Jillian Hart (21 page)

"Oh, God." Lissa's hand flew to her mouth at the sight of her husband, swathed in white bandages. That was all she could see of him—all but his eyes and tip of his nose were covered.

Her knees shook. Tears blinded her.

"Lissa." Sophie touched on her shoulder. The Crow woman's wise eyes held endless sorrow. "Sam Busby is more severely burned than your husband, so Jack could be worse. His burns aren't deep in most places, so I don't think there will be any scarring, but the burns on his hands and back are serious."

Lissa held back her fear. "Any sign of infection?"

"I've applied a yarrow and goose grease poultice." Sophie poured a glass of water from the basin on the low chest of drawers. "I've covered his burns completely. As I said, some are minor, others are not. And I fear the threat of fever. It could kill him."

Her chest cold, Lissa laid her hand on Jack's bandaged one, a light touch. She hoped it wouldn't hurt him. His fingers stirred, clasping hers, holding on hard and tight, for all he was worth.

* * *

Doc James strode into the kitchen, headed toward the back door. "I have to go check on Luanne Hingle's new baby. If Jack's fever worsens, send for me. Understand?"

She nodded, unable to find the words. She watched the solemn man unhook his tailored canvas coat from the wall peg. Her breath rattled in her chest. She clenched her hands into fists and asked him about what scared her the most. "You said the fever was serious. Sophie said her herbs would take care of it."

Doc's mouth pressed into an unyielding, grim line. "Sophie has done a fine job treating you and your husband. In fact, Sam Busby wouldn't be alive without her care, either. But now we wait and see, that's all we can do. I wish I could give you better news. You have to admire a man like your husband."

She jammed her unbandaged fist into her apron pocket, tasting both sorrow and admiration for the man who stood tall for her, who put her first, even above his own life, who vowed he wouldn't leave her.

"I know this isn't fair, Lissa." Warmth softened Doc's lined face. "You don't deserve to lose another husband."

She watched the doctor leave, hope draining from her chest with every breath. Jack was strong, but she'd helped Sophie change the bandages and felt the heat of his body and the fever burning his brow.

Her throat closed, and she sank into the closest chair, where Jack always sat, at the round oak table. She could lose him as easily as she'd lost Michael. How could she tell Chad they might bury another pa?

"Mama?" Booted feet slapped on the floor, startling the cat from her perch beneath the table.

"Chad." She opened wide her arms, welcomed his little body tight against hers. "I'm so happy to see you. Did you have fun staying in town?"

"Ira and me played ball." Chad's eyes shone. "But I missed my pa."

Big blue eyes, full of love for Jack, met hers, and Lissa's stomach fell. How could she tell Chad the truth? How could she lie to him? "You know your new pa got hurt fighting that fire."

"We saw the big flames. The rain done put it out, though." Chad leaned against her side, his arms winding around her waist in an awkward hug. "I wish it didn't burn up my tree house. How am I gonna fight outlaws now?"

It hurt to smile. She brushed flyaway bangs from his brow, treasuring this little boy while he was still small enough to want affection from his mother. "I bet when your pa's all better he'll build you another. Look up at the ceiling. It burned clear through over by the chimney."

"Pa can fix that, too." That voice was so full of pride, as bright as any noontime sun. "I can help. Pa showed me how to hammer."

Lissa managed a wobbly smile. "We'll see. Now go wash your hands. It's nearly dinnertime."

Chad dashed off, chattering of the things he saw in town and wanted to tell his pa all about.

Holding back her fears, she grabbed the bowl of broth, stirred in the dried, crushed lovage to reduce fever, and headed toward Chad's room. Jack lay quietly, breathing raggedly. His presence was hardly perceptible in the still, summer-hot room.

"Jack." She laid careful fingers against his face. This afternoon, they had removed some of the bandages. Reddened skin, not blistering, still intact, felt hot beneath her knuckles.

His eyelids fluttered open. "Lissa."

The way he said her name melted her heart, made her forget old resolves and fears, made her see only his broad-shouldered form cutting through the wall of flame, iron-strong and undefeated. He'd rescued her, shielded her from being burned with his own body.

How could she not love this man? How could she ever keep her heart safe from him?

"How's Sam?"

"Doc says he's going to be fine, thanks to you." She filled the spoon, then held it to his lips. "He's not the only one who is alive because of you."

His eyes filled, a wondrous shimmer of emotion that left no doubt. He loved her. This man with no name, with no past, he loved her in a way no one ever had.

He closed his mouth at the sight of a second full spoon. "I don't want anything hot."

"You have to eat this, for us. It will make you well."

"I already am. You're safe. Chad's safe. That's all I care about."

She brushed a kiss to Jack's brow, unable to stop herself from falling even harder for this man of unflinching courage, this man made of the stuff of dreams.

Chapter Fourteen

"Sheriff, the fire's out," Deakins announced as he kicked open the jailhouse door. "At least, according to Hans Johanson. The town's out of danger."

"About time." Rain sluiced down the barred window and dripped steadily through a crack by the stovepipe. "I heard it started on Lissa's land. Seems to me that husband of hers could have started it."

"Folks say it was a lightning strike. There's no doubt. Too many of the ranch hands saw it."

"Did any mail come on the stage today?"

"Yes, sir." Deakins slapped a small pile of envelopes on the polished desktop. "Heard Murray was burnt pretty bad."

"That so? A pity." The quicker the man was out of his way, the better. "Maybe the bastard will die from his burns and save me the trouble."

Deakins didn't answer.

Well, not everyone had as much gumption as he did. Palmer didn't mind doing the dirty work a lot of people balked at. He sorted through the envelopes, caught sight of a familiar hand—his nephew in Chesterfield. This was the news he'd been waiting for.

Palmer tore open the flap, pulled out the single sheet of paper. At first he thought it was bad news, that there was no dirt his nephew could find on the invincible John Murray. When Palmer skimmed the words penned there, he knew he'd hit pay dirt.

Deputy John Murray was alive and well in St. Louis, living in his apartment above the tailor shop, alone, still grieving for his wife and son, according to those who knew him.

That meant the man who was masquerading as Michael's cousin, as Lissa's groom, was a man with a secret and a past. Palmer laughed, triumph tasting as satisfying as fine whiskey.

His instincts had been right all along. It would take only a little more digging to bring almighty Murray down.

"Deakins, as soon as Lissa's husband is up and around, let me know. I need to pay him a little visit"

"Pa?" Chad's voice spun her around in the chair.

Lissa saw the little boy, eyes wide, worry crinkling his brow. She held out her hand. "Come on in. He's sleeping. I told you he was hurt pretty bad fighting that wildfire."

Chad nodded, stepped forward in silence, mouth open. "Pa's gonna wake up, ain't he?"

"We sure hope so, cowboy." Her heart twisted as he leaned against her side, his need and fear as endless as a midnight sky. Lissa lifted her son onto her lap.

"My first pa never woke up." Chad sighed, and his sorrow touched her, made tears sting her eyes.

"I know. We hope that doesn't happen to this pa."

"I'm prayin'." Chad bowed his head.

"What's that you have in your hand?"

"The book. Pa read it, and I felt better."

"Maybe we should read the story to him?" Chad cuddled in her arms. In the stillness of the afternoon, with rain tapping at the windows, she began reading aloud from
The Adventures of Tom Sawyer.

Jack.

The name echoed in his head, distorted by a dream.
"Jack, you 're going to miss this life."

Sunlight burned his eyes. He sat straight in the saddle, rifle resting over the saddle horn, riding next to a man dressed in a plain blue shirt and dark trousers, a black hat tipped low over his brow and shading his rough-cut face from the sun.

"Nah. I'm restless. Need a change." His own voice, his own feelings and memories, just out of reach. "I've been in Montana a long time. Done all I can here. I'd like to get some land, make a fresh start in life."

Darkness pounded in his skull. A memory came, so close he could almost touch it. Then it vanished, lost in fog and night.

Lissa's voice, low and soft. He couldn't open his eyes. Pain engulfed him. Fire licked across his skin, over his back, in his throat. Darkness claimed him, no matter how hard he fought.

"How's he doing?" Sophie stepped into the room, her voice low, concerned.

"He's still burning up." She wrang the washcloth out over the basin, the splash of water loud in the room, but not as loud as Jack's labored breathing.

"He's hot, all right." Sophie laid her hand on Jack's brow. "I'll draw more water, steep more tea."

"Thanks, Sophie." Lissa's gratitude knotted in her throat. She hadn't been alone since the fire. Will had returned to help Arcada run the ranch, repair the roof and fences that had been burned. Blanche had come with enough cooked meals to see her through most of a week, then she'd washed the soot from the house and done load after load of laundry.

"Jack, can you hear me?" Lissa smoothed the hair from his brow, let the dark, blond locks fall between her fingers. "Jack?"

He murmured, lost in fever, but he knew her voice. She dared to hope, dared to believe he would awaken, that he wouldn't leave them. She bathed him, kept him cool, spoon-fed him the steeped tea Sophie swore by.

Toward dawn, he felt cooler. He breathed easier. He looked less pale, and she felt he was less lost to her.

As first light broke through the curtains, swathing the room in a peach glow, she held Jack's hand and didn't let go. She refused to let go of the man she could not let herself love, yet could not help loving.

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.