Wish Upon a Cowboy (17 page)

"I have to try, though," she said, gritting her teeth and lifting her chin. Glancing at Hepzibah, she asked, "How do I look?" When the little cat only stared at her, Hannah sighed and reached up to anxiously pat at her hair. "It will work, you'll see," she muttered and wasn't sure if she was trying to convince Hepzibah or herself.

Turning to the window that overlooked the ranch yard, Hannah stared out at the lightening darkness. Dawn was still an hour or more away. Stars shone faintly in the sky and the moon hung low and looked close enough to touch.

Even the men in the bunkhouse hadn't stirred yet. But Jonas was awake, she knew. As he had all week, he was up and moving long before anyone else. He'd avoided her nearly every morning and surrounded himself with others during the day. At night, he'd retreated to his bedroom, closing a now-secure door.

This was her first chance to talk to him alone since the night he'd rushed out of his room as if demons were on his heels. But she was ready. Memories of her day in town and the woman she'd seen filled her mind, restoring her confidence. Hannah'd decided that what had been lacking between her and Jonas was seduction. And now that she'd figured out how to seduce the Mackenzie, everything else would fail into place.

He did want her. Hadn't he said so?

But she couldn't wait much longer. The Solstice was almost upon them. They had to be joined. They had to have found each other before then.

For everyone's sake.

Footsteps in the main room alerted her to his presence. Breathing deeply to quiet the butterflies in her stomach, she turned in time to flash him a smile and see his eyes narrow as he looked at her.

"Good morning," she said and walked past him slowly, headed for the stove. Remembering the woman she'd seen in town and how the men had stumbled over each other to be near her, Hannah desperately wished she owned a red dress that sparkled. Her blue and white calico hardly seemed appropriate to the task. Deliberately, though, she straightened her spine, pushed out her chest, and let her hips sway from side to side as she moved at a snail's pace. She wanted to give him plenty of time to notice the change in her. To be seduced by her.

"Did you sleep well, Mackenzie?" she asked and filled a cup with thick black coffee.

"What the hell…?"

She turned around, offered him the cup, and, hiding a satisfied smile, dipped her head, giving him an excellent view of her hair.

Feathers.

Her head was covered in small white feathers.

Jonas stared at her, amazed. Blond hair piled high on her head, the tight rolls and ringlets she'd arranged so carefully were dotted with feathers sticking up and out at odd angles.

She turned and sashayed across the kitchen, swinging her hips wildly from side to side, and bunches of feathers flew off her head and swirled in her passing like a small snowstorm.

As he watched, dumbfounded, his fingers curled around the cup of coffee and he took a quick sip, burning his tongue and scalding his throat. A moment later, though, he grimaced tightly and stuck his fingers in his mouth, pulling out a limp, wet feather.

The damn things were all over the place, wafting in the air, settling in his coffee, and dotting the surface of the fresh bread she'd just pulled from the oven.

The woman was a constant surprise.

Helplessly, he shook his head and heard himself ask, "What are you doing?"

She turned again and, smiling, headed straight for him, laying down yet another trail of white. "I'm seducing you," she said and stepped up close to him.

Seducing him? Hell, she did that just by entering a room. "With feathers?" he managed to ask around the sudden knot in his throat.

Her smile widened. "You noticed."

"Hard not to," he pointed out. "Like it's snowing in here."

She patted her hair, sending a puff of feathers flying high over her head.

The scent of lemon surrounded him. Memories of that night in his room crashed down around him, strangling him. A week it had been. The longest week of his life. He kept waiting for the mental image of her, naked in his bed, to fade a bit. To give him peace.

Instead, each day the images were clearer, stronger, harder to ignore.

"Jonas," she repeated, looking up at him from beneath lowered lashes. "I've been thinking about the kiss you gave me that night…"

His long-suffering body tightened instantly and he knew another uncomfortable day in the saddle was stretching out in front of him.

"Hannah," he said tightly. "Now's not the time."

"And I'd like another kiss, please," she said as if he hadn't spoken. Then she tipped her head back, closed her eyes, and pursed her lips.

Ah, damn it.

Jonas smiled softly, letting his gaze sweep across her features. What was it about this woman that touched him in so many ways? Innocence, surely. But there was so much more to her than that. Clearly unused to ranch living, she'd slipped into the life here and made herself so much a part of the place that Jonas couldn't imagine his home without her. Couldn't imagine spending a day not thinking of her. Lifting one hand, he grazed the tips of his fingers along her jaw and caught his breath when she turned her face into his touch.

So easy. So… right.

Her eyes opened. Dazzling green. Gazes locked, they stared at each other for a long, breathless minute. Then she asked, "Aren't you going to kiss me?"

He wanted to so badly he could already taste her. And realizing that made him see that she'd already come to mean too much to him. He couldn't risk letting her mean more. "No, ma' am, I'm not."

The disappointment in her eyes twisted inside him. Damn her for making him feel things again. Damn her for smiling. For having eyes the color of spring grass. For smelling like lemons. For coming into his life and throwing everything he'd ever known upside down.

And mostly, damn her for making him want her.

Need her.

His hand dropped to his side. Setting the coffee cup down, he turned for the door. "I've got work, Hannah."

"You're leaving again?" she asked, following him to the door. "Without even a kiss this time?"

He stopped, his fingers curled around the doorknob. Glancing back at her over his shoulder, he said softly, "If I kiss you again, Hannah, it won't end there."

She touched him. Her hand lay atop his forearm and the slight brush of her fingertips sent warmth scattering through him. "I don't want it to end," she said.

"And I can't let it begin," he told her softly, then stepped outside and closed the door behind him.

She kicked the door, then yelped with the pain before muttering, "But I'm wearing feathers!"

He glanced over his shoulder and smiled. At least she was mad, not hurt.

Shaking his head, he jumped off the back step and into the dirt, idly brushing feathers off his shirt. Feathers. What had she been trying to do with feathers? Smiling to himself, he realized that since Hannah's arrival, been doing a lot of grinning. And yelling. And thinking. More than he had in ten years. Maybe Elias was right. Maybe he didn't like the fact that Hannah Lowell was making him live again whether he wanted to or not.

But feathers? And where'd she get them? As he walked into the cool, shadowy barn, that question was answered.

Clucking in outrage, a flock of hens scuttled past in the dark. Each of them sported a plucked-pink, naked behind.

Jonas laughed out loud for the first time in too long.

*  *  *

"The pen's ready, boss."

Jonas drew his mind away from the thought of Hannah covered in feathers and concentrated instead on branding pens in front of him. Two small enclosures, side by side, with a narrow opening on each end fire pits already stacked with wood and kindling, ready for the first match.

He nodded thoughtfully as his gaze moved over the work done by his crew and imagined the scene as would be soon, when the ranchers came together to separate and brand their herds.

"You want me to ride out and help Stretch with last of the gather?" Billy asked as he walked to his horse, tethered to the top rail of the branding pen.

"Yeah," Jonas said. "The south pastures clear?"

"Finished yesterday," the young cowhand assured him. "Got some fine spring calves in that bunch, boss."

"Good." This was what was important, he reminded himself, dismissing thoughts of Hannah. This ranch. The cattle. The future he would build for himself with bare hands.

Witchcraft, warlocks, and green-eyed blonds to contrary, in the West, a man was what he made of himself.

"You and the boys finish the gather and I'll see you back at the house."

Through eyes gritty with a lack of sleep, Jonas watched the younger man wheel his horse around and take off across the pasture like the hounds of hell were after him.

He squinted into the late morning sun, letting his gaze rake over the herd and the men riding guard over them. Yanking off his hat, he wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt, then resettled the hat low enough to keep the sun from streaming into his eyes.

Sleep.

That's all he needed.

Hell, since that night Hannah had stretched out across his bed, he'd been haunted by so many wild, vivid dreams, he was willing to bet he hadn't had more than an hour or two of sleep altogether.

And it wasn't just Hannah's face and form invading his nights. With her story about his belt buckle, she'd opened a closed door in his mind. And once opened, visions, images raced each other through his dreams, each fighting to be recognized at last.

Scowling, he tried to recall them now and only half succeeded. Snatched glimpses of faces, people he didn't know, places he'd never been. And sometimes, he even thought he heard whispered voices chanting in a language he'd never heard before.

Warlock.

Something inside him tightened, hardened. It wasn't possible, he told himself. There were no such things as witches, haunts, and spooks. And he was too damned old to be swayed by ghost stories, no matter how well told.

But he had to wonder, if Hannah was lying, how had she known about the belt buckle? How had she known it was his mother's?

"Crazy," he muttered thickly and tightened his grip on the reins. Kneeing his horse, he started around the edges of the herd, trying to concentrate on the feel of the wind against his face, the sun on the trees, the distracted lowing of the cattle.

But his brain wouldn't be appeased that quickly. He remembered the fight in the bar and how the gambler's gun had misfired… right after Jonas had wished it to be so.

What were the odds, he asked himself, that a gun wouldn't shoot when the trigger was pulled? With a pepperbox, he argued silently, pretty damn good. Those little guns had never been reliable. And yet…

"Damn it," he swore viciously at the swirling thoughts in his head. It was all nonsense. Caused by a tiny woman who looked sane and beautiful but was obviously as wild-brained as a horse on locoweed.

If something inside him shivered with anticipation, he ignored it.

Chapter Ten

Somewhere in Indiana a Week Later

After a week on the train, Eudora was tired to the bone. Her clothes were sooty, her silvery hair drooped, and the tiny pink net veil on her hat was smudged and torn.

She turned her face toward the window and watched as the train pulled into the latest station. They all looked alike, she'd noticed. Small clapboard rooms where the station master reigned over his kingdom, and a long wooden platform with benches placed here and there so waiting passengers could get used to the feeling of a hard, uncomfortable seat before actually boarding the train.

She smiled to herself, picked up her purse, and as usual headed for the doorway at the end of the car. At every stop, Eudora left the train to wander the platform, sometimes buying fresh fruit from an enterprising farmer.

But mostly she did it to keep the man following her on his toes.

Approaching the station master's office, she picked up several train schedules and idly thumbed through them.

"Can I help you, lady?" the man behind the counter asked, leaning toward her.

She smiled into brown eyes hidden behind spectacles in thin wire frames. "Thank you, no," she said and threw a glance from the corner of her eye toward the end of the platform.

There he was. Ed Thistlewaite. A slight frown turned her lips. Balding, overweight, he was an instinctive bully who lacked the courage to back his temperament. An unremarkable warlock from an undistinguished family, poor Ed had convinced himself that by becoming one of Blake Wolcott's minions, he himself attained a measure of respect.

Now that she was sure he'd had to disembark and walk around, something Ed avoided doing whenever possible, Eudora reboarded the train. If she was going to be followed, then she would make sure the man following her regretted ever taking the assignment.

Once in her seat again, Eudora picked up her knitting and ducked her head. Winded, Ed huffed and puffed his way down the aisle, holding a newspaper in front of his face in a futile attempt to keep his prey from recognizing him.

As the train chugged out of the station, she lifted her gaze to the trees and farmland passing by. Another week, she told herself grimly. She could stay on the train and travel her roundabout route for another week—two at best. That was all the time she could give the girl. And once Eudora arrived in Wyoming, she knew Ed would send a telegram to Blake, assuring his quick arrival.

A pang of worry ricocheted through her, but she fought it down. The Mackenzie would keep Hannah safe, she told herself. And Eudora would be there as well to add her own power to the confrontation she knew was coming. But everything would be so much easier if only the two young people could be married when Blake Wolcott faced them.

"Hurry. Hannah," she whispered to the rhythm of the train's steel wheels on the rails. "Time is running out."

*  *  *

The first week of roundup passed in a whirl of activity. Hannah had never been so busy in her life.

Streams of people crowded the ranch every day. The other ranchers' families were there and the men who worked for them, of course. But she'd been surprised to see that several of the townspeople turned out as well, making the roundup more of a community affair.