Renegade's Kiss
Wild Western Hearts Series
Book Three
by
Barbara Ankrum
Bestselling Author
Published by ePublishing Works!
www.epublishingworks.com
ISBN: 978-1-61417-499-8
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Copyright © 2013 by Barbara Ankrum. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.
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Dedication
For my teacher, Lyn Stimer, who believed in me when I didn't believe in myself. Thanks, Lyn.
And to my family, who put up with a lot of restaurants for this one. I love you guys.
Chapter 1
Ohio Valley, 1864
A moan gathered at the back of her throat, low and guttural, bearing all the pain and fear that threatened to undo her. Don't scream, she warned herself. Do not scream. Because if you scream you'll lose control. And if you lose control... you'll die.
Andrea Carson Winslow silently repeated the litany with her eyes squeezed shut and teeth ground together. Her fingers locked around the feather pillow beneath her head. It was damp from her sweat. The pain curled harder and harder around her abdomen, while clawing her in two from the inside as if by the talons of some giant bird. The crushing ache twisted and pulled and pushed her beyond the limits she had imagined bearable.
Panic swelled in her like a living thing, consuming the courage she'd mustered. The pain peaked, then leveled, holding her captive on some invisible brink, and at the very moment the scream threatened to break loose from her throat, the contraction miraculously ebbed, then slowly, reluctantly released her.
Her breath scraped her parched throat as she exhaled in short, panting puffs that matched the rhythm of the shutters clattering in the wind against the house outside her window. Something about that sound kept her sane. She prayed the storm brewing outside would linger as long as she needed it and not abandon her.
That thought struck her oddly. A storm for company. A hysterical sort of laugh bubbled up in her throat. Well, that pretty much said it all. She was as alone as one person could be.
No, she corrected mentally, smoothing two palms over her swollen abdomen. Not completely alone.
The thought comforted her and made the pain almost bearable. Hearing the first drops of rain clatter against her bedroom window, Andrea pressed her head back against the pillow. The scent of the rain was earthy and fresh. For a moment she wondered if she could make it to the window to hang her head outside to catch some drops on her tongue. But she was too far gone to move. Even the thought of it made her nauseous.
Allowing her exhausted mind to wander, she closed her eyes and conjured up a picture of her child. If it was a boy, would he have his father's straight brown hair, hazel eyes, easy smile? Would his hands be the hands of a farmer, wide and blunt and gentle? Would she ever be able to tell him what a wonderful man his daddy was and how much he would have loved him if only he'd known?
Andrea reached across the small wooden end table for the picture there. The silver frame felt cold against her warm palms. Inside was an ambrotype of a man in uniform, his dark Union cap set at a jaunty angle, his smile a balm to her even now. Zach had always been able to calm her. Even when she'd been at her stubbornest, her most unreasonable. He had loved her unconditionally and had married her that way, too. Now, as his face stared silent from the frame, she wished... oh, how she wished she could have given him the same gift he'd given her.
Pressing the portraiture to her chest, she glanced at the small bedside clock. Almost eleven. With the back of one wrist, Andrea swept back the hair stuck to her forehead. In another two hours, Isabelle Rafferty, her neighbor to the west, would drop by with something homemade tucked in a basket. Isabelle would talk about what Andrea could expect during childbirth, having given birth to nine children of her own, or she would simply offer a sympathetic ear, as had become her habit since the day two weeks ago when they'd buried Zach's mother, Martha.
Isabelle had told her first babies came slow. She said first labors were long drawn out affairs that gave the mother time to prepare. But she'd been wrong about this one. Nothing could have prepared Andrea for the pain that had struck a mere two hours ago, low, hard, and fast.
And two weeks early.
Andrea tightened her fingers around the edge of the cotton sheet. Her waters had broken at half-past nine. No, one o'clock would be too late. She'd never last another two hours.
Thunder crackled in the distance. Perhaps Isabelle wouldn't even come because of the rain. Perhaps she would wait until it let up. Perhaps—
It started low, as it always did, curling and spiraling from the middle of her back, dragging her into its grip as inevitably as gravity pulled the drops of rain down the panes of her window. Squeezing her eyes closed, she prayed she had the strength to do this again. This one was worse. Oh, God... so much worse than the last. She felt her fragile control slipping.
The sound seemed to come from outside her, surrounding her, echoing off the walls, mingling with the rain. But it was her throat that vibrated with the sound, her voice giving up that last thread of restraint.
And finally, she forgot to care.
* * *
Jesse Winslow pulled his Appaloosa to a stop at the hillock's crest, beneath the sheltering branches of a thick stand of boxwood and maple that lined the long dirt road leading to the house. Along the creek that ran the length of the farm, willows lined the shore, dipping their drooping branches into the water.
His wolf, Mahkwi, padded up beside him, tongue lolling out the side of her mouth. Her silver-tipped fur ruffled in the wind as she waited patiently for Jesse to move on.
The years hadn't diminished the place in Jesse's mind, though there were times he had wished he could erase his memory of it, times he actually thought he had. What lay beyond the road sent an involuntary shudder through his body.
Corn. Acre upon acre of the damned stuff.
The rigid green stalks bent and twisted with the rising wind and rattled with the sound that had filled his nightmares since he'd left the place. In all these years, he hadn't been able to force himself to eat corn, much less imagine himself here facing the prospect of working it again.
It began to rain in large fat droplets. Glancing up at the thunderous sky, he ran a nervous hand over his bearded jaw, then tugged his hat down low over his eyes. With a scowl of resignation, he nudged the gelding toward the two-story white clapboard farmhouse at the end of the lane. The wolf followed on the gelding's heels with a whining yawn.
Drawing nearer, Jes
se decided it had been years since the place had seen the wet end of a paintbrush. Faded green shutters banged loosely against the house in the wind and he made a mental note to secure them. The drunken-man fence surrounding the yard was broken in places, spilling into the adjacent cornfield.
The empty yard, still planted with garden roses and grass, was overgrown and unkempt. That surprised him. It wasn't like his mother to let that go. It surprised him, too, that she hadn't appeared at the door to meet him, her gentle smile as soft as the roses she grew.
The ungodly sound stopped him.
Jesse hauled back on the reins of his horse, bringing the gelding to a stop. The wolf, with ears pricked forward, heard it too and whined. For a moment, Jesse mistook it for the howl of the wind, rising on a keening note.
Then he recognized the sound for what it was: a woman's scream.
His blood went cold. Only one thought propelled him off his horse, his feet barely touching the ground between there and the porch. Someone was killing his mother.
Jesse nearly ripped the door off its hinges before barreling through it, banging the heavy portal against the wall with a crash. He dragged his Colt from the cross-draw holster at his waist. "Ma?"
The screaming had stopped. Silence answered him.
"Ma!" he called again and headed from room to room searching for her, afraid of what he would find.
Oddly, nothing seemed out of place. If there had been a scuffle, it had not happened down here. His pulse thudded in his ears. God Almighty! Fifteen hundred miles and he was one minute too late? Impossible. His grip tightened on the Colt. "Ma!"
Upstairs, a board squeaked. Jesse's gaze shot to the plaster ceiling above his head—to his and Zach's old room.
Soundlessly, he moved through the kitchen to the narrow stairs leading to the second floor. It could be anyone, he told himself; raider, drifter... deserter from the War. Each scenario grew uglier as he considered it, so he shoved speculation from his mind.
Avoiding the squeaky board on the third step, he raced to the top, then pressed his back against the wall, listening.
He heard the harsh sound of breathing and the distinctive metallic spin of a gun's cylinder. Fury rose up in him hard and fast, replacing the terror he'd felt only seconds before. The door to his old room was half-closed, but he kicked it open with the flat sole of his boot, gun raised and ready. What he found on the other side of that door nearly made him lose his balance.
"Goddamn..." he said, staring at the sweat-drenched young woman in the bed against the wall. A mass of stringy hair hung down over her eyes, obscuring her face. The tangled strands trembled with each breath she took. Propped on one elbow, she held a large revolver in her shaking hands, but couldn't manage to get the small lead bullet anywhere near the cylinder. Jesse's stunned gaze drifted past her hands to the thin gown stretched tautly across her swollen belly. Hellfire! She was—
The cylinder of her pistol snapped shut and she swung it up toward him. "Get out!"
Jesse's heart thudded in his ears. His gaze skimmed the rest of the room in the time it took to blink. She was alone. "What the hell is this?"
She stared through the tangle of mahogany hair that had fallen over her eyes. "What do you want?"
His gaze narrowed on the revolver he guessed was still empty.
She licked her dry lips. "What? Jewelry? Money? There's not much, but it's downstairs in the covered tin by the woodstove. Take whatever you want and go."
Jesse stared at her as the storm gathered strength against the window outside. "Who the hell are you?" he asked, tightening his grip on his pistol. "Was that you screaming a minute ago?"
The hand holding her gun shook almost as badly as her voice. "Please, just take the money and go!" Her breathing came hard and fast, and what he could see of her face was streaked with moisture.
"I don't want your money," he said, his voice dangerous and low.
"You... you don't want money?" She wavered on her elbow and he thought she might just fall. If she'd been scared before, a look of terror crossed her features now. "What then?"
"What's your name, and what are you doing—?"
It took both hands to pull back the hammer of her gun, but it resounded through the room with a loud click.
Jesse's eye twitched. Her gun was empty. He was almost certain. "Lady—"
"Please..."
"Look, put that thing down." He held one hand up. "I'm not going to hurt you."
She simply stared at him, breathing hard. Slowly, he lowered his own gun. "I think I have a right to know your name," he said.
"A right to—"
"Dammit, where's my ma?"
Her eyes widened as if she thought he might be crazy. "Your... your ma?"
"Yes, my mother. The woman of the house—Martha Winslow."
Her mouth fell open and she stared at him so hard he wondered if she were looking right through him to the wall. Her gaze raked him from the crown of his worn hat, down the length of his beaded deerskin jacket and leather pants to the tips of his square-toed boots, then returned to his eyes. An uncharacteristic heat crept up his neck at her inspection.
Slowly, she pushed the hair off her face and shook her head with disbelief. "Oh, my God..."
Jesse's stomach dropped to his toes. Those eyes, violet as the wild lupine that mantled the high meadows of Montana in spring; a man couldn't forget eyes like that in a lifetime. Andi.
"Oh!" she cried again, more sharply this time. "Oh, my Gaaww-d—" Her empty pistol clattered to the floor as she fell back on the pillow and clutched her mounded belly. "It's... it's starting again..."
"Damn," he muttered, watching her clench up like a pulled stitch on the bed. He took a step closer, dread creeping in on him. It seemed like forever since he'd seen her. Now... she hardly resembled the girl she'd been when he'd left. "Tell me you're not having that baby now," he said.
She didn't answer him, only bared her teeth in a grimace and panted in short, hostile breaths.
Jesse started to sweat. "This is not good," he said, more to himself than to her. "This is definitely not good." He didn't have to search the house one more time to know she was completely alone here. He cursed again, then moved closer to her and holstered his gun. "Uh... listen... maybe I should, uh, ride for a doctor—"
She shook her head desperately between breaths. "No-oo! Don't leave... coming... soon."
"The doctor?"
She shook her head again, gritting her teeth. "The ba-baby."
He was afraid she was going to say that. Jesse bit back another curse. He was as good at delivering babies as he was at plowing corn. Where the hell was everybody? Where the hell was his mother?
"Listen," he said, trying to contain the panic in his voice, "you couldn't just... hold off could you?"
She shot him a murderous look.
"Right." He ground a nervous fist into his palm and scanned the room for nonexistent help. "Okay, okay that's out."
She started to moan and with a scowl he moved closer. Even through the sheet covering her, he could see her belly changing shape with the contraction. The child inside her was fighting hard to be born. He'd had experience with gunshot wounds, broken bones, and even snake bites. But the only births he'd ever witnessed had taken place in the barnyard and the progeny had had four legs.
A woman was a different matter entirely.
"Tell me what I can do," he said at last with the resignation of a man heading for the gallows.
With her back arched against the bed she panted for air. The plea in her amethyst eyes when she looked up nearly undid him. "Please, ju-just hold my hand."
Jesse swallowed hard. A hand seemed little enough to offer her. He slid his long fingers around the moist warmth of hers.
"Okay. That's good," he told her sitting on the edge of the bed. "Just squeeze the hell out of my hand. It'll be over in a minute." He hoped. A bead of sweat trickled down his cheek. At least she wasn't screaming. He didn't know what he'd do if she screamed again.
Instead, as the pain seemed to reach a peak, she uttered one word like a plea.
"Jesse-eee—!"
His pulse skipped with the sound of her cry. Jesus, how had she come to this? Pregnant, alone... Regret knifed through him for the thousandth time in six years.
After what seemed interminable minutes, her pain seemed to ease at last and she loosened her death grip on his hand. Taking deep, exhausted breaths, she lay on the pillow with sweat beading on her forehead. Her lips were bloodless and her skin paler than alabaster, save for the freckles sprinkling the bridge of her nose.
He took the edge of the sheet and dabbed her brow. Her eyes were closed, her face relaxed. She was too tired to fight him anymore, and she allowed him to wipe away the moisture on her face. No, he thought, letting his gaze slide over her features... she was far from the young girl he'd left behind.
Andrea's lashes fluttered open at the touch of his hand on hers to find him half-smiling at her. She wouldn't have been surprised to discover it had all been some pain-induced hallucination, but there he was. Jesse, back home again. Who would have believed it?
The years had changed him. The sun and wind had burnished his skin to a deep tan and streaked the shaggy mane of tawny hair with gold. A hairline scar, not quite healed, ran along his left cheek. It might have made him look sinister, but for the slash of dimples she could still see beneath the darker beard covering his jaw.
Montana had made him rough around the edges, but if anything, he'd become more beautiful with age, she mused. His body had grown lean and hard and strong. One thing about him hadn't changed: the way he made her heart plunge and race with a simple look from those blue sky eyes of his.
Yes, beneath all that hair, she suspected Jesse Winslow was still handsome as sin and as dangerous to her heart as the deadly-looking knife strapped to his hip. She really hated him for that.
"Andi Mae Carson," he drawled with that slow grin of his.
"Jesse." Andrea swallowed down the lump in her throat and forced a smile. "No one's called me that name since you left."
Renegade's Kiss Page 1
