Lissa's Cowboy
By Jillian Hart
Copyright © 2011 by Jill Strickler
First Published 1999 as Lissa's Groom
by Zebra Books Kensington Publishing Corp.
Cover Art by Kimberly Killion, Hot Damn Designs
E-book formatted by Jessica Lewis
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
An excerpt from A Candle in the Window
Also Available
About the Author
Chapter One
"When's my new pa comin'?"
"I thought he'd surely be here by now, Chad." Lissa Banks stepped out onto the log cabin's front porch and squinted through the towering pines. The sun was quickly slipping from its zenith, grazing fluffy white clouds on a determined descent toward the mountainous horizon.
It was well past noon. He ought to be here by now. There was no denying it, even considering every possible delay.
Her hopes felt like a rock rolling downhill, growing steadier by the minute.
She smoothed the escaped wisps from her braid and took a deep breath. Her future husband had sent a wire promising to arrive two full days ago, and the drive up from Billings to her home in Sweetwater County took less than half a week.
He was coming, wasn't he?
She felt a tug on her skirt and looked down at her son, not yet five, uncertainty wrinkling his brow.
Her child sighed. "Maybe he died, too."
"Oh, Chad." Lissa knelt and ran a hand across the worry lines wrinkling her son's face. He was too young for such concerns. "I'm sure he didn't die. Delays happen all the time. Why, you remember the letter he sent us. He said he's coming, and he will. Maybe he's lost. Mr. Murray is from St. Louis. He's used to a big city and buildings, not mountains and pines."
"Maybe the trees are scarin' him," Chad confided. "They're awful tall."
Lissa's heart thumped. "Yes, they are. Remember how Mr. Murray said in his letter he'd build you a tree house to play in? Won't that be something to look forward to?"
Worry eased from the dear little boy's face. "I guess. Mama, how's he gonna get a house up in a tree?"
She smoothed the errant curls back from his eyes. "You'll see. Come, help me put away the food. We can always make a sandwich for Mr. Murray when he arrives."
"I guess."
Lissa stood and watched her little boy march, head bowed, across the cabin. How could the man break his word? How could he disappoint a child?
"Oh, Winston." Chad thudded to a stop at the table, shaking his head. "Mama, she's doin' it again."
A gray, striped tabby uncurled herself from one of the chairs seated around the carefully set table and peered up at the boy.
"Just as long as she stays off the table." Lissa skirted the stove and reached up into the polished pine cupboards for her biggest crock.
"She's washin' me again, Mama," Chad announced.
Sure enough, the old mother tabby had hold of Chad's ears with both paws and was industriously licking the top of his head, blond curls and all.
"It tickles, Mama." He giggled, but he didn't pull away.
"She must have noticed what a dirty little boy you've become," Lissa teased as she carried the empty crock to the table.
"I shouldn't have played in the barn!" Another giggle came as the cat affectionately started licking his face.
Warmth settled back into Lissa's chest. She'd missed her son's laughter, the lightness of family banter, the deep comforting rumble of a man's voice in her kitchen. How she missed Michael.
She made quick work of putting away the prepared food. Had Mr. Murray been here on time, he would have been able to enjoy her pot roast and the fresh bread she'd made this morning to keep her mind off his arrival.
That she would marry a man she didn't know troubled her greatly, but she wanted to keep her ranch and this home Michael had built for her with his own hands. She could not hold onto her land alone. She needed a husband and his gunpower to keep the rustlers troubling the countryside from running her out of business.
"Mama, can I have a cookie?"
"Just one." Lissa covered the bread.
"Winston and me'll share." On his sturdy legs, Chad stretched to lift the lid from the jar on the table.
What would she do if Mr. Murray didn't come? What if—oh, it hurt too much to think about. She had no relatives, no one to help.
What about the wedding scheduled for tomorrow? Lissa felt her throat go dry. She pictured the kindly Reverend Burrow waiting patiently behind his pine pulpit to seal a marriage short one waylaid groom.
Please be on your way, Mr. Murray. Please be a man of your word.
Lissa knew hopes were only that. She'd waited far too long now. It was best to take action: Go to town. Check with the postmistress to see if her groom-to-be had written. Speak with the minister and cancel her wedding plans.
It was for the best
Disappointment kicked her as she wet a clean cloth and wiped down the table. A giggle from the floor before the hearth, where Chad and his kitty sat together, captured her attention—and reminded her of what was truly important.
Chad broke off a small bit of molasses cookie and held it out to the tabby, who took the treat with a dainty nibble. Then he broke off a piece for himself.
Such a sweet boy, he deserved this home, to grow up on the land his father wanted him to have one day. Somehow, she would find a way to keep Michael's long ago promise.
"Go find your hat, Chad." She laid the damp cloth down to dry. "We're going to town."
"'Yippee!" He jumped to his feet, chewing down the last bite of his cookie. "Do I getta drive Charlie?"
"We'll see. Now hurry along."
Lissa reached around to untie her apron. The cabin looked tidy and cozy. It was nothing fancy, snug and small. Michael had splurged with their meager savings, framing in glass windows so she could enjoy the sunshine during the long Montana winters.
Crisp white curtains framed the glass now, sparkling from a thorough cleaning. The floors, the sills, the furniture, even the black stove, all shone, polished to impress the man who would be her husband—the man who might not keep his word.
"Mama, I got my hat."
"And I have mine." She lifted her best starched-crisp sunbonnet from the peg by the back door. She fished her reticule from behind the dishtowels stacked neatly in the drawer. "Are you going to hitch up Charlie for me?"
"Mama, you know I'm not that big." Chad laughed as he dashed out through the leanto into the cheerful sunshine.
Lissa found a smile stretching her
face. She shut the door tightly, locked it, and stepped past the gray tabby sunning herself in the dry grass near the garden.
"Mama, Charlie's eatin' me." Chad's happy voice echoed like sunshine through the hay-scented barn.
With the sun heating her back, Lissa stopped to watch. Life on this ranch was often hard, but it was more often wonderful. The sight of the small boy standing before the gigantic Clydesdale, the horse affectionately nibbling Chad's hat brim, made a bubble of happiness expand inside her.
Everything would work out—with or without Mr. Murray. She would think of something. Lissa fetched the heavy leather harness from its peg in the tack room and led the big bay workhorse out into the yard. Keeping one eye on Chad, who stroked his sticky hands down Charlie's fetlock, she hitched the gelding to the small wagon.
"Come here, cowboy." Lissa held out her hand.
Her little boy gave Charlie a final pat and dashed straight toward her, the felt brim of his hat flopping in the wind.
The mountain lion's growl shattered the peaceful Montana forest. Marshal Jack Emerson drew his horse around, heart pounding. That cat sounded mad, and too damn close for comfort. The mustang sidestepped, nervous, nostrils flaring wide to scent the air.
Jack patted the mare's neck, calming her, but his senses were on alert. Hair prickled along the back of his neck at another low, threatening growl. No doubt about it, that cat was too damn close for comfort. Mountain lions were territorial. Maybe she was only letting loose a warning, so Jack and his prisoner would simply move on.
Squinting against the harsh afternoon sun, he circled the skittish mustang back around, caught hold of the lead rope tied to his saddle, and made sure the second horse packing the bandit Dillon Plummer didn't bolt. The last thing Jack needed was to hunt down Plummer a second time.
"That cat's trouble, Emerson." Dillon's gravelly voice grated like chalk on a blackboard, and was as unwelcome.
"So, now you're an expert on mountain lions?"
"No, but any fool can hear the signs."
He heard the silence, all right. The larks had quieted. Now even the wind breezed to a halt. He heard no chirp of grasshoppers, no snap of insects, not the buzz of even one fly circling the horses.
Jack slid the rifle out of the holster. He might be tired of his job here in Montana—he'd seen nearly every inch of the territory—but moving on to Wyoming was a better way to leave his job than being eyeballed as cat food. If that mountain lion meant business, then so did he.
He hadn't been named the best marshal in his department for cowardice. When it came to a fight, Jack Emerson knew how to win, whether his enemy was man or beast. He thumbed back the hammer.
The rustle of leaves turned him around. He aimed, but already the great golden cat was airborne, front paws extended. Jack got off one shot before the mountain lion slammed into his shoulders. Sharp claws tore across his chest. Jack hit the ground on his back. He heard his mount's terrified whinny, heard Plummer's shout, saw the cat's sharp-teethed jaws. Jack wrapped his fingers around the walnut stock of the rifle and swung.
The blow dazed the animal, and a second knocked the predator from his chest. With a furious snarl, the cat turned, sprang. Jack's thumb grazed the trigger and the bullet fired.
The hundred pound cat slammed him to the ground again, razor sharp claws skidding across his left arm and chest. Jack looked up into lifeless eyes, felt the cat's body shudder. It was dead.
Rolling the animal off him, he tried to stand. Wheezing, blood dripping from beneath his shirt, he felt damn shaky. Pain lanced down his breastbone, tore across the bend of his arm. Great. Just great.
Looking around, he saw nothing but trees, rocky earth, and wild animals. No rangeland, no civilization in sight. And where was his horse? Plummer was probably galloping away as fast as his mount would take him toward the state border.
Well, Jack had been in worse straits. At least he had his rifle. There was a town just a ways back. He remembered seeing the fork in the weed-grown trail he'd been following. Maybe he could get word to his boss, pick up a horse, and find a soft bed for the night. He took a step, winced at the pain in his ankle. Probably he'd cracked the bone again. It hadn't healed fully from his last run-in with an outlaw.
"Hold it right there, Marshal," came that gravelly voice, irritating and triumphant.
"Plummer?" Jack spun, cocked the rifle, but the gun flew from his hands. It hit the lee side of a boulder, a bullet hole through the stock. "That was my best rifle."
"It's my rifle now." A slow, dangerous sneer twisted across Plummer's scarred face. "I'm going to enjoy putting down the one lawman sly enough to bring me in. Say goodbye, Emerson."
Jack was a dead man and he knew it, looking into the barrel of his own Colt, aimed directly at his forehead. "Why? I didn't hear you hiding behind that boulder. You could have shot me in the back. But you didn't."
"I want to see the look in your eyes, Marshal. I want to see you beg for mercy."
"Men like you don't have mercy."
"Or a conscience, either." Plummer smirked, taking pleasure in his situation, obviously enjoying the power to give life or take it away.
"Give it up, Plummer. You won't get far."
"Sure, I will." The outlaw laughed. "And you won't rest in peace knowing I'm going to steal your badge, take your gunbelt and ride your horse to my freedom."
"What freedom are you going to have when you've killed a United States Marshal?"
Plummer laughed. "Everyone between here and Wyoming will take a good look at me and say, there goes a United States Marshal protecting the good citizens of this territory. The poor saps won't recognize me, Dillon Plummer, until after I've already taken what I want from them."
Black rage tore through Jack's heart. He hated men who used their firepower to harm others, their strength to hurt those weaker.
Sheer emotion drove him forward. With a shout, he sprang and wrapped his fingers around the nose of the revolver, trying to wrestle it out of Plummer's grip. He felt the weapon fire, saw the flash of light, heard the whiz of a bullet. A streak of fire slammed into his skull.
Jack's head flew back. He lost his balance and fell. All went black as he hit the ground.
Chapter Two
"Mama, Charlie's not behavin'."
"Yes, I see that." Lissa tightened her hands on the thick reins behind her son's tiny grip. The workhorse had stopped stock still in the middle of the road, lifted his nose to scent the wind, and given an earsplitting bellow.
"Get up, Charlie." Lissa snapped the reins. "I'm not in the mood for this."
She wasn't. She had too many worries, too many uncertainties, and the humiliation of canceling a wedding many had advised her against. She remembered Maude Hubbard's prune-faced prediction that Mr. Murray would never show.
"Charlie ain't behavin'. He's in big trouble." Chad shook his head in great disapproval.
"He is." Lissa smacked the gelding's backside with the length of the reins, not hard enough to hurt him, just to remind him who was supposed to be the boss.
Charlie nickered, lifting his nose. He probably scented something on the brisk wind kicking through the low slung pines. Dust skidded along the road in little waves, motes shimmering in the lemony rays of sunshine. Lissa breathed deeply and tasted the smell of rain, but nothing else.
Then she heard it—an answering nay, high and anxious. A bay gelding wheeled around the corner into sight, lather streaking his reddish barrel and flanks, his dark eyes white-rimmed.
Lissa took one look at the worn saddle, and her heart stopped. An empty saddle meant a fallen rider. There weren't many travelers on this road, especially not this time of year. Hope flamed in her chest. Could this be John Murray's horse?
She snapped the reins hard. "Get going, Charlie."
The gelding took a powerful jump forward. Lissa set Chad on the seat beside her, quieted his worried questions, and stood up, searching the ground for signs of a fallen man. Charlie shied, rocking the wagon to a stop as
he kicked out with his front hooves. Lissa nearly toppled, but caught herself on the hard wagon's lip. There, in the dust alongside the road, were the bloody pawprints of a mountain lion. They looked very fresh.
"Get up, Charlie." The wagon bounced around the rocky curve in the road.
A man lay sprawled on his back, blocking their path. Lissa jerked the reins. Charlie whinnied, tossing up his head, sidestepping to avoid the man as the wagon stopped. Heart pounding, she set the brake, scooped her son into her arms, and hopped to the ground.
Was it John? Setting Chad down, she snatched up her skirts and ran. She didn't know for certain—she'd never met the man face-to-face. He was so still. Could he be dead? Blood stained the earth and, she saw as she dropped to her knees at his side, his hair and face.
Fear washed over her. She studied him, as much from curiosity as from need to assess his injuries. Such a big man, from ruffled blond hair to scuffed boots. Lissa laid her ear against the broad span of male chest.
Relief washed over her at the sound of the steady thump-thump of his heartbeat. He was alive, and that was good, but how seriously was he injured? Blood oozed from beneath the thick waves of his hair, staining it, the ground, and his tan cotton shirt.
This was Mr. Murray. He matched the description he'd given in his letters—sun-browned and weathered, brawny and strong, long, dark blond hair, square jaw, as tough looking as an outlaw.
Not even her neighbors used this road.
"Is he dead?" Chad asked, his voice small and afraid.
Her heart twisted. She brushed the curls from Chad's sad eyes. "No, cowboy. But Mr. Murray is injured. Can you run and get the blanket from beneath the wagon seat?"
The child dashed off, feet kicking up dust on the road. Clouds overhead obscured the sky. A storm was brewing. Whatever lay ahead, it couldn't be good for this man unconscious before her, this man so hurt.
Charlie pranced, agitated, and that's when she saw the mountain lion. First, panic seared her to the spot. Then she bolted upright, determined to protect her son and this injured man. Then she saw that the cat was dead, shot straight through its heart.
Jillian Hart Page 1
