Only Mine (14 page)

“We might have to sleep in snow,” Wolfe said curtly. “If you put this inside your sleeping bag, you should stay warm enough.”

Jessica blinked, surprised by Wolfe’s thoughtfulness when he was so obviously out of sorts with her. “Thank you.”

“You need not look so shocked, your ladyship. I want an annulment, not a funeral.”

She stared at Wolfe’s broad, retreating back and let out a long breath she hadn’t even been aware of holding. Frowning, she reached around behind her back to undo the infuriating buttons. There were less of them than on her travel dress, yet the fastenings were still too many and too inconveniently placed for a woman dressing alone. She thought of calling upon Wolfe for help, but discarded the idea instantly. Though she knew little about men and lust, she had gathered that the less clothes a woman had on, the hotter a man’s blood ran and the more angry he became if rutting was denied him.

Memories of the past night raced through Jessica, making her tremble with more than fear. The pleasure
Wolfe had given her was unique, exquisite. If rutting gave him a similar pleasure, it was no wonder he was so angry at being denied. Living with him, forcing him to breathe the very air she breathed, was unfair. She hadn’t known that before, but she knew it now.

We can’t spend a lifetime like this.

Then Jessica thought of what the alternative was if she agreed to an annulment and returned to England and Lady Victoria’s well-meant, relentless attempts to marry off her ward to whatever minor lord was old enough, wealthy enough, and eager enough for children to overlook Jessica’s common Scots mother.

The thought of enduring such a marriage brought to Jessica a chill determination to be free that no amount of reason or coercion would change. Wolfe may have preferred an annulment to a funeral, but Jessica did not.

There were worse things than death. She was as certain of that as she was of her own heartbeat. She visited those things in her sleep, where forbidden memories and horrible nightmares intertwined, and the inhuman voice of the wind promised her hell on earth.

With a small sound, Jessica put her face in her hands. “Dear God,” she whispered, “let Wolfe relent, for I cannot.”

U
NCERTAINLY
, Jessica stood in front of one of the mercantile’s many counters. She was accustomed to having bolts of cloth and seamstresses brought to Lord Stewart’s home, or perhaps she would visit an especially popular dress designer in her shop. The idea of buying clothes already made both intrigued Jessica for its speedy practicality and baffled her as to how to go about it.

“Mrs. Lonetree? Is that you?”

The deep, gentle drawl told Jessica who the man was before she turned around. Her eyes sparkled with pleasure at the sight of the big blond man with his hat in his hands and a smile on his face.

“Rafe! What a wonderful surprise. What are you doing in Canyon City? Is your arm all right?”

He flexed his left shoulder. “It’s a bit stiff and itches like the very devil, but otherwise everything is fine. I’ve never healed so fast. Must have been your hands and the fancy silk bandage.”

“And soap.”

“And soap,” Rafe agreed with a wink.

“What are you doing in Canyon City?” Jessica asked again without thinking. Then she remembered. “Oh dear, I’m sorry. That was rude of me.
It’s the one thing Betsy didn’t tell me about the United States.”

Rafe’s sun-bleached eyebrows lifted. “Betsy?”

“My American maid. At least she was, until we got to the Mississippi. She taught me many of your customs, but not the most important Western one.”

“Maybe you’d better tell me about that one. I’m new to the West.”

Jessica gave a sigh of relief. “Oh, good, then I didn’t insult you by asking you why you’re here. Wolfe was quite clear about that. One never asks a Western man for a full name, an occupation, or a reason for coming or going as he pleases.”

“Australia is like that, too,” Rafe said, smiling, “so is a lot of South America.”

“England isn’t, except for certain people, of course.”

“Criminals?” he asked blandly.

“Oh, dear, I
did
insult you.”

Rafe’s laughter was instant and unrestrained. “No, ma’am, but you’re a delight to tease.”

If another man had said it, Jessica would have withdrawn with the cool hauteur that had been taught her by Lady Victoria. It was impossible to do that with Rafe, however, and unnecessary as well. His eyes were admiring without being in the least impolite.

“I don’t mind talking about what I’m doing here,” Rafe said. “I was waiting for the pass to open again. I got here just before the last storm closed it.”

“Then you’ve been here long enough to see the town. Wolfe said we wouldn’t be staying long.”

“Smart man, your husband. Too many drifters
are holed up here, gambling and waiting for the passes to open.”

“If what Wolfe says is true, they won’t have long to wait.”

“Folks tell me Wolfe Lonetree knows the mountains between here and the San Juan country like the back of his hand,” Rafe said.

“It wouldn’t surprise me. Wolfe has always loved wild places. From what I’ve heard, the mountains out there are about as wild as anything on earth.”

For a moment Rafe looked through the mercantile’s dusty windows, but it was other mountains he saw, other wild places. Then his gray eyes focused and he turned back to the delicate girl whose light blue eyes held more shadows that they should.

“Are you here for supplies?” Rafe asked.

“After a fashion. Wolfe is buying something he calls ‘Montana horses.’ They’re large, I gather. Big enough to stand up to the snow drifts we might find in the passes.”

Rafe’s gray eyes widened, then narrowed with concern. “What lies west of here has the look of hard country, Mrs. Lonetree. Too hard for a girl like you.”

“Have you ever been to Scotland?” Jessica asked rather grimly.

He shook his head.

“Go there sometime in the winter,” she said, “when the gale winds scream down from the Arctic Circle. Then you’ll see waves higher than a mounted man break against black rock cliffs that are wrapped in ice. That’s when sheep with wool thicker than your arm freeze upright in the lee of
solid stone fences. Men freeze much more quickly.”

“You were born there,” Rafe said, for there was no mistaking the dark memories drawing Jessica’s face taut.

“Yes.”

“Even so, ma’am, you’re looking hard used at the moment. I hope your husband’s wrong about the passes opening soon. You could use a few nights of sleep.”

Jessica smiled reassuringly, though she knew she would sleep no better in the coming night than she had any night since the terrible argument with Wolfe.

He had not relented one bit. No matter how hard she tried to be a good companion, he still treated her as an enemy, or worse, as a traitor who had betrayed him.

“My husband assures me the passes are open,” Jessica said.

“Has he talked to one of the gold hunters?”

“No. He watched the peaks all the way from his—our—home. When the new snow melted back up the slopes so quickly, he said the pass would be open by the time we were ready to leave Canyon City.”

“He’s certain?”

Jessica slanted Rafe an odd glance. “You met Wolfe. Did he strike you as an indecisive sort?” Shaking his head, Rafe laughed, remembering the uncanny precision of Wolfe’s rifle work, men falling like dropped cards, one after another, with no break in the relentless rhythm of Wolfe’s shots.

“No, ma’am. That’s one hard man you married.”

Jessica’s smile thinned and turned upside down.

“Don’t take me wrong,” Rafe continued. “I
meant no insult. In wild country, a hard man is the best kind, whether it be for a husband, a brother, or a friend.”

Rafe looked out the window again. The group of men who had been lounging in front of one of the three saloons on the main street had drifted over to the wagon, where a sidesaddle was perched on top of a sack of grain.

“Ma’am, is your husband in the saloon?”

“No. He has a rather low opinion of the local whiskey.”

“Smart man. Matt had almost as many warnings about Taos lightning as he did about the Utes.”

“Matt?”

“Matthew Moran.” When Jessica looked thoughtful, Rafe added, “Maybe you’ve heard the name?”

“I’m not sure.”

“How about Caleb Black? His friends call him Cal.”

“Ah, yes,” Jessica said with soft bitterness, “that name I’ve heard. The blasted paragon.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Rafe said, amused. “I’ve never met the man.”

“Not Caleb. His wife. She’s a paragon, Wolfe assures me.”

“Must be the wrong Caleb Black, then. Willy was a lot of things, but a paragon wasn’t among them.”

“Willy?”

“Willow Moran. At least, she used to be a Moran. Now she’s Willow Black.”

Jessica’s mouth curved into a rueful smile. “Poor Rafe. You’ve had a long stage ride and a bullet wound for nothing. The paragon is already wed.”

“It’s not what you think.” Rafe settled his battered
hat onto his head with a tug. “Willy is my sister.”

“Uh-oh.” Jessica flushed. “I’m sorry. I meant no insult to her. That is, I—oh, blazes, when will I learn to bridle my galloping tongue?”

“Don’t worry,” Rafe said kindly. “Willy would laugh as hard as anyone at the thought of being a paragon. She’s as sassy as they come. But, Lord, can that girl cook. I’d go halfway around the world for some of her biscuits.” He grinned. “In fact, I did.”

“It appears the para—er, your sister-and I have something in common.”

“Biscuits?”

“In a manner of speaking. Wolfe has traveled half the earth and talked of little else but my biscuits in comparison to Willow’s.”

Rafe’s gray eyes lit with inner laughter. “Don’t feel bad about your own cooking, ma’am. Bride’s biscuits are famous the world over.”

“Mine are infamous. Even Messr. Skunk turned up his pointy black nose at them.”

Rafe tried not to show his amusement, but the thought of a skunk passing up food was too much. He threw back his head and laughed.

Jessica smiled up at him with real pleasure. It was good to hear a man’s laughter and know there was one soul in the West who enjoyed her company. Then her smile faded as she remembered how she once had been able to amuse Wolfe. Once, but no longer. Now all he wanted from her was the sight of her back as she walked out of his life.

“Don’t look so down, Red—er, Mrs. Lonetree,” Rafe corrected quickly.

“Please call me Red,” she said, sighing, “or Jessica or Jessi or whatever suits.”

“Thank you.”

“No thanks are necessary. If no one out here wants his family name known, it stands to reason nicknames and Christian names would be used instead. One must, after all, call others something.”

Rafe’s smiled faded as he looked out the window. A familiar tension stole through his body. He had spent enough time in rough places with rougher men to know that trouble was afoot.

The men standing around the Lonetree wagon were part of the crowds of drifters, outlaws, and prospectors who had gathered in Canyon City to await the opening of the passes. Lust for gold ran through the men, but there was nothing they could do about that lust for the moment. So they talked about women waiting for them with white thighs spread, and they drank, and they bullied people less coarse than themselves.

The crowd outside had been getting rowdier with each drink from the bottle that was being passed around. When Rafe had passed them on the way to the store, he had heard their speculations on the subject of fancy foreign ladies, and if they had a special way of riding their men as well as riding their horses. Rafe doubted that the men’s thoughts had become loftier with each passage of the bottle.

“Mrs. Lonetree—”

“That’s too formal,” she insisted softly.

Rafe looked away from the window. “All right, Red. Don’t go back to the wagon unless your husband is with you.”

“Why?”

“The men out there are drunk. They aren’t used to decent women.”

“I see.” Jessica sighed. “I have a few more purchases
to make, in any case.”

Silently, Rafe accompanied her down the counters loaded with dry goods.

“Perhaps you could help me,” she said after a few moments. “I’ve never bought clothes already made. Does this look the right size?”

Rafe stared in disbelief at the Levis she was holding up.

“Ma’am, I doubt that your husband could get one of his arms in those, much less a leg.”

She smiled. “I was thinking of myself, not Wolfe.”

Rafe made an odd sound as he measured the size of the denims and the delicate girl whose quality shone through her travel-rumpled clothes.

“That cloth is much too harsh for someone like you,” he said simply.

Jessica slanted Rafe a sideways look and saw that he wasn’t teasing. He truly thought she was as delicate as she looked.

“You would be amazed at how sturdy I really am,” she said mildly.

After shaking out the Levis, Jessica held them against her waist. The legs fell to the floor and beyond.

“Blast.”

She put back the Levis and rummaged for yet smaller ones. In time she found a pair that had been cut for a boy rather than a man. She held them up. She suspected they would be too loose in the waist and frankly snug in the hips. On the other hand, they were the smallest Levis she had yet found.

“Would you hold these for me?” she asked, handing over the Levis to Rafe.

He accepted them without a word and watched
with increasing amusement while Jessica rummaged among the shirts for one that might possibly be small enough. He was still smiling indulgently when he sensed a presence behind his back. He turned around and saw Wolfe Lonetree standing there, measuring him for a shroud.

“Rafe, what do you think of—oh, good, you’re back,” Jessica said, holding out a shirt to Wolfe. “What do you think of this?”

“Too small by half.”

The clipped tones of Wolfe’s voice brought Jessica’s head up. She looked at him and sensed the anger that blazed just beneath his impassive surface.

“I rather thought it was too large,” she muttered, measuring her arm against the sleeve.

Abruptly, Wolfe realized that Jessica was buying clothes for herself. “Your ladyship, we already have enough clothes for two packhorses. In any case, I won’t have you parading your limbs like a saloon girl throughout the West.”

He took the Levis from Rafe and tossed them onto a table before he turned back to Jessica.

“Did you manage to purchase the dry goods on the list?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said.

Despite the red flags on Jessica’s cheekbones, her voice was civilized. Wolfe didn’t take the hint.

“Will wonders never cease.” Wolfe took the shirt from Jessica and threw it after the Levis.

Her eyes narrowed into ice-blue slits as she measured the grim lines on Wolfe’s face.

“I’ll bring the horses from the stable,” he said flatly. “By then you should have managed to get back to the wagon. The storekeeper’s boy will help you carry everything.”

With a black glance at Rafe, Wolfe turned and strode out of the store.

Rafe let out a long, silent breath. Seeing Jessica’s husband in his dark, well-worn trail clothes instead of city fashions had convinced Rafe that Wolfe Lonetree was indeed the halfbreed who was reputed to know the mountains so well. That same halfbreed was also reputed to be the best rifle shot west of the Mississippi and a warrior to the steel marrow of his bones.

Rumor hadn’t mentioned that Wolfe was fiercely possessive of his wife, but Rafe would be happy to pass the word along to the next poor fool who innocently warmed himself at the hearth of Jessica’s smile.

“Ma’am,” Rafe said, tipping his hat. “It’s been a pleasure.”

“Don’t feel you must rush off. Wolfe isn’t as fierce as he sometimes looks.”

Rafe smiled thinly. “I believe you’re right. He’s easily twice as fierce. He’s also damned, er, darned protective of you. Not that I blame him. If I had anything even a fraction as valuable as your smile, I’d be real careful of it, too.”

Jessica’s smile flashed, then faded. As Rafe turned to leave, she said softly, “God speed, Rafael Moran.”

She gave the name its fluid Spanish pronunciation, lending the elegance of music to the syllables. Rafe turned back, struck by hearing his name spoken so beautifully.