Desperate Hearts

by Alexis Harrington

He swore, as if she’d said something wrong.

  Jace knew Kyle was not okay. He was cold and sleepy—he could see that in the kid’s face, hear it in his voice. He had to get him to a warm fire and check his arm. The hankies he’d wrapped around him in Cord were only makeshift. He hoped the bullet hadn’t gone in too deep—he’d dug out his share of lead but never from a kid.

  Added to that, the clouds that had rolled into the sky earlier were now producing a fine, soaking drizzle. He twisted in his saddle and peered through the gray veil, searching the broken limestone formations for a sheltered place.

  “We’ve got to get out of this rain. It’ll be dark soon and I don’t want to be riding around after sundown.”

  He led them along a creek until they came to a spot under a rocky overhang that was dry and out of the weather.

  Jace dismounted, then stood at Kyle’s foot. He looked bad, Jace thought, still sickly white and a little disoriented. But maybe a sip of whiskey and something to eat would put the color back in his face. He sure as hell hoped so, anyway. Beneath his open coat lapels, the boy looked as blood-soaked as a soldier wounded on a battlefield.

  “Can you get down by yourself?”

  Kyle nodded but for a moment he didn’t move. Then with obvious effort, he slowly swung a leg over his dun. Just about the time it cleared the pommel, his eyes rolled back and he fell into Jace’s arms.

  Jace carried him to the wall under the overhang and opened his coat. Jesus, his shirt was so red, he must have been hit someplace else. Who could tell in the confusion of gunfire and their flight from Cord? The kid himself was probably too stunned to realize the extent of his injuries, and Jace hadn’t had time to look.

  He yanked off his gloves. Without hesitation he grasped the front of Kyle’s blue shirt and ripped it open. Beneath, he encountered blood-stained binding that was working loose. Baffled, he sat back on his heels and pushed up his hat. God, he was nursing broken ribs, too?

  No. Something was wrong. Something—

  Pulling out his long-bladed hunting knife, he grabbed the bunched binding in one hand and cut it open with a single slice. He stared down in stunned disbelief at full, rounded breasts that were definitely not a boy’s.

  “I’ll be goddamned—”

  He quickly brushed a hand between the kid’s legs and felt nothing there but rounded female warmth. His body responded to hers so swiftly, with such intensity, he felt hot and a little breathless.

  Of all the possibilities that had crossed Jace’s mind when he considered the puzzle of Kyle, that he—she—was a woman had never occurred to him. And a woman she certainly was, no mere girl. The soft mouth, the delicate planes of her face, her light bones—sure, they all looked out of place on a boy, but on a woman they were very desirable. The freed binding revealed not just a bosom, but the very decided curve of her waist, and skin that looked as smooth and pale as cream. She was beautiful beneath her disguise. And now more trouble than she was before.

  So this was the big secret, huh? This was the reason he felt twitchy around her. How could he have missed something that now seemed so obvious? He must be slipping.

  Satisfied that only her arm was wounded, with a cold, escalating fury he jerked together the edges of her shirt. He stared at the slack face and he pulled his mouth into a tight line. Now, instead of being saddled with a grudge-bearing boy he thought he knew a little about, he had a gunshot woman he knew nothing about. Except that someone was chasing her, and now him too.

  She wouldn’t be his problem for long, though, he resolved. Not for long.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Chased by terrifying images, Kyla fought her way back to consciousness. Tom Hardesty, horned and hoofed like a demon, pursuing her with a staff that split open her arm with fire . . . Hank, awash in his own blood, struggling for breath to tell her about a bounty hunter with a killer’s reputation . . . a pair of ice blue eyes that fascinated her as much as they frightened her.

  She didn’t know where she was, but she heard the soft, faraway sound of a woman weeping. Firelight flickered against her closed eyelids and the whisper of falling rain penetrated her confusion. And whiskey, she thought she smelled whiskey. It was strong, as if it were right under her nose. Beyond that was the scent of brewing coffee. She took a deep breath and the nightmare visions receded. But her arm, that pain was very real.

  When she opened her eyes, she saw the blurry form of a man looming directly over her in the darkness. He was wiping her face with something white. Gasping, she wrestled to escape while reaching for her gun. She found that not only was it missing, but her gun belt was gone, too. Her heart pounded behind her breastbone. Further, she was bundled in blankets and stretched out like a mummy next to the small fire.

  “So you’re finally awake.”

  She recognized Jace Rankin, his long dark hair and pale eyes that gleamed in the firelight. The veil over her memory began to lift. He sat back against the rock wall next to her and crossed his ankles.

  Gingerly, she touched a hand to her arm and couldn’t suppress a moan. Her shirtsleeve was missing, torn off at the shoulder, and the skin on her arm was hot to the touch, even through the bandage.

  “I cleaned up your wound with the whiskey and put a new bandage on it. You’re going to have a scar.”

  She moved her hand from her arm to her wet eyes and face.

  “You were crying," he added, and tossed a handkerchief at her. His tone was flat, the expression on his face, a cold blank.

  She gripped the hankie in her fist. “Where’s my gun?” she demanded in Kyle’s voice. She struggled to sit up, a task she found surprisingly difficult with only one arm to balance on.

  Jace held up the gun in its holster. "Right here. Along with some of your . . . underwear."

  Kyla recognized the fabric that made up her binding. It was bloodstained and looked as though he’d cut it off her. She gaped at it in heart-stopping horror. Groping around under the blanket, she felt her shirt-clad ribs without the constricting wraps. No wonder she could breathe so easily.

  He held the very heart of her disguise in his outstretched hand. She felt vulnerable, exposed. Her armor, the shield she showed to the world and carried before her—the persona of Kyle Springer—was lost to her. And to take it away from her, that meant he’d seen her down to her bare skin. God, how long had she been unconscious? And what else had happened during that time?

  “How dare you?” she demanded, clutching the blanket to her, terrified, indignant. "What gave you the right—”

  He smiled slightly and threw the rags into the flames. “So there is a woman under there. Anytime someone puts me in the line of fire I have the right. I opened your shirt to see if you were shot more than once, and found your—surprise." Then he added with cold dryness, "But I told you the other day that you don’t have anything I haven’t already seen. And anyway, unwilling women have never interested me, in case you were worried.” He narrowed his eyes as he raked her with a contemptuous glare. “Who are you?”

  Dizziness washed over her and she leaned sideways against the wall. This was all horrible, just horrible. She felt him staring at her while he waited for an answer. “Kyla Springer. Well, Kyla Springer Bailey.”

  “So now it’s Kyla, huh? You lied to me, lady. I hate being lied to even more than I hate surprises.”

  He rose and she recoiled from him. Who knew what form his fury would take? Her arm ached with tremendous fiery throb. She winced but did her best to ignore the pain. She could have far more trouble with Rankin than with her wound, and she needed to stay alert.

  His movements were swift and fluid, almost graceful. But he only leaned over the fire to pour a cup of broth from a small pot in which he’d boiled a piece of dried beef. He handed a blue enameled cup to her, then got himself a cup of coffee and sat down again.

  She released her breath. “I’m the one who got shot, you know. Not you. Besides, how far would I have gotten traveling alone as a woman?”

  He acknowledged the
question with a lift of his brow and an assessing gaze that seemed to take casual measure of her through her clothes. “Not very far with those men looking for you. Of course, now they’re also dogging me, thanks to you. What else have you lied about?”

  “Nothing! Everything I told you was true. I didn’t know anyone was chasing me.” She held the cup to her mouth with a hand that shook so badly she was in danger of scalding herself.

  Firelight and shadow played over his face, making his youthful features look even more sinister. “Big bad men came and took your ranch?”

  If she had felt better, if she were stronger, she would have challenged this man and his sarcasm, fearsome though he was. “Yes! And Hank Bailey sent me to look for you.”

  He frowned at her. “Hank Bailey—how do you know him?”

  She looked at him dead on. "He was my husband. Just over a month ago, Tom Hardesty shot him in cold blood. Then with Luke Jory’s help, he forced me off our ranch.” Her words were blunt and direct, and a look of surprise skittered across his face. It was the best way she could think of to deal with Jace. He was not a weak man and he seemed not to tolerate weakness in anyone else. But she put her hand to her eyes for a moment. The memory was so terrible—she hadn’t loved Hank, but she’d liked him and respected him, and the guilt she felt over his death had not diminished one bit.

  Jace stared at the woman. This was stunning news. Hank Bailey, dead? He’d known him for a long time, although he’d lost track of him in the last couple of years. He was a tough son of a bitch, an ex-Texas Ranger who had come north and taken up bounty hunting. He had no patience with the scummy people that bounty hunting tended to churn up, and was inclined to take advantage of the “dead” option on the wanted posters. Now and then their paths had crossed, and on a rainy night or two they’d tipped a few beers and traded stories. Hank wasn’t the kind of man to be overcome with a nesting instinct to get married and take up ranching. He liked the ladies, all right, but mostly the saloon girl variety. Now this plain, tough-talking female with chopped-off hair and boy’s clothes claimed to have been married to him? None of it figured. He tossed a twig into the fire.

  “A lot of people have heard of Hank Bailey, and he damn sure wasn’t married the last time I saw him. How do I know you aren’t making this up, too?”

  The woman turned from her cramped position to rest her back against the rocky wall, her face hidden in shadow. She was silent for a moment before she spoke. "I’m not making it up. You heard McIntyre yourself. He referred to the Bailey woman. Hank and I were married six months ago. Why on earth would I put myself in the position to be chased and shot at, if it were a lie?”

  Her voice was rich and smoky—Jace had never heard anything quite like it. But it was definitely a female voice. And she chose her words more carefully than she had when “Kyle” was talking.

  "How do I know? Maybe you stole something, or ran away from somewhere. Bailey isn’t an unusual name.”

  “I’m telling you the truth,” she said, “and I’m taking a big chance in doing it.”

  That was small comfort, he thought grimly. “How did Hank get killed?”

  The wind picked up and she pulled the blanket closer around her, mindful of her arm. “He was the leader of the Midnighters. They’re a group of Blakely citizens who are trying to get rid of the Vigilance Union. Hardesty shot him down like a dog, point-blank in the chest just outside the barn. I saw it all. That’s the way Luke Jory operates—if he wants something he’ll just take it. Tom Hardesty is his right-hand toady, so he can do the same with Jory’s help.” She drew a deep breath. “Hank died later than night.” Her voice faded away, and she closed her eyes for a moment.

  The story sounded plausible enough, although it was still hard for Jace to picture the man he remembered married to this woman. Her femaleness—femininity wouldn’t be the right term in this case—was more apparent now that she spoke with her own voice, throaty though it was. And of course, he’d seen the physical evidence—but beyond her small face and big eyes, it was hard to tell what Kyla, the woman, looked like. He could well imagine it, though.

  Apparently his thoughts showed on his face, because she added, “I wasn’t born looking like this, you know. I tried to stay at the ranch, but it became impossible for me to live there alone. After Hank died the other two hands were frightened off, and Hardesty deviled me day and night. He told me he’d be moving into the ranch house. I was more than welcome to stay—if I, well, cooperated. One night he broke down the kitchen door. He was drunk and—and I slashed his face with a paring knife.” She shivered again and reached up to close her shirt collar. “I think he’s probably as mad about that as anything else—Hardesty fancies himself to be a ladies’ man. That night, I cut off my hair, put on boys’ clothes, and set out before daybreak to find you.”

  He took a big swallow of the coffee. “When were you planning to tell me that you’re not a boy?”

  She shrugged her good shoulder. “I don’t know—maybe later if I felt like I could trust you. So probably not at all.”

  The barb was not lost on him but he ignored it. Something about this still didn’t figure. He leaned toward her. “Who is Tom Hardesty to you? Why did he want your ranch? Why not someone else’s?”

  Her gaze slid away from his. “No others would do. He’s coveted that land for years. When my father married Aggie Hardesty after my mother died, she brought her son Tom with her. All of my kin are dead now. Tom and I are the only ones left. He’s my—stepbrother, I guess.” She said this last with special distaste and bitterness. “He was gone for a few years, and I thought I’d seen the last of him. A year ago, he came back. Like a bad penny.”

  “Stepbrother? And you wanted to hire me to kill him?” This situation was getting worse and worse with every fragment of information she revealed. Jace shook his head. “Oh, no, no. I’m not getting involved in some family squabble over land ownership. You need a lawyer, not me. Our deal is off, lady.”

  “Damn it,” she cursed, sounding more like Kyle again, “my name is not ‘kid,’ and it isn’t ‘lady’! And this has nothing to do with land rights or a family squabble. Tom Hardesty is not my family. This is about murder and thievery. I don’t need a lawyer or a nursemaid. I need someone who can help me get my home back. Hank sent me to find you because he said you were that man. He said maybe you’ve had a change of heart since the Bluebird Saloon. I suppose he could have been wrong.”

  Jace stiffened and he felt his face heat. The Bluebird Saloon—God, he had very nearly put that night out of his head. Five years had passed since then, and he’d finally stopped thinking about it, dreaming about it. He’d almost forgotten that woman who had begged him to help her and her little girl. Didn’t want to get involved, he’d told her. . . .

  “What did he tell you about that?” he demanded, wary now. He would not have expected Hank to turn gossipy like an old lady. And Kyla Springer Bailey made him very uncomfortable. She knew things that he did not, and things that she shouldn’t. He was unaccustomed to having so little control over a situation.

  “Nothing. He didn’t tell me the story. He just said that you let someone down.”

  Jace frowned. Huh, yeah, he had let someone down. The results had been disastrous. And even from his grave, Hank was reminding him of it. He let his gaze drift over Kyla again. Maybe she was his chance to finally make things right.

  There was a lot more about all of this that he wanted to know, but he couldn’t question her anymore tonight. She had had a really lousy day, one that would have been hard for a man. But for a woman, trying to maintain a disguise while confronting a drunk in a gunfight and getting shot—Jace had to admit again that she had a lot of grit. A hell of a lot, considering the events that had led to this afternoon.

  Right now, though, she was too tired and in too much pain to keep talking. In fact, he was worn out himself.

  “Drink that broth and get some rest,” he said shortly. “If Hardesty has his people following us, we’ll ha
ve to backtrack a little before we ride to Misfortune. I want to get an early start.” He stood up to open his bedroll on the other side of the fire.

  “Does that mean that you’re going to help me?” she asked, tipping her face up at him.

  “Looks like it.”

  “That’s not much of an answer. How do I know you won’t change your mind? You could probably hand me over to Hardesty and make more money than I can pay you.”

  He frowned at her. “Not everything is about money.”

  “Every man has his price—sometimes it’s too high.”

  “I guess you’ll just have to take my word for it. I’ll help you.”

  She eyed him. “For sure?”

  The hope and fatigue in her voice committed him to see this through. Although he still thought it was probably a bad decision, he was in for the long ride. He considered her eyes—blue-green, they were like turquoise, even in the firelight.

  “Yeah, for sure.”

  * * *

  The night was an endless, rainy darkness of pain and worry. Kyla’s sleep was fitful and shallow, despite her exhaustion. Oh, to be back in her own bed, clean, warm, and safe with the nightmares behind her. Instead she was unwashed and cold, wounded, sleeping in the damp.

  Hardesty had to pay, she vowed darkly—for this, for Hank, for every filthy innuendo and sly look, for making her feel dirty. He might not have pulled the trigger himself this time, but he was just as guilty as McIntyre. That worthless saddle bum would not have shot her if Tom hadn’t sent him to find her.

  During the dragging hours her arm throbbed, and she woke often with her jaws clenched. Whenever she opened her eyes she saw Jace Rankin across the fire from her. He lay in the red light of the embers, his head propped on his saddle, looking the same as the night before, with the Henry next to him. He appeared to sleep with the maddening ease of a man who had no worries and no regrets. The stubble of his beard grew heavier each day, making him seem all the more threatening.

  Her masquerade had given her strength, courage, and freedom—it was easier to move around in this wild, unforgiving country as a male. But now Jace knew the truth, at least most of it, and he could easily take whatever he wanted from her. If he decided to do that, could she fight him off? No, not even on her best day. He far outmatched her strength with his lean, quick body, and danger radiated from him. He could claim disinterest in unwilling women, but she had no particular reason to believe him.