Jillian Hart

by Lissa's Cowboy

"Do you think it will help him?"

  "He thought so." She scrubbed the knives, then the spoons. "Ike wouldn't let me see him yesterday."

  "I could try to persuade Palmer to change his mind."

  Lissa glanced over her shoulder. "I like the sound of that."

  Hammering echoed in the cell and reverberated through his head. Despite the cracking pain, Jack climbed up on the cot to look out the tiny window. He could see the street, coated thick with snow, smell the scent of wood smoke in the air.

  If he stood on his toes he could see the bright color of raw lumber leaning against the awning post of the jail, and the feet of the men as they worked—building the scaffold.

  "When's the hangin' gonna be, Sheriff?" a man asked. He sounded like Anders, a man who had lost his herd and held a grudge against Jack.

  "As soon as we get this thing up." Palmer sounded cocky, proud of himself—too damn proud.

  Jack listened to the hammering and doubted the judge could intervene in time.

  * * *

  "What are they buildin', Mama?"

  Lissa opened her mouth but could not force an answer around the knot in her windpipe. Her gaze arrowed to the scaffolding.

  "Will, stop the sleigh."

  The floor was already built. Sawdust and mud littered the base of it, the bright wooden surface already slick with falling snow.

  "Mama, what are they buildin' that for?"

  The sleigh skidded to a halt. She climbed out, careful not to slip. "Chad, I want you to stay with Will. Will, could you take Chad over to Blanche's, please? Tell her what is happening."

  "Sure thing." Grim-faced, Will snapped the reins against Charlie's behind. The horse and sleigh pulled away, Chad's question high in the air.

  "Mama, what's it for?"

  She knew. Cattle rustling was a hanging offense. Sheriff Palmer was wasting no time.

  "Ike." She caught him by the arm, forcing him to turn around.

  "Why, Lissa. I didn't think you would have the courage to show your face in town today."

  "Why wouldn't I?" She wanted to wipe the smugness off his face. "Jack is innocent."

  "I have proof. Anders says he saw a bay horse with socks and a blaze, just like Jack's, ridden by one of the men who stole his herd."

  "He saw Jack clearly?"

  Ike's eyes glittered. "He saw a man fitting Jack's description. That's good enough from a distance."

  "It's not proof, and you know it." Lissa felt cold with anger. "Give him a trial, or let him go."

  "Not on my life." Palmer flipped the hammer from one hand to the other. "No one can say I'm not doing my job. I've stopped the man who has been stealing from our friends and neighbors."

  "Don't you dare hang him." Lissa grabbed hold of Ike's collar and held him hard.

  "Don't dare me." He had to struggle to break her hold, and when he did he held her wrist hard enough to bruise it. "I can have your beloved husband swinging by his neck by supper, if I've a mind to."

  "Don't you—"

  "Let me take you down a peg, Miss High and Mighty." Ike wrenched her wrist, dragging her after him.

  Lissa stumbled on chunks of ice and snow, struggling to keep on her feet. Her added bulk made it harder. She slid to a breathless stop behind him in the jail office. He grabbed a burlap sack and upended it An old hand gun bearing the ranch's brand etched into its wooden grip clattered to a rest on Ike's desktop.

  "You took that from Jack when you arrested him." She wasn't fooled.

  "No. Ian McBains and Deputy Deakins found it. I hear he wanted to give Jack a chance to prove his innocence first since your husband is Will's boss, but Jack couldn't do it."

  "No." Lissa recognized the old Colt as one of the extra guns they kept in the tack room in case of an emergency. The last time she'd seen the gun was just after Jack brought in the mountain lion. "Anyone could have grabbed the gun and dropped it in McBains's field."

  "Anyone with a bay gelding matching your husband's description. Old Lady Mcintosh, who was up tending her ill husband late at night swears she saw Jack ride past her cottage on North Fork Road driving a herd of cattle."

  "By himself?"

  "With his accomplices." Palmer's grin glittered with triumph. "This comes as warning to your ranch hands. If I find any more evidence, they may be the next to hang."

  Fury threatened to overtake her. She fought for breath, feeling the tension tight in her shoulders, clutched around her spine. Pain sliced through her stomach. She was only upset, that was all. She breathed deep, trying to relax. "I'm going to prove you wrong, Ike. I don't know how, but I'm going to—"

  "Palmer!" Jack's voice interrupted, ringing in the corners of his cell. "Get Lissa out of here."

  "You're in a fine position to be giving orders."

  "I don't want her here."

  "I want to see him." Lissa turned her back on the sheriff's evidence.

  Palmer grabbed her by the arm. "You're leaving. And if you're lucky, you'll be a widow before nightfall."

  "Jack?" she called as Palmer escorted her to the door. She tried to fight him, as strong as she was, but the baby she carried was priceless. She did not want to risk falling. "Jack? Answer me."

  Nothing. Not a word of love. Not a request for help. Nothing.

  "See? He's guilty." Palmer chuckled as the snow struck her face, as the bitter wind burned her exposed skin.

  "Jack." His name still tumbled from her lips, ached in her heart.

  The only answer was the ring of the hammers in the still morning air.

  Jack heard her tears, felt the weight of what he'd done as Palmer slammed shut the jail door and he was alone.

  His memories might be patchy, but he knew enough to know why he had never married, never wanted a wife and family, never wanted to face his past. Lissa was safer away from Sheriff Palmer, and away from the man his father swore he would grow up to be.

  Jack just needed rest, that's what Lissa told herself as Blanche tucked her into bed in the family's spare room. Jack had hit his head. He wasn't himself. Tomorrow he would be glad to see her, would welcome her with that lopsided grin she loved so well, had kissed so often.

  A tiny voice inside her, the one that often spoke truth, reminded her there was another problem, one not even the strength of her love could soothe away. Jack had remembered, she was sure, and he was going to leave her.

  "Sleep well," Blanche's voice caressed the sincere wish like the lamplight in the room. She turned down the wick, the flame died, and only the dark grayness of a stormy afternoon remained.

  Lissa felt fatigue weigh down her body like lead. She closed her eyes, drifting off into a world of darkness and no dreams.

  A sharp pain tore her awake, followed by another. A tight clamping around her stomach brought tears to her eyes, panic to her heart. It can't be.

  "Blanche!" She stood, hand on her stomach. Her water broke, running down her legs onto the polished floor, and she felt the ebb of her last hopes. It was too early. Much too early.

  The door flung open. Lamplight from the hallway tumbled into the room, brushing over Blanche, wearing an apron, a paring knife in hand. "Lissa? Lissa, what's wrong?"

  Another pain clamped tightly, and she groaned, unable to hold it back.

  "Oh, Lord." Blanche slipped the knife into her apron pocket and grabbed Lissa's arm. "We have to get you back to bed. Jeremiah! Run and get Doc. Then ride out to the Johanson's ranch and fetch Sophie. Hurry!"

  Jack. Lissa thought of him locked away in that cell, ice white on the bars. "Tell Jack."

  "Jeremiah will." Blanche's touch was comforting, solid, stable in a world overtaken by pain.

  "I can't lose this baby." Lissa gritted her teeth, determined this time would be different. "Please, don't let me lose Jack's baby."

  It was too early, though. Much too early.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  "I want you to drink as much of this as you can." Sophie knelt beside the bed, one of Blanche's china cups in hand. Steam lifted from
the cup, curling invitingly.

  Lissa managed to shake her head. "I can't."

  "It's pineapple weed tea." Sophie held the cup to Lissa's lips. "You must drink. It will build up your blood for childbirth. It will give you strength."

  Another contraction gripped her. Pain built in her back, tightened like a vise around her stomach. Sweat gathered on her brow, dampened her body. She gasped for breath. "I still have seven weeks to go."

  Sophie nodded. "Drink."

  Lissa did, sipping the tart tea, letting it slide down her throat. "Michael Junior was born this early. He wasn't strong enough to breathe on his own."

  "Drink more." Sophie tipped the cup.

  Soothing tea sluiced over her lips, into her mouth. She tried to swallow, and swallowed tears instead. She'd known all along this could happen. How could she bear to lose Jack's child?

  The contraction released her, and she leaned back into the pillows. Exhaustion enveloped her.

  "Rest as much as you can." Sophie set down the cup, took her hand.

  Lissa heard Sophie turn to whisper to Blanche, but the words were lost to her as another wave of pain washed over her.

  "Here's some more tea." Sophie padded quietly into the midnight dark room.

  "No more tea." Lissa gritted her teeth. "Besides, it tastes terrible."

  "It will help with the pain." Sophie sat down beside her. "You look pretty tired."

  "I'm ready for this to be over." The contraction ended. Lissa leaned back into the pillows. "Something is wrong with the baby."

  "Doc and I are doing all we can."

  Another clamp of pain gripped her. Lissa lost her breath, sat up into her friend's arms, gritted her teeth. Sweat sluiced down her face. "I can't go on like this."

  "It won't be much longer now. Here, drink up."

  The contraction released, only to wash over her again. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't bear it.

  "Sophie." Doc looked up from the foot of the bed. "Get down here. We have a problem."

  Lissa felt dizzy with pain, felt the weight of exhaustion. Sharp, hard contractions left her helpless. What was the problem? What was the doctor saying to Sophie?

  She felt the wetness, felt the tearing pain. She was bleeding. She didn't even have to ask. What did it mean? What about the baby? Was he going to die? The thought of losing Jack's baby rent her in two, left her weak, left her crying.

  Sophie took her hand. "We need you to push, Lissa."

  "I don't think I can."

  "You have to." Sympathy burned in those dark eyes. "The cord is around the baby's neck, and I can't loosen it."

  Lissa pushed. Pain ripped through her, unnatural and like nothing she'd known before. She felt her own blood pool beneath her, felt her heart dying a bit.

  Sophie took her hand and held on tight. She didn't have to question her friend to know the truth, to know what both Sophie and the doctor feared.

  The baby might already be dead.

  Jack heard the clang of the outer door, then the drum of footsteps. Glass dunked, then light licked along the floor, coming closer. He wondered if Palmer had given up his promise to hang him in the morning, and wanted to do it now, in the dark of night, when no one could stop him.

  The sheriff stepped into sight, the swinging lantern flickering orange flames. Jack's chest tightened. It looked as if he'd run out of time.

  "Jack." Jeremiah Buchman's voice rose in the darkness. There in the shadows the tall man emerged, behind Palmer. "Lissa's in labor."

  "Labor?" Alarm buzzed down his spine. Fear settled into a cold ball in his guts. "It's too early. She's—"

  "Having a hard time." Jeremiah stepped into the light, his long face grim. "Sophie and Doc are both with her. There is a problem. Lissa is losing a lot of blood."

  "Will she be all right?"

  "There's no telling. She's losing strength fast. "Jeremiah bowed his chin. "Open the door, Palmer."

  Palmer's face was bowed, too. His voice, when he spoke, was strained. "You understand this is just for the night."

  "I understand." Jeremiah shrugged. "Sometimes being mayor pays off. And being friends of a mayor does, too."

  "I don't like it," Palmer growled low, over the sound of keys clanging in the lock. "My deputy and I are staying close. You try to run, and we'll do whatever it takes to stop you."

  "You get to be with Lissa, Jack. "Jeremiah tugged open the barred door. "She's asking for you."

  "I could lose her." The knowledge left him cold, numb, and unable to move. His anger and his worries died with the thought of Lissa's suffering. "Is she home?"

  "She's at our house." Jeremiah stepped aside. "Come with me. Palmer, this is decent of you."

  The big sheriff said nothing. His head remained bowed, and his tipped hat brim covered his shadowed face. He said nothing as Jack walked away, out into the world with fears as dark as the night.

  "She's been in labor since early afternoon." Jeremiah spoke over the crunch of their footsteps in the frozen snow, despite the bitterness of the winter air. "Blanche is worried we will lose her."

  Jack's heart felt as brittle as the ice at their feet. The Buchmans' house shone in the darkness, every room lit, a cozy sight on such a frigid night.

  "I hope we're in time." Jeremiah's hand paused on the doorknob. "I just want you to be prepared, Jack. The news may not be good."

  "I'm prepared." He felt pain so deep it froze him, dark as the night, bitter as the wind. They stepped into a silent house, so silent that a clock's tick could be heard two rooms away. Fire snapped and crackled in the hearth and wood popped in the belly of the kitchen stove, but that was all.

  Jack knew without asking, was afraid to ask. Just like that, a man could lose everything—everything that mattered to him. He thought of John Murray, the man he'd inadvertently replaced, who had lost a wife and child. Thought of Ike Palmer, who had lost a wife and baby. Thought of Lissa, who had buried a husband and two sons. How did they go on living? Jack didn't know if he could take another breath.

  "Jack." Low and solemn, Sophie's voice whispered in the upper shadows of the stairwell.

  His heart broke—one piece at a time, a slow, horrible rending that left him unable to move. He heard the soft squeak of a board on the stair, heard the faintest brush of her moccasins against wood.

  "Do you want to meet your son?" She stepped into view, cradling a tiny bundle in both arms.

  "Lissa?" He choked. Tears stung his eyes.

  "She's resting." Sophie laid the baby in his arms—so light, it could have been nothing but the blanket "He's small, but that's to be expected. He's a strong baby. I think he just might make it. I'm giving Lissa plenty of rush skeletonweed and baneberry tea. It will bring strength to them both."

  "Thank you, Sophie." Overcome, he was afraid to move, afraid to break the magic, afraid to believe that Lissa was truly fine.

  "Take a look at your son. He's a handsome boy." Sophie lifted the corner of the blanket, revealing a tightly scrunched face, round and sleepy.

  Lissa's nose. His chin. He stared in amazement at the baby, their son. Tears wedged in his throat, filled his eyes at a love so strong it overwhelmed him, so enormous there was no end.

  "He's had quite a hard time of things so far, with just coming into the world. He's tired like his mother, but he is perfect." Like song, Sophie's voice tugged at his heart, made it safe to believe again. "Come upstairs and see your wife."

  "Are you sure she's fine?"

  "As sure as I can be." Sophie smiled, leading the way up the stairs and into the second story. "She's sleeping, too, which is good. She needs to heal and gather her strength. Being a new mother isn't easy."

  A door creaked open. A single lamp had been turned low, brushing the bed, caressing the sweet face of his wife. She looked so peaceful, but he saw at once how pale she was, how exhaustion bruised her skin.

  A fire crackled in the hearth, keeping the room warm. Jack sat down in the chair by the bed, hating to disturb the woman who had given
him the greatest of gifts, the finest life he'd ever known.

  Lissa stirred. Her eyes flickered open, and her smile shimmered with joy. "Jeremiah said he was going to try to get you out of jail."

  "He forced Palmer into letting me go. Of course, there are two armed men stationed at both doors, but I'm not going anywhere."

  "You'd better not." She lifted up on one elbow, her hair of gold framing her face, glinting in the low light. "What do you think of your son?"

  "I think he's mighty fine." Pride made his voice thick. "You did good, Lissa."

  "I'm so glad he's able to breathe." Her voice sounded thick with tears, too, and weak, so very weak. "He didn't make a sound right away after he was born. But then he let out a tiny little cry. He's going to be fine."

  "I know he is." Jack leaned forward, brushed her brow with a kiss. How tired she looked, how beautiful. His heart might be breaking, but he didn't want it to show—not now, not during their last time together. "Palmer's going to haul me back to jail soon, but I want you to know something."

  "What?"

  "Living with you and having the privilege of loving you has been the sweetest thing I have ever known."

  Tears sparkled in her eyes, but the love for him, the love they had together, shone through. "You have made me a stronger person, Jack, just from knowing you. And you've given me another son."

  She brushed her hand along the side of the baby's face, his eyes scrunched tight against the light "What are we going to name someone so precious?"

  "Joseph." His throat filled. "Joey. I would like to name him Joey."

  Palmer sat in the dark room. An opened bottle of whiskey scented the air, growing warmer from the fire in the stove. Flames crackled and popped, and an occasional wind gust rattled the door and released a puff of smoke. Otherwise, the night was quiet.

  Three more hours until dawn, when he had decided to hang Jack Emerson. Palmer thought of that remembered the look of grief on Jack Emerson's face when he thought he could lose Lissa to childbirth. Memories he didn't want washed over him, hard and sharp, more painful than any wound. Stella had died in his arms, crying in agony. Doc hadn't been at her side. Sophie hadn't been crushing her herbs. The mayor hadn't been arguing on his behalf.