Jillian Hart (3 page)

"It isn't so bad." Lissa set her chin. Her troubles and her burdens were nothing she intended to lay on anyone's shoulders, no matter how close they were or how good a friend. "Besides, John Murray is Michael's cousin. It's not as if he's a perfect stranger. Michael knew him well growing up."

Michael had always been fond of John, and they'd corresponded over the years. When she'd written Michael's family telling of his death, John had offered whatever help she needed. He'd lost his wife and son the previous year and felt as if he needed a change, a place to escape his memories and grief.

"I didn't say one word of criticism." Blanche set the steeping tea on the pretty table, her face kind, her eyes shadowed. "A woman in these parts needs help just to survive."

"I know what others are saying." Why did it hurt so much? Why did it matter what people thought? "That I'm desperate enough to marry any man sight unseen."

"I'm not judging you, Lissa." Blanche sat down beside her, the scrape of the chair against the wood floor, the scent of an apple crisp cooling, the comfort of friendship making it easier to accept what had to be done.

"I can't defend the ranch myself." Lissa heard the ripple of Chad's laughter just outside the window as he played with Blanche's son in the grass yard. "It won't be the first time I married without love. Michael was good to me. We had a fine marriage. I got a close look at John Murray while he was unconscious. He has an honest face and laugh lines around his eyes, so I know he isn't harsh. I have hopes he'll make a kind husband."

"You don't have to convince me."

No, but I need to convince myself.
Lissa's throat hurt. Sure, she had other options, but she wanted to keep her home. She'd promised Michael.

"It's the right thing to do." There could be no room for doubts. She would believe it with all her heart, and make this marriage work. "That apple crisp sure smells good."

"Go ahead and change the subject," Blanche teased, the same gentle light present in her voice that surrounded their friendship. "But it won't change my mind. I don't know what I would do if I lost my Jeremiah, but I tell you this—I'd keep right on living. You and I are mothers. We have no other choice."

Lissa's heart twisted. "True. I'm doing this for my son."
For Michael's son.

"Besides, I heard from young Betsy—you know, she's Doc's nurse—that your John is a very handsome man." Blanche wriggled her eyebrows. "Heard tell he was one fine specimen, with shoulders to make a full-blooded woman swoon."

"Stop that," Lissa blushed. "You're talking about my husband-to-be."

"Lucky you." Blanche chuckled. "Now, how about a nice cup of tea before you head back over to the doctor's?"

Even in the dark, he was an impressive man. Just enough light from the lamp turned down low brushed across his pillow, washing his face. And what a strong face it was: Straight nose, not too large, but not small; thick, curly, blond lashes in half-moons against his cheeks; high cheekbones; a strong, square jaw; a dimple in the center of his chin.

Most of all, she liked the lines drawn into the skin beside his eyes and cut around his mouth, as if he were a man who knew how to smile and laugh.

Please, let him be a good husband.

She'd not confided her fears to anyone, not even Blanche. What was he like inside, past the handsomeness of his face? Was he fair, or judgmental? Did he have a quick temper, or a slow, steady patience?

At least she'd made the decision to come to town when she did, and found him. Her heart clenched, remembering how vulnerable this big man had looked, sprawled unconscious on the road. She tried to quiet her uncertainty about how he'd come to have a bullet wound at all.

He'd come. He kept his promise. Surely that was a good sign.

John moaned low in his throat, then rolled his head on the pillow, his face contorting with pain.

"Easy, now." She laid a hand on his cheek. The heat of him, the rough feel of the day's stubble whiskering his jaw, made her pulse jump.

His hand closed around her wrist. Such well-shaped fingers, tanned by the sun, callused as if he knew how to work, and work hard. He twisted on the pillow to look up at her. Shadowed eyes met hers, glazed with pain. "Thirsty."

"Let me pour you some water." She lifted her hand, and his grip fell away. Lissa stood, nervousness flowing through her veins.

If only she weren't so shy, perhaps it would be easier. She feared he would find her less than he hoped—less pretty, less desirable, less everything. Lissa knew he was a man tough enough for the job ahead of him. She so wanted him to be pleased with her, too.

Her hand trembled as she filled the tin cup. She clinked the pitcher against the basin accidentally. When the intensity of his gaze latched onto hers, though, she felt surer. His steady presence felt like strength. John Murray was a substantial man. Hope warmed her like sunshine.

"Here. Don't sit up." Lissa lowered the cup to his lips, but his hand caught the cup, as if he weren't used to being waited on.

He sipped, the relief audible in his sigh after he swallowed. "Thank you."

At least he was polite.
That's a very good sign, right?
"Would you like more?"

"Later, perhaps." He sank back into the fluffy pillows. "Has the doctor been in to check on me?"

"Less than twenty minutes ago." Lissa found the edge of the chair and eased into it.

"What did he say? Am I going to be all right?"

"Yes. He said you must have a harder head than most men. In this instance, that's a good thing."

A smile stretched across his generously cut mouth. An attractive smile, simple and easy, brought out twin dimples in his cheeks.

Warmth bubbled in Lissa's chest. "You're looking better than you did when I found you."

"You brought me here?" His interest was quick and sharp.

"Yes. You must have fallen off your horse."

"Must have?" Frown lines puckered between his eyes. "Were you there?"

"No, I found you lying on the road leading to my ranch."

"And you brought me here all by yourself?" His blue gaze fastened on hers, curious, measuring.

She felt the impact like a touch to her face. "Yes. I laid you on the blanket I keep beneath the seat and dragged you to the tailgate. Then I hoisted you up into the bed of the wagon."

"You're strong for such a little thing." He had a gentle voice, gentle eyes.

"I'm a country girl." She shrugged, uncomfortable with his compliment. She wasn't used to them. "Lucky for you I am fairly strong, or I never would have managed to pull and push you into the wagon. My son is too small to help."

"Your son?"

"I suppose you don't remember anything about him, either." Sadness crept into her voice, and she couldn't stop it.

"No. I'm sorry."

Somehow that made the situation worse, more hopeless. Chad was one of the reasons she had even considered John Murray's offer of help, why she'd written him about the towheaded little boy so different from Michael, a child who needed a father, a home, someone to help protect and provide for him.

John had answered with a promise to bring his guns and his might. He'd worked as a deputy for years. He knew how to fight for what was right. He also vowed to love Michael's son as he had once loved his own.

"How old is he?" A quiet question.

"He'll be five this July." She dipped her chin and stared hard at her hands, folded tightly in her lap.

"You love him. You're a good mother." He rubbed his forehead, encountered the bandage. "It's in your voice."

"Oh." She blushed, a pretty wash of pink across her delicate nose and cheeks.

"It's a nice thing to see, a woman who loves her child. Not all families are that way." His voice rumbled pain through his head, and just saying the words made him hurt.

How did he know about families? Maybe the doctor was right—he would be fit as a fiddle come morning. All he needed was sleep. How could he rest, though, when so much troubled him? The gray, painful fog of his mind beat through him. The questions he wanted to ask speared like lances through his rib cage.

The doctor had called this woman his bride. So, were they married? Did her son call him father?

Pain jammed through his skull. He gritted his teeth. He watched her rise from the hard-backed chair, her gray-checked skirts rustling around her ankles as she carried the tin cup back to the pitcher and filled it.

For him. She did this for him.

What was their relationship? How much did he care for her? He tried to remember any detail at all as she strolled toward him. This bride of his was a fragile-boned woman, lean and petite, and graceful. Kind, too—he could read it in her face, see it in her movements. He knew nothing else about her, other than that she loved her son.

Did she love him?

"Would you like more water?" Her voice was soft as a creek singing over stones.

"Yes." He was damn thirsty, even if the water upset his stomach.

She leaned toward him again, and he breathed in the scent of her—faint cinnamon and sunshine. His heart kicked in his chest.

He wished he could remember her, remember anything. All he felt was loneliness, and a painful blackness he couldn't think past.

The water tasted cool, and it wetted his throat and all the way to his twisting stomach. Pain rocketed through his head. He leaned back into the pillows.

She touched his cheek, her fingers gentle. How many times had she touched him like that? His eyes fluttered shut. He could not keep them open. He wanted to. He needed answers. He had to know who the hell he was.

There was only darkness.

Chapter Three

Morning light edged between the curtains, casting a gentle grayness across his face. Lissa stretched the kinks from her spine. Sitting in that chair all night, watching over John, hadn't been comfortable.

She'd gotten little sleep, especially since the doctor came every hour to wake him, but staying by her groom's side had been the right thing to do. She felt that all the way to her soul. This man had kept his promise to her. She would do anything she could for him.

Doc startled her. "I'll keep an eye on him if you want to attend the service."

Lissa gasped, surprised, when she saw him standing in the threshold, looking as haggard as she felt. Was it already that late? "I don't feel right about leaving."

"Trust me. That man of yours is going to be bedridden for some time. There will be plenty of time for you to watch over him. Go ahead and take a break. You need to go stretch your legs and check on your son."

Lissa hesitated. She did want to go to church, yet was it right, leaving John here alone? She did need to see the minister and thank him for his trouble, even if Blanche had already told him there would be no wedding.

"I'll just be gone a short while."

"Fine. If all is well, you can take your man home this afternoon." He stopped, glanced down the hall. "You have someone waiting for you out front."

Chad—and probably Blanche and her sons. Lissa reached for her reticule, her gaze sweeping across John's still form. His bandaged, broad chest was bare beneath that sheet, rising with each steady breath. He still looked so pale, despite his suntan. She hoped that when he opened his eyes he would remember everything—including his promises.

"Thank you, Doc."

"It's what you pay me for. Take your time." Seriousness lit his intelligent eyes. "I know you have arrangements to make."

"Or unmake." She waited while the doctor stepped aside and let her through the threshold.

"Ma!" Chad's voice echoed in the hall as his footsteps pounded across the wooden floor.

"Walk, please," she said automatically, but already she was kneeling down and her son was against her, his arms clenched tightly around her neck. "I missed you."

"We had pancakes for breakfast With huckleberry jam." Chad released her, his eyes wide with the excitement of having spent the night with his best friend, Blanche's son, and with what could only be the same tightly lined worry that settled on his face the day Michael died.

"Sounds like you had a great time." She brushed back a mop of fine, blond curls from his eyes.

"Yep." Chad bit his lip. "Is my new pa gonna wake up?"

"He's been awake several times during the night." Lissa took his hand and wished she could wash away his fears as easily. "Mr. Murray is going to be fine, but he's not well enough to take me to church today. Maybe you could be my escort?"

"Oh, Ma." Chad shook his head. "Do I have to sit next to any girls?"

"Does Mitsy Buchman still have a crush on you?"

Chad sighed, his burdens great.

Footsteps caught her attention. She looked up. Blanche Buchman looked perfect, as always, all dressed up for church, yet her gaze held sorrow and worry, for she knew how very much Lissa needed a man to take care of the rustlers.

Lissa stood, chest tight. "I can't thank you enough for helping me out."

"And I can't do enough for you." The smile of friendship reached all the way to Blanche's eyes. "Your son is so well-behaved that he makes my three look like wild coyotes."

Lissa let a chuckle warm her. She knew Blanche was just trying to ease her worries.

"Does he remember?"

Lissa shook her head. "The doctor hasn't examined him this morning. He's still sleeping."

"Then the wedding is off?" The question held such great sadness that Lissa's throat closed.

"I can't impose any expectations on John. It isn't fair. He's an injured man." Lissa took Chad by the hand. "Son, why don't you go outside and play with Ira?"

"But what about my new pa?"

"The doctor will watch over him. Don't worry."

The towheaded boy dipped his head and trudged down the hallway, feet dragging.

My new pa,
the boy had said.

His chest ached, emotion lingering as the child disappeared from his sight. Pain cracked through his head, and he leaned heavily against the threshold.

It was Lissa's voice that drew him, soft as morning sunshine and twice as warm. "Yes, I think it's safe to assume the wedding is off. At least, until Mr. Murray is feeling better."