Wish Upon a Cowboy (27 page)

And she did intend to argue.

Hadn't she explained everything to him? Hadn't she told him all about Blake Wolcott and the danger to the Guild? Didn't she make it clear to him that it was his duty to claim his birthright?

For heaven's sake, why was the man being so stubborn?

She took a determined step toward him.

"Just keep your distance," he warned her and backed off again, looking for, then snatching up, his jeans from the floor.

"Mackenzie—Jonas," she said as he hurriedly got dressed, "we talked about this. You know who you are. You've accepted your heritage…"

He snorted.

"Now you have to accept that it's our duty to marry."

"No, ma'am, I don't," he tugged his pants on and when he was finished, he turned on her, his too-long hair tumbling across his brow, giving him a dangerous look in the early morning light. "I've been married. I won't do it again."

"Marie," Hannah whispered, bringing the dead woman into the room with them.

He winced at the name and turned away.

A sharp tug of worry pulled at Hannah. She gave a quick glance to the bed behind her and wondered if he could have touched her so intimately while still loving a woman long dead. And though she wasn't sure she wanted to know the answer, she knew the question had to be asked.

"Do you still love her?"

Slowly, Jonas swiveled his head to look at her. White sheet wrapped around her body, her golden hair spilled over her shoulders, tempting him to touch it again, entwine his fingers in the silky length of it. Her green eyes glittered in the soft dawn light and the scent of lemon seemed to fill the room, invading his lungs, clouding his mind.

If she left the ranch today, this moment, he would spend the rest of his life remembering her. Missing her. Did he still love Marie—when the only woman he could think about was Hannah?

Damn it, he never should have made love to this woman. He'd known from the start what she wanted from him and known, too, that he couldn't give it to her.

Marriage to him was a poor bet, and by God, Hannah deserved better. No matter what she seemed to think.

Yet, even realizing the depth of the mistake he'd made last night, he couldn't regret it completely. His body still hummed with completion like he'd never known before. His mind still raced with the memories of her response to him. Her soft breath, her sighs, her hands caressing him, her body cradling him.

Never. Not once in his life, had he known such… magic.

Hannah had invaded his life, stolen his heart, and torn his world out from under him. Nothing would ever be the same for him again.

And she wanted to know if he still loved Marie.

"No," he said simply and hoped she'd leave it at that.

He should have known better.

"Then why?" she demanded, stepping closer.

Old angers and frustrations bubbled inside him. She had a right to know, he figured. But that didn't mean the telling would be easy on him. Better to just blurt it out and have done with it.

"Because Marie died," he snapped. "And it was my fault."

Chapter Sixteen

"I don't understand," she said.

Jonas heard the flash of temper in her voice and was grateful for it. This would be easier on them both if she stayed angry. He didn't want to hurt her, damn it. But that was just what he was about to do.

"No reason why you should," Jonas said tightly. Mad at himself for letting things between them get so out of hand, he bit back a curse.

In the distance, thunder rumbled.

Another storm.

Shoving one hand through his hair, he felt his fury mount. Had she been right about the goddamned weather, too? Were his moods really responsible? If so, then he had a hell of a lot more to feel guilty about than he'd ever imagined.

He stalked to the window and stared off into the preÂdawn dusk. Overhead, a few stars still shone brightly, but he wasn't seeing them. Instead he looked beyond them, into the past. To a small cabin in Colorado.

"She was seventeen," he said and sucked in a breath to say the rest. "Pregnant with our first child."

A swell of regret shimmered through him. He shot Hannah a glance and saw disappointment dart across her features before he turned back to stare at the still-sleeping ranch yard.

"There was a horse auction being held in a county about thirty miles from our place. Elias and I, we wanted to go pick up a few for the ranch."

It all sounded so stupid now. Yet back then, at twenty, he'd been determined to prove to his new wife that she hadn't made a mistake in marrying him. That she'd never regret giving up her father's nice house for his little cabin.

"Was it a big ranch?" Hannah asked, bringing him out of his thoughts briefly.

"Would've been, in a few years," he said, nodding to himself. Same thing he said about this place now, he realized. And suddenly, he wanted Hannah to know the plans he'd had. For someone to know that he would have done right by his wife if he'd had the chance.

"Marie was used to fine things," he said, recalling how she'd shuddered that first night in her new home. He'd built that cabin himself and had taken real pride in it until he'd seen it through her eyes. She'd lifted the hem of her dress and stared at the chinked walls and river-stone fireplace with tears raining down her cheeks. The sharp sting of shame stabbed at him again. "I would have made it up to her."

"What?"

"Everything. All she gave up when she married me," he said, squinting into the distance, looking past his reflection in the glass. "She wasn't used to rough living. She hated that cabin," he admitted with a shake of his head. "Hated the loneliness of ranch living. Wanted to be in town again, but"—he turned and noticed Hannah had walked up to stand beside him—"all I know is horses and cattle. A man has to support his wife with what he knows."

She nodded and he saw the sheen of unshed tears in her eyes and wondered idly if they were for him or for Marie.

Taking a deep breath, he blew it out again and turned from the sympathy in her gaze. He didn't deserve it. Staring blankly at the window glass, he shoved his hands into his pockets and went on. "Anyway, before me and Elias left, she asked me not to go. She was seven months along then and scared," he closed his eyes tightly. "But I knew she'd be all right. Knew I could go to the auction and be back before she missed me."

Opening his eyes again, his jaw hardened as old images wavered in front of him. "We bought a few good horses, and then"—he frowned, remembering—"I got to feeling like I should be at home. Like there was something wrong."

Hannah laid one hand on his arm. He hardly felt it.

"Couldn't explain it—not then, not now. Just something inside me telling me to get home. We rode out, headed back, and a storm blew in, making travel hard." Scowling now, he said, "It seemed the more I worried, the harder the snow flew. We had to hole up and wait out the worst of it, Elias telling me the whole time that nothing was wrong. Marie was fine."

He paused and half turned to look at Hannah. Through gritted teeth, he added, "She should've been. But she wasn't. We got home the next day, digging our way through the snow blocking the pass."

He pulled in a long, shuddering breath. "I found her in our bed."

"Jonas…"

He shook his head, desperate now to get it said. Then she'd know. Then she'd understand that despite what he might feel for her, he couldn't take what she offered. Couldn't give her what she wanted.

'The baby'd come early," he said, rushing the words out, unable to stop the flow of memories that were choking him. He hadn't spoken of that night, ever. And releasing the words, the images, brought it all back so clearly, he half expected to turn and find Marie's sightless eyes staring up at him from the bed.

He bit back a groan. "It was a girl," he said, remembering the tiny scrap of humanity he'd buried with her mother.

"Oh, Jonas, stop," Hannah said, stepping in close and wrapping her arms around his middle. Her palms flat against his back, she laid her head on his chest and he felt her warmth trickling into his scarred soul.

He didn't hold her. Had no right to hold her.

"So much blood," he whispered, and for a moment, his mind was awash in the deep scarlet that had stained his bed, his wife, and the child who'd never drawn a breath. "She was alone, because of me. In a cabin instead of town, because of me. And she died birthing my baby. I couldn't get to her because of a storm—a storm I know now that I probably caused. She's dead. Because of me."

Hannah only snuggled in closer, tighter, her hands splayed open on his back, rubbing up and down his spine, drawing out the chill that had hidden inside him for years. Her warm breath puffed against his chest and he felt the slow roll of her tears sliding down his skin.

God, he wanted to hold on to her. He wanted to take comfort for sins long past. He wanted to feel as though he deserved the love, the sympathy she offered.

But he didn't.

Taking her upper arms in a tight grip, he set her back from him, meeting her teary gaze with stone-hard eyes.

"Do you see now? Do you understand?" He gave her a shake that sent her hair flying and loosened the sheet she'd wrapped around her naked body. Slowly, slowly it slipped free and dropped from her to pool on the floor. In the dim light, her skin glowed like fine white china. But in his mind, he saw her lying in a pool of her own blood. Just like Marie.

And the horror that thought brought rocked him to his heels. He released her instantly and turned his back on her.

"I won't get married again," he muttered thickly. "I can't."

A rustle of fabric told him she'd grabbed the sheet again and twisted it around her. Then she laid one hand on his back and he flinched at her touch.

"Mackenzie," she murmured, her voice thick with tears and pity. "I'm so sorry for you. For her." She took his arm and turned him around again to face her. "But I'm not Marie. I like your ranch and living in the country. I'm not fragile. I won't break."

"You don't know that."

Cupping his face with her hands, Hannah met his eyes, stormy with years of old pain, and tried to ease him past those memories into a future they could share and make their own.

"Not every woman dies in childbirth, Jonas," she said.

"Hell, I know that. " he said and cast a quick, uneasy glance at her midsection as if wondering if there was a child already growing within her.

Oh, she hoped so.

"And I'm a witch," she reminded him. "Marie wasn't."

One corner of his mouth lifted into a halfhearted smile that broke her heart. "Witches die, don't they?"

"Yes," she said. "We're mortal, like everyone else."

"Then what's your point?"

"You're a powerful warlock, Mackenzie. You could keep me safe."

"Like I did Marie, you mean?"

"You didn't know then who you were."

"If I had," he asked, his gaze delving into hers, "could I have saved her?"

Hannah breathed a worried sigh and shook her head. She never should have started this line of thought. Now he would plague himself with thoughts of "what if." Choosing her words with care, she said, "I don't know. No one can."

"So your witchcraft is good for nothing."

"You helped Billy," she reminded him.

"That was a small thing." He waved his hand as if brushing the matter aside. And across the room, his hat fell from the table. He frowned at it, glanced at his hand, then shook his head. "That was a burn. He was in no danger."

"We're not miracle makers, Jonas," she said with another sigh. "We're witches, not gods. And not even magic can defeat destiny."

He scowled at her and rubbed the back of his neck viciously. "My father said that, too. Elias told me."

She smiled and moved toward him. "What is meant to be will be. We are meant, Jonas. Can't you feel it?"

Grabbing her hands, he held them tightly, his thumbs stroking her knuckles. "I think you know exactly what I feel, Hannah."

Her breath caught at the swift, pulsing heat that leaped from his hands into hers.

He stared into her eyes and said, "You have to know. I wish things were different."

"They could be if you'd only let me into your heart."

"You're there, Hannah," he whispered and gave her hands one last squeeze before releasing her.

But she didn't even have time to enjoy hearing his words before he added quietly, "Now all I have to do is figure a way to get you out of my heart without killing both of us."

*  *  *

That Afternoon

Eudora stepped off the train, her carpetbag clutched in one tight fist. Turning her head slightly, she waited for Ed Thistlewaite to alight. When he did, she marched toward him and came to a stop just inches from his overÂfed, even dirtier-than-usual person.

"Eudora," he said, "lovely weather we're havin', eh?"

She inhaled deeply, pulling in the cold, crisp Wyoming air. Then, muttering a brief chant for patience, she looked up into Ed's small eyes and said sharply, "Send your telegram to Creekford, you turncoat."

"Turncoat?" he echoed, clearly offended.

How did he have the nerve to stand there looking surprised after the way he'd cozied up to Blake Wolcott?

"You turned your back on your friends and neighbors to ingratiate yourself with Wolcott, didn't you?"

He shifted uncomfortably. A natural bully with no nerve was truly a pitiable sight. "Blake's a great man," he finally managed to say.

"You turned a blind eye when he killed the innocent."

Ed scraped his whiskery jaw with one hand. "He had reasons."

Appalled, Eudora gave him a scathing look that had him backstepping quickly. "Reasons?"

"He's a great man," Ed said again, as if trying to convince himself, this time.

"He certainly thinks so," Eudora said. "No doubt we'll all find out soon whether he's correct or not."

Ed picked up on one particular word in her statement. "Soon?"

Straightening up, she lifted her chin and looked the disreputable man in the eye. "I'm leaving the train now."

Ed looked at her suspiciously. "How do I know you're not just trying to make me leave the train without you?"