Wyoming Wildfire (Harlequin Historical) (6 page)

“Hope you don’t mind if I dry my shirt.” She heard the sound of a chair sliding across the floor, toward the stove.

“That’s fine.” She blotted her dripping hair with a towel and finger-combed the tangles out of it. When wet, her hair became impossibly curly, but that couldn’t be helped. Besides, this cocky young lawman, who likely had half the girls in the county chasing after him, wouldn’t care how she looked. To him she was only the sister of a murder suspect and a thorn in his side to boot.

She stepped out of the bedroom to find him standing with his back to the stove. His rain-soaked shirt and vest hung over the back of the chair, steaming lightly in the heat. From his lean hips upward, his
torso was bare. Jessie forced herself to avert her gaze, but not before catching full view of his broad shoulders and tapering, muscular back. In the firelight, his skin was pale gold, marred here and there by white scars that hinted at the dangerous life he’d lived. His light brown hair clung to his head in flat, wet curls.

Heaven help her, he was sinfully, heart-stoppingly beautiful. And she was guilty of ogling him, but only for the barest moment. Her face flooded with color as he turned around to find her staring at the floor.

“You’ve…changed your clothes,” he murmured, his eyes taking her measure from head to toe. She became aware that the flannel shirt she’d donned so hastily was one that had long since grown too small. Worse, her cold-numbed fingers had missed a button, leaving a gap in the most embarrassing place, and she was wearing no camisole underneath.

Mortified, she spun away from him. Her hands shook as she worked the stubborn button into its hole. The worn fabric strained, pulling tight over her breasts and casting her puckered nipples into stark relief. She fought against the urge to rush back into her bedroom and fling on a different shirt. That would only call attention to the problem, making her look as foolish and flustered as she felt.

Summoning her last shred of dignity, she turned around, just in time to catch a fleeting smile on his
face. It was a smile to flutter pulses and break hearts, enhanced by the dimple in his left cheek and the coppery twinkle in his eyes. But Jessie was in no mood to be charmed.

“You must be cold,” she said politely. “I have a few old shirts of my father’s. You can borrow one while yours dries. Frank’s clothes would be too small for you.”

Her voice broke as she realized how easily she’d spoken her brother’s name, as if Frank had just stepped outside to get some firewood or go to the privy and would reappear at any moment. It would take time to get used to the idea that he was gone—the last of her family.

She was truly alone now. The enormity of that realization made her feel as if she’d tumbled into a vast, black pit and was spinning through space with no hand she could clasp to break her fall.

She willed back a surge of scalding tears. But the tremors that racked her body, like an earthquake rooted in the pit of her stomach, could not be stopped so easily. Her breath came in small, dry hiccups as she fought for self-control.

“Jessie—” Matt Langtry’s face was a blur above her, his voice faint and distant. “It’s all right, girl. Holding back will only make things worse.”

Jessie shook her head, unable to release the dark force that pounded inside her like a helpless fist on
a locked door. She wanted to cry—no, to scream, to wail and rant like a madwoman over the injustice of what had happened. She wanted to double her hands into fists and pound the man standing before her. She wanted to bruise his flesh purple, to make him feel the pain she was feeling in every nerve of her body.

She managed one glancing blow to his chest before he caught her wrist and jerked her against him.

“Stop it, Jessie.” His arms went around her, pulling her hard against his bare chest. His embrace was not loving or even tender. It was nothing more than an effort to bring her under control. But as soon as she felt his strong clasp, Jessie realized how much she needed to be held. As she sank against him, the spasms subsided to shivers. She gulped in air, filling her lungs as her taut diaphragm relaxed. A single tear squeezed out of her eye, wetting his cool skin.

To the touch, his body was like sculpted hardwood, smoothed to a satiny sheen. He smelled of clean sweat and strong lye soap, and the crisp dusting of hair on his chest tickled her cheek. His hands rested on her shoulder blades, holding her lightly but firmly. Matt Langtry cared nothing for her, and she hated him for his part in Frank’s death. But right now he was strength, comfort and protection—everything she needed. She huddled against him, seeking refuge.

“It’s all right,” he murmured, patting her awkwardly. “Go ahead and cry, Jessie. You’ll feel better for it.”

But it wasn’t all right, she knew. And she would not allow herself to feel better until she had cleared Frank’s name and righted the horrible wrong done to her family.

Matt’s body was beginning to warm against her. It was time she pulled away, Jessie thought. But she had no will to leave the comforting circle of his arms. His fingers had begun to move, kneading her shoulder blades with a sensitive skill that awakened a moan in her throat. To stifle it, she pressed her face against his chest. His smoky male aroma swam into her senses, making her feel tingly and light-headed. Driven by an impulse she could neither understand nor explain, she extended her tongue and flicked it over his skin. The taste of him was salty-sweet and so intoxicating that she could not resist wanting more. He groaned at her touch and pressed her closer against him—so close that she could feel the hard, bulging ridge of his arousal against her belly. Jessie swallowed a gasp. She had never been this close to a man before or realized she had the power to bring him to such a state. Lord help her, he felt as big as a stallion!

Heat-driven panic shot through her body. Oh, this was wrong in every possible way. How could she be
having these feelings when he’d dealt her such a devastating blow? She had to stop this madness—now!

Before she could summon the will to move, he shifted his hands to her shoulders and thrust her away from him. She stumbled backward, her face burning.

“I—think I’ll be all right now,” she stammered.

His face was impassive, his gaze flinty. “Yes, I believe you will,” he said in his lawman’s voice. “I’ll take that spare shirt now, if it’s not too much trouble.”

“Yes, I’ll get it—and then I’ll warm up some venison stew for us.” She spun away and fled into her own room, where her father’s clothes lay washed and folded in an old wooden chest. She’d put them away for Frank, thinking they might fit when his spindly frame filled out. But now there was nothing to do except get rid of them.

Tomorrow she would bundle up these clothes, along with Frank’s, and take them to the Hawkins family who lived in the next hollow. Their three strapping boys would put them to good use. She would take the old milk cow and the four good laying hens as well. She could hardly expect Virgil Gates to care for the poor creatures. As for the horses, they would fare well enough running free in the mountains. She would keep only Frank’s sturdy pinto and her fleet-footed mare.

But where would she go? How would she live?

She would be leaving here with no family, no
home and no money. The few neighbors who might take her in were as poor as she was, and she dared not risk putting them in danger from people like Virgil Gates and his vigilantes. Ranchers in these parts would jump at any excuse to attack squatters and drive them off their land.

There was one place where she knew she could find shelter. But it would provide little more than a leaky roof over her head. She would be utterly alone there, and the living would be hard.

Never mind, Jessie told herself as she chose a soft flannel shirt of a brown-and-gold plaid that matched the color of Matt Langtry’s eyes. She would deal with tomorrow’s problems tomorrow. Right now, the only person who might be able to help her was waiting in the kitchen; and she had just made such a fool of herself that he probably couldn’t wait to leave.

Her knees turned to jelly as she remembered the warmth of his arms around her, the smell and taste of his skin and that long, solid ridge that had jutted against her belly, sending ripples of liquid heat through her body. The sensation had transfixed her, melting her will to move.

But the marshal, at least, had kept his head. Thank heaven he’d pushed her away. But what did he think of her now? That she was an easy mark who’d offer herself to any man who seemed interested? That she was out to seduce him into helping her clear her
brother? Or did he see her for what she was—a flustered young woman, too inexperienced to know when she’d gone too far?

It made no difference, Jessie told herself. No matter what had happened between them, she’d be a fool to let Matt Langtry walk out of her life. He was the one man who had a vested interest in finding Allister Gates’s real murderer.

Or did he?

She had almost reached the bedroom door when the truth struck her with sickening force. Matt would be bound to answer for the loss of a prisoner in his custody. The incident would go on his record, and there would likely be other consequences as well.

For the death of a murderer, he would probably get no worse than a hand slap.

But for the death of a young man who would have been proved innocent…

Jessie’s legs quivered beneath her as she walked back into the kitchen. A bright, ambitious lawman like Matt would do almost anything to avoid such a blot on his career. She could not count on him to help her.

She could not count on anyone but herself.

T
he top of the crude pine table was worn to a sheen from years of scrubbing. There were no napkins, and the unmatched china dishes were chipped and cracked. But as Matt drank the biting hot coffee and tasted the savory venison stew, he sensed that people had been happy in this little cabin. There had been parents, children, books, animals, laughter and love—all the things he’d missed in his own growing-up years.

Outside, rain battered the sturdy log walls. Water drummed on the windows and streamed over the edges of the overhanging roof. Since there would be no question of his leaving until the storm ended, Matt resolved to take his time, enjoying the warmth of the cabin while he tried to pry more information from his reluctant hostess.

The weather was so black that Jessie had been
forced to light the lamp that hung above the table. The golden light glistened on her damp curls and heightened the porcelain contours of her face. Her eyes were downcast, and a baggy flannel shirt now covered the one he’d seen earlier. The seductive creature with the gaping buttons and tantalizing tongue was nowhere to be seen.

Matt could not deny that he missed her.

He watched as she took small bites of the stew and crusty brown bread as if forcing herself to eat. She’d been through a hellish day, he reminded himself. Under the circumstances, she appeared to be doing all right. But Matt had seen enough grief to know better.

He remembered how she’d trembled in his arms, like a small volcano about to explode. He had meant only to support and comfort her, but the flick of that little cat tongue against his skin had affected him like the touch of flame to spilled gunpowder. The heat had flashed through his veins, igniting a blaze of need in his loins. In an instant he’d been rock hard and aching for her.

Lord, she must have known what she was doing to him. No woman who bred horses could be too naive to know when a man was aroused. So why was she sitting at the far end of the table, buttoned up and glowing like an angel in some old church painting? Blast it, he had a job to do, and Jessie Hammond was driving him to distraction.

Was that what she’d wanted, even planned? What
was going on in that beautiful head of hers? Was she out to win him, divert him or destroy him?

He was damned well going to find out.

“Good stew,” he said, breaking off a piece of bread to sop the gravy from the bowl. “Am I right in assuming you made it?”

She looked up, her eyes reflecting glints of golden lamplight. “Yes. After I shot the deer, skinned it out and cut up the meat. I’m not what you’d call a helpless woman, Marshal.”

“Call me Matt. And, believe me, helpless is one thing I’d never call you, lady. Especially after the way you shot that Stetson off my head. I take it you’ve done most of the hunting around here.”

“Frank had a soft heart. He never liked killing things. Neither do I, for that matter, but sometimes it’s necessary.”

“Was killing Allister necessary?”

Her soft lips parted. Then, as the question sank home, her face went white with shock.

“You think
I
killed him?”

“I’m only asking a question. It’s part of my job,” Matt answered quietly.

She rose to her feet, her hands clutching the edge of the table. “One question doesn’t exactly cover it,” she retorted. “Did I hate Allister enough to kill him? Absolutely! Am I sorry he’s dead? Aside from the consequences to my poor brother, no, not a whit! He
was as treacherous as a rattlesnake! The world’s a better place without him!”

“So, did you kill him, Jessie?”

Her shoulders sagged slightly. “No. I swear by all that’s holy, I didn’t kill Allister, and neither did Frank.” Her head went up, eyes suddenly blazing. “We had nothing to gain by killing him. After the trouble over the stallion, even a fool would know that one of us would be blamed. As for the rifle—”

“That gun makes for some damning evidence,” Matt interrupted her.

“So why in heaven’s name would we leave it behind?”

“Panic.” Matt studied her, leaning back in his chair. He’d gotten to her, all right. She was like a cornered wildcat, eyes flashing, body poised for attack or flight. “Let say, after you learned the rifle had been lost, you sent Frank on ahead with the stallion and went back for it alone. Allister caught you in the corral, one thing led to another, and the gun went off. When you realized you’d just killed a man, you were so shocked that you dropped it and ran.”

She straightened, glaring at him like a teacher about to dress down a backward student. “You know as well as I do that Allister was shot in the back. Whoever pulled the trigger knew exactly what they were doing. And they left the rifle because they
wanted it to be found. Now, are we finished with this silly conversation?”

“For now, maybe you should have been a lawyer, Miss Jessie Hammond. You’ve presented a right smart case for yourself.”

“I’ve done nothing more than point out the truth,” she retorted icily. “I know when I’m being tested.”

Backing off for the present, Matt glanced toward the counter. “I don’t suppose I could trouble you for a piece of that apple pie, could I?”

The glare dissolved into outrage. “Why, you shameless, no-account rascal! First you practically accuse me of murder, and then you expect dessert! I know your kind. I’ll bet your mother must have spoiled you rotten!”

“I’m afraid she never had the chance.”

“Well, I’m not feeling charitable. For your information, I’d rather throw that pie to the chickens than feed one bite of it to you!” She was putting on a brave front but Matt knew she was crumbling inside. Get her to relax and talk, and he might have some chance of getting to the bottom of this mess.

“All right, name your price. I’ll do anything within reason for a piece of that pie—plow the garden, say, or mend that sagging gate on the corral—after the rain stops, of course. You’ll have my word on that.”

“Mend the gate? Plow the garden?” She flung the words back at him, her voice husky with strain. “I
have to leave this place tomorrow! Why should I do anything for Virgil Gates? For that matter, why should I even wash the dishes? I can’t take them with me.”

“In that case, it would be a real shame to leave that pie for Virgil.” Matt fixed her with an appealing gaze.

“You’re right.” Turning toward the counter, she picked up the tin pie plate. The drumming of the rain filled the silence as she held it between her hands, staring down at the flaky, golden crust and the place where two wedges of pie had been cut and removed.

Suspecting she was about to fling the pie in his face, Matt readied himself to duck. At last, however, she placed it on the table and sank back onto her chair. Her stricken eyes pierced him to the heart.

“I made this pie as a treat for Frank. We each had a piece for supper the night we went after the stallion. I suppose it’s a mercy we can’t see into the future.” She blinked back tears, her voice on the verge of breaking.

“Jessie, I’m sorry—”

“No,” she said, cutting off his apology. “Life has to go on, and pies were made for eating.” She picked up her knife, cut a generous wedge and lifted it onto a clean saucer. “This is for you, but only on one condition.”

“Name it.”

“You said your mother never had a chance to spoil you. I’m guessing you had a tough time growing up down Texas way. I’d like to hear a little about it.”

Matt let out a deep breath, wishing she’d asked him almost anything else. “It’s not a pretty story,” he said.

“That doesn’t matter.” She pushed the saucer across the table toward him. “I just need something to take my mind off all that’s happened today.”

“In that case, I can tell some very entertaining lies. Wouldn’t you rather hear those?”

She shook her head. A smile flickered at the corners of her rosebud mouth, but her eyes were pools of melancholy. “I’d rather hear the truth, even if it isn’t pretty.”

“Truth is seldom pretty. At least not the truth that I’ve seen.”

“What a cynical soul you are, Matt Langtry.” She cut a two-finger width of pie for herself. “What happened to your mother?”

Matt steeled himself against the memory. Strange, how razor sharp it was, even after so many years. “I was seven years old. School was out, and I came to find her at the hotel where she worked. She saw me coming and stepped out into the street…and into the crossfire of a drunken gunfight. She died before she hit the ground.”

“You saw it?” Jessie’s voice was a horrified whisper.

Matt nodded. “She was all the family I had. All I’ve ever had.”

“What about your father?” Jessie’s fork lay untouched next to the saucer of pie.

“I never knew him. I was born on the wrong side of the blanket, as it’s so delicately put. Whenever I asked my mother about him, all she’d say was that he was a fine man, and that she’d tell me more when I was older. She never got the chance.”

“So you don’t even know his name?”

“It wouldn’t make any difference if I did. She never told me much, but I’ve always assumed he had a wife and children someplace else. A lot of men came to Texas to buy cattle in those days, and they tended to be lonely after the long ride.”

“You’ve never tried to find your father or his family?”

“No,” Matt lied, denying the forces that drew him like a magnet to the Tollivers. “Even if I knew who they were, why would they want to know me? I could ruin lives just by writing a letter or showing up on their doorstep.”

So why, then, had he gone to so much trouble to investigate the Tollivers? Matt asked himself as he cut a forkful of Jessie’s pie and chewed it thoughtfully. Why had he spent hours poring through county records and old newspaper editions? Why had he gone so far as to hire a private investigator—a retired Pinkerton agent working out of Laramie—to look into the history of the family? Although he’d hired him two months ago, he had yet to hear anything from the ex-Pinkerton man, a distinguished, gray-
haired gentleman named Hamilton Crawford. But in the meantime, Matt had unearthed the fact that Jacob Tolliver had purchased a thousand head of Texas longhorns and driven them north nine months before Sally Langtry gave birth to a son. It didn’t prove a thing, Matt knew. But if Jacob Tolliver wasn’t his father, then it had to be one hell of a coincidence.

“After my mother died nobody wanted to take me in, so I was sent to an orphanage,” he said, thinking of that grim, gray place where laughter was considered a sin. “When I was sixteen I ran away and joined the Texas Rangers—I was a big boy, and I lied about my age. A few months later, they found out how young I was and booted me out. By then I’d learned to ride and shoot. I drifted for a few years before I found work as a town deputy in Winslow, Arizona. After that, it was Silver City, New Mexico, Dutchman’s Creek, Colorado, and now Wyoming. Who knows where I’ll end up next?”

Matt took another forkful of pie. He’d never been one to talk about himself, but he’d just told this little chit his whole life story. What was the matter with him tonight? He felt as if he’d drunk too much whiskey, even though there wasn’t a jug in the place.

“Haven’t you ever wanted to put down roots?” Her stunning eyes focused on him over the rim of her coffee cup. “Surely you must have had a few sweethearts here and there.”

“A few.” More than a few, Matt thought. He liked the ladies and they tended to like him. But he’d never found one who could keep him from moving on. Oh, he’d known some lovely, willing girls. He couldn’t fault them. But how did a man make a home when he had no heritage to build on? Without the example of a father, how did a man learn the love, caring and sacrifice it took to be the head of a family? It didn’t seem right, asking a woman to share his life when he knew so little about his own beginnings.

In all the years of his wandering, Matt had never found a place where he belonged or a woman who made him feel as if he’d finally come home.

“Right tasty pie,” he said, scooping up the last forkful. “I’d say I earned it. For whatever it’s worth, you now know more about Matthew T. Langtry than anyone in the county.”

Her soft lips smiled at him, contrasting sharply with her tragic eyes. Was she the innocent child-woman she appeared to be? Or did those bewitching features mask the wiles of an accomplished actress, capable of lies, treachery and even murder?

The case she’d made for her innocence had sounded convincing. For a while he’d almost bought it. But her logic, he realized, had been too well thought out, the facts too carefully rehearsed. The picture she’d painted for him was too perfect to be true.

Matt knew better than to trust a pretty face, and
Jessie Hammond’s beauty would put a wild rose to shame. All his danger alarms were clanging. He’d be a fool to ignore them.

“Turnabout’s fair play,” he said, rising from his chair. “I’ll help you clean up while you tell me about your own family.”

“Not much to tell.” She began to gather up the dishes and move them to the pan on the counter. “My father’s folks settled Kentucky with Daniel Boone and moved on west when things got too crowded there. My mother was straight from Killarney. She sang the loveliest Irish songs—I’ve been told I look a lot like her. But she wasn’t strong like me. She was always sick with the babies. Most of them she lost. Frank and I were the only ones who…lived.”

Matt heard the catch in her voice, and for a moment he thought she was going to cry, but she tightened her lips, lifted her chin and continued. “She and Papa were good people, and they loved each other. They died four years ago when their wagon went off the road in a blizzard. We found them with their arms around each other. I wanted to bury them that way, but Reverend Smith said it wouldn’t be fitting. So we laid them out in separate coffins. You saw their graves on the hill.”

“You may not think so now, but you were lucky,” Matt said. “I can’t imagine anything better than growing up surrounded by so much love.”

“Yes.” She lowered her eyes, soaped a cracked bowl and placed it in a pan of rinse water. “And now it’s all gone. I’m as much alone as you are.”

The long silence was broken only by the sound of battering rain. Darkness had closed in, and the storm’s fury showed no signs of letting up. Unless he wanted to ride down the mountain in a downpour and spend the night on a rock-hard bunk in the Felton jail, Matt realized, he would be stuck here until morning.