Wish Upon a Cowboy

by Maureen Child

  Luck, he thought, and for one wild, terrifying minute he found himself wondering if it really was luck, or was Hannah's story more true than he wanted to know?

  Stretch raced past him to join in the fight and Jonas stood stock-still a moment or two longer, asking himself if the pepperbox had failed because it was basically a lousy weapon… or had he, somehow, caused the gun to misfire?

  A war whoop worthy of a howling Comanche shattered his bizarre thoughts and he ducked in time to avoid a thrown chair as it whistled past his head.

  The saloon erupted around him. This was no time for thinking. Jonas eagerly joined in the tight, choosing the closest man to him and landing a roundhouse punch to his jaw. As that same man jumped to his feet and buried his fist in Jonas's stomach, he consoled himself with the knowledge that at least this he understood.

  * * *

  Something heavy landed with a thud that shook Hannah out of a restless sleep. Sitting up in bed, she flipped he braid behind her shoulder and listened for another minute before getting out of bed and opening her bedroom door.

  Her bare feet tingled with cold against the wood floor and the night air seemed to pierce right through her white cotton nightgown. Shivering slightly, she peered into the darkened main room, wishing she'd left a lamp burning.

  The only light came from the banked fire, and its dim orange-red glow only seemed to define the darkness, rather than illuminate it.

  Then one of the shadowy shapes moved. For one brief instant, thoughts of haunts and demons flew through her still-sleepy mind. But when the shadow stood up, outlining itself against the backdrop of what was left of the fire, Hannah sighed at her own foolishness. Of course it was Jonas.

  "Who the hell left that damn sofa in the middle of the damn room?" he muttered and she wondered vaguely why his voice sounded so garbled.

  He took another step and every bone in his body seemed to collapse. He folded in on himself and landed with another loud thud.

  "Good heavens! Arc you all right?" she said as she hurried toward him, her inventive mind drawing up images of a raging fever, or a hideous wound spouting fountains of blood, or… She stopped short when the smell hit her.

  Wrinkling her nose, Hannah tried to breathe without inhaling. Whiskey fumes permeated the room like a thick fog hanging over Boston Harbor.

  He wasn't sick.

  He was drunk.

  "Good Lord."

  He lifted his head from the floor as though it weighed a hundred pounds. Staring up at her, he blinked, stared, then blinked again. Snorting a laugh that ended in a groan of pain, he muttered, "First witches… now angels."

  "Angels indeed," she said with a disgusted shake of her head. Still, her lips twitched slightly as she looked down at herself, imagining what she must look like from his befuddled perspective. Billowing white nightgown. Blond hair. The odd light thrown by the dying fire.

  His head dropped to the floor again with a smack.

  "You're drunk. Mackenzie."

  "Shhh," he warned, lifting one finger to lay it crookedly across his mouth. "You'll wake Hannah."

  "I'm Hannah," she told him with a reluctant smile.

  "She's a witch," he confided, then winked at her. The fact that he had to pry that eye open again with his fingertips rather spoiled the effect.

  "Really?" Hannah asked. Wasn't this nice? It only taken a gallon or two of whiskey to make believe her. Still another smile tugged at her lips. He did look ridiculous, sprawled across the floor. Hardly the image of a powerful warlock.

  He held up one hand and it swayed limply back and forth in front of him like a flag on a windless day. "Angels are better than witches," he said in that strange garbled tone.

  "I suppose so," she granted, already wondering how she was going to get the man off the floor and into his bed.

  "Stopped the fight," he told her and waved his hand.

  Hannah grabbed it and tugged, trying to pull him to his feet. "Is that right?" A fight, was it?

  "Saved Billy," he grunted as she braced her feet and pulled him halfway to a sitting position.

  "That's good," she muttered from between clenched teeth. She'd never been so aware of what a big man the Mackenzie was. The muscles in her shoulders were screaming and she'd hardly moved him at all.

  "Couldn't save Marie, though," he whispered.

  Hannah let go.

  His head crashed against the floor. "Ow…"

  She winced. She hadn't meant to drop him, but… "Who's Marie?"

  "Dead. Dead and I didn't save her," he shook his head from side to side, groaning slightly with the movement. "Angel didn't save her, either." Jonas glared at her briefly.

  "Who is she?" Hannah repeated, but his whiskey soaked brain was off on another tangent.

  "Shhh, Angel," he told her and tried to lift his head again. Apparently, though, that concentrated effort was beyond him at the moment. "If we wake up the witch she'll put a hex on you."

  "Oh, for heaven's sakes," she muttered.

  "Like she did on me," he finished.

  "I did no such thing," she snapped and for a moment thought guiltily of the potion she'd spent most of the evening cooking up. Well, she hadn't actually given it to him yet, had she?

  "She's lying, angel."

  "I'm not an angel," she said hotly. "I'm Hannah. And I didn't lie to you."

  "Lies," he muttered and turned his head to one side, nestling against the wooden planks as though he were settling deep into a feather pillow. "All lies. Didn't save him. Couldn't save her."

  Again, that reference to the mysterious Marie. Hannah's insides tightened up as she realized it would require a miracle to get any more information from him tonight.

  "It's not a lie, Mackenzie," she whispered, shaking her head. "You are a warlock."

  "Nope," he murmured softly and folded his hands across his chest. "Not."

  And people said she was stubborn. Hannah sighed and turned around. Going to his room, she grabbed the quilt from his bed and went back to the fallen Mackenzie. She'd never get him off the floor, so she spread the quilt over him and left him there.

  As she turned to leave, though, his voice stopped her.

  "Hannah?"

  "Yes?" She looked back at him.

  He lay still as death, eyes closed. "It is you, then."

  "What do you want, Mackenzie?"

  "An answer."

  "To which question?"

  He paused and Hannah almost convinced herself he'd fallen asleep when he asked quietly, "If I'm really this witch you say I am, how come I can't make you disappear?"

  Chapter Seven

  Sunday morning dawned bright and clear. Not a single cloud marred the lake-blue sky. The snowcapped mountains looked close enough to touch, and a soft, cool breeze ruffled the clothes Hannah hung on the line.

  A few of the men had gone into town and the rest, but for those sent to guard the herd, were recuperating quietly in the bunkhouse. Hannah couldn't help but wonder if every Sabbath here was spent in repenting the night before.

  This place was so different from home. In Creekford, she would have been attending the local church services, then perhaps gone visiting with Eudora. Here, she handed out liniment and pieces of beefsteak to the men who'd come stumbling into her kitchen sporting black eyes and skinned knuckles.

  Snatching up one of Jonas's shirts from the laundry basket, she held it tightly in both hands and realized that as different as this place was, she liked it. Here, she felt useful. She cooked and cleaned and cared for a group of men who were slowly coming to, if not like her, then at least respect her.

  Oh, remembering what he'd said the night before, she admitted that Jonas would probably be happier if she'd leave. But he hadn't ordered her off his property, so maybe that was something in itself.

  Snapping the wrinkles out of the shirt, she laid it across the clothesline and held it in place with two wooden pins at the shoulders. Thoughtfully, she smoothed her fingers across the worn, blue material. Not onl
y was life different here, she was different.

  She lifted her gaze to the far mountains and pulled in a deep, satisfying breath of the crisp air. No one on the ranch was judging her and finding her coming up short of expectations. No one here knew about witchcraft. No one realized that she was a complete failure.

  As much as she loved Creekford, it wasn't easy living there. An entire town full of practicing witches could be fairly intimidating to a woman whose own powers were so ridiculously paltry.

  For the first time in her life, Hannah's pitiful powers didn't mean anything. She was being judged, and approved of, just like an ordinary person.

  "Are you tryin' to kill yourself?"

  Elias's astonished voice lifted Hannah from her reverie and she half turned toward the sound.

  "Wasn't last night enough?" the older man asked.

  "Leave me alone, you old coot," Jonas complained.

  Hannah left the laundry behind and walked around the corner of the house. Across the yard from her, she saw Elias standing outside the corral, watching Jonas tighten a saddle cinch on a black horse that looked mean even from a distance. Hardly realizing she was moving, Hannah started toward them.

  The older man half turned as she approached. He nodded at her, then turned his attention back to Jonas. "You don't have to do this today," he said.

  "As good a time as any," Jonas told him as he caught a glimpse of Hannah and lowered his head to his task.

  "What's going on?" she asked as she stepped up to the corral fence and rested her hands on the highest rail.

  "This durn fool's gonna break his neck," Elias muttered.

  "What I'm going to do is break this horse before roundup." Jonas tightened the cinch strap, then flipped the stirrup down and into place. Grabbing the reins, he led the horse into the center of the corral.

  The big black animal tossed its head and rolled its eyes. Snorting and sidestepping, it looked as though it had no intention of being ridden anytime soon.

  Hannah felt a catch in her chest and stepped up onto the bottom railing. In the sunlight, Jonas's bruises looked appalling. His jaw was purple, his split lip still swollen, and his right eye was nearly closed.

  "Isn't this dangerous?" she asked quietly.

  She felt, rather than saw, Elias's gaze shift to her. "Damn right. Even when a man's got a clear head, it ain't easy," he raised his voice slightly. "A hangover'll only make it harder."

  Jonas ignored him.

  "Why is he doing this?" she asked herself aloud.

  "Because it needs to be done," Elias answered.

  "But he's hurt," she said, her gaze locked on Jonas. A part of her admired him for doing his job even when he was obviously in no shape for it.

  "Yeah," Elias said on a grunt. "From what I hear, it was a beaut of a fight."

  "You didn't go into town, then?" She turned to look at him.

  "I got better things to do," he said, then raised his voice pointedly. "Even if some folks don't."

  Jonas ignored him.

  "He came home drunk," Hannah commented.

  "Usually does." The older man's gray eyes narrowed as he watched the younger man in front of him.

  She shifted her gaze back to where Jonas was stabbing his left foot into the stirrup and grabbing hold of the saddle horn with both hands. Frowning, she asked, "Usually?"

  "Every damn Saturday night," he said, his voice thick with concern. "For years, now."

  Why? she wondered, but couldn't bring herself to ask. What could drive a man like the Mackenzie to seek solace from a liquor bottle'? A man with all the power of the universe at his fingertips. A man who, with the snap of his fingers, could unleash a stream of energy strong enough to rival the white-hot ferocity of a thousand lightning bolts.

  She studied him through eyes looking to see beyond the surface and into the soul. The heart. Once again, she remembered the night before, when he'd looked at her and asked, Why can't I make you disappear?

  The pain of that moment lessened only when she reminded herself that if he'd really wanted her gone… she would be.

  He pulled himself into the saddle and with his abrupt movement, the horse began a dance designed to dismount him. All four feet left the ground as the huge beast arched its back, lowered its head, and snorted in frustrated fury.

  Hannah held her breath and watched as Jonas leaned back in the saddle, straightening his legs, locking his knees as he pitched back and forth with the animal's crazed flight. His left hand high over his head, his right hand kept a firm grip on the reins he'd wrapped around the saddle horn.

  Seconds became hours, and minutes, days.

  The only sound she heard was the frantic pawing of hooves against hard-packed earth and the whoosh of Jonas's breath rushing in and out of his lungs.

  Her own breath was trapped in her chest. She felt her heartbeat thundering in her ears. She felt the man beside her stiffen when Jonas suddenly flew from the saddle to land in a heap, up against the corral fence. And there he lay, still and quiet.

  "Damn it," Elias muttered.

  Fear tore at her throat, making it impossible to draw breath. Before she knew what she was doing, Hannah was clambering between the rails of the corral fence, barely aware that Elias was keeping pace with her. She ran across the paddock to Jonas while the older man caught the horse's reins and led the animal a safe distance away.

  * * *

  The sun stabbed at Jonas's closed eyelids, increasing the pounding ache that throbbed in time with his heartbeat. The blinding hangover that had been with him for hours was now joined by the assorted stabs of pain that seemed to attack every inch of his body.

  Groaning tightly, he rolled to one side and cautiously opened his eyes. Silhouetted against the sun, she stood over him. Her face in shadows, she seemed haloed by a golden light that reminded him eerily of the night before. Drunk he might have been, but he dimly recalled having a conversation with an angel, of all things. An angel that had made him yearn for heaven and suffer in the hell of not having her.

  Here, he was willing to bet, was that angel.

  Jesus, how had this happened to him? How did one woman show up in a man's life and in less than a week throw everything he'd known into turmoil?

  She'd slipped up on him. Made herself a part of the place. Everywhere he looked, he saw her. She'd stepped right up to the challenge of feeding a dozen men three times a day and had managed to tame that same rowdy crew. He knew the men liked her… and damned if he didn't, too.

  "Are you all right?" she asked and went down on her knees beside him.

  He heard the concern in her voice and cringed inwardly. He looked away from the flash of fear he recognized in her eyes. He couldn't—wouldn't—be that important to another human being again.

  Ever.

  "I'm fine," he said. "Just banged up a little."

  "Why are you doing this?" she asked with a shake of her head.

  "It has to be done," he said and, wincing, tried to sit up.

  Instantly, her arms were around him, supporting him until he was leaning back against the rail fence. Warmth rippled from her body into his. The scent of lemons wafted around him and he drew it deep into his lungs despite knowing he shouldn't indulge in even that small comfort. And then the memory of that brief, soul shaking kiss crashed over him and Jonas nearly groaned aloud.

  She must be a witch, he told himself. Otherwise, she wouldn't have such a profound effect on him. His heart had turned to stone too long ago for any ordinary woman to be able to reach it. As for what her presence did to his body… hell, even a dead man would take notice of Hannah, he figured.

  "There's an easier way," she said softly.

  "Don't start with that witchcraft stuff again, Hannah," he interrupted her. "Believe me. I'm in no mood for it."

  "For heaven's sake, Mackenzie," she said, her voice filled with the impatience that seemed to flow from her in waves, "this is a gift you've been given. Can't you see that?"

  Tipping his head to one side, he st
udied her briefly. From the flyaway strands of blond hair that swirled about her head in the soft breeze, to her wide, green eyes, to the gently curved lips he'd dreamed of kissing again.

  Disgusted with his own wayward mind, he snapped, "What I see is a woman keeping me from doing my job."

  "Pretending it's not true won't make it so."

  A quick spurt of anger shot through him as he grabbed one of her hands and squeezed it. "I'm not a witch. Hannah."

  She shook her head and a few more strands of gold drifted free of her braid. "I don't know how to convince you."

  "You can't."

  "I have to try," she said and covered his hand with her free one. Heat collected at the spot where they touched, and Jonas had to fight against the urge to pull her closer. He suddenly wanted, desperately, to feel her body pressed tightly to his. To surround himself with the warmth and sunlight that seemed to be a part of her.

  He'd been so long in the shadows.

  Too long, he told himself.

  Behind her, Elias stepped closer. Absently, Jonas noticed his old friend, but chose to ignore his presence in the effort to make Hannah understand.

  "Don't you get it?" he demanded roughly and snatched his hand free before he could give in to the temptation to reach for more. "I don't want to be convinced. I don't want to be who you say I am."

  "You don't get a choice Jonas," she said, and he thought he heard a wisp of sympathy laced with the firm conviction in her tone. "You are the Mackenzie. By birth. By right. It's not something you can make go away by turning a blind eye to it."

  "Watch me."

  "But why? Surely anyone would want what you have."

  Not everyone, he thought. Not a man who carried around the image of a dead woman. A woman who died because he couldn't reach her in time. Because he'd left her alone when she needed him. Because his own damned ambition had been more important than her safety.

  He couldn't believe Hannah's story.

  If he did, then he would have to accept that he could have saved Marie if only he'd known. And he didn't think he could live with that. Not bothering to answer her, he pushed himself to his feet and stalked past Elias. Brushing himself off, he gathered up the stallion's reins and rejoined the battle.