"Arcada insisted on coming. And I'm glad. I don't trust myself alone with you."
"You can't control yourself around me, is that it?"
"I would never want you, Ike. Surely even a man as thickheaded as you can figure that out by now." She would never forget the sight of Jack being dragged away, cuffed and ostracized, nor the solid strength that held him up, unbowed and proud even in the dark, even against the angry mob.
Jack was no outlaw. If she'd ever had her doubts, they were silenced now. He could have outshot all of those men if he'd chosen to, or at the very least outfought them, but he wasn't a violent man. He was made of much finer stuff. He sought peace, not conflict, solutions, not problems.
"I'm not going to let your husband go because you insult me." He raked one beefy hand through his dark hair. "What is it that you want, Lissa?"
"I'll go to Billings myself if I have to. That's the closest sheriff, besides you. I'm going to ask for their help."
"To put away your husband, you mean?" He laughed.
"No, to prove his innocence. I intend to ask the mayor to make sure you hold off with your brand of justice until I return."
"You?" Palmer shook his head. "Right. You're going to prove your husband isn't an outlaw. Good luck. I—"
Arcada stepped forward. "I have the proof."
Lissa lost her breath. She gazed up at him, speechless. The ranch hand pulled a folded piece of paper out of his shirt pocket and handed it to her. The double holsters he wore caught the light, the gleam of the loaded pistols a statement to the sheriff—a statement no one could miss.
"What the hell is that?" Palmer demanded. He reached to snatch the sheet out of her hands, but she dodged him.
"Leave her be, Sheriff." Arcada's voice. "You don't want to cross me."
Lissa's fingers shook as she unfolded the page—a wanted notice. She saw a drawing of a dark-eyed man, unkempt and wild-eyed. Studying the caption beneath the portrait she read, "Dillon Plummer. Five-foot-ten, brown eyes, missing front teeth." She lifted her gaze, then handed the paper to Palmer.
He glanced at the sketch. The arrogant triumph on his face dimmed a notch. "Why should I trust you? You're on Jack's payroll. You could have faked this—"
"I didn't. The real Dillon Plummer was arrested a month ago in Colorado for various crimes, including the murder of a United States Marshal in Montana Territory." Arcada laid both hands on his hips, inches from his gleaming revolvers. "You can ride up to Billings and check with the sheriff if you doubt my word."
Lissa felt numb. Her knees wobbled. She laid her hand on her stomach and settled into the closest chair. "You could have told me."
"Palmer was the one who needed to hear it," Arcada said simply. "You already knew Jack was innocent."
She had. It just would have been nice to know Jack could be easily freed. "Release him, Ike."
He turned his back to her, one hand rubbing his chin back and forth. She could hear him breathe, hear Arcada take a step closer.
"There's still the matter of the missing cattle. Entire herds. I can't overlook that."
"You know he was in Billings. If you need proof, you can see the bank receipt. It takes time to sell cattle and to prove your own innocence." Lissa shifted in the chair.
"He assaulted Hubbard."
"Hubbard assaulted him."
The sheriff faced her, his mouth a hard, fine line, unforgiving, unrelenting. "I've changed my mind about marrying you, Lissa. It would be too much trouble teaching you your place."
He lifted the ring of keys from the wall peg with a sharp angry jingle, then strode away, spurs clicking.
She held her anger in check, her hands fists, wondering how she could have considered his proposal at all, so long ago now. She'd been blinded by grief, had just lost Michael. She'd known Palmer all her life, and had never seen the blackness of his heart or the way he liked to harm others.
Bootsteps, slow and powerful, drew her gaze. Jack strode through the threshold, shoulders straight, upright and strong. His gaze met hers instantly, and her heart soared. It was a rich, light, dizzying sensation, more powerful than anything she'd ever known.
He took her hand, and her entire body tingled. "You're a beautiful sight."
His goodness and his respect, love, and honor for her shone in his eyes, rang in his voice. He was truly a man she could believe in—now, and for the rest of her life.
"You're hurt." Her stomach twisted at the sight of the bruise over his eye and the swollen cut to his lip.
"It's nothing." He dismissed his injury with a shrug. "All I could think of was you. After what happened last night, what you had to endure."
"Me?" Her heart had ached for him all night. "You were the one locked up in a cold cell. I bet you didn't have a blanket. You were hurt. I didn't know if I could get you released this morning."
"I'm not the one who grew up here, who knew everyone at the dance last night. Those are your friends, and I embarrassed you—"
"Don't say that. Don't ever say that." She didn't care if they were on the boardwalk in the middle of the town. She wrapped her arms around him, felt the steady strength in his shoulders, and buried her face against his chest. Tears pricked behind her eyes, and she tried hard to fight them.
His arms folded around her, and he just held her for a long time. The street noise and the sounds of the town vanished. All there was, all there would ever be, was Jack.
"I don't want to bring shame to you." His voice rang so deep and low.
"You can't do that" She stepped away, but wouldn't let go of him. "I've lived with you for more than half a year, I've slept with you, made love with you. I've seen the way you stand up to injustice, and the way you refuse to use violence on unarmed men. No matter what happens, I believe in you. I know the kind of man you are deep inside, where it counts."
His throat tightened. Her words made him hurt Jack knew people were watching them, or he would have taken her in his arms again, held her close, as if he'd never let her go. He didn't need memories to know he'd never loved anyone the way he loved Lissa. Right now. Forever.
"Compliment a man like that and you're likely to make him hungry." He wanted to make her smile, needed to see the gentle light that warmed her eyes when she laughed. "He might want some huckleberry pancakes, sausage, eggs. A pot of his wife's fresh coffee."
"Didn't eat well while you were away?"
"Nothing was right while I was away." He caught her hands in his. "You look as if you've been eating."
His gaze traveled to her belly, and she laughed. "I look as if I ate a melon."
"You've been surely doing something." Wickedness twinkled in his blue eyes. "I'm hungry for that too."
His hand settled across the curve of her abdomen. Her heart skipped at the tenderness of his touch. She looked up at the humor fading from his eyes. A different emotion shone there—a reverence, an affection so great it made her hurt inside, deep inside, where dreams and fairy-tale wishes lived.
"He's not kicking right now." She laid her hand on Jack's, felt the wondrous male texture of his skin.
"You can feel him?"
"He's a late night kicker. Right when I'm half asleep he starts up." Over Jack's shoulder Lissa saw a few ranchers lining up on the boardwalk across the street, watching them.
Jack glanced over his shoulder, held their gaze, then turned back. "We'd best be going. I don't know how welcome I am."
"You belong here. With me." She laid her hand in his, smiled when his fingers wrapped around her elbow to help her up into the wagon. She settled her skirts on the seat and was proud when he climbed up into the wagon beside her and took the reins in his capable hands.
He was her husband and she loved him. She knew the man he was. She didn't care what anyone thought.
He released the brake and touched the reins against Charlie's backside. The Clydesdale handily pulled them down the quiet morning street, made quieter by the sight of Jack, freed from jail.
Lissa caught sight of S
usan Russell in the front door of her shop. She waved, and Lissa's chest tightened. She waved back, grateful for Susan's show of friendship.
"Things are likely to get worse before they get better." Jack sounded grave as he headed the wagon out of town, down the sloping road toward home. "I don't know why the ranchers are blaming me for their losses, but I have a suspicion who planted the idea in their heads."
"Palmer?"
A muscle in Jack's jaw jumped. "He's the law around here. He can make life difficult for me, and for you."
"I don't care. I believe in you." Just looking at him, just sitting beside him, filled her with a sweet pride. She laid her hand on his forearm, felt the heat of his sun-browned skin, the texture of downy hair and steely muscle. "I missed you."
His gaze met hers, sparkling with an affection that touched her deep inside. Then mischief flickered, and he pulled the wagon to a stop.
"What are you doing?"
"Going to say a proper hello to my wife." He set the brake, took her hand in his, and helped her down to the ground. "I can't wait."
She laughed. "We're only a mile from home."
"That's one mile too long for this man." Jack patted Charlie's neck, and the big horse stomped his front hoof, uncertain that it was a wise idea to just stop along the road. "As I see it, there's trees and a little privacy, and that's really all we need. Come here."
Her shoes crunched over fallen leaves. She laughed as he tugged her into his arms, against the grandeur of him. How good he smelled, how wondrous he felt. His mouth found hers and she opened to him, already enchanted by the heated caress of his kiss, of lips and tongue and passion.
"Over this way." His kiss ended, and he led her through low bushes and beneath a yellow and orange maple. Graceful limbs stretched overhead, dappling the sun and shade.
"This should be just fine." He drew her against him, fiddled with the bow at her chin. Her ribbons came loose and he dropped her best sunbonnet on the ground. "I want to make love to my wife."
"We're close to home," she reminded him as he popped open several buttons on her dress. "Close to our own bed."
"I've always wanted to make love on a bed of leaves." He slid the fabric down her arms, and the garment puddled over the curve of her stomach. "Besides, once we get home Chad will come running, the ranch hands are there, there's business to be done. No, if we go straight home there will be a long wait before we can be alone."
He lifted the dress and the chemise over her belly, and the garments slid to the ground. His mouth curved into that sexy, lopsided grin she loved so much, but the laughter faded and could not dim the shine of love that gleamed in his eyes. "You look beautiful."
She blushed. "Soon I'll look like a watermelon."
"You are beautiful to me." His hand curved beneath her jaw, tipping her chin upward. His gaze met hers and there could be no doubt, not a single solitary doubt, that he meant those words, felt them from the bottom of his heart.
Tears burned in her throat and behind her eyes. This time when he kissed her it tasted like magic. Every touch set her on fire, changed something deep inside her. He laid her down on the warmth of his shirt spread over a bed of leaves. He took his time touching her, caressing her breasts and her inner thighs. His words tingled against her mouth when he broke their kisses long enough to speak, to tell her how much he'd missed her, to admire the changes in her body.
How could a woman keep her heart from such a man? Lissa had tried, had vowed to herself when she buried Michael she would never hurt like that again, never hand over her love and a part of herself, knowing how vulnerable it made her. She had lost far too many people, buried them and mourned them. She had agreed to marry John Murray for the convenience, for comfort, and more children.
This man she had found on dthe road and brought home, he wasn't convenient. He was myth and reality, legend and truth, a man as grand as the mountains, and when he kissed every curve of her pregnant stomach, he was a man who owned her heart—completely, without reserve or doubts, without any conditions at all.
When he entered her, joining their bodies in a rush of heat and need and wanting, it was with more than just passion. It was with love, pure, true and unbreakable.
"Pa!" Chad ran out of the house, the puppy barking at his heels. "You came!"
"I hope you saved some breakfast for me." Jack set the brake and hopped to the ground. He caught both of Lissa's hands. It was good to be home, so very good. He helped her to the ground, unable to look away from her, from this woman to whom he owed so much.
"I ate all the pancakes, me and Puddles." Chad's arms were flung out and then wrapped tight around Jack's knees. "Maybe Mama could make you some more. Me and Puddles could eat more sausages."
"Oh, you could?" Lissa laughed, tipping her head back just enough to scatter those luxurious gold curls. "I suppose I could be talked into cooking up lots of sausages."
"I would like that." Jack straightened, stood in the light of her smile. "After I eat, I'll take Chad to meet his new horse. Would you like that?"
"Oh, boy!" Chad raced toward the front steps. "Hurry up, Mama. You need to cook real fast."
Laughter filled him up. Jack took Lissa's hand in his, felt the snap of want and the memory of every time he'd loved her. Her fingers twined with his, holding him tightly, and they walked to the house together. Yep, it was good to be home.
"Why did you let Murray go?" Deakins strode into the jailhouse with an envelope in hand. "We finally got the goods on him. Look. It's from Billings."
"Why in the hell did they wait so damned long?" Palmer kicked the chair, sent it flying across the room. It slammed into the log wall with a crash that echoed through the empty jail and straight through his heart.
"That sheriff from Billings is probably just busy. That's why he took so long." Deakins dropped the letter on the desk. "Want me to ride out to the ranch and bring him in?"
"No, damn it. There's no way in hell Jack could be Dillon Plummer." He clenched his fists. He wanted to hit something. Instead, he grabbed up the envelope and tore open the flap. He knew what he would find, but he just had to see it—just in case that high and mighty Jack whatever-his-name-was and his hired man weren't telling the truth. It wasn't a big hope.
He unfolded the sheets of paper. There were two. The handwritten scrawl from a rather talkative lawman who told of Plummer's capture, just like Arcada said. But there was more—mention of a missing marshal who Plummer admitted to killing. The body had never been found.
A chill snaked down the back of Palmer's neck. He knew before he looked at the second page he would see words describing a lawman whose characteristics were the same as Jack's. Jack Emerson—thirty-two years old. Born December tenth, federal marshal, twice-decorated, six-foot-two, dark blond hair, blue eyes.
That chill snaking down his neck wrapped around his spine and paralyzed him. He'd thrown a United States Marshal in jail and was framing him for cattle theft, a hanging offense.
"Somethin' wrong, Sheriff?" Deakins inched closer.
"Nothing is wrong." He folded up the sheets of paper and shoved them into his shirt pocket. He would burn the information as soon as he could get away from his deputy.
Whole herds brought in thousands of dollars at a time. Rustling was good business. Soon the fine citizens of Sweetwater Gulch would be witnessing a lynching.
* * *
"Are you done yet, Pa?"
"Look at my plate. Is it empty?"
"No. But you could have gotten real full. Did you?"
Lissa loved seeing her son so happy. He shone like a midday sun in Jack's presence, all bright joy and adoration for the man he imitated at every chance. Jack set down his fork and cocked his head, his smile lopsided on his face.
Chad did the same.
"Let's share that last sausage, and then we'll head out to the barn. Is that a deal?"
"Deal."
Puddles barked, Winston eyed the open jar of maple syrup, and Lissa poured Jack a second cup of coffee
.
"He can take it with him to the barn," she explained when Chad looked ready to protest.
Jack dipped the last link of sausage into the syrup, cut it in two. "What did you do with the sugar?"
"I was making apple butter yesterday." She snatched the sugar crock from the counter. "If I'd known you were coming, I would have baked a pie."
"Hmm. You could always bake this afternoon." Jack took the crock from her grip and grabbed a spoon.
"Hurry, Pa," Chad pleaded, holding open the door. "Please?"
"Getting your first horse is a mighty important event." Jack' s voice rang deep and low, but his eyes twinkled and he gave her a wink. "Would you like to accompany us to the barn?"
"It would be my honor." She took the arm he offered and stepped out into the cool morning, her heart and her life brimming full.
Chapter Nineteen
Hard frost crunched beneath Jack's boots as he headed for the barn. Late autumn scented the foggy air. White coated the green of the grass and iced the shallow puddles in the yard. A few stubborn leaves clung to overhead branches, rattling in the wind.
Winter wasn't far off.
A low growl, deep and threatening, drew his attention. Cows huddled together, milling against the split rail fence. He heard the growl again, a wildcat's cry, and then the lower, threatening rumble of the bull.
"Will!" Jack couldn't face a wildcat unarmed. He threw open the barn doors and ran for the tack room. No answer. Will had promised to ride the fence line all night. He was probably sound asleep in his little cabin uphill from the barn.
Jack grabbed the repeating rifle from above the doorframe and a handful of bullets from the shelf. All was calm in the barn, the horses and milk cow watching him with surprised gazes.
The wildcat's cry split the air. There wasn't much time. Jack raced out into the morning, skidded on ice and hopped over the fence. He fired a shot into the air, but the wildcat didn't startle. Jack kept running toward Pete, who stood facing the cat, all four feet braced for a fight, head down.
There was no choice. A mountain lion and livestock didn't mix. Neither did children. He heard the cabin door open and Chad's voice ring in the cold air.
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