"Do you want me to call you Jack?"
"I do."
"That will take some getting used to." She stood, shoeless, and her smile was nervous. "Are you sure—"
"I'm sure. Look, I got shot in the head. Have pity on me. Call me Jack. It will make me happy."
"Jack." She tested the word on her mouth, those supple soft lips shaping the name like a kiss.
It was no struggle at all to remember the texture and heat of her lips to his, and the sweet wondrous taste of her mouth. "You need to undress?"
She dipped her chin. "I hadn't planned on sleeping in my clothes."
"I won't peek, I promise." He scooted back down beneath the covers, rolling on his side away from her. "That's going to be a hard promise to keep."
"Try." Nervous laughter filled the room, glowing like lamplight.
"A true test of my willpower." He squeezed his eyes shut. "Why is Will your only ranch hand?"
Fabric rustled as it hit the wood floor. "He was the only one who stayed after Michael died. The others feared I couldn't keep the ranch afloat, and left."
More fabric rustled. He swallowed. The thought of those garments sliding off her body left him breathless. He heard a drawer pull open. Cotton whispered. He wondered if she were naked, her skin gleaming like a pearl in the pale moonlight.
If he'd had any doubt about his attraction to his new wife, he had his answer now. It didn't matter how much pain racked his body or hammered through his skull. He was rock hard.
The mattress dipped slightly as she settled in beside him. The bed felt far too small. She was inches away, probably naked beneath her nightgown. That thought only made him harder.
"Good night, John—-Jack."
"Sleep well, Lissa."
The sheets rustled as she rolled away. All fell silent save for his breathing and the clock's steady ticking.
How was he going to sleep now? He stared at the wall, his every thought of her.
The minute Lissa opened her eyes against the graying light of morning, she felt his presence, a male heat, the weight of his substantial body in bed beside her. He slept on his back, the sheet puddled around his waist. The thin muslin hugged his lean hips and the length of his thighs, hinted at his nakedness beneath.
Goodness! She shouldn't be gaping at him. Blushing, she slid out from beneath the covers and snatched her fresh clothes. Leaving Jack to sleep and heal his wounds, she stepped out into the hallway, heading toward the kitchen.
The mornings were still cool, but not nippy. The first light of dawn met her as she lit the stove. Soon fire crackled to life, and she hurried out of her nightgown. Keeping one ear toward the bedrooms, both doors closed tight, she heated enough water to wash with.
By the time the rooster quit crowing, the sun was up and she was dressed in her favorite pink gingham and on her way to the barn.
"Morning, Lissa," Will Callahan called, drawing water from the well.
"Good morning to you," she sang.
This was the first morning in a long time that her burdens weren't heavy. She poured grain into Patches' trough. The milk cow lowed in greeting. "Good morning to you too, sweetie." The cow nudged her hand in thanks before rolling her tongue in the tasty oats.
"Were there any problems last night?" she asked Will when he returned with two five-gallon buckets which sloshed with each step.
"None that I heard. Or Pete, either." Will hoisted one bucket hip high, ready to fill the cow's bin. "I think your Mr. Murray gave those rustlers a much needed message. They'd better move on to easier pickings, or they'll be sorry."
"That's all I want," she said. Yet, as she thought of the dead man John—rather, Jack—had shot yesterday, she shivered.
She hadn't wanted that. She hadn't wanted her desire for justice to end in anyone's death, even a criminal's.
Will emptied the bucket and moved on to Charlie's stall with the second. The great Clydesdale lifted his velvety nose and affectionately lipped the ranch hand's shirt.
Troubled, Lissa drew her milking stool into the stall and settled down against the warm cow's flank. Patches gave a low moo of contentment as she crunched on her grain.
Lissa set the bucket between her feet and caught hold of the cow's udder. Gently, she curled her forefinger and thumb around one teat, then a second. She squeezed downward in rhythm, keeping a steady stream of milk hissing into the bucket.
The old tomcat let out a meow and hopped up into the hay feeder. Patches watched in fascination as the feline waited for his pan of morning milk.
The familiar morning routine calmed Lissa, but could not put to rest her growing unease. Jack Murray's hopes for intimacy last night had been unmistakable.
Her heart stopped. She hadn't thought she would need to deal with that part of marriage—not yet, anyway. In his letters he'd said he wasn't ready to love again, but in time he would like more children. So would she, but Jack was still very much a stranger, despite all he had risked for her.
She thought of the way he'd galloped out of the barn in pursuit of the rustlers. He looked like a man who went after what he wanted—and got it.
What would he think when he realized she had lied to him before half the town, before the minister and God and her own son?
She would honor and cherish Jack Murray, but she would not love him. She would never be foolish enough to give her heart away again.
He felt watched. He opened one eye.
"Hi, Pa." Chad's grin felt as bright as the morning sunshine dusting the room.
Damn, but his head hurt. Jack rubbed his brow. "How long have you been sitting there?"
"Forever." Chad shifted against the headboard, sitting where Lissa's pillow should have been. "You must have been real sleepy."
"I guess." Jack tried to sit up. Dizziness confused his senses. "Where's your mother?"
"In the barn. She got lots of babies to feed."
Well, barn work wasn't Lissa's job anymore. He moved, and his entire body knotted into one enormous ache. Great.
Well, maybe he didn't need to bound out of bed, after all. He'd take it slow and easy.
"When I get an ow, Mama gives me cookies." Chad held out his hand. "Want one?"
He studied the boy who was now his stepson—a nice looking child, sweet and kind like his mother. Jack's gaze fell to the grubby cookie. "How long have you been holding onto that?"
"A while."
"Break it in half, and we'll share."
Pleased, Chad obliged. Crumbs tumbled onto his trousers and the sheets. Jack chuckled. He felt lighter, happier, with a chunk of cookie in his mouth.
"Your mother's a good cook."
"She has apple bread in the kitchen." The boy's eyes lit. "And sausages keepin' warm. I'm not supposed to touch the stove. Mama says."
A gray tabby leaped up on top of the bureau, rattling a china jewel box.
"Winston!" The boy clamored from the bed and dashed across the room. "You ain't supposed to be up there!"
The cat appeared unimpressed.
Jack watched as Chad hauled the feline from the bureau, nearly dropping the animal twice. The cat wrapped both paws around the child's neck.
"I'd better take her outside." Chad tromped across the floor, leaving cookie crumbs and bits of dirt from his shoes in his wake.
Chuckling, Jack tossed off the sheets and stood. Now, to find his clothes. He tried the top bureau drawers, neatly filled with precisely folded, fresh smelling woman's things. When he bent to investigate the bottom drawers, his body screamed in protest.
Damn, but being injured could sure take the steam out of a man.
Then he caught his reflection in the mirror, saw a bruise purpling his forehead, creeping beneath the bandage wrapped around his head. More bandages covered the crest of his upper arm and the breadth of his chest.
There were older injuries evident, too, wounds he could not remember. Scars peppered his legs, streaked like knife cuts or run-ins with barbed wire fences. There were a few puckered ones, maybe bull
et wounds—one to his thigh, another through his opposite calf—and fresh cuts from his fall in the woods yesterday.
Whatever his past life had been, the life he couldn't remember, it had been a tough one.
Where were his new clothes? John looked around, then tried a lower bureau drawer. He smelled sweet cinnamon and saw folds of petticoats. He'd better try another. There—he recognized the few shirts he'd picked up ready-made at the general store. His baggage must have been taken by the men who tried to kill him.
Chad raced into the room and skidded to a stop at Jack's elbow. "Whatcha doin'?"
"Just looking for a shirt."
"Wear a blue one," was Chad's serious advice. A frown crossed his small brow. "That way we can be the same."
"Blue it is."
The boy was easy enough to please. Jack grabbed the cotton shirt and slipped it on. He rolled up the sleeves and breathed in the faint scent of cinnamon and sunshine from being kept in Lissa's bureau—her doing, no doubt He was grateful for it, for all day long he could catch the scent of her every time he inhaled.
Having a wife wasn't such a bad thing, he thought as he stepped outside and caught sight of her at the well, drawing water. The wind snapped her pink checked skirts and whipped the golden silk of her curls across her face. She was slender and graceful and strong.
Every inch of his body responded to her as she bent to retrieve the full water bucket. What a nicely rounded fanny she had. Even with his striking headache, he couldn't help admiring her all the more.
Yes, a wife was a very good thing.
"What are you doing just standing there?" Lissa called, shielding her eyes with one hand. "I could use some help."
Even from so far away, her smile shone bright enough to touch him. "As you wish, milady."
She gave a laugh, sweet as the morning air. "You'll change your mind when you see what I have in store for you. After I rinse out these pails, I have to clean the calf pens."
"Clean out pens? I don't remember agreeing to shovel manure," Jack teased as he handily reached past her and lifted the heavy bucket from the well.
"Trust me. You did."
The tempting lure of her voice made him look up as he poured the fresh, cool water into her small washtub. "I'm not certain I should trust you, Lissa. I have no memory, and it seems to me now is the perfect time for you to take advantage of me."
"Take advantage?" She quirked a delicate golden brow. "Me?"
"Sure. You tell me I was supposed to marry you. Now I'm supposed to clean out pens. Seems to me you could tell me anything, and I'd have to believe you."
"It does seem that way." She knelt down and sluiced a small pail through the clean water. "I forgot to tell you something else. You agreed to muck out the entire barn for me twice a day."
Then she laughed, and he knew whatever the blackness in his memory, the void of his past, it didn't matter. Not if he had her to fill his present and his future with that light, breezy laughter.
* * *
"Are you telling me Murray shot a man through the heart at long range with a skull fracture and, according to Doc, double vision?"
"That's what I'm tellin' ya." The deputy leaned back in his squeaky chair. "According to Doc James, Murray shouldn't even be walking. An injury like that would put most men in bed for a month."
Ike Palmer pushed away from his desk and stood. The late spring sunshine blew in with the hot air from the open window. Anger punctuated his steps as he stormed to the window and gazed out at the street.
Murray was trouble, no doubt about that. Ike didn't like trouble in his town. And he especially didn't like how Murray had married his woman.
Lissa might have refused his proposal a few times, but he was certain she'd change her mind. In time.
Well, a man like Murray was easily dealt with. All it took was one well-placed bullet.
Chapter Seven
She couldn't stop watching him while he worked. Sunlight kissed the line of his back and shoulders as he climbed down the ladder. The boughs of the great green maple shook in protest. While she had only been teasing about Jack working in the barn, he had refused to lie in bed, even when she'd ordered him.
Lissa plucked another shirt from her basket of rinsed clothes and shook out as many wrinkles as she could. Really, she ought to be concentrating on her work, but her gaze kept finding Jack, shirtless in the afternoon heat, over and over again. The white bandages on his brow and chest and upper arm made him look rugged, rougher than any man she'd ever known.
Her heart turned over. Good thing he was tough as an outlaw. She wouldn't want anything to happen to him, to this man who was bringing laughter back into her son's life.
"Wanna go to town?" Chad ran hard, nearly knocking over her basket of whites, puffing for air. "Pa said to ask ya."
"I have to hang the laundry." She caught a clothespin from the hanging bag.
"Let me help." Jack's voice, low and deep, cascaded over her like the wind.
She spun around, her skin strangely shivering from the caress of his words. The bandage hugging his bare chest did not diminish his appeal. A dusting of light hair sprinkled across his dark skin made her throat close.
"Come to town with Chad and me." He rescued a sheet from the heaping basket. "I need to buy lumber for the tree house."
"Gonna be a big tree house." Happiness brightened her son's face.
"How big?" She secured the shirt to the line.
"Very big."
It was good to see her son carefree again. Lissa's heart squeezed. "Jack, are you sure you know what you're doing?"
"How hard can it be?" He fumbled with the wooden pin. Once hung, the sheet tumbled to the grassy earth. "Oops. Harder than it looks, apparently."
"Make sure you shake out any bugs." Really, what did he think he was doing? "Not being able to help Will is driving you to do housework."
"A sorry state." Jack nimbly shook out the sheet, his teeth visibly clenching as he moved his injured arm and ribs. Yet there was no harshness, no cursing, nothing but an easy humor. "I'm going to try this again. Chad, grab that other end for me. It's dragging in the clover."
"A bee's on it." Chad took a quick step back. "Don't like bees."
"Why, dagnabit, it's a good thing I have my hat."
Lissa watched, slowly feeling the last of her reluctance scatter. The great big man swept off his hat and swatted at the bothersome bee. The insect lifted into the air, buzzing and diving at him. Jack beat his hat harder, earning giggles from Chad and a growing warmth in her chest She so liked this man of strength and humor.
He went back to hanging sheets—rather badly—but when his blue gaze caught hers and held, she forgot any protest, let him hang her sheets crooked. Jack Murray had brought laughter to their home again. As far as she was concerned, he was worth his weight in gold.
Jack felt curious gazes studying them as they rode through town. He ought to be holding the reins, ought to be guiding that big, stubborn Clydesdale down the street, but Charlie had refused to move when Jack took the reins.
"It's not a surprise," Lissa had said in that light way of hers, soft like spring breezes. "I raised Charlie from a foal. And he still misses Michael."
Didn't everyone? Jack bore no malice toward the cousin he did not remember, but he didn't need to be a genius to know how she felt. Lissa might smile, but the sadness shadowed in her eyes was unmistakable—a sadness she was working to put behind her.
"They are all wondering why you aren't driving." She spoke low to him, leaning close so her words wouldn't carry.
The tantalizing scent of her filled his head. "I'm injured. They will just think I'm a weakling."
Her gaze slid over his shoulders. "Hardly. Not with the way you rode off after the rustlers on our wedding day."
He shrugged. What mattered was that he hadn't stopped those ruffians, black-hearted opportunists who would take advantage of a newly widowed woman.
"You should stop by and let Doc check those wounds. Whoa,
Charlie." She drew back the reins so gently that the big horse probably didn't even feel it.
Charlie stopped, meek as a kitten, in front of Russell's General Store. Lissa set the brake with ease.
"I don't need a doctor," he assured her, "but I'm glad you care."
Her eyes widened. He could see her shift back a few inches. When he helped her out of the wagon, she laid her hand on his palm with the lightest touch. Maybe he shouldn't have said that. Maybe his new wife didn't feel for him.
Not that she wasn't warmhearted. He could see it in her movements as she made sure Chad got safely to the ground and his clothes were on straight. She took a second to button Chad's top button and dust bits of leaf and twig from his hair.
"Good afternoon, Lissa," Susan Russell greeted from behind the counter. "And how nice to see your son and husband with you."
"Hello, ma'am." Jack tipped his hat to the pleasant-faced woman. "Come on, Chad. I fear those women are going to start talking. If they do, we'll never get what we need."
"Mama talks a lot." Chad's grave statement made Lissa laugh.
"No peppermint for you," she said, but her eyes were bright.
Not every woman was kind to her child, Jack knew. A stern mother who had planted herself in front of the bolts of fabric slapped her small daughter's hand when she reached to touch the pretty fabric. The resounding smack tore through Jack.
A glimmer of grayness haunted his memory, but he lost it and there was only the void.
"We need some nails," he told the boy, steering him down the farthest aisle from the door.
"We got hammers," Chad informed him as they passed a wall of carpentry tools.
Jack stopped and considered. The child was old enough to help out, to learn how to hammer, to know the satisfaction of building something with his own hands. "This here's a small one, just your size."
"Oh, boy." Chad reached up with both hands, eager to hold the small hammer, a replica of the larger ones, for grown-ups.
Jack fought the rise of feelings for this child he hardly knew. He was his pa. He was responsible for Chad and for the blond, pretty woman whose voice filtered through the store, light and sweet. It staggered him, and yet it made him glad, too.
Jillian Hart Page 7
