The Outlaw Bride (22 page)

Feeling slowly ebbed back into Connor’s body, inch by inch, limb by limb. When it reached his shoulder and head, he quickly reconsidered oblivion. The former burned and the latter throbbed. To add to his list of ailments, his mouth felt as if every last lick of moisture had packed up and moved out.

Somewhere nearby, a bird chirped. The cheerful warbling carried on a soft breeze that lightly touched the skin on his chest. His clothes were gone. Where were his clothes?

A soft rustling came from his other side. He tried to turn his head, to open his eyes, but his body ignored his commands. He remained immobile like a useless lump of flesh.

Was he dead? He didn’t think he’d feel this much pain once he passed over. Wasn’t that the deal? You got to leave all the agony of life behind? If not, Will Sangster was going to have some explaining to do when he saw him next.

The rustling sounded again and his right side dipped. He was on a bed. He wasn’t dead. Surely, they didn’t have beds in Heaven, or Hell for that matter. He filled his lungs with relief. The scent of lavender filled his senses.

Kate…

A light touch brushed down the side of his face, prickling the growth of beard that covered his cheek. How long had he been here? He’d shaved just…just…

Connor struggled to sift through his memory for something solid, a tangible recollection of what had happened to put him here, lying in this state of limbo, unable to move or speak or even swallow. But all his mind would serve up were sensations of soft, silky skin and lush curves, the moan of his name on Kate’s lips, the blinding satisfaction of burying himself deep inside her.

His groin stiffened. No…definitely not dead, but quite possibly still in Hell.

A cool cloth came to rest against his forehead and steady fingers ran through his hair, brushing it away from his face.

“Connor?”

Her voice whispered like the soft murmur of an angel’s wings. He let the sound soak into him. The feather mattress shifted slightly. He felt her lean closer, her scent growing stronger, tantalizing his senses. God, he wished he could move his damn hands, touch her face, pull her to him. But he couldn’t even muster the strength to lift his lids.

Her sigh breezed against his lips and his insides shivered.

“I brought Jenny in to see you last night. I told her you were sleeping so she wouldn’t worry. I hope that was the right thing…I don’t know. It seemed to help. Amelia is trying to keep her occupied, letting her help in the kitchen.”

Kitchen? Amelia? Was he at the boardinghouse? He tried to concentrate on the sounds around him. Voices drifted up, muffled and distant, somewhere in the background. What was wrong with him? Why couldn’t he move? Why couldn’t he—

“Rogan Slade is my husband.”

His insides recoiled at the memory. Images and words and everything else came rushing back, swirling through his mind like a twister bent on destruction. Kate, the woman he loved, was a Slade.

“Connor? Connor, are you awake?”

Her hand cupped his face. He tried to answer, tried to get his brain and muscles to work in concert.

“Slade…” His voice sounded foreign to him, scraping his vocal cords raw.

She moved away. Her absence touched him like a frigid wind blowing down from the bluff.

“Yes…Slade.” She cleared her throat. Though his eyes refused to open, he could picture her clearly in his mind, sitting on the edge of the bed, her hands folded primly in her lap, fingers twisting around each other. Her backbone would be ramrod straight and no doubt her chin jutted out at a stubborn angle. But her eyes…those beautiful sea-green eyes that disguised nothing would hold all the pain and misery of what her life had been, of the choices she had made and the consequences they had wrought. Did she regret it? Did she regret him?

When she spoke again, anguish invaded her tone. “I’ve spoken to Judge Malton. He arrived in town yesterday.” He heard her sigh. “They don’t hold me responsible for what happened to your brother, but I do. He didn’t deserve to die, not like that, and certainly not for me.”

She sniffed and a warm wetness splashed against the back of his hand.

“I didn’t get a chance to finish telling you why I came to Fatal Bluff, and I don’t know if you can hear me now, but I’ve left Grant’s letter on the table next to your bed. That’s why I came. He asked me to deliver it, to make sure his girl was okay, and to tell you he was sorry. I thought Con
was
the girl, I didn’t…” She drew in a shaky breath. “I didn’t know it was two different people until after I’d arrived, and then—” Her voice cracked and she stopped.

A random memory presented itself in his mind’s eye. The look of shock when they’d first met, after Walter Figg had thrown her into his arms. Someone had said his name. She’d gasped and stared up at him. He remembered the fear in her eyes. Now he understood why.

The mattress shifted again. She was leaving.

“I’ve made such a mess of things. I’m sorry. I hated lying to you, but I didn’t know what else to do to try and make things right.”

He wanted to tell her it wasn’t her fault, that he didn’t blame her, but he wasn’t sure if it was true, and he couldn’t get the words out anyway. Maybe she had done the best she could under the circumstances she’d found herself in. Maybe she should have done more. He didn’t know anymore.

Part of him still raged, fought against the pull to forgive her. He’d trusted her, and she’d lied. He’d loved her, and she’d betrayed him. Just like Emily. Just like Grant.

Her lips brushed his, briefly, lightly. He tried to steel himself against her touch but it was gone before he could, and in its wake, her words caused far more damage to a heart already tangled with warring emotions.

“I do love you.”

Connor struggled against the exhaustion trying to claim him. He wanted to talk to her. To find a way to set things right. To not lose her. But his sense of her, the sounds of the everyday, the chirping birds all began to fade and he had nothing left inside of him to push the darkness away.

***

The bustle of people conducting their daily business had fallen silent when Connor next regained consciousness. Only a deep rumble from across the room filled the darkness.

His eyes opened this time with little struggle. It took a moment for them to adjust, but when they did, he made out Bart’s wiry frame stretched out in a chair pulled near the bed. His chin rested on his chest, his arms crossed beneath them. The low flame of the kerosene lamp next to his bed flickered, pushing the blackness to the end of the bed. Next to the lantern sat a white envelope.

Connor’s gaze searched the room for Kate, but she was gone. He hated how keenly he felt her absence, like a growing ache in the center of his chest that went far deeper than the burning in his shoulder.

The throbbing in his head had eased to a dull ache. Annoying, but no longer debilitating. His eyes went to the letter again. Kate had risked everything to deliver it. It seemed a lot to go through when she could have easily sent it by post and walked away.

Gritting his teeth, he marshaled his strength and reached for the letter. Pain ripped through his shoulder and knocked him back against the pillow, bringing his breath in short gasps.

Dammit.

He lifted his head up far enough to look at his snoring deputy. He considered waking him and then decided against it. There was no telling what was in the letter. He and Grant had not parted on the best of terms.

Memories of his brother stopped that day over eight years ago when Connor had left him in a flurry of anger and accusations. The hurtful words he’d lashed at Grant still resonated in his mind. He’d called him every name he could think of, came up with a few new ones then repeated them all over again. Grant hadn’t tried to defend himself, hadn’t tried to stop Connor or calm his anger. So Connor had railed until he was spent, and then he walked out, never looking back. It was the last time he’d seen his brother.

He closed his eyes against the flood of remorse. God how he wished things could be different. That he could take back the past and make it untrue.

Is that how Kate felt? Did she live with the same guilt?

He reached again, this time with more success. His fingers crawled over the envelope and slid it close enough for him to lift. Something caught the lamplight beneath it and glowed a warm gold. A wedding band.

Connor fumbled before managing to slip the band over the tip of his finger. It was small, barely making it over his first knuckle. Emily’s, he guessed. Connor maneuvered it onto his pinky. He’d keep it; give it to Jenny when she got older.

He held the envelope up for inspection. Small dark markings marred the worn white exterior. He angled it closer to the lantern. The bloody smudges were fingerprints, too tiny to belong to his brother, but the perfect size for Kate’s hand. Her fingerprints, his brother’s blood.

“I do love you.”

Grief squeezed his heart. How had it all come to this? Tears lumped in his throat and it took several long moments for him to beat back the urge to rail and cry and scream his lungs out at the injustice of it all. For his brother’s sake, he wanted to hate her. Didn’t Grant deserve that much from him? But for his own sake, he wanted to give in to the urge to forgive her, to forget the past, to start fresh. He wanted to hold on to her and never let her go.

But how could he? Their pasts were too entangled in who she was and what had happened. Could they ever get beyond it?

Connor stared at the ceiling, watching the shadows dance against the stark whiteness. He had no answers.

His fingers moved along the lip of the envelope, tearing it open and pulling out two sheets of paper. He recognized Grant’s even strokes.

Connor’s heart slammed painfully against his ribcage and the letter trembled in his hand, making the words swim before him. He closed his eyes and tried to control his reeling emotions. That one reckless night a week before their wedding when she had come to him and he’d let youthful passion override common sense.

His child. His.

He forced himself to read on.

Grant hadn’t betrayed him? He’d been so certain. All these years, carrying the anger of a betrayal that had never happened. What Grant did was done out of loyalty. Shame burned in Connor’s gut. If only he’d given Grant the chance to explain. If only he hadn’t left town that night.

The thin sheets of paper containing Grant’s words slipped from Connor’s fingers and fluttered to the bed. He was a father. Jenny’s father. Moisture trickled a lazy path down his face.

“You okay?”

Bart’s voice startled him. He leaned forward in his chair, his arms resting on his knees. Connor hadn’t even noticed the snoring had stopped.

He swiped the back of his hand over his cheek. His mouth moved, but the words that came out were random and nonsensical. He gave up and shook his head. No. He wasn’t okay. He was happy and sad and angry and confused. He handed the letter to Bart.

The legs of the chair scuffed the hardwood floor as Bart dragged it closer to the light. It took little time for him to scan the two pages that had changed Connor’s world forever. When he finished, a long sigh escaped from deep within him.

“I suspected as much.”

“You did?”

Bart shrugged one shoulder. “I watched you grow from the time you was in short pants. When I saw Jenny, it was like watching you all over again. She’s just like you, the spittin’ image, inside and out.”

“Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

“Didn’t know for sure, and since you weren’t around, figured it was best to leave well enough alone. ’Sides, it wasn’t my truth to be tellin’.”

“She’s mine.” The words filled him with wonder, and yet confirmed what he suspected a part of him had known from the first moment he saw her. How many times had he looked at her and seen his own reflection? How many times had he searched for Grant in Jenny and come up empty?

Bart nodded. “She’s yours.”

Connor sank back into the welcoming softness of the plump, feathered pillows. “Do I tell her?”

“I cain’t give you that answer. Guess you’ll have to figure it out on your own. You’ll know what to do when the time comes.”