The Lawman Claims His Bride (Love Inspired Historical) (17 page)

Chapter Seventeen

L
ogan left the stable ahead of his father. He needed a moment alone to sort the thoughts running through his head.

Tension weighed like a stone in his gut, slowing his steps as he made his way back toward the main house. He wanted to start a life with Megan, but as long as she failed to remember the events in Mattie’s boudoir Kincaid’s killer would remain a threat. Unless, of course, the man was someone Megan knew, someone who may have killed to protect her.

Logan picked up a small rock and rolled it around in his palm. If Megan didn’t get her memory back soon, he’d have to return to Denver and restart the investigation. This time, he would consider
all
the possibilities, including the scenario that Megan knew the killer personally.

Tossing the pebble back on the ground, Logan looked to the heavens. A million stars dotted the cloudless sky, shiny diamonds against black velvet. He shifted his gaze to the mountains. Even at night he could make out the bold peaks standing like sentinels in the distance.

During his five-year absence Logan had forgotten a lot about life on the Flying M. He’d forgotten the messy, boisterous chaos of the Mitchell brood, the sweet smell of pine on the wind, the sound of the horses moving around in the corral, and the satisfying ache in his muscles after a long day of rounding up cattle.

He’d left to make his own way in the world, believing the Lord was directing him along a righteous path. Through the years, he’d caught countless outlaws and brought them to justice. Yet in all that time he’d never come directly in contact with his brother. He’d caught wind of Hunter’s trail twice, only to come up a short both times. The man knew how to disappear. Especially when Logan was hard on his trail.

Feeling out of sorts and restless as he always did when his thoughts turned to his brother, Logan squinted into the night, past the corral and the outer buildings. The slam of the stable door alerted him to his father’s approach.

“You chose well,” Cyrus said, drawing alongside Logan at the bottom of the porch stairs. “Your wife suits you.”

Mulling over his father’s words, Logan sat on the steps and rested his elbows on his knees.

“Megan is the best thing that ever happened to me.” She not only “suited” him, she made him whole. He didn’t know what he’d do if he lost her. Which made it all the more imperative to keep her out of harm’s way.

“I can see you’re worried about her.” Slapping his back, Cyrus settled on the steps next to him. “But she’s going to be fine.”

Too much had gone wrong already for Logan to let go of his concern that easily. Events had taken place that should have never occurred,
would
have never occurred had he come home sooner.

“I stayed away too long.” He forced the confession through a tight jaw. “When I finally arrived I gave Megan no choice but to marry me. Then I yanked her away from all she knows.”

“The woman I met doesn’t appear to have regrets.”

Logan wasn’t so sure. There’d been a moment tonight—in the privacy of their bedroom—when Megan had looked at him with fear in her eyes. “She’s afraid of me.”

That earned him a dry chuckle. “Most new brides feel anxious around their husbands.”

Logan shook his head. “It’s more than that. I think the attack may have left her wary of all men, including me.”
Especially me.
“She needs time to be left alone to heal.”

He repeated the words he’d just said over and over in his head, hoping that was all there was to Megan’s disturbing reaction to him.

“No, son, your wife doesn’t need to be left alone. She needs you.” Cyrus looked Logan directly in the eyes. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Logan shrugged.

“You have to convince Megan she can trust you, in all areas of your marriage. But it’s going to take time. You have to be patient.”

Logan’s heart sank at his father’s advice. When he was alone with Megan, when he was
kissing
her patience was not the first thing on his mind.

What if he couldn’t find it in him to be gentle with her? He’d always prided himself on being able to control his emotions.

But lately he hardly recognized himself. There were times when anger consumed him, others when passion for his wife nearly brought him to his knees.

If he let go in one area of his life would he be able to control all the others? “What if I’m more like Hunter than any of us realized?” he said. “What if I lose the power to control my urges, like Hunter did?”

“Your brother’s tumble into lawlessness didn’t happen overnight and it certainly involved more than a lack of self-control.” Cyrus blew out a hard, frustrated puff of air. “Hunter made choices that led him down a bad road. When things got too hard to handle, his anger took hold until it became a part of him.”

Precisely Logan’s point. “If it happened to Hunter it can happen to me.”

“That’s not true.” His father placed a hand on his shoulder. “Even as a boy, your brother never knew how to rein in his temper. You, on the other hand, always did. It’s what makes you a lawman and Hunter a gunslinger.”

Logan looked away from his father’s admiring gaze. “I’m no different from Hunter. Not anymore. When I think about what happened to Megan—” he clenched his jaw so hard he thought his teeth would crack “—I seethe with rage. You have no idea how badly I want to give in to the violence running through me.”

Cyrus dropped his hand and sighed heavily. “I admit, anger is a strong, seductive emotion. It can feel good to give in to it. But you’re not that kind of man. You will conquer this.”

Logan drummed his fingers on his thigh in a furious tap, tap, tap. “What if this time is different?”

“Then you turn this over to God. Go to the Lord in prayer, Logan. Ask for His help. He’ll guide your way.”

Trey Scott had given him similar advice. But how could Logan surrender to God now? He had too much rage in him, too much feeling, too much need.

The only solution was to maintain control. At all costs.

Anger, passion. Rage, desire. Two sides of the same coins. If he gave in to one, he sensed it would be easy to give in to the other. And then someone would end up hurt. Most likely Megan.

He couldn’t take the chance. He couldn’t hurt her any more than she’d already been hurt. He had to put a barrier between them. And if he couldn’t do that, then he would leave for Denver. Sooner rather than later.

Megan would understand. Eventually. She’d probably thank him later.

If she was still talking to him.

* * *

Much to her chagrin, Megan woke up alone in her bed the next morning. Staring up at the ceiling, she tried not to allow disappointment to take hold of her. She’d failed miserably.

Pressing her fingertips to her forehead, she sighed. Logan hadn’t come to bed until well after midnight. In fact, he hadn’t come to bed at all. He’d slept on the floor. She’d been too shy to join him. And now regret filled her.

Burying her face in the crook of her arm, Megan sighed again. Something had to change. Logan had to stop treating her like she was going to break. The return of her memory was the surest way to change his behavior toward her. But Dr. Shane had said that could take days, weeks, maybe even months.

Megan couldn’t wait that long. She needed to convince Logan that she was ready for the next step in their marriage.

But how?

She needed a plan, one that would put Logan’s concerns to rest. First order of business, get out of the bed and dress for the day. That concrete act alone made her feel better, stronger, and now she was ready to face the day. And her husband.

An hour later, Megan sat on the front porch in yet another borrowed dress,
alone
with her thoughts and her new sketchbook. Despite her best efforts she still had no plan to make Logan see her as a woman of strength, not a victim of a terrible attack. She decided to relax and see if an idea would form on its own.

With that strategy in mind, she flipped to a blank page in her sketchbook. The paper was completely free of marks, waiting for her to fill it with charcoal slashes.

She loved this moment of discovery, loved making something out of nothing. At times like these, right before she began a new drawing, she felt most connected to her Creator. The God of the universe was bigger than her problems.
Lord, I give this up to you.

Smiling at last, she made the first sweep of black on white and tried not to feel guilty for doing nothing more than sitting passively on the porch and drawing. At Charity House she only pursued her art after her daily chores were complete and the babies in the nursery were fast asleep.

Not that Megan hadn’t tried to assist her mother-in-law this morning. She’d picked up a rag and had begun wiping away dust particles from the furniture in the living room. When Mrs. Mitchell caught her she’d shooed Megan out of the house with strict orders to rest her ankle.

Megan was sick of resting her ankle. She was sick of resting period.

She wasn’t sure what Logan had told his mother about her final hours in Denver, but it was clear she would not be allowed to help with any chores until she was completely healed.

So here she sat, alone, attempting yet another drawing of the mountains. The pages of her sketchbook were filling quickly. With a bunch of half-finished artwork.

Lord, why can’t I complete a picture? What’s wrong with me?

“I will prevail.”

Gritting her teeth, she kept her eyes on the mountains as her fingers flew across the page. Perhaps if she focused on the scenery instead of her art she would be successful at last.

Halfway through the sketch her fingers froze and her heart began throbbing painfully in her chest. Undaunted, Megan stiffened her spine and slowed her breathing. The headache came anyway.

For a frightening moment, Megan’s vision blurred completely. The spot behind her eyes pounded like hammers to iron. Misty images beckoned for release. She squeezed her eyes shut, struggling to capture the memories that rode on the thin beams of pain but they were locked too deep in her mind.

A fresh spurt of anger tickled her throat. She was sick of not remembering, of not knowing what had happened to her.

“I will prevail,” she said with greater force than before.

Hunched over her sketch pad, she squeezed her eyes tighter shut. For the first time in her life Megan was afraid to view her own work. She must be strong. She
must
push past this pain and debilitating fear, or risk never healing.

She forced her eyes open and looked at the drawing below her fingertips.

Her vision refused to clear. She blinked. And blinked again. At last, the drawing came into focus. She’d captured the mountains well enough. Their magnitude and strength were evident on the paper. But at the lower right-hand corner of the page, there was the man again. He was always in the same spot. And just like every other time, the shadowy figure looked familiar.

With his broad shoulders, muscular chest and pair of six-shooters strapped to his lean hips he could be any number of men she knew. Sheriff Scott. Marc Dupree.

Logan?

Her mouth went dry. No.
No,
the man was not Logan. He was someone else. Someone—

A sharp pain sliced through her head, cutting off her last thought before it took hold. A sob escaped her lips.

She quickly flipped the page, happy to see pristine, untouched paper staring back at her once again.

Locking her concerns deep inside her mind, Megan began another drawing. Two strokes later a movement in the distance caught her attention. She recognized Logan at once. He was riding straight toward the house, straight toward her.

She drank in the sight of him. He sat tall in the saddle, confident. He’d pulled his hat over his eyes, perhaps shielding his features from the bright sun. A riot of conflicting emotions surfaced at the masculine picture he made. Joy, excitement, pleasure...
fear.

Why did fear always twine through her other emotions when she couldn’t see Logan’s eyes? Or when he looked at her too intently. Her reaction made no sense.

Sighing, Megan looked down and discovered her fingers were drifting across the page. She was drawing Logan.

Still not looking at Megan, he dismounted and led his horse to the water trough. He took off his hat, slapped it against his thigh and then caught sight of her at last. He turned in her direction and smiled.

Their gazes connected.

She kept drawing.

“Hello, beautiful.” He surged up the steps and dropped a light kiss on the top of her head. “How are you feeling this morning?”

While her fingers worked she studied his face, focusing on his eyes. His beautiful, mesmerizing eyes. “Better. No more swelling.” She pointed to her ankle with the piece of charcoal.

He reached out, laid a hand on her booted foot in a show of comfort that was so innate to him. “Looks almost healed.”

“It is.” Her hand stilled on the paper. She lowered her gaze and sighed at yet another failed attempt. The eyes were all wrong.

“Can I see what you’re working on?” His voice didn’t sound quite right. There was curiosity there, yes, but some other emotion, as well. Something...calculating, perhaps?

“No.” She slammed the book shut.

He lifted an eyebrow. “No?”

“I mean, not yet. It’s not complete.” Embarrassed at her inability to reproduce a likeness of her own husband, the man she loved with all her heart, she placed a palm flat on the book. “When I’m finished, I’ll show you.”

Ever the gentleman, he didn’t press the issue.

It was only when he looked back over at his horse that she realized he was alone. At such an odd hour of the day. “Where are the others?”

“In the south pasture. Several calves were born last night.”

His answer confused her even more. “Why aren’t you helping with the roundup?”

“Pa ordered me back home.” He gave her a sheepish grin. “He said a newly married man should be spending every free moment he had with his bride. Not with a bunch of cows.”

Megan couldn’t help but smile at the choice of words. It sounded so much like Cyrus Mitchell. “I think your father is a brilliant man.”