The Bride Wore Spurs (The Inconvenient Bride Series, Book 1)

by Sharon Ihle

  Gripped with cold fear, Hawke raced through the house and out to the back porch again. He'd been thinking of going to check the barn, even though she hadn't been there ten minutes ago when he tended the animals. Then he remembered the pine boughs littering the pathway. Retracing his steps, which was more difficult now as the increasing snow had begun to fill them in, he cut up toward the still-visible path which led into the forest. They were faint, not much more than small dimples in the snow, but the prints he found there had been made by a small pair of boots. And not too long ago, either.

  Had Lacey come across Hattie, and panicked? he wondered. Adding the fiercely protective nature of the wolf to his wife's fear of wildlife—even antelope—supplied an answer to the question in terribly vivid terms. Sick at heart, his chest swelling with dread, Hawke glanced up at the rapidly darkening skies and the even blacker clouds splotching them. Not only was nightfall near, but the storm was increasing in intensity.

  "Oh, God, no," he muttered from deep in his chest. "No." Then, in an anguished howl to rival the leader of Hattie's old pack, he screamed, "Lacey!" And plowed headlong into the forest.

  * * *

  'Twasn't so different from a spell, Lacey though to herself, disoriented, but strangely cozy in her bed of snow. And like a spell, she knew deep down inside her that something about this was wrong, and that she really ought to get herself together and do what must be done. Oh, but this way was so much easier. Nothing to harm her, no horrible shouting or ugly accusations between her mum and da, no words of condemnation from the nurses as they whispered Lacey's name amongst themselves and pointed to the little girl gone bad; just peace and the soft, cold quiet.

  The wind kicked up, swirling around Lacey's icy little bed, and she began to shiver again. "Leave me alone," she murmured, her lips numb from cold. "Go away and leave me alone."

  Above the howling wind, she suddenly heard another sound, something more comforting than even her cozy little bed in the freshly-fallen snow. What was it? She lifted her head, breaking through the icy blanket which had covered her, and strained her ears. Again she heard the sound, this time able to identity it as her husband's voice. How very nice, she thought, her head aching. Hawke will know what to do. Then, smiling contentedly, she lay back down and burrowed into the snow and let herself be lulled back into her previously sleepy state.

  In spite of the cold, and no matter how illogical it sounded, she was warming up. Content. She sighed, giving herself over to the elements, but heard Hawke's voice calling her name. He sounded hoarse, panicked... maybe even angry. Come sleep with me, she invited in her mind, unable to find the strength to put voice to the words. Come hold me and sleep, my husband.

  Hawke called her name again, the sound louder and even angrier. Prompted by him and a sudden burst of energy, Lacey opened her eyes and raised her head, surprised at the havoc all around her. Snow was swirling in every direction, making it impossible for her to see a thing except the color white. The bitter wind cut through her velvet cloak, stinging the parts of her body that weren't already half-frozen. She began to shiver again, violently and uncontrollably. What was happening to her? she wondered, terrified for her own survival at last. Would she freeze and die?

  Digging deep within herself for both courage and strength, Lacey struggled to her knees, then finally managed to stand. Bracing herself against a nearby pine, she cupped her hands around her mouth, took as deep a breath as she could manage, and screamed with every ounce of power she had.

  * * *

  When he heard the sound, at first Hawke thought he'd scared up a wildcat, or even stumbled across a predator in mid-kill. When it came again, and he realized the voice was definitely human and female, he shouted back, "Lacey? I'm coming. Keep hollering so I can find you."

  She did. Even though her voice got weaker, the calls more infrequent, she kept it up long enough for Hawke to spot her draped between the low-lying branches of a lodgepole pine.

  Rushing to her side, he pulled her into his fierce embrace, unable to speak. He held her that way for several moments, loathe to ever let her go, but then forcefully separated his heart from his mind. Hawke's instincts for survival were strong; strong enough for him to realize he couldn't effect their rescue if he let the intense emotions tearing at his gut rule his head. So it was with steel-like precision that he forced those feelings to a back burner, and in utter silence ripped off his heavy buckskin jacket, wrapped Lacey in it, then hefted her into his arms.

  With only these words of instruction, he said, "Hold on to my neck, understand? Don't let go of me for anything."

  Then, with only instinct and his years of trapping guiding him, Hawke fell into a dead run and made his way through the blinding snowstorm to the ranch.

  Once he'd kicked open the door and stepped inside, he paused only long enough to decide where Lacey would be the warmest. Then he bolted up the stairs with her still in his arms, and heaved her onto the center of their bed. Moving swiftly, Hawke built the biggest, hottest fire he could without jeopardizing the house, then went back to the bed where she lay shivering out of control.

  His features still rigid, unreadable, Hawke brushed the dry snow out of Lacey's hair and quickly undressed her. Searching for signs of frostbite, particularly white spots or gray areas, he examined her fingers, toes, ears, and nose, but other than a general blue cast to her delicate skin, all appeared well. Moving quickly as she was still suffering from exposure to the cold and not out of danger yet, Hawke tucked her into their bed between the flannel sheets, then piled every blanket and quilt in the house on top of her.

  Only then did he allow himself a moment to breathe, to look on Lacey's quaking form beneath the mound of covers as anything other than his solemn duty. The one breath of relief he took caught sharply in his throat, lodging there. Hawke took another, and another, until he was reasonably certain he could keep control of himself. In spite of those efforts, he continued to choke on emotions too deep and too new to recognize for what they were, much less acknowledge them. Ignoring his inner turmoil, Hawke stripped off his own clothes, never taking his gaze from his wife, and climbed beneath the blankets.

  Knowing the heat from his own body would be the best and safest way to warm her, Hawke gathered Lacey into his arms. After cuddling her stiff limbs and unresponsive body this way for several minutes, she finally rewarded him by slowly twisting in the circle of his embrace. Moaning softly as her blood began to flow warmer and faster, Lacey burrowed against Hawke's body as if trying to climb inside him for the extra warmth there.

  The emotions he'd so carefully buried surfaced then, pointing out to Hawke one undeniable fact; he'd have split his belly open from stem to stern if he thought for one second the deed would help save Lacey. Anytime. Anywhere.

  "'T-t-was a-a-a..."

  "Hush now, Irish," Hawke muttered, surprised at the husky, cracked sound of his own voice. He kept her wrapped in his arms and legs, and continued to caress her frosty skin with both his hands and feet. "Don't try to talk. Let's just get you warm for now."

  "B-but a-a-w-w-wolf."

  "I know, Irish, I know. We'll talk about that later."

  Unable to harness the rush of emotions burgeoning inside him at the sound of her sweet lilt—a voice he'd thought he'd never hear again—Hawke fell on Lacey's mouth, kissing her so deeply, it was as if he were seeking life-sustaining warmth for himself. Something powerful and intense, a certain recklessness gripped him, and for the first time in his life, Hawke was afraid of what he might do or say. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to ward the sensations off, to call a halt to whatever held him in its grasp. If he couldn't do that, he feared he might do the unthinkable: Dissolve into tears.

  The effort to hold himself back finally exhausted Hawke. With a low cry, a groan that was at least half-sob, he buried his head in Lacey's hair, and drew her body beneath his. If he hadn't known before, Hawke knew then how terribly incomplete he'd be if he should ever truly lose the woman he held in his arms. Desperate to
feel whole again, urged onward by a terrible need to become as close to Lacey as humanly possible, Hawke slipped his hand between her legs and nudged her thighs apart.

  "Forgive me, Irish," he whispered, his voice hoarse against her hair. "God forgive me, Lacey, but I've got to have you. I've got to have you now."

  "Aye, m-my h-husband." Her breath skipped out in soft little pants, but the tremors wracking her body now were shivers of another kind, and not from the cold. She ran her hands through Hawke's loose hair, pulling him to her. "There'd be nothing to forgive, for I, too, have a... a grand need for you."

  With a decided lack of both finesse and patience, Hawke immediately slipped into his wife. She felt better at that moment than any time he could remember, including the first. She was hotter than the roaring fire filling the entire hearth of his great stone fireplace, his in a deeper, more fulfilling way than he'd ever imagined.

  It suddenly occurred to Hawke that he loved Lacey. He loved her, by God. Amazed and buoyed by the discovery of such an intangible thing in his own heart, he suddenly wanted nothing more than to share the realization with Lacey, to make it somehow more concrete between them.

  But then John Winterhawke, Jr., former mountain man and one tough son of a bitch, stumbled across another revelation about himself—he was afraid to tell her. Afraid that little piece of herself Lacey kept hidden from him would prevent her from loving him back. Would make him seem a fool. He was disappointed by that thought, to be sure, but rather than letting it cool the frantic, emotional rhythm of their lovemaking. Hawke kept hold of the love he felt for her, making the moment even more intense than before.

  Knowing he couldn't last much longer this way, he called out to Lacey, urging her onward with both his voice and his touch. When at last she reached her peak, triggering his own, the promise he'd once made demanded that Hawke withdraw, and withdraw at once. Something stronger than self-restraint, a more savage and possessive part of his primitive self urged him deeper within her instead. Then he was lost, shuddering in the throes of a mind-numbing orgasm which stripped him of all control.

  Moments later when he'd regained his breath and a small measure of his sanity, Hawke raised up on his elbows to relieve Lacey of the burden of his weight. Guilt flickered through him as he gazed down on her sweet trusting face and contented smile. Although he figured he ought to at least apologize for what he'd done here, Hawke found he didn't quite know what to say or how to explain exactly what had happened to him. Maybe, he thought, hoping it were true, nothing would come of his lapse in judgement. Maybe there would be nothing to apologize for.

  Exonerated by the thought, he asked, "Are you warm enough yet, sweetheart?"

  Lacey glanced up at her husband through misty blue eyes. "Aye, that I am." Her hand fluttered to her left breast and remained there. "Especially in here."

  His throat tight, aching unbearably, Hawke hoarsely muttered, "Me too, Irish. Me too." Then, feeling more guilty than ever, he rolled onto his back and lay staring up at the knotholes in the ceiling.

  Snuggling herself into the crook of her husband's arm, Lacey tried to explain again about her near-attack. "I must tell you how I came to be in the forest. 'Twas a wolf on the porch when I came round to the back of the house today. A wolf!"

  "I know," he murmured. "I figured that's what sent you into the forest."

  "Do you know that it tried to eat me?"

  "Lacey, I doubt that—"

  "I swear 'tis true. I ran off before it could catch me, then I fell over a boulder or something, and hit my head. When I woke up, I was truly surprised to find the wolf wasn't making a grand supper of me."

  Feeling her scalp for lumps, Hawke chuckled softly as he said, "I doubt old Hattie wanted to put you on her supper menu, but I imagine she must have scared you half to death when the two of you met up." Lacey winced as his fingers slid across a small bump on the left side of her head. The skin wasn't broken, and since she hadn't drifted off or passed out since he found her, Hawke wasn't concerned that she'd suffered a concussion. "Are you hurt anywhere else?"

  "I do not think so." She tested her legs. "Maybe a wee knot on the one knee, but nothing to doctor." Raising her head so she could look her husband in the eye, Lacey asked, "Did I hear you call the wolf by name?"

  "Yes, Irish, you did." Reminded of yet another apology he owed her—one he had little difficulty in making—Hawke explained. "I should have told you about old Hattie at the first sign of winter, but then, well, I guess I just forgot all about her."

  Lacey abruptly sat up, careful to keep the blankets around her shoulders. "You know this wolf well? You speak of her as if you raised the beast on your ranch."

  "I didn't exactly do that, but she has been a frequent visitor around here."

  "A visitor you say?" Lacey slapped Hawke across the chest, stinging his skin. "Six eggs to you for your breakfast, sir, and half a dozen of them rotten."

  "Hey." Hawke reached up as she drew back her hand in order to slap him again, and caught her by the wrist. "I told you I just kind of forgot about old Hattie. Don't take it so personal, Irish."

  "Hell's cure to you, Mr. Winterhawke. 'Twas because of you I almost froze to death out there, and because of you that friendly wolf of yours almost made a meal of me. 'Tis very personal to me, indeed."

  Even though he knew she was halfway kidding, a burst of those new, overwhelming emotions swept over Hawke, taking him by surprise. He pulled Lacey down on top of him, folding her in an embrace which almost prevented the two of them from breathing. Easing his grip just a little, he whispered against the bounty of curls at her ear, "Forgive me, Irish. I never—I didn't dream that wolf would come back here so late in winter, and it sure never occurred to me that she'd show up when you were here alone."

  "Oh, I suppose what you say is so, but why in all that's holy do you allow such a creature the run of the place? 'Tis a dangerous beast, 'tis is not?"

  He shrugged. "I expect she can be, certainly if she doesn't know you, but with me, and especially Crowfoot, Hattie is just an ugly old pussycat."

  "Crowfoot?"

  "Uh-huh. They were together when I found her caught in a trap, living on the run near as Caleb and I could figure." She gasped, a thousand questions mirrored in her eyes. "It was an unusual arrangement all right, but not completely out of the question. Crowfoot, who'd been named Crow Boy With Crooked Foot at birth, was abandoned by humankind as you already know. We suspect that Hattie was also shunned by her own wolf pack for some reason. Anyway, they were together, and together they stayed that whole first year they lived here at Winterhawke."

  Sighing with disbelief, Lacey shook her head. "'Tis difficult for me to understand, but if the boy and wolf are so close, why have I ne'er laid eyes on her before today?"

  "Hattie's wild, and always will be. Don't forget that for a minute." Thinking of Lacey's close call with the animal, Hawke pulled her mouth down to his for a quick, but meaningful, kiss. "She's gradually been spending less and less time around here, weaning Crowfoot in a manner of speaking, I guess. The old gal generally takes off at the first hint of spring, then comes back in late fall or early winter. This year she left well before the last snow hit, and frankly, we figured that she either found a mate who considered an ugly, three-legged wolf adorable, or was finally strong enough to care for herself through an entire winter again."

  Mulling over all she'd learned here, Lacey eased her head down on her husband's chest. "'Tis a beautiful story, I'm thinking," she murmured. "A tale to bring the splendor of fire into my heart. Do you know what I mean, husband?"

  "Aye," popped out of his mouth automatically, but for Hawke it was more an endearment than an answer. Lacey brought more than the splendor of fire to his heart; she burned brighter and hotter there than the core of a cinder. Hawke glanced above the wild tangle of her hair to the shadows flowing into one another as they danced across the ceiling. In those gracefully reflected flames of the fire still roaring in the hearth, he found the perfect portrait of the
intangibles in his heart.

  * * *

  That brief respite from the weather was the last the inhabitants of the Centennial area saw of the sun for another six weeks. Snow piled up deeper than Hawke could ever remember it, trapping him and Lacey in their log home, the tunnel he'd dug between the barn and the house their only avenue of escape. When the sun finally broke through the clouds in the first part of March, bringing with it a promise of spring, Hawke and Lacey ran outside like a pair of little children, laughing and playing, and flinging snowballs at one another.

  Crowfoot returned to Winterhawke during that same break, and enjoyed a happy if short reunion with Hattie. Once the boy was back where he belonged and she examined him to make sure he was all right, the wolf took off again. This time, Hawke had the definite feeling she wouldn't be coming back.

  It wasn't until mid-April, however, that the Winterhawkes could chance a trip to Three Elk to check on the Weatherspoon family. The baby, a fragile girl, had been born a few weeks early, but with her mother's expert care, was getting on very well. Kate had named her Kathleen, in honor of Lacey, and when it was time for Lacey to go home, the women fell into a prolonged and teary farewell. Shortly after that fast visit, foaling began at Winterhawke, and before they knew it, it was mid-May and the cavalry had returned for the horses ordered last spring. Lacey, who hadn't been to Laramie since she'd arrived over a year ago, was so excited about the prospect of traveling to town with her husband, she'd hardly slept for two nights. Hawke, caught up in the idea of owning Winterhawke free and clear at last, shared in her restlessness. Neither of them thought Saturday would ever come.

  Three days before the planned journey into Laramie, Hawke made his way back to the house early in the morning with the eggs and bucket of milk. He walked into the kitchen expecting to find Lacey busy at the stove. Instead, she was kneeling by the pantry, retching into a bucket.