Jillian Hart

by Lissa's Cowboy

  "You're thoughtful."

  "No, I just want to please my pretty new wife.'' He smiled, and the world seemed brighter. He towered over her, all steely man and might. He pressed the flowers into her nervous hands.

  He wanted to please her. He thought her pretty. He wanted to marry her. She feared John Murray wanted something she couldn't give him.

  "Marrying me won't be so bad," he said, trying to tease a smile from her. "I don't swear. I don't snore. I don't drool in my sleep."

  "Truly admirable qualities in a man."

  "I think so, too." He offered his hand, palm up, his big fingers relaxed. She studied his hand, so strong, extended to her in friendship.

  Friendship, she could accept. She laid her palm against his.

  "Do you, Lissa Banks, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?" Reverend Burrow's baritone drew a hush from the gathered crowd—and from Lissa's chest. She couldn't breathe as she felt all eyes turn to her. Beneath the satin of her only good dress, her knees wobbled. Her hands clutching John's bouquet grew clammy. After these words, there was no going back.

  "I do," she said clearly, and earned her groom's relieved smile.

  Late afternoon sun slanted at a long angle through the windows of her garden porch where they stood, casting both shadows and slivers of golden light. The brightness haloed John, set his shoulders and the crown of his blond hair ablaze.

  "You may kiss the bride," Reverend Burrows instructed with approval warm in his voice.

  Lissa's heart stopped. Kiss him? The ceremony had slipped by so quickly. She wasn't ready. Now, she wet her lips and looked up. John's lopsided grin met her gaze.

  "Prepare yourself," he whispered low, so that only she could hear. "I've been told I devastate women with a single kiss."

  "How do you know? You still don't have any memory."

  His eyes twinkled. "Fine. I was lying. I just wanted to make you laugh. You look nervous."

  "That's because I am nervous."

  "Kiss her, already!" some man shouted from the crowd, and everyone laughed.

  She studied his mouth. Thin cut lips, strong to match his rough-hewn face. Would his kiss be overwhelming and powerful like the man, or tender like his smile?

  "I won't bite," John promised her. "Well, not this time."

  When his lips found hers, she was laughing. The first brush of his mouth to hers felt warm and soft, as if testing her response. Then he broke away ever so slightly and drew in a breath, a whisper against her sensitive mouth. His dark eyes flickered, hinting at his intent. Before she could brace herself his kiss claimed her again, hot and firm, just short of possessive, and demanding enough to make it clear:

  They were man and wife.

  Chapter Five

  "Yes, you really found a good one," Blanche whispered. "Now you can keep your ranch. I say that for selfish reasons, you know." Warmth twinkled in her gaze. "I didn't want my best friend to move far away from me."

  "Neither did I." Happiness wrapped around Lissa like a snug wool blanket.

  Sounds of the celebration supper filled the air—the laughing ring of children's voices, the drone of men discussing crop prices and the beef market, and the clang of tin dishes as many finished eating at the trestle tables set out in her yard, brushed by the low rays of the setting sun.

  It would be dark soon, then time for bed. She remembered John's kiss, remembered the feel of his arms enfolding her, still tasted the heat of his mouth on hers.

  "Look at him," Felicity James sighed over her half-eaten slice of wedding cake. "It's so romantic. You have just met, but he sees only you, Lissa."

  Sure enough, across the crowded yard John glanced over his shoulder as he walked the reverend the rest of the way to the horse barn. His gaze pinned hers like an arrow finding a target A half-smile graced his lips. He entered the barn and disappeared from sight.

  Every woman seated around Lissa's table sighed.

  Flustered, she reached for the creamer. "He looks at me because he doesn't know anyone else. Maybe he's shy in crowds. Maybe he feels lonely."

  "Or maybe he's falling in love with you." Susan Russell dipped her fork into the creamy white frosting of her untouched sliver of cake. "Felicity is right, Lissa. This is so romantic."

  More sighs.

  Lissa spilled three dollops of cream before she managed to pour any into her steaming cup of coffee. Romantic? She wasn't looking for romance. Those dreams had been buried along with Michael.

  "We all saw how he kissed you," commented Maggie James, Felicity's older sister, as she measured three teaspoons of sugar into her cup of tea.

  "We all saw it," the women muttered at once.

  Lissa grabbed her spoon and stirred her coffee so hard it slopped over the rim of the cup and into the saucer. "It was a mandatory kiss. Everyone who gets married has to kiss like that."

  "Not like that," Blanche argued. "A peck on the cheek—"

  "Even on the lips—" Susan interrupted.

  "Would suffice," Blanche completed, apparently knowledgeable on the subject "When Jeremiah and I were married he gave me a polite little smooch."

  "That's all John did," Lissa assured them.

  "Ha!" Four women challenged her.

  "That was no polite kiss," Blanche declared. "I was standing right next to you, Lissa, and I saw the way his mouth covered yours with the possessive claim of a man branding his wife. He left you breathless."

  "I was nervous."

  "You didn't look nervous. You looked eager," Felicity teased.

  The women erupted into laughter, and Lissa resisted the urge to give her friend a small kick beneath the table.

  Awareness skidded over her like rainwater. She looked up and saw John emerge from the barn, walking beside Reverend Burrows and his old white mare. The minister mounted up. John rubbed his brow, trying to hide a grimace as he turned away.

  Her heart beat with concern for him. He wasn't well. He might walk with the power of a hero, with the strength of a giant, but he was ashen with pain.

  When John ducked into the shadows of the barn, disappearing from her sight, Lissa stood. "Excuse me please. I need to check on my husband."

  "What do you suppose they are going to do in that barn?" Maggie speculated.

  "You heard her. She's going to check on her man."

  Blushing, Lissa didn't know what to say. She turned, trying not to think in the same direction her friends' thoughts were already heading—to the marriage bed and her first night as John Murray's wife.

  She stepped into the dim interior of the barn. The scents of warm horseflesh and sweet hay greeted her. A calf mooed from her pen, joined by a dozen other plaintive cries. A pink tongue darted out between the slots of wood and she laughed, hurrying to catch the calf before his strong teeth could clamp around the hem of her dress.

  "You have a gentle touch with them." John's voice rose out of the dimness, accompanied by the sound of his uneven gait.

  "They're just babies." She ran her hand over the calf's velvet warm nose. "You look a little pale."

  He stopped near enough for her to see the slant of his mouth, upturned in one corner, and the hint of a dimple etched into his cheek.

  Up close, his complexion looked gray against the crisp white of the bandage at his brow and the shirt's snowy collar. He shrugged, a single lift of one dependable shoulder. "I'm still standing. I think that's a good sign."

  She laughed; she couldn't help it. This sense of humor hadn't come through in John's letters. She was surprised by it, and immensely pleased. "Before you collapse in a heap, I think I ought to take you to bed."

  "Already? The guests are still here. What will they think?" Then he winked.

  She knew darn well why he was winking. Heat crept across her face. "They will assume you need your rest."

  "Ah, but a newly married man doesn't need rest." His chuckle was as rich and deep as a waterfall. He rubbed a hand over another eager little calf's head. "Are these orphans?"

  "Unfortu
nately for them."

  "Fortunately." John watched her slim hands pet the animals with tender affection. He didn't miss the gleam of love in the calves' eyes. "They think you're their mother."

  "They do." She extricated the hem of her gown from between a set of determined bovine teeth. "I raise the gentlest milk cows around. And every year I pick a bull calf to raise."

  "Let me guess. You have the gentlest bulls, too."

  "Yep. I've made some good money that way over the years. My bulls are in great demand."

  That surprised him, and didn't. He suspected few women enjoyed barn work—much less handling big dangerous animals—but when Lissa smiled he could see the size of her heart, the gentleness she held toward all living things.

  "You said you always wanted your own land." She gazed up at him, a worry settling around her eyes.

  "I have." He knew it, deep in his heart. It was the only thing since he had opened his eyes in the doctor's clinic that felt right, in place, as if it belonged to him.

  "I thought you didn't remember anything." Her voice was so hopeful. She must want him to remember.

  That's what he wanted, too. "I don't. I just know it. I can feel it."

  That satisfied her. Her soft, blue gaze radiated light, and it captivated him, made him want to do anything to ease the worry around her eyes, to tease a smile from her lips.

  Her lips—his gaze arrowed there. He had not forgotten the supple heat of her mouth. Their kiss had been all too brief, but it haunted him. He wanted more.

  "There's something I need to tell you." He gestured toward the back of the barn, where green pasture beckoned through wide double doors.

  She fell in stride beside him. "Good or bad?"

  He shrugged. "Not so bad. It's just—" He sighed. "None of this feels right. Maybe because I'm lost. I don't even know who I am."

  She looked stricken. "I shouldn't have let you marry me. I tried not to pressure you. Now I see I should have insisted—"

  "No. I don't regret our marriage."

  "You should have waited until you recovered." Worry thinned her voice. "I thought—"

  "We did the right thing, Lissa." He laid a hand on hers. Her skin felt cool, and he sensed the fears she kept hidden from him—fears to which she had every right "What else could I have done? Leave a woman unprotected from dangerous rustlers? I spoke with some of the men today. I know what's going on around here. And how close you are to losing your entire herd." And her ranch.

  She met his gaze, all fire, her chin set for a fight. "So you married me because I was helpless?"

  "No." He stepped closer. "I married you because I said I would. Because your little boy is counting on having a new pa. Because I can see in your face how much you need me. I'm not questioning this agreement between us."

  "Then what?"

  "My name." He looked away, took another step toward the green grass. Wind scattered the scent, growing steadier now as evening lengthened. He smelled a storm on the way.

  "What about your name?" She followed him, lifting her skirts above the ground. The fading sunlight brushed her with golden pink, the light glinting in her hair, glowing richly across her skin.

  "I don't think I was called John before I was injured. I mean, maybe I had a nickname."

  "Do you remember?"

  "I'm trying."

  A gunshot echoed in the distance. Lissa stepped away from him and faced the hills, the gentle meadows and rolling slopes of her pastureland. Adrenaline shot into his blood. He didn't need to guess. While Lissa made fists of her hands, he strode back into the barn.

  "Those damn rustlers," she cursed, fury edging her voice. "This is my wedding party."

  "No better time to hit." He caught the bay gelding by the neck and tested the rope lead. It would have to hold. "Nearly every man in the area is in your yard, unarmed."

  "Will!" Her voice echoed in the rafters above.

  John swung up on the bay's back as footsteps drummed in his direction. He saw Will Callahan bounding into the aisle at the same time, the young man all business. John headed for the hardware stored up high on a dusty shelf. The guns were shadowed, but he chose the best weapon there, an old single shot pistol, then grabbed a tiny drawstring poke. Had to have bullets in it.

  Lissa's eyes widened. "John, you can't ride after those rustlers. Please, you're not—"

  "I can catch them." He wheeled the gelding around and headed toward the double doors and the twilight world beyond.

  At a full gallop, the bay drummed up dirt and gravel as they sped past the scattered crowd. Already men were running toward their horses as angry voices discussed the rustlers. A cheer rose from the crowd when John sent the bay hurling over the four-foot high fence.

  "After him, boys!" Jeremiah's call carried on the wind.

  Every gallop of the gelding shot white hot pain through John's skull, but he didn't turn from the threat. His mount chewed up ground and drew nearer to the second volley of gunplay.

  The rustlers were firing rifles to drive the herd. That meant there couldn't be more than a few men.

  The horse crested another rise, giving John a good view of sweeping fields and more hills. Then his pulse caught. There: He saw an ominous flash of darkness moving in the distance—the rustlers.

  He pressed the bay harder and clamped his thighs tight to the horse's flanks, balancing his weight as the seasoned animal bounded downhill, skidding on his haunches in the lush grass.

  Now that he'd found them, John's greatest concern was how to stop the thieves. He carried only a single shot Colt, older than the hills—not a good weapon to fight a band of well-armed outlaws.

  Another hillside hid the rustlers from his view. At least John had surprise on his side. Those varmints probably figured everyone was too intoxicated after Lissa's wedding supper to notice the distant echo of gunfire. The outlaws wouldn't be expecting company.

  The gelding's front hooves dug into the earth, propelling them up a steep hillside. Clods of dirt flew as the bay galloped all out, foam flecking his neck and withers, tangling in his windblown mane. This horse had the heart of a warrior, but no animal could run full-out for long.

  There, at the base of the hill below, he spotted his prey. Knowing he could not confront the men, for he counted six of them to his single gun, he drew up the gelding hard. Four legs went rigid as mighty hooves tore into the ground, and the bay's head came up in a sudden, well-executed stop.

  John slid to the ground, gripping the gun in one hand. He checked the chamber, inserted a single bullet. His gaze never strayed from the rustlers. He counted twelve, but when he closed one eye he saw a wavery, unfocused six. His hindered eyesight was going to cause him problems.

  Well, it was too late to think about it now. He knelt in the grass, piecing together a strategy. He ignored the pain in his head, in his chest, in his ankle. Nothing mattered more than showing these men they couldn't push him around, or steal a helpless woman's cattle. When he aimed, his hand shook. He steadied the gun on one knee.

  Take out the leader, his instincts told him. He studied the men below, all busy trying to drive the panicked herd north while the cows kept dashing in all directions.

  John watched a man in a black shirt lift his hand and point, as if barking orders. His harsh voice rose with the wind, but the words came distorted and impossible to decipher.

  That's the one. He thumbed back the hammer and aimed. Two images stared back at him, blurred and wobbling. He closed one eye, and the images joined into one. His hand still shook, and he waited, cursing himself and his injury. Soon, the men would be out of range. He had to fire now.

  He heard hooves drumming the ground behind him, and he pulled the trigger. Fire sparked, thunder roared, and the leader of the rustlers tumbled from his saddle.

  The outlaws swung wide toward the hill, jerking their rifles upward. John squeezed off another shot, and a second man fell. Gunshot volleyed across the crest of the hill and he dropped to the ground, thumbing another bullet into t
he chamber.

  "You're a good shot." Will Callahan nodded approval as he crawled low in the tall grasses.

  "I caught 'em by surprise, but now the tables are turned. There's no cover and we can't follow them like this."

  "I'm no slouch when it comes to a good fight." Will readied his rifle. "What about Lissa's cattle?"

  "The cows are scattering. The rustlers won't take the time to drive them, not with us on their tail. How many men were behind you?"

  "Counted about twenty saddling up when I rode out of the barn."

  John rubbed his brow. Damn, he hurt "We trail them, keep to the south of this hill, in the trees. We'll try to jump them, take out a few more of their men before we engage in a gunfight."

  "The odds will be even, then."

  Fewer bullets peppered the hillside as the renegades raced for their freedom.

  "They're running north." John risked his neck for a look. "Let's go."

  "Whatever you say, boss." Young and determined, Will flashed him an approving nod. "Here, take my extra Colt."

  "Much obliged." He accepted the sparkling revolver. Now, he was properly armed and ready—except for the horse. The damn gelding shied away from him, dodging his attempt to catch the single lead rope.

  "Easy, fella," he crooned, and grabbed again.

  Again, the horse evaded him. He snagged the rope and pulled in the reticent horse. Wincing against the pain, he hopped onto the animal's back and joined Will on the downside of the embankment, galloping hard for shelter and the line of trees.

  Of the two men he'd shot, only one lingered on the ground. John saw at a distance that the man was too injured to move, much less reach for his gun and try to shoot them in the back. His bay took the lead.

  By the time they reached the clearing, the rustlers were waiting. A bullet sank into the tree trunk near his head, and John wheeled the bay back into the cover of the woods.

  "I miscalculated that," he confessed. Damn, but his pounding head made it hard to think. "I need more ammunition."

  "Got it." Will reached into his shirt pocket and laid a handful of bullets on John's palm.

  "They're coming after us. Take cover."