Patricia Potter (48 page)

“You won’t last a week out there with that hand,” Sullivan had persisted. “You have a death wish? Go try.”

Lobo knew he was right. He’d looked at his heavily bandaged hand with bleak eyes, and an emptiness filled him. For a while, during the past few days, he had hoped…

He hadn’t known how he might reconcile his reputation with Willow’s safety. But he had thought perhaps he could try. But then he had had a good right hand. He could protect her. Now he couldn’t protect anyone. Even without a reputation, even as a plain rancher, he couldn’t protect her.

His ability to defend himself, to provide for himself, had always been his one strength. Now he didn’t have that. He was less than half a man. So he glared at her, wanting to frighten away that soft look in her eyes. Another day, and he’d have enough physical strength to ride away. He didn’t know where he would go or what he would do.

But Lobo did have something he could leave Willow Taylor. Ever since his “death” had been proposed, he’d tried to find a way to help Willow fulfill her dream of a safe home, and Chad’s of running cattle. He had money, but now that he was “dead,” the problem was getting it.

And then he’d thought of Canton. He trusted Canton’s professionalism. Willow’s friends might try to change his mind about his plan, might try to interfere, but Canton wouldn’t. And Canton had agreed readily enough to do what Lobo requested.

Burying his pride, he asked Canton to write him a will, giving most of his savings to Willow. The remainder would be left to Canton, who would then, for a fee, transfer the money to a bank in San Francisco under the name of Jess Martin. Lobo signed the will with the signature he used at the Denver bank, and the will was predated six days earlier.

At least he would leave Willow something. He didn’t worry about Canton stealing the remainder of the money. Canton had his code of honor, and that included loyalty to one’s employer. Lobo was, however briefly, Canton’s employer.

Now that this particular business was completed, Lobo could leave. If he weren’t there, Willow couldn’t refuse the money, especially when it would give her and Chad the funds to start stocking the ranch.

His body still hurt like hell, and he felt as weak as a newborn wolf cub, but he was ready to ride. And the sooner the better, before he started getting damn fool ideas again. Soft ideas. Hurting ideas.

So he glowered during Willow’s account of his funeral, liking nothing about it; not even the fact that the entire town had joined in a conspiracy of silence to save his life lightened his mood. Lobo was gone, and there was damned little left.

He tolerated Sullivan’s ministrations, his changing of the bandages, in sullen silence. He saw the worry and fear in Willow’s eyes before she left the room, and he felt his heart lurch with love. But he was no good for her. Lobo or Jess, he’d always been trouble, always would be. She deserved so much more.

He tried to move the fingers in his hand and received only agony for his trouble. Damned but he welcomed it; it reminded him of the loss he could expect. It strengthened his resolve.

Tomorrow, he swore to himself. Tomorrow he’d leave.

How many times in the past few weeks had he said the same thing? How many times had he ignored his own warnings? But tomorrow he couldn’t. He had to go. For Willow, he had to go.

Although he knew it would break the heart he so recently and so painfully had discovered.

G
AR
M
ORROW DIDN’T
miss the hostile looks given him as he drove his buckboard onto the Newton spread. He had come alone, without any of his own hands. He didn’t want any more trouble.

The rain was continuing, and it ran off his wide-brimmed hat. A large oilcloth covered the item in the back of the buckboard.

He drew up to the porch, so much like his own, and felt a regret for the past and present. He and Jake and Alex had once had something very rare together. Perhaps he should have told Jake long ago what had happened, but his pride hadn’t allowed it. His best friend in the world had thought he betrayed him, had shot without giving him a chance for explanation, had turned him away after so many years together. The betrayal had blinded him to reason, just as it had blinded Alex.

Because of it, others had suffered. A child. A young girl. A man who had tried to protect them. Gar could find no justification now in his own actions. He was as guilty as Alex. His silence had been as responsible as Alex’s rage.

He knocked, and the Newton foreman opened the door. “Mr. Newton’s expecting you,” he said. The foreman’s gaze had searched him quickly, finding no weapons, before he led Morrow to Alex’s office.

Alex was sitting in his wheelchair behind a desk. His expression was anything but welcoming, but Gar ignored it. He turned to the foreman. “There’s a saddle in the buckboard. Please bring it in.”

When the foreman disappeared, the two men studied each other. Until the funeral it had been years since they’d seen each other, despite the fact that they lived only miles apart. Age had favored neither of them: bitterness and loneliness lined both faces.

They were silent, watchful, as the foreman returned, carrying a heavy saddle.

“This belongs to you,” Morrow said. “Mary meant it as a gift.”

Alex’s mouth gaped open.

“It was why she was at my place that afternoon,” Morrow said heavily. “It was a gift for your birthday. One of my men was skilled as a silversmith. I helped her obtain what she needed. She’d planned it for months.”

Alex grasped the arms of his chair and tried to rise, only to fall down again. “A gift?”

Morrow sighed heavily. “You never gave me a chance to tell you. You shot, and then I did.”

Alex closed his eyes, trying to remember that day, the rage that had filled him. “A gift?” he said again.

“There was never anything between Mary and me, although I’d once hoped there would be…before you and she married. I loved her, but you were my friend, and she loved you very much. I was even glad that if it wasn’t me, it was you.”

“But why…all these years.”

“You betrayed both of us that day,” Gar said slowly. “Me, perhaps I could forgive, but Mary…Christ, she loved you and you dishonored her, made everything so damned dirty.” He hesitated. “I suppose I wanted to punish you for her by letting you continue to believe…” His voice trailed off.

“Christ, Gar,” Alex cried out. “I was crazy that day. And when you never denied it—”

“I didn’t think I should have to…nor Mary,” Gar said. “I was wrong.” He swallowed. “She would have been…so damned…angry at both of us.”

Alex buried his head in his hands.

“She loved you, Alex. She loved you as much as I’ve seen any woman love. She wanted something very special for you.” He hesitated. “Neither of us deserved her, not you her love, nor me her friendship.”

Gar Morrow stared at the man across from him, his friend, his rival, his enemy, and he felt an infinite sadness for both of them. He turned and left.

28

A
fter the funeral, Jess Martin reverted back to his old ways.
Even Willow became wary of his temper. Only Sallie Sue seemed to monosyllabic penetrate the armor he’d rebuilt around himself.

Two days after the funeral he started walking, far sooner than Sullivan advised, but he was like the restless wolf for which he was named, and if he felt pain, his shadowed eyes showed no sign.

At first the rain kept him inside, and then he ignored it. Willow watched him roam outside, watched him try to flex his bandaged hand. His ribs were also bandaged, and Sullivan had told her he could not ride for weeks, not without causing great damage.

She knew he had no intention of staying that long. He flinched each time she came into his room, and his replies to her questions or words were monosyllabic at best, silence at worst.

She asked if he wanted to take this time to learn to read, and he glared at her. She was terribly afraid that he blamed her for the destruction of his hand. And it
was
her fault. If she hadn’t hung so stubbornly to this land, none of this would have happened.

So Willow had her own guilt to live with, and it was so deep that she hesitated to crowd him, to invade his privacy, no matter how much she wanted to touch him and love him and convince him that injured hand or not, he was more man than anyone she’d ever known.

Jess had made no secret of the fact that he would leave as soon as he was physically able to do so. He had already asked her to take him to the hotel in town, but she’d refused, and made sure he had no way to get there. With his hand he couldn’t saddle his horse, nor hitch a team to the wagon, and with his ribs he certainly couldn’t walk the miles into town.

He had, however, insisted on moving into the barn. Brady had moved into town to retake his job as marshal, although he frequently came out to the ranch to see how Jess was, and to do any needed chores.

She was doing nothing less than holding Jess hostage, and he stalked like a prisoner, trying to regain his strength, doing far more than he should. He was trying so hard, Willow knew, so he could leave her.

Because Sallie Sue coaxed him, he would sometimes stay after dinner for the stories. Despite his ribs, he allowed an insistent Sallie Sue to curl up in his lap, and his good arm would rest easily on her chubby good one.

On the fifth night after the funeral, Willow finished the story of Odysseus. He had returned home after twenty years of hardship and killing. Wary after years of misadventure, he decided not to announce his presence before entering the kingdom, and he quickly discovered betrayal. His nobles were quarreling among themselves and stealing from his kingdom.

“Like Mr. Newton,” Jeremy said.

“Maybe,” she conceded, “the quarreling part.”

“But why didn’t Penelope recognize Odysseus?” asked Chad, who, despite his grown-up denials to the contrary, was just as interested in the story as the others.

“He was in disguise. No one suspected who he was,” Willow said in a low, conspiratorial voice. “Only his old dog recognized him.” Willow glanced over at Jess, who couldn’t conceal his interest, though he tried.

“And then what?”

“All the nobles wanted to marry Penelope, but she said she would only marry the man who could string and shoot from the great bow of Odysseus. All the nobles tried, and none could do it. Finally this old beggar tries. Everyone laughs and mocks him….”

Big eyes fastened on her as they all imagined the scene, the big hall, the beautiful Penelope, the bragging gunsl—nobles.

“And he strings the mighty weapon and slowly lets fly an arrow.”

“Odysseus!” Jimmy said.

Willow nodded, deciding not to tell the rest of the story, how Odysseus then killed all the nobles. Once again she silently asked Homer to forgive her.

“And they lived happ’ly ever after,” Sallie Sue recited contentedly. That was always the end to Willow’s stories.

Jess cast her a suspicious look, as if he knew she was withholding something. But in his current mood he wasn’t offering any comments. He gently set down Sallie Sue, said a hasty ’night, and left.

Willow wanted to go after him very badly, but Sallie Sue pleaded with her to say her prayers, and by the time Willow finished and went to the barn, Jess’s door was closed. Tomorrow, she thought to herself. Tomorrow.

T
HE NEXT DAY
was gray and droopy and filled with rain. Willow knew she should be rejoicing. This was the rain everyone had been praying for, the rain that would fill the river. But she couldn’t be happy.

She’d seen the determined look in Jess’s eyes that morning when he came in for breakfast. He was still obviously in severe pain, but nothing she or anyone else could say would still him. He had eaten awkwardly with his left hand, and his lips had twisted into a grimace meant to be a smile only once, when Sallie Sue, sporting a sling on her arm, cuddled up to him. But even that smile, slight and wistful and fleeting, disappeared quickly.

Everything about him seemed to scream he was planning something, and she wasn’t at all surprised an hour later when he stalked out to the barn. She went after him and watched helplessly as he tried to saddle and failed. He had managed to pull on the blanket, but now he stood defeatedly, frustration etched all over his face as his left hand held on to his saddle, which partially lay on the ground.

“Sullivan said you shouldn’t ride so soon.”

“He’s an old woman,” Lobo replied tersely. “I’ve ridden with worse injuries.”

“But now you don’t have to.”

“Don’t I?” He tried to lift the saddle again as Willow mentally started counting to ten.

“You are the most stubborn, pigheaded, unreasonable…”

The saddle fell again, and he swore in frustration. “I don’t suppose you’d help…”

“No,” she nearly screamed at him.

Lobo looked at his hand with such disgust and frustration and hopelessness that she wanted to cry.

All the anger drained from her, and she bit her lip. “I’m sorry.”

He spun around to face her, something he’d been avoiding. “Sorry? Why?”