Only Mine (17 page)

Wolfe looked back up the slope just in time to see Jessica stumble. At first he thought that her clumsiness came from anger. Then he watched her struggle to her feet, take two steps, and nearly go
down again. Something was wrong with her right leg.

“Hold on, Jessi,” Wolfe called. “I’ll help you.”

Jessica didn’t even bother to look back over her shoulder. Nor did she pause in her awkward attempts to get up the steep slope.

With a muttered word, Wolfe sheathed his knife and vaulted into the saddle. He spurred the big mare up the slope. Without bothering to rein in, Wolfe bent over and scooped Jessica up on the way by, holding her firmly against his thigh. When the mare reached the top of the slope, he reined in.

“Sit astride in front of me,” Wolfe said in a clipped voice.

As he spoke, he lifted Jessica over the mare’s chocolate brown mane. The divided riding skirt finally sorted itself out into right and left sides allowing her to sit astride in the big saddle. The intimacy of the arrangement registered instantly on Wolfe’s body, making hot talons of need sink into him. His breath thickened over the kind of words he had never in his life used in a woman’s presence and didn’t want to begin using now.

“Stay put,” he said tightly.

Jessica didn’t answer, but she didn’t try to dismount, either. Wolfe slid off on the right side in a single flowing movement. His hands went to the small, booted foot that poked from the snowclotted folds of cloth.

“Where does it hurt?”

Jessica glanced at Wolfe. She didn’t have to look far. Even sitting on horseback, she had very little height on him. She hadn’t his strength, either. She had nothing but the certainty that she would rather die than go back to being a bright marker on the gaming table of aristocratic marriages.

She would rather die than live as her mother had.

Memory and nightmare twisted suddenly, sending a shudder through Jessica. Before the tremor had passed, Jessica understood that she had one other certainty, as well: Wolfe would never accept this marriage; he would only become more cruel in his efforts to drive her away.

You will rue the day you forced me into marriage. There are worse things than being caressed by a savage. You shall learn each one of them.

Now, too late, Jessica believed Wolfe. Now, too late, she knew there was nothing left to stand between her and the wind.

“Where does it hurt?” Wolfe repeated impatiently.

“It doesn’t.”

Wolfe’s head snapped up. He had never heard that tone from Jessica before, a sound as unemotional and unmusical as stone. Her eyes were the same way. Opaque.

“I saw you limping.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

The flare of temper in Wolfe’s eyes was replaced by uneasiness.

“Jessi?”

Lost in the echoes of her terrifying discovery, Jessica neither heard nor answered Wolfe’s low query. He hesitated, then began probing the soft leather of Jessica’s boot with fingers that were gentle and firm at the same time. He thought she flinched when he pressed deeply against her ankle, but it was difficult to be certain.

“Can you ride?” Wolfe asked, stepping back.

“I’m riding.”

There was no mockery in Jessica’s words, merely
a statement of fact. At the moment, she was riding a horse.

“Jessi, what’s wrong?”

She looked past Wolfe, through him, seeing only the emptiness of the wind, hearing only its low, triumphant cry.

With swift almost vicious movements, Wolfe took up the right stirrup of his saddle. He couldn’t get it short enough for Jessica’s slender foot to reach.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered.

If Jessica heard, she said nothing.

A gust of wind brought the sound of a horse cantering closer. Wolfe glanced up, saw Rafe’s big bay coming into sight, and went back to letting the stirrup down to its former length.

The trail Rafe was following told its own story. A horse going to its knees, a ragged swath cut by Jessica’s body, and the deep gouges where Wolfe’s big mare had plunged down the slope. Jessica’s bloodless face and Wolfe’s flattened mouth told more of the story, but not enough.

“Is she hurt?” Rafe asked.

“Her right ankle is sore, but it’s her pride that took the worst beating.”

Rafe looked at Jessica. She didn’t notice him. Nor did she seem to notice anything else. There was a quality about the stillness of her body that made Rafe’s eyes narrow. He had seen men who looked like that, men pushed to their limits by pain or starvation or war.

“She’s finished,” Rafe said. “There was a good camping spot back about a mile.”

The wind twisted again, drawing a veil of snow over the cold land.

“We’re going over the Great Divide.” Wolfe
vaulted into the saddle behind Jessica. “See that Two-Spot doesn’t get lost. The pack horses are used to following him.”

A touch of Wolfe’s spurs lifted the brown mare into a trot. A hard arm came around Jessica, holding her in place. Her body went rigid, but she said nothing. Nor did she fight him. She did nothing but sink farther and farther into herself, looking for a way out of the trap in which she had so brutally tangled herself and Wolfe.

She found none but to endure and then endure some more.

I can’t.

And pray that Wolfe would change because she could not.

I can’t.

I must be strong. Just for a bit longer. A few minutes.

The minutes passed.

A few more.

When those minutes passed, Jessica asked herself for a few more, and then a few more, until half an hour had gone by, an hour, then two. Three.

Slowly, a breath at a time, she endured, learning how to live without Wolfe as her talisman, learning how to survive in a world ruled by the soulless wind of nightmare and memory combined.

“W
OLFE,
I can’t believe it’s really you! Caleb said the high passes were buried in snow after the last storm.”

Willow’s husky contralto cry made Jessica’s lips flatten into an unhappy line. She should have expected the bloody paragon to have a beautiful voice. Rather grimly, Jessica waited to see what the paragon looked like, but even when Willow stepped from the house, she was still concealed by the dense shadows of the porch.

“It’s me, all right,” Wolfe said, smiling as he dismounted and crossed the ground with long strides to give Willow a hug. “I’ve brought you a present.”

“Seeing you is present enough,” she said, laughing and holding out her arms.

The clear affection in Willow’s voice and face was matched by Wolfe as he folded Willow close in a gentle bearhug. A dark combination of jealousy and despair snaked through Jessica, shaking her, for she had believed she could no longer be touched by anything but the black wind whispering to her of nightmares that had been reborn in daylight, and memories that refused to remain forgotten.

I would have had a chance with Wolfe but for the bloody paragon. She is destroying me as surely as slow poison.

Jessica stared into the shadow of the porch, but could see nothing of Willow except slender arms wrapped around Wolfe’s waist.

She’ll be beautiful, of course,
Jessica thought bitterly.
As beautiful as this huge meadow and as perfect as those mountains crowned with ice.

Unhappily, Jessica glanced around, measuring the glory of the mountain ranch against the darkness that was condensing relentlessly in her soul, draining color from her life as surely as the slow condensation of night would drain color from the day.

“Come and meet your present,” Wolfe said, smiling down at Willow as he released her.

“Meet a present?”

“Ummm.”

The purring sound of pleasure Wolfe made was a steel-tipped whip flaying Jessica’s raw emotions. She had thought she could feel no greater rage, no greater despair, than she had felt the day she had ridden over the Great Divide.

She had been wrong. She seemed to make a habit of being wrong where Wolfe was concerned.

May the bloody paragon writhe in Hell.

Then Willow stepped into the bright sunlight and Jessica’s breath came in with a harsh sound. The paragon wouldn’t have to wait for Hell. It had already sunk its unsheathed claws deeply in her body. Willow was in the last stage of pregnancy, frankly round with the babe that would tear her apart trying to be born.

Dear God, help her in her time of need.

The silent, involuntary prayer that vibrated through Jessica was deeper and more powerful
than her jealousy. She could take no pleasure in the agony that awaited Willow in childbed. Nor could she hate Willow any longer. Jessica could feel only a terrible empathy with the girl whose fate was to writhe and scream for mercy that never came, a wife’s endless cycle of male rutting and childbed’s torture; and over all, around all, consuming all was the black wind and the disbelieving shriek of the newly damned.

The realization of what awaited Willow made the sound of her laughter and teasing voice almost too painful for Jessica to bear. She watched with helpless agony as Willow took Wolfe’s arm to steady herself across the uneven ground where small patches of snow and mud competed with the green resurgence of life.

When Willow walked past Two-Spot, she looked up at Jessica with curiosity and a quick smile that offered friendship. Jessica smiled in return, but Wolfe didn’t stop or even look up.

“Wolfe?” asked Willow, tugging on his arm.

“Your present is next in line.”

Grinning, Rafe kicked his right leg over his horse’s mane and slid to the ground. When he took off his hat, the sun blazed in his pale gold hair, hair that was the exact color of Willow’s.

Willow stared, made a sound of joyous disbelief, then began laughing and crying and saying Rafe’s name over and over again. Rafe picked her up in a big hug and held her for a long time, saying things that were too soft for anyone but Willow to hear. Finally, he set her down and blotted the happy tears that were streaming down her face.

“Well, Willy, I have to say you grew up to be quite a woman. From what Wolfe told me, you’ve got yourself a fine man.” Rafe paused, then added
slyly, “Sure as hell he’s a potent one.”

Willow flushed, laughed, and swatted her older brother on his broad chest. “Shame on you. You’re not supposed to notice.”

“Be kind of like overlooking a mountain,” he retorted. “When are you going to make me an uncle?”

“In a few weeks.” She smiled up at her older, much bigger brother. “Dear Lord, Rafe. It’s so good to see you! I can’t wait until Caleb and Matt get back from checking the north meadow.”

“I can’t wait, period. I’ll ride out as soon as we’ve unloaded the pack animals.”

Willow slipped her arm through Rafe’s and said, “I’m almost afraid to let you out of my sight. It’s been years.” She rubbed her cheek against his arm and took a deep breath. “Now, introduce me to your wife. She’s beautiful, but I expected that. You always had an eye for beauty, whether it was women, horses, dogs, or land.”

“Red is beautiful, all right,” Rafe agreed, “but she’s Wolfe’s wife, not mine.”

Open-mouthed, Willow spun and stared at Wolfe. Every question she had died unspoken when she saw his bleak, blue-black eyes.

Swallowing quickly, Willow turned to the girl who sat in her sidesaddle so elegantly. She had a delicate, elfin face, aquamarine gems for eyes, and hair whose buried fire rippled and shimmered with every motion of her body. The riding habit she wore had seen hard use, but its fashionable lines and fine fabric spoke eloquently of wealth.

Abruptly, Willow remembered. “Lady Jessica Charteris?”

“Not any longer. My name is Jessica Lonetree. Or Jessi.”

“Or Red?” Willow asked innocently.

“Or Red,” Jessica agreed, smiling slightly at Rafe. “It’s the Western way to have nicknames, I’m told.”

“Get down and come into the house. You must be exhausted. I remember my first trip over the Great Divide. If it hadn’t been for Caleb, I wouldn’t have made it. He ended up carrying me.”

“We came the easy way,” Wolfe said. “Lady Jessica has neither your strength nor your adaptability.”

Willow gave Wolfe an uncertain look, wondering at the edge to his voice.

“I disagree,” she said quietly. “Anyone who came through those moutains riding sidesaddle is stronger than I am.”

Wolfe grunted and said nothing.

Jessica began dismounting, moving stiffly. Before she could put any weight on her right leg, Rafe caught her waist between his big hands and supported her until her left foot was able to take most of her weight.

“I could have managed,” Jessica said in a low voice, “but thank you.”

Only Willow saw the instant of anger before Wolfe brought it under control, just as she had been the only one to see the small, almost involuntary movement he had made toward Jessica when she began to dismount.

“No point in pushing your luck,” Rafe said. “Your ankle still isn’t up to snuff.”

“What happened?” Willow asked.

“She fell off,” Wolfe said curtly.

“It’s nothing,” Jessica said. “A bruise. Nothing at all.”

“Nonsense,” Willow said, seeing the strain on
Jessica’s face. “Come in and sit down. I’ll make you some tea.”

“Tea?” Jessica looked stunned. “You actually have tea?”

Willow laughed. “It’s left over from Wolfe’s last visit. He’s the only one who drinks it.”

Jessica gave Wolfe a shocked look, remembering how many times she had longed for a comforting cup of tea.

“But we had only coffee,” she said faintly.

“Western wives drink coffee. You wanted to be a Western wife. Remember?”

The cool taunt in Wolfe’s words was unmistakable. Rafe’s eyes narrowed as he winced and said something under his breath. But he said nothing aloud. He and Wolfe had reached a tacit agreement where Jessica was concerned: Jessica was Wolfe’s responsibility, not Rafe’s. Rafe didn’t understand what was driving Wolfe, but he was certain that Wolfe wasn’t a cruel man by nature.

So was Willow. With a perplexed look at Wolfe, she took Jessica’s hand.

“Come with me.”

“First I have to care for my horse,” Jessica said.

“Let Wolfe do it.”

“Western wives take care of their own horses. They curry, saddle, bridle, clean the feet of, rub down, and otherwise—”

“Go to the house,” Wolfe interrupted curtly. “I’ll see to your horse.”

“Well, I should hope so,” Willow said tartly. “Jessi has ridden just as far as you have and she hasn’t a third your strength. Plus that ridiculous sidesaddle. I’d like to see how spritely you’d feel if you had to ride that way. Honestly, Wolfe, what’s gotten into you?”

Jessica wondered at the dull red stain on Wolfe’s cheekbones as he turned away and led horses toward the barn, but Willow tugged at her hand, distracting her.

“I’ve never been able to make a good cup of tea,” Willow confessed, leading Jessica firmly toward the porch. “You’ll have to show me how.”

“A paragon who can’t make tea.” Jessica blinked. “Impossible. Breathtaking.” She smiled slightly and shook her head. “Actually quite wonderful.”

“Who said I was a paragon?”

“I did,” Jessica admitted. “With a lot of encouragement from Wolfe.”

“Good Lord. Why?”

“Because compared to me, you are.”

Willow made a rude sound. “You’ve had a very long trip. It must have affected your mind. Not to mention Wolfe’s. I’ve never seen him so edgy.”

“Perhaps a cup of tea would help,” Jessica suggested with an unconscious sigh.

Willow muttered something that sounded like, “A swift kick in the pants might do more good.”

“Paragons don’t think such things.”

The hazel flash of Willow’s eyes was alive with wry laughter. “Perhaps. And perhaps paragons just aren’t caught thinking them.”

The front door opened and closed, cutting off the sound of women’s voices. The men hadn’t been able to hear any real words for the last few minutes, but it hadn’t been difficult to guess what the topic of conversation was—Wolfe’s manners.

Or lack thereof.

After a few moments of silence, Wolfe glanced up from the pack horse he was working on and let out a long breath. Hearing it, Rafe smiled.

“Well, I can see that marriage hasn’t trimmed Willy’s tongue one bit,” Rafe said wryly as he undid the saddle cinch. “She can still tear a mean strip when she has a mind to. Only thing she does better is make biscuits.”

Wolfe grunted.

“Of course,” Rafe said, lifting the saddle one-handed from the horse’s back, “the fact that a man knows he has it coming tends to make it sting all the worse.”

Wolfe spun around, ready to take exception to Rafe’s calm words, but the other man had already turned away. Saddle balanced on one shoulder, saddle bags and bedroll slung over the other, Rafe was walking through the barn door.

Letting out another long breath, Wolfe made another stab at reining in his temper. The whole point of bringing Jessica to the ranch had been to show her how completely unsuited she was to be a Western wife. It hadn’t been to point out how hard Wolfe was being on her. He knew that already.

Just as he knew his plan to make Jessica cry annulment was working. Slowly, surely, day by day, hour by hour, minute by minute, he was wearing down her certainty that she would win the contest of wills with Wolfe.

I shall not tire of being your wife.

Yes, you shall.

With each breath Jessica took, they were coming closer to the moment when she would be forced to admit her defeat and free both of them from the cruel trap of a marriage that never should have been.

Wolfe hoped Jessica would give in soon. Very soon. He didn’t know how much longer he could go on grinding a graceful elf into dust. He had
never felt another person’s pain so clearly. It was worse than being hurt himself, for he had learned to control his own pain long ago, when he had realized that to many people his Indian mother put him beyond the pale of true humanity.

The viscount’s savage.

But there was no way to control the effects of the pain Wolfe was causing Jessica. There was only the knowledge that when the pain became great enough, she would quit the sham marriage between aristocrat and halfbreed bastard.

Nothing of Wolfe’s grim thoughts showed on his face as he worked over the horses, or later when he went to the house and found Jessica asleep in the extra bedroom. In the daylight filtering through the muslin curtains, she looked almost ethereal. Asleep, the fierce will that burned so surprisingly beneath her fragile surface was banked, giving no hint of what lay beneath the delicate features and fine bones.

Broodingly, Wolfe looked at the translucence of Jessica’s skin and the lavender shadows beneath her eyes. Seeing her like this, he could barely believe she had the strength to sit up, much less to defy him when men far stronger than she was would have given up the game long since.

Unbidden, a memory surfaced in Wolfe…a cold day in spring and a creek in flood. Trapped amid the debris was a blue-eyed wolf cub whose back had been broken. The cub had snarled silently up at Wolfe, prepared to die fighting with teeth that had known nothing but a mother’s milk. Wolfe had allowed the cub’s needle fangs to sink all the way to the bone, for it had been the only way to get in close enough for a quick, clean kill, ending the cub’s suffering.

With an effort, Wolfe banished the memory and the chill that had come in its wake. He wasn’t going to harm Jessica physically, much less kill her. The trap they were caught in was less tangled than flood debris. It would spring open at a single word from her pale lips.

Annulment.

Wolfe tore his attention away from Jessica and began looking for places to put the valises and fur blanket he had brought in. The far corner looked promising, but a second look showed that it was occupied by a cradle. Stacked nearby were other tiny pieces of furniture, waiting the for next generation of Blacks to be born.