Jillian Hart

by Lissa's Cowboy

  Hanging Emerson was right. It solved a dozen problems, and it gave Palmer a new chance. Maybe that was what he needed—a new town, a more satisfying job, money to buy whatever he needed. Money would protect him. It could have convinced Doc to stay in town in case Stella needed him. It could have bought a finer home, a better life for the son who never lived.

  Bitterness filled the empty chambers of his heart, the dark emptiness of his soul. He'd heard Lissa lived. Of course she had. She might not be rich, but she had the biggest spread in the county. She had assets, and that had guaranteed a doctor at her side.

  Palmer took another drink, hating the man he'd become. He'd lost his hope, his heart, and his humanity. Now all he wanted was the oblivion a good bottle of whiskey could give him—and revenge. How he wanted revenge.

  He would hang Jack Emerson two hours early, before his wife, the great mayor Jeremiah Buchman, or any other Good Samaritan could stop him. It would be just the dawn, a few of his friends, and Jack Emerson hanging from a noose.

  Lissa laid Joey down to rest in the cradle Blanche had brought down from her attic, dusted, and cleaned. The baby was very tiny, but he carried Jack's blood in his veins. He was strong. He would live. She knew it in her heart.

  "Chad wants to see his new brother." Blanche stood in the threshold, growing round with her pregnancy, a little blond boy at her side. "Can he come in?"

  "Chad." Lissa held out her arms and her son dashed across the room. He tumbled against her.

  "You didn't tuck me in last night. Mr. Buchman said you couldn't come because of the baby."

  "Tonight I will read to you. That's a promise." Lissa brushed the locks from his forehead and kissed his brow. "Come meet Joey."

  Solemn, Chad's hand slid into hers. He peered over the top of the cradle, his face seriously studying the baby asleep beneath the blankets. "That's my brother?"

  "That's him." Lissa took hold of Joey's tiny clenched fist. "You're a big brother, now. That's something special."

  "I know." Chad nodded, his shoulders set, his spine straight, his posture just like Jack's. "Joey, I'll let you play with my dog when we get home. And when you're bigger, I'm gonna teach you to ride."

  Lissa's throat filled. The first light of dawn beckoned at the windows, peach and gold, the colors of a new day.

  Their baby was safely born. Now she would find a way to save Jack, just the way he had always saved her. It was only six o'clock. She had two hours—two hours to ask Jeremiah and the ranch hands to help her with a plan.

  Jack saw the light change from gray to peach, felt the morning come with the reverence of nature—birds sang, a rooster crowed, a wind whispered along the frozen ground, all announcing the new day.

  He hadn't slept since leaving Lissa's side. He sat in the darkness. His life before knowing her was patchy, but what he remembered was bleak—a small house, lonely and silent. His days always ended in that house, in the quiet, so lonely he hurt.

  She had given him everything he'd ever dreamed of, ever wished for: The beauty of a woman's love, the honor of being a father, a rare happiness found in precious moments—really just normal moments made up from the sight of Lissa's smile over the supper table, or reading his son asleep, or picking berries in the rain. Those moments made up the pieces of a man's life, made it whole.

  "Ready to hang?" Palmer strode into sight his stride cocky, his grin triumphant. Why didn't that surprise Jack?

  "You know I have a right to a trial."

  "Too bad life is unfair." Palmer slid the key in the lock. "Of course, you'll be dead before anyone will know."

  The door swung free. "And lucky me. I have the honor of placing the noose around your neck."

  "How are you going to silence the livery owner? How are you going to keep Will quiet? Those men know the truth."

  Palmer shrugged. "Threats have worked with the stable man. And accidents happen all the time on a ranch. Will should remember that."

  The morning sun stung his eyes as Jack stepped out into the street. The scaffold smelled of new lumber and rose up against the east horizon, silhouetted by peach and gold.

  There was no one out so early in the morning. Only Anders, Hubbard, Lambert, and a few of the men who had threatened him now strolled out of businesses and saloons. Palmer tugged him up onto the floor of the scaffold.

  He thought of Lissa, thought of all he had wanted to do for the boys. Hunting and fishing, and sending them to college—these were the dreams he'd nurtured. Now, he would not have a hand in his sons' lives, or their futures.

  Palmer drew down the noose. "I want you to see we spared no expense in building this scaffold. We wanted to do a good job, one we could be proud of."

  Jack said nothing. He would not spend the last moments of his life arguing with a murderer. Palmer pulled the hemp over Jack's head. The rope was rough and scratched his face, bit into his neck.

  "Tight enough, Emerson?"

  Hearing that name spoken startled him. A memory, vague and shadowed, flickered through his mind. Emerson, Emerson. Marshal Jack Emerson. He was a Federal Marshal out of Helena. He'd been taking Dillon Plummer to trial.

  Looking into the glittering darkness of Ike Palmer's eyes, Jack saw the truth. The sheriff knew Jack's true identity, and had for some time.

  "Say good-bye, Marshal." He whispered the words.

  Deakins hit the lever. The floor dropped out from beneath Jack's boots. The noose snapped tight around his neck.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Jack caught hold of the rope above his head, fighting even though he knew it was useless. Down below, Deakins laughed. Anders spit a stream of tobacco that hit Jack square in the chest.

  "You're taking a long time to die." Palmer gave him another hard push, sending him swinging. The rope pulled harder at his throat.

  Then he heard the clink of shod hooves on ice. A shot rang out, the rope gave, and Jack tumbled. He hit the wood flat on his back. Pain and shock bolted through him. Blood covered his hands from where the noose had rubbed his skin away. He tugged off the rope and drew in fresh morning air.

  A shadow covered him, tall as the sky, invincible.

  "What are you lawmen doing hanging my brother?"

  Jack saw the glint of the marshal's badge, saw the blond curls and broad shoulders, the blue eyes so like his own. It all rushed back—the memories lost, the past buried, the dreams that came in pieces in the night now whole.

  "Look out!" He saw Palmer draw, tried to jump up.

  A shot rang out. Surprise twisted Palmer's face as the gun fell from his injured hand. Blood dripped down his arm, stained his sleeve.

  "Don't even think of firing on a Federal Marshal, boys." Joe Emerson wheeled his horse around, keeping his eye on all the men. "Up against the wall, all of you. Or I start shooting."

  "But this here's a cattle rustler," Hubbard belted out.

  "There's not a chance in hell of that." Joe fired his gun, cracking ice an inch from Hubbard's boot. "Move."

  The rancher stumbled up against the jailhouse wall. Jack still struggled for air as his brother dismounted. "The judge couldn't believe the telegram. Told me to ride down and fetch you. I pushed hard all the way. Looks like I came in time."

  "Your timing and your aim couldn't be better." Jack hugged his brother, felt good to know Joe was safe, not lost, as he'd feared from his dreams. "Palmer and Deakins are the rustlers. I say we escort them to the territorial prison to await a fair trial."

  "Sounds reasonable to me." Joe tossed him a set of handcuffs. "What about the others?"

  "They may be drunk, but that's their only offense." Jack took pleasure in relieving Palmer of his other gun and the knife in his boot. He cuffed the man and tossed him into his own jail, beside his whimpering deputy.

  Joe helped himself to the coffee simmering on the jailhouse stove. "I still can't believe my eyes every time I look at you. I thought you were dead. Plummer confessed to shooting you in the head."

  "I woke up and I didn't know where I
was." Jack grabbed two cups from a nearby shelf and held them while his brother poured.

  "We had men looking for you. We didn't think you were this far south, judging from Plummer's crime spree." Joe grabbed the sugar and measured out four heaping teaspoons. Then he offered the jar to Jack.

  "There are some things I have to do first, before we leave." He thought of Lissa, wondered what kind of future they could have now.

  "I'll stay here and keep an eye on our prisoners. They are lucky I'm in a good mood." Joe grinned, and a brother's love shone there, as strong as the affection in his own heart.

  Joe hadn't grown up to be like Father. He'd grown up to be a marshal, too, a protector of others.

  Cradling his cup of coffee, Jack stepped out into the street.

  The plate holding her breakfast muffin slid from her fingers at the sight of the man in the door. "Jack!"

  "Pa!" Chad raced the length of the room and wrapped both arms around Jack's knees.

  Lissa stood, shaking. "We were just talking over how to stop the hanging."

  "Help already came." Jack's gaze arrowed to hers.

  Want and hope and love telegraphed through her entire body, warmed the cold hurting places in her heart. "Are you free?"

  "Free and clear." He opened his arms, and she fell against him, breathed in the solidness of him, of muscled chest and invincible shoulders. "Palmer is cooling his heels in jail. I need to take him to a judge for trial."

  "He was the rustler?"

  Jack nodded. How bleak he looked, how dull the shadows in his eyes.

  She knew. He wasn't just taking Palmer to justice. He was leaving. "You remembered everything."

  He nodded.

  Her knees wobbled a little. She'd known that one day he would have to face his former life. He would have to go back, see what he was missing, make a choice. How wonderful to have him alive, though, to know that he was safe and happy rather than buried in a plot on the hill, forever silenced.

  "Come. Let's have one last meal together before you go-"

  He nodded, and she knew his regrets were as great and painful as hers.

  Jack didn't want to go, didn't want to leave the light of Lissa's smile or the warm comfort of her presence. He didn't want to lift Chad from his knee or walk away from his baby son, so helpless and fragile. Time was passing, though, the hands on the face of the clock ever moving.

  "Will you be coming back to us?" Sad knowledge was in her eyes. She already knew the truth.

  Jack took a breath, felt all eyes on the room studying him, measuring him. "I made a vow to you. I swore I would never leave you."

  "You made that vow as John Murray, a man come to marry me. But you aren't John Murray, Jack. You can't fulfill another man's promises. Only your own."

  She saw his jaw tense, heard the emotion in his voice. "I don't want to leave. I have to."

  "You have your own life to return to. I know that." She did. Jack Emerson was the man she loved more than the need to breathe, but she knew what she had to do. She tried to have the courage to do it, and do it well. "Let me pack you food for the trip."

  "We'll stop in Sweetwater Flats for dinner." Jack bowed his head. "I plan to send money to help out." His gaze traveled to his baby son, tummy full, asleep in Lissa's arms, then to Chad.

  "You made me enough money this year by saving my herd, and again by selling my cattle when the prices were the highest. You don't owe me anything."

  "You're wrong. I owe you everything." Jack hugged Chad, who started to cry. He held him tight, then gave him over when Blanche came to take the boy from the room.

  "The town has an opening for a sheriff." Jeremiah shook Jack's hand. "Maybe you should think of us if you are looking to change jobs."

  "I won't forget your offer." Touched, Jack felt honored to know some of the people he had met in this town—the Buchmans, the Johansons, the Russells. They had never judged him or doubted his integrity. He would always be grateful.

  Lissa walked him to the door, her chin set, tears silvering her eyes. They did not fall even when she kissed him. She tasted of huckleberries and coffee, of passion, late nights, and sweet dreams.

  "Thank you for all you've given me." He stepped away, his fingers lingering against hers. He didn't want to let go, but he would do what was best. If it meant leaving them to protect them, then he would do that, too.

  "At least write. Let me know how you are doing." Lissa tipped her head back, her gaze full of longing. "I will miss you."

  "Not as much as I will miss you." He swallowed, his throat aching. "You don't know me, the kind of man I am, what I come from. If there were any other way—"

  "I know the man you are, Jack Emerson." Her fingertips brushed his mouth, soft and gentle. "You are the most amazing and gentle man I have ever known. I truly wish you had been John Murray—because then I would never have to let you go."

  "I'm sorry. I wish—"

  "Me, too." She stepped away, the love in her heart for him rare and unmistakable. "You go. I am going to be just fine."

  She memorized his face one last time. Life was a cycle of seasons, of change and loss and birth and life. The one thing she had learned was that she couldn't hold too tightly to the people she loved. It was the way of things. She had to let him go. She loved him that much.

  "Whatever you do, Jack Emerson, don't ever forget us."

  "There's no chance of that, my sweet angel." He kissed her one last time, then simply walked away.

  "You put away a murderer and a rustler." Joe's voice drifted back on the frigid wind as they headed toward Helena. "That ought to feel good."

  "Damn good. Palmer hurt Lissa intentionally. He hired men to steal her cattle so she would marry him, and he could sell her land."

  "Prime Montana range land is very valuable."

  What was valuable about Lissa's ranch were the people on it, the memories born there: Chad's delighted squeal as he sat astride his mare, walking her around the yard. The love in Lissa's eyes when he caught her looking at him. The beauty and magic she made of his life, and the way she'd shown him his heart.

  "What's ahead for you, brother?" Joe slowed his gelding.

  "I want to see my house."

  "I packed up your belongings and sold it." Joe laughed. "We thought you were dead. Had a real nice memorial service, though. Annabelle Marten baked up those puffed chocolate pastries. They were so good I proposed to her."

  "Over a dessert?"

  "A man can't be choosy. They are the best desserts in the county." Joe laughed, shaking his head. "Losing you made me realize I was alone. You can't always let the past affect you, brother. Sometimes you have to take the bull by the horns, wrestle it, and win."

  "You? Married?" That was a laugh. "What is Annabelle Marten going to think when she gets a good whiff of your feet after you take off your riding boots?"

  "She's going to love me despite my flaws." Joe seemed certain of it. "Besides, she's already acquainted with my riding boots."

  "You devil."

  "A man's willpower gets weak around a woman who knows how to make pastry." Joe shrugged. "We're almost home. It feels mighty good."

  Home? No. Home was a hundred miles behind him. Where his children waited, where his heart remained, and where his wife slept alone thinking of him.

  She missed him most in the mornings—his cheerful humor over breakfast, the dent he made in her sugar supply every time he sweetened his coffee, the way he spent cold, snowy evenings spending extra time with them where it was warm by the fire.

  Now she had plenty of sugar and an empty place at the table.

  Will had moved on, taken his bonus from the cattle sale and his savings, and gone into partnership with his cousin. After losing everything, the McBains had needed a partner with cash. She'd heard from Susan that Will was happy running his own place and working alongside his cousin.

  Arcada had taken over running the ranch with quiet competence. He had also taken Chad under his wing, and was helping the boy improve
his riding skills.

  Joey was thriving. He was still small for his age, but healthy. He slept most of the night, liked to watch Puddles play with her ball. He had Jack's smile, lopsided and adorable.

  She missed him at night, and her days were not as happy. She had not lost her heart, though, as she had when Michael died. No, now she was wiser. Loving only made a person's heart stronger. No matter what, love was the one thing that could never die.

  It was snowing as Jack made his way through the church cemetery. His insides felt as cold as the frozen snow at his feet. He'd come back, seen the life he left—one of service and duty and loneliness. He still had his old job if he wanted it, but he hadn't taken it.

  There it was—John Emerson's grave. Jack stared at the simple headstone. The day he'd buried his father, he'd vowed never to drink and never to marry. The cycle of violence in his family would die with John Emerson—but it already had.

  Jack had feared he was his father at heart, down deep where nightmares lived. He'd lived with a woman for nearly a year, though, suffered through difficulties and injustices and hardship. Never once had he felt that horrible rage that used to overtake his father.

  And what about Joe? Joe was getting married. If his little brother could face the past and win, then so could he.

  No, Jack already had won. He remembered the man he'd been with Lissa, how there had been no memories and no Father's curse—just happiness and tenderness and a deep, abiding love.

  He was his own man, memories or not. How he lived his life, how he treated others, how he loved his wife—why, it was all his choice.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  "Mama! Come see my snowman!"

  "Close the door. You're letting in the cold air." Laughing, Lissa laid Joey in his cradle. Puddles lay down nearby, keeping watch over her baby. Her son was fed, changed, bathed, and asleep. She left him to rest, then grabbed her coat from the peg.