Desperate Hearts

by Alexis Harrington

  She pulled her blankets more tightly around herself, and with some effort rolled over. In the process she snapped a stick under her boot.

  Jace flew out of his bedroll and crouching on one knee, pointed the Henry at her. His expression was as fixed and flat as a snake’s. She froze, her breath caught on the thundering heartbeat in her chest and her eyes on the barrel of the rifle. Her mouth formed a silent scream as she waited for the sound of a shot.

  He stared at her in the dim firelight as if getting his bearings, then lowered the rifle. “Damn,” he muttered. “Sorry. I thought I heard a gun being cocked. Are you all right?”

  Her breath returned and the stricture of her throat relaxed. “All right? You almost shot me again!”

  He shrugged. “I wouldn’t have. I saw you didn’t have your gun.” He lay down again and settled into his blanket. “Go back to sleep.” In a moment, she heard his breathing smooth out to a regular rhythm.

  Oh God, she wished she were far away from here, and away from this terrible, dangerous man. Tears slid down her temples, though she told herself they would do no good.

  Theirs wasn’t much of a partnership, she reflected. He didn’t trust her . . . she didn’t trust him. Despite his halfhearted agreement to help her, he could give away her true identity anytime he got tired of having her around.

  Yet at the same time she felt a conflicting sense of security just knowing he was there. He intimidated her, but he scared almost everyone else as well. Reconciled to that, she dozed the last couple of hours before daybreak.

  When she woke again, the sun was on its way up the eastern sky and Jace was gone from his place near the fire. It had stopped raining but the air was damp and chill, and moisture clung to everything beyond the shelter of the overhang. As uncomfortable as her hard bed was, Kyla was loath to leave her blankets. Next to her, she found her gun in its holster. Apparently, Jace had decided to trust her enough to return her weapon.

  Over by the flat, narrow creek she saw him already saddling their horses. He stood with his back to her, a silhouette against the slate-colored sky, and she watched him, the way he smoothed the silky equine manes, his strong hands surprisingly gentle on their bridles, the way his own dark hair brushed his shoulders. He bent to tighten Juniper’s cinch strap, and his shirt stretched over his shoulders and lean waist. There was nothing hesitant or awkward in his movements. He had a powerful, easy grace. It was easy to forget that there were taller men; he had a very imposing presence, an intangible something that made him seem far bigger than he actually was. She supposed some women found him attractive. Luckily, experience had made her immune.

  He turned suddenly, as if feeling her eyes on him. “There’s coffee if you want it, and a couple of biscuits. But get out of your bedroll and eat quick—we’ve got to move out of here.” He came back to the fire and rolled up his own blankets.

  Kyla worked her way to a sitting position. Upright, she realized how terrible she felt—stiff and slightly ill with a queasy headache, a lot like that time years ago when she’d gotten into her father’s corn liquor. Her injured arm was as heavy as lead. She glanced down at the bandage and found that it was still clean and white. At least the wound hadn’t begun bleeding again.

  She lifted her head and looked around at the gray dawn. Spending the day on horseback was going to be misery. With considerable effort she managed to strap on her gun belt. She was forced to use her left hand to do it, though, and it frightened her how much it hurt. It meant her arm would be of little use until it healed, perhaps weeks from now. In the meantime, she was left vulnerable in perilous circumstances. At least she could still fire her revolver.

  From the corner of her eye, she noticed Jace watching her fumble with the buckle. That gaze felt like it penetrated her clothes with icy heat. He moved closer and dropped to a crouch.

  “Sorry if I scared you last night. How’s the arm?” His tone was a bit gruff; obviously she was more of a liability to him than ever.

  She pulled back, protective of her injury and wary of him, too. “It hurts like hell. I swear I’ll get even with Hardesty when I get the chance. He doesn’t deserve to stand trial. This is his fault. All of it.” Including last night, she thought. She heard the bitterness in her own voice.

  He studied her a moment longer and then shrugged. “Yeah, it probably is his fault. But right now we’re going to Misfortune. If we’re being followed, it’ll be a good way to throw them off. Misfortune is the last stop to nowhere.” He gestured at her bandage. “You’re going to need a sling. Have you got a bandanna in your gear?”

  She shook her head.

  He took off his own neckerchief and tied its two ends together, then handed it to her. “Use this.”

  Hesitating, she finally struggled into the sling. It smelled like him, like horses and leather. That wasn’t totally unpleasant, she conceded. But she wished she had her binding back. Every time she moved, she felt her shirt brush against her unbound breasts, reminding her that her true identity was fully revealed. It didn’t matter, she remembered wearily. Even if she had fabric to wrap around herself, she wouldn’t be able to do it without using both hands. What could she do, ask for Jace’s help? She swallowed the bubble of hysterical laughter that swelled in her chest at the idea. Just getting her gun belt buckled had been hard enough.

  While she choked down a dry biscuit and a few sips of coffee, Jace packed up her blankets and put them on Juniper. At least he was a bit less hostile and suspicious than he had been last night.

  In another minute, with a well-placed hand on her buttocks he boosted her onto her gelding’s back, nearly pushing her over the other side. She bristled at the intimate contact of his warm hand. But mounting a horse without the use of her left arm was almost impossible, and her helplessness nettled her. Finally the feat was accomplished and Jace swung into his own saddle. Gathering his reins, he turned to her.

  “This thing with Hardesty, it isn’t going to be easy. Before we start it, is there anything else I should know? Just to keep us from getting killed?”

  She hesitated to mention the problem that had occurred to her during one of the endless hours last night. But she had to tell him if he was going to help her. “I think McIntyre figured out that I’m not a boy.”

  Jace gazed at the bright horizon through narrowed eyes. "Shit." His chuckle was sharp and humorless, and he wheeled his horse around. “Then we’d better ride.”

  * * *

  Jace led them on a circuitous journey through the foothills of the Cedar Mountains. They doubled back so often that Kyla, though she’d been watching the sun for reference, was thoroughly confused. Traveling fast, they recrossed their own tracks through rocky canyons and traversed streambeds; he even made her trade mounts with him a couple of times to alter the hoof prints the horses made. Once or twice, she suspected that they might be lost, but a glance at his set face quelled her doubts. He knew exactly what he was doing.

  The weather, though, was not obliging. Clearing briefly, it finally settled into a steady gray downpour, and Kyla lost her point of reference. As the hours passed, she tried hard to maintain the tough hardiness that Jace had come to expect. But she was cold and miserable, and by afternoon, when he finally pointed them toward Misfortune, her energy started to drain away. Yet she dared not let it show—she couldn’t let anything get in the way of traveling back to Blakely.

  To stay alert—and on her horse—she forced herself to think about her ultimate intent: to see Tom Hardesty dead. Jace Rankin was her means to that end. She had to make him understand the urgent necessity of her goal. She drew up alongside him.

  “How long do you think we’ll need to be in Misfortune?” she asked.

  “As long as it takes to finish my business.” His tone reminded her that he did not like being questioned.

  Her brows locked at his flip answer. “Well, how long will that be? I want that damned Hardesty off my property.”

  He turned to regard her, and despite her weariness once again sh
e studied his good looks. They couldn’t be considered classic—his eyes were far too intense. And the jaded cynicism lurking in their blue depths made him seem unapproachable. She could have kicked herself for even noticing, but his handsomeness was fascinating, like a dark star that glinted in the night sky.

  “You’re sure in a hurry to get shot at again. I’m not,” he went on. “Besides, Hardesty doesn’t sound like he’s going anyplace. He’ll be in Blakely when we get there.”

  His cavalier attitude clashed with her growing headache. “I just want to settle this. Jail isn’t bad enough for what he did.” She stopped just short of saying she wanted to see Hardesty dead.

  “Look—we’re going to do it my way or not at all. I need to make certain we’ve lost his hired guns. I don’t want to be caught between them and the vigilantes.”

  Kyla understood the strategy, but only vaguely. Pain and her hate blurred the details. “Didn’t anyone ever make you mad enough that you just wanted to get even?”

  He kept his eyes on the rain-shortened horizon and his jaw tightened. “Once.”

  Once. Jace gripped his reins. Yeah, it had happened to him. A cold, dark vengeance had blotted out every other thought he’d had, and his focus narrowed down to one purpose—to exact revenge. He’d tracked his best friend all over the territory, and he would have shot him without thinking twice about it. At least not until it was too late. When Travis had convinced him of his innocence, he had continued with single-minded determination until he found Sawyer Clark and killed him.

  And so what? His sister Celia was still dead. Avenging her hadn’t changed that. He was simply left with that same bitter emptiness he’d felt since the afternoon in Silver City. He wished to God he could shake it.

  But this woman, with her spirit and courage, who seemed to be more wild mare than human female, did not know what lay in store for her. And maybe she should.

  “I’m not in the habit of giving advice,” he said. “People usually do what they want, anyway. But . . . whatever grudge you bear against Hardesty, nothing will be different, not if he sits in jail till kingdom come. Not even if I were to kill him. It wouldn’t bring back Hank.” He gestured at her head. “Your hair wouldn’t grow out overnight.”

  A frown creased Kyla’s pale face and she leaned forward in her saddle, allowing the soft roundness of her bosom to press against her shirt. From this angle, her sling didn’t conceal her chest very well. Instantly, the memory of her smooth breasts and small waist sprang to his mind.

  When he realized he was staring, he forced himself to look away. He knew that he should have nothing to do with this female—so why did she crowd his thoughts to the point of distraction? A naked woman was nothing new to him, but he thought about this one and the beauty she hid under her clothes a lot more than he wanted to.

  “What are you saying, that he should go on about his life as if he’s done nothing?” she demanded. “He murdered Hank. And all the times he let my father down—quitting school, gambling, getting drunk, stealing money—all those times he pushed me into corners and grabbed at me and—and—” She choked and a red stain crept over her face. She turned her head away and rain dripped from the brim of her hat. “Are you saying none of that matters?”

  Jace glanced at her sharply, but she stared straight ahead and refused to meet his eyes. “No, I’m not saying that,” he replied.

  She’d let slip another fragment of the information he knew she was keeping back. Maybe there was a reason that “Kyle” was so convincing; the role might not be new for her. Maybe Hardesty was guilty of more than killing Hank and taking her ranch. He felt a surge of anger boil up in him. The more he heard about the man, the more he disliked him.

  “This isn’t the first time you’ve dressed as a boy, is it?”

  “That’s none of your damned business,” she retorted with a harder edge. Her turquoise eyes glinted like glass. “I don’t have to explain myself.”

  Jesus, but she was prickly. She had a chip on her shoulder the size of an anvil and she was always daring him to push it off. He’d never known a woman so exasperating. Or so challenging.

  He tried again, searching for words that didn’t feel so awkward to speak aloud. “I’m just saying that hate can eat a person up, until sometimes there’s nothing left. When Hardesty is locked away, you’ll still have to live your life.” He’d heard this same warning a year ago. He hadn’t listened, either.

  “I ain’t about to start lovin’ my enemy, so that sermon would be wasted on me,” she said, lapsing fully into Kyle’s voice before falling silent. The way she surrounded herself with the personality sent a shiver down Jace’s back. She used it like a spiny shield to hold the world at bay. How had Hank managed to find the woman behind it?

  As the miles passed and she maintained her silence, Jace noticed that she was really beginning to look poorly. The blood seemed to fade from her face, as if her fiery hair had pulled out all the color. She hadn’t complained about her arm, but he knew it must hurt. Hell, his own shoulder still ached in rainy weather like this, and nearly a year had gone by since he was shot. Plus he’d had a doctor to see to him and a place to rest until he could get back on his feet. A spark of empathy stirred in him; she’d had only some makeshift medicine on the run, and was spending her days in her saddle. Maybe old Doc Sherwood could look at her when they reached Misfortune.

  Travis’s wife, Chloe, might be able to help her find some decent clothes so she could feel like a woman for a change. At least while they were in Misfortune. He cast a sidelong glance at her and caught himself wondering what she’d look like if she were cleaned up and her true prettiness allowed to shine through.

  Nope, nope—just stop right there, he told himself irritably. He felt a grudging respect for her, and that was enough. This was just business. She was Hank Bailey’s widow, a wild little hellion who’d hired him to do a job. He’d collect two hundred and fifty dollars—if he was lucky. He still wasn’t convinced any money existed.

  Finding a dry place to camp that evening proved difficult, but by the time sunset gave a final blaze to the horizon, Jace had shot a rabbit for dinner, and she had the fire going.

  Despite Kyla’s determination, privately she feared that she was not doing very well. The pain in her arm was unrelenting, enough to bring tears to her eyes. She felt hot and cold and more tired than she had ever been in her life. Dizziness rolled over her in sickening waves. Of all the rotten luck, she railed to herself. At a time when she needed her wits and her strength, this had to happen.

  Across the campfire Jace chewed on a roasted rabbit leg. Her own appetite had diminished to almost nothing. Beyond that small circle of light, darkness crowded in around them, concealing everything, making her feel as if they were the last two people on earth. Feeling his gaze on her, she found it to be a frightening thought.

  She took just one bite from the piece of rabbit on her plate. It was all she could choke down.

  “You’d better eat,” Jace said, breaking the silence. “If you don’t you’ll wear out faster than shoes with cardboard soles.”

  She shook her head, the tin plate forgotten on her lap. “I’m not hungry.”

  He regarded her, then rose and walked over to her. When he stretched out a hand toward her injured arm, she flinched and pulled back. “What are you doin’?” she demanded.

  “Damn it, don’t be so jumpy,” he said. “I’m just going to check your bandage.”

  She scooted back. “It’s fine. I don’t need your—” Just then, the call of a bird sounded from the blackness around them. It came from everywhere and nowhere. Jace put up a hand to silence her as he listened intently to the repeated call. She reached for her gun, but he stopped her hand and frowned. His hand on hers was warm and firm. And frightening. But she didn’t move.

  Then in a perfect echo, he mimicked the sound back to the prairie. A big grin lighted his expression when the sound was repeated. It was the first time Kyla had really seen him smile—it transformed his
youthful face and she stared in amazement. It caught her notice in a way that his dark frown did not.

  “I may come to your fire, Jace Rankin?" a low voice now asked. It filled the darkness as the bird call had.

  “Yes, come on, Many Braids. There’s rabbit and coffee for you.”

  Kyla drew a startled breath when a very tall, slender Indian swept quietly through the sagebrush directly in front of her. He seemed to materialize out of the night. She didn’t know if he had a horse or if he had simply walked in from the prairie, but he was a giant of a man, the biggest she’d ever seen.

  Under a battered old J. B. Stetson, he wore his ebony hair in four neat braids that hung down his chest, two on each side. His clothes were a combination of buckskin pants, knee-high fringed moccasins, and what looked like an army officer’s coat without the gold buttons or epaulets. Beneath the jacket he wore a calico shirt, the kind distributed on the reservations.

  She didn’t mean to stare, but he was a formidable, imposing man, straight as a yew tree, and with blade-sharp mahogany features that made it impossible for her to determine his age. He could have been thirty, he could have been sixty.

  Kyla hadn’t seen many Indians since the army forced them onto reservations years earlier. She watched him with fascination, but mostly with fear.

  Jace and the Indian shook hands solemnly. The contrast between their heights was striking, but the man would have dwarfed anyone who stood next to him. “It’s been a long time, Many Braids. What are you doing out here, especially in this weather?”

  The man shrugged. "This land no longer belongs to the People, but sometimes I yearn to rest my eyes upon it.”