Rancher Wants a Wife (19 page)

“You murdered Dunleigh. How can I—”

That was as far as he got. With a shuddering scream, and the moon shining down on her braided hair and the wrinkled plaid shirt covering her green satin dress, Elise Beacon jumped off the ridge.

Her death was as silent as snow in the night.

Jack let out a gasp of pain and then fell to the ground beside Cassandra.

“You had your gun, Cassandra. I’m so glad you had your gun. Can you stand up? Let me help you up, darlin’. What is it?” Her mind fell in and out of darkness as he continued talking and trying to rouse her. His deep familiar voice grew more and more urgent until desperation hit him. “God, what is it? No, don’t tell me. Please don’t tell me she gave you something.”

Cassandra tried to fill her lungs with as much air as she could to call out the words, but they came out barely a whisper. “Horse medicine...muscle relaxant...”

She heard shouting in the distance. Men from the bunkhouse being led by Ben came charging down the moonlit vineyard slopes to help.

And then her world, and everything she knew, faded out.

Chapter Twenty-One

“J
ack, you’re bleeding!” his friend Crawford yelled from the vineyards.

“Jack, you’re hurt,” Giller shouted, too. “Stop!”

When Jack looked down at his trouser leg, he saw the hole rimmed with gunpowder, the frayed denim, the shredded black cowboy boot and the pouring blood, but the pain was obliterated by his rage at what Elise had done to Cassandra.

Ignoring the warnings to stop, Jack scooped her unconscious body into his arms and raced up the moonlight-bathed slopes, panting, heaving, flexing all his muscles till he felt they might snap.

He had to get her to his medical bag. He didn’t care about his leg. He didn’t care about his bleeding.

Gasping for air, he ran through the rows of sauvignon blanc and Riesling red, alarming even the nighttime rodents weaving along the paths. Scarecrows on crosses seemed to be watching him in the yellow glow of the moon.

He rushed into the stables, his boots slapping on the stonework, and laid her gently on the straw. His fingers flew through his medical bag till he found the brown bottle labeled with the proper tonic, uncapped it and poured it into her mouth.

Eyes closed, she fought him—a good reaction—swallowed, and then within seconds, her guts came heaving up. He tilted her face and swept her blond tendrils away from the mess as she vomited into the straw.

“That’s it,” he coaxed. “Keep going.”

He poured more into her mouth to get the same wonderful reaction.

When she seemed to be finished, he moved her to a fresh spot, wiped her face with a clean towel and whispered words of love.

She did not regain consciousness.

“Cassandra...please....you can’t go...we’ve only just found each other.”

His hands trembled. He was getting weaker, and had forgotten about his own injury. Looking down in annoyance, he noticed how much bloodier his pants seemed. They were now soaked all the way up to his knee. Blinking, shaking, he reached for a fresh towel inside his medical bag to tie it up and stop the bleeding, but didn’t quite make it in time.... He slumped over beside her and his troubles about his injury were forgotten.

* * *

“You’ve got to take care of yourself,” Dr. Clarkson told Jack. “It might only be a flesh wound, but dammit, Jack, you lost some blood and you don’t want to wind up with a permanent limp.”

It was fifteen hours later, the following day, and the good doctor was making his second house call to Jack’s ranch.

Jack, dressed in a black robe that barely stretched over his shoulders, was out of his mind with concern for Cassandra. She was lying in bed beside him. She’d regained consciousness on and off for the past few hours, enough to drink some water and open her eyes, but she kept falling back into that frightening stupor. Jack wasn’t the praying kind, but he’d been praying an awful lot in the last twelve hours.

The doctor had seen a lifetime of misery and all sorts of illness—and even a few poisonings in his time, he’d told Jack when he’d arrived at two in the morning.

Now both men turned from where Dr. Clarkson was bandaging Jack’s ankle, to study Cassandra’s face.

Her blond lashes quivered in the late afternoon sun streaming in the windows. Her cheeks were pale and wan, her lips bloodless and still. Her hair fell in tangles about the open collar of the white robe Jack had put her in when he’d brought her home. Her chest moved up and down slightly with her light breathing.

How could Jack ever have thought that he didn’t trust this woman? He trusted her with his whole heart. Hadn’t she proved she was willing to face death for him? And he now realized that if it hadn’t been Cassandra advertising as a mail-order bride, he never would’ve married anyone.

“I don’t think she broke any ribs, Jack. I think they’re just bruised. There’s no indentation and she didn’t fight me hard when I wrapped them. Luckily, the bruising isn’t affecting her breathing.”

Jack moaned with relief. “Do you think the poison got to her?”

“You’re a medical man, Jack, so I’ll speak to you point-blank. She’s not having any convulsions. No seizures or eye rolling or uncontrollable tremors. Her color’s been pale, but good. There’s been no blue or green or yellow shade to her skin. Her posture’s not stiff—it’s fairly relaxed. And she was able to drink water from a cup several times. So my frank opinion is that if she can wake up out of this stupor, that’s most of the battle. I don’t foresee any long-term effects, but we can’t be sure of that until she wakes up and starts movin’ and talkin’.”

Jack pressed forward to have a look at her.

“Would you stop your shiftin’?” grumbled the man. “There now, knotted and finished. Continue to keep your weight off of it for another week at least. Use the cane I gave you.”

“Hello?” said a female voice from beyond the doorway. “Jack, are you up there?” It was Mrs. Dunleigh calling from the stairwell. Crawford must’ve let her in.

“I’m not fit for company,” Jack told her, snatching at the ties to his robe. He lowered his bandaged foot, hitting the carpet with his bare feet.

“Nonsense, it’s only me.”

But it wasn’t. Her young grandson, Ronald, came running in, along with Queenie and Caesar, who were wagging their tails so hard they nearly knocked over a lamp. Julia followed beside her grandmother, carrying a tray of fresh-baked cookies.

Jack swung himself up, supported by his cane. He towered over everyone.

“How is she doing?” Mrs. Dunleigh took an apron out of her handbag and looped it around her neck, as if she was about to go to work. She was frowning in concern, but seemed calm and stoic in light of her own grief at losing her husband.

“Better than before,” said Dr. Clarkson, rising from his chair, with his long white hair swinging about his suit collar. “Are those oatmeal and honey?”

“Yes, sir,” Mrs. Dunleigh replied. “I hope you’ll take a few off my hands.”

“Howdy!” called another voice from the hallway, then Hugh entered, along with Lucille. The seamstress handed Jack a package. “New nightgown. I thought she might like it.”

“She’s not awake yet to see it.”

“Then she’ll see it when she does,” Lucille said optimistically.

“Yes,” he said, buoyed by the care and love he saw here.

“Her eyes are flickering,” young Ronald declared.

With exuberance, Jack turned and saw that indeed they were. He watched for a moment, but to his disappointment, they didn’t open.

“Come along, children,” said Mrs. Dunleigh. “Let’s go downstairs and do something useful. I was going to suggest we bring in some roses from the garden, but I see Jack’s already taken care of it.”

She looked toward the bouquet of pink wild roses sitting in a vase at the window, cut from the same bush as the ones he’d given Cassandra the day of her arrival. Then Mrs. Dunleigh looked at the ones on the dresser. Then the ones on her night table. Then the white ones on the armoire, and the yellow ones on the other side.

“A woman can never have too many flowers,” she said with a gentle smile. “Julia, Ronald, bring the dogs and the cookies, and off we go to start on dinner.”

Dr. Clarkson reached into his medical bag and handed Jack a vial of pills. “Something she can take for those sore ribs when she wakes up.”

As quickly as they’d all come into the bedroom, they left for the kitchen.

Jack used his cane and hobbled behind them, locked the bedroom door and got in under the covers with Cassandra.

He was hoping she’d come to, but the flutter of her eyes didn’t result in her awakening. However, when he hugged her from behind, loving the soft warm feel of her body, she reacted to his touch by running her hand over his and whispering, “Jack.”

He buried his face in the warm crook of her neck, kissing softly, praying again that she’d find the strength to wake up and be his wife. He fell into a slumber, on and off for hours, to the comforting hum of voices downstairs, the soft thud of the front door as it opened and closed, the playful barking of the dogs outside.

Many hours later, after he’d gone downstairs and, at Mrs. Dunleigh’s insistence, had a light dinner, Jack returned to the bedroom with a dinner plate for Cassandra. Perhaps it was the delicious scent of the housekeeper’s cooking, but Cassandra’s eyes finally opened.

“Umm...” she whispered. “That smells good.”

His heart gave a start, his pulse flashed, every cell jolted to attention. He cautiously set down the platter on the large ottoman beside the bed. His hands went to her shoulders. “You’re awake. You’re truly truly awake,” he murmured, so softly he could barely be heard. “Don’t slip away again, Cassandra. I couldn’t bear it....”

“Jack...how did I get here?”

She looked around in the semidarkness, for the night sky was deepening.

“I brought you. Do you remember what happened?”

Her lips trembled; her hand rose to clutch at the white lapels of her soft robe. Her eyes slid closed and she faltered over the words. “We went to the Beacon ranch...yes, I remember. She poured something into my punch, Jack. Poison. Oh...poison.”

“Dr. Clarkson has seen you several times, and he doesn’t think you’ll suffer any damage. How do you feel?”

She glanced at the plate filled with roast beef and fresh-baked rolls and vegetables. She went to swing her legs over the side of the bed, and his heart quivered with joy at how good it was to see her move. She groaned then and held on to her ribs with one hand.

“Bruised ribs,” he said, at her look of alarm. “Not broken. Here, let me help you up.”

“Just a bite, Jack.”

“Take it slow.” There was so much he wanted to say to her, to explain about himself and Chicago, but he had to allow her time to gain her strength.

He helped anchor her upright, smoothing out her silky blond hair, reaching to encircle her slender waist. Her robe parted over one leg, exposing the shimmer of a golden thigh and beautiful skin. She let the robe lie open, and they both sat in semidarkness, neither one wishing to disperse the sensual shadows forming over them and the soft angles of the furniture. A dreamy light streamed through the white drapes.

Her eyes fell to his wrapped ankle.

“Oh,” she said in sympathy. “Jack, you’re hurt.”

“We’re a fine couple, aren’t we?” he asked gently, not too serious because he didn’t wish to scare her. “Both injured?”

“There was a bang. I remember you were shot.”

“It’s just a flesh wound.”

“Thornley did it,” she gasped, as if remembering it only now. “What happened to him?”

“He was hauled away to jail. He’s been charged with attempted murder on my life. He didn’t have anything to do with Dunleigh’s demise. Elise worked alone on that.”

“And what about...about Elise Beacon? What happened to her?”

Jack didn’t have the heart to say the awful words, but then Cassandra seemed to recall that, too. “Oh,” she said with an agonizing realization. “The cliff.”

“It’s all my fault,” he whispered. “For putting you through this. For bringing you to California.”

“I wanted to come, Jack. It was me who chose to come.”

“Life here has been the opposite of everything I’ve wanted to give you. How can you ever forgive me for that? I can’t forgive myself—”

“You mustn’t say that. You had no control over what those two did to us, no ability to foresee the future and what sort of people they’d turn out to be.”

“I should have protected you. Even right up till the end, I didn’t realize you’d been poisoned, and when I did I wished I could drink the elixir myself—”

“God, I’m so glad you didn’t. It’s over now, isn’t it? And I’m not leaving this bed for as long as you’ll have me.”

“Cassandra,” he murmured, placing his hand on the patch of soft skin above her knee. He restrained himself from touching her further. What he wished to do was take her into his arms and kiss her everywhere imaginable, to show her how much he wanted her. Instead, he swallowed hard and tried to remember that she was still recuperating and he was here to help her, not tax her strength.

“Take some food, Cassandra. Eat something and get your strength and then...”

Someone knocked on the door and he rose to open it.

Mrs. Dunleigh stood there, without her apron and all tidied up to leave. “I’ve come to say good-night, Jack.” Her eyes slid to Cassandra, perched on the edge of the mattress. “My dear! How wonderful!” She rushed to help her.

Cassandra smiled timidly, overwhelmed by the woman’s care. “Are you coming to stay with us, Mrs. Dunleigh?” she asked.

“I would indeed very much like to.” Mrs. Dunleigh peered from Cassandra to Jack. “I do enjoy living with my daughter and her family, but I feel rather useless there. They won’t let me do much, thinking I’m too frail, and Yule and I shared so many happy memories here.”

“We’ve missed you,” Jack told her. He had shared the other horrible news earlier, when the sheriff had come calling and joined them for dinner downstairs. That Yule had been poisoned by Elise Beacon—poison that had been intended for Cassandra. Dr. Clarkson had checked the newspaper drops and had found a homemade brew of toxins that included a combination of different substances. It had infiltrated Dunleigh’s skin and caused his death. Mrs. Dunleigh had been devastated and horrified at the traumatic news, like everyone else in the house.

Jack had yet to tell Cassandra, but it could wait a couple days, till she regained her health.

“My dear, would you like some help to rise and wash your face?” Mrs. Dunleigh sighed with satisfaction when she noticed that Cassandra had eaten her roast beef.

“That would be nice. I could use refreshing.”

But as she rose to her feet and braced herself for a moment, assisted by the housekeeper, Jack thought Cassandra had never looked more beautiful. Her blond hair shifted over her shoulder, her robe opening slightly to reveal the creamy cleavage of her bare breasts before she noticed and tucked it closed again. Her ties had loosened and the white fabric spilled open at her leg again, arousing him to distraction.

“What’s that?” Cassandra pointed to the package Lucille had brought.

“A gift from Lucille,” he told her.

Cassandra lifted it and took it with her to the dressing room.