Jillian Hart (28 page)

So, Jack and Arcada had leafed through the wanted posters and the leaflets about wanted men, and tried to find a match. Nothing. At least he could say with confidence he wasn't an outlaw.

He'd ridden home with such great plans. His conscience clear, he envisioned building up the ranch, maybe buying more land, adding an addition to the house with a playroom for Chad, a hobby room for Lissa, and a nursery for the baby. He even thought about breeding some horses, to diversify a little. Most of all, when the workday was done, he envisioned coming home to bask in the light of Lissa's smile.

How he'd missed her. How he'd ached for her, hurt without her to complete him. When the ranch had rolled into view, it was dark—no lights warming the windows, chasing away the night. Then he remembered her plans for the dance, and headed to town—headed straight into trouble.

Until he could prove the sheriff wrong and hunt down the true rustlers, his wife and son would not be safe.

"Now I got you right where I want you." Jack's head ached at the sheriff's triumphant voice. "I didn't throw the first punch, Palmer. You saw what happened. Half the town saw what happened."

"Assault is only the charge I'm using to keep you here." Palmer's spurs clinked against the stone floor as he paced in front of the barred cell door. "This morning I'm getting the mayor to authorize sending a messenger. That damn sheriff's office isn't answering my letter. I bet they'll listen when they find out who I have cooling his heels in my jail."

Jack's head pounded at the brightness of the new morning's light. "I'm not Dillon Plummer."

"Bull." Palmer kicked the bars. The door rattled.

Jack's head screamed with pain. He hadn't taken that hard a punch last night, but it had been directly over his old injury.

A door squeaked open. "Palmer?" Lissa called, her voice tense and tight.

He remembered how she'd fought through the crowd to reach him. He remembered being afraid someone would push her or knock her to the ground. She might be strong, but she was fragile, too, and she was carrying their child.

"Don't get your hopes up. I'm not letting her see you." Palmer turned away. A door closed, and he couldn't hear anything more, but at least the piercing, bright sunshine had faded.

In the dim corner cell, Jack rubbed his forehead. He knew Lissa would get him out. He'd made sure Arcada had the evidence they searched so hard for during their stay in Billings.

"You thought I was angry before," she warned Ike the minute he stepped into the jailhouse. "It's nothing compared to what I'm feeling now."

"Why did you bring him?" Palmer gestured toward the man behind her.

"Arcada insisted on coming. And I'm glad. I don't trust myself alone with you."

"You can't control yourself around me, is that it?"

"I would never want you, Ike. Surely even a man as thickheaded as you can figure that out by now." She would never forget the sight of Jack being dragged away, cuffed and ostracized, nor the solid strength that held him up, unbowed and proud even in the dark, even against the angry mob.

Jack was no outlaw. If she'd ever had her doubts, they were silenced now. He could have outshot all of those men if he'd chosen to, or at the very least outfought them, but he wasn't a violent man. He was made of much finer stuff. He sought peace, not conflict, solutions, not problems.

"I'm not going to let your
husband
go
because you insult me." He raked one beefy hand through his dark hair. "What is it that you want, Lissa?"

"I'll go to Billings myself if I have to. That's the closest sheriff, besides you. I'm going to ask for their help."

"To put away your husband, you mean?" He laughed.

"No, to prove his innocence. I intend to ask the mayor to make sure you hold off with your brand of justice until I return."

"You?" Palmer shook his head. "Right. You're going to prove your husband isn't an outlaw. Good luck. I—"

Arcada stepped forward. "I have the proof."

Lissa lost her breath. She gazed up at him, speechless. The ranch hand pulled a folded piece of paper out of his shirt pocket and handed it to her. The double holsters he wore caught the light, the gleam of the loaded pistols a statement to the sheriff—a statement no one could miss.

"What the hell is that?" Palmer demanded. He reached to snatch the sheet out of her hands, but she dodged him.

"Leave her be, Sheriff." Arcada's voice. "You don't want to cross me."

Lissa's fingers shook as she unfolded the page—a wanted notice. She saw a drawing of a dark-eyed man, unkempt and wild-eyed. Studying the caption beneath the portrait she read, "Dillon Plummer. Five-foot-ten, brown eyes, missing front teeth." She lifted her gaze, then handed the paper to Palmer.

He glanced at the sketch. The arrogant triumph on his face dimmed a notch. "Why should I trust you? You're on Jack's payroll. You could have faked this—"

"I didn't. The real Dillon Plummer was arrested a month ago in Colorado for various crimes, including the murder of a United States Marshal in Montana Territory." Arcada laid both hands on his hips, inches from his gleaming revolvers. "You can ride up to Billings and check with the sheriff if you doubt my word."

Lissa felt numb. Her knees wobbled. She laid her hand on her stomach and settled into the closest chair. "You could have told me."

"Palmer was the one who needed to hear it," Arcada said simply. "You already knew Jack was innocent."

She had. It just would have been nice to know Jack could be easily freed. "Release him, Ike."

He turned his back to her, one hand rubbing his chin back and forth. She could hear him breathe, hear Arcada take a step closer.

"There's still the matter of the missing cattle. Entire herds. I can't overlook that."

"You know he was in Billings. If you need proof, you can see the bank receipt. It takes time to sell cattle and to prove your own innocence." Lissa shifted in the chair.

"He assaulted Hubbard."

"Hubbard assaulted him."

The sheriff faced her, his mouth a hard, fine line, unforgiving, unrelenting. "I've changed my mind about marrying you, Lissa. It would be too much trouble teaching you your place."

He lifted the ring of keys from the wall peg with a sharp angry jingle, then strode away, spurs clicking.

She held her anger in check, her hands fists, wondering how she could have considered his proposal at all, so long ago now. She'd been blinded by grief, had just lost Michael. She'd known Palmer all her life, and had never seen the blackness of his heart or the way he liked to harm others.

Bootsteps, slow and powerful, drew her gaze. Jack strode through the threshold, shoulders straight, upright and strong. His gaze met hers instantly, and her heart soared. It was a rich, light, dizzying sensation, more powerful than anything she'd ever known.

He took her hand, and her entire body tingled. "You're a beautiful sight."

His goodness and his respect, love, and honor for her shone in his eyes, rang in his voice. He was truly a man she could believe in—now, and for the rest of her life.

"You're hurt." Her stomach twisted at the sight of the bruise over his eye and the swollen cut to his lip.

"It's nothing." He dismissed his injury with a shrug. "All I could think of was you. After what happened last night, what you had to endure."

"Me?" Her heart had ached for him all night. "You were the one locked up in a cold cell. I bet you didn't have a blanket. You were hurt. I didn't know if I could get you released this morning."

"I'm not the one who grew up here, who knew everyone at the dance last night. Those are your friends, and I embarrassed you—"

"Don't say that. Don't ever say that." She didn't care if they were on the boardwalk in the middle of the town. She wrapped her arms around him, felt the steady strength in his shoulders, and buried her face against his chest. Tears pricked behind her eyes, and she tried hard to fight them.

His arms folded around her, and he just held her for a long time. The street noise and the sounds of the town vanished. All there was, all there would ever be, was Jack.

"I don't want to bring shame to you." His voice rang so deep and low.

"You can't do that" She stepped away, but wouldn't let go of him. "I've lived with you for more than half a year, I've slept with you, made love with you. I've seen the way you stand up to injustice, and the way you refuse to use violence on unarmed men. No matter what happens, I believe in you. I know the kind of man you are deep inside, where it counts."

His throat tightened. Her words made him hurt Jack knew people were watching them, or he would have taken her in his arms again, held her close, as if he'd never let her go. He didn't need memories to know he'd never loved anyone the way he loved Lissa. Right now. Forever.

"Compliment a man like that and you're likely to make him hungry." He wanted to make her smile, needed to see the gentle light that warmed her eyes when she laughed. "He might want some huckleberry pancakes, sausage, eggs. A pot of his wife's fresh coffee."

"Didn't eat well while you were away?"

"Nothing was right while I was away." He caught her hands in his. "You look as if you've been eating."

His gaze traveled to her belly, and she laughed. "I look as if I ate a melon."

"You've been surely doing something." Wickedness twinkled in his blue eyes. "I'm hungry for that too."

His hand settled across the curve of her abdomen. Her heart skipped at the tenderness of his touch. She looked up at the humor fading from his eyes. A different emotion shone there—a reverence, an affection so great it made her hurt inside, deep inside, where dreams and fairy-tale wishes lived.

"He's not kicking right now." She laid her hand on Jack's, felt the wondrous male texture of his skin.

"You can feel him?"

"He's a late night kicker. Right when I'm half asleep he starts up." Over Jack's shoulder Lissa saw a few ranchers lining up on the boardwalk across the street, watching them.

Jack glanced over his shoulder, held their gaze, then turned back. "We'd best be going. I don't know how welcome I am."

"You belong here. With me." She laid her hand in his, smiled when his fingers wrapped around her elbow to help her up into the wagon. She settled her skirts on the seat and was proud when he climbed up into the wagon beside her and took the reins in his capable hands.

He was her husband and she loved him. She knew the man he was. She didn't care what anyone thought.

He released the brake and touched the reins against Charlie's backside. The Clydesdale handily pulled them down the quiet morning street, made quieter by the sight of Jack, freed from jail.

Lissa caught sight of Susan Russell in the front door of her shop. She waved, and Lissa's chest tightened. She waved back, grateful for Susan's show of friendship.

"Things are likely to get worse before they get better." Jack sounded grave as he headed the wagon out of town, down the sloping road toward home. "I don't know why the ranchers are blaming me for their losses, but I have a suspicion who planted the idea in their heads."

"Palmer?"

A muscle in Jack's jaw jumped. "He's the law around here. He can make life difficult for me, and for you."

"I don't care. I believe in you." Just looking at him, just sitting beside him, filled her with a sweet pride. She laid her hand on his forearm, felt the heat of his sun-browned skin, the texture of downy hair and steely muscle. "I missed you."

His gaze met hers, sparkling with an affection that touched her deep inside. Then mischief flickered, and he pulled the wagon to a stop.

"What are you doing?"

"Going to say a proper hello to my wife." He set the brake, took her hand in his, and helped her down to the ground. "I can't wait."

She laughed. "We're only a mile from home."

"That's one mile too long for this man." Jack patted Charlie's neck, and the big horse stomped his front hoof, uncertain that it was a wise idea to just stop along the road. "As I see it, there's trees and a little privacy, and that's really all we need. Come here."

Her shoes crunched over fallen leaves. She laughed as he tugged her into his arms, against the grandeur of him. How good he smelled, how wondrous he felt. His mouth found hers and she opened to him, already enchanted by the heated caress of his kiss, of lips and tongue and passion.

"Over this way." His kiss ended, and he led her through low bushes and beneath a yellow and orange maple. Graceful limbs stretched overhead, dappling the sun and shade.

"This should be just fine." He drew her against him, fiddled with the bow at her chin. Her ribbons came loose and he dropped her best sunbonnet on the ground. "I want to make love to my wife."

"We're close to home," she reminded him as he popped open several buttons on her dress. "Close to our own bed."

"I've always wanted to make love on a bed of leaves." He slid the fabric down her arms, and the garment puddled over the curve of her stomach. "Besides, once we get home Chad will come running, the ranch hands are there, there's business to be done. No, if we go straight home there will be a long wait before we can be alone."

He lifted the dress and the chemise over her belly, and the garments slid to the ground. His mouth curved into that sexy, lopsided grin she loved so much, but the laughter faded and could not dim the shine of love that gleamed in his eyes. "You look beautiful."

She blushed. "Soon I'll look like a watermelon."

"You are beautiful to me." His hand curved beneath her jaw, tipping her chin upward. His gaze met hers and there could be no doubt, not a single solitary doubt, that he meant those words, felt them from the bottom of his heart.

Tears burned in her throat and behind her eyes. This time when he kissed her it tasted like magic. Every touch set her on fire, changed something deep inside her. He laid her down on the warmth of his shirt spread over a bed of leaves. He took his time touching her, caressing her breasts and her inner thighs. His words tingled against her mouth when he broke their kisses long enough to speak, to tell her how much he'd missed her, to admire the changes in her body.