Jillian Hart

by Lissa's Cowboy

  Jack woke up, already sitting, breathing hard. The maze of dreams he'd had over the last week confused him, ached in his head. Disoriented, he blinked, trying to see in the inky blackness.

  "Jack." Her voice was liquid moonlight, bringing substance to the night. She moved, and he saw her shadow. She drew nearer and made him feel more alive. "Let me touch your brow."

  "I'm better." The words rasped from his damaged throat. The doctor said his voice would return, but it would take time, like the burns on his back.

  "Yes. You feel cooler. But you still aren't out of danger." She sat on the bed beside him. The feather mattress dipped beneath her weight, the ropes squeaked a bit. Her hand brushed the side of his jaw, silken skin against his day's growth. "Another bad dream?"

  "Not bad." Just disorienting—the days and nights spent in bed, half-feverish, racked with pain, had been impossible to count. "I want up. I want to sit on the porch."

  "No." She brushed a kiss to his brow, velvet heat and tender comfort. "You take a chill now, and that fever could return with a vengeance."

  "I'm tougher than that." Troubling images remained in his mind—of the Montana plains, the rugged mountains of the Rockies, the pine and fir he knew by scent. He had no doubt the dreams were memories, disjointed pieces of himself. "I need to get up, Lissa."

  "You're an injured man. You need to stay in this bed and rest."

  He laid his hand on hers, felt the satin wonder of her skin, and the burns on his fingers protested the touch. He did not let her go. "Come with me. You've sheltered me from trouble enough. I'm better."

  "I'm not going to let you take any more risks. I've come close to losing you twice now."

  "Please."

  "No," she said, but she smiled.

  He eased up off his side. Pain screamed across patches of his back where the skin and muscle felt tight. He sat all the way up, put his bare feet on the ground.

  "Change your mind?" she asked with another smile in her voice.

  "No. Just catching my breath." Truth was, pain sliced through his flesh and muscle like a dull-edged knife. He'd spent too many days in that bed—he didn't even know how many—fighting the pain and the fever. "I'm going to stand up any minute now."

  "You are so stubborn." Her voice was warm and fragile, as if she were too afraid to hope he was improving. "I could push you back into bed if I wanted to."

  "Have mercy. I'm a weak man."

  That made her laugh, a brightness in the night that could warm any darkness. "Let me get the lamp so you don't trip."

  "I'd appreciate it." He could see the faint shadow of her movement, all elegance and grace, heard the clink of the crystal chimney, then the scrape of the match. Flame leaped to life, brushing Lissa's face. She lit the wick and doused the match. She had no idea that every time she breathed it affected him—her every move, her every smile, her every word. "I don't suppose you have any sweets in the kitchen."

  "I think there's a piece or two of angel food cake I could let you have, with the proper reward."

  "Reward?" He stood, tried to keep steady on his bandaged feet "Lady, if you're trying to get me to kiss you, you've picked the right bribe."

  "I thought so." Her lightness shivered over him like a flame on a wick.

  He caught her hand in his bandaged one. Her skin was red in spots, but still soft. He kissed her knuckles, remembered the bright hot fear when he thought she was dead, consumed by that towering wall of fire. Any amount of pain now was worth her life, worth having her here to look at to hold, to touch.

  "You took care of me." He remembered her voice, the caress of her hand at his brow, the solid comfort of her fingers twined around his.

  "Somebody had to do it." she teased, but there in her eyes he could see her true meaning, see the glistening spark of affection she had never once confessed.

  His chest squeezed, and he was grateful—very grateful indeed.

  The kitchen was dark, the front room curtains drawn tight against the starlight. While Lissa lit a lamp at the table, he crossed the room and pulled back the ruffled fabric. The sky above was dark with clouds, but a few patches of stars broke through.

  "You haven't mentioned the baby." His footfalls echoed in the stillness as Lissa looked up from the drawer, knife gripped in one hand.

  Lamplight sparkled along the steel blade, illuminated the blue of her eyes. Her mouth opened and in that moment before she spoke, he feared he already knew. The foul smoke, the upset, the burns she had to have suffered that night even though he did his best to protect her from the fire, they all must have taken a toll on her body. She must have lost the baby.

  She put the knife down. Her movements filled the room, her nightgown shimmering in the darkness as she drew near.

  "No, Jack." She laid her hand along his jaw, her touch more than tender. "The doctor wants to examine me one more time to be sure, but everything seems fine. At least, so far."

  He heard the thinness of her voice, but his own emotion, so strong and sharp that it filled him up, gave him hope. "A baby." It seemed impossible, and yet good, so very good. "We're going to have a baby."

  Lissa's smile radiated across her face, but her eyes were dark. "There's something else I should tell you, before you get too excited."

  Again, that wobbly voice. The happiness dimmed, and he brushed those tangled curls from her eyes. "Tell me."

  Her throat worked. Tears glimmered on her cheeks. "The last two times I was pregnant, I didn't carry the babies long enough. I'm afraid it could happen again."

  He'd seen the graves on the small knoll facing the setting sun and the mountains, and he hurt for her. "That doesn't mean it will happen this time."

  "It could." Her fear, her failure, lowered her voice. "The first one lived only a day. He was so very tiny, too small to breathe well on his own. And the second little boy lived two whole months, even though he was born almost as early, but when the diphtheria passed through he was too small to fight it. I lost him a day before I lost Michael."

  He folded his arms around her, held her tight against his chest, against his heart. Her sorrow felt like his own, and nothing had hurt so much before. Nothing.

  "I don't want to fail you, Jack. I—"

  "Shh." He kissed her mouth so she would not say such words, silenced the fears he could not bear. He tasted her tears and her hopes, her passions and sorrow. He held her so tightly that he could not tell where she began and he ended. The night wrapped around them like a cloak, and in the darkness they were not alone, and it felt as if they would never be alone again.

  "Looks like we lost most of the crop." Jack stood with his back to the sun, hands on his hips, as solid as the mountains at the horizon, as strong as the land.

  Lissa squinted against the low, bright rays to study the devastation. "All the oats, half the corn."

  "Damn." Time had passed before Jack was strong enough to be up and about, and even then his major burns, still bandaged beneath his shirt, drew the color from his face and made his eyes pinch with pain. He walked stiffly, but without complaint. "Damn."

  "At least we still have the hay. The fire missed half our fields. The cattle are all safe."

  "I'm grateful for that." He knuckled back his hat but he didn't sound grateful. "I should have stopped the fire. Look at all it did."

  The scarred land, the blackened skeletons of trees and bushes looked like an ugly wound on the peaceful land. "You did what you could, Jack, and more. It's all the ranch hands and the neighbors have talked about for weeks."

  He shrugged, said nothing, but his disappointment in himself, his defeat at the situation, lined his face, weighed down his shoulders. "We're lucky that cattle prices are up."

  "We could mortgage the land."

  "Not unless we have to." He sighed, a release of frustration. "We'll see what the rest of the summer brings."

  "Good things." At least she hoped so. They'd had their share of hard luck. The sound of laughter drew her gaze. There, in the yard by the house, wa
s Chad playing chase with his puppy, the growing dog awkward on her too-big feet. The barking and laughter blended together into a happy noise, a sound that made Lissa's chest warm.

  Good things. How she wanted them for her son and for the baby she carried, for this husband of hers with no name.

  Horse hooves crunching in the gravel broke apart the moment of closeness. Lissa stepped out of Jack's arms to see a figure in black, hat slung slow, riding closer.

  " 'Morning, Lissa."

  "Sheriff." She saw the grim line of his mouth, and her stomach fell. "What brings you out our way?"

  "It's your husband I want to talk to." Ike Palmer, tall and lean, dropped his knotted reins. He placed both beefy hands on the handles of his holstered revolvers. "Got a minute, Murray?"

  Jack didn't miss the distaste in the sheriff's voice. "I've got time, Palmer. What do you want?"

  "Answers." A cynical grin shaped the word.

  Warning prickled along the back of his neck, tightened into a cold ball in his gut. "Answers to what?"

  "Your true identity." That grin widened, grew menacing. "You see, I had a friend of mine check up on Deputy John Murray. Seems Michael's cousin is alive and well, and still at his job in St. Louis."

  Trouble. Jack tasted it, smelled it "I don't see that it's any of your business."

  "Well, considering my friendship with Lissa, I thought she might want to know she didn't marry the right man." Palmer's fingers caressed the polished walnut handles of his revolvers. "Lissa, you know I care for you. If you want me to throw this varmint off your land, it will be my pleasure."

  Lissa paled. Jack saw the tension tight in her jaw. The wind whipped at her pink gingham dress. Then she lifted her chin, all fire, all fight. "I already know Jack isn't John Murray. We've known for some time, Ike."

  "Damn you." The sheriff's mouth twisted as he drew one revolver, cocked the hammer. He swung off his horse, all boastful power and confidence. "I knew I didn't like you, Jack, or whatever your name is. Now I know why. You've been taking advantage of her, maybe threatening her."

  "That's not true." Jack saw the lawman's intent. "I'm no danger to Lissa."

  "Did you threaten to hurt her? Or her son?" Palmer jammed the nose of the revolver against Jack's temple.

  Pain shot through his head. "No, I—"

  "Ike!" Lissa's voice rang high and clear, vibrating with fury. "Stop it. Right now."

  Jack saw her hand curl around the sheriff's upper arm. "Ike!" Lissa fumed. "Put down the gun—"

  "Palmer." Jack kept his voice low, but threatening. "Put the gun down. I'm not armed."

  The sheriff didn't relent. His gaze traveled to Lissa, who was shouting at him to lower his revolver. "Did he hurt you, Lissa? Did he?"

  "No." She kicked Palmer in the shin. "Let him go right now."

  "Ow. That hurt." The sheriff's attention slipped a notch.

  Jack grabbed Palmer's wrist, twisted the gun from his temple in one quick movement. Before the sheriff could protest he was on his knees in the dirt and Jack was holding the cocked revolver.

  "Don't even try drawing your other gun." He towered over the sheriff, then released the hammer. "I'm not your enemy, and you know it. I didn't force Lissa into marrying me, or staying married to me."

  "It's true, Ike." Lissa held out her hand.

  She wanted the gun. Jack considered it, knew it was pointless to threaten a sheriff. He laid the revolver on her palm. Anger snapped like blue sparks in her eyes. Her jaw was clenched tight as she threw the revolver into the dust at Palmer's knees. "You know how I feel about threats and firearms on my land."

  Palmer stood, swiping the dust from his knees. "Lissa, I only meant to protect you."

  "Don't lie to me." Her voice tremored with fury. "When you threaten my husband you threaten me, Ike. I can't believe you would do this. I thought you were my friend."

  "I was Michael's friend." Palmer reached down to retrieve the revolver.

  Jack heard what the lawman did not say. He might have been Michael's friend, but he had coveted his friend's wife—and wanted her still.

  "A friend wouldn't storm in here and try to kill my husband. What if I hadn't known the truth about Jack? You didn't think about me, or how the truth could have hurt me. You only cared about waving your gun around. You know that's one of the reasons I could never marry you. You have a violent side."

  "What about him?" Palmer holstered his gun. "He could be the outlaw missing in these parts."

  "I'm no outlaw." Jack stepped forward, fists tight, spine set. "You can count on that."

  "On what? Your word? From a man hiding behind a woman's skirt?" The sheriff's face soured. "A United States Marshal is missing, presumed dead, killed by a man on the loose in these parts. Now, for all I know you could be that man."

  "Or not." Jack's heart jumped. His palms felt clammy, but he kept his hands fisted, his resolve firm. He would not let Palmer see his fear.

  "I've sent away to Billings for the outlaw's description. As I see it, it's fifty-fifty odds that you're an outlaw." Palmer caught his gelding by the bit.

  "Then it's fifty-fifty that I'm not." Jack met the sheriff's gaze, didn't blink, didn't back down.

  "Don't be leaving town, or I'll hunt you down myself." Palmer swung up in the saddle, but his gaze never wavered—black, cold, hateful. "I don't take kindly to a murdering, thieving outlaw hiding out in my jurisdiction. Remember that, Jack."

  "I'm no outlaw, and I don't run."

  "How do you know? Or did your memory come back?" Palmer laughed, as he reined his horse around. "Lissa, I won't arrest this joker yet, because I know you need someone to run your ranch until roundup. But if he's the man I think he is, then I'm coming back with my deputies and enough gunpower to take him in. There will be nothing you can do or say that will stop me."

  Rocks and earth churned beneath the gelding's hooves as the sheriff galloped out of sight. Jack watched the lawman go.

  "I'll speak with him." Lissa's jaw was still tight her spine straight as a post. Anger rang in her words, sparked in her eyes. "He can't start throwing accusations around like that. What if people start to believe him? You're no outlaw. You—"

  "Lissa." He knew he was gruff, knew he should lower his voice, but he couldn't.

  She gazed up at him with startled eyes, too wide, too hurt. "No. I don't believe it."

  "What if it's true?"

  A family of larks settled down on nearby thistles, bobbing and squawking. Baby birds flapped their wings for their mother's attention. Jack felt nothing save for a great coldness settling in his chest.

  "It can't be true." Lissa's chin never wavered. "I know who you are, the kind of man you are. You're honorable and courageous. You're Chad's new father, and the father of the baby I'm carrying. You're my husband, not an outlaw. Palmer is just jealous, he's just posturing—"

  "No," he interrupted with a voice that was harsh and steely. "It makes sense. The horse I had, it wasn't mine. The saddle wasn't my saddle. I still had money in my billfold. I figured someone had tried to rob me, figured maybe they'd failed, that maybe the wildcat had come along and interrupted."

  "You're the most gentle man I've ever known." Sunlight danced in her hair, in curls as gold as heaven. She looked like an avenging angel, all steel velvet and grace, determined to protect him, to believe in him.

  His heart broke into a million pieces. "I'm also the most deadly. You can't deny it."

  "No." She tucked her lower lip between her teeth. "I know you, Jack. You're not a bad man, not at heart."

  "We don't know what I was before I came here." He swept off his hat, raked his hand through his hair. "I could be an escaped felon. Look how I handle a gun. I can shoot at a group of men and kill almost every one of them, even when they're shooting back at me."

  "I saw." Her throat tightened. Emotion knotted there, and she could barely breathe.

  "I'm deadly accurate with a gun. I can outshoot men who steal for a living, men no other law-abiding citizen in th
ese parts could bring down." Wind tousled his dark blond curls over his forehead, leaving half-wild, rakish locks hiding his eyes. With his hard voice and steely strength, he looked every bit a criminal, a man living on the wrong side of the law.

  "You're still my husband." She meant those words, even if they frightened her. "The sheriff still has to prove you're that missing outlaw. He has to prove it, not just accuse."

  "All it will do is buy me some time." His eyes darkened with what could only be sorrow.

  "You might be someone else, Jack."

  "No. I've had some dreams. Nothing that made sense, until now." Iron-strong, he stood with his back to the sun. Golden light limned him like an archangel, but his face was dark—so very dark. "I know I've lived in Montana a long time. I know however I made my living, I did it carrying a gun."

  "Maybe—"

  "No, Lissa." He stepped away, into the wind, scattering the birds from their perches on the thistles. "I know the outlaw's name. I recognized it."

  "But Ike never said—"

  "He talked to me earlier, in town. Let's just hope to God I'm not Dillon Plummer, that I don't match his description. He's a murderer, Lissa. And that man, he could be me."

  Her heart broke with every step he took away from her. A wall as high as the sky separated them now. She could feel it even if she could not see it. She knew what kind of man she'd married—the best of men, one honorable enough to tempt even her wary heart. And yet how could she lean on him now? Need him? Love him? Jack said there was a possibility he was an outlaw. Tears blurred her vision, but she did not look away, did not stop watching him—not until he was nothing but a blur in the golden fields, and then nothing, nothing at all.

  Chapter Fifteen

  "Mama, Puddles doesn't know how to share."

  Lissa looked up from creaming sugar and butter to see Chad sitting on the floor, one cookie in hand, the other hand empty. Puddles sat on his lap. Winston sat daintily next to her boy, her belly hiding her toes.