Wish Upon a Cowboy (23 page)

"All right," he muttered and flicked a glance to his horse, the only witness to what he was about to try. "You best keep your mouth shut, or you'll find yourself in a stew pot," he warned. The stallion shook its head, sending its mane flying, then, forgetting about the man, dipped its head to the grass.

Crazy, he thought. But damn it, he had to know. Had to find out. And this was the only way to be sure. He thought. Jonas rubbed his jaw, faced the tree again, closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, and lifted one hand to point at it.

"Grow straight again," he said, and even as the words came from him, he could hardly believe he was doing this.

Suddenly, he remembered that first day Hannah had stood in his kitchen and how she'd held her hand out for the broom and he'd laughed at her. Now, a month later he was talking to a tree.

What kind of fool did that make him?

From behind closed eyes, he saw the shimmering warmth of the sunlight and tried to tell himself he didn't look as foolish as he felt. But he knew what sort of picture he made. A lone man, pointing at a tree, waiting for magic to happen and praying it wouldn't.

He shoved that thought aside and buried it beneath the frustration that seemed to bubble too near the surface lately. Nobody had to know what he was up to. And by God, nobody would.

Focusing his mind on the stupid tree. Jonas imagined it strong and straight, as it had been before that longÂago storm.

If this worked, then he'd have to find a way to deal with this new and startling change in his life. If it didn't, then… hell, he didn't know what. He couldn't have his life back as it was. Hannah's presence prevented that. And now that he remembered his parents, his mind would never be free of memories.

Grumbling, he threw a mental blanket across the jumble of thoughts in his brain. Obviously, he was damned if he was a witch and damned if he wasn't. There was no way to win in this mess.

Pulling in another deep breath, he slowly, cautiously opened one eye.

"Son of a bitch."

Opening both eyes wide, he stared at the tree.

Still growing like two separate things, one half of the old cottonwood remained twisted and bent like an old man huddled over a glass of whiskey. But the other half—damn it—stood straight and tall as a new sapling.

His gaze followed the towering tree from its base to the tip that scratched at the gray clouds beginning to scuttle in from the mountains. Jonas shook his head slowly and fought down a flicker of disquiet in his soul.

Then, scowling fiercely, he swung his gaze to his horse. "Now, what's that mean, you figure?" he demanded as the stallion cropped grass. "I'm half a warlock? Or half a rancher?"

The horse didn't give a good damn. And why should it? It was Jonas's world that was tumbling down around his ears.

Disgusted with himself and everyone else, Jonas swung aboard the animal, gave the tree one last venomous look and rode off in the opposite direction.

*  *  *

"How long are you going to avoid talking to me?" Hannah asked as he stood up from the supper table to follow his men out the back door.

"As long as I can," he said.

"That's not an answer to our problems," she countered and stood up to face him.

"We don't have a problem, Hannah," he reminded her. "It's my problem to deal with as I see fit."

"By ignoring it?"

One corner of his mouth lifted as though he were trying to find something to smile about and couldn't quite manage it. "Sounds a likely idea."

He didn't believe that any more than she did. She could see it in his eyes. But a more stubborn man she'd never met.

Hannah told herself to be patient. To understand what it must be like for him to discover the truth after so many years of darkness. But for heaven's sake, she was running out of time.

"Jonas," she blurted as he turned for the door, "do you care for me?"

He stopped, but didn't look at her.

"Do you?" she asked. "Even a little?"

"That's got nothin' to do with this."

"It has everything to do with it." Rounding the edge of the table, she came up to him and laid both hands on his forearms. The tingling warmth of that connection speared directly into her heart. A momentary flash in his eyes told her he'd felt it, too.

"Oh, Jonas, why won't you see that we're meant to be together?"

He stiffened.

She plunged on, refusing to be swayed by his discomfort. "Maybe it would help if I told you more about why I'm here."

"I already know that, thanks," he said gruffly. "You've made no secret of it. But like I told you before, I'm not getting married."

A kernel of panic nestled in the pit of her stomach, but she fought past it. "It's not just me I'm worried about, Jonas. Or even Aunt Eudora. It's the Guild."

His jaw tightened. "The Guild."

She saw knowledge flicker in his eyes. "You know about them now, don't you?"

"Yeah. I know. Just like I know my folks died trying to get me away from 'em."

She shook her head. That wasn't exactly the memory she'd been trying to prod into life. "Aunt Eudora told me about them—your parents, I mean." Her fingers tightened on his arms, and it felt as though she had a grip on a statue. "She said they didn't want the responsibility of the Guild hanging over them or you. That's why they left."

"But things have changed back home," she said hurriedly.

'This is my home, Hannah. Wyoming. This ranch."

He tried to pull away, but she doggedly held on.

"The Guild needs you. Jonas." She paused and locked her gaze with his. "I need you. And you need me."

He took a long step back, pulling away from her grasp. "You beat all you know that?" Staring at her, he shook his head. "Just how do you figure I need you? Before you came here, my life was damn near perfect!"

Hannah winced at the raw pain in his voice, but stood her ground. At least they were talking.

Pacing, his bootheels slamming against the plank floor, he stomped back and forth across the kitchen, tossing her a glance every now and then as he went.

"I've built this ranch up from nothing." He stopped briefly to raise a hand and point at her. "And I did it with none of your witchcraft nonsense."

"It's not my witchcraft," she muttered.

"Well, it's sure as hell not mine!" he shouted, then came back around the table to her side. Grabbing her shoulders, he yanked her close, making her tip her head back to look up at him. "Do you know what I did today?"

"No."

"I tried being a witch!" The words came out in a harsh whisper, as if even he couldn't believe what he was saying.

Hope swirled inside her. If he was willing to try, then he might be willing to do a lot more.

"What happened?"

He let her go so abruptly, she staggered backward a pace or two, then came close again, silently demanding that he tell her.

Jonas shoved one hand through his hair, raking it back from his eyes. "It only half worked," he muttered thickly.

What? she wondered, but didn't ask. "You only need practice," she told him instead.

"Practice?" He glared at her. "You think I'm going to try something that stupid again? No. Forget it. I've made it this far in my life without magic. I'll make it the rest of the way, too."

"Have you?" Hannah asked, grabbing his hands and holding on when he would have pulled away. "Have you really lived without magic?"

"Damned right I have."

Snippets of things she'd heard since coming to Wyoming filtered through her mind and she snatched at them like a child grabbing for a stick of candy. "Don't all the men say you're the luckiest man they've ever known?"

Worry flitted across his face briefly as though he'd wondered about the same thing himself. But that expression was gone again in a heartbeat.

"Luck's not magic," he snapped, adding. "I've seen dumb luck save more fools than I can count and not one of them was a witch."

"Stubborn," she muttered, then blew a breath and tried again. "What about the weather?"

"What about it?"

"Haven't you noticed that whenever you lose your temper, it rains and storms?"

His hands in hers tightened slowly, steadily, until it felt as though her fingers might snap in his grasp. Mouth grim, he asked, "What are you saying?"

She looked up into eyes that glittered darkly and had to swallow back a small tide of nervousness before answering. "I only noticed it myself a few days ago."

"What?" He let go of her hands and backed her up against the closed kitchen door. "You noticed what'?"

Thunder rumbled in the distance and his head snapped up like a wolf on the scent of a fresh kill. Quickly, he dropped his gaze to hers again.

"That when you're angry, storm clouds gather. And the angrier you get, the blacker the storm." She shifted beneath his grip and felt her own temper start to rise. After all it wasn't her fault he'd been drowning the countryside.

"You're lying," he said, his voice a tightly leashed weapon.

"Am I?" she asked over another slow roll of thunder.

He released her again and jumped back, cocking his ear to listen to the coming storm. "You really should learn to control your temper." Hannah pointed out, "before we all float away."

He snapped her a quick, disgusted look. "I don't remember having a temper until you showed up," he said, but made a visible effort to calm himself. A moment later, he asked. "Is it only anger that sets off a storm?"

She frowned slightly. "I don't know. It could be any number of things. I suppose. Why?"

"Nothing. Nothing." Jonas stabbed his fingers through his hair and tried to think. To figure this new problem out. But all he could hear was her voice telling him that his temper brought storms. Could worry do the same thing? Regret?

Sweet Jesus, he told himself, if it could… then what had happened ten long years ago was more his fault than he'd thought.

"What is it?" Hannah asked, dragging him from the bleak thoughts. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing that can be fixed now," he said past the knot lodging in his throat.

"Jonas," she stepped close to him again and he inhaled the light, delicate scent of lemons drifting to him. "Why did you bring me back here yesterday?"

Instantly, a newer memory—of the vision he'd seen the day before—rose up inside him. Hannah. In danger. Just the thought of it was enough to open a tearing wound inside him. He couldn't let her leave just to walk into trouble, could he? But even as he thought it, he knew that wasn't the only reason he'd gone after her.

Though it was the only one he would admit to.

His gaze fixed on hers. Green eyes swimming with emotion, her features tight, she waited. And he couldn't give her what she wanted to hear.

"Does it matter?" he asked, his voice weary.

"It does to me," she said, stepping closer still.

His gaze moved over her face and he realized again just how empty the house had seemed when she was gone. It was as if she'd brought a heart—that had always been lacking—to the place. And had taken it with her when she left.

How had she done it? he wondered. Was it the way she treated the men who worked for him? Was it her willingness to help? Was it those damn feathers he hadn't been able to get out of his mind'?

"Tell me. Jonas," she prodded gently, her voice dropping to a low, throaty whisper. "Tell me why you brought me home."

Home.

That was what she'd made of this place.

A home.

While that realization still shimmered through him, Jonas reached out and took her hands in his. So small. So smooth. Yet she was no stranger to work. She'd made herself a part of this ranch. A part of his life. Despite his efforts to prevent it.

"Damn it," he said on a long, shuddering breath. "I didn't want you here. Didn't want to care about you."

"I know," she said as he drew her closer to him.

His gaze moved over her as his arms held her tightly to him. He felt the fluttering beat of her heart and watched her pulse jump at the base of her throat. Sparks seemed to fly in the cool green depths of her eyes and a like fire sputtered into life inside him.

"I won't love you," he said because he felt he had to warn her.

"But I will love you," she said and knocked the wind from his lungs.

"Hannah…" His arms tightened around her reflexively.

"Kiss me, Mackenzie," she whispered, and her gaze briefly dropped to his mouth before locking with his again. "For now, just kiss me."

"God help us both," he murmured and gave in to the urges pounding through him. He dipped his head to claim a kiss and the moment their lips met, he felt the staggering rush of lightning-fed fires blazing through him.

Desire flashed into life and his body nearly screamed with wanting her. His hands moved up and down her back, molding her to him even as his mouth took hers. He parted her lips, tasting her warmth, taking her breath and offering his own.

She sighed and a new sense of strength flooded him, from the tips of his boots to the top of his head. It was as if he were coming alive for the first time. He heard the wood in the stove popping and hissing, heard the keening moan of the wind outside and the groaning from the logs as the house settled into night.

And it was all new. She gave him this. She brought him this.

And he had nothing to offer her.

Humbled and shaken to the core, he broke the kiss and, resting his chin atop her head, struggled for the air his lungs clamored for.

"Jonas," she whispered brokenly.

He would have chuckled if he'd had the strength. Of course Hannah couldn't be quiet for more than a minute or two.

"Does everyone feel that when they kiss?" she asked.

Leaning back against the kitchen table, he held her against him and waited for the hammering of his heart to case. When he thought he could speak without his voice shaking, he said. "I don't think so."

Lord knew, until Hannah he'd never experienced anything like this.

"Aren't we lucky, then," she said and snuggled in closer to him.

Drawing the scent of her deep into his lungs, he stared through the window into the night and told himself to release her. To take a step back. Before it was too late. Instead, his arms tightened around her and he closed his eyes against the night peering in the window.