Authors: Lissa's Cowboy
Jillian Hart (38 page)
A boom rumbled through the thick walls; the muffled crash could be either thunder or gunfire. Luke leaned one shoulder against the window casing, gritting his teeth against the pain that burned in his left side just above his hip. Weakness radiated down his left leg and washed through every muscle in his battered body.
He listened to the tap of the woman's step through the house and the scratch of the dog's nails against the closed bedroom door. The storm outside roared like the devil himself, and if Moss followed him here, then the storm camouflaged him well. Luke swore, anger building. If Moss was out there, then Beth still wasn't safe.
Damn
. He couldn't see anything but darkness and the harsh veil of swirling snow washed with black now that night had fallen. Moss could be out there, no more than three feet away, and Luke wouldn't know it, couldn't see him. Fury tore through him like the swift edge of night.
He hadn't come this far to fail Beth.
The dog's startled bark split through the dark. He let the curtain fall, the lace feminine and soft against his knuckles, and charged around the perimeter of the room. His left foot dragged just enough to catch his toe on the edge of a braided carpet. Pain jolted up his leg and into the wound.
He gritted his teeth and kept running. The distance across the parlor seemed like a mile. He heard the crack of a door breaking, the slam of wood striking wood, and a woman screaming.
His adrenaline pumped, and he tore around the corner, revolver steady, calm from the years of working behind a gun. He saw it in a flash—the rifle on the floor, the re-flected glint off a revolver's nose, the swing of that revolver straight toward Luke's heart—
Where is the woman
? He dove behind the thick wood wall as a gun fired and a bullet bit into the curve of the log wall not an inch from his brow. He could hear the rasp of frightened breathing. Moss had her. The bounty hunter he'd been ducking since crossing into Montana Territory. The coldhearted bastard who'd put Beth's life in danger. He had the woman.
"I've got a gun to her head, McKenna," a man's voice—not Moss's—boomed above the howling wind and the barking dog. "Toss me your Colt and come out, hands up and empty, or I'll shoot her. You know I will."
Hammond. Moss's right-hand man. Luke leaned his brow against the wall, breathing hard, shaking from weakness and pain. He was in no position to fight. Hell, he couldn't even hold his gun steady, and he knew Hammond would kill the woman, either way. He couldn't surrender, even if he wanted to.
"What's it gonna be, McKenna?"
"I'm coming out, Hammond." There was no other solution. He tossed down one gun and listened to it slide across the polished floor, metal gliding on wood. "I've got Beth in the next room. I don't want a fight."
"Sure, McKenna. Anything you say. Just step out with your hands up. I'd hate to put a hole in this little lady, not before I'm finished with her." Cruelty glittered like a rare jewel in the dark, as heartless as the storm, as dark as the night.
"Is Moss with you?" Luke tugged his second revolver from his gun belt, speaking to hide the click as he thumbed back the hammer.
"Get the hell out here or I shoot."
Luke shook like a son of a bitch, but he took a deep breath, willing his right hand to be steady for just a few seconds, just long enough to squeeze off one shot. You can do this. He had to, for Beth's sake and for the woman's.
"You win, Hammond. I'm coming out."
Luke flew around the corner. Pain blurred his vision as he squeezed the trigger, and his aim was sure and true. He saw Hammond's look of surprise, saw his gun tumble out of his hand, firing wild. The woman, hazel eyes wide with terror, opened her mouth in a silent scream as she realized the bullet had whizzed right past her neck to lodge in the middle of the bounty hunter's heart.
Luke waited, revolver cocked, as the big man tumbled backward already dead, hitting the floor with a sickening, lifeless thud. He didn't so much as twitch.
Staggering, Luke leaned against the counter. Relief swept through him, cold as a north wind. "Are you all right, ma'am?"
She shook her head. She trembled so hard, her teeth rattled. Wide eyes locked on his, and she looked ready to faint. "You could have shot me. You could have killed me."
"No. I'm a sharpshooter. I never miss." Pain exploded with every step, and he pressed the flat of his palm to his left side, where fresh blood warmed his skin. "I'll take care of the body."
"The body," she repeated dully. "You killed a man. Right here in my kitchen."
"A man who had no problem playing with your life." Luke retrieved his Colt from the floor and holstered both weapons. "You don't want to think about what he was going to do to you."
"You killed a man in my kitchen," she repeated, her hands beginning to fist. "You brought violence here, to my home."
"I'm sorry about that." He grabbed Hammond by the wrist. He knew the bounty hunter was already dead but checking was old habit. The blizzard hurled cold and ice through the open door and sheered straight through him. He debated about hauling Hammond's body away now because the woman hugging herself and shaking looked ready to faint.
He pushed the door closed with a bang and stepped over Hammond's body. Her back was to him, and he could see the rage in her clenched fists, see her fear in her rigid spine, and hear it in the constant rustle of her skirt as she trembled.
"You saved my life and my daughter's." He lingered in the shadows not knowing if he should approach her. "I had no right bringing trouble to your doorstep. I owe you more than that."
Her chin shot up. She looked ready to fight. She looked ready to crumble. She was a gently raised woman, he could see that right off. In the soft curves of her face, classically beautiful, her complexion was as smooth as cream. She was tall and willowy, but when her gaze locked on his he saw no delicate blossom easily damaged.
He saw hurt, he saw fear, but mostly he saw strength.
"Keep your distance from me." She knelt to retrieve her rifle, the fragile curve of her neck white and vulnerable in the flickering lamplight. She straightened, fingers curled hard around the wooden stock, her knuckles white. "If it wasn't blizzarding outside, I would lock you out. Look what you've done."
"Aren't you going to thank me?"
"For what?"
"Saving your life." He laid one hand on her shoulder, the other on her elbow. "And now you have to thank me for keeping you from fainting. Come, sit down."
"I don't need any help." She twisted away from his grip, but he tightened his hold on her elbow. She felt like fine china, far too fine for a man like him to touch.
"I don't understand where he came from." She let him lead her to the table and chairs by the window. "There isn't another house for half a mile, and it's impossible to travel in this kind of storm."
"Not impossible for men like Hammond." He held out the chair and waited until she settled into the polished wooden seat, skirts rustling, before he released her. His fingertips sparked with awareness. "The devil can travel anywhere, ma'am. Lower your head and try to breathe deeply."
"I'm not going to faint." She didn't heed his advice, but propped her elbows on the table instead, setting the crystal teardrops on the lamp tingling, and buried her face in her hands.
It had been a long time since he'd been this close to a woman. He liked the way she smelled faintly of lilacs sweetened by spring sunshine, how her lace-edged petticoats whispered, and the feeling of gentility, of something soft and feminine in a world cold and unforgiving. She reminded him that there were places where life was valued and killing was seen as an unbelievable sin.
He shook with weakness, but managed to step away. What did she see when she looked at him? What did she think of the worn clothes and his four guns? Of the bounty hunter dead at his feet? Of the child he couldn't provide for? What did she see?
He grabbed the dead body by one ankle, opened the back door, and tugged him outside into the black howling storm. The wind's force nearly knocked him to his knees. Luke gritted his teeth and kept going. But not the frigid temperatures or the brutal wind could drive the despair from his heart. He was a wanted man, and the next time a bounty hunter fired on him, Luke knew he might not be lucky.
He had no future, but for Beth's sake he would make peace with the woman inside the house, haloed with lamplight, frightened and alone. He was at her mercy for his daughter's safety until the blizzard blew out and he was on the run again.
Also Available from Jillian Hart
Jonah's Bride
Garnet's Treasure
The Rancher's Return
MacLain's Wife
The Wedding Vow
Sara's Gift
Hannah's Heart
A Candle in the Window
About the Author
Jillian Hart makes her home in Washington State, where she has lived most of her life. When Jillian is not writing away on her next book, she can be found reading, going to lunch with friends and spending quiet evenings at home with her family.
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