Jillian Hart (29 page)

How could a woman keep her heart from such a man? Lissa had tried, had vowed to herself when she buried Michael she would never hurt like that again, never hand over her love and a part of herself, knowing how vulnerable it made her. She had lost far too many people, buried them and mourned them. She had agreed to marry John Murray for the convenience, for comfort, and more children.

This man she had found on dthe road and brought home, he wasn't convenient. He was myth and reality, legend and truth, a man as grand as the mountains, and when he kissed every curve of her pregnant stomach, he was a man who owned her heart—completely, without reserve or doubts, without any conditions at all.

When he entered her, joining their bodies in a rush of heat and need and wanting, it was with more than just passion. It was with love, pure, true and unbreakable.

"Pa!" Chad ran out of the house, the puppy barking at his heels. "You came!"

"I hope you saved some breakfast for me." Jack set the brake and hopped to the ground. He caught both of Lissa's hands. It was good to be home, so very good. He helped her to the ground, unable to look away from her, from this woman to whom he owed so much.

"I ate all the pancakes, me and Puddles." Chad's arms were flung out and then wrapped tight around Jack's knees. "Maybe Mama could make you some more. Me and Puddles could eat more sausages."

"Oh, you could?" Lissa laughed, tipping her head back just enough to scatter those luxurious gold curls. "I suppose I could be talked into cooking up lots of sausages."

"I would like that." Jack straightened, stood in the light of her smile. "After I eat, I'll take Chad to meet his new horse. Would you like that?"

"Oh, boy!" Chad raced toward the front steps. "Hurry up, Mama. You need to cook real fast."

Laughter filled him up. Jack took Lissa's hand in his, felt the snap of want and the memory of every time he'd loved her. Her fingers twined with his, holding him tightly, and they walked to the house together. Yep, it was good to be home.

"Why did you let Murray go?" Deakins strode into the jailhouse with an envelope in hand. "We finally got the goods on him. Look. It's from Billings."

"Why in the hell did they wait so damned long?" Palmer kicked the chair, sent it flying across the room. It slammed into the log wall with a crash that echoed through the empty jail and straight through his heart.

"That sheriff from Billings is probably just busy. That's why he took so long." Deakins dropped the letter on the desk. "Want me to ride out to the ranch and bring him in?"

"No, damn it. There's no way in hell Jack could be Dillon Plummer." He clenched his fists. He wanted to hit something. Instead, he grabbed up the envelope and tore open the flap. He knew what he would find, but he just had to see it—just in case that high and mighty Jack whatever-his-name-was and his hired man weren't telling the truth. It wasn't a big hope.

He unfolded the sheets of paper. There were two. The handwritten scrawl from a rather talkative lawman who told of Plummer's capture, just like Arcada said. But there was more—mention of a missing marshal who Plummer admitted to killing. The body had never been found.

A chill snaked down the back of Palmer's neck. He knew before he looked at the second page he would see words describing a lawman whose characteristics were the same as Jack's. Jack Emerson—thirty-two years old. Born December tenth, federal marshal, twice-decorated, six-foot-two, dark blond hair, blue eyes.

That chill snaking down his neck wrapped around his spine and paralyzed him. He'd thrown a United States Marshal in jail and was framing him for cattle theft, a hanging offense.

"Somethin' wrong, Sheriff?" Deakins inched closer.

"Nothing is wrong." He folded up the sheets of paper and shoved them into his shirt pocket. He would burn the information as soon as he could get away from his deputy.

Whole herds brought in thousands of dollars at a time. Rustling was good business. Soon the fine citizens of Sweetwater Gulch would be witnessing a lynching.

* * *

"Are you done yet, Pa?"

"Look at my plate. Is it empty?"

"No. But you could have gotten real full. Did you?"

Lissa loved seeing her son so happy. He shone like a midday sun in Jack's presence, all bright joy and adoration for the man he imitated at every chance. Jack set down his fork and cocked his head, his smile lopsided on his face.

Chad did the same.

"Let's share that last sausage, and then we'll head out to the barn. Is that a deal?"

"Deal."

Puddles barked, Winston eyed the open jar of maple syrup, and Lissa poured Jack a second cup of coffee.

"He can take it with him to the barn," she explained when Chad looked ready to protest.

Jack dipped the last link of sausage into the syrup, cut it in two. "What did you do with the sugar?"

"I was making apple butter yesterday." She snatched the sugar crock from the counter. "If I'd known you were coming, I would have baked a pie."

"Hmm. You could always bake this afternoon." Jack took the crock from her grip and grabbed a spoon.

"Hurry, Pa," Chad pleaded, holding open the door. "Please?"

"Getting your first horse is a mighty important event." Jack' s voice rang deep and low, but his eyes twinkled and he gave her a wink. "Would you like to accompany us to the barn?"

"It would be my honor." She took the arm he offered and stepped out into the cool morning, her heart and her life brimming full.

Chapter Nineteen

Hard frost crunched beneath Jack's boots as he headed for the barn. Late autumn scented the foggy air. White coated the green of the grass and iced the shallow puddles in the yard. A few stubborn leaves clung to overhead branches, rattling in the wind.

Winter wasn't far off.

A low growl, deep and threatening, drew his attention. Cows huddled together, milling against the split rail fence. He heard the growl again, a wildcat's cry, and then the lower, threatening rumble of the bull.

"Will!" Jack couldn't face a wildcat unarmed. He threw open the barn doors and ran for the tack room. No answer. Will had promised to ride the fence line all night. He was probably sound asleep in his little cabin uphill from the barn.

Jack grabbed the repeating rifle from above the doorframe and a handful of bullets from the shelf. All was calm in the barn, the horses and milk cow watching him with surprised gazes.

The wildcat's cry split the air. There wasn't much time. Jack raced out into the morning, skidded on ice and hopped over the fence. He fired a shot into the air, but the wildcat didn't startle. Jack kept running toward Pete, who stood facing the cat, all four feet braced for a fight, head down.

There was no choice. A mountain lion and livestock didn't mix. Neither did children. He heard the cabin door open and Chad's voice ring in the cold air.

"Mama, I'm goin' to feed my horse, like Pa says!"

Lissa's answer was lost across the distance.

"Lissa! Keep the boy in the house!"

The wildcat leaped just as he squeezed off a shot Pete charged. Jack fired again, but the nimble cougar was already a blur in the fields. Probably hedging its bets, it would return when the pickings were easier.

Jack checked to make sure Chad was nowhere in sight Knowing the boy was safe, he gave chase. Pete was already charging after the fleeing cat Jack ran, then stopped when he was certain the cat was no immediate threat to his family or his herd.

Lissa opened the back door when she saw him coming. The wind battered her dress, plastering it tight against her body. The grace of her struck him, as always.

"What is it?" There was fear in her voice.

"Not the rustlers." Jack set the rifle on the pegs high on the wall of the porch, out of a small child's reach, and swept into the warm kitchen. "A mountain lion is bothering the stock. Must be sick or hurt to be hunting this low this time of year. There's still a lot of good hunting for the cats up in those mountains."

"Did he get any of my cows?" Lissa closed the door behind him.

"He wanted to, but that bull of yours was putting up a good fight. Good thing I went out to do the barn work when I did." A fire crackled in the fireplace, warming both rooms, and the cook-stove puffed smoke every time the wind gusted. The heat felt good. He grabbed the coffeepot from the stove so Lissa wouldn't have to. She looked tired, and was moving slowly. He worried about her. "I'm going to need to pack a meal. Some of that beef jerky would do us just fine. I don't want you to do any extra cooking."

"I baked just yesterday. I have fresh biscuits and bread." She pushed the sugar jar in his direction.

How beautiful she was. Since he'd been back, everything had changed. Everything was better, felt right, felt whole.

Chad tugged on Jack's trouser leg. "The big cat didn't get my Comet, did she?"

"No, son. Your mare is tucked safe and sound in the barn. The mountain lions can't get in there." He sipped the steaming coffee. "I'm going to take either Will or Arcada with me. We're going to hunt down the cat, so we don't have to worry about someone when he plays outside."

Lines tightened around her eyes. "Good. I can get a bedroll together for you right now."

"No, I can do it. I just need one more cup if I'm going to head out. I'll ask one of the hands to do the barn work this morning. I don't want you out there cleaning pens and milking the cow."

"I'm perfectly capable, but it's nice to be pampered." She brushed a kiss across his cheek. He turned and caught her mouth, tasting her heat, her passion. As always, his body responded. Need and desire mixed in his blood. "Let me go gather up a meal for you and Will."

"I'll be home for supper." He knelt down to explain to Chad that their work with his new mare would be postponed for a day. As he spoke, he glanced over the boy's head to watch her move around the kitchen.

He loved her. How he loved her.

* * *

"Pa said a man has to treat his horse right." Chad tossed one of Jack's rolled up socks the length of the cabin. Puddles took off, obediently hunting it down. "And that goes for his dog, too. Pa said one day Puddles can bring back the geese we hunted. But first I gotta teach her to bring things back."

Tiny snowflakes fluttered outside in the twilight, weightless, swirling but not quite falling. The air smelled like winter, and the house felt cozy with the fire in the hearth.

Lissa gave the dough one last sweep with her rolling pin, then began carefully cutting it into pieces.

"When's Pa gonna be back?"

"I expect him any time now." Lissa pinched the dough in place over the two pie plates.

"I wanna show him how good Puddles retrieves." Chad dropped to his knees to praise the half-grown puppy that came loping across the wood floor, floppy paws sliding. The boy's shoulders were braced just like Jack's often were, the half-smile on his face an exact replica.

Love and a rare happiness joined in Lissa's heart. The baby moved, then gave her a good kick in the ribs. She laid her hand there, listening to the fire crackle at the hearth, smelling the chicken potpies ready to bake in the oven, a treat for Jack when he came in from the cold.

Puddles stopped retrieving and lifted her nose. A noise echoed somewhere outside the house. The dog barked and raced to the door.

"Pa!" Chad dashed to the window.

Lissa took one look at the dog barking protectively, and she knew whoever was outside their door couldn't be Jack. She lifted the curtain over her kitchen counter and saw a rider dismount at her front steps. The sun was near to setting, and shadows cloaked the man's face. She knew it wasn't Hans Johanson by the look of the horse.

"Chad. Please take Puddles into your bedroom."

"Yes, Mama." Chad, shoulders sagging because his beloved pa wasn't home yet, obediently called Puddles to him. The young puppy wasn't sure, but at a second command ran to her little boy's side.

A knock on the door rattled it, and fear leaped into Lissa's heart. Had something happened to Jack? She threw open the door, tried to stay calm. Tried to remember how Jack had already faced another mountain lion and won, so long ago now. He was a strong, intelligent man, and a good hunter.

"Bill Lambert." She saw the rancher's rifle and the hard look on his face. "What's—"

"Where's that husband of yours?" he interrupted, his voice brittle and tense. "Where is he?"

"He isn't home yet. I can tell him that you called."

"That ain't good enough." The rancher's hand shot out, throwing wide the door. Lissa jumped back, startled, then she saw the men with him—maybe six, maybe ten. Snow caught in the lamplight, shivered on the hat brims and shoulders of the angry mob. "I ain't gonna ask again. Where is he?"

"T-tracking a mountain lion."

"Sure he is!" A voice jeered in the back. "He's out stealing another herd right now."

"Quiet!" Lambert lumbered in the door. He towered over her, his face set and his hand tensed around the stock of his rifle. "We're gonna wait until that bastard shows."

"If he knows what's good for him, he'll take off for Canada at a dead run," another called.

"He didn't stand and fight at the harvest dance. He's a damned coward."

"Out of my house." Anger popped through her. She grabbed her broom from the corner and held it tight. "Get out. Don't you dare insult my husband, you big oaf."

"Lissa." Lambert took her by the arm and tried to push her away.

She smacked his knuckles with her broom handle. "Don't you manhandle me." Her pregnancy made her awkward, but she gave Lambert another smack on the back of his hand. "I want you off my property, Bill. How dare you push me around? You know how I lost my last two babies."

Some of the rage slipped from Lambert's face. His shoulders sank a little. "I didn't mean to hurt you, Lissa. I just lost my whole herd, breeding stock and all—everything my wife and sons have worked for."

"And that's my fault?"

"Well, no." His grip on the rifle slackened. "It's just that we got reason to think your man is responsible. Palmer arrested him for being that outlaw."