"Who is it?" She raced beside him, stumbling along the uneven ground, her hair wet and hanging in strings at her shoulders. Orange light and black shadow shivered across her face, streaked with soot, the concern in her eyes genuine.
His pulse jumped as he admired her, who she was, the kind of woman who fought who cared.
"Sam Busby." The words scratched in his raw throat.
She dropped to her knees in the mud. Her hand shot out, brushed alongside the man's jaw. "Oh, Sam."
"I've been better, Lissa," the burned man moaned. "Jack, thanks for rescuing me like that."
"Are you burned, too?" Alarm widened her eyes. Concern drew her soft mouth tight.
"Don't worry about me." He couldn't take his mind from the crackling fire consuming their land, threatening all they'd worked for. "I'll get one of the men to carry Sam to the house. You two should be safe there. The wind is blowing southwest for now."
"Arcada!" Lissa stood. "Tell McLeod I need him. Is Sophie staying in town?"
"She was going to leave her baby with Blanche and come help us out," the ranch hand answered, working non-stop, sweat sluicing off his brow.
"Good. I'll need her." She knew little about treating burns, but for Sam she would do her best. "Help is on the way."
"It's already here." Jack pressed a kiss to the crown of her head. Her heart turned over as she gazed up at him. He looked like a hero etched in stone. Light danced off the planes of his face, off the hard, rounded curves of his shoulders.
"McLeod will help you to the house. Just wait for him."
"I will." She was strong, but she wasn't strong enough to carry a two hundred pound man. Lissa brushed her hand over Sam's forehead, speaking low to him.
Jack disappeared in the smoke and grit. The fire was rolling closer. The heat was unbearable. Sweat ran off her skin, wet her corset and petticoats. The wind gusted again, blowing spears of flame and sparks of embers. Fire rained over her, and she squeezed out a few embers in Sam's hair, then a few catching in the fabric of her dress.
Where was McLeod? The crackling roar of the greedy fire filled the night until she couldn't see anyone, anything.
Then there was Jack, checking on her with a look that she could read as easily as if he'd spoken. He cared for her—truly cared.
The knowledge hurt down deep, where she swore nothing would ever hurt her again. Jack was a stranger, his identity unknown. She couldn't let down her guard, had to hold back her heart. He pulled at her with his kindness, his affection, his strength.
No matter what his name, what his past, wasn't he the same man she'd married, who kept his vows, who worked her ranch, who loved her son?
Hot air stung her face and arms. Where was McLeod? "Hold on, Sam."
"I'm trying.'' The strain in his voice was unmistakable.
He shouldn't stay in the creek much longer. The fire was advancing. She could feel the danger, taste it like the ash and soot in the air. "Jack!" She couldn't just sit here. She couldn't move Sam by herself. "Jack!"
The howling wind answered, bursting along the earth, blowing away the curtain of smoke. Red, hungry flames licked along the ground, skipping over clumps of bunch grass directly toward the creek—directly toward her.
"Jack!" Lissa saw in an instant that she was trapped. Fire fell from the trees overhead, igniting the far side of the bank. Walls of flame leaped high, fed by the building wind. Hot embers and radiating heat licked at her skin, thickened the air. No one could break through the wall of flame.
Sam. She had to figure out how to save Sam. Lissa dropped to her knees. The creek was deep enough, but would it protect them from the oncoming fire? Smoke choked her. She couldn't breathe. She dropped to the ground and took Sam's hand. He was half out of the creek. She had to immerse him completely. She had to—
"Lissa!" Faint but sure she heard Jack's voice, calling to her from the other side of the advancing flames.
"Jack!" She choked out his name, raw and raspy. There was no way he could hear it. Tears from the smoke streamed from her eyes, but from a deeper place inside her, too.
Already the air was burning the fine hair off her forearms. It scorched her as if it were flame itself. She wasn't certain the creek would save her or Sam, even as she stepped into the water. It was hot, reflecting the red-orange walls of flame.
She thought of the life she carried, thought of her son, who had already lost Michael. The flames were too high, too thick. Even if she could run through them, the burns she received would kill her. Besides, how could she leave behind an injured man just to save herself? Sobs tore at her chest. She hurt for Jack, too, for he'd been a man of dreams, a man any woman would be proud to call her own.
"Lissa, you leave me." Sam choked on the words. "You have a chance."
"There is no chance." She looked at the flames, felt the blast of heat. She would be dead if she tried. Without hope, she sank into the creek. The wetness climbed up her skirts and over her along with the certainty that she would die. Flames rolled overhead, gobbling up the cottonwood clutching the creek bank.
"Lissa!" Jack's voice. A black form, shadow against the bright fury of the flames. He reached out, and he was flesh and blood, real and substantial. He caught her hand, then shoved her hard into the creek water. She came up sputtering.
"Quick." He took her hand. His shirt was on fire.
She beat at the small flames licking along the cotton. He was wet, she realized. He was tugging her along the creek bank, his solid body protecting her from the wall of heat and flame snapping overhead, ready to consume them.
She choked and ran, choked and tripped. Jack ran with her through the smaller and less fierce flames along the edge of the creek.
She felt pain and fire like hell itself, and an orange brightness so brilliant that it seemed to reach inside her. Then she was past it, and in someone's solid arms—not her husband's.
"Jack!" she screamed, but he was already gone. She was on the ground. Men rolled her over to douse the flames in her clothes. Water sluiced over her, and it stung like no pain she'd ever known.
"Jack!" she cried, but knew he was out of her reach, knew he'd gone back to save Sam Busby, knew he might never return.
"Jack?" The blackness faded. Lissa felt pain and heat and softness.
"Shh." It was Blanche's voice, Blanche's touch at her brow. "You need to rest, dear heart."
Lissa opened her eyes and saw her friend's concerned face, saw her own bedroom, heard the thud of rain against the walls and window and roof. "Jack. Where's Jack?"
"Just lie back." Blanche's touch brought pain.
Lissa's head spun. Her leg and arm stung with a pain so sharp and intense that it stole her breath. "He didn't come back, did he?"
"Shhh. Sophie's tending him. He's burned, Lissa. I don't know how severely.'' Blanche's voice lowered with a sadness so real it tore at Lissa's heart.
The pain from her own burns faded, unable to compete with the horrible rending inside. "I have to see him."
"Sophie gave me strict orders to keep you in bed." A lifetime of friendship shone in Blanche's dark eyes, a sympathy sharp enough to feel. "If my Jeremiah were hurt, nothing could keep me from him. Come, I'll help you. He's in Chad's room. Sophie thought it best if he could rest alone." A nice way of saying Jack is seriously hurt.
Burns could kill a man. Lissa's throat closed, and her leg hurt when she moved it, but it didn't matter. She didn't care.
All she cared about was the man of courage and strength who had risked his life for hers, and for a man he hardly knew.
Lissa stood on unsteady feet, clenched her teeth against the arrowing pain. She stumbled through the room and across the hall. She didn't need to ask to know Chad was safe in town with Blanche's husband. Lissa knew her friend well enough to know the Buchmans would care for Chad like their own.
"Oh, God." Lissa's hand flew to her mouth at the sight of her husband, swathed in white bandages. That was all she could see of him—all but his eyes and tip of his nose w
ere covered.
Her knees shook. Tears blinded her.
"Lissa." Sophie touched on her shoulder. The Crow woman's wise eyes held endless sorrow. "Sam Busby is more severely burned than your husband, so Jack could be worse. His burns aren't deep in most places, so I don't think there will be any scarring, but the burns on his hands and back are serious."
Lissa held back her fear. "Any sign of infection?"
"I've applied a yarrow and goose grease poultice." Sophie poured a glass of water from the basin on the low chest of drawers. "I've covered his burns completely. As I said, some are minor, others are not. And I fear the threat of fever. It could kill him."
Her chest cold, Lissa laid her hand on Jack's bandaged one, a light touch. She hoped it wouldn't hurt him. His fingers stirred, clasping hers, holding on hard and tight, for all he was worth.
* * *
Doc James strode into the kitchen, headed toward the back door. "I have to go check on Luanne Hingle's new baby. If Jack's fever worsens, send for me. Understand?"
She nodded, unable to find the words. She watched the solemn man unhook his tailored canvas coat from the wall peg. Her breath rattled in her chest. She clenched her hands into fists and asked him about what scared her the most. "You said the fever was serious. Sophie said her herbs would take care of it."
Doc's mouth pressed into an unyielding, grim line. "Sophie has done a fine job treating you and your husband. In fact, Sam Busby wouldn't be alive without her care, either. But now we wait and see, that's all we can do. I wish I could give you better news. You have to admire a man like your husband."
She jammed her unbandaged fist into her apron pocket, tasting both sorrow and admiration for the man who stood tall for her, who put her first, even above his own life, who vowed he wouldn't leave her.
"I know this isn't fair, Lissa." Warmth softened Doc's lined face. "You don't deserve to lose another husband."
She watched the doctor leave, hope draining from her chest with every breath. Jack was strong, but she'd helped Sophie change the bandages and felt the heat of his body and the fever burning his brow.
Her throat closed, and she sank into the closest chair, where Jack always sat, at the round oak table. She could lose him as easily as she'd lost Michael. How could she tell Chad they might bury another pa?
"Mama?" Booted feet slapped on the floor, startling the cat from her perch beneath the table.
"Chad." She opened wide her arms, welcomed his little body tight against hers. "I'm so happy to see you. Did you have fun staying in town?"
"Ira and me played ball." Chad's eyes shone. "But I missed my pa."
Big blue eyes, full of love for Jack, met hers, and Lissa's stomach fell. How could she tell Chad the truth? How could she lie to him? "You know your new pa got hurt fighting that fire."
"We saw the big flames. The rain done put it out, though." Chad leaned against her side, his arms winding around her waist in an awkward hug. "I wish it didn't burn up my tree house. How am I gonna fight outlaws now?"
It hurt to smile. She brushed flyaway bangs from his brow, treasuring this little boy while he was still small enough to want affection from his mother. "I bet when your pa's all better he'll build you another. Look up at the ceiling. It burned clear through over by the chimney."
"Pa can fix that, too." That voice was so full of pride, as bright as any noontime sun. "I can help. Pa showed me how to hammer."
Lissa managed a wobbly smile. "We'll see. Now go wash your hands. It's nearly dinnertime."
Chad dashed off, chattering of the things he saw in town and wanted to tell his pa all about.
Holding back her fears, she grabbed the bowl of broth, stirred in the dried, crushed lovage to reduce fever, and headed toward Chad's room. Jack lay quietly, breathing raggedly. His presence was hardly perceptible in the still, summer-hot room.
"Jack." She laid careful fingers against his face. This afternoon, they had removed some of the bandages. Reddened skin, not blistering, still intact, felt hot beneath her knuckles.
His eyelids fluttered open. "Lissa."
The way he said her name melted her heart, made her forget old resolves and fears, made her see only his broad-shouldered form cutting through the wall of flame, iron-strong and undefeated. He'd rescued her, shielded her from being burned with his own body.
How could she not love this man? How could she ever keep her heart safe from him?
"How's Sam?"
"Doc says he's going to be fine, thanks to you." She filled the spoon, then held it to his lips. "He's not the only one who is alive because of you."
His eyes filled, a wondrous shimmer of emotion that left no doubt. He loved her. This man with no name, with no past, he loved her in a way no one ever had.
He closed his mouth at the sight of a second full spoon. "I don't want anything hot."
"You have to eat this, for us. It will make you well."
"I already am. You're safe. Chad's safe. That's all I care about."
She brushed a kiss to Jack's brow, unable to stop herself from falling even harder for this man of unflinching courage, this man made of the stuff of dreams.
Chapter Fourteen
"Sheriff, the fire's out," Deakins announced as he kicked open the jailhouse door. "At least, according to Hans Johanson. The town's out of danger."
"About time." Rain sluiced down the barred window and dripped steadily through a crack by the stovepipe. "I heard it started on Lissa's land. Seems to me that husband of hers could have started it."
"Folks say it was a lightning strike. There's no doubt. Too many of the ranch hands saw it."
"Did any mail come on the stage today?"
"Yes, sir." Deakins slapped a small pile of envelopes on the polished desktop. "Heard Murray was burnt pretty bad."
"That so? A pity." The quicker the man was out of his way, the better. "Maybe the bastard will die from his burns and save me the trouble."
Deakins didn't answer.
Well, not everyone had as much gumption as he did. Palmer didn't mind doing the dirty work a lot of people balked at. He sorted through the envelopes, caught sight of a familiar hand—his nephew in Chesterfield. This was the news he'd been waiting for.
Palmer tore open the flap, pulled out the single sheet of paper. At first he thought it was bad news, that there was no dirt his nephew could find on the invincible John Murray. When Palmer skimmed the words penned there, he knew he'd hit pay dirt.
Deputy John Murray was alive and well in St. Louis, living in his apartment above the tailor shop, alone, still grieving for his wife and son, according to those who knew him.
That meant the man who was masquerading as Michael's cousin, as Lissa's groom, was a man with a secret and a past. Palmer laughed, triumph tasting as satisfying as fine whiskey.
His instincts had been right all along. It would take only a little more digging to bring almighty Murray down.
"Deakins, as soon as Lissa's husband is up and around, let me know. I need to pay him a little visit"
"Pa?" Chad's voice spun her around in the chair.
Lissa saw the little boy, eyes wide, worry crinkling his brow. She held out her hand. "Come on in. He's sleeping. I told you he was hurt pretty bad fighting that wildfire."
Chad nodded, stepped forward in silence, mouth open. "Pa's gonna wake up, ain't he?"
"We sure hope so, cowboy." Her heart twisted as he leaned against her side, his need and fear as endless as a midnight sky. Lissa lifted her son onto her lap.
"My first pa never woke up." Chad sighed, and his sorrow touched her, made tears sting her eyes.
"I know. We hope that doesn't happen to this pa."
"I'm prayin'." Chad bowed his head.
"What's that you have in your hand?"
"The book. Pa read it, and I felt better."
"Maybe we should read the story to him?" Chad cuddled in her arms. In the stillness of the afternoon, with rain tapping at the windows, she began reading aloud from The Adventure
s of Tom Sawyer.
Jack.
The name echoed in his head, distorted by a dream. "Jack, you 're going to miss this life."
Sunlight burned his eyes. He sat straight in the saddle, rifle resting over the saddle horn, riding next to a man dressed in a plain blue shirt and dark trousers, a black hat tipped low over his brow and shading his rough-cut face from the sun.
"Nah. I'm restless. Need a change." His own voice, his own feelings and memories, just out of reach. "I've been in Montana a long time. Done all I can here. I'd like to get some land, make a fresh start in life."
Darkness pounded in his skull. A memory came, so close he could almost touch it. Then it vanished, lost in fog and night.
Lissa's voice, low and soft. He couldn't open his eyes. Pain engulfed him. Fire licked across his skin, over his back, in his throat. Darkness claimed him, no matter how hard he fought.
"How's he doing?" Sophie stepped into the room, her voice low, concerned.
"He's still burning up." She wrang the washcloth out over the basin, the splash of water loud in the room, but not as loud as Jack's labored breathing.
"He's hot, all right." Sophie laid her hand on Jack's brow. "I'll draw more water, steep more tea."
"Thanks, Sophie." Lissa's gratitude knotted in her throat. She hadn't been alone since the fire. Will had returned to help Arcada run the ranch, repair the roof and fences that had been burned. Blanche had come with enough cooked meals to see her through most of a week, then she'd washed the soot from the house and done load after load of laundry.
"Jack, can you hear me?" Lissa smoothed the hair from his brow, let the dark, blond locks fall between her fingers. "Jack?"
He murmured, lost in fever, but he knew her voice. She dared to hope, dared to believe he would awaken, that he wouldn't leave them. She bathed him, kept him cool, spoon-fed him the steeped tea Sophie swore by.
Toward dawn, he felt cooler. He breathed easier. He looked less pale, and she felt he was less lost to her.
As first light broke through the curtains, swathing the room in a peach glow, she held Jack's hand and didn't let go. She refused to let go of the man she could not let herself love, yet could not help loving.
Jillian Hart Page 16