Desperate Hearts (7 page)

“
How dare you?” she
demanded, clutching the blanket to her, terrified, indignant. "What
gave you the right—”

He smiled slightly and threw the rags into
the flames. “So there is a woman under there. Anytime someone puts
me in the line of fire I have the right. I opened your shirt to see
if you were shot more than once, and found your—surprise." Then he
added with cold dryness, "But I told you the other day that you
don’t have anything I haven’t already seen. And anyway, unwilling
women have never interested me, in case you were worried.” He
narrowed his eyes as he raked her with a contemptuous glare. “Who
are you?”

Dizziness washed over her and she leaned
sideways against the wall. This was all horrible, just horrible.
She felt him staring at her while he waited for an answer. “Kyla
Springer. Well, Kyla Springer Bailey.”

“
So now it’s
Kyla
, huh? You lied to
me, lady. I hate being lied to even more than I hate
surprises.”

He rose and she recoiled from him. Who knew
what form his fury would take? Her arm ached with tremendous fiery
throb. She winced but did her best to ignore the pain. She could
have far more trouble with Rankin than with her wound, and she
needed to stay alert.

His movements were swift and fluid, almost
graceful. But he only leaned over the fire to pour a cup of broth
from a small pot in which he’d boiled a piece of dried beef. He
handed a blue enameled cup to her, then got himself a cup of coffee
and sat down again.

She released her breath. “I’m the one who
got shot, you know. Not you. Besides, how far would I have gotten
traveling alone as a woman?”

He acknowledged the question with a lift of
his brow and an assessing gaze that seemed to take casual measure
of her through her clothes. “Not very far with those men looking
for you. Of course, now they’re also dogging me, thanks to you.
What else have you lied about?”

“
Nothing! Everything I told
you was true. I didn’t know anyone was chasing me.” She held the
cup to her mouth with a hand that shook so badly she was in danger
of scalding herself.

Firelight and shadow played over his face,
making his youthful features look even more sinister. “Big bad men
came and took your ranch?”

If she had felt better, if she were
stronger, she would have challenged this man and his sarcasm,
fearsome though he was. “Yes! And Hank Bailey sent me to look for
you.”

He frowned at her. “Hank Bailey—how do you
know him?”

She looked at him dead on. "He was my
husband. Just over a month ago, Tom Hardesty shot him in cold
blood. Then with Luke Jory’s help, he forced me off our ranch.” Her
words were blunt and direct, and a look of surprise skittered
across his face. It was the best way she could think of to deal
with Jace. He was not a weak man and he seemed not to tolerate
weakness in anyone else. But she put her hand to her eyes for a
moment. The memory was so terrible—she hadn’t loved Hank, but she’d
liked him and respected him, and the guilt she felt over his death
had not diminished one bit.

Jace stared at the woman. This was stunning
news. Hank Bailey, dead? He’d known him for a long time, although
he’d lost track of him in the last couple of years. He was a tough
son of a bitch, an ex-Texas Ranger who had come north and taken up
bounty hunting. He had no patience with the scummy people that
bounty hunting tended to churn up, and was inclined to take
advantage of the “dead” option on the wanted posters. Now and then
their paths had crossed, and on a rainy night or two they’d tipped
a few beers and traded stories. Hank wasn’t the kind of man to be
overcome with a nesting instinct to get married and take up
ranching. He liked the ladies, all right, but mostly the saloon
girl variety. Now this plain, tough-talking female with chopped-off
hair and boy’s clothes claimed to have been married to him? None of
it figured. He tossed a twig into the fire.

“
A lot of people have heard
of Hank Bailey, and he damn sure wasn’t married the last time I saw
him. How do I know you aren’t making this up, too?”

The woman turned from her cramped position
to rest her back against the rocky wall, her face hidden in shadow.
She was silent for a moment before she spoke. "I’m not making it
up. You heard McIntyre yourself. He referred to the Bailey woman.
Hank and I were married six months ago. Why on earth would I put
myself in the position to be chased and shot at, if it were a
lie?”

Her voice was rich and smoky—Jace had never
heard anything quite like it. But it was definitely a female voice.
And she chose her words more carefully than she had when “Kyle” was
talking.

"How do I know? Maybe you stole something,
or ran away from somewhere. Bailey isn’t an unusual name.”

“
I’m telling you the
truth,” she said, “and I’m taking a big chance in doing
it.”

That was small comfort, he thought grimly.
“How did Hank get killed?”

The wind picked up and she pulled the
blanket closer around her, mindful of her arm. “He was the leader
of the Midnighters. They’re a group of Blakely citizens who are
trying to get rid of the Vigilance Union. Hardesty shot him down
like a dog, point-blank in the chest just outside the barn. I saw
it all. That’s the way Luke Jory operates—if he wants something
he’ll just take it. Tom Hardesty is his right-hand toady, so he can
do the same with Jory’s help.” She drew a deep breath. “Hank died
later than night.” Her voice faded away, and she closed her eyes
for a moment.

The story sounded plausible enough, although
it was still hard for Jace to picture the man he remembered married
to this woman. Her femaleness—femininity wouldn’t be the right term
in this case—was more apparent now that she spoke with her own
voice, throaty though it was. And of course, he’d seen the physical
evidence—but beyond her small face and big eyes, it was hard to
tell what Kyla, the woman, looked like. He could well imagine it,
though.

Apparently his thoughts showed on his face,
because she added, “I wasn’t born looking like this, you know. I
tried to stay at the ranch, but it became impossible for me to live
there alone. After Hank died the other two hands were frightened
off, and Hardesty deviled me day and night. He told me he’d be
moving into the ranch house. I was more than welcome to stay—if I,
well, cooperated. One night he broke down the kitchen door. He was
drunk and—and I slashed his face with a paring knife.” She shivered
again and reached up to close her shirt collar. “I think he’s
probably as mad about that as anything else—Hardesty fancies
himself to be a ladies’ man. That night, I cut off my hair, put on
boys’ clothes, and set out before daybreak to find you.”

He took a big swallow of the coffee. “When
were you planning to tell me that you’re not a boy?”

She shrugged her good shoulder. “I don’t
know—maybe later if I felt like I could trust you. So probably not
at all.”

The barb was not lost on him but he ignored
it. Something about this still didn’t figure. He leaned toward her.
“Who is Tom Hardesty to you? Why did he want your ranch? Why not
someone else’s?”

Her gaze slid away from his. “No others
would do. He’s coveted that land for years. When my father married
Aggie Hardesty after my mother died, she brought her son Tom with
her. All of my kin are dead now. Tom and I are the only ones left.
He’s my—stepbrother, I guess.” She said this last with special
distaste and bitterness. “He was gone for a few years, and I
thought I’d seen the last of him. A year ago, he came back. Like a
bad penny.”

“
Stepbrother? And you
wanted to hire me to kill him?” This situation was getting worse
and worse with every fragment of information she revealed. Jace
shook his head. “Oh, no, no. I’m not getting involved in some
family squabble over land ownership. You need a lawyer, not me. Our
deal is off, lady.”

“
Damn it,” she cursed,
sounding more like Kyle again, “my name is
not
‘kid,’ and it isn’t ‘lady’! And
this has nothing to do with land rights or a family squabble. Tom
Hardesty is not my family. This is about murder and thievery. I
don’t need a lawyer or a nursemaid. I need someone who can help me
get my home back. Hank sent me to find you because he said you were
that man. He said maybe you’ve had a change of heart since the
Bluebird Saloon. I suppose he could have been wrong.”

Jace stiffened and he felt his face heat.
The Bluebird Saloon—God, he had very nearly put that night out of
his head. Five years had passed since then, and he’d finally
stopped thinking about it, dreaming about it. He’d almost forgotten
that woman who had begged him to help her and her little girl.
Didn’t want to get involved, he’d told her. . . .

“
What did he tell you about
that?” he demanded, wary now. He would not have expected Hank to
turn gossipy like an old lady. And Kyla Springer Bailey made him
very uncomfortable. She knew things that he did not, and things
that she shouldn’t. He was unaccustomed to having so little control
over a situation.

“
Nothing. He didn’t tell me
the story. He just said that you let someone down.”

Jace frowned. Huh, yeah, he had let someone
down. The results had been disastrous. And even from his grave,
Hank was reminding him of it. He let his gaze drift over Kyla
again. Maybe she was his chance to finally make things right.

There was a lot more about all of this that
he wanted to know, but he couldn’t question her anymore tonight.
She had had a really lousy day, one that would have been hard for a
man. But for a woman, trying to maintain a disguise while
confronting a drunk in a gunfight and getting shot—Jace had to
admit again that she had a lot of grit. A hell of a lot,
considering the events that had led to this afternoon.

Right now, though, she was too tired and in
too much pain to keep talking. In fact, he was worn out
himself.

“
Drink that broth and get
some rest,” he said shortly. “If Hardesty has his people following
us, we’ll have to backtrack a little before we ride to Misfortune.
I want to get an early start.” He stood up to open his bedroll on
the other side of the fire.

“
Does that mean that you’re
going to help me?” she asked, tipping her face up at
him.

“
Looks like it.”

“
That’s not much of an
answer. How do I know you won’t change your mind? You could
probably hand me over to Hardesty and make more money than I can
pay you.”

He frowned at her. “Not everything is about
money.”

“
Every man has his
price—sometimes it’s too high.”

“
I guess you’ll just have
to take my word for it. I’ll help you.”

She eyed him. “For sure?”

The hope and fatigue in her voice committed
him to see this through. Although he still thought it was probably
a bad decision, he was in for the long ride. He considered her
eyes—blue-green, they were like turquoise, even in the
firelight.

“
Yeah, for
sure.”

* * *

The night was an endless, rainy darkness of
pain and worry. Kyla’s sleep was fitful and shallow, despite her
exhaustion. Oh, to be back in her own bed, clean, warm, and safe
with the nightmares behind her. Instead she was unwashed and cold,
wounded, sleeping in the damp.

Hardesty had to pay, she vowed darkly—for
this, for Hank, for every filthy innuendo and sly look, for making
her feel dirty. He might not have pulled the trigger himself this
time, but he was just as guilty as McIntyre. That worthless saddle
bum would not have shot her if Tom hadn’t sent him to find her.

During the dragging hours her arm throbbed,
and she woke often with her jaws clenched. Whenever she opened her
eyes she saw Jace Rankin across the fire from her. He lay in the
red light of the embers, his head propped on his saddle, looking
the same as the night before, with the Henry next to him. He
appeared to sleep with the maddening ease of a man who had no
worries and no regrets. The stubble of his beard grew heavier each
day, making him seem all the more threatening.

Her masquerade had given her strength,
courage, and freedom—it was easier to move around in this wild,
unforgiving country as a male. But now Jace knew the truth, at
least most of it, and he could easily take whatever he wanted from
her. If he decided to do that, could she fight him off? No, not
even on her best day. He far outmatched her strength with his lean,
quick body, and danger radiated from him. He could claim
disinterest in unwilling women, but she had no particular reason to
believe him.

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.