Wyoming Wildfire (Harlequin Historical) (8 page)

“Tell me if you want me to stop.” He kissed her again, his hand sliding beneath the hem of her nightgown. Gently his fingers stroked their way up her inner thigh. Her breath caught, then her legs parted to open the way for him. The temptation to pull down his trousers and vent his own urgency was there, but Matt willed it away. If he hurt her he would never forgive himself.

She gasped as his fingers found her moisture-slicked folds and the small nub that lay like a pearl at their center. With a little cry, she exploded against his hand, once, then again and again, straining upward until there was nothing left.

Utterly spent, she sank back against the pillow. Burning with tenderness, Matt tucked the quilt around her. Then he bent and kissed her forehead. “Don’t even think about this, Jessie,” he said. “Close your eyes. Get some sleep. You’ll feel better in the morning.”

Her breath eased out in a long sigh as she snug
gled into her nest of covers. By the time Matt had reached the door of her room and closed it behind him, she was already settling into sleep.

Jessie awoke to the squawk of a magpie outside her bedroom window. Her eyes shot open, then squinted shut, dazzled by the glare of sunlight. What time was it? How long had she slept?

Still groggy, she sat up and rubbed her eyes. Little by little the gray weight of memory crept over her. Yesterday Frank’s death had been like a fresh cut, sharp and shocking. Today it had sunk deeper to become a sick, black hollow in her soul. This, she sensed, was how she would feel for a long time to come.

The aroma of hot coffee wafted through the cracks between the planking. For a fleeting instant she thought of Frank. Then she remembered that Matt Langtry had spent the night here. And then she remembered everything else.

Her face went hot as the memory flashed over her—his arms, his mouth, his gentle, expert fingers touching her in places no man had ever touched her before. And her own fevered response—Lord, she’d flung herself at him, panting and moaning like a strumpet!

How could she face him this morning after what she’d let him do? What in heaven’s name could she say to him?

Mortified, she pulled her legs against her chest and buried her face against her knees. From outside her window she could hear the scolding magpie.
Shame! Shame! Shame!
the bird seemed to be saying. Jessie had always seen herself as a good woman, like her mother. But she’d thrown that away last night, in the arms of a man she scarcely knew.

And the worst thing was, she’d liked it.

A sweet-hot quiver passed through her body as she remembered how his kiss had captured her, shattering her fragile defenses, and turned her into a wanton beggar. She’d needed that kiss, that seeking tongue, those hands on her body. And she’d needed the blessed, explosive release that his skilled fingers had given her.

He could have taken her, she realized. And in her desperate state of mind she might have let him. But Matthew T. Langtry had been in perfect control. He had wisely and kindly spared her maidenhood.

So why did she have this sudden urge to strip him naked, coat him with honey and stake him out on an anthill?

Maybe it was because even when he was making love to her, the marshal had remained mindful of his duty.

“Shame! Shame!”
The magpie squawked and flashed away, reminding her that it was time to get up and begin what was bound to be a miserable day.
Her first task would be to take the cow and chickens, along with Frank’s clothes, down the canyon to the Hawkins family. On her return she would turn the spare horses loose to run with their own wild kind. That done, she would deal with the heartbreaking job of clearing her belongings out of the house and choosing what to carry away with her.

On top of all that, she would have to face Matt Langtry and find some way to recover her dignity.

Setting her jaw, she pulled on her shirt and denims, found clean stockings in the chest and shoved her feet into her work boots. A glance in the watery mirror confirmed that she looked awful—no surprise there. Her eyes were red holes in her blotchy face, her hair a tangled mess. But what did it matter? Where she was going today, there’d be no one to care how she looked.

All the same, she took a moment to splash her face, rinse her mouth and run a brush over the surface of her hair. If Matt was waiting for her out there in the kitchen, she needed to face him looking confident and strong.

She would show him…

Squaring her shoulders, Jessie walked to the closed door and put her hand on the latch. It would be easy, she told herself. All she had to do was thank him politely for his help, show him to the door and bid him a firm goodbye. She could manage on her own now. She would have to.

The door swung open. Jessie stepped into the kitchen, expecting to see Matt at the table smiling his cocky, know-it-all smile.

No one was there.

The coffee he’d made was simmering on the back of the stove, and his clothes were gone from the chair where he’d hung them to dry. A glance into the room where he’d slept showed the bed neatly made, with her father’s flannel shirt folded on the coverlet. But Matt was nowhere to be seen.

Vaguely uneasy, she walked out onto the porch. The storm had passed, leaving a sunlit spring day in its wake. Chickadees flitted in the aspens and a mourning dove called from the top of a pine. Water vapor curled from the steaming rooftops.

The horses milled in the corral, munching the hay that had been put down for them. Jessie could see her own mare among the green-broke mustangs, along with the pinto that Frank had favored. But two horses were missing. One was the bay that had carried Frank’s body back to the ranch. The other was Matt’s chestnut gelding.

Jessie’s heart dropped as she saw the fresh hoofprints in the mud, leading down toward the wagon road. She should be glad Matt Langtry was gone, she told herself. Now she could get her day started without having to face him.

But the weight in the pit of her stomach was too
cold and bitter to be denied. Matt had not wanted to see her this morning. He had left without even saying goodbye, and after the way he’d behaved he probably wouldn’t be coming back.

A
s he rode down the trail, Matt willed himself not to look back over his shoulder. He knew there would be nothing to see. Jessie would be mad as spit to find him gone. She’d likely be hurt as well. But she was far too proud to come galloping after him.

It was better this way, he told himself. Their searing encounter in the night had left him shaken. Facing her this morning, especially if she chose to talk about it, would only make things more awkward between them.

Not that this was goodbye. In a few hours he would need to go back and find her, as he’d promised.

The trail down the canyon was steep and muddy. Matt gave Copper his head, knowing the big chestnut would find the surest footing on his own. The morning was fresh and sunny, the air alive with the songs of celebrating birds.

Above the canyon, two ravens swooped and soared in a wild mating display. As he watched, they flew upward until their bodies were nothing but black specks against the sun. Then, clasping each other’s talons, they tumbled downward, over and over in an ecstatic spiral. Just as it appeared they were about to crash into the ground, they separated and flapped upward to perform the whole giddy ritual again. Matt had never thought he would envy birds, but it struck him as a thrilling way to make love.

He groaned inwardly as his thoughts returned to last night. Jessie had been beautiful and tempting and needy. Any thought that she might have planned to seduce him was banished by the memory of her flying fists. She had been in real distress; he was certain of that. But what about him? What had driven him to seize her in his arms, kiss her until he ached and use his touch to carry her over the brink?

Matt had been in and out of more romantic entanglements than he cared to remember. All he’d ever needed to do, it seemed, was smile and wink at a likely lass, whisper a few flatteries in her ear, and she’d be his for as long as the fun lasted. But there was one ironclad rule he’d made and never broken—he always left his ladies as pure as he found them.

But Jessie Hammond defied every rule Matt had ever made. All his instincts told him that her searing innocence was real. But the sensuality she exuded
was enough to make his blood boil. Last night, when she’d caught fire in his arms, he’d felt himself burning with her, consumed by her heat. Only the fact that he’d climaxed earlier, in the dream, had saved him from tumbling over the brink of control. Even now, the memory made him want her so much it almost made his teeth ache. The fact that he mustn’t have her only heightened his desire.

The ravens had climbed to the peak of the sky once more. Turning his eyes away from their dizzying descent, Matt rode on.

By the time he reached Felton it was midmorning. Matt found Marshal Heber Sims dozing on a bunk in the empty jail and decided to let the old man sleep. The telegraph office was vacant as well. A note on the locked door explained that a tree had blown over on the line in last night’s storm, and the telegraph would be down until further notice.

With mixed feelings about the reprieve, Matt led the bay horse down the street to the livery stable. At least he’d have time to do some investigating before he reported Frank Hammond’s death to Sheriff Canton.

No matter what he might learn, Matt knew that the death of a prisoner would be a blot on his spotless record as well as on his own conscience. If Frank turned out to be innocent, that blot would be even darker. But it was the truth that really mattered, he
reminded himself. And if the truth could ease Jessie’s heart, that was the most important thing of all.

At the livery stable, he left the bay and asked directions to the Gates Ranch. The two workmen tending the horses glanced uneasily at each other when they noticed the star on his vest. Matt would have bet good money that they’d ridden with the vigilantes. But when they politely pointed him on his way, he decided not to raise the question. Most lynch mobs were a mix of bad apples and decent citizens. For now, he would give these two the benefit of the doubt.

The turnoff to the Gates Ranch lay three miles south of town on a well-traveled road. On approach, the two-story ranch house looked to be in the midst of a remodeling job. Scaffolding rose above the entrance where a grand-looking portico with columns was going up to cover the modest front porch. Iron grillwork had been added to the plain windows on the first floor, and shutters on the second. The sounds of hammering rang on the clear morning air. So much activity struck Matt as odd, in view of the family’s recent loss. But the project had clearly been started weeks ago. It made sense that Allister’s widow would want the place presentable for the visitors that would come by after tomorrow’s funeral.

Matt tied his horse to the hitching rail. Ducking hammers, he mounted the front steps and raised the lion-headed knocker on the freshly painted door.

The man who answered was middle-aged with a dignified black face. His formal dress and painfully stilted manner proclaimed him to be a trained butler, likely brought from St. Louis by the new Mrs. Gates. A butler on a Wyoming ranch. What next? Matt wondered as he followed the man into a lavishly appointed parlor. Clearly, Allister’s widow appreciated the finer things in life.

“Mister Virgil’s out back tendin’ to a foal,” he said in response to Matt’s inquiry. “But Miz Lillian’s upstairs. I’ll go tell her you’re here, Marshal.”

“Fine, I’ll wait.”

Matt shifted uneasily, aware that his boots were leaving mud on the cream-and-gold Persian carpet. Whoever had decorated the parlor had decent, if expensive, tastes. The walls were covered in cream paper with pale gold stripes. The apple-green draperies on the tall windows matched the velvet pouf that sat in the center of the floor. The settee and matching chairs were covered in dark brown velvet and decorated with small gold cushions. A gleaming sideboard held crystal goblets and a decanter of what appeared to be brandy.

Matt was gazing up at the glittering chandelier when the subtle creak of a floorboard galvanized his nerves. Reflexively he spun around, hand flying to his pistol grip. But the figure who stood in the doorway was not a gunman but a woman.

She was dressed in a subdued black gown, which did nothing to dim the effect of her voluptuous figure and upswept red-gold hair. The tracery of fine lines beneath her eyes showed her to be in her mid thirties but detracted little from her stunning features—the moss-green eyes, the pouting lips and the small heart-shaped mole on her cheek.

Lillian Gates was, indeed, a woman to kill for.

Taking charge, Matt walked toward her. “I don’t believe we’ve met, Mrs. Gates,” he said. “U.S. Deputy Marshal Matthew Langtry, at your service. My condolences for your loss.”

Jessie guided her mare up the steep trail from the Hawkins cabin. The sunlit day and cheerful birdsong mocked the gloom that had settled over her spirit.

Grant and Mariah Hawkins had been grateful for the cow and chickens and the bundle of clothes she’d brought them. They’d offered her shelter, as Jessie had known they would. But the last thing she wanted was to bring trouble down on an innocent family. She had thanked them and assured them that she’d be fine on her own.

Now all the work that remained was to free the mustangs, pack what she could carry on Frank’s pinto and head up the mountain to the old trapper’s cabin in the summer pasture. The cabin would need a lot of work. The sod roof leaked, the wind whis
tled between the logs and a plague of vermin nested in every dark corner. But the whole summer lay ahead. She would have plenty of time to make the place secure and warm before winter set in.

As for other needs, there was a stream nearby with good water. Roots and berries grew in the meadows and the hunting was good. Jessie knew she wouldn’t starve. But she would be completely alone for the first time in her life. The thought of that aloneness was the most fearful thing she had ever faced.

But she wouldn’t be alone all the time, she reminded herself. There would be occasional trips into town for news and supplies. And there was the promise she’d made to clear her brother’s name. Keeping that promise would mean watching, listening and asking questions. For that she would need to be in town, or even at the Gates Ranch.

For now, only one thing was certain. She had a lot of careful planning to do.

She was turning the mare toward home when a movement on the trail below caught her eye. For an instant her heart took wing. Then, as she realized what she was seeing, Jessie’s stomach clenched.

A band of riders—she counted six—had appeared around the bend in the wagon road. They were headed straight for the trail that climbed the slope to her ranch. It was easy enough to guess who they were. She’d been told she had until sundown to clear
out, but Virgil Gates had sent his thugs out early to look over the property.

How long would it take them to reach the ranch? Twenty or thirty minutes, she calculated. Less if they picked up speed. She had planned on having time to pack her things and say goodbye to her home. But she should have known Virgil wouldn’t play fair.

Spurring the mare, she dashed up the trail. It made sense that Virgil would want to see the property left in good condition. But Jessie knew the kind of men he would send on such an errand. She’d seen his hired guns in town and even knew some of their names. Two of them, especially, made her flesh crawl. Lem, square-built, pugnacious and filthy, had a missing front tooth. Tall, whip-lean Ringo, who wore black and spoke in elegant phrases, had a zigzag knife scar down his face, and eyes as cold as a rattlesnake’s.

Those violent brutes would be capable of looting, rape, even murder if Virgil were to unleash them and turn his back. But even at the risk of having them corner her, she would not allow Virgil Gates to possess what he had no right to take.

Flying into the yard, she swung the corral gate open wide. As the mustangs streamed past her, bound for the freedom of the hills, she caught Frank’s docile pinto and tied it to the fence while she got the packsaddle. Her mind was already ticking off a list
of what was most important to take—guns, bullets and tools first, then bedding, clothes and food. She would grab as much as the horse could carry, bundle it into a quilt and lash it to the saddle with ropes. There’d be time to rearrange it for better balance after she got away.

By the time the pinto was loaded, Jessie was drenched in nervous perspiration. From down the trail she could hear the snort of approaching horses. Minutes from now the riders would be here. If they caught her, anything could happen.

But there was one thing left for her to do. Something she owed her family. Something she owed Frank.

The cabin and sheds were rain-soaked on the outside. But their inner walls and contents were dry. Seizing a jug of kerosene, Jessie splashed most of it inside the cabin. What was left went on the hay and the buildings in the yard. Even the privy was doused.

With the horses tied at a safe distance, she struck three of the matches she’d crammed into her pockets. Choking on fumes and tears, she tossed them through the open door of the cabin. The kerosene flamed up with an explosive hiss. By the time she reached the hay shed she could see fire dancing behind the glass panes.

It took only one match to turn the hay into a torch. The burst of heat was so sudden that it singed her hair. Through the billowing smoke, Jessie could see
the riders coming up over the lip of the trail. There were shouts and curses. Had they seen her?

There was no time to set fire to the other structures, but the sparks from the burning hay would likely do that job for her. Jessie plunged through the smoke and vaulted onto the back of her mare. Dragging the loaded packhorse by its lead, she charged up the hill toward the trees.

“I loved my husband, Marshal.” Lillian Gates dabbed at her eyes with a lace handkerchief. “Allister was good to me. I’m the last person on earth who’d want him dead. Surely you’re not accusing me of—”

“Not at all,” Matt assured her. “I only want to hear what happened the night of your husband’s death, everything you saw and heard.”

“Oh, must I speak of it? It’s so very painful for me…” Fresh tears welled in Lillian’s stunning eyes. If she wasn’t grieving she was a damned good actress, Matt thought.

“It’s important,” he said. “I need your help to make sure justice is done.”

“But they’ve caught that wretched boy! It’s all settled, isn’t it?”

“Nothing’s settled until the verdict’s read. Meanwhile, it’s my job to find out exactly what happened.”

“Oh…very well.” Her restless fingers twisted her gold wedding band. “I’ve relived that night again
and again,” she said with a catch in her voice. “It’s my fault as much as anyone’s, you know. If I’d insisted that Allister wake up some of the men, he’d still be alive.”

Matt shifted on the velvet settee, leaning toward her. “Don’t blame yourself. Just tell me what happened, starting with Allister’s redeeming the Hammond ranch and sending his men to claim the stallion.”

“Why, Marshal!” Her hands fluttered theatrically. “I was Allister’s wife, not his business partner. He didn’t discuss the affairs of the ranch with me.”

“But he’d wanted the stallion for a long time. Frank Hammond told me—”

“Don’t you dare mention that murderer’s name in my house!” she hissed.

Matt nodded, refusing to be distracted. “All right, then, I learned that your husband made an offer on the horse months ago, in Laramie.”

“There’s no law against offering to buy a horse.” Lillian leaned back in her chair and regarded him with heavy-lidded eyes. “And if Allister claimed the stallion later, it was only because he’d redeemed the Hammond property, and as part of that property, the horse was rightfully his. My husband was not a thief, Marshal.”

“Did he have enemies? Anyone who might want to harm him?”

“No!” Her eyes misted, and she stifled a sob. “Allister was the soul of kindness! He didn’t have an enemy in the world except for the miserable coward who shot him in the back!”

Matt frowned. “I have to ask you this. Who stands to profit from your husband’s death?”

Her hand went to her throat. “Why, no one, Marshal! Allister’s share of the ranch will pass to me, of course, but as his wife, it was already as good as mine. And Virgil’s share will remain the same as always. Surely you don’t think—” The color rose in her face. “My husband was killed in a fight over a horse! A fool horse! I wish to God that he’d just let the wretched animal be stolen! It wasn’t worth his life!”