The Bounty Hunter's Heart

by Jillian Hart

  It was what happened to her every day she had to leave at the end of her workday. Oh, how she loved her job. Her heart cinched up tight, wondering how little Emilyleigh was doing. She missed that little girl's easy-going smile and laughter. She'd only had the croup three weeks ago!

  Footsteps traveled through the parlor, musical and fading in volume as he put some amount of distance between them, but that expected distance didn't happen. He did not diminish even almost out of sight and at the far end of the other room. He filled her entire field of vision, all power and might, pure flesh and blood man. Snow still dusted him from his time spent outside, clinging to the dark locks of his hair and slowly warming, melting into clear droplets the lamplight found and glistened on like diamonds.

  He unfolded the oilcloth and shook it out over the bed. He grabbed Jack's pillow and set it in place before helping the child to scoot over and stretch out into place. Jack shivered, his teeth clacking together. A dripping sweat feathered across his face and dampened his undershirt and long-john bottoms he'd been sleeping in. He shook slightly, his fists clenched and his jaw tight as if determined to resist the chills and fever on purpose. What a strong-willed and good little boy, Saydee thought.

  "Go ahead and relax back, you're gonna be okay, boy." His baritone rumbled true and comforting, but his worry could not be fully disguised.

  "All right, Pa." Jack shivered on the cool oilcloth and didn't complain one bit.

  "Stay here with the dog and keep an eye on this good boy." He patted the bed, indicating there was still room for the shepherd to curl up next to the boy, although they would have to be careful not to let him get iced too, and turned away, pounding through the house, determination a hard knot in his gut. He would not fail his son. He refused to consider the possibility. Not ever.

  He stuck his arms into his still-frozen stiff coat, bundled up and grabbed the two pails. He buried his worry and his impending grief and burst out the door and into the storm. Snow tumbled from a lead gray sky like icy spike-like specks against his face, and he blinked his lashes in defense against them as he clomped down the steps to the snow below and bent to fill the two buckets. He squinted up at the stable, which looked battened down tight for the horses. Since all looked good and no sign of a horse thief or Brant and possibly, also, his man, he stomped his way, snow tumbling off him, back inside.

  Pete's mournful whines came from the parlor and sounded off-rhythm to the crackle of the fire in the hearth, the tick of the mantel clock and the chop of Saydee's knife in the kitchen as she cut root vegetables to steam with butter for what smelled like a good supper. He ignored the storm's dulled rush and whir as he set the second bucket on the floor, troubled by the weight of the burden he carried. His boy Jack was everything he held dear and always would.

  He'd never had a choice in the least with this act of Brant's retribution. The murderer had thrown down the gauntlet and Winn was out of options now. He had to be strong, stand tall, do right and see this through until justice was serviced.

  Or he died trying.

  The soft musical pad of footsteps broke his concentration and interrupted his thoughts. He glanced over his shoulder to see Saydee freeze in mid-step, the gentle comfort of her presence making the lamplight brighter and the hard iron of the quest for justice in his heart feel less, just a little, just for a moment.

  "You shouldn't be doing all this alone with your injury. I can tell you're burning up." Golden curls tumbled around her face, disguising the delicate line of her rosy cheekbones and finely drawn jaw. "Here, move aside. You have to stop pretending there's nothing wrong with you. You're not realistic."

  "Ma'am, I'm nothing but. I'm real, and no fake."

  11

  "I've begun to notice that. In fact, it's hard to miss that and a whole lot more." She reached out her slender, sensitive fingers and brushed them over his rough callused ones.

  The heat of her touch, the fire of electricity charged through him like a telegraph wire and his heart forgot to beat. Her hand swept away only to land against the whiskered roughness of his jaw. That brief contact undid him completely but she hardly blinked.

  "You are burning up," she said. "Maybe it is time to sit down and start taking orders from me."

  "Unlikely."

  That made the corners of her mouth tug upward and her petal-pink mouth curved into a sensual, charming grin. Beyond all measure, she set his blood speeding through his veins, but he didn't complain. He had to wonder if that was emotion or could it be attraction, shimmering in her eyes, sincere and treasured, as she swept past him and fetched the second bucket from the cool lean-to. He stared after her, dumbstruck.

  She isn't like I expected her to be, not at all. Winn felt frozen in place, one hand gripping the pail's metal handle, squinting as he paid close attention to her every movement and, when she disappeared from his sight, to the sound of her every movement. The rustle of her skirts and the pad of her shoes brought her back into his sight and his chest swelled, too full of too much emotion to measure.

  "Pa, I don't feel so good." Jack shivered, murmured in hidden but not completely disguised misery. "Is Miss Saydee making soup? I can smell it."

  "She's got something simmering on the stove. That's my guess too." He turned full attention to his son, wondering if he could bear to leave if Jack's sickness became worse. Did he have what it took? He didn't know, but he felt alone and that old bitterness he felt, of why men in this world, some men, had to be more monster than human, ruthless and wicked beyond all tolerance.

  If not for those kind of human beings, he would be safe at home with his boy, and Jack would be well, not ill, and he would be whole, not wounded from a deadly man's bullet. He swallowed down a hard bubble of sharp and strident anger in his chest, pushed it aside because it had no right to be there in this moment between him and his son, no right at all.

  He set down the bucket and knelt down to run a hand over Jack's forehead, letting his tenderness show and be felt in the stroke of his touch so the boy could feel how he was loved, and maybe it would soothe the boy's silently held fears. He wasn't alone in that, for a different kind of fear drove the beat of his heart and remained, growing harder with each beat until it seemed to take up all the space in his chest, making it hard to breathe. It was going to hurt to be separated from his son.

  Saydee slipped into the room, drawing his attention. He caught her in a revealing moment as she gazed upon the face of his son, and the one on hers was shaped with longing and also of grief. Both got to him and hooked him hard. At least now he knew more of what lived in her heart, in this woman he had come to trust with everything of worth to him, his greatest treasure, his son.

  "We're going to get yourself sicker than Jack," she cautioned him, watching as he said nothing in acknowledgement but moved to empty the bucket around the small child's little, trembling, sweaty body. Pete's head whipped to meet Winn's gaze, his big brown eyes startled and wide with great alarm because Jack began to shiver harder and cried out in pain. The bounty hunter set the empty pail at his feet and held out his brawny arms.

  The little boy sat up and leaned into him, melted snow tumbling off his woolen under shirt. Saydee's resolve melted a little as the small boy burrowed against his father's chest, hugged so tightly, and misery shaped the slump of Jack's narrow little shoulders and back. He held his father with all his might, clinging so hard, his identical dark hair tousled and sweaty, a cowlick sticking straight up.

  The yarrow and medicinal poultices have had time to work their wonders, Saydee thought, refusing to take one step forward and interrupt the father and son moment. It was a good thing, so very good, to see their closeness. She felt somehow its importance and kept her comments to herself, knowing the congestion and fever needed to be stopped and that icing would do it; it should not be wasted. She resisted the urge to intervene and try to help.

  "That's my good boy," the bounty hunter's paternal voice sounded raspy and rough, as if he were on the verge of needing to be ice
d himself. His throat worked, making the cords in his neck rise in prominent lines. "You're almost through this. Let's get you laying back and break this fever. That's right, Jack."

  Saydee waited until the boy had obliged and watched, hands helpless because it was the big man who needed to help his son, they needed it, and she knew it was the right decision watching as he caught the edge of the oilcloth and covered the boy with it. "Do you need the second bucket?"

  "For his feet, thank you." He leaned to relieve her of the heavy pail, and she felt her intake of air lodge in her throat, mix with the grief she'd felt keenly and always carried around with her and something more, something like an overwhelming sense of failure as she watched him fold back the bottom of the oilcloth and empty the bucket. "I could take some of that tea, if you would care to please pour me some."

  "I can do that for you, I'd be happy to." Grief stuck with her as she glanced at the boys's face, reddish with fever and anguished from the icy-cold snow. "You just stay with your son."

  "I appreciate it." The bounty hunter's steady gaze mat hers, and with a slow nod she heard the truth he couldn't say out loud or know how to put into words. He shrugged one brawny shoulder, lowered his eyes and laid a hand on Jack's head, a manly loving presence backlit by the orange flames of the fire and yet also the shadowed darkness.

  It was too late for her to know how to bridge the emotional distance she felt, as if the man's closeness, however brief, had pulled back and his feelings and who he was at heart was no longer for her to see. Saydee headed for the kitchen, aware of how lonely she felt with every echo of her shoe's heel on the hardwood, unable to forget the image of the man who'd held his boy with a parent's love on his face and the feeling of grief in the air.

  Tamping back her own wisps of sorrow, she reached for the quilted cozy covering the teapot and plucked it off. The side of the china pot still felt hot to the touch, so she scooted the cup closer and poured. Steam rose up, bitter and herb-scented, and she covered the teapot in its matching cozy before reaching for the honey jar.

  A cold draft blew in from the cracks around the doors where the relentless beat of the frigid wind had softened but had not changed. Twilight crept in, ruthless in its theft of the daylight. She stirred in plenty of honey, holding her heart still and knowing that she already cared too much. Folly, she was sure.

  The clock chimed five o'clock, echoing in the odd stillness inside the house and rising above the sounds of the dying storm. Saydee gripped the cup, hesitated in the shadows and studied the man seated on the floor watching over his child. Exhaustion clung to him like lead, weighing him down, slumping his great shoulders and straight, strong spine, as if he were holding all his burdens inside. When one of the logs shifted in the grate as it burned, the flames danced higher and brighter for a few moments, casting the man in deeper silhouette, limning him with orange light even as he remained in darkness.

  Then it occurred to her that something had changed. There was no more rasping, no more wheezing rattle to the child's breathing. She set the cup down on the coffee table behind him. "His fever broke."

  "I guess the icing worked. What a relief." He leaned forward to capably draw back the tarp and uncover the boy. Jack shivered, teeth clenched, and sat up to curl into his father's arms. "He's awful cold."

  "Then give him your tea. I can pour another. And the soup is simmering on the stove. That will warm him best." She handed over a folded towel she'd left nearby, her chest cinching tight at how vulnerable the little boy looked and how invincible the man.

  She couldn't say why she felt as if she wanted to reach out and comfort him even though she knew she should never care about a man bound and destined to walk out her door and leave forever. She watched him shake out the towel and dry the boy's head and face. His whiskered jaw tensed, concerned as he dried the boy and wrapped the towel around his shivering little body. He pressed a kiss to his boy's forehead, and she had to turn away, tapping through the dark where she let herself become lost in the shadows.

  When she cast a look over her shoulder, her heart caught at the sight of the tough man with love soft on his rugged, granite face for his child. He scooped the boy up and carried him away from the bright dancing light of the fire and into the shadowed lamplight after her. The wicks shivered, flames flickering, as he marched by, carrying his precious cargo. She grabbed the farthest lamp in the kitchen and carried it down the hallway with her, showing the way to her spare room.

  "You two will be comfortable here. I've set out some clothes I've been making for my cousin's children for Christmas and I suspect something here will work. It's a good thing I start early on my Christmas gift sewing, huh?"

  Even she heard the loneliness in those words, a revealing emotion she'd meant to hide. She set the lamp on the bureau, letting light chase the shadows from the room. The confident, easy-going knell of his step on the floor echoed against the walls and seemed to fill her heart with a strange, unexpected ache. She left the man alone to care for his son, aware that the empty tap of her step echoed down the hall and was her only company.

  * * *

  "That tea did the trick, he drank it up, every drop." The bounty hunter's voice rumbled like thunder and caressed like a touch, resonate with warmth as he moseyed into the kitchen from the guest bedroom. "Jack found a comfortable shirt and the pants almost fit. I owe you for that."

  "Just be glad between birthday gifts and getting an early start on my Christmas sewing, I have enough on hand." She set the ladle into the spoon rest and carried the steaming bowl to the table. "This will help too, now that you've broken his fever. I'll get a bowl filled for you, too."

  "Thank you, Saydee. You saved us both, and not just your tea and soup." His hand landed on her left shoulder, his touch light but substantial, both comfort and kindness, before he let her go. "That soup sure smells good."

  "I'm glad you think so." Her gaze met his. He had wolf's eyes, piercing and untamable, but a man's heart. For an instant, that steely wall he kept between them melted and she saw inside. He wasn't a safe man but not even close to dangerous. The gentleness that made up his spirit was unyielding and fueled by an unshakable love for his son. Unbearably enduring, this softness in his hunter's heart.

  "Jack still needs another menthol rub." Saydee swept her gaze from his, breaking the strong sense of closeness, but she couldn't explain why her heart ached as if it had broken a bit, and the surface of her skin tingled. Her entire being felt as aware of him as if his hand were still resting on her shoulder, as if he were no stranger and she knew everything about him, when she didn't. She cleared her throat. "And you need medicine, you need to eat and a good night's sleep wouldn't hurt."

  "Jack comes first." McMurphy backed away, leaving her feeling intensely alone, somehow, and her heart as if wholly exposed. She watched as he grabbed the steaming bowl with the soup resting in it and the small bowl of chest rub. He paused, his big, muscled body bunched as he stood awash in dark and shadows, just out of full brightness of the lamp's reach. He didn't break the silence, remaining wordless as he considered something, as if on the brink of saying something important to her, but she could not guess what from his expression. But she could feel his strength as he turned away and padded from the kitchen, leaving her alone in the caress of the light.

  Well, if the man kept working like that and pushing his wounded and ill body any harder, she would have a second patient on her hands. She left the soup steaming on the stove, ignored the pinch of hunger as her stomach growled and hauled out her best chopping knife. First she sliced onions and then fried them into a tear-watering pulp, she stopped to stir in ground mustard tart enough to make her choke when she breathed in the steam.

  Yep, that should be pungent enough to do it, she thought, stepping back to avoid the worst of the smell from the sizzling pan as she whipped it off the burner and onto a trivet to cool. The bounty hunter was going to have to take better care of himself, and concern for him refused to leave her thoughts or her heart.
>
  She wondered how he was feeling as the plaster cooled, and she couldn't help peering down the hall and following the fall of light through the parlor where the man sat on the edge of the bed near the roaring fire, watching his son sleep. The glow polished the angles and curves of his handsome profile and burnished the strength of his wide shoulders. He stood up, keeping watch protectively over his sleeping son.

  "He's resting peacefully for a change, isn't he?" Saydee carried the steaming bowl and pan into the room.

  "It's a real relief." He paused. "What is this for? I don't want to wake him up now."

  "This is for you. It's time you started to take care of yourself. You won't feel the same after using my trusted onion and mustard plaster." Saydee set the bowls she carried on the coffee table. "These are for you."

  "I'm not sick." He denied it like a man who refused to accept weakness of any kind for himself.

  His strength of character touched her now, melting some of the pain life had brought to her heart like sun to snow. She felt lighter, and she wished she could help him somehow to feel the same. She wanted to go to him and do everything to help him, so she set the dish towel and basin down on the corner of the table, breathing in the mint and menthol scented the air.

  "Are you always this wonderful?" He watched her as she hesitated, surprised by his words.

  "I like to think that I've never been too terribly below average."

  A smile ghosted his lips. "That's why your brother could not say enough good things about you."

  "My brother exaggerates. Poor Edwin, no one can ever trust what he says."

  "Not true. He's as honest as the day is long and not wrong about you at all." His gaze felt penetrating, too intense, and she spun away. Her feet carried her too fast and the flame on the lamp's wick flickered on the way by the end table.

  She couldn't explain why her heart felt like it was breaking, but she took refuge in the kitchen. Why was her pulse drumming as if she'd just run in from the barn? She refused to be foolish over a man, she was a widow and no young bloom. She dug through the cupboard and her hands felt unsteady as she grabbed down the bowls and two cups.