Jillian Hart (4 page)

He thought about that. He was Mr. Murray. It didn't sound right.

"Lissa, what about the danger? Those cattle rustlers are getting violent." About the same age with dark hair and eyes, the second woman had real concern in her voice. "What will happen if your Mr. Murray doesn't marry you?"

"Then I can't hold onto my cattle. I'll go bankrupt." Her voice came again, gentle and sensible. He only saw her from behind, the set of her thin shoulders and her steely, straight spine. "It can't be helped. I'll not pressure an injured man into a marriage he can't remember agreeing to, no matter how much I may need him."

Pain speared through his skull. Whoever this woman was, he'd made a commitment to her, promises that should not be broken.

"Perhaps the doctor will have better news." The second woman sounded hopeful.

"Even so, it would not be right." Lissa formed a small and delicate fist at her side. "I hope he remembers, of course, but I can't count on it. I can't
wish
him healed. I'll just have to wait and see what happens. Perhaps he'll be well in a couple of days, and then he and I can talk. Maybe he'll remember his promises to me."

"What will you do if he doesn't?"

"I'll face that situation if it happens."

He edged away from the door. Gray fog blocked every memory, every thought, but he did know several new pieces of information. He'd made a vow to Lissa Banks to marry her. Dangerous men were bothering her. She could go bankrupt. Her son was expecting a new father.

His knees wobbled just from his thinking of the enormity of such a commitment, such a staggering responsibility. This didn't seem right, this agreement of his to marry, and yet he must have a link with this woman, a bond. She'd sat at his bedside all the night through with her gentle touches, cups of water, and her steady, comforting presence.

He was a man of honor. What should he do?

"Mr. Murray?" A light rap on the door woke him.

He squinted at the tall man, thin and bookish, standing uncertainly in the threshold. "Do I know you?"

"Not formally." He tipped his hat "I'm Jeremiah Buchman, the town's schoolteacher. I'm a friend of Lissa Banks and her former husband."

He rubbed his brow. "You know Lissa?"

The quiet man gestured toward the empty wooden chair. "May I come in?"

"Of course." The conversation he'd witnessed between Lissa and her friend troubled him. Perhaps the teacher could bring some answers. "I'm afraid I can't remember if we've met."

"I know of your condition. I've taken the liberty of speaking with the doctor." The chair scraped as Jeremiah Buchman positioned it, then sat. "He says your memory hasn't improved."

"That's true."

"Then I should tell you how pleased I am to finally meet you in person, since we have corresponded." The teacher pulled a white envelope from his coat's breast pocket "This is the letter you wrote me last month, after you proposed to Lissa."

He didn't understand. This was a small town. Why wouldn't he know the schoolteacher? Why would he write a letter? Didn't he live here? Pain slammed through his skull. He couldn't remember.

"This will answer all your questions, I think." Jeremiah handed him the envelope. This teacher might be a quiet man, but his gaze was sharp. He'd come as Lissa's friend, a protector to a woman alone and in danger.

Head hammering with pain, he lifted the flap and withdrew the letter. Parchment crinkled as he unfolded it. A bold hand written with care stared back at him. His handwriting? There, at the bottom, was his name. John Murray. That didn't seem right. Perhaps he went by a nickname.

Dear Mr. Buchman,

I know you were close to my cousin Michael and to his widow, Lissa.

His throat tightened. His cousin died. He couldn't remember Michael. Sadness crept through his chest.

That is why I am writing you. Surely by now you know of my proposal to Lissa and of her acceptance. Since I am a stranger to you and to my future wife, I wanted to write you to ease any worries you may have.

The city named in the address beneath his name was St. Louis. He'd come from St. Louis to marry a woman he'd never met? This Lissa, with her soft voice and small son and the ranch she was near to losing?

He skimmed the rest of the words which listed promises, good intentions, and the vow to protect her from gun-toting outlaws. That pricked his interest. He thought that sounded right, that he was capable of handling men who lived on the wrong side of the law.

Then his gaze caught the last line of the letter.

I am a man of my word. Michael would want me to look after his family, especially since I have lost my own wife and small son. I come with the best of intentions. I will protect Lissa.

He'd lost a family. Was that why he couldn't remember? He didn't want to? Did grief explain the darkness wedged in his heart like an ax?

"This has filled in some of the gaps in my memory." He refolded the letter. He slipped it into the envelope.

"I'm glad I could help." Jeremiah's eyes were friendly but questioning, too. "Lissa's future is in jeopardy, yet she has canceled the ceremony for your sake."

"When was I to marry her?"

"Today." Jeremiah rose. "Sunday service begins in less than an hour. I'd best get home and gather up my family."

As he watched the teacher leave, jumbled emotions twisted inside his chest. He tried to remember. Only dark gray fog and pain answered. Buchman was hardly a confidence man, out to fool him. He had no doubt the schoolteacher spoke the truth, that Lissa expected and needed him to marry her.

He sat up, fighting the dizziness. He knew what he had to do.

Hanging up the dishtowel to dry in the sunny corner of Blanche's kitchen, Lissa leaned forward just enough to glance through the window to the street outside. She could see Doc's clinic with the sign swinging on the awning in the brisk morning breeze.

"You didn't need to help with the dishes, Lissa." Blanche's hand brushed hers with a connection of friendship, of caring—a connection that tugged at her heart.

"It's the least I could do, Blanche. You fixed me breakfast, and I know it's made you late this morning."

"Not at all. We just have to round up the boys and find Jeremiah." Blanche set the empty basin on the table. "I'm glad you and Chad are joining us today."

Lissa tried not to think of her situation during the walk through the burning bright sunshine. Dust kicked up from the heels of the boys' shoes as they tried hard to keep from running and playing, with a few quiet reprimands.

Chad walked steadily in the same subdued way he had since his father died, with chin down, hands shoved deep in his pockets.

Would John Murray regain his memory? If he did, would he still want to help her? Or had his injury changed things between them?

"Lissa?" A man's voice broke through her thoughts.

She spun around to face Ike Palmer, town sheriff, so smart looking in his black vest, trousers, and polished boots. The badge on his chest glinted in the new day's light, and the puckered frown on his brow as he looked her over made her feel drab in comparison. She still wore yesterday's dress, for she hadn't bothered to change. The gray gingham garment was serviceable, but not her Sunday best.

"Ike. I'm surprised to see you headed to church." Normally the lawman avoided the weekly service.

"Today is different. I was looking for you. I hoped we could speak privately." He cast his gaze behind her shoulder and tossed Blanche a withering glare.

"I'll catch up," Lissa told her friend. Then she waited, squinting against the rising Montana sun. Chad took one glance back at her, then trudged along with the Buchman family.

"I've heard of your groom's unfortunate accident," Ike began, removing his crisp black hat. "Perhaps it was the hand of providence. Perhaps I'm the man you should be marrying."

"I've already heard your offer, Ike. You know it would never work." Lissa set her chin. "You're the sheriff. You have a responsibility to live in town. And I would never be happy in the cramped little apartment above the jail."

"I would buy the finest house here in town."

"I love the ranch. And you hate it. I can't change my preferences any more than you can change yours."

"But I would protect you."

One look at the jut of his chin and the sparkle of want in his narrow eyes shot regret straight through her heart. "It would be a sure path to unhappiness, and you know it, Ike."

"You could live in town, and
still have
a garden."

The man was thickheaded. Lissa gritted her teeth. It wasn't just the gardening. It was the scent of fresh mountain air every morning, the cycle of seasons from the new life of spring to the barrenness of winter. It was all she'd ever known and loved. That, and the freedom it gave her. When a person had their own land, they truly had independence.

Besides, her husband was buried on the hillside just yonder from the cabin, facing the rugged peaks of the Rockies and the setting sun. Her babies were buried beside him. She could never leave.

"Always remember I want the best for you, Lissa." Ike smiled. He truly was a dashing man, handsome in a pampered sort of way. "Will you ask me if you need help?"

She'd asked him to chase off the rustlers, but he hadn't made good on his promise—not like John Murray.

"Lissa!" Susan Russell called above the sounds of the street and the gathering crowd outside the white peaked church.

"Good-bye, Ike." She walked away with some sadness. Once, before she'd met Michael, she'd had a brief crush on Palmer. Of course, she was a schoolgirl then who had no idea what she wanted in a husband, in a man.

"Lissa." Jeremiah's hand felt cool in hers as he met her on the top step. "Blanche is in the front row watching over Chad. She thought you would want to sit next to her today."

"I will." Lissa swallowed hard, uncertain how to walk through that door. Her decision to marry a man from so far away, a man she'd never met, had sent tongues wagging all through Sweetwater Gulch. Now she would have to meet their judging gazes again.

One step inside the church, and cold sweat dampened her palms. She looked up at the families crowding the rows and rows of handcarved pews, and saw more than one pitying gaze. Murmurs rose like a tidal wave, crashing over her.

Embarrassed, Lissa lowered her eyes and somehow made it to the front of the church, next to her son and best friend.

"You look nervous," Blanche said in her gentle voice. She reached over to pull one of her boys off the back of the neighboring pew. "Whatever happens, it's meant to be. You remember that. Everything will work out just fine. I can feel it in my heart."

"I hope so." Pesky tears hurt in her throat and burned in her eyes. She hated being so vulnerable, that for all the struggling she did to make it, she couldn't do it alone— Not unless she learned how to outshoot cattle rustlers.

Then, like a cold wind through a meadow, the congregation's chatter silenced. Lissa felt a prickle along the back of her neck. She turned.

John Murray stood in the threshold, strong-shouldered and handsome in a white cotton shirt and dark trousers. A white bandage hugged his forehead, and a wave of dark blond hair swept over it.

The air was squeezed in her chest. He shouldn't be out of bed. He shouldn't be standing. He looked ready to fall over in a dead faint.

"It's him," Chad breathed at her elbow. "My new pa came."

"He sure did." Lissa watched as John strode down the aisle enduring dozens of curious gazes, his chin up, his step sure, his dark blue eyes focused on her.

Only on her.

"I've come to marry you, Lissa," he said when he settled on the bench beside her. Up close she saw how pain lined his face and paled the tanned skin around his eyes.

Marry her?
"But you're too injured. You must recover first."

"I've recovered enough. Let me show you I'm a man of my word. Will you be my wife?"

Chapter Four

"My real concern is for you."

Lissa's words made him look at her,
truly
look at her. Selflessness flickered in her blue eyes like sunlight on water, like the honesty of dawn and raindrops and a warm southern wind. John felt his throat fill. He could not swallow past the way she made him feel—valuable, worthy.

"You must be in terrible pain." She laid her hand on his forearm, her touch gentle. "I don't see how you managed to get yourself out of bed."

"I guess I'm a pretty tough man." He shrugged.

Her gaze narrowed. "You forget I'm the one who found you unconscious on my road, bleeding and helpless. You're lucky to be alive, and you ought to be resting, John. I want to marry a well man, not one who can't remember the agreement he made with me."

"I know why I'm here, and that's enough." It had to be. He had nothing but a mind full of darkness, and nowhere else to go.

"It's not enough for me." Her voice low, she leaned toward him. "I don't want to take advantage of you."

"You won't be."

A little frown crinkled across her forehead. "You may not realize what I've asked of you—"

"To be your husband," he interrupted. "To defend your ranch. To be a father to your son."

That frown deepened. "The cattle rustlers are dangerous, John. I can't ask you to take risks unless you know what they are."

He pressed the heel of his hand against his bandage and tried to will away the blinding pain. "I'm not afraid of risks or a few ruffians."

"It's a good deal worse than that." Hesitation tensed her face. "The rustlers have already killed one man, a rancher with land near mine. And my neighbor was seriously wounded last month. I wrote you. You probably don't remember."

"No, I don't." He winced as pain cracked his skull in two. He laid his hand against the side of his head. "But I'm not afraid. I made a vow to you, Lissa, a vow I will keep. Even if I can't remember. Even if men have died fighting those criminals."