and Rafe followed. She rode tensely in the saddle, straining to hear rifle shots. All she heard was the empty, icy howl of the wind. It plucked at her already overstretched nerves until she felt as though she must scream just to shut out the wind’s endless keening.

  The minutes passed as though stretched upon a tanning rack. Jessica almost welcomed Two-Spot’s bone-shaking trot simply as a distraction. Rafe didn’t speak. Nor did she try to speak to him.

  The ridge they skirted was overgrown with a combination of spruce and fir. The trees were a green so dark it looked black. Slender, whitebarked aspen grew along ravines. Not even a hint of green edged the aspens’ graceful, ghostly branches, for spring hadn’t yet come to the high country.

  In the rare pauses in the wind, the horses’ breath came out in silvery plumes. The animals were working hard and the land was rising relentlessly beneath their feet. Patches of ice gleamed sullenly beneath the recent snow, making the footing tricky.

  When Rafe and Jessica rounded the ridge and crossed a small clearing to the forest beyond, Wolfe was waiting for them. Jessica’s heart lifted as she looked at Wolfe’s dark face and easy masculine power. The renewed realization of just how handsome her husband was broke over her in a wave. The trail clothes suited him. The austere mountains suited him. In his lean hands, the heavily inlaid rifle was revealed for the streamlined, no-nonsense weapon it really was.

  And Wolfe was revealed for the man he really was; he had been born for this wild land rather than for the brocade and satin of civilization. Jessica understood that as surely as she understood that she loved Wolfe for what he was, that she had always loved him, and she always would.

  The realization stunned her, sinking past layers of exhaustion to the raw emotion beneath.

  “They didn’t see us,” Wolfe said. “Too busy drinking and playing cards. Jericho will have them picked cleaner than a hound’s tooth before breakfast.”

  “Good at cards, huh?” Rafe asked.

  “He’ll do until you sit down with the Devil himself.”

  Wolfe took the lead once more, followed by Two-Spot and the pack horses. Rafe waited until they were a hundred yards ahead before he let his horse follow. He had kept Jessica’s carbine, and he rode with it across his saddle, listening for any sounds from behind.

  Exhaustion reclaimed Jessica’s body in a numbing gray tide. She slumped in the saddle. Staring at nothing, she endured the endless trail as it became steeper and rougher. Along the left, a snowmantled slope dropped away a few feet from the trail. Jessica didn’t notice. She was running on reflex alone, able to stay upright in the saddle but nothing more.

  When Two-Step hit an icy patch and went down to his knees, she grabbed instinctively for the saddle horn, but it was too late. She was already pitching forward, beyond the reach of the curving, off-center horn. Two-Step lunged to the right, trying to regain his own balance. The sudden motion completed Jessica’s undoing. She hurtled from the sidesaddle onto the snow-covered slope and began rolling down in a flurry of skirts and flailing limbs.

  The startled cry Jessica had given when her horse first went to its knees was the only warning Wolfe got. He turned sharply in the saddle just in time to see Jessica thrown head first down the slope. By the time he spun his horse on its hocks and reached Two-Spot, Jessica’s tumbling fall had been stopped by a thicket of alder. Recklessly, Wolfe spurred his horse down the slope to the place where Jessica lay without moving.

  “Jessi!”

  Wolfe’s cry echoed, but there was no answer. He leaped from the saddle and ran the last few feet to Jessica, skidding to his knees beside her.

  “Jessi? Are you all right?” he asked urgently.

  She didn’t answer.

  “Talk to me, elf,” Wolfe said, pushing snow away from Jessica’s face with fingers that showed a fine trembling. “It wasn’t that bad a fall. The snow is soft and deep, there weren’t any rocks. Jessi…”

  Gentle fingers brushed snow from eyebrows and eyelashes that were like a shadow of fire, rich mahogany. They looked very dark against skin that was almost as pale as snow.

  “You can’t be hurt, little one. God help me, you can’t. Damn it, Jessi. Wake up.”

  Jessica groaned and tried to sit up. She got part way, only to be yanked flat by her braids, which were wedged beneath her own body. Too dazed to understand, she tried to sit up again, only to be brought up short once more.

  Wolfe caught her before she could be yanked back down by her braids for a third time.

  “Slow down, Jessi. Your hair has you on a short leash again.”

  “Wolfe?” she asked raggedly. “Is it really you?”

  Aquamarine eyes focused on Wolfe, and cool fingers caressed the dark planes of his cheek.

  “Yes, elf. It’s really me.”

  The knowledge that Jessica was truly all right went through Wolfe like a cascade of champagne, making him feel lightheaded, almost dizzy. The memory of the other time Jessica had been trapped by her own long hair made amusement shimmer in Wolfe. He smiled widely as he helped her sit up.

  “Sometimes, you’re like a kite with a long red tail that gets tangled in everything and hauls you up short.”

  As Wolfe pulled Jessica’s hair free, memories and relief coursed through him. He began laughing softly and he brushed snow from her.

  The sound of Wolfe’s amusement cleared Jessica’s mind like a brisk slap across her face. She tried to push away from him, but couldn’t. Despite the laughter that kept shaking Wolfe, he hauled her to her feet as casually as he would have lifted a saddle.

  For Jessica, it was the final insult. Fear, anger, hurt, exhaustion, and humiliation exploded into flaming rage. She didn’t stop to think, didn’t consider, didn’t hesitate, didn’t do one thing but grab for the hunting knife Wolfe wore sheathed at his belt. The action was so unexpected that she had the knife clear of the leather before he realized it. His hand closed around her wrist with the speed of a striking snake.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Wolfe demanded.

  Jessica’s mouth curled into what could only be described as a snarl. She yanked and twisted her wrist but couldn’t get free.

  “Jessi! What the hell…? Did that fall knock out what little sense you had?”

  Breath shuddered through Jessica. She was exhausted, frightened, cold, and pain twisted through her right ankle with every movement; but most of all, she was violently angry at the viscount’s savage, the man who took pleasure only in her failures.

  “Let go of me.”

  The naked fury in Jessica’s voice wiped all trace of laughter from Wolfe’s eyes and voice.

  “Not until you tell me what you’re going to do with that knife,” he said.

  For the space of three long breaths, Jessica looked at Wolfe without answering. Finally she glanced down at the knife in her hand as though surprised to find it. When she looked back at Wolfe, there was nothing of warmth or softness in her eyes.

  “My hair,” she said flatly.

  “What?”

  “I’m going to cut my bloody hair.”

  Black eyebrows lifted. “I think not. At the rate you’re going, you’d probably cut your own throat by mistake.”

  Or cut his, and not by mistake.

  But neither of them said it aloud as Wolfe pried the knife from Jessica’s fingers with an easy strength that heaped more fuel on the fires of her fury.

  “You bastard,” she hissed.

  He smiled thinly. “True fact, your ladyship.”

  “Twice a bastard,” she corrected. “Once by birth and again by choice. You work me like a scullery maid, belittle my best efforts to be a wife, and then you laugh at my pain when I’m thrown from my horse b
ecause I’m so tired I can’t stay awake in the sidesaddle any longer. You are a bastard.”

  Wolfe’s face became expressionless. “Say the word and you’re free. You know the word, your ladyship. Say it!”

  A stillness came over Jessica, a drawing in of strength and will that tightened her features until they looked like finely drawn wire.

  “Husband.”

  The word was a hiss and Jessica’s smile was colder than snow itself.

  “That’s the problem,” Wolfe said in a clipped voice. “I’m your husband but you aren’t my wife.”

  “I have a solution. Go to Hell. You’ll find all the suffering there so amusing you’ll split your sides laughing and die on the spot. Then you’ll be free of me, husband. And not before.”

  Jessica turned away and began clawing back up the steep slope. As Wolfe watched, a faint smile that had little to do with amusement curved his mouth. Unbridled fury fairly radiated from every line of Jessica’s body. He had seen her in many moods, but never like this. The delicate little aristocrat had a temper to match the glorious fire hidden in her hair.

  Wolfe couldn’t help wondering if she would ever come to a man’s bed with a fraction of the passion she just had shown in rage. The thought of being the man to draw that primitive sensuality from Jessica brought a swift, elemental reaction from Wolfe’s body that shocked him.

  Cursing his masculine vulnerability to a girl who wished him in Hell, Wolfe looked away from Jessica until the hard rush of urgency subsided into an uncomfortable ache. He expected little more in the way of ease. A state of semi-arousal had become so much a part of him when Jessica was nearby that he no longer thought such discomfort unusual.

  Wolfe looked back up the slope just in time to see Jessica stumble. At first he thought that her clumsiness came from anger. Then he watched her struggle to her feet, take two steps, and nearly go down again. Something was wrong with her right leg.

  “Hold on, Jessi,” Wolfe called. “I’ll help you.”

  Jessica didn’t even bother to look back over her shoulder. Nor did she pause in her awkward attempts to get up the steep slope.

  With a muttered word, Wolfe sheathed his knife and vaulted into the saddle. He spurred the big mare up the slope. Without bothering to rein in, Wolfe bent over and scooped Jessica up on the way by, holding her firmly against his thigh. When the mare reached the top of the slope, he reined in.

  “Sit astride in front of me,” Wolfe said in a clipped voice.

  As he spoke, he lifted Jessica over the mare’s chocolate brown mane. The divided riding skirt finally sorted itself out into right and left sides allowing her to sit astride in the big saddle. The intimacy of the arrangement registered instantly on Wolfe’s body, making hot talons of need sink into him. His breath thickened over the kind of words he had never in his life used in a woman’s presence and didn’t want to begin using now.

  “Stay put,” he said tightly.

  Jessica didn’t answer, but she didn’t try to dismount, either. Wolfe slid off on the right side in a single flowing movement. His hands went to the small, booted foot that poked from the snowclotted folds of cloth.

  “Where does it hurt?”

  Jessica glanced at Wolfe. She didn’t have to look far. Even sitting on horseback, she had very little height on him. She hadn’t his strength, either. She had nothing but the certainty that she would rather die than go back to being a bright marker on the gaming table of aristocratic marriages.

  She would rather die than live as her mother had.

  Memory and nightmare twisted suddenly, sending a shudder through Jessica. Before the tremor had passed, Jessica understood that she had one other certainty, as well: Wolfe would never accept this marriage; he would only become more cruel in his efforts to drive her away.

  You will rue the day you forced me into marriage. There are worse things than being caressed by a savage. You shall learn each one of them.

  Now, too late, Jessica believed Wolfe. Now, too late, she knew there was nothing left to stand between her and the wind.

  “Where does it hurt?” Wolfe repeated impatiently.

  “It doesn’t.”

  Wolfe’s head snapped up. He had never heard that tone from Jessica before, a sound as unemotional and unmusical as stone. Her eyes were the same way. Opaque.

  “I saw you limping.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  The flare of temper in Wolfe’s eyes was replaced by uneasiness.

  “Jessi?”

  Lost in the echoes of her terrifying discovery, Jessica neither heard nor answered Wolfe’s low query. He hesitated, then began probing the soft leather of Jessica’s boot with fingers that were gentle and firm at the same time. He thought she flinched when he pressed deeply against her ankle, but it was difficult to be certain.

  “Can you ride?” Wolfe asked, stepping back.

  “I’m riding.”

  There was no mockery in Jessica’s words, merely a statement of fact. At the moment, she was riding a horse.

  “Jessi, what’s wrong?”

  She looked past Wolfe, through him, seeing only the emptiness of the wind, hearing only its low, triumphant cry.

  With swift almost vicious movements, Wolfe took up the right stirrup of his saddle. He couldn’t get it short enough for Jessica’s slender foot to reach.

  “Bloody hell,” he muttered.

  If Jessica heard, she said nothing.

  A gust of wind brought the sound of a horse cantering closer. Wolfe glanced up, saw Rafe’s big bay coming into sight, and went back to letting the stirrup down to its former length.

  The trail Rafe was following told its own story. A horse going to its knees, a ragged swath cut by Jessica’s body, and the deep gouges where Wolfe’s big mare had plunged down the slope. Jessica’s bloodless face and Wolfe’s flattened mouth told more of the story, but not enough.

  “Is she hurt?” Rafe asked.

  “Her right ankle is sore, but it’s her pride that took the worst beating.”

  Rafe looked at Jessica. She didn’t notice him. Nor did she seem to notice anything else. There was a quality about the stillness of her body that made Rafe’s eyes narrow. He had seen men who looked like that, men pushed to their limits by pain or starvation or war.

  “She’s finished,” Rafe said. “There was a good camping spot back about a mile.”

  The wind twisted again, drawing a veil of snow over the cold land.

  “We’re going over the Great Divide.” Wolfe vaulted into the saddle behind Jessica. “See that Two-Spot doesn’t get lost. The pack horses are used to following him.”

  A touch of Wolfe’s spurs lifted the brown mare into a trot. A hard arm came around Jessica, holding her in place. Her body went rigid, but she said nothing. Nor did she fight him. She did nothing but sink farther and farther into herself, looking for a way out of the trap in which she had so brutally tangled herself and Wolfe.

  She found none but to endure and then endure some more.

  I can’t.

  And pray that Wolfe would change because she could not.

  I can’t.

  I must be strong. Just for a bit longer. A few minutes.

  The minutes passed.

  A few more.

  When those minutes passed, Jessica asked herself for a few more, and then a few more, until half an hour had gone by, an hour, then two. Three.

  Slowly, a breath at a time, she endured, learning how to live without Wolfe as her talisman, learning how to survive in a world ruled by the soulless wind of nightmare and memory combined.

  10

  “W OLFE, I can’t believe it’s really you! Caleb said the high passes were buried in snow after the last storm.”

  Willow’s husky contralto cry made Jessica’s lips flatten into an unhappy line. She should have expected the bloody paragon to have a beautiful voice. Rather grimly, Jessica waited to see what the paragon looked like, but even when Willow stepped from the house, she was still concealed by t
he dense shadows of the porch.

  “It’s me, all right,” Wolfe said, smiling as he dismounted and crossed the ground with long strides to give Willow a hug. “I’ve brought you a present.”

  “Seeing you is present enough,” she said, laughing and holding out her arms.

  The clear affection in Willow’s voice and face was matched by Wolfe as he folded Willow close in a gentle bearhug. A dark combination of jealousy and despair snaked through Jessica, shaking her, for she had believed she could no longer be touched by anything but the black wind whispering to her of nightmares that had been reborn in daylight, and memories that refused to remain forgotten.

  I would have had a chance with Wolfe but for the bloody paragon. She is destroying me as surely as slow poison.

  Jessica stared into the shadow of the porch, but could see nothing of Willow except slender arms wrapped around Wolfe’s waist.

  She’ll be beautiful, of course, Jessica thought bitterly. As beautiful as this huge meadow and as perfect as those mountains crowned with ice.

  Unhappily, Jessica glanced around, measuring the glory of the mountain ranch against the darkness that was condensing relentlessly in her soul, draining color from her life as surely as the slow condensation of night would drain color from the day.

  “Come and meet your present,” Wolfe said, smiling down at Willow as he released her.

  “Meet a present?”

  “Ummm.”

  The purring sound of pleasure Wolfe made was a steel-tipped whip flaying Jessica’s raw emotions. She had thought she could feel no greater rage, no greater despair, than she had felt the day she had ridden over the Great Divide.

  She had been wrong. She seemed to make a habit of being wrong where Wolfe was concerned.

  May the bloody paragon writhe in Hell.

  Then Willow stepped into the bright sunlight and Jessica’s breath came in with a harsh sound. The paragon wouldn’t have to wait for Hell. It had already sunk its unsheathed claws deeply in her body. Willow was in the last stage of pregnancy, frankly round with the babe that would tear her apart trying to be born.

  Dear God, help her in her time of need.