Never Love a Cowboy

by Lorraine Heath

  He trailed his mouth along her throat and her chin until he reached her ear. He swirled his tongue along the outer shell, sending delicious shivers cascading through her body.

  She sighed as he moved lower and buried his face between her breasts. She loved the feel of his body over hers. He eased up farther, cradled her face between his strong hands, covered her mouth with his own, and joined their bodies with one smooth stroke.

  Her body curled as though she could hold him forever. He rocked against her, slow at first, until the power built and the sensations grew.

  There was a difference in their lovemaking that she couldn’t touch but felt. No walls, no barriers…no more shattered hearts.

  Only hearts that were healed and strong.

  Writhing beneath him, she felt the pleasure rushing forward like a raging river, untamed, uncontrollable until it swelled into a magnificent wave that swept her over the edge.

  Gasping for breath, she opened her eyes and watched as the current captured and carried him beyond the tide, arching over her, his jaws clenched, his low groan echoing around her.

  Breathing heavily, he lowered his body until their slick flesh touched from shoulder to hip. She felt the trembling in his arms and kissed his chest.

  With an exhausted moan, he eased off her and drew her against his side. “I’m thinking of asking you to marry me again. I like the way you say yes.”

  Laughing, she trailed her fingers over his chest. “I like the way you asked.”

  He cradled her cheek, tilted her face, and held her gaze. “I love you, Jessye.”

  Her heart overflowed. “Those are such sweet words, Harry.”

  He smiled tenderly, pressed her face into the nook of his shoulder, and kissed the top of her head. “Say them,” he whispered.

  “I love you.”

  Beneath her cheek, she felt his heart pound faster as he drew her more tightly against him.

  “Don’t let me get by without saying those words to our daughters.”

  “I won’t,” she vowed, looking forward to the day when she could keep that promise.

  “I gets to be the flower girl.”

  At the back of the church, Jessye watched as her father knelt before Mary Ellen. “That seems like a mighty big job for such a tiny mite.”

  She thrust her petal-filled basket toward him. “I’m gonna throw out all the flowers like a fairy giving out wishes.”

  Tears stinging her eyes, Jessye wondered how she was going to make it through the evening without a dozen handkerchiefs. At Harry’s insistence, they’d postponed the wedding a month because he wanted to include a few more guests. Damn the man for not telling her exactly who the guests would be. And bless the Robertsons for bringing her daughter and allowing her to walk down the aisle ahead of her first mother.

  Sometime before the night ended, Jessye knew she needed to find the courage to tell her father the truth. He had the right to know that the child he was smiling at was his granddaughter.

  She heard the organ music begin. Mary Ellen jumped before she smiled brightly. “I gots to go.”

  “Can I have a dance after the wedding?” her father asked.

  Mary Ellen bobbed her head. “I like dancing.”

  Madeline poked her head around the pew and signaled Mary Ellen forward. Jessye watched her daughter reach into the basket and begin tossing petals along the aisle that led to the front of the church, where Harry stood with the preacher on one side and Kit on the other.

  Her father slowly unfolded his body and bent his elbow. Jessye slipped her arm through his.

  “Always wondered if you’d had a girl or a boy,” her father said quietly.

  Jessye swiveled her gaze to his. “You knew?”

  He touched his gnarled finger to her cheek. “You were my baby. Ain’t much I didn’t know. It was hard watching you bear your burden alone…but it also made me proud to know you had the gumption to do it.”

  “How did you know Mary Ellen—”

  “’Cuz she looks just like you did at that age, and she’s got that defiant tilt to her chin.”

  “She doesn’t know I’m her mother. It was Harry’s idea to allow her back into my life—as a friend, but not a mother.”

  “Looks to me like she’s got a right good mother in Madeline. But I reckon a day will come when she’ll learn that she’s always had two.”

  She wrapped her arms around her father’s neck and hugged him tightly. “I love you, Pa.”

  “I love you, too, girl, and if I ain’t mistaken that scoundrel waiting at the end of the aisle loves you.”

  She stepped back and entwined her arm around his. “I’d best get to him. He can’t stand for very long without the pain getting unbearable.”

  “Jessye, I got a feeling he’d stand there forever if he had to.”

  Jessye looked at Harry, standing straight, his hand gripping the cane. Yes, he would stand forever—and that was the very reason he would never have to.

  Epilogue

  August 1867

  “I want you to leave,” Jessye ordered.

  Harrison wrapped his hand around hers and held her gaze. “No.”

  “Harry, I am about to show myself for the true coward I am, and I don’t want you to witness that.”

  “I am not leaving,” he insisted as he wiped the sweat from her brow.

  “Stubborn, obstinate, oh God!”

  She started breathing heavily, and her hand squeezed his. Her breaths came more rapidly, more shallow.

  “Oh, God!”

  “It’s all right, Jessye,” Dr. Hickerson said. “Just push.”

  “I am pushing!” She collapsed on the bed and looked at Harry. “I am pushing.”

  “I know, my love. We’re in no hurry.”

  She glared at him, and he grimaced. “Of course, I realize after two days that you might feel a bit differently.”

  He dampened a cloth and pressed it to her throat. She moaned and grabbed his hand. He eased her up slightly.

  “That’s it, Jessye,” the doctor said. “Bear down as hard as you can.”

  Harrison kept his gaze fastened on her face, wishing to God that he could spare her this ordeal. She released a cry and slumped back.

  “You’ve got a daughter,” Dr. Hickerson announced just before the room filled with an indignant wail.

  Tears sprang into Jessye’s eyes. “Is she all right?”

  “Perfect,” Dr. Hickerson said as he laid the baby in Jessye’s outstretched arms.

  “Oh, Harry, she’s so beautiful,” Jessye whispered with reverence.

  Harrison lovingly moved his gaze over the tiny thing she held. The babe’s face was puckered like a dried prune. Other than his wife, he’d never seen anything that looked as beautiful. “Thank God for small miracles,” he murmured.

  “She’s got five fingers on each hand. And look at this. Five tiny toes on each foot,” Jessye said in awe.

  “And her mother’s hair.”

  Jessye looked at him with so much love that it caused an ache in his chest. She squeezed his hand.

  “I get to keep her.”

  He brushed his lips across hers. “You get to keep her.”

  More tears surfaced within the limpid green pools of her eyes. “Thank you, Harry.”

  “It was my pleasure and my joy.”

  “Thank God, she looks like her mother,” Kit said.

  “My sentiments exactly,” Harrison said as he glanced at Jessye, rocking the child cradled within her arms. Kit had left shortly before their daughter was born six weeks ago. Harrison had no idea where he’d gone, and Kit didn’t seem inclined to discuss his travels.

  “What have you decided to name her?” Kit asked.

  Jessye met Harrison’s gaze. “Angela,” she said softly. “Because she’s our angel.”

  “Angela Bainbridge. Wonder what your father will say about that,” Kit said.

  “I suppose I should write him. He doesn’t even know I’m married.”

  Jessye sc
owled at him. He held out his hands imploringly. “I’ve been extremely busy training the faro dealers and expanding the saloon.”

  A brisk knock on the door sounded before Jonah poked his head inside. “How’s my granddaughter?”

  Jessye smiled. “She’s fine, Pa. Come on in.”

  “I can’t get used to you living in this big house,” he said as he strolled inside and shoved a package into Harrison’s arms. “This came for you.” Then he drew up a chair and talked to his grandchild as though she understood every word he spoke.

  “What is it?” Jessye asked. She carefully placed Angela in her grandfather’s arms before crossing the distance to Harrison.

  “I don’t know,” he said as he sat in a padded chair that eased the pressure on his hip. He angled the long thin box until he could easily read the handwriting. His heart thundered at the sight of his father’s elegant script adorning the paper.

  “Aren’t you going to open it?” Jessye asked.

  Harrison nodded. “Certainly.”

  He cursed his clumsy fingers as he broke the string and tore off the paper. Carefully, he lifted the lid. His stomach dropped to the floor.

  “Oh, isn’t it gorgeous,” Jessye exclaimed as she lifted the polished wooden cane from the box. A gold lion’s head gleamed in the sunlight pouring through the windows.

  “Looks like it cost a pretty penny,” Jonah announced.

  Harrison glared at Kit. “You wrote him.”

  Kit held out his hands. “No. You asked me not to, and I honored that request.”

  Harrison narrowed his eyes. “You are too clever by half. You had someone else write him.”

  “No, I swear to you that I did not.”

  “Then how did he find out?”

  “I haven’t a clue.”

  “Maybe this will offer an explanation,” Jessye said, handing him an envelope.

  He withdrew a letter and a scrap of newspaper. He stared at the clipping from Blackwoods. He’d often seen his father reading the popular magazine. This particular article was entitled “An Englishman’s Journey into Kansas” and was written by Christian Montgomery.

  He snapped his gaze to Kit. “You’ve been sending stories to Blackwoods?”

  Kit shrugged. “Our experiences make for interesting reading. I sent them one story, and they wanted more, so I obliged them.”

  Harrison skimmed the article. In vivid detail, it related their encounter with the jayhawkers, the closing words one brutal lash after another. He read them aloud. “‘It is doubtful he will ever walk again.’ You wrote that?”

  “The doctor’s prognosis was grim.”

  “So you thought you were justified in telling the whole world—”

  “I never used your name.”

  “My father obviously figured it out.”

  “What does your father say in his letter?” Jessye asked.

  He refrained from scowling at his wife. “How the bloody hell should I know?”

  “Well, read it,” she commanded.

  He tossed the article at Kit. “You overstepped the boundaries of our friendship with this.” He unfolded his father’s letter, dreading the words.

  August 17, 1867

  My dear Harrison,

  I read this article in Blackwoods and very nearly expired while I was eating my morning eggs. I suppose it is pride that has stopped you from writing me.

  As for Christian Montgomery, a man of so little faith does not deserve your friendship. To insinuate that you might never walk. Rubbish.

  I know you will despise my gift, but before you toss it into the fire, heed my advice. Do not look upon it as a sign of your weakness, but as a testament to your strength. You survived, my son, when lesser men would have given in.

  I was but a lad when my grandfather fell from his horse and broke his hip. I remember it was weeks, nay months, before he could walk again, and then only with the aid of a cane.

  He was a man of presence, and the cane took nothing from that. As a matter of fact, few people noticed it. I usually didn’t until he applied it against my backside.

  Knowing you, you will overcome this obstacle. And I do know you much better than you realize.

  You may not believe this but I sent you to Texas not to punish you, but to save you. After discovering the wretched childhood your mother forced you to endure, I could not bring myself to discipline you. I fear I caused you more harm than she did. I gave you the opportunity to waste your life—and you deserve much better. I hope you find it in Texas.

  I look forward to reading more of your adventures. I would prefer to hear them from you personally, but I shall welcome Montgomery’s exaggerated writings if that is all I can have.

  My love,

  Your father

  The Earl of Lambourne

  Harrison glared at Kit. “Father thinks you exaggerate.”

  Kit sputtered. “Exaggerate? My God, I tone the stories down if nothing else. I seriously doubt they would print the complete tale of hardships endured here.”

  “What else did he say?” Jessye asked.

  “He hopes that I find what I deserve here.” He handed the letter to Jessye and smiled. “I suppose I shall have to write him now and let him know that I received better than I deserved.”

  September 25, 1867

  To the Earl of Lambourne

  Dear Father,

  My apologies for taking two years to write you. I have been busy. You were quite right. I do have a need for the cane, and I am truly honored that you sent such a fine one.

  I know you despise gambling, but I must admit that I made a daring wager, and it has paid off handsomely. I gained a wife and just recently a daughter.

  I have no doubt you would adore them both.

  Ah, yes, we own a saloon and several gaming tables. You would heartily disapprove, but the profits have provided us with a modest home.

  Should you ever have the opportunity to visit, rest assured that you shall win every hand you play. Well, not every hand. After all, there is still a scoundrel lurking within me.

  Harrison studied the words he’d written. They somehow seemed inadequate. He heard his wife’s soft footfalls. She wrapped her arms around him and placed her chin on top of his head.

  “Tell him,” she urged.

  “I don’t know if I can.”

  She moved around and knelt beside him. “What do you fear?”

  “That I am not worthy of you.” He dipped his pen into the inkwell and finished off the letter.

  I love you, Father.

  Your son,

  Harrison

  He glanced at his wife. “Happy now?”

  She smiled warmly. “Yes. And you?”

  He looked at the words, words that he had learned should be spoken aloud as often as possible. “Incredibly so.”

  She rose to her feet and took his hand. “Then come to bed and tell me that you love me.”

  He grabbed his cane and stood. “I’d rather show you.”

  “Maybe we can manage both,” she suggested as she led the way toward their bedroom.

  “Now that’s a remarkable idea.” He pulled her to him. “I love you, Jessye Bainbridge.” He lowered his mouth to hers, amazed at how easily the words now came.

  About the Author

  LORRAINE HEATH began writing at the age of seven, when she fell in love with the magic of words. Her novels have received a Romance Writers of America’s RITA Award, a Romantic Times Reviewer’s Choice Award, as well as other awards and recognition from review publications, writers and readers’ groups. She enjoys hearing from readers.

  Visit her webpage at www.paintedrock.com/authors/heath.htm, e-mail her at LorraineHe@aol.com, or write to her in care of Avon Books.

  Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.

  Books by

  Lorraine Heath

  A ROGUE IN TEXAS

  NEVER LOVE A COWBOY

  NEVER MARRY A COWBOY

  O
UTLAW AND THE LADY

  TO MARRY AN HEIRESS

  Coming Soon

  LOVE WITH A SCANDALOUS LORD

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  NEVER LOVE A COWBOY. Copyright © 2006 by Lorraine Heath. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

  ePub edition July 2006 ISBN 9780061750199

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

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