The Wayward Heart

by Jill Gregory

  “I won’t leave Arizona—it’s my home now,” she said quietly. “And no one’s going to drive me away.”

  Every muscle in his body tautened. He seized her shoulders and shook her. “Don’t be a fool. You’ll get yourself killed. And I’ll be damned if I’ll lift a finger to save your stubborn hide one more time.”

  Bryony pulled away, carrying with her the image of his lean face taut with anger as she plunged out of the cave and into the sunshine. Choking back a sob, she rushed blindly down the rock-strewn trail, oblivious of the strain on her ankle, and trying to blot her final vision of him from her mind.

  ***

  Buck was overjoyed to see her.

  Greeting her with a huge bear hug, he asked repeatedly if she was all right.

  If he noticed that her cheeks were pale and her eyes wet with tears, he ascribed it to the ordeal she’d been through, and listened closely as Bryony explained that she’d spent the night in a cave after losing her horse and twisting her ankle. She didn’t mention anything about Jim Logan, and Buck seemed to accept her story readily enough.

  “We found Shorty’s body this morning,” the young cowboy told her when she finished her tale. “He got shot.”

  “Oh, Buck, it was horrible. He never even saw it coming. They ambushed us. They shot at me too, and followed me up the mountain, but they didn’t find me.”

  “You get a look at the men who shot at you? Could you recognize them if you saw them again?”

  She hesitated. Then she shook her head. “No,” she lied, not meeting his intent gaze. “It all happened so fast...”

  Buck helped her to mount his palomino, then swung himself up in the saddle behind her. “Don’t worry about a thing, Bryony. The boys and I will track down those hombres. It’s the least we can do for Shorty.” His voice was unusually grim and purposeful, without any trace of his customary good humor.

  Later, Bryony was to wonder how she ever managed to get through the remainder of the morning. All those questions! Between Buck and the wranglers, Rosita, and Judge Hamilton, she was forced to repeat her story half a dozen times, each time refraining from mentioning that she knew the identity of her attackers—and also that she’d been rescued on the mountainside by Jim Logan.

  She didn’t stop to analyze why she kept these facts to herself. She only knew that an inner voice prompted her to do so. By the time she collapsed in the sturdy armchair with a cup of steaming coffee and a plate of buttered corn muffins supplied by Rosita, she wished only to be left alone.

  But it was not to be.

  Matt Richards came striding into the room, staring from her to Judge Hamilton and back again, and demanding in an imperative tone to be told what had happened.

  Judge Hamilton recited the story, sparing her the necessity of explaining again. While he did so, Bryony studied Matt Richards.

  Could this dark, handsome, well-dressed man really be the calculating murder Jim Logan claimed he was?

  Could he really be wishing her dead at this moment?

  It seemed incredible. Too incredible to be true.

  There was concern etched in every feature of Matt’s face as he heard what had befallen her. When he knelt by her side and took her hand in his, she searched his black, hooded eyes for some hint of insincerity, of malice.

  There was none.

  She found herself smiling at him, forgetting Jim Logan’s words. Matt Richards was no more a killer than she was.

  And neither was her father.

  Fortunately, Matt Richards seemed to have forgotten all about the previous strain between them after she’d rejected his proposal. His only thought appeared to be gratitude that she was safe. Bryony appreciated his solicitude, as well as the attentions of Judge Hamilton, but she found herself wishing for the peace and quiet of her own room where she could attempt to compose herself and to sort out the jumbled thoughts in her head.

  At last they both allowed her to excuse herself, promising that they would call again the next morning to see if there was anything they could do for her.

  Drained in both body and spirit, she fell into a restless slumber, curled upon the blue silk bed quilt in her soiled clothes, seeking escape from her troubles in the murky depths of sleep.

  Over the course of the next few days, Bryony wrestled with the questions confronting her. She turned over and over in her mind the information Jim Logan had given her, trying desperately to find a flaw in his reasoning, and to discover an alternative explanation for Daisy Winston’s death—not to mention the attempts made on her own life.

  But there was too little information for her to go on. She finally decided to search the ranch house. Though she told herself that she was merely exploring to amuse herself, deep down, she knew that she had to prove to herself that the confession Jim had talked of didn’t exist.

  After an exhaustive search of the upstairs and downstairs rooms, she drew a breath of relief.

  So much for Jim Logan’s suspicions! There was no hidden document in the house—of that she was certain. This knowledge reinforced her belief that the whole ugly matter was a horrible mistake.

  As much to keep her mind off her worries as for any other reason, Bryony decided to go ahead with her plans for hosting a fiesta in June. She invited Matt Richards, who accepted with his warm smile, assuring her that he wouldn’t miss it for anything.

  Ever since the shooting incident, Matt had treated her with utmost kindness and a touching concern. He never pressed her again about marriage as he’d done at the picnic, but seemed content to keep an eye on her, letting her know that he was there if she needed him for anything. She was grateful, and ashamed that she’d ever, even for one instant, suspected him of being a murderer.

  ***

  As her life settled into its normal routine once again, the terror of that late May afternoon on the mountain subsided into little more than a ghastly memory.

  The only event that disturbed the tranquility of the lazy summer days was the news early in June that Cochise, the brilliant Apache chieftain, had died on his reservation.

  The settlers in the area waited in trepidation to see the reaction of his people, for though the Apache leader had signed a peace treaty several years earlier with General Howard, it was known that some raiding bands still made forays from the reservation into neighboring areas, and now that the old chief was gone, the U.S. government was considering moving the Apaches to the San Carlos reservation on the Gila River—a place always unpopular with the Chiracahua Apache.

  So the white settlers in the territory waited uneasily for the Apache reaction to the new circumstances, and wondered bleakly if the days of warfare would return. However, as time passed, and no new attacks broke out to warrant their fears, once again they settled into their routines.

  Bryony, pondering the situation, couldn’t help wondering how many raids were really instigated by the Apache, and how many were blamed on them unjustly. She remembered how Zeke Murdock and Rusty Jessup had disguised themselves as Apaches when they had attacked her and Shorty.

  This thought triggered another memory in her brain.

  Buck had once told her that most of the people in the area believed that Indians were responsible for Johnny Blake’s death—although Sam and Annie Blake fervently believed that her father and Matt Richards were behind it.

  She pressed her palms to her head, wishing she could drive out all such thoughts. It couldn’t possibly be true, she told herself. There couldn’t be any doubt that in the Blake boy’s case it really had been renegade Indians who’d killed him. She’d better accept that explanation and forget her own tormenting doubts or she’d very likely go mad. Just because her own attackers had impersonated Apache warriors didn’t mean that every death attributed to the Indians was the work of white men. How ridiculous she was!

  This train of thought reminded her that she’d neglected to invite the Blakes to her party. Biting her lip, she resolved to invite them that very day. Somehow she’d have to convince them that despite the
ir suspicions, she was fully prepared to be their friend.

  Dressed in a yellow shirt and a blue denim riding skirt, her hair twisted into a single ebony braid down her back, Bryony tightened the strings of her new Stetson as she stepped off the porch and walked toward the corral. Buck and Thomas had recaptured Shadow for her after a week of hunting for him in the wilderness, and then they’d found it necessary to break him in all over again. Though he’d reared up and fought fiercely against recapture, the wild mustang had seemed glad to see Bryony again when she ran out to the corral to welcome him home.

  As she approached him now in the fenced corral, he greeted her with a high-pitched whinny and a prancing step.

  “Mornin’, Miss Hill.” The red-shirted wrangler who was repairing a broken board in the corral fence nodded to her respectfully. “Ridin’ out today?”

  “Yes, Frank. Is Shadow’s saddle in the stable?”

  “Shore is. Want me to saddle ‘im for you, ma’am?”

  “No, thanks, I’ll get it.” She entered the long, rambling stable with its rows of stalls and feed bins, and its strong aroma of horses and leather.

  Buck Monroe was busy inside, stitching up a saddle. Glancing up from his task, he smiled at her.

  “I just rode in from the north pasture,” he remarked. “Rounded up a few strays and brought ‘em back for slaughtering. That Army supply captain ordered a half dozen sides of beef—wants it by late afternoon.”

  “Fine, Buck.” She answered him absently. Lately she’d come to depend heavily on Buck to handle details of the cattle ranch. He’d been appointed foreman in Shorty’s place, and she couldn’t help thinking from time to time that if she’d awarded him that position when she first arrived at the ranch, Buck might be the one who was now dead.

  She hoped fervently that he’d never meet danger on her account, and for the first time wondered if she should leave Arizona—at least until this perilous situation was resolved. Though she didn’t believe for a minute that Matt Richards was involved, she couldn’t deny that somebody had hired Murdock and Jessup to get rid of her. And this unpleasant thought made her shiver despite the intense heat of the day.

  When she glanced up after lifting Shadow’s heavy leather saddle from its peg, she found Buck watching her.

  “Here, let me take that, Bryony.” He tossed the saddle over his shoulder and walked with her to the stable door and out into the yard. “Mind if I ask where you’re goin,’ ma’am?”

  His good-natured grin didn’t spare him from her sigh of exasperation.

  “Yes, I do mind. I know you mean well, Buck, but I don’t like feeling as if everyone is watching over me. Lately I feel as if I can’t even breathe without someone rushing up to ask me if I need fresh air, or a cup of tea, or a chair to sit upon. I’m well able to take care of myself, and I’m not afraid to ride out alone! Does that satisfy you?” she demanded, unable to contain her frustration.

  “No, ma’am, it doesn’t. Not after what happened last month.” Buck met her gaze, undaunted. “Let me ride along with you. I promise to let you handle any emergencies single-handed. Why, if a grizzly bear was to lumber on down and try to hug you to death, I reckon I’d just stand by and watch! Honest, ma’am, I would.”

  She couldn’t help laughing at that, and with a rueful shake of her head, told him he could ride with her.

  “I’m going out to the Blake ranch to invite Annie and Sam to the fiesta. If you want to follow me around like a puppy dog, suit yourself.”

  “Whoa. Annie Blake—at your fiesta? I wouldn’t count on it. That girl’s never gone to a party in her life. She doesn’t think of nothing but working her fingers to the bone on that ranch of her pa’s. I’ll wager she don’t even know how to dance!” With these careless words, Buck left to fetch his horse, while Bryony waited astride Shadow, a slight smile playing about her lips.

  Oh, Annie Blake thinks of something besides her work, all right, she mused, patting the mustang’s neck as she absently kept him under control.

  She thinks of you, Buck, and she thinks of you often unless I miss my guess. I’m going to do my best to help her rope you in like one of those poor, helpless calves you’re always riding down. And as for knowing how to dance—well, we’ll just wait and see about that.

  It was a perfect summer day, hot and dry, with the air refreshingly cool as it drifted down from the mountains, offsetting the burning golden glare of the desert sun. They rode in silence for the most part, Buck sensing Bryony’s desire to be undisturbed. If he could have had his way, he’d have snatched her from her horse and crushed her to his chest, showering kisses on that sweet, troubled face that kept him so bewitched.

  His infatuation with her was as strong as ever, though it was tempered now with deep respect, and with the knowledge that she was his employer, and thought of him merely as a friend. A reliable friend, but nothing more, damn it.

  He wouldn’t add to her problems by making a damned pest of himself like some moonstruck calf. That just wouldn’t be right. But he’d keep an eye on her and see that she stayed out of trouble.

  As they rode, he couldn’t help stealing quick glances at her profile, noting how she’d changed since she’d first come to the Circle H—especially after she and Shorty had been ambushed last month.

  At first she’d seemed a little unsure of herself, and as fragile as a flower. She’d been as much a product of the city as that fancy English riding habit she’d brought with her.

  But now she’d shouldered the responsibilities of the ranch, and it showed in her face and bearing. Oh, she was still so damned beautiful that every wrangler on the ranch was loco in love with her, but she’d developed an air of authority and competence that was obvious for all to see, and that had earned her the respect of her range hands.

  Something else was different, too. The enthusiasm and high spirits of the first weeks had waned over time, especially since that ordeal a month ago. She seemed quieter and somehow troubled now. She no longer laughed as easily as she had before, and her eyes—those glorious green eyes that had enchanted him from the first moment he saw her—now seemed clouded with worry, disturbed by thoughts she wouldn’t share with anyone.

  Buck wished like hell she’d confide in him and let him help her, but he knew her too well by now to try to force her to talk about it.

  Bryony Hill was fiercely independent and she hated when anyone, even Judge Hamilton and Matt Richards, her closest friends, tried to pry into her private reflections.

  But while he sighed, preoccupied with the workings of his boss’s mind during their ride to the Blake ranch, Bryony was lost in somber reflection.

  She found herself dwelling on a memory that she wished she could forget.

  Forget. If only she could!

  The memory of the tall, lean gunfighter and the night they’d spent together in a mountain cave dominated her thoughts. It wasn’t any sense of danger that caused her low spirits—it was the haunting memory of Texas Jim Logan talking to her before a dancing fire. The memory of the man who one night only had opened his wounded heart to her.

  She’d been unable ever since to forget the pain in his piercing blue eyes.

  Or the way his voice had changed from its usual mocking drawl to a tone of sadness and regret when he spoke about his father and the magnificent ranch in Texas.

  She couldn’t stop thinking of the unexpected gentleness with which he’d made love to her that stormy night on the mountain, the way he caressed her and kissed her and held her with infinite tenderness. Despite knowing that he must have bedded many women before her, she was aware that something special and powerful had happened between them that night.

  For her, it had been an initiation into a world of tenderness and passion that before she’d only guessed at. For him, she instinctively sensed that something even more surprising had occurred.

  He’d allowed himself to feel deeply for once. He’d reacted not as a callous man casually taking a woman to bed, but as a man reaching out to a woman fo
r love and warmth and compassion.

  How did she feel about this? That was what had been worrying her ever since that night.

  She’d come to the realization that she’d matched his urgency for love and warmth with her own. She’d sought from him what she’d never had from anyone else.

  Love. Real love.

  The kind of love she’d read about and dreamed about, but never experienced.

  Bryony drew in her breath as she rode, knowing deep in her heart that now she’d found it.

  Felt it.

  But it could never, ever be realized. Not with him.

  So she had to forget him. But...

  She’d tried. Oh, how she’d tried.

  Yet the memories of his touch, the grit of his low drawling voice, the way he looked deep into her eyes haunted her, making her soul ache with a pain that knew no bounds. And as Buck Monroe trotted on horseback beside her across the wilderness in all its dazzling summer glory, she wished desperately a forbidden wish.

  She wished that her companion wasn’t Buck, but the strong, sun-bronzed gunfighter who’d turned her life upside down and lit up her heart with a blaze of love.

  It was with a startled gasp that she spotted Jim Logan as they drew up before the Blake’s modest ranch house. He was emerging from the house into the sunlight accompanied by Annie Blake and they were deeply involved in conversation. Annie was standing quite close to him, regarding him with fixed interest.

  Bryony felt a sudden stab of jealousy at seeing them together, though she quickly tried to staunch it. But she felt her cheeks flush, and her heart lurch painfully in her chest.

  Jim glanced up at the same instant Annie did, but unlike the girl, who scowled at Bryony, his expression remained indifferent, as if she were a complete stranger, one whom he had no interest in meeting.

  Bryony stiffened, her heart unexpectedly crushed.

  Buck Monroe, though, leaped from his horse and stalked furiously toward the gunfighter.

  “I reckon I’ve a score to settle with you, Logan!” he growled, his fists clenching.