Because if you were Dillon Plummer hiding out in my town, then you would be a dead man. The sheriff's threat rumbled through his memory. A cold shakiness settled in his abdomen. He sat down on the step next to Lissa and tried to make sense of what she'd told him.
"You said John Murray is in St Louis?"
"According to his letter."
"Then if I'm not John Murray, who am I?"
She paled, but when her hand touched his jaw it was tender. "I know the kind of man you are. I know you are good with my son. I know that you're a fine husband, that you're a man of your word."
"That isn't enough. Our marriage may not be legal." Ramifications thundered through his head, but the emotional blow shook him more. He loved the woman he thought was his wife, wanted nothing more than to be the man she needed. But now—
He didn't know who he was. He didn't know where that left him. And he could not deny the sheriff's threat.
Could he be that outlaw? Dillon Plummer—how that name sounded familiar, the way those dreams felt when they'd brought him back pieces of memory. He remembered a sheriff, remembered hunting men in a meadow, the gun heavy and familiar in his hands.
How had he known how to corner those rustlers? How to draw their fire and shoot them dead? He hadn't even considered letting them live, bringing them to the sheriff for justice to be done. He had enacted his own brand of justice, imposed his own law—just as an outlaw might.
Knowing those things didn't make him an outlaw. All it meant was that his memory was gone, just like before.
The growing wind scattered the scent of daisies and roses and asters, and brushed through Lissa's hair the way his hands ached to. He didn't know who he was, but his feelings were still the same.
"You're my wife, Lissa." He laid his hand over hers, felt the luxurious pressure of her fingers against his face. "That will never change."
"How do you know?" She was so close, felt so distant. "We don't know who you are. You could have a life waiting for you somewhere. Your own children. Your real wife."
"I don't."
"How do you know?"
"I know in here." He laid a fist across his chest, over his heart. "I can feel it. There's nobody but you, Lissa. There never has been. And there never will be, if you let me stay."
"Let you?" She needed him so much, in ways she hadn't been aware of until the moment she read John Murray's letter. She hadn't fought hard enough against that need, and it made her feel weak and vulnerable, made her feel foolish for wanting a man who could never be hers. "I don't see how you can stay."
"I have nowhere to go. I have no other life but here, with you and Chad."
"But what happens when you remember?"
"It doesn't matter. I won't leave you, Lissa. I won't break my vows to you. I swear it." He kissed her fingertips, wanted to kiss more of her.
How could she keep leaning on him, needing him? Yet his touch stole her fears and all her doubts. For the moment, she knew his kisses and his passion could make everything right.
When his lips brushed hers, sweet and passionate, demanding and possessive, she wanted no other kiss, no other man's touch. His hands caressed the back of her neck, unbuttoned her bodice.
He led her into the house, holding doors and then closing them, stripping her naked at the bedside and then loving her with such tenderness, such raw emotion, that she could not hold back, but gave—touched him until he moaned low in his throat, arched up to meet him when he joined their bodies with one slow thrust, his weight holding her down, his arms holding her up.
Release sheered through her, a twisting downdraft of sensation and sharp pleasure. All she felt was him, the breadth of his shoulders as she clung to them, the heat of his skin all over touching hers, the scent of salt and man and sunshine, and the heart of him, so big and bright, loving her as if they had forever.
As he kissed her forehead, though, his release spent, she could not stop the panic. Who was this man she had married?
"You're still afraid."
"Yes." She would not lie to him. His gaze settled on hers and she read the truth in his eyes, saw the heart of him, shadowed but honest. She saw how he wanted her, the way a man wanted a woman—as lover, friend, soulmate.
How could she let herself want him the same way? He didn't know his past, or the life he'd left behind. What if the day came when she had to let him go?
She would not love him. She could never love that way again.
Chapter Twelve
Sheriff Ike Palmer watched the sun sink through the bars of the jailhouse window. Jack Murray was trouble, plain and simple. He'd single-handedly thwarted Palmer's plan to force Lissa off her ranch.
Damn. Fury tasted bitter in his mouth. He felt the emptiness of the jail house, saw the bustle on the street outside. Men rode down Main, hurrying home to their families, a hard day's work done, eager for the sight of supper on the table.
The door rattled open. Dark and grim, his deputy filled the threshold, more brawn than brains. In a subordinate, those were desirable traits. "What are you going to do about Murray?"
"Whatever I can do." Palmer rubbed his brow. "He killed four of my men. I haven't forgotten Tuckman's murder the day of Lissa's wedding to that man."
"Murray is a good shot."
"Too good for a city deputy." He considered that. Murray didn't act like a man from a city, didn't talk or fight like one. "Ride to Billings and send a telegraph to my nephew in Chesterfield. That's not far from St. Louis. Ask him to do a little digging into Murray's past. Every man has something to hide. I want to know how to bring him to his knees."
"Sure thing, boss." Deakins tipped his hat and trotted down the boardwalk, spurs jangling.
Palmer watched the sun set—and thought of all the ways he'd like to bring Jack Murray down.
At least he knew who he wasn't. Jack's grip tightened on the thick leather reins, and he squinted against the harsh summer sun. The sweet scent of freshly mown hay tickled his nose, lifted on the breeze. Butterflies and dragonflies and finches protested at his intrusion, but still the two great draft horses lunged forward, pulling the heavy mowing machine behind them.
The whir of the blades matched the whirring of his own thoughts. He'd had no dreams in the passing days, still had no glimmer of memory to let him know who he was. His past remained a darkness, full of shadows and unknowns.
He glanced over his shoulder, watching the dirt road as he had for the last ten minutes. Dust smudged the sloping hill and all he could see of the approaching wagon— Lissa and Chad, coming with the midday meal. His throat, parched and gritty, ached for the cool, sweet cider she would bring.
The sight of her refreshed him even more. Blond curls shimmering in the sunlight, all slender form and snapping blue skirts. He halted the horses, gave Charlie a pat on the flank to let him know what a good job he'd done. The second gelding tried to grab his hat as Jack turned, his heart filling at the eagerness in Chad's voice.
"Pa!" Chad raced through the tall grasses, only his cowboy hat visible until he burst into the clearing in front of the horses.
Neither animal was startled. The dark gelding stole Chad's hat, while Charlie licked his head. The little boy laughed, then wrapped both arms around Jack's knees.
"Mama said I get to help ya mow. Just like a real rancher." Joy lit Chad's face.
"I could use some help, partner. Mowing hay is tough work."
"I'm tough," the boy said, so much confidence in his grin that it made Jack ache inside.
This little boy depended on him. Jack could still taste the fear in his throat when he'd pulled Chad from the stampeding herd. No matter what his true identity, he would never leave, never dim that bright, shining affection so honest in the boy's eyes.
Being a father and husband was more important than whatever he had left behind, regardless.
"Chad talked me into making chicken sandwiches." She smiled, but her eyes did not shine, did not glow from within when she looked at him.
"
He's trouble, that boy." Jack made his voice light as he reached to retrieve the heavy basket from Lissa's firm grip.
"I have it." She moved away, easy as a breeze, gentle and distant and full of apology. "You've been working hard all morning."
"So have you." He swung the hat from his head, wiped his brow with his forearm. "I'll unhitch the horses, then. Looks as if you have everything under control."
She smiled at him as she unfolded a blanket He knelt to unbuckle the thick leather straps from the traces. He led the horses away, Chad skipping along. He chatted with his son, but his gaze never strayed from Lissa.
How could he look away from her? She drew him like a moth to light. She held him captivated as she spread a red checked blanket in the mown clover, carried the drinking jug from the wagon.
"Hurry up before the bees and ants find us," she called, uncovering the basket.
The wind rippled through her hair, and his fingers ached. How he wanted to touch her again. "Charlie's likely to be more bothersome than bees," Jack teased as the big gelding lifted his head to scent the collection of food Lissa was spreading out on the blanket.
"Tater salad," Chad cheered, dashing away through the tall grass, frightening birds as he ran to his mother.
Charlie tried to follow, and Jack caught him. "Come over here, troublemaker." He tethered the horses in the shade of a cottonwood before joining his family at their meal.
His mouth watered and his stomach growled at the sight of the delicious food, but it was Lissa he looked at most, Lissa who kept his gaze and held it as he sat down beside her. She stiffened a little. He pulled off his gloves to put a bare hand on hers, drawing her gaze.
So much uncertainty was written there. His chest tightened. She had come to care for him over the course of their marriage, but with the arrival of John Murray's letter, she'd withdrawn.
"You don't have to be afraid of me." He didn't know how to lure her back to him, how to recapture the lustrous warmth of her smile. "I'm still the same man I've always been."
"I know." Her fingers found his, twined between them with a surprising strength—almost as if she needed to hold onto him, to bind her to him for keeps.
"The haying is going well. I've got two of the hands behind me raking over the cutting. Did you find them?"
"And fed them." She unwrapped the sandwiches, much to Chad's joy, and passed the plate to Jack first, then to her son. "Now it's your turn."
"I'm glad. I was about to faint from hunger." He winked, taking a bite. "Feed the breadwinner last."
She laughed, richly and fully, tipping back her head. "We saved a few scraps for you."
"Not good enough for first choice." He took a swig of cider, cool and sweet.
"Nope. You're just not good enough at all." Lissa's teasing voice belied the flash of emotion in her eyes. "Rounding up the cattle, finishing the branding and the fences. And now the first cut of hay. You've been lazy."
"Terrible, isn't it?" He laughed, leaning forward to brush his mouth with hers. She tasted willing and sweet, and it made him remember last night in her arms, made him look forward to the night to come. "As long as this dry weather holds, we'll get a decent cut."
"The storms have been missing us." She picked at her sandwich, then put it down. "Maybe luck is finally on our side."
"We could use it." He studied her hard. "I hope you aren't planning on helping with the haying this afternoon. You're pale. You haven't been getting enough sleep."
"No thanks to you." She felt the heat creep across her face. Jack knew darn well why she was tired. His rumbling laugh only confirmed it.
"I'm glad I'm doing my duty. I wouldn't want you tossing me out on my ear because I wasn't living up to my obligations."
She blushed, glad Chad was chasing yellow-winged butterflies, sandwich in hand. "As long as you keep me pleasured, I guess I'll let you stay."
"As long as I know what's expected of me." His blue eyes twinkled with a sparkling emotion, with affection so honest it made her stomach fall, made her afraid and weak. "It's a tough job making love to you night after night but I'm man enough to do it."
"I should pick up more strangers on my way to town."
She laughed when he pressed a kiss to her throat, his breath warm against the top of her breasts.
"I'm glad you found me." The teasing had faded from his gaze, from the kissable corners of his mouth. "You've given me a life worth living."
His arms enfolded her, drawing her hard against the plane of his chest. He felt hot from the sun, smelled like cut grass. She wrapped her arms around his neck, afraid to hold too tight, afraid to let go. Her stomach twisted again and she closed her eyes, buried her face in the hollow of his throat.
She didn't want to lose another husband. She didn't want to lose this man of kindness and strength. Fear knotted in her stomach, tight and foreboding, and she feared it was only a matter of time.
"The wind has been hot and mild, and not a cloud in sight until now." Jack strode through the kitchen door, bits of mown grass clinging to his shirt and the brim of his hat. "I have the men raking up everything I've cut in the past few days."
"It can't be dry." Lissa turned from the stove. Water boiled, and fresh strawberries scented the air. "Are you sure it will storm?"
"Positive. It's the way my luck's been running." Rain would ruin the cut hay. A hailstorm could damage the rest of the grass. Jack glanced over his shoulder at the horizon, where thunderheads gathered, clustered and building. He could smell the rain, feel the coiled tension in the air.
He looked around. "Is today Ira's birthday party?"
"The one and only. Jeremiah came out to fetch Chad about an hour ago. He's spending the night, so we will have some time all to ourselves."
"Hmm. I like the sound of that." Jack kissed her, felt his body respond hard and swift, but there was work to be done, hay to be saved. "It would help if you would bring supper out to the men. I'm going to keep them working until dusk, if we have that long before the storm breaks."
Lissa returned to her jars of cooling preserves. Heat had curled the tendrils around her face into fine, beautiful ringlets. "I'll do better than that. After I finish up here, I'll come outside and help."
He pressed a kiss to her cheek. Her arms circled his neck, and he drew her tight against his body. She smelled like the strawberry jam she was making, tasted like dreams.
"You still look pale. Maybe you should—"
She silenced him with another kiss. "I'm just tired, that's all. Someone keeps me up too late at night making love."
"I guess I could stop." Dimples framed both sides of his mouth.
"Don't even try it." She kissed his smile, tasted it. "Go help your men. I'll be out as soon as I can."
His eyes darkened. His touch felt substantial, boldly affectionate. He lifted his fingers from her chin and stepped away, leaving her alone. She watched him go, all steely dependable man, his tenderness still affecting her as he strode out the door.
Her stomach twisted hard, and she rubbed at her forehead. She felt tired, almost dizzy. Her gaze traveled to the window where lace curtains framed the sight of Jack, heading back out to the fields.
Her heart ached, knowing she already cared for her husband far too much. She had to stop wanting him, stop depending on his quiet honorable strength. Jack was only theirs to claim as long as he could not remember. That was all.
With one more twist of her stomach, her worries faded to one—she was pregnant.
* * *
Jack gritted his teeth against the burn of exhausted muscles in his back and arms and forked more cut grass into the back of the wagon. A harsh, hot wind hampered his work. The dark clouds gathering overhead told him they were running out of time.
They could survive a hard rain, as far as the crops went. A good rain would turn the rangeland green and give the cattle more fat. A hailstorm could ruin the oats and corn, though, even the grass. Tinder dry from the high winds and hot sun of the past weeks, the golden mea
dows stretched all the way to the tree line. Lightning this time of year could be dangerous.
Jack threw down his pitchfork. "Lissa. This load's ready."
"Looks like this is as much as we can do." She pointed toward the sky.
"Damn." Jack tugged off his hat. "All right, men. Time to head in. Let's hope some rain falls with that lightning."
A bullwhip of light snapped across angry clouds. Fire streaked from the sky to the earth, the strike miles away. They were safe for now. Jack wasn't taking any chances. The fences were high and sturdy, so the cattle, no matter how they ran, were safe. He just wanted his men and family indoors and away from the approaching storm.
"Aren't you coming in?" Lissa placed her hand on his—leather glove to leather glove, yet he could still feel the heat of her.
"As soon as I send in the second wagon." He lifted a hand toward the other team working the far end of the half-mown field. "You be careful. Let the men unload. I want you safe in the house."
"I'll be fine. Don't worry." She looked exhausted, but beautiful—always beautiful. "You keep out of the way of that lightning."
His heart ached just looking at her. "I'll do my best."
She swept up into the wagon seat, her skirts snapping in the heady wind. With a wave, she gathered the reins and released the brake. The horses pulled, the wheels squeaked, and the two ranch hands jumped onto the back of the wagon and lay down in the bed of soft mown hay.
"Arcada." Jack watched the wagon's progress out of the corner of his eye.
"We're getting ready to head in, boss." With Will still recuperating, the young immigrant had stepped handily into the foreman's shoes, and Jack appreciated his knowledge and hard work. "That dry lightning heads this way, we could be in big trouble."
"I know. All we can do is wait and watch." Jack listened to the approaching thunder, cracking across the silent, waiting land. Sheets of dark rain fell like great gray columns, never touching the earth. Streaks of fire flashed against the twilight sky.
The storm followed them in. Wind tore through the trees, bending the limber tips of pine and fir, sending leaves and branches to the ground. They left the wagons loaded in the barn and rubbed down the horses while Lissa disappeared into the house, soon emerging carrying a steaming coffeepot and a tray of fresh strawberry tarts. The men were content to bunk down and wait. Jack sent Arcada to the neighboring ranch to see if Hans Johanson, still recovering from a bullet wound, needed any help.
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