by Eileen Wilks
Nate saw, all right. He saw stark relief on Hannah's face, and she was watching him with complete trust. She didn't look hurt. Muddy and mussed and scared, but not hurt. Nate looked from her to the frightened petulance on the face of the woman he'd once married. The gun in Jenny's hands looked like a .38 or a .357. It had a short barrel—not accurate at any distance, but she was close, all too close, to Hannah.
Words, Nate thought helplessly. He didn't have a gun. He didn't have any weapon at all—nothing but his knowledge of Jenny, and words. He had never been good with words. This time, though, he had to be. This time, he had to lie with all his heart. "I'm glad I got here before you shot her," he said, his voice low and reassuring. He moved closer. "I don't want you going to jail. You'd hate that."
"No—stay back. I don't trust you. You didn't come for me."
"But I have come for you, Jenny." He took another step. The rain was slowing. "I'm here, aren't I? I've come to take you home with me. I'm sorry I was angry so long. That was cruel."
"Yes!" Her lip trembled. "Yes, it was cruel. I waited and waited for you to come for me. Mama said I should forget you, but nothing was right without you. I tried being with other men, Nate. It was never the same. I knew you'd want me back eventually, though. Except then I heard about her. You've been living with her, Nate. I couldn't wait any longer when I heard that."
"I'm sorry. I was wrong. Can you forgive me?" Another step, and, slowly, another.
Her lower lip pouted. It looked macabre, that girlish pout on her pale, gaunt face, with her wet hair hanging in strings and her shiny gun still gripped in both hands and pointed at Hannah. "I don't know."
"I wanted you to come to me, but I couldn't admit it. I've always been stubborn, Jenny. You know that. Remember how I made you wait before I asked you to the prom?"
She blinked, then giggled. "Yes, but I taught you a lesson about taking me for granted, didn't I? I went out with Davie Mathews. Then you asked me fast enough."
"You always did know how to handle me, didn't you?" The words made him sick to his stomach, but he kept smiling … and moving forward, one slow step at a time. Nate could see the sheriff, still several yards away but slowly closing the distance. "But you went too far with Tony Ramos, Jenny."
The pout grew more pronounced. And, for the first time, the gun lowered slightly. "I said I was sorry. I said it three times."
What the hell was Hannah doing? Instead of moving away while he had Jenny distracted, she'd edged closer. He tried to catch her eyes. "I was too angry to listen. I didn't like being in jail."
"That was your own fault. You didn't have to be in that awful jail. I told you. All you had to do was admit you hadn't meant all those terrible things you said about leaving me. All you had to do was admit you loved me, and I would have told them you never meant to kill poor Tony."
Nate's smile was frozen in place. Visibility was better, and he was only a few feet away now. Hannah was looking at him, steady and trusting. It made his heart hurt. "I'm too stubborn," he said to the woman with the gun. "I wanted you to back down first."
One of Jenny's arms lowered. She still held the gun, but one-handed now. A smile dawned on her pallid face. "You do love me, though, don't you, Nate? Tell me you love me."
"Of course." Just a few steps away now. He held out his hand. "You know I do, Jenny. I always have. Prove to me you love me, too, Jenny. Give me the gun."
Well, Hannah thought, watching tensely, that was certainly the wrong thing to say.
Jenny's smile twitched into a frown. Her hand tensed around the butt of the pistol. "You didn't say it. I love you so much, Nate, and you never say it. You were thinking about her when you asked for the gun back, weren't you?"
"No, of course not. I just—"
"I've told you and told you!" Jenny's voice was ragged. "You aren't supposed to let anything come between us. Nothing should come between us. Not the ranch or your stupid brother or—or her." Abruptly the barrel of the gun swung back toward Hannah. "I won't let her—"
Hannah didn't wait for the woman's finger to tighten on the trigger. As soon as Jenny lifted the gun, Hannah threw herself forward in a tackle. The gun discharged harmlessly over her head as she collided with the woman's midsection and they tumbled together to the ground. Hannah ended up more or less on top. She reared back, ready to do battle for the gun—but the fight had gone out of Jenny. She lay on her back in the mud, crying softly.
A second later, Nate was there. He yanked the weapon out of Jenny's hand. She didn't move. She didn't seem to notice.
Hannah sat up. That, apparently, wasn't good enough for Nate, because he grabbed her arms and pulled her to her feet. He ran his hands over her. "You're all right. Tell me you're all right," he demanded.
"I'm okay," she said obediently. The angry expression on his face as he continued to run his hands over her, checking for the injuries she didn't have, struck her as funny. Wonderfully, endearingly funny. "Nate," she said, taking his hands in hers. "I am all right. Really."
He stopped moving. "You scared me. I've never been so scared in my life."
"I—" I love you, she wanted to say. But for the first time, she had some idea of what those words meant to him. So instead, she smiled and cupped his face with her hands. "I was scared, too, but I knew you'd come looking for me. You found the keys, didn't you?"
Thompson spoke before Nate could answer. "What did you do with the gun, Jones?" He'd pulled Jenny to her feet.
"I tossed it under that mesquite."
Jenny leaned against the sheriff. She was still crying. "He never loved me," she said. "I just wanted him to love me. Is that so terrible?"
Thompson looked weary as he pulled her hands behind her and slipped a pair of cuffs on. "You have the right to remain silent…"
For a few minutes, things went on that Hannah was only vaguely aware of. A deputy arrived with a floodlight, and left with Jenny in custody. Nate asked the sheriff to have one of his people call Mark and tell him what had happened, and Thompson agreed.
And Nate held Hannah. He held her and held her, as if he were unable to get enough of the feel of her wet, muddy body against his.
"How did you find me, anyway?" she asked at last, when she'd absorbed enough reassurance from having his big body pressed up against hers.
"Sammie saw you and Jenny going into the ravine. He called me. Mark called Thompson."
She shivered. "Imagine owing my life to Sammie."
A tremor shook him, and all at once he buried his face in her hair. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
"Nate, it wasn't your fault." She stroked his back soothingly.
"I sent you out into the storm. You were upset because of what I'd said, what I'd done."
"You can apologize for being rotten to me. I think you should. But you can't take the blame for what happened with Jenny. Nothing she's done has been your fault, Nate." She suspected he didn't believe that yet, not deep down, and kept stroking his back, gentling the pain in him the only way she knew. "You couldn't help her or heal her, but that wasn't your fault. You couldn't have guessed she'd go nuts and come after me, either. Not your fault, Nate."
He lifted his head. "What I said, back at the party—I don't want you to leave me."
"Okay. I won't."
He sounded as though he nearly choked on a laugh. "Just like that?"
As if she could leave him. "Haven't I been telling you I was staying whether you wanted me to or not since the night we met?"
"I meant… I want you to stay with me. Not as Mark's nurse."
"Good. That's what I meant, too."
This time the laugh came more easily.
She snuggled up as close as she could get, needing his warmth. "I hope you aren't looking for any big, dramatic speeches, because I'm all out. I've about had it with drama tonight. But just try to get rid of me, Nathan Jones."
"I don't want to." He began to stroke her hair. "You are a muddy mess, you know that?"
"Jones, we're finished here for
now," the sheriff said. He'd retrieved Jenny's gun and was sliding it into a plastic bag. "You coming?"
"In a minute."
Thompson was a tactful man. He looked at them a moment, then said, "Bring the floodlight with you when you come," and started up the slope.
Nate continued to stroke her sodden hair. "I don't want to make you any big, dramatic speeches, either."
"That's good. You know, I'm not sure my legs are working. It's going to be hard getting back up to the road with my legs not working."
"I'll carry you. Hannah—"
"I'm too heavy."
"Okay, I won't carry you. Hannah, I want you to stay with me for good. For always."
Her heart gave a crazy leap. She lifted her head to search his face. The light wasn't very good, yet she could see in his eyes what he was feeling. Hope. And fear. Her mouth was dry when she asked, "You mean the kind of 'for always' that goes with 'till death do us part'?"
He nodded.
She closed her eyes. She wanted more than anything to say yes, to grab him while he was scared and vulnerable. Nate would keep his word. Even if he changed his mind, once he'd pledged himself, he would follow through. But— "I can't. Not without—I'd have to say the words, Nate. If we got married, sooner or later I'd say it. I know now why those words hurt you, but—"
"Hannah," he said tenderly, "shut up." Then he kissed her like a man who had found something he'd been looking for all his life—slowly, with a painstaking care that curled her toes and warmed her from the inside out. When he raised his head, his eyes were smiling. "You can say those words if you want to."
"But—I don't understand."
"I was confused. I didn't understand about the difference between loving and wanting. I think I do now. Wanting is part of loving, but it's only part. Jenny wanted me, she needed me—or at least the screwy ideas she had about me—but she never loved me. Love is that other feeling. The one that makes my throat get tight." Nate swallowed. "It's tight right now."
"Nate?" She stared up at him, hoping, her heart pounding. He looked at her, and the smile spread, taking over his whole face. "Hannah, I love you."
* * *
Epilogue
«^
Two months later
The clock on the vanity said it was ten minutes until midnight.
"Damn," Hannah muttered, trying to tuck a strand of hair back into her chignon. "If he's late, I'll—I'll—"
"Relax," Leslie said. "You know what Dad is like. He's probably still swapping stories with Abe. Here, let me do that. You just knocked your veil crooked."
Hannah tried not to fidget while Leslie fixed her hair. "Everyone else is here, though, right?"
"Everyone from the minister to that silly dog who thinks she's the best man instead of Mark. Quit that," Leslie said, swatting at the hand Hannah raised to her hair. "Every time you touch it, I have to fix something. I'm glad Susie and Earl came early so I got a chance to talk to them before you got all bridal and nervous on me."
Hannah smiled. "Susie and Earl are something, aren't they?" She glanced at the mirror in front of her. She'd chosen to dress for her wedding in the room where she'd slept when she first came to the house, and she was seated now at the antique vanity there. She frowned. "I don't like this shade of lipstick. It's too pale a peach."
Leslie rolled her eyes. "You've already changed your lipstick twice, but if it makes you feel better—here. Go for it." Leslie held out a tissue.
Hannah and Nate had decided on a very small wedding in a ceremony held there at the house. Nate still wasn't comfortable in the church where he had once sung in the choir. Not yet, anyway, Hannah thought, searching the tubes of lipstick for the right color. Given time, he'd come around.
Besides, Hannah loved the idea of being married here, in her own house.
She picked up the tube of lipstick she'd tried on just before the peach shade, and reapplied it. Yes, she thought, leaning forward to study her reflection. That was better, only— "I've got too much blush on."
"Hannah, you're not wearing any blush."
"Oh." If she sat there one more second, she decided, she would go crazy. When she got up and started pacing, the long, lacy skirt of her wedding gown swished around her legs. It was a luscious dress, sinfully expensive, with tons of lace in a pale, pale cream color—the clerk had called it "winter white." Hannah loved the idea of marrying her man with the winter voice in a winter white gown.
"If Dad doesn't get here in five minutes," she growled as she paced, "so help me I'll go downstairs without him."
"I'll go see what's keeping him."
Leslie had come up from El Paso, and their dad had come down from Wyoming, and of course Nate had asked Earl and Susie to attend. Other than that, their guests included Abe and the hands, a friend of Hannah's from Lubbock—and the sheriff. Ever since Royce Thompson had written the Pardons and Paroles Board on Nate's behalf, he and Nate had been easing cautiously toward friendship.
Nate's case hadn't come up for review yet, but Hannah was certain the board would recommend that the governor issue a pardon. It would take longer to completely clear his record, but soon Nate would no longer be a felon. Not all the shadows from his past could be erased as completely as the record of his conviction would be, but there were fewer of them.
He smiled more often now. A lot more often.
Nate had wanted to wait until his record was clear before getting married. Hannah, naturally, had vetoed that idea. She was capable of great patience when necessary, but she didn't intend to waste it on such a silly notion.
"Look who I found coming up the stairs," Leslie said.
Patrick McBride was tall and as skinny as a snake, with a graying shock of red hair on his head. He scooped Hannah up in a bone-crushing hug, called her his bonny daughter and knocked her veil off. By the time Leslie had everything pinned in place again, it was three minutes after midnight.
"Damned silly time to get married anyway, if you ask me," her father grumbled as they started down the stairs together.
"I didn't ask you, though, did I?" Darn it, Hannah had wanted to be married at midnight. She and Nate had met just after midnight at the bus station; it had been around midnight when he saved her life and told her he loved her.
Music swelled from the living room when she was halfway down the stairs: Mendelssohn's "Wedding March." Sudden, sentimental tears sprang to her eyes, and her father cleared his throat. Leslie hurried ahead, joining Mark to start the procession. The best man's gait might be uneven when he escorted the maid of honor into the living room, but he was upright and mobile now, with the help of a cane and a walking cast.
Oh, well, she thought as she and her father paused in the hall, giving Leslie and Mark time to reach their places. Hadn't Nate been late for their first meeting because of a cow? Maybe it was fitting that she be a little late for their wedding because of an ornery old cowboy.
The music reached the chord that was their cue. Hannah found it suddenly hard to breathe, yet her feet carried her along beside her father.
She passed into the living room. There were candles everywhere—dozens of tall, white tapers that provided the only light. People she knew and loved sat in rented chairs set so as to leave an aisle open for Hannah to walk down. And at the other end of the room, waiting for her, was Nate, looking tall and magnificent in a black western-style suit.
At his feet sat Trixie, her tongue lolling in a doggy grin.
Nate turned to Hannah and smiled, and she didn't see anything else. A few heartbeats later, she stood at his side. They held hands as the minister spoke, and at a quarter past midnight, Hannah Maria McBride Jones came home for good.
* * * *
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