Never Marry a Cowboy (18 page)

A
s he walked along Fortune's dusty street, Christopher Montgomery thought he'd known what to expect in Texas. After all, when Kit put his mind to it, he could paint a detailed portrait with words and his brother had often written to him about life in his new home. Kit had told him a great deal in his letters. He had also omitted quite a lot.

Christopher had stopped by the jail, surprised to find it locked. A peek through the windows had assured him that no one was inside. He hoped Kit wasn't in pursuit of some dastardly outlaw. Now was not the time for his brother to get himself killed.

He stepped onto the planked boardwalk. It echoed with other men's heavy treading, but Christopher had learned at an early age to walk quietly and with dignity. Aware of the wide-eyed stares, he resisted the urge to let anyone know that he noticed them. With his handkerchief, he dabbed the sweat from his brow. A man could expire from the heat alone in this state, a little fact Kit had failed to mention along with the dust, the mosquitoes, and the air that hung heavy with a suffocating dampness.

Christopher walked into the saloon. Despite it being the middle of the afternoon, the establishment was filled with men who sat at tables while drinking and playing cards.

“Wyndhaven?”

He turned, relief sweeping through him at the sight of a familiar face. “Bainbridge.”

Leaning heavily on a cane, Harrison Bainbridge walked toward him. Christopher had hated hearing about Bainbridge's unfortunate incident with the jayhawkers.

Bainbridge firmly took his hand and shook it vigorously. “Good God, what brings Viscount Wyndhaven to my door?”

“I'm attempting to locate Kit. He wasn't at his office so I thought he might be here.”

Surprise flitted across Bainbridge's face. “Actually, he's in Galveston.”

“Galveston?” Christopher scoffed at life's ironies. “But our ship docked there.”

“Our?” Bainbridge inquired.

Christopher cursed his stupid tongue. He must remember to take care so he could avoid lies in the future. “I brought my valet, of course.”

Bainbridge nodded politely, but his eyes held skepticism. “Of course. Would you care for something to drink?”

“That invitation sounds marvelous. Port, if you have it.”

Bainbridge laughed heartily. “I don't.” He snapped his fingers, and a young woman stopped walking across the saloon. “Lorna, bring me a bottle of whiskey
and two glasses.” Bainbridge waved his hand toward a vacant table in a corner. “Let's sit over here.”

Christopher took a chair and averted his gaze out of respect for his brother's friend. He had no desire to make Bainbridge uncomfortable with his presence, and he remembered him as a proud man. He did not wish to embarrass him by witnessing his clumsy attempt to sit.

Christopher watched the woman saunter over, her eyes brightening and her smile widening as she saw him. She set the whiskey and glasses on the table before sidling up next to him. Her perfume was overpowering, almost eliminating the odor of tobacco and liquor.

“I didn't think you'd come see me now that you was married,” she said as she tiptoed her fingers across his shoulders.

“Lorna, this man is not the marshal. He's his brother,” Bainbridge explained.

Her features crumpled into disappointment. “Oh. But he looks just like the marshal.”

“Not if you look closely enough,” Bainbridge assured her.

She narrowed her eyes, and Christopher resisted the urge to squirm under her scrutiny.

“Reckon you're right,” the woman said. “He looks kinda dandified, don't he?”

Christopher cleared his throat. “I am not accustomed to being spoken about as though I were not present.”

Bainbridge chuckled. “You'll have to show him a bit more respect, Lorna. He's a viscount, one day to become an earl.”

“How come you keep changing your name?” she asked, her brow furrowing.

Shaking his head, Bainbridge said gently, “Never mind, Lorna. See to my other customers. I need to speak with him privately.”

As soon as she was out of hearing, Christopher mumbled, “Kit got married.” The words came out as a fact. He'd suspected as much, but he hadn't dared trust his instincts.

“You knew,” Bainbridge said as he began filling the glasses. “Kit told me you two often know each other's thoughts.”

“I sensed that he was in love.”

Bainbridge jerked his gaze to Christopher's. “In love? Are you certain?”

“Relatively so.” Christopher pointed to the glass, filled to the rim with whiskey that was now cascading over the sides, creating a waterfall. “You've over-poured.”

“Damnation.” Bainbridge slammed the bottle on the table. “When did you get this impression?”

“Some time back. I can't remember exactly, a few days, a couple of weeks. But I also know he's unhappy.”

“Of course he's not happy. I warned him against treading into this marriage.” Bainbridge picked up the glass and downed the amber liquid in one long swallow. “His wife is dying.”

Christopher sighed deeply. “Then why did he marry her?” He held up a hand. “No need to answer that. My brother has a habit of playing Good Samari
tan. A shame he never reveals that side of his nature to our father.”

“It's more of a shame that he bound himself to vows that could cause such misery,” Bainbridge said.

Christopher listened to the tale of his brother's marriage with a mixture of grief for all the suffering his brother would endure and relief because in the end, the outcome would be for the best.

“So he took Ashton to Galveston for a wedding trip as though accepting her as his bride wasn't sacrifice enough,” Bainbridge finished.

“I didn't feel his presence when I was in Galveston, but that's not unusual. We seem unable to control what we pick up from each other.”

“Still, I hate hearing that he may have fallen for Ashton. After Clarisse—” Bainbridge stopped abruptly, looking decidedly uncomfortable.

“I know how my brother felt about Clarisse. Dear Lord, he has fresh flowers placed upon her grave daily.”

“So that's where his money goes,” Bainbridge murmured speculatively. “He never would say.”

“He also had a marble statue of a guardian angel made for her. It's exquisite, a true work of art. I'm certain he paid handsomely for it.”

“Kit never cuckolded you, Wyndhaven.”

Christopher had always envied his brother the friendships he'd developed that allowed those he cared about to defend him unconditionally as well as to call him by his first name. “I never thought he had or would. My brother is a man of honor, regardless of what Father perceived him to be.”

Bainbridge narrowed his eyes. “What brings you here?”

“I have some news to impart, and I thought it best done in person.”

“Not bad news, I hope.”

“To be honest, I'm not sure how Kit will take it.” Unease settled around him. “Have you any notion as to when Kit planned to return?”

“I only know he was going to take Ashton to Dallas before he came back to Fortune. I suspect that he could return at any time.”

Christopher sighed. “Then I suppose my best plan of action is simply to wait here.” He stood. “If you'll excuse me, I need to check on some other matters. It was good to see you, Bainbridge.”

“You'll have to come to my home and meet my wife and daughters.”

“If time permits, I'd like that.” He gave a perfunctory nod and headed out of the saloon.

The interminable heat blasted into him. Kit had been sent to hell. As if the weather weren't bad enough, if he was not mistaken, there were no theaters, museums, or any semblance of civilization within miles. Kit had so enjoyed the arts.

Christopher strolled along the boardwalk toward the south end of town where he'd taken a room at a boardinghouse. Although a fine establishment, it was not the type of inn in which he was accustomed to staying when he traveled. But then little here was familiar. He would be glad to be gone.

He walked past the general store. Without warning,
a sharp pain bounced between his temples. Slamming his eyes closed against the agony, he staggered and found purchase against the building. Breathing heavily, he waited for the torment to pass.

“Just past noon and you're already drunk,” a sharp feminine voice chastised.

Forcing his eyes open, he twisted his head slightly to see a woman standing beside him, her hand wrapped around a young girl's arm while the fingers on her other hand were holding a squirming young man by his ear.

“I saw you coming out of the saloon,” the woman said, accusation reflected in her blue eyes. “I don't know why the people of this town saw fit to make you marshal, or why I'm turning to a womanizer with this problem. Reckon because I got no choice.” Without releasing the young man's ear, she thrust him toward Christopher.

“Ow! Ow! Ow!” the lad cried, wincing.

“I want him locked up for the night,” the woman commanded.

Christopher realized belatedly that she'd mistaken him for Kit. “My apologies, madam, but I can't—”

“You sure can, and you'd better. Take him!”

The woman's blond hair was askew, falling from her tightened bun, and her eyes blazed with fury and defiance. Deciding that the path of least resistance was the best course, Christopher wrapped his hand around the young man's arm and pulled him beyond harm's way. The shrew seemed in no mood to accept the truth. He straightened, grateful the
pain at his temple had finally subsided. “What's his offense?”

“He was unbuttoning my Lauren's bodice, trying to…”—the woman blushed—“take advantage of her innocence. She's only fourteen.”

He gave a brisk nod. “I shall handle the matter posthaste.”

“See that you do, or I swear I'll have the town council throw you out of office.” She trudged away, pulling her daughter behind her, a girl who glanced over her shoulder and gave the boy a forlorn look.

“Who was that termagant?” Christopher asked of no one in particular.

“The Widow Fairfield,” the lad answered.

Christopher directed his attention to the young man. “How old are you, lad?”

The boy angled his chin defiantly. “Fifteen, and I ain't afraid of jail.”

“I'm not going to put you in jail for being curious, but wait until you're sixteen before you unfasten any other bodices. Make certain the woman is older or a sporting sort who is willing to take money to satisfy your natural curiosity.” Christopher released his hold. “Now, be off with you.”

He watched the lad dart away. Amused at the situation, Christopher crossed the dusty street. In England, he'd never had the occasion to be mistaken for Kit. They had seldom ventured into the same social circles. It was a startling revelation to be spoken to as though he were little more than a gutter rat,
but it was something he would no doubt grow accustomed to.

He walked into the boardinghouse and strolled to the room he'd acquired on the first floor in a corner that faced the street. Quietly, he opened the door and entered the bedroom that he was already beginning to loathe.

Gazing out, his father sat in a padded red velveteen covered chair by the window.

“Is he coming?” his father asked, his laborious words slurred, a result of the second stroke he'd suffered on the ship coming over. The first incident had happened at Ravenleigh. Christopher had debated the wisdom of bringing his father, but the man had exhibited a remarkable recovery. Christopher had been naïve enough to think it would continue, and when his father had stubbornly insisted on coming, he had not had the heart to deny his request.

He came to stand before his father. Out of habit, he planted his hands behind his back, just as his father had taught him. “It seems Kit has married. He's in Galveston on his wedding trip.”

Slowly, torturously, his father looked up at him. “Don't…tell him.”

Pity for his father swelled within Christopher. He'd agreed that he'd keep his father's presence here a secret so as not to cause him embarrassment by revealing his condition. His father was such an incredibly proud man. Had always been so.

“He has a right to know, Father.”

“Damn you.” His father turned away.

Christopher sighed wistfully. He was no doubt damning them all.

A
shton had a shadowy memory of the stagecoach tumbling end over end, bouncing her unmercifully as she slid across the floor toward the open door…

But she couldn't remember how she'd been thrown clear, how she'd landed in a tangle of brush with only bruises and nothing broken, or how she'd managed to find Kit. He was unconscious, the blood flowing from a deep gash near his temple matting his hair. Thank goodness the foliage in this area was thick, and she'd had to shove him only a short distance to hide him beneath the brush.

She was stretched out beside him, trying to conceal them both from the men who were trampling near the stagecoach that now rested on its side. She'd pulled some branches in close behind her to shield them from the outlaws. Darkness would settle soon, providing additional coverage.

As quietly as she could, she'd torn off a section of her petticoat and now held it against Kit's head. She felt his warm blood seeping through the cloth. Would
the wound never stop bleeding? Somewhere she'd read to apply pressure to stop blood from flowing and force it to clot. She knew a head injury usually bled a great deal but she couldn't remember the reasoning. Her thoughts were as scattered as the luggage that had been on top of the stagecoach.

She fought off the panic that threatened to consume her. She also knew she needed to wake him shortly because he'd certainly taken a blow to the head, but she couldn't risk him making any noise until the robbers left. Why wouldn't they just take what they wanted and leave?

“Hey, Jasper, there's one still inside here, but I think he done met his Maker.”

“Damn it, Morton, I ain't interested in anyone inside the coach. I want the man who was up on top.”

“The driver's over there but he's got a busted head,” Morton said.

“Not the driver, you idiot,” Jasper said. “I swear you got nuthin' under your hat but your hair. I want the man that was shootin' at us. I dadgum guarantee that he was that marshal we met up with in Fortune.”

Dread rippled along Ashton's spine, and she slowed her breathing until it was almost nonexistent. A coughing seizure now would doom them both.

“But he said he don't use a gun,” Morton pointed out.

“He said he don't wear one!” Jasper yelled, and Ashton heard a thud. He'd obviously thrown something against a tree in his anger and frustration. “A rifle ain't something you wear, and he sure as hell was
shooting it like a man who knew how to use one. He killed two of my men and shot me, to boot. I want him found. Whether he's alive or dead, I'm stretching him out for buzzard bait.”

Ashton's heart sank as she wondered if these men were the ones Kit had brushed off as merely trying to murder a floor. Now, their leader seemed intent on killing him slowly and torturously.

“He's gotta be dead, Jasper. I seen you shoot him,” Morton said.

“I want his body!” Jasper cried. “Find his goddamn body so I know he's dead.”

“We could have more fun with him 'iffen he was alive,” someone said.

“We sure as hell could,” Jasper said, “and we will, but you gotta find him first! So stop your jawin' and start lookin'.”

Kit rolled his head and groaned. Ashton slipped her trembling hand over his mouth, pressed her lips to his ear, and cooed softly, “Shh. Shh.”

“Hey!” another man yelled. “Look what I found hiding in the bushes.”

Ashton's heart thudded against her ribs and her throat constricted. She squeezed her eyes shut as though not seeing the outlaws would stop them from seeing her. She heard branches snap and leaves rustle as someone cleared away some brush. She held her breath.

“What'd you find? Is it that marshal?”

“Nah, it's the strong box.”

She jerked when a gunshot exploded nearby.

“And lookee here. Full of money, just like we heard it would be. That sure was a smart idea you had, Jasper, cutting down a tree so it blocked the road.”

“That's on account of I'm a smart man, which is the reason I lead you bunch of no goods. I didn't want to take no chances on the driver not stopping so I give him a reason to have to stop. Now, you start splitting up that money even like,” Jasper said. “Everybody else search for that marshal.”

She heard the men thrashing through the brush and foliage. How long before she and Kit were discovered? She couldn't determine the extent of his injury while those dreadful men were prowling around.

“Well, well, what have we got here?” someone asked. “This bag's got women's clothes in it.”

Ashton's stomach clenched. Although she was more worried about what they would do to Kit, she also realized they would not be very kind toward her. She could not bear the thought of one of those men touching her.

“You think there was a woman in the stagecoach that maybe helped that marshal get away?” Morton asked.

“Either that or someone had strange dressing habits. Dammit!” Jasper spat. “This ground ain't good for marking tracks, but they can't have gotten far. Mount up. They'll be traveling on foot and he's wounded. We ought to find 'em before the sun sets.”

Ashton heard horses whinny followed by the pounding of hooves over hard ground. She pressed her cheek against Kit's. She wondered how diligently
the outlaws would search and for how long. She had to find a safer place to hide Kit.

She didn't care about herself. Her time was already limited, but he had a lifetime ahead of him. She intended to ensure that he lived to enjoy every moment of it.

 

Kit awoke groggily, his head aching with an intensity that he thought would kill him. He was surprised it hadn't already. It had succeeded in blinding him. All he could see were blurry shadows, gray and black, shifting and swirling.

His mouth grew dry and tingled. He swallowed down the bile burning his throat. He was queasy, but he needed to find Ashton. She shouldn't walk along the shore by herself or wade out into the water when she couldn't swim.

“Lie still,” a soft voice commanded.

“I'm blind,” he croaked.

“I don't think so. We're in a cave. It's very dark in here because it's night. The men who chased down the stagecoach are looking for you.”

Jarring pain thrummed between his temples as he laid his head back on the hard ground, trying to remember what had transpired. “They took exception to my killing them.”

“The dead ones aren't after you. The live ones are.”

“Live outlaws can be a bit more dangerous.”

He heard a strangled laugh. “Are you teasing me?”

He didn't think so but the words slid from his mind as soon as he spoke them. What had he told her? “Water?”

“There's some in the canteen.”

He heard her movements, felt her lift his head slightly as the canteen touched his lips. The water was cool and incredibly welcome, but he limited himself to a few sips, afraid he was going to be sick. With a weak hand, he pushed the canteen away. “Drink.”

“I already did. I found some jerky. Do you want some?”

Nothing had ever sounded so unappealing, although at this moment the mere thought of the finest pastries in all of England made him nauseated. He just wanted to sleep. “No.”

He felt sweet lips brush against his cheek and raindrops slide toward his jaw.

“Kit, I'm so afraid.”

He fumbled in the dark until he found Ashton's hand. He brought it to his lips and skimmed his mouth over her slender fingers. “You're stronger than you think, sweetling.”

Unfortunately, he was weak, too weak to ward off the oblivion of unconsciousness.

Ashton studied the silhouette of her husband. She didn't dare build a fire, and the stars and moonbeams provided so little light. His earlier words had made little sense. The blow to his head had no doubt addled his brain. She could only hope that he hadn't sustained a concussion or that the blow hadn't caused permanent damage to his reasoning powers. She'd have to wake him periodically so he wouldn't go into an everlasting sleep.

This afternoon, pride and fear had warred within her. Pride that he'd dared to face the outlaws against
insurmountable odds. Overwhelming fear that they would kill him.

She thought of the three innocent men who had died today: the man who had been inside the coach with her, the driver, and the man who had ridden with him. She didn't even know their names and had been unable to take the time to give them a decent burial.

She shivered. The cave reminded her of a tomb, cold and damp. They were near the opening where the air was fresher. If she heard anyone approaching, she'd pull Kit farther back into the cave.

Her stomach rumbled. The jerky had been less than satisfying, but it was something to gnaw on through the night. Tomorrow she'd have to figure out how to use Kit's rifle. She'd located it and used it as a staff to support herself as he leaned on her while they walked away from the stagecoach.

She was fortunate he'd maintained consciousness for as long as he had. Once they'd entered the cave, he'd collapsed as though he'd only been waiting for them to reach their destination.

She heard him mumble and returned her attention to him. Part of her heart wished she'd never married him, yet she would not trade a single moment of their time together for a promise of immortality. She did not regret their last night together. She had never felt such completeness. Her love for him had transcended all boundaries, physical and emotional.

She only regretted that he'd paid such a high price for his generosity. Yet in the end, he'd been unable to give her everything because she could give him nothing, nothing but promises on the wind.

The pain ripped through her. If he clung to any memories of her, they would always be bittersweet. She wished she could return to him a portion of all that he'd given her.

She stroked her fingers along his cheek, wanting to offer him comfort. His wound had ceased its bleeding, and she'd wrapped a strip of her petticoat around his head. How lucky they were that the bullet had only creased his brow.

“Clarisse?” he rasped.

Her heart tightened unmercifully as he whispered his love's name. She leaned low and forced the painful words past the knot in her throat. “I'm here.”

He scoffed. “You can't be here. I killed you.”

She stilled, a frigid wind seeming to sweep through her body creating a numbing chill deep within her. With suddenly cold fingers, she cradled his face. This man was her husband, her Kit, her love. Surely, delirium made him utter such ugly words. “No, no, you didn't kill me. I was sick—”

“I think Christopher suspects what I did, but don't confirm it, don't tell him. He is a man of too much integrity. He'd never forgive himself for sending for me, for being generous and giving me a moment alone with you. One moment when I wished for a thousand.”

She felt her mouth move, silent words searching for a voice that she no longer possessed. Her chin trembled, her throat constricted. She pushed the question out. “What exactly did you do during that moment, Kit?”

“I killed you.” His answer echoed through the cave, resounded through her heart.

Sitting up slightly, he wrapped his hand around her arm. “Don't tell Ashton, either. Her innocence is a balm to my eternal regret. You'll meet her soon. I wish it were otherwise, but she is ill as well. She will be a lovely Christmas present. Another angel to fill the heavens.”

He dropped his hand to his side, and Ashton realized he'd lost consciousness. She scooted away until her back hit the wall of the cave. She brought up her knees, wrapped her arms tightly around her legs, and began to rock. Delirious. He was simply delirious.

He hadn't truly killed Clarisse. He had loved her. Perhaps he only thought he had killed her. Maybe he somehow felt that he was responsible, blamed himself for the disease she'd contracted. But his conversation referred to an action he had taken. What had he done? If he thought he'd killed her, how had he done it?

She remembered the angel he'd had carved for Clarisse and the flowers laid on her grave daily. Love, not guilt, motivated his actions.

She had never dreaded death more than she did now. How would she survive eternity if through death she learned that the man she loved was a murderer?

 

Ashton watched the sunrise through the small opening to the cave. Her swollen eyes burned from lack of sleep. Her mind tumbled over Kit's words. Surely he hadn't meant to imply that he had killed Clarisse.

But she was also haunted by the words he'd spoken on the balcony their last night in Galveston, words that her grief had not fully absorbed until now.

I will not be responsible for the death of another innocent.

Another
innocent.

Her heart had been breaking, and she hadn't questioned who the first innocent had been. Was it Clarisse? Or was there someone else? Someone killed in an accident?

Her body ached as she rose and approached the mouth of the cave. She heard thunder in the distance. She didn't welcome a storm, although the rain would provide water.

She knelt beside the small bundle of items she'd hastily gathered. She removed the canteen that she thought had belonged to the stagecoach driver. She and Kit had sipped what little water it had originally contained. Now she was incredibly parched and knew Kit would be thirstier. His voice carried a rough, scratchy edge to it. He'd spoken so often while unconscious. Fortunately, his low mumbling had not echoed within the cave and had not caught the attention of any wandering outlaws.

She glanced over her shoulder at him. His thoughts had seemed scrambled, darting between the past and the present. At one point, he'd told her he was craving the taste of bark from a tree. Another time when he'd awakened, he'd asked her how she enjoyed Ravenleigh, as though they were visiting his home.

Perhaps it was only the loss of his first love that had led him to state that he'd killed her.