Rocky Mountain Widow (Historical)

by Jillian Hart

  Claire wasn’t fooled. There was no real conviction in his manner—only triumph. “What do you want? What will it take for you to leave Joshua alone?”

  “Oh, so now you’re willing to bargain. Logan, go back inside. The little lady and I have some business.” Rick’s beefy hand caught her around the back of the neck and squeezed.

  She felt the impact of his silent warning. The tiny hairs on her nape prickled. Every instinct shrieked at her to run.

  Run? No. She’d never give in to that possibility. I will no longer be afraid, she vowed as she fastened her gaze on his. She refused to live in fear. She was through being bullied and controlled. She braced her feet, ready to pay whatever cost. Right here and right now. “You want the land?”

  He crooked his left brow. “What? Are you going to sign it over to me?”

  “What I want is for you to go in there, stop Logan and your brother from harming Joshua, drop the charges and call a truce between me, your family and the Gables. And I’ll give you everything I have. The land. The cabin. What remains in my savings. Just spare Joshua.”

  “You’re willing to sign whatever our family attorney puts in front of you?”

  “Yes.” There was no debate. There never could be. No matter what it cost, she wouldn’t let Joshua sacrifice his life for hers. It wasn’t every day a woman found herself an ordinary, everyday hero. Not the kind made of legend, but the flesh-and-blood man who stood for what was right, who walked tall, whose nobility never wavered.

  Rick’s leer traveled over her from bosom to hip like a filthy touch. “The land won’t be the only thing I’ll be wanting. You understand?”

  She swallowed, feeling the last wisp of dreams fade. Revulsion wrenched her midsection and she covered her mouth with both hands to keep her stomach contents where they belonged. Bile soured her mouth.

  She couldn’t speak, only nod. For Joshua, she thought. For him, she could endure anything.

  There was a terrible thundering sound. Ka-boom. Ka-boom. The noise ricocheted through his foggy, shocked head.

  Joshua registered pain next, arcing like the snap of a bullwhip through his skull, between his eyes, hammering in his jaw and lashing downward. A worse pain burned in the middle of his back, and it felt as if a cannonball had burned a hole through his ribs and was sitting against his lungs. Every breath was an effort.

  At least I’m not dead. I hurt too damn much. He didn’t know if he just couldn’t see or if he was alone in the dark. Silence echoed around him except for the blast of his pulse in his ears. He tried to move; pain struck like a lightning bolt of searing white light.

  Hell, he hurt. His guts clenched. Sick with pain, he concentrated on breathing slow and steady. What in hellfire had happened to him? Where was he?

  Ka-boom, ka-boom. His brain hurt right along with his skull. Thought wasn’t possible. He shivered from pain and shock and cold. Frigid wind skidded across his bloody face. Hell, he was outside somewhere.

  But where? Near the mountains? Falling ice turned to slush on his skin. His guts cramped as he saw the looming giant of a cottonwood towering above him like an enemy, great black limbs lashing in the wind.

  They’d dumped him in the middle of nowhere. They’d left him here to die. He realized now he had a bullet wound. They’d shot him in the back.

  Just like his father.

  He was dying. He was alone. And a coyote howled nearby. Maybe a hundred yards to his north. The eerie yowling resounded through the night, one predator calling his pack. Joshua wondered how long he had before the other dogs came and encircled him.

  Weak, he couldn’t fight them off. Blood rolled out of him like ice from the sky and he knew without bothering to search that his weapons had been taken from him. He was defenseless. And, damn it, being taken out by a coyote wasn’t the way he’d prefer to exit this life.

  Claire. Fear for her welled up, when he hadn’t been afraid for himself. Not even now. He blinked the ice from his lashes, and forced the fog of pain that had filled his skull. He had to think. He had to remember. They’d been in the town jail. The details were fuzzy, but that wasn’t surprising considering the hellish headache that felt like someone was slamming a sledgehammer against the side of his head.

  Think, man. Think. All he knew was that Claire had been behind him in the jail when the Hamiltons ganged up on him. Was she still in that cell? Or had his confession freed her?

  Or was she lying like this, injured and dying? The thought of her in pain and afraid tore a roar of agony from his throat. The coyote called again, this time closer.

  Come to me, you bastard. If Claire is out here, stay away from her. Or I will hunt you down, I swear it. His hand scrabbled along the snowy ground until he found a fallen branch slick with freezing ice. At least he had a weapon. He wasn’t done fighting. Not by a long shot.

  He managed to wrangle his body into sitting up. Longer still before he could use the trunk of the cottonwood to lean on as he struggled to stand. Hell, his cracked ankle beat with pain. The pounding surged in his head as he sagged against the tree, slick with his own sweat and with the icing rain.

  So far, so good. Clutching the broken limb like a weapon, he staggered forward. Nausea gripped his guts. Blood oozed down his chest, freezing on the front of his shirt. He slumped back against the tree, trying to figure out what to do. He couldn’t keep going with blood rolling out of him. Finally he ripped his shirt, stuffed fabric into the wound and used his belt to hold it tight in place.

  He had to get to Claire. A rising sense of panic drove him forward. If the Hamilton brothers had taken her, who knew how they were treating her. It was almost too much to hope that the sheriff had released her, that she might be tucked away in her warm and cozy home, safe from the cruelty men were capable of. Men like the Hamiltons. Like Logan.

  Joshua would find her, even if it was the last thing he ever did, and no matter the cost.

  All he cared about, well beyond his own life, was hers.

  As he took a second step, the hairs on the back of his neck straightened.

  The coyote had arrived, and he wasn’t alone.

  Claire did her best not to let her anger show at the tracks of melting ice on her polished floor. It was a small thing, considering what she’d once had to endure.

  And might well have to withstand again.

  Rick grabbed the dime novel from where it rested and tossed it. The small paper volume slapped against the corner wall and slid to the floor.

  She tried not to picture the bent and maybe even torn pages, but failed. Temper beat within her like the first pellets of ice against the window.

  “It’s gettin’ nasty out there.” Rick kicked out a chair and knocked off her ruffled chair cushion. “The boys’ll be needin’ hot coffee and vittles when they come in. You don’t look like you’re workin’ hard to me.”

  “What do you know about hard work?”

  A muscle in his jaw ticked. “Ham hasn’t been long in the ground and look how fast the manners go. You went and got yourself some gumption. Well, that’ll be easy to get rid of. Get me a drink, woman.”

  Oh, what I’d like to give you. She gritted her teeth to keep her anger inside and fisted her hands to keep from tossing things at him.

  She whipped open the cabinet and grabbed a tin cup to serve his whiskey in. Next to the tinware, there was a small unmarked canister of cascara bark, Joshua’s grandmother’s secret home remedy for deserving men.

  Wasn’t it thoughtful of Adelaide to leave a good supply? Claire took the tin and canister with her into the pantry, where she intended to sprinkle a scant portion of the small flakes into the whiskey bottle she’d kept for medicinal purposes.

  But what if Rick noticed the little pieces of ground bark in his cup? The Hamilton men were serious about their alcohol. She might be better putting it into something else. Like the cinnamon rolls sitting on the shelf, already iced and topped with ground cinnamon. The cascara flecks blended in perfectly.

  “I thought you
might be hungry,” she explained as she set the plate of rolls down next to the bottle and cup. “You don’t have to sit in here and guard me. I’m not going anywhere. You keep your word about Joshua and I’ll keep my promise to you.”

  “I’ll let him live.” Rick uncapped the bottle and splashed a generous portion of whiskey into the mug. “But I tell you this. If I ever see Gable on this property, I’ll shoot first and ask questions later.”

  Rick’s words made her shudder. How could a man be so repulsive? It sickened her to look at him, because all she could see was his fist flying into Joshua’s jaw. She felt no remorse at all for the cascara. “Would you bring in some coal for the stove?”

  “I don’t take orders from a woman. Get it yourself.”

  She could have predicted that one. She left Rick to his liquor and carried the coal hod to the back door. Night came early this time of year on the high northern mountains, and the driving ice tinkling and cracking over the landscape reminded her of the first night Joshua had made his way here.

  She melted from the inside out, remembering. He’d come out of the darkness, as if a part of it, astride his fine horse, his shoulders wide, his dark hat tipped just right to shade his eyes. What an impressive silhouette he made against the gray shroud of ice and flinty sky. His rugged face, his uncompromising jaw, the wide, strong promise of his chest—just like a hero, Claire breathlessly thought.

  Her hero. Without him, she would have never known that good men existed. Joshua had given up his freedom for her sake. She hadn’t wanted to trust him, and she’d done everything in her power not to all along, sure he was not what he’d seemed. But she’d finally caught a glimpse of the real Joshua Gable, beneath the protective male shield he wore, beneath the capable mask he so carefully presented to her and to everyone. The real Joshua Gable was selfless and true. She loved him all the more for his genuine heart. She loved him now, when being with him was impossible.

  Wherever you are, Joshua, please be all right.

  She’d never had the chance to go back inside the jail and see if he needed her help or care. Even a moment of comfort. He’d hit his head so hard. Worry drummed wildly in her chest as she draped the old shawl over her shoulders and pushed out the back door.

  Ice fell with a tinkling cadence and made it seem as if the vast night were singing. As she knelt to scoop coal into the hod, she tried not to think of the man who’d made sure she had winter fuel and winter staples. Impossible.

  It was as if he were nearby, for the way her pulse skipped a few beats. But she had to be imagining it, she thought as she let the lid bang shut on the bin and hefted the heavy hod with both hands.

  Feeling the cresting wave of affection moving through her, she turned to squint into the dark and storm. Ice stung her face and clung to her shawl as she searched the shadows and hollows and the cedar grove.

  Nothing. She only imagined she’d sensed him.

  Wishful thinking, that was all. For her heart would always be wishing for and wanting Joshua.

  Always.

  Her heart was a cold dark place as she hefted the heavy hod of coal into the crook of one arm and shoved open the door with the heel of her free hand. Her feet slipped and slid, her shoulder hit the door frame hard enough to rattle her.

  “You got any butter?” Rick hollered from inside the house.

  Reminding her of the price she’d paid for Joshua’s freedom.

  Claire. She was alive. The sight of her dropped him to his knees. He could blame it on his wounds. He had hobbled across the wintry prairie until he liberated a pony from its pasture and had found his way here, to Claire’s property.

  He hadn’t been aware of how terrified he was to find her cabin dark and her gone, disappeared, maybe dead—until this moment. Until he saw her shadow cross the front room curtain. She was safe enough to walk. She was home. She wasn’t moving as if she’d been injured.

  Thank God. His guts were a tangled knot of fear, a knot that didn’t relent as he hunkered down beneath the wide, protective limbs of an ancient cedar and swiped blood and ice from his face. It felt as if he’d been to hell tonight and crawled his way back to the world.

  He coughed. Blood sputtered into his bare hand. The metallic scent of it told him he didn’t have much time. Every time he moved his torso, blood oozed from his bullet wound. He could feel weakness taking hold.

  Whether he lived or died didn’t much matter to him at this point. He’d never been so miserable. Never been with so little hope.

  His family would be all right without him. He could see that now. Liam was a great horseman; he’d been helping manage the vast ranch holdings for years. James was mighty good, too, and Jordan was going to settle down and fit right in, in time. Betsy was to be married. And with all her sons around her—well, all but him should he die—Ma ought to be happy. And Granny was entirely capable of taking care of herself. She could probably run the ranch single-handedly better than he ever could.

  Claire’s shadow passed in front of the curtained window again—a sight that hurt worse than the bullet in his back. She would be all right without him. She had the laundry business to make her way, and his brothers would look out for her. Betsy had befriended her. She wouldn’t be alone.

  He’d been smart, staying a bachelor, working hard instead of wasting time courting. Even when he’d finally succumbed to a woman and fallen hard in love with her, he hadn’t let himself need her, really need her. His life had stayed the same. He had stayed the same.

  Smart. That’s what he was. And not sad for all that had passed him by. The lamp in the front room glowed against the pink calico curtain, casting a pearled light on the shimmering curtain of falling ice pellets.

  He’d never before missed being with a woman. Never thought he’d regret not being in a front room with her while the fire crackled, he read his ranching journals and she knit with the lamplight, contentment between them. On a wintry night like this, how snug it would have been. Homey.

  He’d never thought he could thirst for a woman like this. For the chance to lie beside her at night, to love her body and soul. To wake up with her tucked against his chest, her long lustrous hair tickling his chin and bare chest. To love her until she grew round with their child…

  Joshua willed his thoughts to stop right there before the regrets seeped out of him along with the rest of his blood. He’d never let anyone into those vulnerable places within him.

  Claire had changed him, after all.

  He coughed again and tasted the blood. Scented it. Saw the dark stain of it across his hand and his shirt. On the snow in front of him. He didn’t have much time. Now that he knew she was at home safe and sound, there was one more duty to see done before he passed from this earth.

  With the same determination as he’d clubbed off the coyotes, he crept onto his feet.

  He didn’t have to go far to find Logan. There was a soft slosh of a boot on icy snow and then the click of a revolver’s hammer.

  It seemed Logan had found him—unarmed.

  Chapter Twenty

  “You killed my father.”

  “Gable. I can’t believe my eyes. You’re alive, damn it, but barely, judging by the look of you.” Coop Logan braced his feet apart, the rifle he held aimed in the dead center of Josh’s chest. “What does it take to kill you? Apparently, one more bullet than it took to kill your old man.”

  Red hazed Josh’s vision. The bastard was saying it so blandly, as if it were nothing, as if a good man’s life lost was nothing. “He discovered your rustling route through the mountains, didn’t he? The one that passes by our land.”

  “I gotta give you credit, Gable. I didn’t think you were sharp enough to figure that one out, else I woulda shot you before this.”

  I’d give anything for a gun right now. A knife. Even a rock. But the freezing rain coated the snow layered on the ground in an impenetrable sheet. There wasn’t a single thing nearby he could use as a weapon. He wanted Logan brought to justice, so bad he could
taste it.

  On a good day, and without being shot and bleeding, he could take the deputy in a fistfight, no problem. But today? Well, he’d just have to see about that. He was bleeding and weak, but he felt like steel. Will and determination held him up. He hadn’t come this far to fail now.

  Another shadow came out of the storm and Reed Hamilton halted at Logan’s side. “I don’t believe it. See? I shoulda pumped another bullet into him.”

  “He killed Ham.” The deputy’s lie sounded like victory. The storm surged around him, hail plunging like daggers. “You want to do the honors, Reed?”

  “You know I do.” Like a starving man salivating over a big meal, Reed licked his chops at the idea and drew his revolver.

  This isn’t good. “Hey, Reed. I didn’t shoot your brother in the back.”

  “You were here that night. I saw you!” Reed aimed and cocked.

  “Then you saw me carry Claire to the house and leave to fetch the doc. Right?”

  “You came back with the doc!”

  “I didn’t see Ham again. Someone else did. Who was with you that night? You weren’t alone, right? It was Logan. Think about it.”

  “I don’t have to think about it. You killed my brother.”

  Joshua counted the seconds as Reed began to shake and his gun tremble. He began to realize. “Reed, were Logan and Ham arguing?”

  “Hell, don’t listen to him!” Logan turned to his so-called friend, his gun swinging away from Joshua and toward Reed. “You know Ham and I argued about money all the time. It was nothin’.”

  “You wanted a bigger cut of the cattle sales. And you killed him for it? Why, you bas—” A gun fired, and Reed looked surprised as he clutched his chest, gaping for air that did not seem to come.

  Then he slid to the ground, already dead.

  Damn. Joshua couldn’t believe his eyes. Logan had killed a lifelong friend, just like that. Over keeping his crimes secret.