Jane Bonander (21 page)

That was some kind of devotion, he thought as he walked softly down the hall toward the stairs. He slowed his steps at Libby’s room, trying not to imagine her preparing for bed. It didn’t work. He remembered the soft duskiness of her skin, the lustrous richness of her hair as it tumbled around her shoulders. How ready she’d been when he’d touched her….

With a dark curse, he bolted up the stairs and closed himself in his room, cursing the itch she’d caused in him that he couldn’t scratch.

A
week of marriage had passed Jackson’s routine hadn’t changed, much to his disappointment. Daily he wanted Libby. Each time he saw her, he got a funny feeling in his stomach and his heart drummed in his ears. His gaze automatically went to her curves, to the generous swell of her breasts, the roundness of her hips, the long, smooth, graceful line of her neck. He wanted to undress her, kiss her everywhere, spread her legs wide, and make love to her with his tongue. Listen to her sweet moans and thrilling cries of ecstasy. Most days he walked around as randy as a goat.

He’d barely gotten to the jail when Dominic Mateo rushed in, his black eyes wild with excitement.

“You’d better come quickly, Sheriff. Ander Bilboa shot a man on his property last night.”

Jackson grabbed his hat, hurried to his mount, and followed Dominic due east. They rode quickly, their mounts covering the ground so fast that the scenery raced by in a blur. At a line shack on the far edge of Bilboa’s land, Jackson slid from his mount as it came to a stop.

Inside, Jackson found the other rancher bending over the injured man, mopping at some blood at his temple with a wet cloth.

Bilboa gave Jackson a cursory glance. “I should have let him die, the son of a bitch, but killing just isn’t in me.”

Jackson looked down at the man. He didn’t recognize him. “Who is he?”

“Don’t know,” Bilboa answered.

“What happened, Ander?” Jackson continued to study the man, noting that he hadn’t stirred.

“I have this flock of sheep I’ve been hiding. Lately I’ve been spending the night here, just to keep an eye on them. Last night I heard a rider, and when I looked outside, I saw him spreading something on the grass. Sheriff,” he explained, his eyes blazing, “I was so damned mad, I could have killed him. Instead, I fired a warning shot. Unfortunately, it was dark and he must have moved, because I didn’t miss.” He motioned to the prone man’s head. “I grazed him, but the wound is pretty deep.”

Jackson continued to study the stranger. “If you’ve got a wagon, we should take him to town. Bring him to the jail; the doc can look at him there.”

“I’ll give him a hand,” Dominic offered.

With an answering nod, Jackson went outside and studied the strychnine-laced ground. Dissatisfied with the number of tracks that had trampled the site, he started for town.

He was supposed to leave for his parents’ ranch with Libby and Dawn Twilight today. How could he go now, with this new development?

As he rode up to the jail, Vern limped out to meet him.

“Just heard about the shooting. Who was it?”

Jackson shook his head. “I didn’t know him, and neither did Bilboa or Dom Mateo. They’re bringing him here, though, so the doc can check him.”

“Thought that’s what you might do. The doc is on his way over.”

“I’m dropping my horse off at the livery. He needs a good rubdown after the ride we’ve just taken.”

Minutes later Jackson stepped into the jail. Vern was sitting behind the desk. “So we’ll have a prisoner, huh?”

“An unconscious one, but a prisoner just the same. This is the first break in the case.”

Vern studied him. “Aren’t you supposed to leave for your folks’ today with Libby and Dawn?”

“I can’t leave now.”

“ ’Course you can,” Vern argued. “Hell, Jackson, I’m feeling better. I can at least get around, and there’s nothing wrong with my head. Just my leg. The deputy and I can handle an unconscious prisoner, for God’s sake.”

Jackson was uncertain. What if the prisoner regained consciousness? Would Vern know what to do? He should, Jackson reasoned. After all, he’d been the law here for twenty years. Still…

“Let’s see what the doc says. Then I’ll decide.”

Vern shrugged. “Have it your way, boy, but I’d sure hate to see you disappoint that daughter of yours.”

Jackson smiled. “Are you telling me not to take my job too seriously?”

“Naw, I didn’t mean that. I just think I can handle this. If you hadn’t been here, I’d have handled it just the same. The man’ll be a prisoner, Jackson. I’ve had a good many of them over the years. Conscious or not, he won’t cause us any problems.”

Jackson didn’t want Vern to think he didn’t trust his judgment. Overall, Vern was still a good lawman. Still, he’d wait for the doctor’s prognosis.

“Hurry, Mama! We’re waiting for you.”

It was barely dawn. Because of the shooting, they had postponed their trip a day. Jackson had announced at dinner the night before that the prisoner had a concussion and wasn’t expected to regain consciousness for a few days. She knew her husband was reluctant to leave, but she also knew he wasn’t the kind of man who felt he couldn’t be replaced.

The lamplight cast eerie flickering shadows into the kitchen corners. Even in the wavering light, Libby’s worried look was not lost on Chloe Ann.

“Come, now, Libby. You’ve taken care of everything possible. There isn’t that much left to do. We’ll be just fine. Mahalia is wonderful at giving orders, and Corey and I will follow them to the letter.”

Libby dragged her feet. “Oh, but I just—”

“Mama! Let’s go.” From the foyer, Dawn’s voice was impatient.

Chloe Ann gave her a knowing smile. “It won’t be such a bad trip, Libby. Let yourself relax. Have a good time. It might be a while before you get away again.”

Libby drew her cape around her, dreading the ride and the destination. “It would have been better if the two of them had gone on without me.”

That would have been easier to bear, for she knew the trip would suck all of the energy out of her, merely because she’d try so hard to pretend she was having a good time. But she knew that she would die a little every time one of Jackson’s relatives won over another portion of her daughter’s heart.

“Go,” Chloe Ann urged, drawing her away from the kitchen. “They’re waiting for you.”

Reluctantly Libby picked up her valise and went to join Dawn and Jackson in the rig.

A rush of unwanted pleasure flowered in her chest when she saw Jackson, his big tanned hands gripping the reins of the team he’d rented for the trip. Automatic reflex, she thought. No matter how angry or hurt she was, her emotions were the same.

She took the stairs and was startled when Jackson left the rig and helped her in.

“That’s right,” Dawn acknowledged. “You get in the front, Mama. I’ll sit in the back so I can sleep.”

Libby raised an eyebrow. Her daughter the matchmaker. She lifted her eyes, meeting Jackson’s penetrating gaze.

“You would have had a better time without me.”

He snapped the reins, and the team lurched forward.

“Now, how would that look? Why, people would say we’re only a week into our marriage and there’s already trouble.”

She cast him a glance, noting his sarcasm. “Well, there is, isn’t there?”

He concentrated on the road. “Only because you’ve created it. And since you created it, you’re the only one who can change it.”

Knowing he was right, she didn’t answer. Instead, she concentrated on their destination. She would have to act normal, pretending everything was fine between her and Jackson when it was anything but. In the week since their wedding, they had spoken little.

The night he had informed her he would find his satisfaction elsewhere, she’d found herself listening for his footsteps, waiting for him to return. She’d been angry with herself and with him. When she finally heard him, she knew that no matter what he’d been doing, she’d driven him to it. That knowledge made her ill.

He’d stopped at her door that night, and she’d held her breath, half in fear and half in hope … but of course he wouldn’t have asked to enter. He had his pride, and she had let him know in very strong terms that she didn’t give a damn what he did. She pressed one hand to her temple, hoping to ward off a headache. What a superb liar she’d become.

Jackson’s gaze was on her, as palpable as a touch. “With Dawn Twilight asleep, and you lost in your own little world, this is going to be a mighty long ride.”

She nearly groaned. He had no idea. As far as she was concerned, the ride would be the short part. The stay itself would be as long and agonizing as waiting for laundry to dry in the rain.

“I want to make a toast.” Standing at the head of the table, Nathan Wolfe looked at his older son, then across at his granddaughter, and raised his wineglass. “To families lost and families found. May we all be one from this moment on.”

“Amen to that,” Susannah concurred, raising her own glass.

Jackson stood. “Now it’s my turn.”

Libby did note that he’d had a bit of wine with his dinner and seemed to be in a garrulous mood.

He raised his glass. “To…honesty, truth, and trust. May there be no more secrets.”

After making eye contact with his father, he allowed his gaze to settle on Libby, who flushed hot. When they arrived, Susannah had shown them to the room they would share. When she left, they had stared at the bed, discomfort so thick between them that they could have sliced it with a knife.

Although it had been Jackson and Corey’s room, the bed wasn’t even as big as her own, and certainly nowhere near as large as the one Jackson slept in on the third floor of the rooming house.

Now he was spewing words about honesty, truth, and trust. What did he want her to do? She’d been as honest as she dared. She supposed she could inform his family that they didn’t share a bed and that she’d all but encouraged him to take his pleasure elsewhere. Would that be honest enough for him?

She suffered through the remainder of the meal, knowing it was probably delicious but having no appetite at all.

Later, when Jackson was in the den with his father, and Dawn had retired to Katie’s room, Libby excused herself and went to their bedroom. She didn’t care where he slept, but she was taking the bed. And she was
so
tired. She’d fought to keep from yawning all evening. She’d had little sleep the night before because of her worry about the trip, and she had refused to doze off while Jackson drove the team.

After brushing her hair, she slipped into the new cotton lawn nightgown with the leg-of-mutton sleeves and the lace-trimmed collar that Chloe Ann had given her the day she learned Libby was to be married. Libby frowned at her reflection. As if a new nightgown was going to change anything.

She turned and studied the bed, then grabbed one of the pillows and the quilt that was folded at the foot, and put them on the chair. Surely he would get the message.

Leaving the lamp lit, she yawned and crawled into bed, snuggling deep into the warm bedding, but she was too tense to sleep. She knew she wouldn’t be able to close her eyes all night.

Jackson cringed when the bedroom door squeaked open. He poked his head inside and saw Libby in bed. She appeared to be asleep. As quietly as he was able, he closed the door and stepped to the bedside.

His mouth lifted into a wry grin. How could such a passionate, contrary, stubborn woman appear so damned innocent and passive in her sleep? She lay on her side, her lustrous hair fanned out over her shoulder, hiding her arm. Her fist peeped out from among the shiny strands. It was clenched. So, he thought, she couldn’t relax even in her sleep.

Her eyelids had a slightly violet hue, and her long, dark lashes brushed her cheeks. Her mouth, that succulent wine-rich berry, was open slightly.

He’d stripped to his underwear before he noticed the pillow and quilt on the chair. He muttered an oath. Did she expect him to wrap himself up and lie on the floor? He grabbed the pillow, turned out the lamp, and carefully climbed in beside her. Fortunately, even though the bed was narrow, she was one of those people who didn’t sprawl.

Once he was curled up behind her and she didn’t wake, he expelled a long, tired sigh. Hell, he was too tired to seduce her anyway. But she smelled damned good. What was it about women? They wove some sort of spell over him simply by being alive, breathing, secreting some sort of magic elixir that drove him wild. Especially this woman.

Fool that he was, he thought about her dark, secret places, hidden from him during the day by her staunch reserve and her practicality.

His nose nuzzled her hair. For at least the hundredth time since their wedding, he envisioned her naked. It hadn’t been enough to make love to her, for they’d been fully clothed. He wanted to be there when she undressed, when she stood before the washstand and bathed herself. When she bent to wash her legs, exposing her breasts and her bottom.

He wanted to make love to her from behind, thrusting deep while he fondled her nipples. He wanted to hear her cries of pleasure again. And again. And again.

Muttering a quiet curse, he rubbed his hand over his face to dispel his dangerous thoughts. He could do it. He’d learned to sleep standing up, for God’s sake. He’d learned to sleep waist deep in mud. He’d become adept at catching quick naps in some of the most squalid situations. Surely he could sleep here now. He was in a bed. A warm, clean bed. The problem, of course, was that he was lying with the first woman who had made him itch in a very long time.

And as he lay there, his arm around her and his fingers grazing her stomach, an old instinct surfaced, one that he hadn’t felt since his marriage to Flicker Feather. He cursed again, wondering if he should tell Libby what he knew. He was pleased, but he was certain she wouldn’t be.

Libby came awake slowly, feeling as though she were in a cocoon. The weight of the blankets was heavy, but somehow it felt cozy. She knew that if she stretched, her feet would touch the cold bedding at the bottom of the bed, so she bent her knees, stretching her toes backward.

They collided with a firm, warm, hairy calf. Startled, she tried to sit up, but the weight that she’d thought was the bedding turned out to be a thickly muscled arm. Her attempts to remove it were futile, for he appeared to be deep in sleep, and truly the last thing she wanted to do was wake him.

She stayed as still as possible, barely breathing, while she pondered her situation, unaware that her fingers had touched him until she encountered the hard muscle in his upper arm.

Cursing mildly, she quickly withdrew her hand, but remembered how often she’d gazed at his strong forearms and wondered if the hair was stiff and prickly or soft. Curious, she ran her palm over it, surprised at the texture. It was neither soft nor stiff, but somewhere in between. And, oh, my, his flesh was so firm. She recalled how some of his veins had bulged as he worked, looking like rivers of granite.