He’d suspected she’d been up to something, and now he knew for sure. Tim let out a curse his ma would box him for, and turned away from the window. His room, on the same wing as Joanna’s, faced the yard between the mansion and the barn.
Joanna had seemed cagey at supper, as if she were counting down the minutes before an explosion. When she’d faked a headache and left the room, he knew he needed to get out in front of things before she got herself into trouble.
Explaining that he was tired and needed to get some rest as well, Tim left the dining room only a few minutes behind Joanna. He couldn’t rightly follow her to her room, but he did leave his bedroom door open to listen for any footsteps coming and going in the hallway. Then he stood, watching at the window. He didn’t know why he did it, he just felt like he needed to be there.
No more than thirty minutes later, he watched as a figure, about as dainty as Joanna, slunk from the shadows around the house toward the barn. He fought the urge to rush from the house and catch her before she could leave. For some reason he couldn’t name, he wondered if following her was the better option. Maybe he could catch her in the act, maybe he could convince her she was being foolish, maybe he could help her grieve for the brother she lost. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.
“Maybe is a lazy word, Timmy. Do is the word of successful men,” his pa’s voice echoed in his mind.
Sighing and rubbing at his aching back and shoulders, Tim strode from his room on his way to the barn. After his uncle had given him his task to watch over Joanna, he’d provided him with a horse, a beautiful black roan named, Ink, and had assured him it was a fast horse. Tim knew he’d need a horse as fast as lightning if he was going to catch Joanna and bring her home safely.
Chapter Six
Tim didn’t know what time it was but it had to have taken at least an hour to get to town. Now it was pitch black, the only light streaming into the streets was from homes and from lanterns outside the saloon, boarding house, and what looked like an infirmary.
His cousins had told him about a sheriff in Morgan’s Crossing, and he wondered if the sheriff made many trips further out of town, say in the direction of Wheeler Hills. He pinched the bridge of his nose to banish the thought. It was his job to keep Joanna out of trouble and getting the sheriff involved was trouble with a capital ‘t’. But what about the trouble he was in? He’d been able to catch up to her, keeping her in sight as she skirted the tree line right up to the edge of town. But he’d lost sight of her when she ducked into town. He’d kicked Ink into a gallop, but by the time he reached where he’d last seen her, the dust had settled and the streets were largely empty. There were a few people gadding about here and there, but none of them appeared to have noticed a woman riding by on a horse.
He sighed and pulled Ink to a stop, tying him to a post outside the infirmary.
Patting Ink’s haunches, Tim pondered his life to that point. He’d come from hardy, Texas stock. His father was a farmer, his grandfather was a farmer in England, and everyone expected he’d take on the family business and run the Hanlon farm. But he wasn’t a farmer, and he’d known that since he was a young’en, when his teacher, Mrs. Watkins, told him about life in France and the Orient. The food, the people, the cultures—it all seemed so amazing…and unattainable, and he’d told her so. But then she reminded him that his life was just beginning, and with a little hard work and a few risks, he could find a life of adventure right here in America. And so, when his uncle’s letter arrived, he took that as a sign from on high that he was meant for something more than farming, and that the something more was in Montana.
And now here he was. Hunting for a wayward sprite in a strange town, in the dark of night. What an adventure…and I haven’t even been here a full day yet! And he didn’t know if he was angry about it or just plain flummoxed. It seemed that whenever he thought of Joanna, he couldn’t quite describe his feelings on the matter—the matter being Joanna and her running into him in the house, her bright smile during their time in the drawing room, and her sneaking off into town. She was clever, he’d give her that, but clever wouldn’t keep her safe if unsavory types found her wandering around in the dark.
Frustrated, he kicked at the dust and weighed his options. Again. Contacting the sheriff was out, calling out for her would only draw attention to him and to her—the only option, and perhaps the most arduous, was to search the town, alley by alley, to find any sign of her.
The sun had set more than two hours ago, which gave him little time to find her, get her back to Wheeler Hills, and figure out what he’d tell Uncle Thomas.
Starting forward, he walked a few feet and stopped, something in the air didn’t feel right. Just then a strangled sound, like a pig stuck in a trap, came at him from an alley just up the boardwalk. He didn’t know how he knew, but he knew it was Joanna, and that she was in trouble, he just did. And it made every sense sharpen.
Breaking into a run, Tim hurried as fast as his legs could carry him, rushing headlong into a dark alley where Joanna Stopay was getting herself into trouble.
Lord keep me from troublesome women, he prayed as he dashed around the corner and into a melee.
She didn’t know where he came from; one minute she was crouched and waiting behind a crate, and the next, she was fighting for her life against a man who was a lot stronger than he looked in the bright light of day. Dalton Hess was a soft middle with a hard face, and one looking at him would assume he couldn’t lift his own hand to wipe sweat from his own face.
She knew better now.
He’d come from behind her, and she hadn’t heard him coming. She’d been too…distracted. Her mind wouldn’t leave thoughts of Tim Hanlon alone. But her distraction ended the moment he shoved her into the crate. Unprepared, she fell forward, hitting her chin against the coarse wooden slats. Grunting, she tried to right herself, only to have a ham-sized fist slam into her cheek. Blasted with pain and black specks in her vision, she stumbled backward, falling into the crate once again.
That’s when he punched her in the stomach; an explosion of precious air from her lungs, came out in a hideous wheeze, and she realized she needed to get away, she needed to— Before she could finish the thought, Hess rushed her, grabbing her upper arm and pulling his fist back to pummel her face. She shielded her face with her hands, and he chuckled.
The lowdown snake was laughing at her! She growled at him and tried to twist away, but he held fast, his fist still raised to strike.
“Who are you, why are you spyin’ on me?” Hess hissed, his voice like an iron file scraping against a rusty pot.
Lord, how she wanted to spit in his face, but her mouth was bone dry, and her lungs didn’t have the strength to propel her own breaths, let alone her spittle.
He shook her and then stepped closer, looked down at her with menace in his expression. The lamp light from a building on the corner was at her back, so she could see the outline of his features. Thankfully, with the light in his face, he couldn’t see hers clearly. If I get out of here, I just might keep my secret.
“Speak, you worm…or I’ll have fun getting’ the answers out of you,” he snarled, a note of excitement slithering through his words.
Sucking in a deep breath, she wanted to let loose a scream, but then she thought better of it. If she screamed, there’s was a chance no one would hear, and there was an even bigger chance that no one would care. But if she screamed, one thing was certain, Dalton Hess would know she was a woman. After that, it wouldn’t take much deduction to realize who she was. And then…he’d either take off like a dog with his tail between his legs or he’d kill her.
Either way, she wouldn’t get her justice.
Grasping his wrist, she put all of her strength into moving his hand from her waist so she could get at the gun under her shirt. Get the gun before he gets his. Hess pulled his wrist away and used his free hand, the hand that wasn’t wrapped around her upper arm, to grab the collar of her shirt. He pulled her toward him, and she could feel his
hot breath against her face.
No, no! If he got too close he might be able to see under her hat, which to that point had stayed put, shielding her face from prying, belligerent eyes. Before she could react, the hand at her collar slid up to her throat, pinching it in a solid, strangulating grip.
Suddenly, the danger of her situation finally dawned on her. She was fighting, and failing, against a man who killed grown men without batting an eye. But those men weren’t prepared, they weren’t me, the last of her pride screamed from her quickly darkening brain. Her hand fumbling for her gun flew to her throat, and she dug her nails into his hand, desperate to loosen his hold. Stars danced before her eyes, and her lungs burned. This is it…Oh, Ma…to lose both of your children to Dalton Hess.
JoJo kicked out, trying to get him off balance, just enough for her to twist away. It didn’t work, he just moved closer so her feet flailed uselessly.
Blackness hovered over her vision, and she felt the very life in her body ebb away.
As if from on high, one last push of energy flowed through her, and she went for her gun, drawing it from her holster and out from under her shirt. Secure in her palm, she slid her finger to the trigger and squeezed.
She heard a grunt, then the hand around her throat disappeared. Sucking in deep breaths, she doubled over, her lungs heaving, her head swimming. Her ears twitched at the sound of boots quickly crunching on gravel as they sped from the alley.
No! Hess couldn’t get away, he tried to kill her. Pulling in a deep breath, she fought for clarity and started toward the end of the alley. She’d shot him, so he wouldn’t get far—he might even die from his wounds. But then…he wouldn’t rot in jail for killing her brother.
Tightening her grip on the gun, she stumbled through the dark alley, and was almost to the end, but a grunt and gasp made her turn, fully alert for another attack. Instead of a lumbering attacker she found a dark figure writhing in the dust.
“Jo…anna?” the figure wheezed, trying to stand. Alarm flashed through her.
“Tim?” How in the world had that man found her? She stumbled back toward him, annoyed and flustered. “What are you doing here? Never mind, I need to go,” she exclaimed, turning back to the head of the alley. “I can’t let him get away—”
“Help me…I think—I think I’ve been shot,” his voice was hollow, as if the pain had taken a piece of him.
The blood left her face in one go. “Shot?” No, it couldn’t be. She’d shot Hess, she heard him grunt, and why else would be hightail it? “Oh no,” she muttered, and ran to him, kneeling beside him. “Where did it hit you? Where!” she cried out, her heart in the throat. She ran her hand over his chest and belly and found nothing but hard ridges—hardness created by hard work. She cursed. You’ve killed the man, it isn’t a good time to moon over him. Her hand, at his chest, slid up and into a wet warmth.
He grunted. “My shoulder,” he hissed.
“I can see that!” she snapped. “What are you doing here, you fool! You should be asleep. I gave you enough sleeping draught to fell a horse!”
A low laugh then a grunt rumbled from his chest, and she shivered at the feel of it under her fingers. “If you don’t get me to a doctor, I just might sleep forever.”
Chapter Seven
It wasn’t the pain that pulled him from the darkness, it was a slow, steady rumbling noise…like a bull sniffing at a fence post. Slowly, he opened his eyes, quickly closing them again against the bright light pounding into his face. He tried again, slowly, then blinked. His eyeballs felt like someone had shoved sandpaper into his sockets. The light, he realized, was coming from a single lantern on the table beside him. And he, was in a bed.
He turned his head, biting back a groan of pain at the motion, and looked for the cause of the rumbling noise. Just there, in the halo of lantern light, was a thin man, slumped over in a chair. Snoring. Who was he? Had the man found him, bleeding in the alley, and brought him to the doctor? From the look of his leather buckskins, he could be a tracker or ranger of some kind, but the hat hanging low over his head, gave him the look of a cowboy or rancher. A mix and match of possibilities. Not that it mattered—whomever he was, the man saved his life, and he owed the man a mountain of gratitude.
“How…” he muttered, trying to sit up. He grimaced against the pain and fell back against the pillow. How did he get shot? His fuzzy head was making his recollection spotty.
Last thing I remember…I was looking for Joanna—
“Joanna!” he blurted, pitching up from the bed. His heart pounding, his breaths making the wound in his shoulder scream. His memory sharpened. He’d come into town, he’d tied up his horse, he’d heard the scuffling in the alley, he came around the side of the building and saw two people fighting. He’d just stepped into the alley when the sound of a gunshot boomed through his ears. It took him a moment to realize he’d been shot. It took him another moment to realize one of the people in the fight was Joanna. And she’d shot him.
His shout roused the person in the chair, who’d sat forward, body tense. A second later, he pushed up from the chair and came to the side of the bed, pressing Tim down into the mattress.
“Lay still, you fool. Don’t want to pull the stitches out,” a voice hissed.
He stopped his struggling, not because of the words, but because of who was saying them.
“Joanna?” he asked, incredulous, then the worry set in. “Are you okay?” His gaze dropped to her throat where bruises in the shape of a man’s hand were forming. Then the fluttering light of the lantern pulled his gaze to an unfamiliar wall. “Where am I? What happened to me—what happened to you?”
Joanna tore the hat from her head and looked down at him, her expression woven with fear, guilt, and worry. “You’re in the infirmary; it’s the only place I could think of bringing you after I…Tim…I—” She ran her fingers through her hair, dislodging the tight knot, and the loose fiery strands fell onto her shoulders. “What were you doing there? I could’ve killed you! How did you even know I was here?” she huffed, then began pacing.
He lifted his head, ignoring the sharp pinch in his shoulder, and watched her as she moved from the chair to the bed then back to the chair. His gaze, now focused completely on Joanna, settled on her legs. When he thought her a man, the buckskins were perfectly normal, but now that he knew it was Joanna he… He swallowed. He knew he should look away, but as she paced, her legs filled out the buckskins just right. And her shirt…it was loose but it was also thin, the fabric clinging to her. Lord, but she was beautiful beneath her men’s clothing.
“Why are you wearing men’s clothes? Why did you sneak out of the house in the first place?” He’d finally found the strength to speak, but his voice still came out in a hoarse whisper.
She stopped pacing and spun on her heel, pinning him to the bed with a glare. “It’s none of your business what I was doing sneaking out of the house.”
Of course, she’d say that. She was up to something, something dangerous, and he’d found out about it. Well, he’d stumbled upon her getting strangled and beaten by a shadowy blackguard, which meant she’d come into town and got caught by someone. But who was he and why did he attack Joanna? The guilty flush on her face, and the glimmer of anger in her golden eyes, told him that he wasn’t going to get anything out of her about it. Yet. He’d grown up surrounded by troublesome females; he knew how to get them to talk. It just took a little persuasion…and chocolate. He moved his shoulder, testing the usefulness, and groaned at the tightness and ache. She moved closer, bending down over him, her gaze on the bandage.
She’s so close… She smelled of leather, which seemed to fit her. His gaze dropped to her legs again, and he swallowed. Again. “And the men’s clothing?”
She pursed her lips and looked down, seeming to finally realize what she looked like. She rubbed her hands against her thighs nervously, and he fought the urge to watch her movements. “Well…I can’t very well ride a horse astride and then pass myself off a
s a man if I’m wearing a dress, now can I?” she asked as if his question was ridiculous.
Suddenly exhausted, the pain and the events of his long day, settled into his bones. He laid back and closed his eyes. “No, I suppose you can’t,” he admitted grudgingly. “But why would you need to pass as a man?” he dared to ask. “What is it you need to do that you can’t do as a woman?” A beautiful, charming, maddening woman. His thoughts in turmoil, he opened his eyes again, fixing his gaze on her face.
Planting her hands on her hips, Joanna cocked an eyebrow at him. “That’s none of your business, either.”
“What about you shooting me?”
“What about it?” she replied, her lips thin and her eyes narrow.
Tim let out a slow breath, easing further into the uncomfortable mattress. “I guess I supposed that since you shot me, I deserved to know why I got shot.”
Joanna let out a grunt, a very unladylike sound—much like her snoring—and spun away from him. “That doesn’t matter. What matters is that I got you help, the doctor patched you up, and now we can go back to Wheeler Hills before anyone notices we’re gone,” she said matter-of-fact.
A humorless chuckle escaped his throat. “I am in no condition to ride, and I’m not letting you out of my sight.”
She plopped into the chair and crossed her legs at the ankles. “I should’ve let you die out there,” she grumbled.
“You wouldn’t have let me die, especially since you’re the one who shot me,” he reminded her, and then watched the blood drain from her face. He’d hit a chord, then again, she had shot him. He should be the one angry and out of sorts.
She sat forward in the chair, bracing her elbows on her legs, and leveling her striking gold eyes at him. “How is it that you’re here at all? I gave you that drink…”
“The one laced with the sleeping draught?” Now her offer of a drink, and her eagerness for him to drink it, made sense. She’d planned to drug him to keep him from finding out about her plans. “Thankfully, I dumped the drink into a potted plant.” At her sharp intake of breath, he explained, “I don’t drink spirits, never have, never will. A man shouldn’t go through life letting anything diminish his ability to take care of himself or his family.” It was something his pa had taught him, and he held it close to his chest. Too bad liquor wasn’t the thing diminishing his ability to take care of Joanna…
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