Jillian Hart (2 page)

Jack was a dead man and he knew it, looking into the barrel of his own Colt, aimed directly at his forehead. "Why? I didn't hear you hiding behind that boulder. You could have shot me in the back. But you didn't."

"I want to see the look in your eyes, Marshal. I want to see you beg for mercy."

"Men like you don't have mercy."

"Or a conscience, either." Plummer smirked, taking pleasure in his situation, obviously enjoying the power to give life or take it away.

"Give it up, Plummer. You won't get far."

"Sure, I will." The outlaw laughed. "And you won't rest in peace knowing I'm going to steal your badge, take your gunbelt and ride your horse to my freedom."

"What freedom are you going to have when you've killed a United States Marshal?"

Plummer laughed. "Everyone between here and Wyoming will take a good look at me and say, there goes a United States Marshal protecting the good citizens of this territory. The poor saps won't recognize me, Dillon Plummer, until after I've already taken what I want from them."

Black rage tore through Jack's heart. He hated men who used their firepower to harm others, their strength to hurt those weaker.

Sheer emotion drove him forward. With a shout, he sprang and wrapped his fingers around the nose of the revolver, trying to wrestle it out of Plummer's grip. He felt the weapon fire, saw the flash of light, heard the whiz of a bullet. A streak of fire slammed into his skull.

Jack's head flew back. He lost his balance and fell. All went black as he hit the ground.

Chapter Two

"Mama, Charlie's not behavin'."

"Yes, I see that." Lissa tightened her hands on the thick reins behind her son's tiny grip. The workhorse had stopped stock still in the middle of the road, lifted his nose to scent the wind, and given an earsplitting bellow.

"Get up, Charlie." Lissa snapped the reins. "I'm not in the mood for this."

She wasn't. She had too many worries, too many uncertainties, and the humiliation of canceling a wedding many had advised her against. She remembered Maude Hubbard's prune-faced prediction that Mr. Murray would never show.

"Charlie ain't behavin'. He's in big trouble." Chad shook his head in great disapproval.

"He is." Lissa smacked the gelding's backside with the length of the reins, not hard enough to hurt him, just to remind him who was supposed to be the boss.

Charlie nickered, lifting his nose. He probably scented something on the brisk wind kicking through the low slung pines. Dust skidded along the road in little waves, motes shimmering in the lemony rays of sunshine. Lissa breathed deeply and tasted the smell of rain, but nothing else.

Then she heard it—an answering nay, high and anxious. A bay gelding wheeled around the corner into sight, lather streaking his reddish barrel and flanks, his dark eyes white-rimmed.

Lissa took one look at the worn saddle, and her heart stopped. An empty saddle meant a fallen rider. There weren't many travelers on this road, especially not this time of year. Hope flamed in her chest. Could this be John Murray's horse?

She snapped the reins hard. "Get going, Charlie."

The gelding took a powerful jump forward. Lissa set Chad on the seat beside her, quieted his worried questions, and stood up, searching the ground for signs of a fallen man. Charlie shied, rocking the wagon to a stop as he kicked out with his front hooves. Lissa nearly toppled, but caught herself on the hard wagon's lip. There, in the dust alongside the road, were the bloody pawprints of a mountain lion. They looked very fresh.

"Get up, Charlie." The wagon bounced around the rocky curve in the road.

A man lay sprawled on his back, blocking their path. Lissa jerked the reins. Charlie whinnied, tossing up his head, sidestepping to avoid the man as the wagon stopped. Heart pounding, she set the brake, scooped her son into her arms, and hopped to the ground.

Was it John? Setting Chad down, she snatched up her skirts and ran. She didn't know for certain—she'd never met the man face-to-face. He was so still. Could he be dead? Blood stained the earth and, she saw as she dropped to her knees at his side, his hair and face.

Fear washed over her. She studied him, as much from curiosity as from need to assess his injuries. Such a big man, from ruffled blond hair to scuffed boots. Lissa laid her ear against the broad span of male chest.

Relief washed over her at the sound of the steady thump-
thump
of his heartbeat. He was alive, and that was good, but how seriously was he injured? Blood oozed from beneath the thick waves of his hair, staining it, the ground, and his tan cotton shirt.

This was Mr. Murray. He matched the description he'd given in his letters—sun-browned and weathered, brawny and strong, long, dark blond hair, square jaw, as tough looking as an outlaw.

Not even her neighbors used this road.

"Is he dead?" Chad asked, his voice small and afraid.

Her heart twisted. She brushed the curls from Chad's sad eyes. "No, cowboy. But Mr. Murray is injured. Can you run and get the blanket from beneath the wagon seat?"

The child dashed off, feet kicking up dust on the road. Clouds overhead obscured the sky. A storm was brewing. Whatever lay ahead, it couldn't be good for this man unconscious before her, this man so hurt.

Charlie pranced, agitated, and that's when she saw the mountain lion. First, panic seared her to the spot. Then she bolted upright, determined to protect her son and this injured man. Then she saw that the cat was dead, shot straight through its heart.

Not many men could shoot and kill a mountain lion at close range. Admiration for this stranger flowed into her chest. Maybe she'd been right in bringing this man into their lives. If he could face down a wildcat, maybe he could scare off a band of pesky rustlers.

"Here, Ma." Chad ran up with both little arms clutching the bulky, wool blanket to his chest, eyes worried. "Is he dead yet?"

"Not in the last few minutes. He'll be fine." She somehow knew deep down inside that he would be. "I have to wrap his injuries first. Will you help me?"

A solemn nod. Chad's eyes were pinched with uncertainty. He'd lost one pa. He looked scared that he might lose another.

Mr. Murray looked seriously injured, no doubt about that. Lissa untied her petticoat and slipped out of the simple muslin garment. Kneeling beside Mr. Murray, she began tearing the fabric in long, fat strips. "Hold these high, out of the dirt," she instructed Chad.

Mr. Murray didn't move. Lissa couldn't help noticing the handsome, square cut of his face or the golden lashes curved against his cheek as she laid a hand gently beneath his head and began wrapping the vigorously bleeding wound. His blond hair felt thick and soft. He'd journeyed so far, only to be injured two miles from her ranch—all this way, just as he promised.

Hope burned in her heart. Accepting his offer of marriage had been the right thing to do. Caring for him now, well, it already made her feel like his wife—as if they
could
build some kind of a life together.

First, she had to get him to the doctor—but how? This fine specimen of hard male muscle looked far too heavy for her to carry.

"Chad, help me slide this blanket beneath your new pa. We'll have to drag him. There's no other way."

"How are we gonna get him into the wagon?"

"I'll think of something." Lissa gently lifted John's bandaged head in both hands, vowing to do her very best by him.

The doctor stepped into the sedate, dark, wood-accented parlor and adjusted the top button of his collar. "Mrs. Banks? Your groom is going to be just fine."

"Thank you, Doc." Lissa rose from the sateen-upholstered divan, smoothing her skirts to hide the way her hands were shaking. As the hours passed, she'd regretted her promise to Chad. She'd been afraid John Murray would not live. "Can I see him?"

"Of course." The stout, balding man gave her a serious nod before leading the way down the hall. "Mr. Murray woke up a few minutes ago, but he's sleeping now. I'm going to keep him here overnight A skull fracture is nothing to take lightly."

"A skull fracture?" Dear God. Her knees shook. Her heart rocketed against the confines of her chest. The injury was much worse than she'd guessed.

Holding tightly to Chad's hand, Lissa managed to make it down the hall and into the dark, quiet room without stumbling. She'd known several men who'd died of the same injury. Surely, it was a good sign John had woken up.

If only she could talk to him now, ask what might make him more comfortable.

"He's still sleepin', Mama." Chad's face twisted as he stood at John's bedside, one hand wrapped tightly in hers.

"The doctor says he's going to wake up tomorrow and go home with us." Lissa brushed her son's frowning brow, wishing she could soothe away his grief as easily. Michael's death had been hard on her, too, but she was an adult not a child who couldn't understand the cycle of life with the same experience.

"Your new father is going to be fine, I reckon." The doctor stepped into the room and managed a meager but worried smile. "Come with me, Chad. Let's ask my wife if she can find you a glass of apple cider. If it's all right with your mother."

Lissa nodded. She waited until she was alone with John before she pulled over the plain wooden chair and sat beside the sleeping man, just as a wife might.

"You gave us a real scare." She gripped the string handle of her reticule tightly, staring hard at her white knuckles.

"I'll forgive you this once, but you're never allowed to hurt yourself like this again. Ever."

"Who are you?" His words came like a low, deep rasp, grating across the stillness of the room, startling her.

"You're awake." The room was dim. She could hardly see his face.

"I guess so." He tried to sit up and groaned.

She laid one hand against his chest to stop him. "Lie still. Doctor's orders."

"I don't care much for doctors." His voice was warm and low, but not harsh, pleasant as twilight, deep as night.

Her hand still lay on his chest. She felt the solid heat of his bare male skin, and the hard strength of the layers of muscle beneath her fingers. Her pulse skipped. This magnificent man of steel and strength was hers?

John rubbed his forehead with one hand, encountering bandages. "Tell me, how did I get here?"

"You were thrown from your horse."

"I was?" He moaned and leaned back into the fluffy pillows.

"A mountain lion must have jumped you. You took a bad blow to your head, too, but you'll be fine." Lissa waited. "You don't know who I am?"

"Should I?"

Her heart skipped a beat. Perhaps he was more injured than the doctor had first thought. Perhaps—well, she shouldn't borrow trouble with worry. She had more than she could deal with already. "I suppose we don't need to settle things between us right now. You need to rest."

"But I—"

Footsteps knelled on the floor behind her. "Your bride is right, Mr. Murray. What you need most is to heal. Everything will look clearer in the morning."

Lissa watched John's face, shadowed and drawn. Pain etched lines around his eyes and mouth, drew a hard frown to his intelligent forehead. Was it normal he couldn't remember how he'd been hurt? That he didn't know who she was?

Fear sluiced over her like cold water. Whatever was wrong, she would stand by him. She would take care of him until he was well.

"Let's step out into the hall, Mrs. Banks." Doc's voice dipped low as he gestured toward the lighted corridor.

Lissa followed him and closed the door so John could sleep.

"Confusion isn't uncommon after such a trauma," Doc said now, tugging at his high-collared shirt. "How long it will last is anyone's guess. If that bullet had been any lower, it would have killed him."

"Bullet?" That made no sense. She'd seen the mountain lion—

The doctor continued. "As it was, it cracked his skull without entering his brain. I can't really tell you more. If his memory is impaired, then the damage may be more than I first feared."

"I see." Lissa's stomach gripped. Suddenly the problems with her ranch seemed small compared to John Murray's prognosis. "Would you mind if I stayed at his side tonight? Perhaps just having someone with him would help."

"That would be fine. It seems to me he's one lucky man to be getting a wife like you."

Lissa blushed, unsure of what to say. She only knew the doctor was wrong. She was the lucky one. She owed John Murray—who'd come to protect her ranch and help raise her son—more than she could ever repay.

"First let me find someone to watch Chad for the night and check on my stock," she said. "Then I'll be back."

Dizziness nauseated him as he stepped away from the closed door. His head hurt more than if six oxen had stampeded right over the top of his scalp. Every breath he took stabbed pain through his skull.

His mind—his memory—was one unending, gray fog. No images could penetrate it. He'd learned two things about himself. He had a serious injury. And the pretty, softspoken woman who'd sat beside him was his bride.

Did that mean he was already married?

Just trying to remember shot a throbbing spear of pain across his skull.

He inched to the bed and lay down, more afraid than he'd ever been. He couldn't think. He couldn't remember.

Darkness nudged his vision. He leaned back into the pillows and fought to stay awake. His eyes closed.

"But what about the wedding tomorrow?" Blanche took down china cups and saucers from her sideboard.

Good question.
Lissa stared down at her hands, then at the crocheted lace cloth covering the carved round table. "I don't want to rush him. He's had a bad injury. We'll probably postpone the wedding."

"I'll let the reverend know." Blanche sounded sad. "You must be disappointed. You've been counting on your Mr. Murray to help you. You need him very much."

Lissa blushed. "Well, I—"

"I know you haven't said one word of complaint, but it can't be easy trying to keep up with the work on your ranch." A kettle rumbled on the polished black stove.