by Murray, Anna
“I’m protecting my best partner.” He sat himself across from her and winked.
“Jake, eat those eggs before they get cold. The schoolmarm is waiting on you,” he barked.
The boy angled a frown in Jed’s direction and dug a fork into his food.
Hannah’s gray eyes sparkled, and Jed’s seductive smile chased away her exhaustion. For a moment she indulged herself in fantasy and envisioned him holding their child, a cradle in the corner behind him . . .
Her daydream was interrupted by a sharp knock at the door. A coarse yell followed.
“Rutherford!”
Jake bolted to the entrance.
A gruesome sight confronted him. The blacksmith, Farrell, was carrying an unconscious young girl, and Roy Easton was holding his own blood-soaked shirt against her side.
“We need help, quick,” Easton shouted.
Cold air rushed in behind as they barreled through the door. Jed rushed them to the surgery, where the girl was lifted onto the table.
Chapter 28
Jed’s voice broke into the chaotic scene. “What happened?”
“We found her this way outside the livery. Emily thinks her folks are staying at the hotel. She’s run to fetch them.”
Jed took the shirt away and saw the damage, and before he could take a deep breath he was losing control, losing control of his nerve, losing control over his past.
“Hannah, I need you,” he panted breathlessly as the old panic set in.
Hannah stepped forward and leaned against him. She looked down at the girl, who was no more than fifteen. “We have to take it off, Jed.”
“Hannah, stay here. I need you,” he whispered. Jed was fighting a memory, and it wouldn’t let go of him. He’d treated a boy like this during the war, and when he’d removed clothing to saw off the leg Jed was shocked to discover “he” was a she, a young woman who’d pretended to be a boy so she could travel with her soldier husband. It wasn’t uncommon, but the case still haunted him.
“Hannah, I need you to give the chloroform. You can sit.”
“Roy it’s on the shelf,” she directed him. Farrell pulled a chair to the head of the table, and Hannah slumped into it. She took the cloth Roy handed her and dropped the liquid chloroform onto it. Holding it close to the girl’s mouth and nose, she responded to instructions from Jed.
“Not too much,” he said.
“Hold her down,” he grunted the command at Farrell. The man complied from the other side of the table.
Jed forced himself to think about the pain and courage of the patient, and how he could do no less than his best in trying to save her life. He wanted her to see another prairie dawn, to play under the big sky.
Sunlight filtered through the white curtains, but he felt like he was in a dark, churning river, desperately fighting against the rising water with swift strokes, fighting current and fear.
At the peak of his sawboning career Jed could separate a limb in less than a minute. He was out of practice and battling dread. In this cold river, where he was losing control, it took five, and those minutes passed like an eternity.
“She’s feeling it. She’s bucking,” Farrell protested.
“No she’s not,” Hannah quietly advised. “It’s when they go still that you have to worry.”
“That’s right,” Jed added, “if they are quiet it means you’re killing them with the chloroform.”
Hannah continued to nod, “She won’t remember this after. Trust us.”
The girl’s parents arrived as Jed commenced sewing the flap. Roy kept them in the kitchen, and they were in such a state of shock they could barely speak.
Meanwhile, Jed felt he was slipping, going under, and he saw Hannah’s recognition and horror.
“Jed, sit down, I’ll finish,” she jumped into the cascading terror and reached through the current to him.
He wearily accepted, and she moved around the table.
“You sure?” He wrapped a hand around her waist and drew her body against his, pressing to give and receive comfort.
She nodded and took the needle from his hand. Jed stood by her side, one arm firmly around her middle. He felt stronger. He was heading toward shore.
“Thank you, Hannah.”
She pursed her lips and nodded. “This is what partners are for. You OK?”
“Yes. Hannah?”
“What?”
“You’re more than a partner. You’re more than I ever hoped for.”
Chapter 29
Jed worked his soapy hands across her back and poured warm water over her white shoulders. “You like your bath.”
“I do. Water is live-saving and life-giving and fire-quenching. I feel safe here.” She laughed. “And in your arms, husband.”
“Ah, and for so long you were a mermaid I couldn’t capture. Lean back.” He worked soap across her breasts and down her arms.
Hannah moaned and arched her back to push into his hands. “You saved me,” she whispered.
“No, you rescued me,” he retorted. He leaned forward and kissed the wet tips of her fingers, her wrist, and the nape of her neck. Finally, he threaded his fingers into her damp, dark hair and gazed into her shining eyes.
“I need to thank you again,” she asserted as she pressed a palm to his cheek. Then she pulled his shoulders until he nearly fell into the water.
“Whoa there, doc, plenty of time for that later,” he smiled. She pulled him forward again, and this time his lips met with hers. Hannah thrust her tongue between his lips and plunged deeply. She pulled back, and her splash sent water over the sides of the tub.
“How am I doing, Doctor? I believe I need more tutoring on satisfying a husband.”
Jed Rutherford chuckled. “You only needed to learn you could be loved.”
She relished the warmth of his words as they seeped through her body and touched her heart. “Yes. I was holding back.” She knelt and pressed closer to Jed, into the hardness of his male form. “You know how to touch me and make me feel desirable again.” She ran her hand along his jaw. “Hold me. Make love to me.”
“Sweetheart, I love you. I intend to hold you forever.”
Preview of the next book -- Roy's story -- in the "Hearts" Series, available in the Amazon Kindle Store (Untamed Hearts)
Chapter 1
July 1874
Montana Territory
Roy Easton picked his way toward Ingston, smelling of campfire and trail dust and disappointment. His mind wandered to the banked coals of Anna Mae's passing; even after these dismal weeks the slanderous accusations cut him deep, like bullwhip lashes.
Six years of protecting Wounded Colt hadn't made a lick of difference. Faster than barbed wire raced across the territory, rumors about the Anna Mae affair had ravaged Roy's fine reputation. His claim of innocence had fallen on deaf ears in a boomtown-turned-dead-end-canyon. Their passing judgment had run roughshod over his youth, heart, and dreams.
He was fenced out -- stripped of his badge and his gun. Good deeds he'd done over the years were forgotten -- how he'd restored law and order after Dullen's range war, for example. Tongues had set to wagging, as they were wanton to do when there was a succulent, headline-begging scandal bucking on the breeze.
The grisly incident left a hollow ache in Roy's belly, a raw, dry throat, and a ragged hitch when he inhaled too deeply.
Roy sighed as he reined in at a small rise that folded in an easy curve around the eastern edge of the town. Framed by dark shoulder-length hair, his cobalt blue eyes scanned the scene, searching the shadows. In the late afternoon haze below, the citizens went about their usual business -- filling wagons out front of the mercantile, visiting the barber, and drifting into the saloon to toss back the local heat.
Roy shrugged. The prey he hunted wasn't visible; he'd lost the trail a mile back. The vermin wouldn't be fool enough to tangle directly with his iron. Well, he'd catch up with that fuss soon enough. After all, he had all the time in the world.
Roy's g
aze drew in a smooth arc and held steady on a pair of men ambling alongside a woman -- a slight, will 'o the wisp beauty who toted a riot of blazing red hair pinned haphazardly atop her head. Curiosity kicked, and he watched as the trio began to load supplies onto a string of packhorses. The young woman's graceful movements -- and the fancy riding clothes draping her figure -- gave her the appearance of a swan tucked into a nest of crows. Roy chuckled to himself, and abruptly he stopped; he'd ridden a good two months and hadn't heard his own laughter. Just now he didn't like the sound.
He forced himself to back off on admiring the woman and returned to think on practical matters. Roy needed to scare up supplies. He figured he'd slip in and out of the town, invisible as a drag rider -- the one behind the herd that nobody takes notice of, because they're all riding up ahead -- driving the herd and sucking down all the clean air.
His outlaw grin angled toward the sky, Roy leaned back in the saddle and tugged his hat brim lower. Digging his heels tightly into the flanks of Pilot, his dark stallion, he exhaled. His eyes were fixed sternly set on the trail ahead as he galloped down the hill.
Men on the main street recognized Roy -- a man didn't serve as sheriff for six years in this territory without being well known, or even a legend. Cool and watchful, the locals nodded or averted their eyes. Roy kept a healthy distance; he'd fielded enough reckless remarks to last from here to six feet under sod.
Just as he eased by the livery a leathery voice barked.
"Easton! I got business with ya'!"
Damnation. Roy groaned. It was Jeb McLeod, and the old codger was soaped into a hefty lather. Roy conjured a mock-friendly grin and edged closer to the stable entrance. As he ambled he stretched to his full height, an act that slid his new gun belt -- with its twin Colts -- down to ride low on his lean hips. As he regarded McLeod's crusty visage he nursed a slim hope that Jeb's shouting would ease a notch, so as not to telegraph their business to the whole blasted town.
"Something eatin' at you, Jeb?" Roy's drawl wavered slightly.
"Easton, there ain't no fool willin' to buy yer darn mules! Ya' owe me their board for pert near two months!" The liveryman's deep eyes burned like two devils riding over a gray-salted beard.
Roy hesitated. He widened his stance; all was quiet except for the sound of his spurs clanking against the gravel. He yanked his hat from his head and slapped it against a hard buckskinned thigh. Trail dirt flew six feet in every direction, and McLeod wheezed. When the air cleared, Roy twisted his mouth into a disarming smile that flashed fine white teeth.
"McLeod," he angled, "folks say you're the best mule trader this side of the big river. And I'm sayin' those are fine animals."
Jeb scowled. "Yer four-footers are eatin' up my hay!"
Roy winced. In a last-ditch attempt to move the liveryman's booming voice off the street he strode past the man, and into the dank stable.
As Roy swept past the cross buck doors he scratched the five-day growth itching his face. His eyes adjusted to the dim light, and he cast a lazy glance at his mules -- four sturdy johns and three mollies. Instantly they knew their master and eagerly twitched their long ears. Their noisy brays filled the large airy space -- painful reminder of just why he'd given the cumbersome burden over to Jeb the previous month with the promise of a large commission -- if the liveryman could unload them onto an unsuspecting greenhorn.
"Heck, these mules can do anything," Roy opined as he wiped sweat from his brow with his bandanna. If they want to, he added in silent afterthought.
Jeb's reply was a loud grunt and a disbelieving shake of his grizzled head.
Roy sliced a hand through the musty stable air.
"Just look at Sunday. Why, she's got a good mouth, if you don't look too deep. She's the prettiest molly a man's ever laid eyes on. And a lady can't resist Monday with her big brown eyes! But heck, she's not just some frilly bit of frippery! No sirreeee! She'll pick up all four feet -- once she trusts a fellow."
Roy's shining eyes flickered down and collided with McLeod's hot glare. He hadn't figured on locking horns with this man. Roy swallowed hard and thrashed on.
"Tuesday follows Monday just like a calf follows it's cow-mama, and Wednesday over there—"
"Whoa!" Jeb snarled, annoyed as a man dragged to church by his wife and then forced to endure the rantings of a long-winded preacher while his chores piled up back at the homestead.
"Git those mules outta my place, Easton! Pay yer bill, an' haul yer freight." McLeod's half-toothed don't-mess-with-me scowl drove his point home.
Roy slumped his shoulders forward, and he thrust his hands deep into his pockets. So that was the way of it. Plain as paint peeling on a post, folks didn't want Roy Easton or his stock littering their town.
He heaved a sigh. "OK, I'll settle up. But I need to add a reserve mare in the deal."
McLeod spat and waved a hand.
The transaction complete, Roy tugged his hat back on his head.
He swiftly harnessed his mules. Deftly he guided his traveling circus back out into the fading light, where the mule string cast long forlorn shadows down the main street.
Roy halted his string and moved up and down the line, smoothly stroking each mule with ranch-rough hands. He checked hooves for stones, and then he swung up onto Pilot and leaned forward to pat his loyal companion's shining neck.
"Just you, me, and the critters now," he muttered.
Roy yanked his hat lower, and, despite the lack of wind and dust, he pulled his bandanna up to ride an inch below his eyes.
He tiptoed his parade past the Ingston newspaper office. He bet that Hugo Dorwart, owner of that pungent press, would be occupied deep in the back of the shop, diligently penning his latest attack piece.
An uneasiness rose in Roy's chest as he stole past the shop. This would be a hell of a time to run afoul of the damned town crier. Theirs was a war of words, fierce as any gunfight, just lacking the finality of a high noon shoot out.
Roy continued on, and wandering by the mercantile, he caught a glimpse of the two dusty drifters he'd sized up to be the red-head's companions. They stood at ease as they leaned against the hitching rail and rolled cigarettes. Meanwhile their animals slurped at the public trough.
Not ten feet further he spied the young woman as she lithely stepped from between two packhorses. Roy's indigo eyes slanted her direction. His gaze gained in intensity as her slender-but-womanly form leaned over the wooden crib. Absent his sister-in-law, he figured this lady was easily the finest-looking woman for five hundred miles. He fixed his stare to see if his hunch would play out.
As he closed the gap he noted full breasts straining against her blouse, and the hint of thick bright hair coyly peeking from under a dark, broad-brimmed hat. The soft tendrils boldly mutinied, daring to drop and lightly caress her shoulders when she tilted over the water. Roy smiled as he watched slim white fingers chase after those unruly locks and herd them back into the hiding place. Then the lovely woman swung her arms forward, cupped her small hands gracefully and dipped into the cool liquid.
Roy sucked wind in so fast it struck like lightning against the back of his throat, and his bandanna captured a thunderous groan as he exhaled. His tongue felt numb, and his mind was blank as a brand-new slate. He frantically tried to push away the thought of how it could be if he had no soiled past, and no shaky future; and as he watched the woman close her eyes and bring those small hands to her face he saw only the wonder of nature, the comfort of perfect harmony, and the pleasure to be taken from admiring astonishing beauty. She uncoiled those slender fingers as a dove softly unfolds wings. The softness splayed flat, splashing and briskly rubbing cool refreshment over velvety cheeks. He watched as her fingertips dragged down the delicate curve of smooth neck, to the hollow of her throat, seeking the shadowed places where droplets lingered. The beautiful woman smiled brightly at the simple ablution.
Roy dropped Pilot's reins and shoved a rough shaking hand through thick, dark hair. Carelessly he waved his ar
m in a broad circle He needed to dismiss her as a soft, simpleminded, and, no doubt, useless woman.
But just then the sepia sun lowered a notch, angling dusky gold rays off the water that reflected obliquely, and they revealed almond-shaped spring-green eyes – windows into a woman wholly formed. Those eyes merrily danced with undeniable humor and intelligence.
Damn, he silently cursed.
She thrust her strong chin forward. Her hands floated down like two leaves gently falling, and they innocently smoothed over her tan blouse.
To Roy's hungry eyes it was seductive as hell. He swallowed; his throat was cotton-dry. A light breeze coiled and snaked against clammy skin, and he began to feel a tingle creeping up his spine.
She reached up again, and, without fair warning, boldly removed the hat. A thick raging fall of fire fell to her waist.
Roy was suddenly hard as a brick. "My God," he muttered under his breath.
She seemed to sense his stare, and turning unexpectedly, looked in his direction.
Had his expression not been buried under his hat and bandanna, she'd have seen Roy's unabashed gawking, taking in every curve and angle.
A new rawness galloped through his head, and he couldn't rope it. Intriguing women -- the sort that rode keen thoughts into a man's imagination -- didn't pass through these parts every day. Heck, one didn't pass through every year. Impulsively he committed her to memory, to be safely tucked away and brought forward again at the end of the day when he relaxed on his bedroll next to a warm fire.
But, just as his mind was etching the texture of those brilliant tresses, Tuesday hacked out a "haw-haw". The other mules immediately joined in, and Roy's reverie was instantly buried in a raucous braying avalanche.
"Ugh." Reluctantly he dismounted, planting his feet firmly back on hardpan reality. He adjusted his gunbelt and strode toward the mercantile.
Time to get a move on. Daydreams about fancy women were a pleasant distraction, but it was as close as he'd get to this one, he reminded himself. He sighed and booted the store door open.