Jillian Hart (7 page)

She met his gaze, all fire, her chin set for a fight. "So you married me because I was helpless?"

"No." He stepped closer. "I married you because I said I would. Because your little boy is counting on having a new pa. Because I can see in your face how much you need me. I'm not questioning this agreement between us."

"Then what?"

"My name." He looked away, took another step toward the green grass. Wind scattered the scent, growing steadier now as evening lengthened. He smelled a storm on the way.

"What about your name?" She followed him, lifting her skirts above the ground. The fading sunlight brushed her with golden pink, the light glinting in her hair, glowing richly across her skin.

"I don't think I was called John before I was injured. I mean, maybe I had a nickname."

"Do you remember?"

"I'm trying."

A gunshot echoed in the distance. Lissa stepped away from him and faced the hills, the gentle meadows and rolling slopes of her pastureland. Adrenaline shot into his blood. He didn't need to guess. While Lissa made fists of her hands, he strode back into the barn.

"Those damn rustlers," she cursed, fury edging her voice. "This is my wedding party."

"No better time to hit." He caught the bay gelding by the neck and tested the rope lead. It would have to hold. "Nearly every man in the area is in your yard, unarmed."

"Will!" Her voice echoed in the rafters above.

John swung up on the bay's back as footsteps drummed in his direction. He saw Will Callahan bounding into the aisle at the same time, the young man all business. John headed for the hardware stored up high on a dusty shelf. The guns were shadowed, but he chose the best weapon there, an old single shot pistol, then grabbed a tiny drawstring poke. Had to have bullets in it.

Lissa's eyes widened. "John, you can't ride after those rustlers. Please, you're not—"

"I can catch them." He wheeled the gelding around and headed toward the double doors and the twilight world beyond.

At a full gallop, the bay drummed up dirt and gravel as they sped past the scattered crowd. Already men were running toward their horses as angry voices discussed the rustlers. A cheer rose from the crowd when John sent the bay hurling over the four-foot high fence.

"After him, boys!" Jeremiah's call carried on the wind.

Every gallop of the gelding shot white hot pain through John's skull, but he didn't turn from the threat. His mount chewed up ground and drew nearer to the second volley of gunplay.

The rustlers were firing rifles to drive the herd. That meant there couldn't be more than a few men.

The horse crested another rise, giving John a good view of sweeping fields and more hills. Then his pulse caught.
There:
He saw an ominous flash of darkness moving in the distance—the rustlers.

He pressed the bay harder and clamped his thighs tight to the horse's flanks, balancing his weight as the seasoned animal bounded downhill, skidding on his haunches in the lush grass.

Now that he'd found them, John's greatest concern was how to stop the thieves. He carried only a single shot Colt, older than the hills—not a good weapon to fight a band of well-armed outlaws.

Another hillside hid the rustlers from his view. At least John had surprise on his side. Those varmints probably figured everyone was too intoxicated after Lissa's wedding supper to notice the distant echo of gunfire. The outlaws wouldn't be expecting company.

The gelding's front hooves dug into the earth, propelling them up a steep hillside. Clods of dirt flew as the bay galloped all out, foam flecking his neck and withers, tangling in his windblown mane. This horse had the heart of a warrior, but no animal could run full-out for long.

There, at the base of the hill below, he spotted his prey. Knowing he could not confront the men, for he counted six of them to his single gun, he drew up the gelding hard. Four legs went rigid as mighty hooves tore into the ground, and the bay's head came up in a sudden, well-executed stop.

John slid to the ground, gripping the gun in one hand. He checked the chamber, inserted a single bullet. His gaze never strayed from the rustlers. He counted twelve, but when he closed one eye he saw a wavery, unfocused six. His hindered eyesight was going to cause him problems.

Well, it was too late to think about it now. He knelt in the grass, piecing together a strategy. He ignored the pain in his head, in his chest, in his ankle. Nothing mattered more than showing these men they couldn't push him around, or steal a helpless woman's cattle. When he aimed, his hand shook. He steadied the gun on one knee.

Take out the leader,
his instincts told him. He studied the men below, all busy trying to drive the panicked herd north while the cows kept dashing in all directions.

John watched a man in a black shirt lift his hand and point, as if barking orders. His harsh voice rose with the wind, but the words came distorted and impossible to decipher.

That's the one.
He thumbed back the hammer and aimed. Two images stared back at him, blurred and wobbling. He closed one eye, and the images joined into one. His hand still shook, and he waited, cursing himself and his injury. Soon, the men would be out of range. He had to fire now.

He heard hooves drumming the ground behind him, and he pulled the trigger. Fire sparked, thunder roared, and the leader of the rustlers tumbled from his saddle.

The outlaws swung wide toward the hill, jerking their rifles upward. John squeezed off another shot, and a second man fell. Gunshot volleyed across the crest of the hill and he dropped to the ground, thumbing another bullet into the chamber.

"You're a good shot." Will Callahan nodded approval as he crawled low in the tall grasses.

"I caught 'em by surprise, but now the tables are turned. There's no cover and we can't follow them like this."

"I'm no slouch when it comes to a good fight." Will readied his rifle. "What about Lissa's cattle?"

"The cows are scattering. The rustlers won't take the time to drive them, not with us on their tail. How many men were behind you?"

"Counted about twenty saddling up when I rode out of the barn."

John rubbed his brow. Damn, he hurt "We trail them, keep to the south of this hill, in the trees. We'll try to jump them, take out a few more of their men before we engage in a gunfight."

"The odds will be even, then."

Fewer bullets peppered the hillside as the renegades raced for their freedom.

"They're running north." John risked his neck for a look. "Let's go."

"Whatever you say, boss." Young and determined, Will flashed him an approving nod. "Here, take my extra Colt."

"Much obliged." He accepted the sparkling revolver. Now, he was properly armed and ready—except for the horse. The damn gelding shied away from him, dodging his attempt to catch the single lead rope.

"Easy, fella," he crooned, and grabbed again.

Again, the horse evaded him. He snagged the rope and pulled in the reticent horse. Wincing against the pain, he hopped onto the animal's back and joined Will on the downside of the embankment, galloping hard for shelter and the line of trees.

Of the two men he'd shot, only one lingered on the ground. John saw at a distance that the man was too injured to move, much less reach for his gun and try to shoot them in the back. His bay took the lead.

By the time they reached the clearing, the rustlers were waiting. A bullet sank into the tree trunk near his head, and John wheeled the bay back into the cover of the woods.

"I miscalculated that," he confessed. Damn, but his pounding head made it hard to think. "I need more ammunition."

"Got it." Will reached into his shirt pocket and laid a handful of bullets on John's palm.

"They're coming after us. Take cover."

Shots tore through the grove of alder and maple. John slid from his mount and ducked behind a solid tree trunk. Will, safe behind a moss-covered boulder, fired in return. John thumbed bullets into the empty chamber, spun it, and waited. The gunfire grew nearer.

"See to the other men," he shouted to Will. "They are going to ride straight into this."

With a nod, Will disappeared on foot, the brush and thick limbs obscuring him within seconds. John listened and waited before he wove through trees and bushes, and listened again.

A snap of a twig came from ahead of him, and to his right. He thumbed back the hammer, holding the revolver steady with both hands, and closed one eye. The world spun with his dizziness, but he concentrated hard.

Then he saw the slant of a cowboy hat and the flash of a rifle. His finger squeezed the trigger, then froze. He wanted to see the man before he brought him down. He didn't know if the men from the wedding party had caught up with them. He didn't want to shoot one of the good men.

A slant of shadowed twilight, dispersed by wind-tossed leaves, shivered over the man—not friend, but foe, rough, ugly, unkempt, unwashed, and dangerous. John fought to keep the gun steady, then fired.

Missed.

"Damn."

The dizziness was only getting worse, but it was no excuse. He thumbed back the hammer, and the gun jammed. He slammed it hard against his palm. Then, when the chamber didn't turn, he banged it against the side of a tree trunk.

His heartbeat tripled. Worry licked at his spine. His mind remained clear and calm, though, as he tried to spin the stubborn chamber. It turned, but already he saw the shadows in the underbrush. He dropped to the ground as fire flashed. A bullet bit into his flesh along the outer edge of his bicep, enough to make the arm hurt too much to use.

Angry now, John rose up and aimed with one hand. The rustler was already running, and John did, too. He crashed through fern and flower, tripped over rocks and rotting logs. Holding the gun steady, he squeezed off a single shot and grazed the rustler's hat. He aimed again, his last bullet, as the toe of his left boot caught in a rotten log and he tumbled forward.

The gun flew from his hand, hitting the ground and firing wild. John held out both hands, but he was already falling.

"Jeremiah!" Lissa called out as she swung down from Charlie's broad back. Twilight began to deepen, but even in the dimness she could see the devastation on the man's face.

"Lissa, you shouldn't be here. Not with those rustlers on the loose." Jeremiah strode toward her, his hand extended, as if to turn her and lead her from the meadow.

"I heard gunfire." Cold fear banded her chest. "Where is John?"

Jeremiah stared off at the horizon where night began. "I'm sorry, Lissa. Callahan and Miller are carrying him out."

"He's dead?" Her body failed her. She rocked against Charlie's flank, and the big horse held her up as shock turned her limbs and mind numb.
Dead.
"But he—"

"No." Jeremiah's hands caught hers, but she couldn't feel them. "He's been shot, Lissa. He's pretty weak—"

The doctor had warned against further injury. She tore away from her old friend's grip, hampered by the bothersome skirts of the fashionable dress. "Where is he? I have to see him."

"He's—"

Movement in the wooded grove sent Lissa racing across the wildflower dotted field. Will Callahan emerged from the shadows, striding alongside a tall, wide-shouldered man. Dark hair blowing in the wind, John faced her, a wry pinch to his mouth.

"I'm sorry, Lissa. I almost had them."

"Looks like you put a bullet in half the gang." Will swept off his hat. "Lissa, your groom is quite a shot."

John shrugged, lifting one shoulder, then wincing with pain. "It wasn't so hard. Next time I'll be well enough to bring those outlaws down, and that will be the end of their raiding."

"And harming innocent ranchers."
Or killing you.
Lissa bit back the angry words. "You're bleeding."

"Took a bullet in the arm. Nothing serious."

"Nothing serious?"
Really?
He could barely stand up. Crimson seeped through the bandage across his forehead, and spots of red stained his shirt. "You've torn your stitches."

"Good thing we invited Doc to the wedding," he said in that voice—low, not flip, strong and deep and confident.

She caught his injured arm. "That's no excuse, and you know it."

"You're in trouble now." Jeremiah winked at him across Lissa's blond head.

Big trouble—he gazed down into her fiery eyes and saw the hidden fury. So, the quiet little sparrow had passion. That intrigued him. He would have figured her for a warm sort of woman, cozy and comforting, not a steel-spined spitfire.

She kept it well hidden. He could see that. She shielded that fury behind concern for his arm. She tugged the seared cloth away from the bullet wound.

"Ow," he hissed.

"Sorry." He didn't think she was. "That bullet didn't just graze you. Doc needs to take a look at this."

"No more doctors." He meant it, even if the pain in his head threatened to bring him to his knees. "I just need to lie down for a bit."

"You need stitches." Jaw tight, Lissa wrestled a folded handkerchief from her pocket. Her full skirts swayed with her savage steps. "Stand still, John."

"Why are you so angry?" he whispered, aware of the dozen men watching him, curious about the newlyweds' first fight.

"I'm not angry." She avoided his gaze as she tied the cloth tight around his injury, then knotted it.

Sharp pain sliced through his biceps. John, sensing he shouldn't argue, clenched his teeth. She was afraid. Anyone could see it. Tears glittered in her eyes, unfallen and stubborn, as she reached up to check the bandage at his brow.

"You've torn open the wound, but these stitches might have held." She stepped back. "Can you make it back to the house?"

He caught her hand between his, felt her trembling. She'd been afraid for him. She'd been afraid for herself and her son. He could guess why. She needed him. She needed a man's protection in this rugged country.

"Don't worry, Lissa. I won't get myself killed." He offered his hand to help her up onto her broad-backed Clydesdale.

"You'd better not." She smiled thinly through her worry. "Michael doesn't have any more unmarried cousins."