Jillian Hart (25 page)

Lissa studied her dear friend's smiling face. "You're pregnant, too?"

Blanche nodded. "I wasn't sure last month, but I am this one. I suppose your morning sickness has passed already?"

"I'm still a little queasy in the afternoons."

"Then we can be sick together. And fat."

"And happy." Lissa filled both glasses. "This lemonade tastes like heaven. I took a sip this morning, before you came."

"Hmm. It does. I think we should set out the meal, I—"

A door swung open, and Lissa heard Jack's low laughter, rich and merry as he stepped into the kitchen with Chad at his knee, saw the big rugged man with his riding boots, his shirt half-buttoned, his hat gripped in one hand. He listened patiently to Chad's account of the morning. When he looked up, his gaze arrowed to hers, and he smiled, truly smiled. But she saw the shadows in his eyes—trouble.

"I'm going to town," he said, "do you need anything?"

Chad spoke up. "Candy."

Jack laughed, but all Lissa could manage was a wobbly smile. She recognized the tense set of his wide shoulders, the clenched angle of his jaw. Something was wrong.

He caught her hand, his touch reassuring. She felt the calluses on his fingers, the strength of him. He pressed a kiss to her cheek. "I have some business to take care of. I can't say when I'll be back."

"I'll walk you to the barn." Her stomach tightened. Something had stirred Jack's anger.

"It's best if we talk later. Stay and have a good time with your friend. And don't worry. Promise?"

His blue eyes sparkled with warmth, with caring. There was a time when he would have held her tightly to his chest, as close as possible, instead of standing with the room between them.

She nodded, and he was gone. The power of his stride carried him quickly from her sight. Her chest tightened. She ached in a way that made her feel empty and lonely without him, even if she didn't want to.

She never wanted to care for any man that much, so that his loss, his absence, left her less of a person, with less of a heart.

* * *

Jack pushed open the jailhouse door, prepared to meet trouble head-on. Anger drove him and he waited in the threshold, met the sheriff's gaze.

Palmer sat behind his desk, surprise widening his eyes. That quickly faded. "Didn't think you were man enough to darken my door."

"Did you think I was a coward? That I'd spend my time hiding from the law?"

A muscle jumped along the sheriff's temple. "Truth is, I never figured you for a coward. Or a fool. You know I'm itchin' to lock you up."

"Got to have charges that will stick." Jack slammed the door behind him. They were alone, just the way he wanted it ."How about bothering some real criminals? Lissa has some more rustlers."

"I thought you killed them." The sheriff stood. The set of the man's mouth, the lack of surprise in his eyes, told Jack something.

"I did. But now there's a few more. Not more than two or three, judging from the tracks. They took a few of the springer heifers, some of our better stock."

"Lissa's pet heifers?"

"No. So far, the rustlers haven't been able to drive them off." Jack thought about that. Lissa's gentle cows would bring a good price, not for beef, but for breeding. Ranchers would pay good cash for such stock and not ask any questions. "I imagine it's just a matter of time. I know your opinion of me, Palmer, but we both don't want to see Lissa lose everything."

"No." The sheriff's mouth was hard, but the flicker in his eye, the lift of his voice, spoke otherwise. "Planning on going somewhere?"

"I guess it depends on you." Jack looked his enemy straight in the eye, saw the cold hard heart of the man, felt the same power in his own. "I'm not afraid, either way. And as far as the rustlers go, if you don't catch them, I will."

"You can count on me." The sheriff smiled, and Jack wasn't fooled.

He wasn't fooled at all.

"The rustlers are back," Jack said as he pushed open the screen door, the hinge squeaking. "And we're on our own. The sheriff isn't going to help."

Lissa looked up from tightening the lids on those jars cool enough to close. "Did we lose much stock?"

"A dozen or so heifers."

"The very valuable animals." She tried not to meet his gaze, tried not to feel the distance between them. "Did Johanson have some losses, too?"

"No. Just us. So far." Jack hung his hat on the peg. "Where's Chad?"

"He went home with Blanche. Puddles went, too."

"That's why the house feels so empty. Do I smell huckleberries?"

"Blanche and I made preserves today. Her family is going to go picking this evening. I wanted to go, too, but I wasn't sure when you would be back."

"I see." He unbuckled his holster. "So it's just you and me for the night."

"Looks that way." Her chest squeezed. She feared what he did not say, feared he didn't want to be alone with her. "I want to get enough berries to dry so I can bake with them this winter. I was going to ride up into the hills and do a little picking."

"Up in the hills?" He gazed out the window, troubled. "I don't want you to go alone."

"I guess I could ask one of the men. I've always been safe. I'm not going far."

"There are clouds on the horizon. It smells like rain. We could have another thunderstorm."

"I know how to avoid lightning. And wildfires." Really, it was better that she stand on her own two feet, even though she was weary of it, even if she just wanted a strong shoulder to lean on now and then. She'd learned the hard way depending on someone wasn't always for the best

"I left your supper wrapped up in the cellar. Some leftover chicken and potato salad. And there's a glass or two of lemonade left in the pitcher."

He caught hold of her arm, his grip gentle but as binding as steel. "Let me go with you. I can eat later."

She wanted to be with him, but was it a good idea? He'd been pushing away from her, keeping himself distant She had been doing the same.

"I insist." Jack reached for his gun and his hat. "Come on. I'm pretty good at berrying. I used to pick huckleberries all the time when I was a boy."

A coldness arrowed through her heart "Are you remembering?"

A look of surprise crossed his face, a face made handsome by the warmth of his eyes and the gentle brush of his very masculine, very sexy smile. "I guess I did. Hmm. Maybe I'd better eat a bunch of those huckleberries and see what else I can remember."

She laughed, the flicker of humor in his gaze so welcome. This was the Jack she knew, the one she cherished. At the same time, she feared what he would remember—and how it would tear them apart.

The wind felt cool and the sky cloudy when they reached the line of trees. Tall pines and firs crested the low hills, and Jack scented the breeze as he dismounted. Rain.

He caught hold of Charlie's bit and the big horse waited patiently as Lissa swung down, ruffling skirts and all. Charlie nudged him, looking for a treat.

"Here." Lissa withdrew a new carrot from her skirt pocket. She held her hand, palm up, while Charlie lifted the treat daintily with his lips. The wind whipped her skirts around her legs, hugging her form. Jack could not force his gaze from the length of her legs, from the curve of her hips, or the small roundness of her stomach.

Not sure what he should feel, what he should think, Jack grabbed down the metal pails from his saddle horn and tethered his gelding to a low tree. He reached for Charlie's reins, the big horse still crunching on his carrot, and did the same.

"Look. It's a wonderful crop this year." She breathed the words. She lured him when he should turn away and force distance between them. "I'll start right here. My bucket, please."

She held out her hands, elegant, stained purple-blue from her preserve making. Those hands, he knew how they felt laid flat against his chest, knew how soft they were, how gentle. His blood thickened as he remembered all the ways she'd touched him, how he wanted her to touch him again, and shouldn't.

He handed her the bucket, unable to speak. She smiled, and he could not look away, even when she turned and knelt down before a low, flat-leafed bush, then began plucking ripe, huckleberries from supple stems. The berries plunked into the bottom of the bucket. He stood there, simply watching her, craving her like air and sunshine and late night passion.

Just pick the berries,
he told himself. He'd made a promise, one she knew nothing about He would do right by her. He wanted to make sure she never regretted their time together.

He left her picking berries and knelt down before a bush several yards away. He could hear her if she called out, but he could not see her. It was better that way. If he couldn't look at her, then it didn't hurt so much not being able to need her.

"I'm eating almost as much as I'm picking." Her voice tempted him. "How about you?"

"Looks like I'm guilty, too." He looked up, his picking forgotten, to see her approaching with a brimming bucket "Did you want to head home?"

"I'd like to get more." She knelt near him, smelling of forest and spice and sweet, wild berries. "But it's starting to rain."

"A little rain never hurt anyone." He stood, held out his hand. The leaves and branches overhead shielded them, but he could hear the occasional thud of a raindrop.

"I'm going to empty my bucket so I can pick more berries."

He should let her go. The pail wasn't heavy. She would come to no harm doing it by herself. When she walked from his sight, though, he felt bereft, so he climbed to his feet, his bucket nearly full, too, and joined her. He took the canvas sack from behind his saddle and held it so she could empty one pail, then the other.

"I have a good gallon, don't you think?" She looked up, her eyes as blue as those berries, as rich and sweet.

"A good gallon." He could only repeat her words. Heaven help him, she affected him like no other.

"Did you remember anything more?"

"No. No image. Just an impression. Sunlight. Laughter. A brother, maybe." The memory was impossible to capture. "My remembering, does it frighten you?"

"A little." She set down the empty pail, then reached to take the sack from him. "My family used to pick huckleberries every year. We were poor, but happy. My mother used to be the best cook. She made huckleberry juice and preserves, tarts and pies and cakes, pancakes and syrup, and dried berries for winter. We needed a lot of gallons for that. Mama would pack both a dinner and supper, and we spent all day in the woods."

"Where is your family now? Do they live far from here?" Jack followed her into the clearing, where rain fell in slow, hesitant drops.

"They're dead. When I was ten, we all got sick with scarlet fever." She bowed her head, her sadness as gray as the rain. "Only my older brother and 1 lived. And he was killed in a mine accident a few years later."

"I didn't know."

"I don't talk about it much."

She was alone. No wonder she had no one to help her with the ranch, no one to depend on, to reach out to. She'd been alone for so long, growing up without anyone to lean on. He'd been trying to keep his distance—to do her justice by keeping his promises and by not taking anything she would regret giving him later—but she looked so lost, remembering her sorrows. He laid his hand against her cheek, felt the silken heat of her skin and the cool rain mixing with quiet tears.

She'd told him several times she didn't want to lose another husband. It hadn't occurred to him, it never occurred to him, how much she still cared, how much she needed him.

His lips found hers, and she opened for him, molding her body against his. She felt like summer heat and autumn storm. She was passion and need in his arms. He held her tight, and she clung to him. And then somehow they were on the ground, in a bed of soft grass surrounded by fern and berry bushes, guarded by silent pines.

Jack tore his mouth from hers, out of breath, uncertain if she wanted him, but the way her eyes flashed affection changed something deep inside him, some long ago belief, some wall he'd always kept around his heart. Whatever it was, he felt vulnerable and unprepared for the way she cared about him, cared for him.

"Don't stop." Her hand curled around the back of his neck and pulled his face to hers. Her lips caressed and teased and nibbled. When he reached for the button at her throat, she kissed him harder, erasing all doubt.

He tried to resist her, control his need for her, yet it burned brighter than ever, endless and everlasting. Jack fumbled with the last of her buttons, saw the calico fabric give way to soft muslin beneath. He undressed her, and she undressed him.

Rain tumbled from the sky—ever harder, skin temperature—drenching them as they lay together, naked and wanting. She was so beautiful that it stole his breath and all of his heart. Her soft breasts, generously pink-tipped, filled his hands, fuller than before. Her stomach curved a little, drawing his attention, too. When he laid his hand there, and then his kisses, she grew still. Their gazes met. All he could not say knotted in his throat, burned in his chest.

She was carrying his child, and the wonder of it, the power of it, washed away the past and gave hope to the future. As if Lissa knew his thoughts, she pulled him over her and his shaft brushed her inner thigh.

He wanted to enter her slowly, but she reached for him, pulled him down into her with one fast movement. Everything he felt everything he was, was her—sweet love and body heat and rippling pleasure. He held her tight already fighting the lure of release. But he was too frantic and she was too ready, and when she came, her muscles gloving him tight he did, too—in one long agony of pleasure that left him so in love with his wife that it hurt.

He held her tenderly, kissing her face, her lips, her throat. The rain fell, making them new.

Chapter Seventeen

Lissa looked into Jack's eyes, the nighttime all dark around them. She knew he wanted something. She didn't know if she could give it to him. A heart was a fragile thing, and already she'd lost too much of hers, buried with those she had loved. He kissed her, and now wanted more than a kiss, wanted deep, intimate affection, a love she was afraid to give again.