Wyoming Wildfire (Harlequin Historical) (17 page)

Matt nodded. “Be careful,” he said. “If Jessie’s in there, we don’t want her hurt.”

Morgan’s black eyes flashed understanding. The fact that Jessie’s mare was there didn’t mean they’d find her alive. Until they knew either way, they would have to calculate every move.

Balancing his rifle, Morgan slipped through the aspens toward the rear of the cabin. He moved like an Indian, his boots barely stirring the leaves beneath his feet. As he disappeared from sight, Matt edged closer to within easy earshot of the cabin.

“This is Marshal Langtry!” he shouted. “We’ve come for the Hammond woman! She’s all we want. Send her out alive, and you two can ride away from here!”

There was a moment of nerve-grinding silence before a cold, cultured voice answered.

“I hardly think that would be a good idea, Marshal. Miss Hammond here is our insurance. Let her go, and we’ll have no guarantee you won’t come after us.”

“Let me know she’s alive!” Matt shouted. “Then we’ll talk!”

“And if she isn’t?” The question cut into Matt like a blade.

“We’ve got the cabin surrounded,” he retorted. “If you’ve killed Jessie Hammond, there won’t be enough left of you and your friend to scrape off the walls.”

“In that case, I can tell you that she’s very much alive. But if you, and whoever’s with you, aren’t headed down that hill by the time I count to ten, she’s not going to look as pretty as she does now.”

Matt fought back dizzying rage. Emotion would only make him reckless, he reminded himself. “Prove she’s in there, you bastard,” he rasped. “Prove she’s alive.”

There was a brief hush, broken only by the sound of movement inside the cabin. Then the stillness was shattered by an agonized scream.

“Matt!”

The pain and terror in Jessie’s voice almost undid Matt. It was all he could do to keep from rushing the
cabin, his pistol blazing impotently against the solid wooden door.

The gunman would have more power now. He had heard Jessie cry out Matt’s name, and he would know that she was not just another hostage. She was the woman Matt loved.

“Satisfied, Marshal?” The voice was cold as the sound of a rifle bullet sliding into the chamber. “I believe you know my terms. But I’m a fair man. I’ll give you a choice. Which would you rather have my friend here cut off first, an ear or a finger?”

Matt forced himself to keep silent. Lord, where was Morgan? When would he make his move?

“No answer? Very well, Marshal, on the count of ten. One…two…three…”

Jessie lay immobilized on the bed. To keep her quiet while they were drinking, they’d tied her feet as well, and gagged her mouth, except for the few seconds when they’d let her cry out.

“Five…six…seven…” Ringo counted with the precision of a metronome while Lem pulled his knife out of its greasy leather sheath. He would cut off her ear, Jessie thought. With her hands bound, a finger would be more difficult to reach. She braced herself for the pain. Even if Matt left they would do it, just for the pleasure of hearing her scream.

Why hadn’t she listened to Matt and gone down
the mountain with him? She’d done everything wrong. Now she’d be lucky to die fighting.

“Eight…nine…ten.” Ringo glanced at Lem. “Do it,” he said.

Lem ambled toward the bed. His right hand gripped the bone-handled knife. His left hand reached for the gag that covered Jessie’s mouth.

The rifle shot, coming out of nowhere, was deafening in the closed space of the cabin. Lem’s mouth dropped open in a rictus of death. Jessie glimpsed the crimson stain spreading across his chest as he staggered, then fell at the foot of the bed, shot cleanly through the heart.

With the reflexes of a rattlesnake, Ringo dived for the floor and rolled under the edge of the bed. For the moment, it was a smart move. The shooter at the back window, most likely Morgan Tolliver, wouldn’t be able to reach him without hitting Jessie. But Ringo had dropped his rifle by the door. If he went for it, he would become a target.

“Jessie! Are you all right?” Matt shouted.

Jessie heard him, but the tight gag kept her from answering. She strained and twisted helplessly against the ropes. She could hear Ringo shifting under the bed. He would be after Lem’s knife and pistol, she realized.

“It’s over, you bastard!” Morgan’s voice rang through the broken back window. “Give up now, or you’ll be as dead as your friend!”

Ringo’s reply was an obscenity so vile that it made Jessie shudder. She heard the scrape of metal against the floor and knew that he’d dragged the pistol out of Lem’s holster. The slackening of the rope that tied her feet to the bed told her he’d found the knife as well.

Keeping low, he eased himself upward between the bed and the wall and jammed the pistol against Jessie’s temple. “We’re getting out of here, little lady,” he rasped. “No tricks, or I’ll blow that pretty head off.”

She felt the sudden release as the knife freed her bound wrists from the bed. Then he was pulling her to her feet, using her body to shield him from Morgan’s rifle at the rear window. Jessie resisted the urge to struggle. He would be taking her outside, she reminded herself. Matt and Morgan were there. Once Ringo was in the open, she would make her move and pray they could take him down.

Keeping his back to the wall, he dragged her toward the door. The tight ropes had cut off the blood supply to her feet. They tingled painfully as the feeling returned. Her stomach was queasy from the stench of the cabin and from her own fear.

“Back off!” Ringo yelled. “I’ve got a gun on the little lady and I’m coming out! Anybody moves, and she dies!”

His left arm hooked her throat. His right hand held the gun at her temple. With some awkward shift
ing, he slid back the bolt. Then, securing his grip on her, he kicked the door open with his boot.

They stepped out into the glare of the rising sun. Jessie’s vision was nothing but a blur of white light. Ringo’s, she suddenly realized, would be the same. She had to act now before his eyes adjusted to the brightness.

She’d read stories about ladies so delicate that they swooned at the sight of blood. Jessie had never swooned in her life, but it was the most sensible plan that came to mind.

Half expecting to die, she willed her body to go as limp as a hundred-pound sack of pinto beans.

Ringo was a man of wiry strength and Jessie was a small woman, but she’d caught him unprepared to support her dead weight. He swore as he sagged to the left, his gun hand instinctively flying outward to balance his body. As Jessie slid lower, Matt appeared through the trees in a blur of light.

Ringo’s frantic shot went wild. Jessie heard the whine as it ricocheted off a boulder. Almost at the same instant, Matt fired. The bullet slammed solidly into Ringo’s chest. Jessie rolled clear as he staggered, collapsed on his side and lay still.

Matt crossed the distance between them at a run. In the space of a heartbeat, Jessie was in his arms.

“I’m all right,” she murmured as he ripped off the gag. He held her fiercely, kissing her hair, her forehead, her eyelids. “I’m all right, my love…”

Morgan came around the side of the cabin, his rifle balanced in his hand. A rare grin lit his stern Shoshone features as he saw Matt release Jessie. “I should have guessed about you two,” he said. “Good shooting, by the way, Marshal.”

Jessie would be haunted by the seconds that followed for the rest of her life.

As Morgan walked toward them, he noticed Lem’s pistol, which had flown out of Ringo’s hand and was lying on the ground a few feet from his body. Pausing with his back to the gunslinger, he bent down to pick it up.

Morgan didn’t see the flutter of Ringo’s eyelids or the movement of Ringo’s hand, reaching down to draw a small but deadly derringer out of his boot and aim it at Morgan’s back.

But Matt did.

“No!” Matt dived for the gun as Ringo’s grip tightened on the trigger. He was still in the air when the tiny pistol fired.

The bullet caught Matt in the ribs, knocking him sideways. He rolled onto his back and lay still, blood flowing from beneath his leather vest.

Morgan’s rifle shot ended the gunman’s life, but Jessie scarcely heard it. With an anguished cry, she flew to Matt’s side. Falling on her knees beside him, she groped for the awful wound and pressed it with her hands. As the blood flowed between her fingers,
she crooned words of love and muttered desperate, incoherent prayers. So much blood. And his face was so pale.

“I love you, Matt,” she whispered. “Don’t die. Please, God, don’t let him die.”

M
att lay with his head in Jessie’s lap, drifting in and out of consciousness. His skin was ashen, his pulse thready. The bullet had torn deep into his body. The wound neither bubbled like a lung shot nor gave off the gassy stench of gut penetration— Jessie thanked heaven for that. But the loss of blood was overwhelming. She had never seen so much blood.

Morgan, who’d spent his youth among his mother’s people and knew something of their medicine, had packed the wound with a poultice of yarrow leaves and ripped his own shirt into strips to bind it in place. Now, racing with time, he felled several straight aspens to rig into an Indian-style travois.

While Morgan worked on the travois, Jessie cradled Matt’s head, bathing his face and giving him sips of water from a canteen. Even the swallowing seemed
to drain his strength, but he seemed to know how much his body needed fluids. He drank willingly.

As she held him, she whispered endearments, all the little love words she had ever wanted to say to him. And she told him about all the things that had happened to her since their parting on the mountain. “It was Lillian who killed Allister,” she said at the end. “But everything else—Virgil, the fire, and
this—
” She glanced around the clearing where so much horror had taken place. “One way or another it was all set loose by my own reckless pride. And now, if I lose you for it—oh, Matt—”

Dry sobs choked off her words as she bent over him. She saw his lips move, but he was too weak to give voice to whatever he was thinking. Jessie could only pray that he would understand how sorry she was and how much she loved him.

When the travois was finished and lashed behind the gray horse, Jessie and Morgan used the quilt from the cabin to lift Matt onto it. The trip back to the ranch would be agony, but they had no hope of saving him here. Removing the bullet and cleaning the wound would require the skill of a doctor.

The trail down to the wagon road was so rocky that Morgan and Jessie had to walk behind the horse, carrying the foot of the travois to keep it from bumping on the ground. Matt lay with his eyes closed, saying nothing. But Jessie noticed the way his jaw
clenched when the going was rough. He had to be in terrible pain.

The sun crawled upward as they wound their way out of the hills. By the time they reached the wagon road it was late morning. Morgan helped Jessie drag the travois into the shade of a cedar bush. Then he mounted Gypsy, the fastest horse they’d brought along, and made for the ranch at full gallop. He would send Johnny Chang flying to Sheridan for the doctor. Then he planned to return straightaway with the buckboard. In the meantime it would be up to Jessie to keep Matt alive.

She sat beside him as the shadows shrank and the day grew warmer. Morgan had left her with a full canteen. She used the water to wipe Matt’s clammy skin and trickle between his bloodless lips. To keep him from drifting off, she talked to him, sang to him, kissed his cool, pale hands. Now and then his coppery eyes would flicker open to gaze up at her, or his fingers would tighten around hers. But Jessie didn’t encourage him to speak. He needed all his strength just to keep from dying.

When Jessie’s eyes weren’t on Matt’s face they wandered down the wagon road to where the twin ruts vanished around a scrubby hill. Where was Morgan now? Had he reached the ranch? Had he sent Johnny for the doctor? Was he on his way back with the wagon?

Jessie rose to her feet, shading her eyes to peer down the road. She’d expected Morgan long before this. What if something had happened to him? What if he wasn’t coming back at all?

Two ravens circled against the hot blue sky, riding the updrafts on stiffened black wings. Jessie’s Irish mother had always said that ravens were birds of death. Now, instinctively, Jessie bent over Matt’s body, spreading her arms as if to cover him from sight. “They won’t take you!” she muttered fiercely. “I won’t let them! You’re not going to die, Matthew Langtry!”

Inexplicably, her tears began to flow. Like drops of salty rain they fell on Matt’s face, bathing him in her anguish. If only she could turn back time, she thought, to the moment when Ringo had reached for the derringer in his boot. Then she could have flung herself ahead of Matt and taken the bullet for him. She could be the one lying in agony on the travois, her life draining away drop by drop.

Moments later she glanced up to see the buckboard coming around the bend in the road, raising a plume of dust as it raced toward her. Weak with relief, she rose to her feet and began to wave.

Morgan had brought along Thomas Chang, Johnny’s husky elder brother, who dressed in Chinese clothes and wore his hair in the traditional pigtail. Using the quilt, Thomas and Morgan lifted Matt onto the
mattress they’d laid in the buckboard to cushion the ride. Jessie clambered up beside him, and seconds later they were off.

For Jessie, the rest of the day, and the night that followed, passed in a blur. Cassandra came running out of the house to meet them, fluttering like an anxious mother bird as they carried Matt into the ground-floor guest room and laid him in the massive bed that had once been Jacob Tolliver’s.

As they waited for the doctor, Thomas spooned cupfuls of exotic-smelling Chinese tea down Matt’s throat. The tea seemed to ease his pain, but Jessie could not forget the bullet that had ripped into his body—the bullet that would have to be removed if Matt was to live.

Morgan, Cassandra and Thomas Chang drifted in and out of the room. Once, the doll-like Mei Li, mother of the two Chang boys, tottered in on her tiny bound feet with a pot of her medicinal tea. Even the Tolliver children peeked around the door frame to steal a forbidden glance at their visitors. Jessie paid them little heed. For her, nothing existed but the long, lean body in the bed, the ashen face, the closed eyelids and the hands that gripped hers in pain and trust.

Jessie had never imagined that she could love someone so much.

It was evening by the time the doctor arrived. He was middle-aged and portly, with close-cropped hair
and sausage-shaped fingers that looked more like a butcher’s than a surgeon’s. But his hands proved to be strong and steady.

Even during the operation, Jessie refused to leave the room. She hovered by the bed as Matt was sedated with chloroform and propped on his side with pillows. Then she gripped his hands while the doctor probed for the bullet.

Even under sedation, Matt groaned as the long forceps inched deeper. The pain seemed to jolt through his hands and into Jessie, so that she felt it as her own. Tears squeezed from beneath her eyelids and trickled down her cheeks. She prayed silently that God would guide the doctor’s hand.

Matt’s body jerked reflexively as the forceps touched metal. “Found it,” the doctor grunted. “It’s deep. Another half inch and it would have lodged in his spine. He’s a damned lucky man.”

Removing the bullet was a delicate process. Sweat beaded on the doctor’s forehead as he worked the forceps out of the wound. Jessie held her breath, gripping Matt’s hands with all her strength.

An eternity seemed to pass before the doctor put down the forceps and held up the ugly, blood-coated ball of lead that had almost taken Matt’s life. Then he cleaned the wound, dressed it with fresh wrappings and pronounced the operation finished.

“You look like you could use some sleep,” he said.
“Get it while you can. Your young man won’t be awake for hours.”

Jessie shook her head. “I don’t want to leave him. If I need to sleep I’ll do it right here in this chair.”

“All right. But first we need to take a look at that leg of yours.”

After cleaning and bandaging Jessie’s bitten leg, the doctor left the room to wash up. Cassandra had prepared a meal and a room for him. He would stay until dawn, then check on Matt again before driving his buggy back to Sheridan.

Jessie was slumped in the chair next to Matt’s bed when Morgan’s wife entered carrying a tray. “The doctor told me you wanted to stay in here,” she said with a tired smile. “But I was hoping you’d at least take some supper.”

Jessie stirred and sat up. “What time is it?” she muttered.

“It’s almost nine. If you change your mind, there’s a bed waiting for you, and a bath if you’d like one.” Cassandra placed the tray on Jessie’s lap. The hot beef stew, buttered bread and cold milk looked delicious.

Jessie murmured her thanks and began to eat. She was ravenously hungry, but almost too exhausted to chew.

Cassandra moved a straight-backed chair close to the foot of the bed and sat down, facing Jessie. Now that Morgan’s wife was no longer terrified, she
looked prettier than ever. Her soft auburn curls framed a delicate face and sparkling cornflower eyes. When she glanced toward the lamp, its light revealed a trail of freckles across her pert nose.

“I left some clothes in your room. The dresses haven’t fit me since the twins were born, so you’re welcome to keep them.”

“You’re very kind to me, especially after all the trouble I caused you. I could have gotten your whole family killed.”

Cassandra shook her head. “Don’t punish yourself, Jessie. I’m very aware of what you did for us last night, leaving with those men, getting them out of the house so they wouldn’t hurt the children. You’re a brave woman.”

“And then I almost got Morgan shot, too. He could have been the one lying here, or maybe worse, if Matt hadn’t—”

“I know.” Cassandra reached across the corner of the bed and laid a hand on Jessie’s knee. “Morgan told me how Matt took the bullet for him. All we can do now is be thankful he wasn’t killed.”

Jessie stared down at her hands, fighting tears.

“You must love him a great deal,” Cassandra said softly.

“I do. But I’ve been such a reckless fool. What if he won’t forgive me?”

“I can’t imagine that happening, my dear.” Cas
sandra rose to her feet. “If you’re determined to stay here with him, I’ll bring you a quilt and a pillow. Is there anything else you need?”

“Thank you, not a thing. You’ve already done so much, I— Wait! There is something! I’ll need to write a note to the sheriff so the doctor can take it to Sheridan tomorrow.”

“You’ll find paper, pens and ink in that desk next to the window. But for heaven’s sake, get some rest, Jessie, before the doctor ends up with two patients on his hands instead of one!”

“I will,” Jessie promised, using the bread to sop up the last morsel of delicious stew. “But first I need to write down what happened. If I go to sleep, I might forget something.”

After Cassandra had bustled out with the tray, Jessie sat down at Jacob Tolliver’s desk and began to write. The pen scratched furiously away, one page, then two, then three. She could only pray that the sheriff would believe her. Even after what she’d witnessed it would be her word against Virgil’s. But this time she would have two powerful allies, Matt and Morgan.

By the time she’d finished her letter, Jessie was drained of strength and emotion. Matt had not stirred, but his breathing was deep and regular, and the color was returning to his skin. God willing, he would recover.

For a long time she stood looking down at him,
her eyes tracing the fine, strong features of his face. What a good man he was, like a white knight in one of her old storybooks, standing firm for truth and justice. Her conduct toward him had been erratic and treacherous at every turn, but Matt had never played her false. If she could be his, she would count every day of her life as a blessing.

When Matt opened his eyes the next morning, the first thing he saw was Jessie, sitting in the chair beside the bed. Her eyes were bloodshot and rimmed with deep shadows. Her hair was matted on one side, and there was an ugly purple bruise along her jaw. Her dirty, rumpled plaid shirt and denims looked as if she’d spent the night in them, which she likely had.

To him, she had never looked more beautiful.

With effort, he pieced the fragments of the past twenty-four hours into memory. Although some memories were lost in a dark fog, one certainty was that she had been with him the whole time. He remembered her touch, her voice, her spirit strengthening his will to live.

He had been laid on his right side and propped with pillows. Beneath him, his arm had lost all feeling. He struggled to turn himself and felt a jab of pain. He groaned.

Jessie laid a restraining hand on his shoulder. “No,
don’t try to move yet. Wait for the doctor. He’ll be here before long.”

Matt forced his lips to shape the words. “I don’t suppose you’d care to join me in this bed…” he muttered. “I could use some company.”

A smile lit her face. “Not yet,” she whispered. “But soon, my love. Very soon.”

They were clasping hands when the doctor walked in. The first thing he did was to shoo Jessie out of the room. “Get some breakfast and some honest-to-goodness rest. That’s an order, young lady.”

When Jessie had gone, the doctor changed Matt’s dressing and observed that the flesh around the wound looked healthy. The husky, silent Chinese youth who’d come into the room helped maneuver Matt into a sitting position and propped him up with pillows.

The doctor closed his medical bag. “You’re looking better, but you’ve lost a lot of blood,” he said. “You’re to stay right down for the next few days. I don’t want you passing out and opening up that wound. Thomas, here, will see to your needs. He took care of Jacob Tolliver before the old man passed away, and he’s a fine nurse. This is Jacob’s old room, incidentally. I believe he died in this very bed.”

Matt had resolved to forget any possible connection to the Tolliver family. But the doctor’s words triggered a tightness in his chest that refused to go
away. It was still there an hour later after Thomas had taken away his breakfast and brought a steaming wet washcloth for his face and hands. And the feeling only worsened a few minutes later, when Morgan walked into the room.

“How are you this morning?” he asked, settling into the armchair by the bed.

“Sore as blazes. And I’m afraid you’ll be stuck with me for the next few days. Sorry I can’t make myself useful while I’m here.”

“We’re just happy not to be digging your grave this morning,” Morgan replied. “You saved my life when you took that bullet. I want to thank you for that—and to share something I’ve been saving for a while. This is as good a time as any.”