Rocky Mountain Widow (Historical)

by Jillian Hart

  Blood. She also realized Ham towered over her, jerking and trembling like he did in a rage, right before he became lethally violent.

  Her thoughts were fragments. What had happened? Was the baby safe? Who was shouting at Ham? She couldn’t recognize the man’s voice. Couldn’t he understand the danger? Ham had to be talked to quietly, steadily until he calmed. It was the only way. She had to get up and intervene. Groggy, she tried to sit up.

  I can’t move.

  Panic crowded into her throat and she shoved at something hard. Something wooden. A piece of the broken wagon pinned her hips to the ground. Her fingers gripped the broken edge of board and she gritted her teeth, heaving. She felt as if a razor blade sliced through her low abdomen.

  The baby. She collapsed onto the ground, dizzy as the heated voices rose in volume and threats. What was going on? She could only see an upward slash from the ground to the sky until lightning blinded her.

  Ham’s furious bellow. It was going to be even worse for her as soon as Ham got her home. “I ain’t takin’ this from a sheep man!”

  “The deputy is your good buddy, I know, but listen up good—”

  Claire caught a glimpse of the intruder as the rolling thunder drowned out their argument. He sat on horseback, a big bold cut of a man as dark as the night, as powerful as the thunder, and as lethal as the fierce lightning that pounded overhead.

  Ham’s fingers inched to his revolvers, ever present in their holsters, strapped to his thighs within easy reach. How many times had he threatened her with those guns?

  Claire closed her eyes, trying to find strength where there was none. Hope when she’d given up. Whatever tiny drop of relative safety she’d been able to forge for herself in her marriage was about to be gone, but she couldn’t let Ham hurt this man, she couldn’t—

  Ham’s fingers curved around a beloved revolver. She could smell his glee—he loved to cause harm, or worse. And the mounted man, he didn’t see the danger, Claire realized as she tried to shout a warning, but there was no voice. Something was wrong with her throat.

  Hell exploded. Thunder merged with bullets, lightning with gunfire, and the pummeling ice that fell like hunks of granite from the vengeful sky beat so loudly she could not hear or see, only feel the danger as violence and murder rose on the heartless wind.

  Ham fell to the ground beside her, cursing in pain and clutching his shoulder. It wasn’t over, she knew with chilling certainty as Joshua Gable kicked the fallen revolvers out of harm’s way and consciousness faded. She heard Ham’s threat to kill Gable come from very far away, and then steeled arms lifted her from the ground and carried her away.

  She woke up later in her own bed, alone. She heard the echoing sound of a single gunshot, and knew by the silence that followed that someone was dead.

  Chapter One

  Eight Days later

  It was a bad day for a funeral.

  Joshua Gable swiped snowflakes from his eyelashes so he could see into the heavy gale, then jammed his gloved fist back into his coat pocket.

  It had taken the grave diggers most of the week to cut through the frozen ground. As if the Fates had done everything in their power to hold back this death. There would be no peaceful passing for Halbert Hamilton, Jr. Instead, a fury of cutting north wind and vicious iced snow made it feel as if hell had frozen over, had burst up from the new grave in the ground to welcome a like soul.

  For a man few could stand and most despised, a lot of the local folks on this sparse corner of the county had come. Some attended out of relief, Joshua suspected, that the hard man was gone. A few grieved his passing. But most were here out of curiosity, for no one knew what had befallen the rancher—if one could call him that—and what had rendered him dead.

  Well, some knew.

  Joshua swallowed hard, glad he stood back from the bulk of the crowd. It took all his self-control to fight down the tight grip guilt had on his stomach. If he’d had his way, he wouldn’t have come. He had no respects to pay the man who’d been his sworn enemy. He had not an ounce of grief or sorrow to express.

  He was damn glad the man was gone—not glad that he was dead, but relieved that Ham was no longer a thorn in his side and a drain on the family’s income. He hadn’t killed the man—just left him lying in the road with a flesh wound, although he’d have been in his rights to have killed the man in self-defense that night. But knowing the woman would never forget seeing her husband killed before her eyes stopped him.

  I shouldn’t have left like that. But the woman, half-unconscious, had begged him to go. His conscience had told him not to listen, but she’d been so desperate. He wondered if she remembered that time now. And if she’d been the one to pull the trigger later that night in self-defense.

  No, I never should have left her.

  Across the crowd spread out on either side of the grave came the curious probe of the deputy’s gaze. Coop Logan, his badge obscured by the thick snow covering the front of his fur coat, seemed one of the genuine mourners. He and Ham had been friends as far back as any could remember. And now the lawman studied the crowd as if looking for vengeance.

  Yep, it sure would have been good if he’d had his way, Joshua thought, wishing he’d been able to stay at home and far away from the deputy’s measuring stare. Home, where he had fencing to replace and a troublesome cougar to track. The bitter winter weather wouldn’t have kept him from it, not on this one day. He’d come only because of his grandmother.

  “We have to be there, Blythe would have wanted it,” Granny had insisted, and he’d never had the heart to say no to her. He adored the cantankerous old woman, and he knew she’d been close friends with Ham’s grandmother. With the dear woman gone from this earth, Granny Adelaide felt it her duty to attend.

  He couldn’t let her out in these near-blizzard conditions alone, and he’d been unable to convince her to take one of his other brothers—lazy Jordan especially, who had nothing better to do as the youngest and the baby of the family. Gran had thought taking Jordan along with them was a fine idea and made the boy help with the driving.

  Not that she needed either of their help. He studied her sideways rather than make eye contact, which would only invite her criticism. His grandmother seemed as fierce as always and attending a funeral did not soften her. The wind blew to him the faint scent of her Irish whiskey. She remained the epitome of a no-nonsense pioneer woman, stoic as the snow began to cloak her in white.

  “Stop looking at me, boy, be respectful and mind your manners,” she scolded him in a low, commanding voice, as if he were still a small child. “By the grace of God, that could be you dead in a grave. Life is fleeting.”

  Granny, you have no notion how right you are. Reminded of his fate, and of Ham’s, Joshua drew soldier straight and knew that nothing would ever be powerful enough to make him forget this day, this moment.

  If he shifted his weight onto his left foot and tilted a bit, he could see past the mourners and over the minister’s shoulder to where the new widow stood, shrouded in white so that the ragged black coat she wore was barely discernible. She could have been a snow angel tipped back against the white earth for the way she stood motionless.

  No tears stood on her face, so pale the snow clinging to her eyebrows and eyelashes had more color. The crying that came from those who mourned did not come from her.

  Ham’s mother cried, his brother, Reed, choked back tears, but the young widow, who did not look to be a day over twenty, bowed her face toward the ground, as if watching the snow accumulate on the toes of her Sunday-best shoes. She appeared to be in silent grief.

  Joshua knew the truth.

  She stood before the opened scar in the earth where Hamilton’s casket lay. As the reverend intoned on, his words whipped and battered by the cruel winds, she dipped her head, then covered her face with both slim hands. Rich dark curls tumbled down from beneath her woolen cloak.

  “Such a pity,” Granny’s whisky-rough voice could not be disguised by a whisper
but rang as loudly as if she’d bellowed. “So young to bury a husband. How long were they wed?”

  “Several years, Granny,” he answered in a low whisper while those mourners surrounding them turned to give them scolding, be-quiet looks.

  “While none of my grandchildren have yet wed.”

  “Not here, Granny.”

  “What will become of the poor thing now?”

  A good question. Joshua said nothing more as his youngest brother, Jordan, who had no desire to be here as well, gave Joshua a pained, telling look. She always embarrasses us when we take her anywhere.

  Jordan was young. He’d had less experience with embarrassment. And since he had his eye on the young Potter girl with whom he’d finished public school last year, his apparent reputation seemed at greater risk. He didn’t realize that if he succeeded in wooing, courting and wedding the fair Felicity Potter, Granny’s behavior would continue to embarrass him after the wedding.

  Any woman who would be so bold as to marry into their family may as well know the hazards beforehand.

  Felicity, plump and glowing rosy from the cold, offered a shy wave to Jordan across the cemetery, and it made Joshua feel old. Infinitely, accusingly old. Thirty-six was not so ancient, but as he glanced around, he was the only one of an adult age unmarried.

  Except for Claire Hamilton. Her heartbreak echoed in great silence that reached him all the way across the cemetery, carried by the persistent wind. The feel of it left him hollow and cold inside.

  What have I done?

  The minister’s final amen ended the ceremony. At last. Aware of Deputy Logan’s focus on him, he knew he could not leave yet. It would look suspicious if he did not stand in line, but the hell if he could stomach pretending any amount of sorrow.

  “Have you no manners, boy?”

  He felt a hard tug on his sleeve. His little grandmother looked sweet, but she was nothing of the sort and he liked her for it. Respected her more for it. In her day, Granny had been one of the first pioneer women in this county. Even now, her skirt hung low on one side, her dark woolen hem skimming the snow from the weight in her pocket.

  Good old Granny carried a pistol deep in her skirt pocket, as she had since she was a bride of sixteen. Although the land was no longer untamed and wild.

  “Come! Hurry along!” she demanded.

  He didn’t argue with her and besides, she wouldn’t want to stand in the condolence line alone. For with the way Jordan was smitten with Felicity, he was as good as absent.

  That’s why I’m never falling in love.

  He wasn’t about to give that much control of his life, his faculties and his freedoms to a woman who, even if kind, would do anything to get exactly what she wanted.

  His own dear sister was no exception.

  He swore never to hand his life over to a woman, sweet or harsh, pretty or plain, for they were all the same. They wanted utter and complete control over a man.

  No, thank you. He’d rather visit the brothel in town and burn in hell. Or, if his mother ever found out she’d likely send him there herself.

  “She’s such a lovely thing,” Granny felt it her duty to add as they took their place in line. “Probably will be looking for a husband. You oughta court her.”

  “No. And don’t talk about that here of all places.”

  “It was just a suggestion.” She leaned around the Potter family to get a better look at the young widow. “She’d make a fine wife. Seems as quiet as a mouse. Not at all like Ham’s mother. All drama, that one.”

  “And you’re not?” He couldn’t resist pointing out the obvious, even if it earned him a playful cuff on his ear. The woolen earflap from beneath his hat took most of the blow. “Careful, Granny, I’m no longer five and shorter than you.”

  Her face wreathed up into a crinkled network of laugh lines. For all her hardships and her advancing years, Granny had lived. Not merely existed. She’d wrung the most out of her life.

  He envied her that. He was likely to spend the rest of his days branding and fencing and tracking and haying and endlessly looking after his family. A man’s duty, even if unmarried, came with responsibilities as it was.

  The line shuffled forward, giving him a perfect view of the widow Hamilton.

  Now I have one more responsibility.

  In no time, he was at the head of the line and there was Claire, looking up at him with her melted-chocolate eyes. Guilt washed over him and in an instant scudded away like wind-driven snow, gone forever. She’d tried to cover it, but a faint bruise darkened her left eye. What purple coloring remained could be mistaken for the shadows of sheer exhaustion.

  He knew better.

  Her small, gloved hands curled around his big one, and she shook casually as she’d probably done with everyone else. But he felt the squeeze of emotion that came with the contact.

  “Mr. Gable?” Her voice was as delicate as spring wildflowers and out of place on this harsh winter day. “I’m so glad you came. Thank you.”

  In her dark eyes shone a glint of genuine gratitude. She wasn’t thanking him for attending the burial but for carrying her to her bed while Ham lay bleeding after their fight. Behind him yawned the cruel wound of a grave with the gleaming walnut casket within, becoming lost beneath the accumulating snow, making him remember how furious he’d been that night.

  He fought to swallow past a throat dust-dry and past the lump of emotion lodged beneath his Adam’s apple. “It was no trouble.”

  He was not speaking of attending the funeral. But of protecting her from her husband. He hadn’t done enough, his conscience scolded him.

  The bruise beneath her left eye was not the only mark on her face. No one would notice it if they did not know to look, but she’d arranged her chestnut tresses so that a wedge of hair, twisted down to hide most of her jaw and cheekbone, was pinned carefully to her cloak and collar. Hiding the bruise Hamilton had obviously given her that night.

  The clutches of memory gripped him. Faint, dark images of that brutal night crept up like a wraith and took hold. Images of lightning streaking through a merciless sky and of snow falling like rain threatened to take him back in time.

  He’d had more than enough of his own problems, but he’d gotten involved. And, in truth, he’d wanted revenge. When he’d returned from carrying her to the house, Ham was gone, leaving a bloody trail. He’d been forced to fetch the doctor for the woman instead of tracking Ham. And if he had, then he and Haskins wouldn’t have returned to find Ham dead behind the barn with a second bullet in his chest. Not the one Joshua had given him.

  Guilt choked him. Don’t think about it.

  But the woman before him did not deserve the consequences. It was not grief, he suspected, but fear and deep worry that pushed fine lines into her soft oval face. She hadn’t asked for this to happen. She deserved nothing but his kindness.

  Maybe even his pity. Life with Ham could not have been easy. Had she been able to sleep at all? he wondered. Her eyes looked puffy and not from crying, he would wager. The thought of her lying awake throughout the night, aching with anxiety and fear, tore at him.

  If only he could do something, say something, anything to comfort her. But whatever he tried, he knew he could not make things right.

  I’m sorry, Claire. He willed the words into her. Did she sense them?

  Tears filled her eyes, the first of the service that he’d been able to notice. It gave him hope.

  As if too overcome to speak, she only nodded her thanks.

  He released her hand and moved on, and anyone watching would think she was nothing more than a grieving widow. And, in truth, she was too tenderhearted not to be sad. Love, he knew, was a complicated matter. Once spoken, wedding vows were powerful bonds.

  He let Granny step forward to offer her terse condolences—she wasn’t one to soften blows. “He was the only family you really had, that’s a shame. What? Speak up, girl!”

  Joshua kept Claire in his peripheral vision—those tears on her sof
t white cheeks could have been liquid drops of silver—when he felt a blow strike the middle of his chest and knock him back a step—and perilously close to the edge of the grave.

  What the devil? Before he could recover, Ham’s mother struck him again with all her might. She was a substantial woman, and when the flat of her palm beat against his breastbone, he swore she had the strength to break ribs.

  “You!” Her eyes had gone stone-cold. Cold and black and dense with hatred. “You did this! The doc says it was a broken neck, but I saw the gunshot! I saw it with my own eyes.”

  Panic licked through him like the frigid wind. The doc had sworn he’d keep the woman away from Ham’s body. Haskins was a good man, a man of his word, so what had happened—

  “The deputy saw, too! And I told him what I know. How you’ve been threatening to shoot him in the back one night!” The woman was like a rabid dog, frothing and lost from reason.

  He had to stop her. “Calm yourself, Mrs. Hamilton. I have threatened him a dozen times before this, as he threatened me in return.”

  The truth of his confession boomed like thunder and the chatter surrounding him silenced. Joshua felt time stretch between one heartbeat and the next.

  “I saw the hole in his chest!”

  “You’re overwrought, Mrs. Hamilton,” he said gently, because she had the right to her grief. He was surprised he felt so much pity for her, in spite of the fact she was reminding everyone of the fact that he and Ham had come to blows before over the grazing lands. And the sheep. A fact he didn’t want to remind the deputy of.

  “Doc!” Before he could cast around through the crowd for sight of the only doctor in the entire county, Haskins was there, capable and calm, with medical bag in hand.

  Without exchanging so much as a look, Joshua knew the sawbones was on his side. On Claire’s side. With his quiet courtesy, the doctor took the older Mrs. Hamilton by the elbow and made calming noises.