The Bounty Hunter's Heart

by Jillian Hart

  "Sure you are, I can see it. You don't know me, so maybe there's a good reason for it." Anger over his situation flamed hot in his chest, but it could not outshine the pain, old and heartbreaking, that drove him now. "I happen to know you were never fortunate enough to have a baby before your husband passed away. You were a newlywed and never knew the thrill, the joy and the responsibility. And I don't say that to break your heart, but so that you can understand that you are breaking mine."

  "I didn't mean to, and I don't intend to judge you. It's just that you can't take him out into that cold when he is so ill. He could catch his death, but you must know that." She rocked back a step, a little fragile woman, slender and willowy, tiny compared to his strength, yet her heart shone bright and strong. "I don't have children, and that will always be a sorrow to me. You are a lucky man by my standards, bounty hunter."

  She turned away, fisting her elegant hands. She had such small hands, and the observation made tenderness flare to life in his chest. He could not explain the longing to reach out and catch hold of her hand, to trace his finger across the delicate curve of her knuckles and along the slim line of her fingers.

  "I am lucky, I always have been, even now. Don't you forget that. I'm a good man." He stopped himself from reaching out for her. He had no right. His chest felt heavy and grieving with a loss he had not yet known, but it had to do with her. "I'm also a man who needs something from you."

  "What do you mean? What could I possibly have that could help you?" Her honesty and fear rang with in the quiet and lingered in the air. They had an impact on the hollow places of his heart.

  "I told you that I wouldn't hurt you. I mean that." He straightened his spine, pulling up what strength and might he had left for the question he knew she would not like. Neither did he. He looked around at the home she had here, in her lovely decorated house with matching curtains and rugs, throw pillows and afghans, wall hangings and furniture in shades of green and gray. "I'm new to this part of Montana Territory. How long do blizzards like this blow?"

  "Days, sometimes the better part of a week." She took a quiet step back, putting more space between them and, it felt like, safety on her part.

  As much as the bullet wound hurt, her lack of trust of him hurt more. He saw what he'd become, a man who was an outsider, on the wrong side of proper society. A man kind and decent women did not want to trust.

  Just ask her, just convince her. That's all he had to do, and yet everything rested on it. Jack needed him to take another step toward her, to insist there be no closeness, only distance between them. He didn't belong here, and they both knew it. He bobbed his head politely, just once, but he meant it true. "Thank you again for the meal and the tea."

  He turned his back to sleeping Jack and padded toward the table and the waiting sustenance. He walked quiet as the dark, his gaze fixed on the image of the woman in front of him, her blond-gold curls burnished and her woman's curves brushed by the golden light's glow, accentuating her beauty.

  His groin jumped, and he couldn't imagine that even wounded, exhausted, and in true pain that his shaft could respond hard to the physical beauty of a woman. He propped his spine against the wall and drew in a deep breath.

  She's not right for you, McMurphy. Just relax and enjoy the food. Remorse washed over him, and he limped to the archway to look at his son. He listened to his breathing, even but raspy, lost in dreams.

  Deep love warmed him up, sweet like a soft spring after a hard, snowy winter. The sweetness welled up, and the great bonus of loving his son made it worth being without him in the long run. He would always love his boy, there would always be a place within him that could feel love so deeply, it had no end.

  He pushed off the wall and left the boy sleeping, and took a seat at the table where the lamp burned bright enough to illuminate the meal waiting for him. He salivated at the steaming bowl of beef stew, the generous plate of butter fried potato cubes, warm sliced bread with melting butter spread thick, and a fat slice of cherry pie. He grinned at the tea, dark and hot served in a floral china cup.

  Saydee sure had gone to enough trouble over him. His conscience punched hard. He'd lived so self-reliant through the years, and especially on the long ride from the eastern side of the Dakotas, that he'd forgotten what a real meal looked like.

  This, right here, being on the run, was the only life he had to offer Jack from now on. If he shut his eyes he could recall the orphanage, remember the way the fenced yard looked that felt more like a prison than a place for good children. He could still fear the image of imagining Jack in a line of boys and girls, chin down, with the light gone from his eyes, his spirit diminished walking from the children's home to the schoolhouse and it made him die inside, just about, and he knew avoiding that fate and future was absolutely right. Absolutely just. Worth anything and everything he could do for that boy.

  But how did he tell her what he really needed? How he begin when he couldn't force himself to even think about much less utter the words? He stared down at the fragrant food and grasped a spoon. It was a week's trek on horseback to the Canadian border in this bad weather. Guilt dogged him, guilt made new again by the look of judgement in Saydee's eyes.

  What would she think of his request? Why would a woman help him, one who lived in a house this quality, with her china dishes and cups, fancy crystal lamps and upholstered furniture? He took his first bite of delicious stew and savored it, although his stomach fisted up tight with the worry of true responsibility.

  And because of his injury and exhaustion, he felt ready to pass out and fall to the floor. Weakness overcame him and he couldn't stop it. He wasn't just nauseous from shock, but also dizzy and so thirsty he couldn't get enough tea. He consumed the flavorful stew, buttery potatoes and buttered bread without pausing.

  He finished every crumb of the food, but he didn't feel any better. Weakness and pain battered him like a living thing, like an enemy, but he'd learned something from his years doing this hard job. He could push his body farther, and he would. For Jack's sake. For Jack's safety.

  His heart came to life looking at her, like the first bud of spring breaking free from winter's harsh grasp. He had to look away as he pushed to his feet and carried the plates to the sink.

  "Leave them until morning, don't rinse them." She laid a flannel covered warming iron at the foot of his bed, slipping it between the sheets. He should be doing that, she'd done enough for him already, but she nodded toward the archway. "Someone might need you."

  Jack. He turned toward him, his eyes searching for his child in the dark. The boy stirred as if more asleep than awake and rolled onto his side toward him, toward the light. His dark curls tumbled over his forehead, and he scrunched up his cute face as if still dreaming.

  I love you, son, he thought with his entire heart, taking a long look while he could. He committed to memory the round face and sloping button nose once again, so he could remember this night, this image of his boy, for the long lonely nights to come when he would be without him. For when he wouldn't be protecting him or looking out for him or able to be a real pa.

  How would he be able to endure that? He didn't know, but when the time came he would have to leave again and walk away for good. Never to see his boy again, to never know the man his son would become, never know who Jack turned out to be, always wishing for the sight of his son's face one more time. But to protect him, he would leave. And he would never return.

  The clock in the parlor gently knelled the half hour. Winn tamped down a groan and took a step, despite the pain. He ambled into the parlor where the lace-edged curtains, topped with ruffles and made with skill, covered the night-dark panes of window glass. He pulled back the edge and peered outside but could see nothing. The storm and dark hid all from his view.

  Well, Brant lurked out there too close for comfort. He could feel it in his bones like cold settling there. He leaned his forehead against the icy glass and tried to dig down deep for a little hope, had to believe that he coul
d keep his promise to Jack and he would need Saydee's help to do it. Ending Brant's vendetta was his goal.

  He was a man who didn't put faith in dreams. They'd never much worked out for him. His hope in his fellow man had been tainted working for years seeing the underbelly of society and the worst in his fellow man.

  A light step sounded on the floor, and he waited as the squeaky floorboard creaked mildly. Light eked into the room, outlining the woman and her shepherd. The dog ambled into the parlor, toenails clacking on the polished oak, and after looking Jack's way and finding him asleep, ambled up to the blanket in front of the sofa. With resignation, the dog circled, then curled up in the soft wool, guarding the little boy while he slept.

  "I set out a few things for you, stranger." Saydee tapped to a halt, nearly as dark and quiet as the shadows. "You probably want to wash off that fresh blood. Fortunately for you, I set out some clothes I started sewing for my uncle's upcoming birthday, and they might fit you instead."

  "Thank you, kindly. I can pay you for them." The hollow ache in his heart felt deeper somehow as he waited while her shadow retreated, back toward the light. "Both Jack and I owe our lives to you."

  "I did nothing but find you in the storm like a pair of wayward moose." She paused in the archway, and he couldn't help savoring the sight of her woman's shape, the soft round shape of her breasts, the dip of her waist and the curve of her hips. She was delicate and beautiful, just like a fine piece of china, far finer than he had the right to dream of holding.

  "You need your sleep, bounty hunter." Gently came her words, as sweet as dreams. "If the mattress isn't comfortable enough for you, then take my bed."

  "I'll stay where I am. I won't take your bed from you."

  "But you're injured, and I'm worried for you."

  His throat hurt hearing the concern in her caring voice. So, her brother had told the truth. She still was as truly good-hearted as she'd always been, as kind as he remembered. Like her, he feared that he might not be strong enough to leave when the storm blew out.

  "There will be no more sleep for me until morning." He thought of his nemesis out there in the dark. The outlaw would have found a place to lie low for the time being, but not forever. Winn steeled his resolve. He had responsibilities that mattered and promises to Jack to keep, which meant he had watch duty to make sure no harm came to anyone here.

  Without anything more than a silent nod, Saydee padded away out of sight down a hallway and swung a bedroom door closed behind her. The silence she left behind echoed faintly in the dark, leaving him alone, just what he was fated to be.

  * * *

  Saydee stared at her reflection in the beveled mirror of her bureau and ran the brush through her unbraided hair one last time. She thought of the man in her house, where he was likely cleaning his bare body. She could hear the faint splashes from the wash basin when he wrung out the wash cloth.

  I have a mostly naked stranger in my kitchen, she thought. What a difference the bounty hunter had made in her life by coming to stay. Seeing him take care of his little Jack had made her see a different side of him that was less like a powerful outlaw and more of a man's whole, loving heart.

  She'd witnessed tenderness in his gaze when he'd taken care of his boy and the way he'd slept on the floor in front of the sofa said it all. He was a dedicated father and a man with a sheriff's honor, a judge's serious gravity and a hangman's steely resolve.

  She set down her hairbrush and frowned at herself in the mirror. This was typically what she always did with a man. Seeing too much of what softness she needed to see, instead of what may be truly real.

  It's what had hurt most during her marriage. How Carson had been so gentle with her, a man of vulnerabilities and sensitivity, of meekness that had made her sure that was the tip of the ice burg. She believed there was more to him than what she saw.

  But over the short time they were together she noticed his gentleness began to have a deeper layer, but his vulnerable side became sharper as well, and she was left with seeing a different man in the husband she'd married. One who tried to be honest, but life kept giving him too many hardships he could not handle well and that changed and made colder his heart. While love had been enough, they'd struggled with two failed crops and then a poor harvest season. If he'd chosen not to over drink, they would have prospered and been happy together and in life again.

  But Carson had not recovered from his financial failures, or been able to stop consoling himself with ale and whiskey. So, disappointment was one word to describe her marriage, sad was another. She'd believed in love, but the way he loved her and expected to treat her had changed. And she'd learned wisely not to trust a man's tenderness or his softness quickly again. Although, the bounty hunter could never be mistaken as soft.

  No, he looked every inch a commanding man hewn of steel and purpose, as tough as iron, as rugged as the West and dangerous. Any softness she'd witnessed in him was short-lived, however genuine it may be. It was not his dominant attribute. A smart woman would keep her feelings still and not be taken in by the need to see greatness when she needed it so much.

  6

  She heard the rush of the wash basin being emptied, and memory gripped her of the sight of his naked, bronzed skin kissed by the lamplight. So very much of him had been bared and mostly naked before her. She drew in a sharp breath, surprised at her reaction, and remembered the faintly salty pleasant scent of his skin, the dash of wood smoke and winter wind clinging to him.

  Her stomach tugged tight in a fist of desire that left her stunned. No, I'm not physically attracted to the bounty hunter, no matter how handsome. She pulled back the comforter and blankets to expose the soft sheet beneath, wishing she could push out of her memory the vision of his chest caressed by the golden lamplight.

  Well, she refused to be attracted to any man, especially a stranger who could be gone by morning. At least, she hoped the storm would be over by then.

  What was wrong with her that she slipped into her own lonely bed and thought of every night she'd lain alone on these sheets aching for the heated, secret brush of a man's hand? To feel the warmth of his body weighing her down as he covered her, as he loved her.

  She stretched out alone and rested her head on her pillow, wishing that she did not dream of love and romance when she knew it wasn't likely a possibility for her. And she might spend every night lonely and craving the sensation of a man's touch, for the pleasure he could give her in the dark of night, but it wasn't as if she could hope to find it again. It wasn't easy to find a good man.

  She was a widow, and no longer clinging to illusions of love. She'd become far too practical for that. Still, that didn't stop her from thinking of the man on the other side of the wall. He'd gone silent. Was he okay? Maybe she should have restitched his wound so it wouldn't keep bleeding. Would he be okay sleeping on his own?

  Saydee squeezed her eyes shut. The bruise in her heart left wounded by grief throbbed. Please, let the blizzard blow out. My heart can only take so much.

  Maybe some sleep would help her, so she popped open the buttons marching down her bodice and shivered out of the wool dress in the rather cold room. The crackling sound from one of the pockets caught her attention. Oh, the letter. How could she have forgotten?

  Dread settled hard and heavy beneath her sternum. She pulled the forgotten envelope out of the pocket, slipped a nightgown over her head, tugged it into place and sat down on the edge of her bed. The ropes creaked, and the soft feather mattress sank beneath her weight.

  As the single flame tossed weak light across the corner of the envelope, Saydee stared at it. Did she have the heart to open it? Would it be better to leave the words unread? Her situation with her ma was not an easy one. Maybe her mother had realized how unkind she was being.

  There had been a time once when Ma hadn't been hard, just abrupt, but that was a long time ago. What if there was a chance to repair things between them? Even if it was a tiny opportunity, how could she not do her best
to forgive?

  She had always done her best to treat her cool-hearted mother with love. Well, no need to put off reading it now. Armed with a hairpin, she gathered her hopes and slit open the envelope. Inside was just one precisely folded sheet of stationary.

  She skipped reading the embossed names of her parents in fancy script inked across the top of the cream colored parchment, embellished with gold. Her eyes skimmed straight to her mother's handwriting which was proper and perfectly quilled in black ink, using her most formal careful handwriting.

  Saydee's heart stilled. She knew the look of painful news when she saw it. She took one steadying breath and read. This is most troubling how you insist on treating us by not doing as we wish. That is a daughter's duty and if you do not want to come live in our maid's quarters and clean and cook for us now that you are on your own, then we have decided to sever all ties since you refuse to marry and work for us. You will also be disinherited. This is your last chance to mend your ways and do as we say.

  Saydee choked on a sob. She quietly folded up the letter to send to her brother for his opinion. But she had to close her eyes first and let the sharp pain settle in her chest, so hollow and despairing. He mother would never forgive her for refusing to consider accepting stepfather's business contact's proposal. A proposal they had manipulated for and then demanded she accept.

  They didn't apologize, she realized. It was not something they felt sorry about, after all. Saydee hung her head. She never should have read it. She should have tossed it into the garbage and never thought about again. She shouldn't have let this pain back in to hurt her. Not now, when she was especially out of hope.

  Ashamed of being so gullible and needy, of wishing and wanting she could love someone so much, she turned down the lamp's wick, watched it die, and in the sheer darkness let the tears silently fall.