The big male raced forward before Jessica could bring the shotgun to bear again. Abruptly, he somersaulted and fell. He didn’t get up. Even as the sound of rifle fire screamed down through the wind to Jessica, another animal spun away from the pack and lay still.
Back at the edge of the trees, Wolfe took aim and shot again, picking off the animal that was closest to the horses. Despite the fear hammering at him, he shot smoothly, evenly, and accurately, using a hail of bullets to separate the carnivores from their intended prey.
Too damn many wolves, he thought savagely. What in Christ’s name was Caleb thinking about, letting Willow come out when there was a Hell-wind blowing?
Suddenly, there were no more targets. The wolves had withdrawn again, vanishing like puffs of smoke on the violent wind.
Reloading quickly, Wolfe rode out into the meadow. He saw Deuce head for the barn at a fast canter, with his rider crouched low in the saddle, hanging onto a foal. One of Caleb’s big Montana mares followed anxiously.
Even as Wolfe admired Willow’s courage in taking on the Hell-wind and wolves, he wished things weren’t so desperate that they needed every hand. But they were that desperate, and they did need every hand, even the soft one of a woman who should have been rocking a cradle rather than riding shotgun over a helpless foal.
THE wind finally died at sunset, bringing relief to men and animals alike. Mares with foals were in the barn, cows with newborn calves had been herded into the corral, and the men traded off riding around the rest of the livestock. The temperature rose with each circuit Wolfe made around the cattle.
Another wind began to blow, a gentle wind from the south. By moonrise, the snow had begun to melt beneath the warm breath of the chinook. Wolfe stood in the stirrups and looked out over the glistening land. He stretched and sighed deeply, weary to his core.
“Go back to the house,” Caleb called from the shadows. “The cattle can take it from here. Any creature that dies of being born in a warm wind is too weak to be worth saving. Besides, as tired as we are, we’d probably shoot ourselves instead of the wolves.”
“They’re gone. They won’t gather like that again until another Hell-wind blows.”
The certainty in Wolfe’s voice made coolness condense along Caleb’s spine. He cocked his head and looked at the man he thought of as a brother but didn’t always understand.
“How long will it be before another Hell-wind blows?” Caleb asked, curious.
“My mother’s mother saw one as a child. Your grandchildren might see one, if they live long enough.”
“Hope they have friends like you to help them.”
“And wives like Willow,” Wolfe said softly.
Caleb didn’t hear. He had already reined his horse away and was trotting toward the horse herd that Reno and Rafe were guarding. Wolfe turned toward the house where lights were glowing in welcoming shades of gold.
Knowing how tired Willow must be, the last thing Wolfe expected when he walked into the house was to find it full of the savory scents of cooking. A pan of warm water was on the stove, along with a dry towel and soap. Smiling, he took the hint and began stripping off hat and gloves, heavy jacket and cold boots, vest and shirt and undershirt. He washed as much of himself as he could reach, enjoying the feel of the warm water and the dry towel.
The sound of a woman’s skirt rustling behind Wolfe told him that he wasn’t alone any longer. I Even as he turned around, his blood heated at the thought of catching Jessica and holding her close to his body again. She always smelled so good, so clean. Holding her was like lying in a rose garden in the full bloom of summer.
But it was the scent of lavender rather than roses that met Wolfe. Willow smiled and held out a clean shirt to him.
“If your clothes are anything like Caleb’s have been, they could stand up and shoot for themselves.”
Wolfe put on the shirt, appreciating the clean softness and warmth of the flannel. He looked at the stew simmering gently on the stove and the mound of biscuits, and shook his head in silent wonder.
“They broke the mold with you, Willow. A new baby to take care of, yet you’re washing clothes for four men and feeding them as well, day and night. And in between you rescue foals and shoot wolves.”
Willow gave Wolfe an odd glance. “I’m with you as far as the new baby and the biscuits, but you lost me after that. Jessi did the rest, including the cooking. If any foals got rescued, it was her doing, not mine. All I did was lend her my clothes and a shotgun.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Jessi. She was the one out in the storm, not me.”
Wolfe’s eyes widened. His hands gripped Willow’s shoulders hard enough to make her wince.
“I saw you out there, riding Deuce,” he said flatly. “I saw a wolf leap for you and you fired the shotgun and reloaded it while Deuce was dancing around and you were holding the foal across your lap and I didn’t know if I could shoot that goddamned wolf before he took you and the foal right down into the snow!”
“Jessi,” Willow said succinctly. “Jessi and Jessi and Jessi.”
Wolfe released Willow and began walking quickly toward the bedroom he and Jessica shared.
“If you’re looking for your fancy aristocratic lady,” Willow said dryly, “try the barn.”
Wolfe spun around. “What?”
“Jessi was worried that wolves might get into the barn. She knows how much store you set by that savage steeldust mustang. That’s why Jessi rode out into the storm when I saw the mare was missing. That’s why Jessi’s in the barn now with a shotgun. She’s guarding the future the same way I would have in her shoes.”
Wolfe stared at Willow, unable to believe what he was hearing.
“I wanted to go,” Willow continued. “Jessi wouldn’t let me. She said if something happened to me, Ethan would die. But if something happened to her, nobody would die.”
“The little fool.”
“Is she? She may have been born and raised an aristocrat, but she’s not the useless little decoration you believe she is.”
Willow was talking to herself. The door slammed behind Wolfe as he headed for the barn.
17
W HEN the steeldust caught Wolfe’s scent, she nickered softly in welcome. He leaned over the stall door and looked inside. The breath went out of him as though at a blow.
Jessica was slumped in the far corner, asleep. The shotgun was propped against the wall within easy reach. A newborn blood-bay foal was curled against her, taking advantage of shared warmth. Silence grew while Wolfe measured the changes between the girl who had danced with him in London and the girl he was looking at now.
In London, Jessica’s skin had been as fine-grained and flawless as a pearl. America hadn’t been so kind. She had scratches and welts on one side of her face and her cheeks were chapped by the wind. In London, her color had been vivid, almost incandescent. Now her lips were pale, and exhaustion ringed her eyes with darkness.
It was only the beginning of the unhappy comparisons. In London, Jessica’s hair had been as sleek and burnished as flame, and jewels had glinted from its intricately coiffed depths. Now her hair was wild, wind-tangled, and mixed with straw. In London, her clothes had been designed and executed in the most expensive materials available, and her skirts had billowed like clouds. In America, she wore a boy’s flannel underwear, a boy’s buckskin shirt and breeches, and the evidence of her assistance at several foalings was spread from her shoulders to her small, durable boots.
In London, Jessica’s days were composed of teas and balls, plays and the latest books. In America, she worked like a scullery maid and stablehand combined. In London, she entertained her guests with wit and silver laughter. In America, she rarely laughed and had nearly died.
Jessi, what have I done to you?
There was no answer to Wolfe’s silent, anguished question except the truth: He had almost killed the girl who trusted him when she trusted nothing else on earth.
Making no
sound, Wolfe went into the stall. He picked up the shotgun, took the shell from the firing chamber, and closed the gun. The small noise woke Jessica. She sat up with a start, automatically reaching for the corner where she had propped the shotgun out of the way.
“It’s all right, Jessi. The wolves are gone.”
She focused on Wolfe, blinked, and smiled sleepily. “All save one, and he is my very own Lord Wolfe. I’m safe with him.”
Pain went through Wolfe like black lightning, scoring his soul in ways he couldn’t name. He could feel it, though, a kind of agony he had never known before. Jessica trusted him without reservation, yet he had brought nothing but unhappiness and harm to her.
“My stupidity nearly killed you, elf. When I think how close you came to being torn apart by wolves…”
“You’re a fine shot,” she murmured, sliding back into sleep.
“I’m a fool.”
Though Wolfe’s voice was harsh, he was very gentle as he lifted Jessica into his arms. When she realized he meant to carry her from the stall, she woke up in a rush.
“Wait. You haven’t even looked at the steeldust’s foal,” she protested. “She’ll be a wonderful foundation mare for our herd. I’ve never seen so fine a head on a foal, nor such a deep chest. It’s a filly. Isn’t that grand? In a few years she—”
“To hell with the steeldust and her filly both,” Wolfe interrupted savagely. “Don’t you understand? You could have died.”
Jessica blinked. “So could you.”
“That’s different. It ends here, Jessi.”
“What?”
“I’m taking you back to London as soon as the passes are safe.”
“Going to give that carriage another shot at me, is that it?”
“What are you talking about?”
Jessica smiled and nuzzled Wolfe’s hard jawline. “I nearly got run down by a carriage in London, remember?”
Wolfe’s mouth flattened. “I remember.”
“You should. You beat that driver to within an inch of his life.”
“I would rather have killed the drunken bastard.”
“There are a lot more like him,” Jessica pointed out.
“So?”
“So I’m no safer in London than I am here, am I?”
The tip of Jessica’s tongue drew a line of sensual fire down Wolfe’s jaw.
“That’s not the point,” he said roughly.
“Then what is?”
“I’ve nearly killed you trying to make you admit that you aren’t cut from Western cloth. You’re a British aristocrat and you deserve to have the elegant life of ease for which you were bred, born, raised, and trained.”
As Wolfe spoke, he stepped out of the barn into the brilliant moonlight. The ground was cold and shiny with melting snow. The air was like warm silk.
“Nonsense,” Jessica said, yawning. “You wouldn’t be happy in England.”
“That won’t be a problem.”
Jessica went very still in Wolfe’s arms. All sleepiness fled before the wave of unease that swept through her.
“What are you saying?” she whispered.
“I’ll leave England as soon as our marriage is annulled.”
“I haven’t agreed to an—”
“You don’t have to,” Wolfe interrupted savagely. “I’ll be the one to seek the annulment.”
“But why?” she whispered. “What have I done to make you hate me so?”
“I don’t hate you. I never have, even when I wanted to throttle you for trapping me into marriage.”
“Then why are—”
Jessica got no farther in her question, for Wolfe’s mouth descended on hers. By the time he lifted his head once more, both of them were breathing quickly, hungrily.
“It’s over, Jessi. It never should have begun.”
“Wolfe, listen to me,” she said urgently. “I want to be your wife in all ways. I want to live with you, work beside you, bear your children, care for you when you are ill, and laugh with you when the rest of the world is a hundred shades of gray.”
The words were knives turning in Wolfe, tempting him unmercifully, slicing away at his self-control, making him bleed with all that could never be—an aristocratic elf and a halfbreed mustang hunter. He had known it was impossible since she was fifteen.
And since she was fifteen, he had known what Hell was: living with what he wanted forever just beyond his reach, forever calling to him across an abyss he must not cross, for if he did, he would destroy the very thing he wanted.
He had nearly done just that despite his best intentions.
“I love you,” Jessica said. “I love—”
“No more,” Wolfe interrupted savagely, cutting across the words that were more painful to him than any blow he had ever received. “I am Tree That Stands Alone. You are Lady Jessica Charteris. You have nothing to fear in England any longer. I’ll see that you get a suitable husband or none at all.”
Wolfe would have preferred none at all. The thought of another man touching Jessica added another dimension to his own personal Hell. He wasn’t sure he could bear it. Yet he must. He took in a deep breath, let it out, and spoke more gently.
“I should be hung for ever bringing you to this wilderness.”
“But—”
“No more.”
Jessica flinched at the raw pain in Wolfe’s voice. It stopped her as nothing else could have. Fear went through her in a cold wave. She closed her eyes and turned her face against Wolfe’s neck, not wanting him to see her despair.
His anger she could fight, and had. His pain defeated her.
When Wolfe opened the kitchen door, Willow took one look at his dark face and breathed a wordless prayer. Wolfe walked right by her as though only he and Jessica existed.
“What is it? Is she hurt?” Willow asked anxiously, following.
“Just exhausted.”
As Wolfe kicked the bedroom door shut behind him, he saw that food, brandy, and pans of warm water had been set out in the bedroom. The hearth was alive with the dance of flame.
“Can you stand?” he asked quietly.
Jessica nodded.
Wolfe set her down near the hearth he had built for Caleb’s home and began undressing her with gentle hands. Jessica neither looked up nor objected. She simply stood with a docility that made Wolfe glance sharply at her from time to time. Soon she was wearing nothing but her filmy pantelets and camisole. They looked startlingly clean, fragile, and feminine after the condition of her outer clothing. He eased the undergarments from her body as delicately as though they were made of moonlight.
Jessica shivered when the last bit of lace fell to the hearth, leaving her naked before the fire and the man she loved, the man she had hurt in ways she had never intended.
Wolfe swept the fur coverlet from the bed and wrapped it around her.
“Warm enough?” he asked.
Without looking at him, she nodded.
“Are you hungry?”
She shook her head.
“When did you last eat?” he asked.
“I don’t remember.”
The tone of Jessica’s voice went through Wolfe like an icy wind. There was no music, no laughter, none of the mischief and warmth that had danced in her voice since he had become her lover in all ways but one. The barrier of her maidenhead still lay between them, the abyss that must not be crossed.
Aristocrat and halfbreed bastard.
“Jessi…” Wolfe whispered.
But there was nothing more he could say. It had all been said. All that remained was to return her to the land and the life for which she had been born; a land and a life that were impossible for him to share.
In silence, Wolfe found Jessica’s hairbrush and went back to the fire where she stood. Without a word, he began combing her snarled hair.
“I’m no longer so useless I can’t brush my own hair.”
Wolfe’s eyes narrowed at the loss of color and life in Jessica’s voice. It was the sa
me for her body. Like grass flattened by a storm, she was defeated. Yet like grass, she would regain her resilience after the storm passed. He was certain of it. All she needed was rest and a return to her own place, her own people.
“I like brushing your hair,” Wolfe said. “It’s both cool and fiery, and it smells of roses. The feel and scent of you will always haunt me.”
Jessica made no other objection, because to speak would have been to reveal the tears aching in her throat. Wolfe was standing very close to her, yet he was withdrawing from her with every breath, every instant, and the brush was whispering his good-byes through her hair.
Eyes closed, Jessica stood with the patience of the damned while the man she loved tormented her with all she would never have of life and of him. If she could have died, she would have, but she could not. She could only endure the pain and pleasure of his touch and pray that tomorrow would never come, separating her from the only man she would ever love.
When Jessica’s hair swirled about her in a shining, softly curling cloud, Wolfe reluctantly put aside the brush. Air stirred by the movements of his body disturbed her hair, weaving firelight through the silky strands.
Wolfe’s breath came out in a soundless rush as he memorized the picture of Jessica standing in front of the fire. He wanted to see the aquamarine gems of her eyes, but they were hidden behind half-closed lids and thick eyelashes, as though she were too weary to bear even the sight of the man who had dragged her through Hell.
Wolfe brought the basins of warm water to the hearth. He wrung out a small, soft cloth in one of the basins, soaped it lightly, and began washing Jessica’s face. The fragrance of a summer rose garden slowly expanded through the room.
“I’m not so useless that I can’t wash myself,” she said quietly, looking at the stone hearth rather than at the man who was so gently and so completely tearing the heart from her body.
“I know. You’re tired. Let me take care of you as I should have from the beginning.”
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