Jillian Hart (8 page)

She mounted with a rustle of satin and a whisper of lace, her graceful beauty striking against the raw power of the surrounding wilderness.

She was no delicate flower, easily battered by a hard north wind. She was like a willow, able to bend but not break.

Warmth expanded in the center of his chest He liked this woman and her combination of fragility and strength.

Chapter Six

"I made you some fresh tea." Lissa stepped into the room—her bedroom—and was startled to see John shirtless before the window.

"Tea sounds great." He turned, appreciation tugging at his mouth. The sheen of lantern light caressed the sun-kissed skin of his back, illuminating delineated muscle and spine.

"I brought a slice of wedding cake, too." She set the tray on the bureau, her pulse thundering in her ears.

She saw the reflection of the bed in the mirror. The big, four-poster frame dominated the room. Her colorful garden basket quilt seemed to draw attention to the soft expanse of feather ticking and plump pillows.

"After enduring Doc James's stitches a second time, I could use some sweets." He spoke over the clatter of the flatware and tin dishes.

"You have a sweet tooth?" she found herself asking just to cover the nerves clenching around her stomach.

"I must. I'm awful partial to that cake."

"You didn't mention it in the letters."

"I guess I didn't mention a lot of things." He nodded toward the window, darkly reflecting the room. "This is really something, this place you have here."

"I'm glad you think so." She saw the lift of his chin, the gleam of satisfaction in his gaze. "You said you've always wanted a ranch of your own. Are you disappointed?"

"In this spread?"

She nodded, nerves clenching more tightly until she couldn't breathe. So much depended on this man—her happiness, her son's, their very future.

"How could any man want more?" Sincerity rumbled in his voice. "I never imagined a place like this could be mine."

"You like it, then? The barn's roof needs repairs, and—"

"I'll fix it." He let the curtain fall.

"The house is small."

"I like small." Lamplight shifted across the planes and contours of his face, masculine and striking, and kind as the night was long—so kind. "I'm happy I'm here."

"So am I." Her heart thudded. Kindness in this man, practically a stranger, came as a surprise. He'd been cool in his letters. Perhaps, she thought now, his emotionless tone in his writing had more to do with his losses and grief.

"How are you feeling?"

"You mean the stitches? They're sore, but I'm tough." His arm brushed hers. Awareness skidded across her skin. "Judging by the scars all over me, I'm used to a few scrapes."

"A few scrapes? You were shot. Twice."

"I wish I could remember the man who gave me this." He rubbed his forehead. "I'd like to haul him in to the sheriff."

"No one recognized the man you shot today." She watched him spoon sugar into his tea—such strong hands. "He isn't from around here. At least, not that anyone knows."

"The rustlers must avoid town. Probably wise." He set down the spoon, leaving the tea swirling in the simple tin cup.

For the first time, Lissa truly wished she had nice dishes, something fine for this man to drink from. Michael's family came from money, and the scent of fineness clung to John, in the straightness of his posture, in his easy command of those around him.

She'd come from plain people herself, and later, as an orphan, she'd had even less. Now, she wished she could give her new husband all he deserved. He had risked his life today, when he could barely walk, to protect what was theirs.

"I suppose a lot of the folks around here knew when I was arriving." He sipped the hot, soothing tea, his gaze watching her over the rim of the cup—intelligent eyes.

Lissa wondered what he was thinking. "Why, yes. The wedding was planned ahead of time. We agreed."

He set the cup down. "And by the looks of things, the entire town was invited."

"Times have been hard around here. With the diphtheria passing through this last winter and the drought before that, people deserved a good party." She avoided the bed and pulled the hardwood rocker out from the corner.

She thought of offering it to him, but he reached for the plate and fork and turned toward the window. His limp was more pronounced. She remembered the doctor mentioning a cracked ankle.

She settled her weight in the rocker, and a joint in the wood creaked.

"Maybe I wasn't robbed," he said, so grim that even the ticking of the clock seemed to still.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, maybe someone was waiting. Maybe someone wanted to kill me. Why else would I have a bullet wound in my forehead? Maybe it wasn't a robbery attempt Maybe those rustlers figured they didn't want a man with a gun running them off. Cattle can be a valuable business, especially rustled cattle."

Lissa paled. "But there was a mountain lion. Surely that wasn't planned."

"It was common knowledge when I was supposed to arrive, and where I would be riding." He set down the plate with the cake half-finished, with a clank on the bureau's edge. "From what I hear, half the town had an opinion about you marrying a city dweller you'd never even met."

"You think the men stealing my cattle tried to kill you?"

"They've killed before."

She said nothing. He watched her stare hard at her hands, her face a hard line. "And they thought they could steal my heifers while we were getting married."

"Looks that way to me." He couldn't tell if she was angry or frightened. He didn't know her well enough to interpret the stiff line of her jaw. He knelt beside her and covered her hands, so tightly clenched, so surprisingly strong, with his. "Don't you worry, Lissa. I know one end of a gun from another. No outlaw has killed me yet. I'm not about to let that happen now."

"I want your word." Her chin lifted. Fire flashed in her eyes, that passion he'd seen a hint of before. "I don't want you to risk your life over this."

"You could lose this place.
We
could lose it." He squeezed her hands gently. They felt cool against his skin. "We're in this together now, Lissa. You and me. I don't want you to worry. I'm not a reckless man, but I am a damn good shot."

"That's what Will said." She breathed the words, soft as music, drawing like melody. "Whatever you did out there, you impressed him."

"He's young."

"He thinks you can rid this place of those violent rustlers." Something attractive, something that looked like pride, glimmered in her eyes, strengthened her voice. "I don't want to bury another husband. I want you to remember that the next time you race off with a gun."

"I'll remember." He ached to brush away the curled tendrils of gold that brushed the sweet skin of her brow, but he held back. "I want this to be a good marriage. A real one."

Her throat worked. "So do I."

Her gaze traveled to the bed, neatly made and waiting, and guessed her anxieties. "Is Chad in bed for the night?"

"He was hoping you could come read to him, like you promised in your letters. But I told him you didn't feel well tonight."

His brows knit together. "What other promises did I make?"

"To build him a tree house. To take him riding."

"Easy enough promises to keep." Good humor tugged at his mouth, warmed his words. "What promises did I make you?"

Her gaze strayed to the bed. "You said you'd give me time."

"I see." He paused, silence falling between them. "That's one promise I don't want to keep for too long."

She blushed. So male-hot and iron hard, he squeezed her fingers gently, the way a lover might. She had hoped some memory would return to him so that they would not have to discuss this. Again, she stared at the bed.

"It's late." He stood, moving away with his limping gait, head held high despite the pain. "I'm going to go to sleep. Which side of the bed should I take?"

Her throat closed. "The left side."

Michael's side.
As if he heard her thoughts, he said nothing. The knell of his boots stopped at the bureau. Light brushed across the muscular planes of his back and highlighted the crisp white bandage on the outer edge of his upper arm. At least he understood she needed time before they...before they were...intimate.

Still, that bed was small. The thought of lying beside him made her breath catch.

She heard the sound of fabric hitting the floor and leaped from her rocker. He was undressing! She caught a flash of white drawers, lean hips, and bare thighs. She headed straight for the door.

"I guess I should have warned you." His voice trailed out into the hall. "I just figured you'd seen more of me than this when I was unconscious."

"I didn't." The words tangled in her throat. She watched his hands hesitate at the waistband of his drawers, as if he were thinking twice about slipping them down. "Did you happen to buy a nightshirt when you went to the store today?"

"I don't wear one." His eyes sparkled.

Goodness. That meant... His hands stayed on his hips, ready to whisk those drawers off at any moment. Flustered, she fumbled for the doorknob. "I don't think I'm ready for this."

"Then you'd better leave." He winked.

Her face grew heated. She closed the door. John Murray was much more of a man than she had anticipated—maybe even more than she wanted.

He expected a real marriage. She was afraid, because he wanted what she could not give.

"Jack."

He spun away from the steel bars of the jail, the ring of keys in one fist. Sunlight slatted through the open door, offering a glimpse of the dusty street. A tall man filled the threshold, a badge on his chest. "Here's another reason why you can't leave. You'll miss locking up the criminals. Face it. You like the power. "

"I would like something different." His own voice and the yearning for wide open spaces.

Jack, Jack, Jack
...

He sprang up in bed. Pain drummed in his head, making the dream fade. He tried to snatch back the pieces, tried to remember. He'd almost had it—the sliver of an image, of something tangible. What was it? He was in a jail. He was locking up a criminal. He was leaving his job. Yes, that was right.

Was the dream a piece of true memory? It had to be. He had read in Jeremiah's letter how he had once been a deputy, and he already knew he wanted his own ranch. This only confirmed it, and made something more important clear.

Jack, Jack, Jack...
The name echoed in his head, cracked with the pain through his skull. He tried to remember, but there was only blackness and a void.

His breathing slowed. Moonlight peeked through the edges of the curtains, painting the room with a pale glow. The room felt silent. He turned and saw the bed beside him was empty.

Lissa filled his mind—her cinnamon scent, her musical voice, the light of her smile. He could relax now. All the pieces fit. The troubled feeling in his gut was better now. He knew what was wrong. He knew what was right. Finally.

A floorboard creaked in the hallway. He waited as the doorknob turned and Lissa's presence filled the room. The swirl of cotton, the pad of quietly placed feet, the sweet rhythm of her movements. "You're awake."

"Yep." He rubbed his brow, wishing away the pain. He needed a clear head. He had the rustlers, this new marriage, and this woman to figure out—no easy task. "I remembered my nickname."

"John is a pretty hard name to shorten." She reached for her buttonhook, and it rattled against the wooden surface of the bureau.

"I know my own name when I hear it. Call me Jack."

"Jack? That doesn't sound right." She leaned forward to unbutton her shoes. "Michael always referred to you as John, although your father is also named John. You mentioned it in one of your letters."

"That explains it, then. It's awkward having two Johns in the same family." Yes, that explained it, all right, and he was glad.

"Do you want me to call you Jack?"

"I do."

"That will take some getting used to." She stood, shoeless, and her smile was nervous. "Are you sure—"

"I'm sure. Look, I got shot in the head. Have pity on me. Call me Jack. It will make me happy."

"Jack." She tested the word on her mouth, those supple soft lips shaping the name like a kiss.

It was no struggle at all to remember the texture and heat of her lips to his, and the sweet wondrous taste of her mouth. "You need to undress?"

She dipped her chin. "I hadn't planned on sleeping in my clothes."

"I won't peek, I promise." He scooted back down beneath the covers, rolling on his side away from her. "That's going to be a hard promise to keep."

"Try." Nervous laughter filled the room, glowing like lamplight.

"A true test of my willpower." He squeezed his eyes shut. "Why is Will your only ranch hand?"

Fabric rustled as it hit the wood floor. "He was the only one who stayed after Michael died. The others feared I couldn't keep the ranch afloat, and left."

More fabric rustled. He swallowed. The thought of those garments sliding off her body left him breathless. He heard a drawer pull open. Cotton whispered. He wondered if she were naked, her skin gleaming like a pearl in the pale moonlight.

If he'd had any doubt about his attraction to his new wife, he had his answer now. It didn't matter how much pain racked his body or hammered through his skull. He was rock hard.

The mattress dipped slightly as she settled in beside him. The bed felt far too small. She was inches away, probably naked beneath her nightgown. That thought only made him harder.

"Good night, John—-Jack."

"Sleep well, Lissa."

The sheets rustled as she rolled away. All fell silent save for his breathing and the clock's steady ticking.

How was he going to sleep now? He stared at the wall, his every thought of her.

The minute Lissa opened her eyes against the graying light of morning, she felt his presence, a male heat, the weight of his substantial body in bed beside her. He slept on his back, the sheet puddled around his waist. The thin muslin hugged his lean hips and the length of his thighs, hinted at his nakedness beneath.