Jillian Hart (30 page)

"Palmer also released him when Jack proved he wasn't."

"You don't know who he is." Reggie Gannon stepped forward. "I tell you one thing. No one can vouch for that man of yours. He's not around every time a herd goes missing."

"But he brought in the other rustlers."

"Don't mean he wasn't one of them." Lambert shook his head. "We're waitin' for him whether you like it or not, Lissa."

"Not in my house. And not on my porch. All of you. Out." Lissa swung her broom, so angry that tears blurred her eyes. "You wait in the dark, in the snow. Get off the porch."

"Lissa." Lambert grabbed the broom, stopping it before she could do harm. "We'll wait where we want."

"No you won't." Jack's voice, as deep and as powerful as the encroaching darkness, sliced through the drone of the arguing men. "Lambert, let go of my wife."

Lissa heard the click of a revolver's hammer, saw the crowd of men part. Jack's boots knelled on the wooden porch as he stepped into the pool of lamplight. He strode toward her with the strength of a hero, with the unyielding courage of legend, as dangerous as any outlaw.

"You heard what I said," Jack ground out. "Let go of my wife."

Lambert released his hold on her broom. "We've been waiting for you, Jack. We've got business to discuss."

"Looked to me like you were manhandling a pregnant woman." Jack released the hammer of his gleaming Peacemaker, then holstered the gun. He stood proud and unafraid, his voice hard and clear. "Never threaten my wife again. Do you understand?"

"Where have you been, that's what—"

"Do you understand?" Those words were as lethal as a bullet

Lissa's heart soared. Even though he was outnumbered, there he was, protecting her, standing up for her in a way no one ever had.

Lambert ducked his head. "I hear you. But I want my cattle back. Where did you take them?"

"I never touched your herd, Lambert." Jack caught her hand. "Are you all right?"

"Shaky, but I'm fine." She wanted to thank him, to tell him all he was to her, but the tension in the air, the hard, angry faces of the ranchers and ranch hands, kept her silent.

"Go inside. I'll be right with you."

"I won't leave." She knew the men crowding onto her porch, had known them all since grade school. "I said you were hunting a mountain lion, but they wouldn't believe me."

"It's a likely story, Jack. And a mighty big coincidence." Lambert's hold never loosened on his rifle. "I want my animals back."

"Where's the cattle?" Gannon demanded.

"If he don't talk, maybe we ought to take everything from him and his family, and see how he likes it!" Vic Bell shouted.

"Hell, might as well hang him now."

"I've got a rope."

Jack tensed in the shadows, his strength and power unmistakable. "This is America, boys, where a man is innocent until proven guilty."

"Where were you today? I bet it proves you guilty," Lambert challenged.

"I said I was tracking a wildcat that had been threatening my herd. I can prove it." Jack gave Lambert a shove. "Out of my way."

Lambert, a smaller man, stepped aside. The crowd parted as Jack strode toward his horse standing in the shadows. "Lissa. Bring me some light."

She grabbed the tin lamp by the door and carried it past the men who had threatened her, who threatened her still. Her knees shook, her blood felt shivery in her veins, but she held her chin steady. She would not falter as she neared the steps.

Jack reached out. His fingers brushed hers as he took the light. His face was set in stone, and his gaze was steady and certain. "Thank you."

Her belief in this man would never end. He turned the wick, and a flame of light danced over the skiff of snow crusting the earth and illuminated the back of his gelding, where a mountain lion's body lay tied behind the saddle, limp and lifeless.

"I was out hunting a wildcat." Jack faced the men. "I have a carcass to prove it. And if that isn't enough, Will was with me. You all know Will. He's no liar."

The foreman stepped into the shadowed light, his revolver raised and ready. "I say Jack's telling the truth. I was with him the entire day. And any man who accuses Jack of stealing cattle is accusing me of the same."

"I want to believe you, Will." Lambert strode forward, his step as harsh as his voice. "I lost everything today. I'm going to find the man responsible, I swear it. I can only hope you ain't involved."

"Go home, boys." Jack held the lamp, but his free hand curled over the handle of his revolver.

The men, understanding what Jack didn't say, filed off the porch and into the night. He waited until the last man had mounted up and galloped away before he nodded to Will.

Will lowered his rifle. "I don't like what I saw tonight."

"Neither do I." Jack's anger tasted bitter in his mouth, but he swallowed it, anyway. Acting out of anger never did anyone a bit of good. "Lissa, how are you?"

"Scared." She stepped into his arms, fragile and trembling. The mob tonight had threatened her. She had every right to her fear. "Chad is in his room. I need to go to him."

"I'll be right in." He released her, even though he wanted to hold her tight and to protect her for all he was worth.

She took the light, leaving only darkness in her wake.

"I have something for you."

Lissa looked up at Jack's voice. The length of her unbound hair shimmered down her back, and she held the brush in mid-stroke. Her heart thumped. The air in her chest escaped. He stood framed in the threshold, iron-hewn and darkly handsome, but it was the object held in his hands that made her stomach drop, that made her throat ache.

"I bought this when I was in Billings. This is for the baby." His footsteps tapped on the floor. He set the cradle down at the foot of the bed.

The baby.
She could not lift her gaze from the sight of the carved spool sides, snug and safe. She thought of the trunk in the attic, pushed back into the corner where a part of her heart had been buried. Her tears and grief and emptiness were packed between the folds of the tiny baby gowns and hats and socks stored there. Amid the quilt and blankets were a hundred lost hopes.

She set down the brush, laid her hand over the breadth of her stomach. Life kicked there, just beneath her palm.

Jack raked a hand through his hair, looking lost at her lack of response. "When I was up in the attic before I took the cattle to market, I saw the crib tucked beneath the eaves. I thought maybe this would work real nice, until the baby was bigger. I can bring it down for you. Maybe dust it off and give it a new coat of oil."

"The cradle is beautiful, Jack." She somehow found her voice, somehow faced the hole in her heart. "I don't want you to bring down the crib. Not just yet."

"But I thought—"

Where he had hoped to please her, she could see he now thought he'd failed. She trailed her fingertips over the finely carved sides, over the spindles of wood perfectly made. "I would like nothing more than to lay our child here. But I want to see him safely born first."

"I see." His arms folded her tight to his chest. She heard the dependable beat of his heart beneath her ear, felt his steady comfort. His kiss brushed her brow, so tender and loving that tears burned her eyes.

Loving hurt. It hurt to open up her heart again, but protecting her heart and keeping her distance could never be worth missing a single opportunity to love this man—to feel his magnificent presence, to hold him tight in her arms.

"This baby is going to be fine, Lissa." His voice vibrated through her, becoming part of her. "You have to believe."

"I guess I have no other choice." She closed her eyes when their lips met.

Love opened up a woman's heart, claimed a space, made her vulnerable. The chance to truly love Jack, to truly love him, though, made her brave.

"Jack."

A man's voice, hard and angry, distorted by dream. A shaft of light penetrated the darkness, flickering across the nighttime room. He saw the knob of a four-poster bed, felt the quick bite of fear at his chest, heard the fast, shaky breathing of someone else
—
a little boy, littler than he was.

"Jack. Joey. Show your faces, boys. Come out, or hell if I won't make it harder on you." That voice brought more fear, loud enough to echo, to draw a gasp from the little boy.

Joey. A brother. Jack wrapped his arm around the child protectively. He knew Father was lying. He always lied about hitting. That's how they 'd lost Mama, even though Jack had tried to protect her.

He'd stood right between Mama and Father, but when the blow hit, it had broken Jack's arm. And Mama, well, she'd never woken up. They buried her two days later.

Jack had cried at the funeral, even though he was eight years old, for the grief at losing his mother beat at him. The guilt of not being strong enough to protect her hurt him more than any of Father's blows ever could.

Now he had to protect Joey. From this day on, Father would never break Joey's arm. Jack would make sure of it.

"Hide, Joey." Jack pushed the boy beneath the bed and tugged the hem of the quilt all the way to the floor. Then he stood to face his father's wrath. "I was the one who spilled the last of the milk, Father."

Footsteps crashed through the silence. The lantern tossed swinging light through the room, then straight into his eyes. Jack didn't wince when he heard the clink of a buckle or the hiss as Father jerked off his belt.

"Come here, boy. You need to pay for what you done. Maybe if I beat you enough, then you'll learn. You'll learn
—"

Jack bolted awake, heart slamming against his ribs. The dream didn't evaporate, but stayed in his mind, lingered like fog on a cold morning. He wanted to believe it was a nightmare, spurned by the ugliness of the angry mob on his doorstep, but he knew better. Deep in his guts he knew he'd remembered a piece of his childhood, one best left forgotten.

No—best remembered. At least he knew he had a brother. Jack thought about that, and tried to push the images of violence from his mind. Then he realized he was alone. The pillow beside him was empty, the sheets tucked neatly into place to hold in the warmth.

Jack tossed back the covers. The air was nippy, but not cold. He padded on stocking feet around the bed and into the hallway. Chad's door was shut tight, so all was well. The boy hadn't become sick in the night and needed Lissa.

She was all right, wasn't she? He worried about her, about the pregnancy, but the contented silence of the house wrapped around him like fog. A faint glow beckoned him toward the front room. The cabin looked different in shadows, but the sweetness, the coziness, felt the same.

She sat at the table, a lamp lit before her, the wick turned low. Light sparkled in her long hair like Stardust. With elbows propped on the table, she sat still as the night, her face buried in her hands.

"Couldn't sleep?" he asked.

She jumped. Her hands flew from her face. "You startled me."

"Next time I'll make more noise." He waited for the tension to ease from the tight line of her jaw and shoulders.

"Want me to stir up the coals? You look as if you need some tea."

"I just need you." Her gaze met his, her big, luminous eyes drawing him closer, drawing him in. "I didn't want to wake you, so I came out here. I'm still angry over what those men—men who were good friends to Michael and me, men I went to school with—accused you of—"

"That was desperation talking. And hopelessness." He settled down across the table from her, leaning into the pool of light that surrounded her like a halo. "Lambert and some of the other men lost everything they have worked for."

"That gave them no right to do what they did tonight. Scaring Chad. Upsetting me. Nearly attacking you."

"They are entitled to their anger. They just need to direct it at the men causing the trouble, not at me." He took her hands in his, felt the tremble of fear and anger. "I will put an end to this. You can count on it. When I find the men responsible, all of this heartache will stop."

"You shouldn't have to do Palmer's job just to prove yourself." Absolute faith rang in her voice, clear as church bells, certain as dawn. "You never need to prove yourself to me."

What had he done to earn that? He'd married her, done right by her, that was all. "I guess the right woman found me in the road last spring. Think where I would be if old spinster Mills came across me."

"She's a terrible cook. You're very lucky I picked you up and claimed you." Lissa laughed, leaning into his arms, the night shining in her eyes.

"Damn lucky," he agreed, then led her back to the warmth and comfort of their bed.

Chapter Twenty

Lissa heard the laughter, muffled by the log walls and thick chinking. She caught herself smiling. Jack must be back from town.

"Here's my head count of the springer heifers." Will handed her the account book. "I have them in the southwest pasture. Twenty of them were your orphans from last year. I figure they should start calving early spring."

"Thanks for moving them closer to the barn." Lissa pulled out a chair at the kitchen table and sank down into it, grateful to get some weight off her aching feet. "What about last year's calves?"

"The hands and I herded them into the small pasture directly behind the barn. That mountain cat is dead, but that doesn't mean there aren't others." Will's youthful face looked more serious with his responsibilities. "We'll have a small herd of steers. That has me worried, because prices go sky high come spring."

"We'll buy in late winter, when some ranchers are running low on feed and want to sell extra animals." Once again she heard the high call of laughter outside, where snow laced the ground in a thick cover and dripped off trees beneath the midday's sun.

"Jack wanted me to keep you current on all this," Will explained. "Sounds as if he's back from the bank."

"I hope he got the mortgage." Lissa pulled herself out of the chair and headed toward the window. Sunshine sparkled on the glass. Outside, a broad-shouldered man ran around the yard with a little boy, flinging snowballs. "Looks like we just bought the Johanson's land."