Jillian Hart (21 page)

    There was so much blood. She didn't see him breathing. Polly's hands shook as she checked for a pulse.
    "I'm alive, damn it," Ben bit out between clenched teeth. "If I were dead, I wouldn't hurt like this."
   
Thank God
. A cry escaped, and she wrapped her arms around him. She knew she had to tend to his wound, but she just had to hold him, to feel him alive in her arms. As she'd scrambled up the side of the canyon, she feared she would never hold him again.
    "Good thing I have a wife with experience tending bullet wounds." He rolled over, his gaze latching onto hers, full of pain.
    "Good thing." Polly fought to hold back her fear. She shook with it, but she had to be calm. Ben needed her. She tore open her saddlebags and laid out her supplies. "I have to see the wound."
    He nodded and gritted his teeth as her fingers probed. "The bullet went straight through."
    "It did." It was a shoulder wound–not a bad one, but a bloody one. She tapped out a needle from its protective sleeve. A spool of thread rolled into her lap.
    "I've never seen you sew, Polly." Ben gazed up at her, dazed with pain.
    "I told you the only sewing I know how to do is for a bullet wound." She swabbed at the injury.
    "I trust you to save my life." He managed only a half smile, but the truth of it shone in his eyes, rumbled in his voice, and filled her heart.

    He woke to a haze of pain. He saw a roof overhead, the boards dark and weathered, and felt the heat from a fire. He moved his head, despite the bolt of pain through his shoulder. Polly knelt before the fire, pouring a cup of coffee.
    "I could use some of that." He sat up and realized he was in one of the broken-down shanties in the old hideout.
    "You, sir, are supposed to be sleeping."
    "I'm too tough to let a bullet wound keep me down for long."
    "Sure, that's why you've been out for three whole days."
    She came to him, and like a balm to his soul, she healed him. The pain in his shoulder didn't matter. Only she did, this incredible woman he never wanted to disappoint again.
    The coffee tasted hot and steadying. He drained the cup, then accepted the bowl of soup she'd made. He was hungry–that was a good sign. He felt like hell, but he figured he could ride.
    "What do you think you're doing?" She caught his arm, pushing him back down into the bed roll.
    "We're fugitives. We can't lie around with a fire going-"
    "The posse came close, but they lost our trail. I went back and erased every trace of our tracks I could find."
    She kept her hand firmly to his chest. "I might never conquer the Family Sunshine stove, but I can outwit a posse at twelve paces."
    "My kind of woman." Ben tried to pull her to his chest, but she slipped away.
    Was she still mad at him, still hurt? Well, trust would take a long time to rebuild, but he would do it. He would spend the rest of his life showing Polly how much he loved her.
    "I'm ready to ride." He sat up. Only inches separated them. His gaze fastened on her bottom lip, lush and kissable. He knew just how she would taste–a little wild, a little tame, and infinitely loving.
    She whipped away before he could kiss her. He heard the clatter of enamelware as she dropped the bowl. "I'll ride with you to fetch Emily. You'll probably want to start over somewhere else under a different name."
    "I'm not running anywhere." He grimaced, fighting the pain, and stood. "I told you, my fugitive days are over."
    "Well, I'm not going to explain to Emily why her Pa is behind bars instead of in front of them." Her voice sounded thick. He took a few steps until he could see her tensed profile, visible pain tightening her mouth and furrowing lines at her brow.
    Love struck him like the cold edge of a winter storm–bracing and frightening. He shook with it and he welcomed it. He limped over to her and reached out, needing to hold her, needing her in his arms, against his heart.
    She dodged him with expert skill. "I washed and stitched up your shirt. The patch isn't too good, but it'll hold until you reach Idaho."
    "Polly, forget Idaho. I'm not running. I just need to speak with the governor." He hauled her into his arms, even when she tried to fight. But she didn't fight too hard. She buried her face against his chest and held him tight. He breathed in the scent of her hair– woman and spice–and gave thanks that it was her and not Pauline Curtis who'd stepped foot off that stage.
    "Why do you need to see the governor?" She lifted her face to look at him.
    He saw the exhaustion bruising the skin beneath her eyes. He saw the lines of worry. She'd taken care of him all by herself, moved him from the canyon's rim down to this shanty, and healed him.
    "I have two months until I'm pardoned." He pressed a kiss to her brow. "It's a deal I struck when I learned I was going to be a father. I turned over all the information I knew on the outlaws in this territory. The governor said I had seven years to prove my worth–to make a new life, live quietly, make a contribution to my community. And I'm almost there."
    Her mouth twisted. "You should have told me."
    "I should have." He pulled her into his arms before she could move away. He didn't want to ever let go of her. "I should have told you a lot of things."
    "I have something to show you." She took his hand and led him out into the bitter cold. Inches-thick frost crusted the world.
    Ben followed, grimacing every time he accidentally moved the muscles along his left shoulder and back. Polly pulled aside a spray of berry bushes to expose the dark mouth of a small cave.
    She gestured at the strong boxes tucked against one wall. "The gold."

* * *

    "You're a free man, MacLain." Marshal Powers met him at the steps in the shadow of the distinguished brick building. Cold rain fell and he pulled his hat against the driving winds. "How does it feel?"
    "Damn good. I've worked hard to put the past behind me."
    "Now you have." The marshal nodded toward the crowded hitching post. The territorial capitol was busy, and the streets were crowded. "Anxious to get out of town?"
    "And get back to my daughter." Ben turned at the light sound of a woman's step behind him. "Excuse me."
    Polly wore her denims and a heavy wool jacket. She looked feminine and tough, tender and strong. Her gaze sought his and he saw relief flicker across her beautiful face.
    She ambled past him, headed for the hitching post. "So, they let you go."
    "I guess they figured that after seven good years, they'll trust me not to return to my outlaw ways." He trailed her, never letting her out of his sight. "That is, unless my wife is a bad influence on me. She's wanted for robbery."
    "You're in luck. Marshal Powers saw to it that the charges were dropped." The bitter cold made the leather reins stiff, and she yanked at the stubborn knot with nervous fingers.
    "Going somewhere?" He leaned back against the wood post and looked at her. He took pleasure in this woman who was all his.
    "I'm going back to Indian Trails." But she didn't seem happy about it. The knot gave, and she gathered the reins. "I need to explain to Emily. And to say goodbye."
    "Why goodbye?"
    Her face clouded. "Because I don't want to ride off and leave her wondering why I'd broken all my promises to her."
    His heart cracked. "Why are you breaking promises?"
    "They were never mine to begin with." She swung into the saddle.
    Ben caught Renegade's bit, holding her still. "Emily's going to be disappointed."
    "So am I." Her chin wobbled, but she was pure steel.
    "She loves you, Polly. I know you can't ride away from that."
    A muscle twitched in her jaw. "I love her, too. But it's not enough. It's not enough for her or for me."
    "Are you saying you don't love me?"
    "Something like that"
    He released the bit and she backed the horse onto the street. He mounted Fugitive and headed off after her.
    "You're crying," he commented when he'd caught up to her.
    "Impossible." She tossed her head. "I never cry."
    "You saved my life." His voice rumbled low. "You saved me, Polly."
    Despite the noise of the streets and the bustle of traffic, she heard every word. And it sparked through her like air to flame.
    "I don't have to listen to this." She pressed Renegade into a steady lope.
    Ben caught up. "I admit I was wrong. I should have told you that I loved you. I should have opened up my heart and said the words that would have made you believe. Words that would make you stay."
    "You don't love me, Ben. You never did." But her chin kept wobbling and those aching, horrible tears kept burning behind her eyes.
    "How do you know?"
    "I saw it in a thousand different ways–how you touched me and how you loved me. That you never lost your temper when I ruined your laundry or said a thing about the scrapes on your buggy." How it hurt to talk like this. She pressed her mouth shut, trying hard to keep the pain inside.
    The traffic thinned as the town street led them into the country. Ben's hand clamped around her thighs. The next thing she knew he was lifting her into his saddle. He eased her between the cradle of his thighs, so snug she could feel him from toe to chin. Her body cried out with want for him. Her heart ached.
    "I was afraid to say the words." He pressed a kiss to the back of her neck. "I was afraid to let anyone into my heart. That's a scary thing, loving someone more than your own life."
    She nodded. "I know something about that."
    "I thought you might." His arms wrapped around her, strong and sure. "I took this bullet for you."
    "I saw. You stupidly threw yourself in front of Dixon's gun." She closed her eyes and saw it again, the horrible moment after the gun fired and Ben slumped to the ground. "You took a bullet meant for me."
    "I sure did. It hurt like hell, but it's nothing compared to the pain I'd feel if I lost you. I'd do anything for you, even trade my life for yours. Don't you know that by now?"
    "I do." And that was the problem. She shook with it, with the horrible agony of letting go of the one thing that had kept her safe all these years.
    How could she let go of her independence? How could she let herself need him so much? It felt as if her very life depended upon his love for her, and that left her far too vulnerable.
    "I just want you beside me." Ben's words stroked the curve of her jaw. His lips pressed there, to her wind-burned skin, and spread warmth. "That's all. I want you, Polly Brown."
    "Polly MacLain," she corrected.
    He pressed another kiss to her face. "Stay and be my wife, Polly MacLain. There is no one I need more than you."
    She felt it–the change in the air and in her heart. Snow feathered down with the wind, falling with a gentle ease that gave her hope and gave her peace.
    Love wasn't dependence; it was strength. It was choice. She could walk away now, cowardly protecting her heart, fearing that someone as noble and wonderful as Ben could never really love her, plain old Polly Brown.
    Except she wasn't plain old Polly Brown anymore. She was Polly MacLain. She was a part owner in a gold claim. She had a beautiful daughter she loved with all her heart. And she had a husband–a man who'd willingly taken a bullet for her.
    For her.
    Because he loved her.
    Their pasts no longer had a hold on either one of them. They were free to live their lives as they chose.
    Polly laid her hand on Ben's and twined her fingers through his. She made her choice, one of the heart. "Let's head home."

    The sleepy town of Indian Trails never looked so good. A thick mantle of snow clung to trees and roofs and covered the streets. It accumulated on the top of hitching posts, awnings and boardwalks.
    As they rode through town, Woody stepped out of the jailhouse to wave in greeting. Mrs. Wu stepped out of her laundry shop, with envelopes to mail in hand, and called out a warm hello.
    Emily burst out of Adella's house with a slam of the door. "Polly! Pa! You're back!"
    Polly swung down and held out her arms. Her daughter flew against her, and she held the little girl tight. "We had business to take care of, but we're back for keeps now."
    "Forever and ever?"
    "And even longer than that." Ben knelt down to brush a kiss to his daughter's brow.
    "Look at the snow." Emily shivered.
    Polly swung off her coat, faster than Ben, who was doing the same, and settled the warm wool around her child's shoulders. "I see. We rode through it all the way across the mountains."
    "I'm so glad you came back," Emily confessed as Ben swung her up on Renegade's back.
    Ben was there, giving Polly his coat. The wool was warm from his body and smelled like his soap and his scent. She breathed it in, no longer afraid to feel love.

* * *

    Their house was a welcome sight, shrouded with pristine snow. It was like a picture in a storybook–the falling flakes were a mist cloaking the beautiful castle. Well, their castle was a log cabin, but it was close enough.
    Emily slid to the ground, and Polly dismounted after her. Already the child was off, running through the untouched snow.
    Ben's hand found hers, and he pressed the length of his body against her. "It's not long until suppertime. And then after we put Emily to bed, I'm going to make love to you until the sun rises."
    "I'm going to make you keep that promise." She leaned back against him, savoring the feel of his arms holding her tight. "I love you, Ben."
    "I love you more." His kiss tasted like snowflakes and promises. "I'll never let you doubt that again."
    "Polly, come look!" Emily shouted. "I made a snow angel."
    Some dreams were meant to come true Polly thought, as she joined her daughter in the yard. She spread her arms wide and fell back into the downy snow. She looked up to see Ben at her feet, gazing at her with love in his eyes.
    A forever kind of love she would never doubt again.
    He fell into the snow beside her. They all three flapped their arms together, making wings and laughter and memories to last the rest of their lives.

# # #

An Excerpt From:

The Wedding Vow

Chapter One

England—during the Reign of King Henry I

    "Quickly, now. The road is not far." Gwyneth pushed back the woolen cloak, exposing her face and ears to the bitter night wind.
    "But milady, I—"
    Determined to ignore more of the girl's complaints, Gwyneth broke through low brush and across rough ground. A steep rise ascended into the darkness. She gathered her skirts and searched with one foot for purchase.
    "Milady." Ivy's urgency whispered above the creak of the bare tree limbs overhead as they rubbed together in the heady wind. "A ghost lives. I saw it slither upon the ground behind us. I swear my life upon it!"
    "Ghosts do not exist Tell yourself that and it will go away. I promise it."
    Whilst Gwyneth loved her young companion dearly, she had more dire concerns. All depended upon her success with the traveling merchant this night. She could not miss him. She could not wait through another new moon to escape to see the king. And escape she would. No matter the cost.
    Determination weakened her fear of heights.
    Gwyneth settled the bulging sack against her side. Her breath fogged in the bitter night air. Frozen grass crunched beneath her feet as she approached the high embankment.
I can do this. I have little choice.
    The frozen ground supported her weight as she struggled higher. Then a root gave way and she slid a good three feet until her toe caught against a rock. She huffed in exasperation.
    By the rood, she had no time for this! If she was not at the designated place by midnight, when the merchant passed (on his way to more clandestine transactions no doubt), he would not wait for her.
    Fie! Her foot slipped again. She dangled by one hand. Fearing a long fall, she scrambled for a hold.
    "Milady," Ivy hissed, urgency great in that pronounced whisper. "I told myself ghosts don't exist, just like you said."
    "Good." Gwyneth cast her gaze up at the sky. The full moon peered between foggy clouds, high at the hill's zenith. 'Twas already midnight! She had to hurry or all would be lost.
    "But the ghost that does not exist brushed against my ankle."
    "Impossible." Gwyneth grabbed hold of an exposed tree root and pulled herself up and over the embankment. She looked left, then right. No one approached on the dark road.
    "Now it circles down below." Ivy grunted as the earth beneath her feet began to slip. "Look and see for yourself."
    "I cannot see what does not exist." Gwyneth untied the bundle from around her neck, set it safely on a moss-covered boulder, and dropped to her knees. She clasped Ivy's wrists and pulled the plump girl up onto solid ground.
    "Oomph." Ivy righted herself, pulling twigs and clods of dirt from her hair. " 'Tis dangerous. We ought to take the main pathway to the road."
    "Nay, 'twould be worse. Thieves and outlaws, is why." These were desperate times. Gwyneth had learned at far too young an age the nature of men and the lawless rules of the land, of how one stronger could take from those not as strong simply because he could. "Look to. Someone approaches."
    With any luck, she hadn't missed the merchant
    "The ghost! It comes." Ivy grabbed her hand, frantic. "Run, milady. Run for your life."
    "Nonsense." Gwyneth had the blood of knights coursing in her veins. She refused to run, just as she refused to admit her fear.
    Yet Ivy was frightened. Gwyneth unsheathed her dagger. The sharp blade of the long metal knife glinted in the silvered moonlight. "Ivy, stay and meet the merchant. I will see what has followed us. Probably one of the lambs, no doubt, escaped from its mother."
    "Careful," Ivy warned, her voice low and wobbling in apprehension.
    "Call to me when he arrives. Loudly, so I hear you." Gwyneth tossed a smile at her friend.
    Ivy only frowned, huddling afraid and cold in the center of the lane.
    Gwyneth peered over the edge of the embankment She saw a hundred shades of darkness and shadow, the smooth curves of naked limbs. She saw the craggy face of a gray boulder brushed in moonlight, the shiver of grass in the north wind. But no ghosts. Not one.
    "There is naught amiss." She sheathed her dagger, certain they were safe.
    "He comes." Ivy's response sounded strangled. "Gwyneth?"
    "Aye."
    "Why would a merchant wear chain mail?"
    "A merchant would not." Gwyneth turned her back on the embankment to cast her gaze up the road. The faint gleam of moonlight glittered on the thousand links of a metal shirt, the smooth roundness of a helm, the shield of a man hidden behind weapons and armor.
    Had they missed the merchant? Gwyneth felt her hope dwindle, ebbing away like blood from an open wound. She knew what this meant. No escape from either the endless days of backbreaking work beneath her uncle's roof or the latent threat from the lord who ruled this land.
    Agony tore through her. How could it be? How could she endure it? Worse, how could she have allowed herself to be so late?
    "He's a wraith, a demon ghost in warrior shape. Look how he hovers!" Ivy crossed herself and ran like a madwoman down the road.
    "Easy, Ivy. Look, he is only a man. His horse is black, 'tis why you cannot see it." Gwyneth tried to calm her friend, but even the danger from a man and not a ghost was great. "Quick, down the embankment. We must hide."
    No one must know of their presence here, not even a strange knight who may or may not try to harm them. Gwyneth snatched the bundle from its perch atop the boulder.
    "Hold!" The knight's voice boomed like thunder, rumbling and echoing through the night.
    A strap on the sack snagged and caught. Gwyneth gave it a tug. She could not leave her precious goods to be discovered. Yet she could not risk being taken— or worse. She released the bundle and ran.
    A scream tore through the night. Ivy scrambled back up the embankment, eyes wild, hair and skirts flying. Gwyneth's jaw dropped as the knight, faceless in the shadows, lifted his sword and charged. He meant to kill Ivy!
    Astonishment gave way to action. Gwyneth ran and shoved her young friend to the ground with one quick push. Ivy cried out in surprise, but Gwyneth knew only that she was safe. Jaw set, she caught sight of the murderous knight's sword lifted high, shimmering and lethal.
    Too late to grab her dagger.
    "Run, Ivy!" Gwyneth closed her eyes and waited for the blow. Better her than sweet Ivy, who had a future to look forward to.
    The stallion brushed past her in a rush, and the low, guttural battle cry of the knight tore apart the silence. Gwyneth spun around and saw a dark form impaled on the warrior's sword. Crimson dripped to the ground.
    "I would not kill a woman, even you, Gwyneth of Blackthorne."
    "How do you know me?"
    "I thought you might remember," the knight mused.
    "Remember you? I cannot see your face."
    He did not answer. He circled his stallion in the shadows of the road and lowered his blade. The dark form slithered to the ground, the dead body of a wolf.
    Ivy screamed at the sight and fainted in the center of the road.
    "She appears to be overwrought." His voice caressed the words, low like a joke but coupled with concern. "Were there more predators?"
    "I do not know." Gwyneth darted around the enormous black stallion. She tried to sneak a glance at the knight's face, still hidden in darkness, and saw naught. Yet she felt his scrutiny like a cold blade against her cheek.
    Concern for Ivy overrode her curiosity. Gwyneth knelt beside her friend's prone body and felt a pulse. Strong and steady. It was as she thought Ivy had a terrible fright, 'twas all. She needed only to be roused and all would be well.
    "The wolf was a loner. See how silver marks his face? He was old and looked for easy prey."
    As did any of the lone knights who traveled these roads, striking with ruthlessness and the might of their swords. Again, she wondered how this warrior knew her. Or knew of her enough to recognize her in the dark. She was glad of the dagger tucked within the folds of her mantle. Very glad. Gwyneth's fingers trembled as she patted Ivy's face. The girl murmured, giving Gwyneth hope.
    "Surely she lives." His chain mail jingled, lending an unnatural sound to the nighttime woods.
    "Surely." Gwyneth watched Ivy's eyelids flutter. The maid was awakening. "Ivy, can you hear me? Try to sit up."
    The horse strode closer with the faceless knight, cloaked in darkness, upon it. "I shall take you both to the village."
    "We are in no need of assistance." Now that Ivy was attempting to sit, Gwyneth could take stock of their situation. A chivalrous knight did not exist, she had learned the hard way. A knight thought only to benefit himself. 'Twas best to avoid the lot of them. "Ride on, knight."
    "So little appreciation from a woman nearly killed by a wolf." He leaned one steeled fist on his thigh, broadening the set of his solid shoulders. "Aye, I remember now. Your father's land was seized. I never heard what became of his daughter."
    "Who are you?" Surely this nosy man was a rogue. How did he know of her? "Come out of the shadows. I want to see your face."
    " Tis my wish always to oblige a lady." His voice came velvet soft, but she heard the steely authority beneath.
    Not a man to trust.
    The warhorse sidled closer, silvered by the faintest moonlight. She saw chain mail glittering across a broad chest and down powerful arms. Then the moon dusted his face and she saw at once the strong cut of a square jaw, a straight blade of a nose, and piercing eyes, their color lost to her in the shades of night.
    Recognition pounded beneath her breastbone, building with each beat. "Bran, the second son of this land's baron."
    Of the land's murdering baron. Her knees wobbled. "Have you come searching for me?"
    Her uncle, during a fit of vile temper, would often threaten to hand her over to the baron. To a man who had ended the sweet life she'd known and made her an orphan, then a hated wife.
    "Nay, I come to see my kin." Bran the Fair, as they called him, dismounted with a steady confidence, but not with the brashness of many famed knights. "Let me think. 'Twas rumored an aunt had taken you."
    "She died last year. I didn't know you would remember a scrawny girl who climbed apple trees." The warmth of the memory came quickly and far too harshly. Gwyneth turned from his handsome face. 'Twas best not to remember those times, what could never be again.
    Ivy rubbed her head, returning to a state of calm. Gwyneth spoke in low tones to her friend, the young companion found for her all those long years ago. She felt pleased the girl appeared stronger.
    But the knight—he kept watching her. He strode past them, a shining silver man in the night "I know what my family took from you."
    "You know naught." She held back the heat of her bitterness.
    "I know my father is a cruel, unjust man." Bran knelt to wipe his blade clean in the grass at the roadside, then sheathed it. "You have every right to hate him."
    "Hate is too kind for what I feel." She turned her back to him when Ivy moaned. "Here, dear one, try to stand."
    Bran towered over her, all substance and will and power. "I am bastard born and no true part of that family." His declaration made her spine tingle and threatened to touch the grief concealed in her heart.
    She did not seek alliances, as he did. She only sought seclusion. "You have helped us this night, and I am grateful. Now I must ask you to leave us be."
    "But your maid is not yet strong. I will take you both to the village."
    She bristled. Help? She would not accept it from anyone spawned by the man who had betrayed her father. From anyone who would give her pity. "We do not need you, Bran the Fair. Be on your way."
    " 'Tis not right to leave you here in the road. Be sensible. Come with me. 'Tis a fair walk home."
    "I have no home, thanks to your father."
    He stepped back, a man of steel and power, but when he spoke, his words were kind. "Hate my father, Gwyneth. But remember I am not responsible for his deeds."
    "I hate you just the same."
    He watched her turn away and saw her thin, rigid back. She was all skinny arms as she struggled to help her friend walk. The tension held in Gwyneth's body was as easy to see as the stones in the road.
    All these years, he hadn't thought of her. He'd had no real reason to. But the memories drifted back, the image of a very young girl's sweetness, of how she'd once chased him in the orchards. Why, she had been able to climb almost as high as he could. He spent one summer over a dozen years ago fostered by Gwyneth's father, once a great knight. Ere the feud, ere he was betrayed.
    Aye, it hurt to look at her. Once dressed in riches, now she wore peasant's garb, old and worn and roughly made. But the look of exhaustion she shouldered saddened him more. He guessed that she endured a hard life, and even harder work filled her days.
    "Where do you live now?" He shouldn't care, but he had to know. Or he would think of naught else the night through.
    "My uncle has remarried since my aunt's passing. I have been allowed to remain." The sadness in her voice betrayed her. She moved efficiently as if still the lord's daughter.
    "I see. You live in the village then?"
    "Aye. And work there, too." Still, she did not face him. "I thought I bid you to go, Bran the Fair. Leave us."
    He saw the tiny bumps of her spine through the cloth, the lean lines of her shoulder blades and the knobs of her elbows. Too skinny. From too much work, or too little food?
    The plump young woman stood on wobbly feet and tossed him a dimpled smile. "You slew the wolf. I thought he was a ghost after my soul."
    "I always offer what protection I can to pretty maidens," he returned, uncomfortable as always with the killing he did for a living, even if this night it were a beast and not a human.
    The maid bobbed a curtsy, blushing. But Gwyneth—why, she was another matter entirely. She arched one brow. Not even the night shadows could hide her distrust of him, yet he could not in good conscience leave her here unaided.
    "If I cannot offer a ride to the village, what can I do for you?"
    "You can do as I have asked." Gwyneth met his gaze, defiant, her chin set. "Ride on, Bran. Go to your father the murderer. We have no need for a bastard like you."
    Anger threatened, but then he heard the fear in her words, the tears hidden beneath a voice false with hatred. She did not hate, as she claimed. Nay, it was a deeper, more broken emotion she hid. A grief so great she could not speak of it